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<!DOCTYPE html>

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    <title>
      The Antiquary by Sir Walter Scott
    </title>
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  </head>
  <body>
    <h2>
      THE ANTIQUARY
    </h2>
    <h2>
      BY SIR WALTER SCOTT
    </h2>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 7005 ***</div>
 <p>
      <br >
    </p>



<p>
      <br >
    </p>
<hr >
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br ><br > <a id="image-0001">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/bookcover.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="Bookcover "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      <a id="image-0002">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/spines.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="Spines "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE ANTIQUARY
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h2>
      BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br ><br > <a id="image-0003">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/titlepage1.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="Titlepage "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      <br ><br > <a id="image-0004">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="Frontispiece "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h2>
      CONTENTS
    </h2>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> VOLUME ONE </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> EDITOR&rsquo;S INTRODUCTION </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER FIRST. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER SECOND. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER THIRD. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER FOURTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER FIFTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER SIXTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER SEVENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER EIGHTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER NINTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER TENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER ELEVENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER TWELFTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER NINETEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER TWENTIETH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. </a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      VOLUME II.
    </h3>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0001"> CHAPTER FIRST. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0002"> CHAPTER SECOND. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0003"> CHAPTER THIRD. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0004"> CHAPTER FOURTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0005"> CHAPTER FIFTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0006"> CHAPTER SIXTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0007"> CHAPTER SEVENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0008"> CHAPTER EIGHTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0009"> CHAPTER NINTH </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0010"> CHAPTER TENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0011"> CHAPTER ELEVENTH </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0012"> CHAPTER TWELFTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0013"> CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0014"> CHAPTER FOURTEENTH </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0015"> CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0016"> CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0017"> CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0018"> CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0019"> CHAPTER NINETEENTH </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0020"> CHAPTER TWENTIETH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0021"> CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0022"> CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0023"> CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Alink2HCH0024"> CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> NOTES TO THE ANTIQUARY. </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h2>
      ILLUSTRATIONS
    </h2>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0001"> Bookcover </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0002"> Spines </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0003"> Titlepage </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0004"> Frontispiece </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0005"> The Antiquary and Lovel&mdash;the Sanctum </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0006"> Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0007"> The Rescue of Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0008"> Eddie Ochiltree Visits Miss Wardour </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0009"> Mrs. Heukbane and Mrs. Shortcake </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0010"> St. Ruth (arbroath Abbey) </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0011"> The Ruins of St. Ruth </a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      VOLUME II.
    </h3>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0001"> Bookcover </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0002"> Spines </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0003"> Titlepage </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#image-0004"> Frontispiece-2 </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Aimage-0005"> The Funeral of the Countess </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Aimage-0006"> Lord Glenallen and Elspeth </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Aimage-0007"> The Antiquary Visits Edie in Prison </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Aimage-0008"> My Good Friends, &lsquo;favete Linguis&rsquo; </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#Aimage-0009"> The Antiquary Arming </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h2>
      ILLUSTRATORS
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <table>
      <tr>
        <td>
          <h2>
            Subject or Title &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
            &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
          </h2>
        </td>
        <td>
          <h2>
            Original Drawing &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
          </h2>
        </td>
        <td>
          <h2>
            Etching
          </h2>
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          The Antiquary and Lovel&mdash;Kinpurnes
        </td>
        <td>
          J. B. MacDonald
        </td>
        <td>
          T. J. Dagleish
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          The Antiquary and Lovel&mdash;The Sanctum&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
        </td>
        <td>
          Robert Herdman
        </td>
        <td>
          B. Dammon
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour
        </td>
        <td>
          J. MacWhirter
        </td>
        <td>
          Alex Ansted
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          Rescue of Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour
        </td>
        <td>
          Sam Bough
        </td>
        <td>
          C. de Billy
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          Edie Ochiltree visits Miss Wardour
        </td>
        <td>
          W. McTaggart
        </td>
        <td>
          C. O. Murray
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          Mrs. Heukbane and Mrs. Shortcake
        </td>
        <td>
          Original Etching by:
        </td>
        <td>
          George Cruikshank
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          St. Ruth (Arbroath Abbey)
        </td>
        <td>
          Photo Etching by:
        </td>
        <td>
          John Andrew &amp; Son Co.
        </td>
      </tr>
      <tr>
        <td>
          Ruins of St. Ruth
        </td>
        <td>
          Original Etching by:
        </td>
        <td>
          J. Moyr Smith
        </td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <p>
      <br ><br ><br ><br ><br > <a id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      VOLUME ONE
    </h2>
<pre>
           I knew Anselmo. He was shrewd and prudent,
                Wisdom and cunning had their shares of him;
                But he was shrewish as a wayward child,
           And pleased again by toys which childhood please;
           As&mdash;-book of fables, graced with print of wood,
                Or else the jingling of a rusty medal,
                Or the rare melody of some old ditty,
           That first was sung to please King Pepin&rsquo;s cradle
</pre>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_INTR">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      INTRODUCTION
    </h2>
    <p>
      The present work completes a series of fictitious narratives, intended to
      illustrate the manners of Scotland at three different periods. <i>Waverley</i>
      embraced the age of our fathers, <i>Guy Mannering</i> that of our own
      youth, and the <i>Antiquary</i> refers to the last ten years of the
      eighteenth century. I have, in the two last narratives especially, sought
      my principal personages in the class of society who are the last to feel
      the influence of that general polish which assimilates to each other the
      manners of different nations. Among the same class I have placed some of
      the scenes in which I have endeavoured to illustrate the operation of the
      higher and more violent passions; both because the lower orders are less
      restrained by the habit of suppressing their feelings, and because I
      agree, with my friend Wordsworth, that they seldom fail to express them in
      the strongest and most powerful language. This is, I think, peculiarly the
      case with the peasantry of my own country, a class with whom I have long
      been familiar. The antique force and simplicity of their language, often
      tinctured with the Oriental eloquence of Scripture, in the mouths of those
      of an elevated understanding, give pathos to their grief, and dignity to
      their resentment.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have been more solicitous to describe manners minutely than to arrange
      in any case an artificial and combined narrative, and have but to regret
      that I felt myself unable to unite these two requisites of a good Novel.
    </p>
    <p>
      The knavery of the adept in the following sheets may appear forced and
      improbable; but we have had very late instances of the force of
      superstitious credulity to a much greater extent, and the reader may be
      assured, that this part of the narrative is founded on a fact of actual
      occurrence.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have now only to express my gratitude to the Public for the
      distinguished reception which, they have given to works, that have little
      more than some truth of colouring to recommend them, and to take my
      respectful leave, as one who is not likely again to solicit their favour.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br >
    </p>
    <p>
      To the above advertisement, which was prefixed to the first edition of the
      Antiquary, it is necessary in the present edition to add a few words,
      transferred from the Introduction to the Chronicles of the Canongate,
      respecting the character of Jonathan Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I may here state generally, that although I have deemed historical
      personages free subjects of delineation, I have never on any occasion
      violated the respect due to private life. It was indeed impossible that
      traits proper to persons, both living and dead, with whom I have had
      intercourse in society, should not have risen to my pen in such works as
      Waverley, and those which followed it. But I have always studied to
      generalise the portraits, so that they should still seem, on the whole,
      the productions of fancy, though possessing some resemblance to real
      individuals. Yet I must own my attempts have not in this last particular
      been uniformly successful. There are men whose characters are so
      peculiarly marked, that the delineation of some leading and principal
      feature, inevitably places the whole person before you in his
      individuality. Thus the character of Jonathan Oldbuck in the Antiquary,
      was partly founded on that of an old friend of my youth, to whom I am
      indebted for introducing me to Shakspeare, and other invaluable favours;
      but I thought I had so completely disguised the likeness, that it could
      not be recognised by any one now alive. I was mistaken, however, and
      indeed had endangered what I desired should be considered as a secret; for
      I afterwards learned that a highly respectable gentleman, one of the few
      surviving friends of my father, and an acute critic, had said, upon the
      appearance of the work, that he was now convinced who was the author of
      it, as he recognised, in the Antiquary, traces of the character of a very
      intimate friend* of my father&rsquo;s family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      * [The late George Constable of Wallace Craigie, near Dundee.]
    </p>
    <p>
      I have only farther to request the reader not to suppose that my late
      respected friend resembled Mr. Oldbuck, either in his pedigree, or the
      history imputed to the ideal personage. There is not a single incident in
      the Novel which is borrowed from his real circumstances, excepting the
      fact that he resided in an old house near a flourishing seaport, and that
      the author chanced to witness a scene betwixt him and the female
      proprietor of a stage-coach, very similar to that which commences the
      history of the Antiquary. An excellent temper, with a slight degree of
      subacid humour; learning, wit, and drollery, the more poignant that they
      were a little marked by the peculiarities of an old bachelor; a soundness
      of thought, rendered more forcible by an occasional quaintness of
      expression, were, the author conceives, the only qualities in which the
      creature of his imagination resembled his benevolent and excellent old
      friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prominent part performed by the Beggar in the following narrative,
      induces the author to prefix a few remarks of that character, as it
      formerly existed in Scotland, though it is now scarcely to be traced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many of the old Scottish mendicants were by no means to be confounded with
      the utterly degraded class of beings who now practise that wandering
      trade. Such of them as were in the habit of travelling through a
      particular district, were usually well received both in the farmer&rsquo;s ha&rsquo;,
      and in the kitchens of the country gentlemen. Martin, author of the <i>Reliquiae
      Divi Sancti Andreae,</i> written in 1683, gives the following account of
      one class of this order of men in the seventeenth century, in terms which
      would induce an antiquary like Mr. Oldbuck to regret its extinction. He
      conceives them to be descended from the ancient bards, and proceeds:&mdash;-&ldquo;They
      are called by others, and by themselves, Jockies, who go about begging;
      and use still to recite the Sloggorne (gathering-words or war-cries) of
      most of the true ancient surnames of Scotland, from old experience and
      observation. Some of them I have discoursed, and found to have reason and
      discretion. One of them told me there were not now above twelve of them in
      the whole isle; but he remembered when they abounded, so as at one time he
      was one of five that usually met at St. Andrews.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The race of Jockies (of the above description) has, I suppose, been long
      extinct in Scotland; but the old remembered beggar, even in my own time,
      like the Baccoch, or travelling cripple of Ireland, was expected to merit
      his quarters by something beyond an exposition of his distresses. He was
      often a talkative, facetious fellow, prompt at repartee, and not withheld
      from exercising his powers that way by any respect of persons, his patched
      cloak giving him the privilege of the ancient jester. To be a <i>gude
      crack,</i> that is, to possess talents for conversation, was essential to
      the trade of a &ldquo;puir body&rdquo; of the more esteemed class; and Burns, who
      delighted in the amusement their discourse afforded, seems to have looked
      forward with gloomy firmness to the possibility of himself becoming one
      day or other a member of their itinerant society. In his poetical works,
      it is alluded to so often, as perhaps to indicate that he considered the
      consummation as not utterly impossible. Thus in the fine dedication of his
      works to Gavin Hamilton, he says,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                     And when I downa yoke a naig,
                    Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg.
</pre>
    <p>
      Again, in his Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet, he states, that in their
      closing career&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                     The last o&rsquo;t, the warst o&rsquo;t,
                         Is only just to beg.
</pre>
    <p>
      And after having remarked, that
    </p>
<pre>
                  To lie in kilns and barns at e&rsquo;en,
                  When banes are crazed and blude is thin,
</pre>
    <p>
      Is doubtless great distress; the bard reckons up, with true poetical
      spirit, the free enjoyment of the beauties of nature, which might
      counterbalance the hardship and uncertainty of the life, even of a
      mendicant. In one of his prose letters, to which I have lost the
      reference, he details this idea yet more seriously, and dwells upon it, as
      not ill adapted to his habits and powers.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the life of a Scottish mendicant of the eighteenth century seems to
      have been contemplated without much horror by Robert Burns, the author can
      hardly have erred in giving to Edie Ochiltree something of poetical
      character and personal dignity, above the more abject of his miserable
      calling. The class had, intact, some privileges. A lodging, such as it
      was, was readily granted to them in some of the out-houses, and the usual
      <i>awmous</i> (alms) of a handful of meal (called a <i>gowpen</i>) was
      scarce denied by the poorest cottager. The mendicant disposed these,
      according to their different quality, in various bags around his person,
      and thus carried about with him the principal part of his sustenance,
      which he literally received for the asking. At the houses of the gentry,
      his cheer was mended by scraps of broken meat, and perhaps a Scottish
      &ldquo;twalpenny,&rdquo; or English penny, which was expended in snuff or whiskey. In
      fact, these indolent peripatetics suffered much less real hardship and
      want of food, than the poor peasants from whom they received alms.
    </p>
    <p>
      If, in addition to his personal qualifications, the mendicant chanced to
      be a King&rsquo;s Bedesman, or Blue-Gown, he belonged, in virtue thereof, to the
      aristocracy of his order, and was esteemed a parson of great importance.
    </p>
    <p>
      These Bedesmen are an order of paupers to whom the Kings of Scotland were
      in the custom of distributing a certain alms, in conformity with the
      ordinances of the Catholic Church, and who were expected in return to
      pray for the royal welfare and that of the state. This order is still kept
      up. Their number is equal to the number of years which his Majesty has
      lived; and one Blue-Gown additional is put on the roll for every returning
      royal birth-day. On the same auspicious era, each Bedesman receives a new
      cloak, or gown of coarse cloth, the colour light blue, with a pewter
      badge, which confers on them the general privilege of asking alms through
      all Scotland,&mdash;all laws against sorning, masterful beggary, and every
      other species of mendicity, being suspended in favour of this privileged
      class. With his cloak, each receives a leathern purse, containing as many
      shillings Scots (videlicet, pennies sterling) as the sovereign is years
      old; the zeal of their intercession for the king&rsquo;s long life receiving, it
      is to be supposed, a great stimulus from their own present and increasing
      interest in the object of their prayers. On the same occasion one of the
      Royal Chaplains preaches a sermon to the Bedesmen, who (as one of the
      reverend gentlemen expressed himself) are the most impatient and
      inattentive audience in the world. Something of this may arise from a
      feeling on the part of the Bedesmen, that they are paid for their own
      devotions, not for listening to those of others. Or, more probably, it
      arises from impatience, natural, though indecorous in men bearing so
      venerable a character, to arrive at the conclusion of the ceremonial of
      the royal birth-day, which, so far as they are concerned, ends in a lusty
      breakfast of bread and ale; the whole moral and religious exhibition
      terminating in the advice of Johnson&rsquo;s &ldquo;Hermit hoar&rdquo; to his proselyte,
    </p>
<pre>
                   Come, my lad, and drink some beer.
</pre>
    <p>
      Of the charity bestowed on these aged Bedesmen in money and clothing,
      there are many records in the Treasurer&rsquo;s accompts. The following extract,
      kindly supplied by Mr. Macdonald of the Register House, may interest those
      whose taste is akin to that of Jonathan Oldbuck of Monkbarns.
    </p>
    <h3>
      BLEW GOWNIS.
    </h3>
<pre>
    In the Account of Sir Robert Melvill of Murdocarney,
    Treasurer-Depute of King James VI., there are the following Payments:&mdash;

                              &ldquo;Junij 1590.

    &ldquo;Item, to Mr. Peter Young, Elimosinar, twentie four gownis of blew
    clayth, to be gevin to xxiiij auld men, according to the yeiris of his
    hienes age, extending to viii xx viii elnis clayth; price of the elne
    xxiiij <i>s. </i>                             Inde, ij <i>c</i>j <i>li. </i>xij <i>s. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, for sextene elnis bukrum to the saidis gownis, price of the elne x
    <i>s. </i>                                    Inde, viij <i>li. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, twentie four pursis, and in ilk purse twentie four schelling
                                        Inde, xxciij <i>li. </i> xvj <i>s. </i>
    &ldquo;Item, the price of ilk purse iiij <i>d. </i>      Inde, viij <i>s. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, for making of the saidis gownis       viij <i>li.</i>&rdquo;
 
    In the Account of John, Earl of Mar, Great Treasurer of Scotland, and of
    Sir Gideon Murray of Enbank, Treasurer-Depute, the Blue-Gowns also appear
    thus:&mdash;


                              &ldquo;Junij 1617.

   &ldquo;Item, to James Murray, merchant, for fyftene scoir sex elnis and aine
   half elne of blew claith to be gownis to fyftie ane aigeit men, according
   to the yeiris of his Majesteis age, at xl <i>s. </i> the elne
                                        Inde, vj <i>c</i> xiij <i>li. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, to workmen for careing the blewis to James Aikman, tailyeour, his
    hous xiij <i>s. </i> iiij <i>d. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, for sex elnis and ane half of harden to the saidis gownis, at vj
    <i>s. </i> viij <i>d. </i> the elne                 Inde, xliij <i>s. </i>iiij <i>d. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, to the said workmen for careing of the gownis fra the said James
    Aikman&rsquo;s hous to the palace of Halyrudehous xviij <i>s. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, for making the saidis fyftie ane gownis, at xij <i>s. </i> the peice
                                        Inde, xxx <i>li. </i>xij <i>s. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, for fyftie ane pursis to the said puire menlj <i>s. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, to Sir Peter Young, li <i>s. </i> to be put in everie ane of the saidis
    ljpursis to the said poore men j <i>c</i>xxxl jj <i>s. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, to the said Sir Peter, to buy breid and drink to the said puir men
    vj <i>li. </i>xiij <i>s. </i>iiij <i>d. </i>

    &ldquo;Item, to the said Sir Peter, to be delt amang uther puire folk j <i>c</i>li.

    &ldquo;Item, upoun the last day of Junii to Doctor Young, Deane of Winchester,
    Elimozinar Deput to his Majestic, twentie fyve pund sterling, to be gevin
    to the puir be the way in his Majesteis progress    Inde, iij <i>c li.</i>&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      I have only to add, that although the institution of King&rsquo;s Bedesmen still
      subsists, they are now seldom to be seen on the streets of Edinburgh, of
      which their peculiar dress made them rather a characteristic feature.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having thus given an account of the genus and species to which Edie
      Ochiltree appertains, the author may add, that the individual he had in
      his eye was Andrew Gemmells, an old mendicant of the character described,
      who was many years since well known, and must still be remembered, in the
      vales of Gala, Tweed, Ettrick, Yarrow, and the adjoining country.
    </p>
    <p>
      The author has in his youth repeatedly seen and conversed with Andrew, but
      cannot recollect whether he held the rank of Blue-Gown. He was a
      remarkably fine old figure, very tall, and maintaining a soldierlike or
      military manner and address. His features were intelligent, with a
      powerful expression of sarcasm. His motions were always so graceful, that
      he might almost have been suspected of having studied them; for he might,
      on any occasion, have, served as a model for an artist, so remarkably
      striking were his ordinary attitudes. Andrew Gemmells had little of the
      cant of his calling; his wants were food and shelter, or a trifle of
      money, which he always claimed, and seemed to receive as his due. He, sung
      a good song, told a good story, and could crack a severe jest with all the
      acumen of Shakespeare&rsquo;s jesters, though without using, like them, the
      cloak of insanity. It was some fear of Andrew&rsquo;s satire, as much as a
      feeling of kindness or charity, which secured him the general good
      reception which he enjoyed everywhere. In fact, a jest of Andrew Gemmells,
      especially at the expense of a person of consequence, flew round the
      circle which he frequented, as surely as the bon-mot of a man of
      established character for wit glides through the fashionable world, Many
      of his good things are held in remembrance, but are generally too local
      and personal to be introduced here.
    </p>
    <p>
      Andrew had a character peculiar to himself among his tribe for aught I
      ever heard. He was ready and willing to play at cards or dice with any one
      who desired such amusement. This was more in the character of the Irish
      itinerant gambler, called in that country a &ldquo;carrow,&rdquo; than of the Scottish
      beggar. But the late Reverend Doctor Robert Douglas, minister of
      Galashiels, assured the author, that the last time he saw Andrew Gemmells,
      he was engaged in a game at brag with a gentleman of fortune, distinction,
      and birth. To preserve the due gradations of rank, the party was made at
      an open window of the chateau, the laird sitting on his chair in the
      inside, the beggar on a stool in the yard; and they played on the
      window-sill. The stake was a considerable parcel of silver. The author
      expressing some surprise, Dr. Douglas observed, that the laird was no
      doubt a humourist or original; but that many decent persons in those times
      would, like him, have thought there was nothing extraordinary in passing
      an hour, either in card-playing or conversation, with Andrew Gemmells.
    </p>
    <p>
      This singular mendicant had generally, or was supposed to have, much money
      about his person, as would have been thought the value of his life among
      modern foot-pads. On one occasion, a country gentleman, generally esteemed
      a very narrow man, happening to meet Andrew, expressed great regret that
      he had no silver in his pocket, or he would have given him sixpence.&mdash;&ldquo;I
      can give you change for a note, laird,&rdquo; replied Andrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like most who have arisen to the head of their profession, the modern
      degradation which mendicity has undergone was often the subject of
      Andrew&rsquo;s lamentations. As a trade, he said, it was forty pounds a-year
      worse since he had first practised it. On another occasion he observed,
      begging was in modern times scarcely the profession of a gentleman; and
      that, if he had twenty sons, he would not easily be induced to breed one
      of them up in his own line. When or where this <i>laudator temporis acti</i>
      closed his wanderings, the author never heard with certainty; but most
      probably, as Burns says,
    </p>
<pre>
                   &mdash;he died a cadger-powny&rsquo;s death,
                          At some dike side.
</pre>
    <p>
      The author may add another picture of the same kind as Edie Ochiltree and
      Andrew Gemmells; considering these illustrations as a sort of gallery,
      open to the reception of anything which may elucidate former manners, or
      amuse the reader.
    </p>
    <p>
      The author&rsquo;s contemporaries at the university of Edinburgh will probably
      remember the thin, wasted form of a venerable old Bedesman, who stood by
      the Potterrow-Port, now demolished, and, without speaking a syllable,
      gently inclined his head, and offered his hat, but with the least possible
      degree of urgency, towards each individual who passed. This man gained, by
      silence and the extenuated and wasted appearance of a palmer from a remote
      country, the same tribute which was yielded to Andrew Gemmells&rsquo; sarcastic
      humour and stately deportment. He was understood to be able to maintain a
      son a student in the theological classes of the University, at the gate of
      which the father was a mendicant. The young man was modest and inclined to
      learning, so that a student of the same age, and whose parents where
      rather of the lower order, moved by seeing him excluded from the society
      of other scholars when the secret of his birth was suspected, endeavoured
      to console him by offering him some occasional civilities. The old
      mendicant was grateful for this attention to his son, and one day, as the
      friendly student passed, he stooped forward more than usual, as if to
      intercept his passage. The scholar drew out a halfpenny, which he
      concluded was the beggar&rsquo;s object, when he was surprised to receive his
      thanks for the kindness he had shown to Jemmie, and at the same time a
      cordial invitation to dine with them next Saturday, &ldquo;on a shoulder of
      mutton and potatoes,&rdquo; adding, &ldquo;ye&rsquo;ll put on your clean sark, as I have
      company.&rdquo; The student was strongly tempted to accept this hospitable
      proposal, as many in his place would probably have done; but, as the
      motive might have been capable of misrepresentation, he thought it most
      prudent, considering the character and circumstances of the old man, to
      decline the invitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such are a few traits of Scottish mendicity, designed to throw light on a
      Novel in which a character of that description plays a prominent part. We
      conclude, that we have vindicated Edie Ochiltree&rsquo;s right to the importance
      assigned him; and have shown, that we have known one beggar take a hand at
      cards with a person of distinction, and another give dinner parties.
    </p>
    <p>
      I know not if it be worth while to observe, that the Antiquary,* was not
      so well received on its first appearance as either of its predecessors,
      though in course of time it rose to equal, and, with some readers,
      superior popularity.
    </p>
    <p>
      * Note A. Mottoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      EDITOR&rsquo;S INTRODUCTION
    </h2>
    <h3>
      TO
    </h3>
    <h3>
      THE ANTIQUARY.
    </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;THE ANTIQUARY&rdquo; was begun in 1815; the bargain for its publication by
      Constable was made in the October of that year. On December 22 Scott wrote
      to Morritt: &ldquo;I shall set myself seriously to &lsquo;The Antiquary,&rsquo; of which I
      have only a very general sketch at present; but when once I get my pen to
      the paper it will walk fast enough. I am sometimes tempted to leave it
      alone, and try whether it will not write as well without the assistance of
      my head as with it,&mdash;a hopeful prospect for the reader!&rsquo;&rdquo; It is
      amazing enough that he even constructed &ldquo;a general sketch,&rdquo; for to such
      sketches he confesses that he never could keep constant. &ldquo;I have generally
      written to the middle of one of these novels without having the least idea
      how it was to end,&mdash;in short, in the <i>hab nab at a venture style</i>
      of composition&rdquo; (Journal, Feb. 24, 1828). Yet it is almost impossible but
      that the plot of &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; should have been duly considered. Scott
      must have known from the first who Lovel was to turn out to be, and must
      have recognised in the hapless bride of Lord Glenallan the object of the
      Antiquary&rsquo;s solitary and unfortunate passion. To introduce another
      Wandering Heir immediately after the Harry Bertram of &ldquo;Guy Mannering&rdquo; was
      rather audacious. But that old favourite, the Lost Heir, is nearly certain
      to be popular. For the Antiquary&rsquo;s immortal sorrow Scott had a model in
      his own experience. &ldquo;What a romance to tell!&mdash;and told, I fear, it
      will one day be. And then my three years of dreaming and my two years of
      wakening will be chronicled doubtless. But the dead will feel no pain.&rdquo;
       The dead, as Aristotle says, if they care for such things at all, care no
      more than we do for what has passed in a dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      The general sketch probably began to take full shape about the last day of
      1815. On December 29 Scott wrote to Ballantyne:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>

          DEAR JAMES,&mdash;
               I&rsquo;ve done, thank&rsquo;God, with the long yarns
                   Of the most prosy of Apostles&mdash;Paul, 1
               And now advance, sweet heathen of Monkbarns,
                  Step out, old quizz, as fast as I can scrawl.
</pre>
    <p>
      In &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; Scott had a subject thoroughly to his mind. He had been
      an antiquary from his childhood. His earliest pence had been devoted to
      that collection of printed ballads which is still at Abbotsford. These he
      mentions in the unfinished fragment of his &ldquo;Reliquiae Trotcosienses,&rdquo; in
      much the same words as in his manuscript note on one of the seven volumes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This little collection of Stall tracts and ballads was formed by me, when
      a boy, from the baskets of the travelling pedlars. Until put into its
      present decent binding it had such charms for the servants that it was
      repeatedly, and with difficulty, recovered from their clutches. It
      contains most of the pieces that were popular about thirty years since,
      and, I dare say, many that could not now be procured for any price
      (1810).&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nor did he collect only&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                      &ldquo;The rare melody of some old ditties
          That first were sung to please King Pepin&rsquo;s cradle.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Walter had soon begun to gather out-of-the-way things of all sorts. He
      had more books than shelves [sic]; a small painted cabinet with Scotch and
      Roman coins in it, and so forth. A claymore and Lochaber axe, given him by
      old Invernahyle, mounted guard on a little print of Prince Charlie; and
      Broughton&rsquo;s Saucer was hooked up on the wall below it.&rdquo; He had entered
      literature through the ruined gateway of archleology, in the &ldquo;Border
      Minstrelsy,&rdquo; and his last project was an edition of Perrault&rsquo;s &ldquo;Contes de
      Ma Mere l&rsquo;Oie.&rdquo; As pleasant to him as the purchase of new lands like Turn
      Again, bought dearly, as in Monkbarns&rsquo;s case, from &ldquo;bonnet lauds,&rdquo; was a
      fresh acquisition of an old book or of old armour. Yet, with all his
      enthusiasm, he did not please the antiquaries of his own day. George
      Chalmers, in Constable&rsquo;s &ldquo;Life and Correspondence&rdquo; (i. 431), sneers at his
      want of learning. &ldquo;His notes are loose and unlearned, as they generally
      are.&rdquo; Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, his friend in life, disported himself in
      jealous and ribald mockery of Scott&rsquo;s archaeological knowledge, when Scott
      was dead. In a letter of the enigmatic Thomas Allen, or James Stuart Hay,
      father of John Sobieski and Charles Edward Stuart, this mysterious person
      avers that he never knew Scott&rsquo;s opinion to be held as of any value by
      antiquaries (1829). They probably missed in him &ldquo;a sort of pettifogging
      intimacy with dates, names, and trifling matters of fact,&mdash;a tiresome
      and frivolous accuracy of memory&rdquo; which Sir Arthur Wardour reproves in
      Monkbarns. Scott, in brief, was not as Dry-as-dust; all the dead bones
      that he touches come to life. He was as great an archeologist as a poet
      can be, and, with Virgil, was the greatest antiquary among poets. Like
      Monkbarns, he was not incapable of being beguiled. As Oldbuck bought the
      bodle from the pedlar at the price of a rare coin, so Scott took Surtees&rsquo;s
      &ldquo;Barthram&rsquo;s Dirge,&rdquo; and his Latin legend of the tourney with the spectre
      knight, for genuine antiquities. No Edie Ochiltree ever revealed to him
      the truth about these forgeries, and the spectre knight, with the ballad
      of &ldquo;Anthony Featherstonhaugh,&rdquo; hold their own in &ldquo;Marmion,&rdquo; to assure the
      world that this antiquary was gullible when the sleight was practised by a
      friend. &ldquo;Non est tanti,&rdquo; he would have said, had he learned the truth; for
      he was ever conscious of the humorous side of the study of the mouldering
      past. &ldquo;I do not know anything which relieves the mind so much from the
      sullens as a trifling discourse about antiquarian oldwomanries. It is like
      knitting a stocking,&mdash;diverting the mind without occupying it.&rdquo;
       (&ldquo;Journal,&rdquo; March 9, 1828).
    </p>
    <p>
      Begun about Jan. 1, 1816, &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; was published before May 16,
      1816, when Scott writes to say that he has sent Mr. Morritt the novel
      &ldquo;some time since.&rdquo; &ldquo;It is not so interesting as its predecessors; the
      period does not admit of so much romantic situation. But it has been more
      fortunate than any of them in the sale, for six thousand went off in the
      first six days, and it is now at press again.&rdquo; The Preface of the first
      edition ends with the melancholy statement that the author &ldquo;takes his
      respectful leave, as one who is not likely again to solicit favour.&rdquo;
       Apparently Scott had already determined not to announce his next novels
      (&ldquo;The Black Dwarf&rdquo; and &ldquo;Old Mortality&rdquo;) as &ldquo;by the Author of Waverley.&rdquo;
       Mr. Constable, in the biography of his father, says (iii. 84): &ldquo;Even
      before the publication of &lsquo;The Antiquary,&rsquo; John Ballantyne had been
      impowered by the Author to negotiate with Mr. Murray and Mr. Blackwood for
      the first series of the &lsquo;Tales of my Landlord.&rsquo;&rdquo; The note of withdrawal
      from the stage, in the first edition of &ldquo;The Antiquary,&rdquo; was probably only
      a part of another experiment on public sagacity. As Lockhart says, Mr.
      Murray and Mr. Blackwood thought that the consequent absence of the Author
      of &ldquo;Waverley&rsquo;s&rdquo; name from the &ldquo;Tales of my Landlord&rdquo; would &ldquo;check very
      much the first success of the book;&rdquo; but they risked this, &ldquo;to disturb
      Constable&rsquo;s tenure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Scott&rsquo;s temporary desertion of Constable in the &ldquo;Tales of my Landlord&rdquo; may
      have had various motives. There was a slight grudge against Constable,
      born of some complications of the Ballantynes&rsquo; affairs. Perhaps the mere
      amusement of the experiment on public sagacity was one of the more
      powerful reasons for the change. In our day Lord Lytton and Mr. Trollope
      made similar trials of their popularity when anonymous, the former author
      with the greater success. The idea of these masquerades and veils of the
      incognito appears to have bewitched Constable. William Godwin was writing
      for him his novel &ldquo;Mandeville,&rdquo; and Godwin had obviously been counselled
      to try a disguise. He says (Jan. 30, 1816) &ldquo;I have amused my imagination a
      thousand times since last we parted with the masquerade you devised for
      me. The world is full of wonder. An old favourite is always reviewed with
      coldness. . . . &lsquo;Pooh,&rsquo; they say; &lsquo;Godwin has worn his pen to the stump!&rsquo; 
      . . . But let me once be equipped with a significant mask and an unknown
      character from your masquerade shop, and admitted to figure in with the
      &lsquo;Last Minstrel,&rsquo; the &lsquo;Lady of the Lake,&rsquo; and &lsquo;Guy Mannering&rsquo; in the
      Scottish carnival, Gods! how the boys and girls will admire me! &lsquo;Here is a
      new wonder!&rsquo; they will say. &lsquo;Ah, this is something like! Here is Godwin
      beaten on his own ground. . . Here is for once a Scottish writer that they
      cannot say has anything of the Scotchman about him.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, Mr. Godwin did not don the mask and domino. &ldquo;Mandeville&rdquo; came out
      about the same time as &ldquo;Rob Roy;&rdquo; but the &ldquo;craziness of the public&rdquo; for
      the Author of &ldquo;Waverley&rdquo; was not changed into a passion for the
      father-in-law of Shelley.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;The Antiquary,&rsquo; after a little pause of hesitation, attained popularity
      not inferior to &lsquo;Guy Mannering,&rsquo; and though the author appears for a
      moment to have shared the doubts which he read in the countenance of James
      Ballantyne, it certainly was, in the sequel, his chief favourite among all
      his novels.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Scott said to Terry, &ldquo;If a man will paint from nature, he will be
      likely to amuse those who are daily looking at it.&rdquo; The years which saw
      the first appearance of &ldquo;Guy Mannering&rdquo; also witnessed that of &ldquo;Emma.&rdquo; By
      the singular chance, or law, which links great authors closely in time,
      giving us novelists in pairs, Miss Austen was &ldquo;drawing from nature&rdquo; at the
      very moment when Scott was wedding nature with romance. How generously and
      wisely he admired her is familiar, and it may, to some, seem curious that
      he never deliberately set himself to a picture of ordinary life, free from
      the intrusion of the unusual, of the heroic. Once, looking down at the
      village which lies on the Tweed, opposite Melrose, he remarked that under
      its roofs tragedies and tales were doubtless being lived. &lsquo;I undertake to
      say there is some real romance at this moment going on down there, that,
      if it could have justice done to it, would be well worth all the fiction
      that was ever spun out of human brains.&rsquo; But the example he gave was
      terrible,&mdash;&ldquo;anything more dreadful was never conceived by Crabbe;&rdquo;
       yet, adds Lockhart, &ldquo;it would never have entered into his head to
      elaborate such a tale.&rdquo; He could not dwell in the unbroken gloom dear to
      some modern malingerers. But he could easily have made a tale of common
      Scotch life, dark with the sorrow of Mucklebackit, and bright with the
      mirth of Cuddie Headrigg. There was, however, this difficulty,&mdash;that
      Scott cared not to write a story of a single class. &ldquo;From the peer to the
      ploughman,&rdquo; all society mingles in each of his novels. A fiction of
      middle-class life did not allure him, and he was not at the best, but at
      his worst, as Sydney Smith observed, in the light talk of society. He
      could admire Miss Austen, and read her novels again and again; but had he
      attempted to follow her, by way of variety, then inevitably wild as well
      as disciplined humour would have kept breaking in, and his fancy would
      have wandered like the old knights of Arthur&rsquo;s Court, &ldquo;at adventure.&rdquo; &ldquo;St.
      Ronan&rsquo;s Well&rdquo; proved the truth of all this. Thus it happens that, in &ldquo;The
      Antiquary,&rdquo; with all his sympathy for the people, with all his knowledge
      of them, he does not confine himself to their cottages. As Lockhart says,
      in his admirable piece of criticism, he preferred to choose topics in
      which he could display &ldquo;his highest art, that of skilful contrast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even the tragic romance of &ldquo;Waverley&rdquo; does not set off its Macwheebles and
      Callum Begs better than the oddities of Jonathan Oldbuck and his circle
      are relieved, on the one hand by the stately gloom of the Glenallans, on
      the other by the stern affliction of the poor fisherman, who, when
      discovered repairing &ldquo;the auld black bitch of a boat,&rdquo; in which his boy
      had been lost, and congratulated by his visitors on being capable of the
      exertion, makes answer, &ldquo;And what would you have me to do, unless I wanted
      to see four children starve, because one is drowned? It &lsquo;s weel with you
      gentles, that can sit in the house with handkerchers at your een, when ye
      lose a friend; but the like o&rsquo; us maun to our work again, if our hearts
      were beating as hard as ony hammer.&rdquo; And to his work again Scott had to go
      when he lost the partner of his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      The simple unsought charm which Lockhart notes in &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; may have
      passed away in later works, when what had been the amusement of happy days
      became the task of sadness. But this magic &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; keeps perhaps
      beyond all its companions,&mdash;the magic of pleasant memories and
      friendly associations. The sketches of the epoch of expected invasion,
      with its patriotic musters and volunteer drillings, are pictures out of
      that part in the author&rsquo;s life which, with his early Highland wanderings
      (&ldquo;Waverley&rdquo;) and his Liddesdale raids (&ldquo;Guy Mannering&rdquo;), was most dear to
      him. In &ldquo;Redgauntlet,&rdquo; again, he makes, as Alan Fairford, a return on his
      youth and his home, and in &ldquo;Rob Roy&rdquo; he revives his Highland
      recollections, his Highland lairds of &ldquo;the blawing, bleezing stories.&rdquo;
       None of the rest of the tales are so intimate in their connection with
      Scott&rsquo;s own personal history. &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; has always, therefore, been
      held in the very first rank of his novels.
    </p>
    <p>
      As far as plot goes, though Godwin denied that it had any story, &ldquo;The
      Antiquary&rdquo; may be placed among the most careful. The underplot of the
      Glenallans, gloomy almost beyond endurance, is very ingeniously made to
      unravel the mystery of Lovel. The other side-narrative, that of
      Dousterswivel, is the weak point of the whole; but this Scott justifies by
      &ldquo;very late instances of the force of superstitious credulity, to a much
      greater extent.&rdquo; Some occurrence of the hour may have suggested the
      knavish adept with his divining-rod. But facts are never a real excuse for
      the morally incredible, or all but incredible, in fiction. On the wealth
      and vraisemblance and variety of character it were superfluous to dilate.
      As in Shakspeare, there is not even a minor person but lives and is of
      flesh and blood, if we except, perhaps, Dousterswivel and Sir Arthur
      Wardour. Sir Arthur is only Sir Robert Hazlewood over again, with a
      slightly different folly and a somewhat more amiable nature. Lovel&rsquo;s
      place, as usual, is among the shades of heroes, and his love-affair is far
      less moving, far more summarily treated, than that of Jenny Caxon. The
      skilful contrasts are perhaps most remarkable when we compare Elspeth of
      the Burnfoot with the gossiping old women in the post-office at Fairport,&mdash;a
      town studied perhaps from Arbroath. It was the opinion of Sydney Smith
      that every one of the novels, before &ldquo;The Fortunes of Nigel,&rdquo; contained a
      Meg Merrilies and a Dominie Sampson. He may have recognized a male Meg in
      Edie Ochiltree,&mdash;the invaluable character who is always behind a
      wall, always overhears everything, and holds the threads of the plot. Or
      he may have been hypercritical enough to think that Elspeth of the
      Burnfoot is the Meg of the romance. Few will agree with him that Meg
      Merrilies, in either of these cases, is &ldquo;good, but good too often.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The supposed &ldquo;originals&rdquo; of certain persons in the tale have been topics
      of discussion. The character of Oldbuck, like most characters in fiction,
      is a combination of traits observed in various persons. Scott says, in a
      note to the Ashiestiel fragment of Autobiography, that Mr. George
      Constable, an old friend of his father&rsquo;s, &ldquo;had many of those peculiarities
      of character which long afterwards I tried to develop in the character of
      Jonathan Oldbuck.&rdquo; Sir Walter, when a child, made Mr. Constable&rsquo;s
      acquaintance at Prestonpans in 1777, where he explored the battle-field
      &ldquo;under the learned guidance of Dalgetty.&rdquo; Mr. Constable first introduced
      him to Shakspeare&rsquo;s plays, and gave him his first German dictionary. Other
      traits may have been suggested by John Clerk of Eldin, whose grandfather
      was the hero of the story &ldquo;Praetorian here, Praetorian there, I made it
      wi&rsquo; a flaughter spade.&rdquo; Lockhart is no doubt right in thinking that
      Oldbuck is partly a caricature of Oldbuck&rsquo;s creator,&mdash;Sir Walter
      indeed frankly accepted the kinship; and the book which he began on his
      own collection he proposed to style &ldquo;Reliquim Trotcosienses; or, the
      Gabions of Jonathan Oldbuck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another person who added a few points to Oldbuck was &ldquo;Sandy Gordon,&rdquo;
       author of the &ldquo;Itinerarium Septentrionale&rdquo; (1726), the very folio which
      Monkbarns carried in the dilatory coach to Queensferry. Gordon had been a
      student in the University of Aberdeen; he was an amateur in many arts, but
      antiquarianism was his favourite hobby. He was an acquaintance of Sir John
      Clerk of Eldin, the hero of the Praetorium. The words of Gordon in his
      &ldquo;Itinerarium,&rdquo; where he describes the battle of the Grampians, have
      supplied, or suggested, the speech of Monkbarns at the Kaim of Kinprunes.
      The great question was, Where is the Mons Grampius of Tacitus? Dismissing
      Camden&rsquo;s Grantsbain, because he does not know where it is, Gordon says,
      &ldquo;As for our Scotch Antiquaries, they are so divided that some will have it
      to be in the shire of Angus, or in the Mearns, some at the Blair of Athol
      in Perthshire, or Ardoch in Strathallan, and others at Inverpeffery.&rdquo;
       Gordon votes for Strathern, &ldquo;half a mile short of the Kirk of Comrie.&rdquo;
       This spot is both at the foot of the Montes Grampii, &ldquo;and boasts a Roman
      camp capable of holding an army fit to encounter so formidable a number as
      thirty thousand Caledonians. . . . Here is the Porta Decumana, opposite
      the Prcetoria, together with the dextra and sinistra gates,&rdquo; all
      discovered by Sandy Gordon. &ldquo;Moreover, the situation of the ground is so
      very exact with the description given by Tacitus, that in all my travels
      through Britain I never beheld anything with more pleasure. . . . Nor is
      it difficult, in viewing this ground, to say where the Covinarii, or
      Charioteers, stood. In fine, to an Antiquary, this is a ravishing scene.&rdquo;
       He adds the argument &ldquo;that Galgacus&rsquo;s name still remains on this ground,
      for the moor on which the camp stood is called to this day Galdachan, or
      Galgachan Rosmoor.&rdquo; All this lore Gordon illustrates by an immense chart
      of a camp, and a picture of very small Montes Grampii, about the size and
      shape of buns. The plate is dedicated to his excellency General Wade.
    </p>
    <p>
      In another point Monkbapns borrows from Gordon. Sandy has a plate (page
      20) of &ldquo;The Roman Sacellum of Mars Signifer, vulgarly called &lsquo;Arthur&rsquo;s
      Oon.&rsquo; With regard to its shape, it is not unlike the famous Pantheon at
      Rome before the noble Portico was added to it by Marcus Agrippa.&rdquo; Gordon
      agrees with Stukeley in attributing Arthur&rsquo;s Oon to Agricola, and here
      Monkbarns and Lovel adopt almost his words. &ldquo;Time has left Julius
      Agricola&rsquo;s very name on the place; . . . and if ever those initial letters
      J. A. M. P. M. P. T., mentioned by Sir Robert Sibbald, were engraven on a
      stone in this building, it may not be reckoned altogether absurd that they
      should bear this reading, JULIUS AGRICOLA MAGNUS PIETATIS MONUMENTUM
      POSUIT TEMPLUM; but this my reader may either accept or reject as he
      pleases. However, I think it may be as probably received as that
      inscription on Caligula&rsquo;s Pharos in Holland, which having these following
      letters, C. C. P. F., is read Caius Caligula Pharum Fecit.&rdquo; &ldquo;This,&rdquo;
       Monkbarns adds, &ldquo;has ever been recorded as a sound exposition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The character of Edie Ochiltree, Scott himself avers to have been
      suggested by Andrew Gemmells, pleasantly described in the Introduction.
      Mr. Chambers, in &ldquo;Illustrations of the Author of &lsquo;Waverley,&rdquo; clears up a
      point doubtful in Scott&rsquo;s memory, by saying that Geimells really was a
      Blue-Gown. He rode a horse of his own, and at races was a bookmaker. He
      once dropped at Rutherford, in Teviotdale, a clue of yarn containing
      twenty guineas. Like Edie Ochiltree, he had served at Fontenoy. He died at
      Roxburgh Newton in 1793, at the age of one hundred and five, according to
      his own reckoning. &ldquo;His wealth was the means of enriching a nephew in
      Ayrshire, who is now (1825) a considerable landholder there, and belongs
      to a respectable class of society.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An old Irus of similar character patrolled Teviotdale, while Andrew
      Gemmells was attached to Ettrick and Yarrow. This was Blind Willie Craw.
      Willie was the Society Journal of Hawick, and levied blackmail on the
      inhabitants. He is thus described by Mr. Grieve, in the Diary already
      quoted: &ldquo;He lived at Branxholme Town, in a free house set apart for the
      gamekeeper, and for many a year carried all the bread from Hawick used in
      my father&rsquo;s family. He came in that way at breakfast-time, and got a
      wallet which he put it in, and returned at dinner-time with the &lsquo;bawbee
      rows&rsquo; and two loaves. He laid the town of Hawick under contribution for
      bawbees, and he knew the history of every individual, and went rhyming
      through the town from door to door; and as he knew something against every
      one which they would rather wish should not be rehearsed, a bawbee put a
      stop to the paragraph which they wished suppressed. Willie Craw was the
      son of a gamekeeper of the duke&rsquo;s, and enjoyed a free house at Branxholme
      Town as long as he lived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Had Burns ever betaken himself to the gaberlunzie&rsquo;s life, which he speaks
      of in one of his poems as &ldquo;the last o&rsquo;t, the worst o&rsquo;t,&rdquo; he would have
      proved a much more formidable satirist than poor Willie Craw, the last of
      the &ldquo;blind crowders.&rdquo; Burns wrote, of course, in a spirit of reckless
      humour; but he could not, even in sport, have alluded to the life as
      &ldquo;suited to his habits and powers,&rdquo; had gaberlunzies been mere mendicants.
      In Herd&rsquo;s collection of Ballads is one on the ancient Scottish beggar:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                In Scotland there lived a humble beggar,
                  He had nor house, nor hald, nor hame;
                  But he was well liked by ilk a body,
                And they gave him sunkets to rax his wame.

                A sieve fu&rsquo; o&rsquo; meal, a handfu&rsquo; o&rsquo; groats,
                  A dad o&rsquo; a bannock, or pudding bree,
                  Cauld porridge, or the lickings o&rsquo; plates,
                Wad make him as blythe as a body could be.
</pre>
    <p>
      The dress and trade of the beggar are said to have been adopted by James
      V. in his adventures, and tradition attributes to him a song, &ldquo;The
      Gaberlunzie Man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One of Edie&rsquo;s most charming traits is his readiness to &ldquo;fight for his
      dish, like the laird for his land,&rdquo; when a French invasion was expected.
      Scott places the date of &ldquo;The False Alarm,&rdquo; when he himself rode a hundred
      miles to join his regiment, on Feb. 2, 1804.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lockhart gives it as an event of 1805 (vol. ii. p. 275). The occasion gave
      great pleasure to Scott, on account of the patriotism and courage
      displayed by all classes. &ldquo;Me no muckle to fight for?&rdquo; says Edie. &ldquo;Isna
      there the country to fight for, and the burns I gang dandering beside, and
      the hearths o&rsquo; the gudewives that gie me my bit bread, and the bits o&rsquo; 
      weans that come toddling to play wi&rsquo; me when I come about a landward
      town?&rdquo; Edie had fought at Fontenoy, and was of the old school. Scott would
      have been less pleased with a recruit from St. Boswells, on the Tweed.
      This man was a shoemaker, John Younger, a very intelligent and worthy
      person, famous as an angler and writer on angling, who has left an account
      of the &ldquo;False Alarm&rdquo; in his memoirs. His view was that the people, unlike
      Edie, had nothing to fight for, that only the rich had any reason to be
      patriotic, that the French had no quarrel with the poor. In fact, Mr.
      Younger was a cosmopolitan democrat, and sneered at the old Border glories
      of the warlike days. Probably, however, he would have done his duty, had
      the enemy landed, and, like Edie, might have remembered the &ldquo;burns he
      dandered beside,&rdquo; always with a fishingrod in his hand.
    </p>
<pre>
     The Editor cannot resist the temptation to add that the patriotic
     lady mentioned in Scott&rsquo;s note, who &ldquo;would rather have seen her son
     dead on that hearth than hear that he had been a horse&rsquo;s length
     behind his companions,&rdquo; was his paternal great-grandmother, Mrs.
     John Lang. Her husband, who died shortly afterwards, so that she was
     a widow when Scott conversed with her, chanced to be chief
     magistrate of Selkirk. His family was aroused late one night by the
     sound of a carriage hurrying down the steep and narrow street. Lord
     Napier was bringing, probably from Hawick, the tidings that the
     beacons were ablaze. The town-bell was instantly rung, the
     inhabitants met in the marketplace, where Scott&rsquo;s statue now stands,
     and the whole force, with one solitary exception, armed and marched
     to Dalkeith. According to the gentleman whose horse and arms were
     sent on to meet him, it was intended, if the French proved
     victorious, that the population of the Border towns should abandon
     their homes and retire to the hills.
</pre>
    <p>
      No characters in the &ldquo;Antiquary,&rdquo; except Monkbarns and Edie Ochiltree,
      seem to have been borrowed from notable originals. The frauds of
      Dousterswivel, Scott says, are rendered plausible by &ldquo;very late instances
      of the force of superstitious credulity to a much greater extent.&rdquo; He can
      hardly be referring to the career of Cagliostro, but he may have had in
      his memory some unsuccessful mining speculations by Charles Earl of
      Traquair, who sought for lead and found little or none in Traquair hills.
      The old &ldquo;Statistical Account of Scotland&rdquo; (vol. xii. p. 370) says nothing
      about imposture, and merely remarks that &ldquo;the noble family of Traquair
      have made several attempts to discover lead mines, and have found
      quantities of the ore of that metal, though not adequate to indemnify the
      expenses of working, and have therefore given up the attempt.&rdquo; This was
      published in 1794, so twenty years had passed when &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; was
      written. If there was here an &ldquo;instance of superstitious credulity,&rdquo; it
      was not &ldquo;a very late instance.&rdquo; The divining, or &ldquo;dowsing,&rdquo; rod of
      Dousterswivel still keeps its place in mining superstition and in the
      search for wells.
    </p>
<pre>
With &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; most contemporary reviews of the novels lose their
interest. Their author had firmly established his position, at least till
&ldquo;The Monastery&rdquo; caused some murmurings. Even the &ldquo;Quarterly Review&rdquo; was
infinitely more genial in its reception of &ldquo;The Antiquary&rdquo; than of &ldquo;Guy
Mannering.&rdquo; The critic only grumbled at Lovel&rsquo;s feverish dreams, which,
he thought, showed an intention to introduce the marvellous. He
complained of &ldquo;the dark dialect of Anglified Erse,&rdquo; but found comfort in
the glossary appended. The &ldquo;Edinburgh Review&rdquo; pronounced the chapter on
the escape from the tide to be &ldquo;I the very best description we have ever
met, inverse or in prose, in ancient or in modern writing.&rdquo; No reviewer
seems to have noticed that the sun is made to set in the sea, on the east
coast of Scotland. The &ldquo;Edinburgh,&rdquo; however, declared that the Antiquary,
&ldquo;at least in so far as he is an Antiquary,&rdquo; was the chief blemish on the
book. The &ldquo;sweet heathen of Monkbarns&rdquo; has not suffered from this
disparagement. The &ldquo;British Critic&rdquo; pledged its reputation that Scott was
the author. If an argument were wanted, &ldquo;it would be that which has been
applied to prove the authenticity of the last book of the Iliad,&mdash;that
Homer must have written it, because no one else could.&rdquo; Alas! that
argument does not convince German critics.
                                            ANDREW LANG.
</pre>
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      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIRST.
    </h2>
<pre>
               Go call a coach, and let a coach be called,
               And let the man who calleth be the caller;
               And in his calling let him nothing call,
               But Coach! Coach! Coach! O for a coach, ye gods!
                                 Chrononhotonthologos.
</pre>
    <p>
      It was early on a fine summer&rsquo;s day, near the end of the eighteenth
      century, when a young man, of genteel appearance, journeying towards the
      north-east of Scotland, provided himself with a ticket in one of those
      public carriages which travel between Edinburgh and the Queensferry, at
      which place, as the name implies, and as is well known to all my northern
      readers, there is a passage-boat for crossing the Firth of Forth. The
      coach was calculated to carry six regular passengers, besides such
      interlopers as the coachman could pick up by the way, and intrude upon
      those who were legally in possession. The tickets, which conferred right
      to a seat in this vehicle, of little ease, were dispensed by a
      sharp-looking old dame, with a pair of spectacles on a very thin nose, who
      inhabited a &ldquo;laigh shop,&rdquo; <i>anglice,</i> a cellar, opening to the High
      Street by a straight and steep stair, at the bottom of which she sold
      tape, thread, needles, skeins of worsted, coarse linen cloth, and such
      feminine gear, to those who had the courage and skill to descend to the
      profundity of her dwelling, without falling headlong themselves, or
      throwing down any of the numerous articles which, piled on each side of
      the descent, indicated the profession of the trader below.
    </p>
    <p>
      The written hand-bill, which, pasted on a projecting board, announced that
      the Queensferry Diligence, or Hawes Fly, departed precisely at twelve
      o&rsquo;clock on Tuesday, the fifteenth July 17&mdash;, in order to secure for
      travellers the opportunity of passing the Firth with the flood-tide, lied
      on the present occasion like a bulletin; for although that hour was pealed
      from Saint Giles&rsquo;s steeple, and repeated by the Tron, no coach appeared
      upon the appointed stand. It is true, only two tickets had been taken out,
      and possibly the lady of the subterranean mansion might have an
      understanding with her Automedon, that, in such cases, a little space was
      to be allowed for the chance of filling up the vacant places&mdash;or the
      said Automedon might have been attending a funeral, and be delayed by the
      necessity of stripping his vehicle of its lugubrious trappings&mdash;or he
      might have staid to take a half-mutchkin extraordinary with his crony the
      hostler&mdash;or&mdash;in short, he did not make his appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young gentleman, who began to grow somewhat impatient, was now joined
      by a companion in this petty misery of human life&mdash;the person who had
      taken out the other place. He who is bent upon a journey is usually easily
      to be distinguished from his fellow-citizens. The boots, the great-coat,
      the umbrella, the little bundle in his hand, the hat pulled over his
      resolved brows, the determined importance of his pace, his brief answers
      to the salutations of lounging acquaintances, are all marks by which the
      experienced traveller in mail-coach or diligence can distinguish, at a
      distance, the companion of his future journey, as he pushes onward to the
      place of rendezvous. It is then that, with worldly wisdom, the first comer
      hastens to secure the best berth in the coach for himself, and to make the
      most convenient arrangement for his baggage before the arrival of his
      competitors. Our youth, who was gifted with little prudence, of any sort,
      and who was, moreover, by the absence of the coach, deprived of the power
      of availing himself of his priority of choice, amused himself, instead, by
      speculating upon the occupation and character of the personage who was now
      come to the coach office.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a good-looking man of the age of sixty, perhaps older,&mdash;but
      his hale complexion and firm step announced that years had not impaired
      his strength or health. His countenance was of the true Scottish cast,
      strongly marked, and rather harsh in features, with a shrewd and
      penetrating eye, and a countenance in which habitual gravity was enlivened
      by a cast of ironical humour. His dress was uniform, and of a colour
      becoming his age and gravity; a wig, well dressed and powdered, surmounted
      by a slouched hat, had something of a professional air. He might be a
      clergyman, yet his appearance was more that of a man of the world than
      usually belongs to the kirk of Scotland, and his first ejaculation put the
      matter beyond question.
    </p>
    <p>
      He arrived with a hurried pace, and, casting an alarmed glance towards the
      dial-plate of the church, then looking at the place where the coach should
      have been, exclaimed, &ldquo;Deil&rsquo;s in it&mdash;I am too late after all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man relieved his anxiety, by telling him the coach had not yet
      appeared. The old gentleman, apparently conscious of his own want of
      punctuality, did not at first feel courageous enough to censure that of
      the coachman. He took a parcel, containing apparently a large folio, from
      a little boy who followed him, and, patting him on the head, bid him go
      back and tell Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;, that if he had known he was to have had
      so much time, he would have put another word or two to their bargain,&mdash;then
      told the boy to mind his business, and he would be as thriving a lad as
      ever dusted a duodecimo. The boy lingered, perhaps in hopes of a penny to
      buy marbles; but none was forthcoming. Our senior leaned his little bundle
      upon one of the posts at the head of the staircase, and, facing the
      traveller who had first arrived, waited in silence for about five minutes
      the arrival of the expected diligence.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, after one or two impatient glances at the progress of the
      minute-hand of the clock, having compared it with his own watch, a huge
      and antique gold repeater, and having twitched about his features to give
      due emphasis to one or two peevish pshaws, he hailed the old lady of the
      cavern.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good woman,&mdash;what the d&mdash;l is her name?&mdash;Mrs. Macleuchar!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Macleuchar, aware that she had a defensive part to sustain in the
      encounter which was to follow, was in no hurry to hasten the discussion by
      returning a ready answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Macleuchar,&mdash;Good woman&rdquo; (with an elevated voice)&mdash;then
      apart, &ldquo;Old doited hag, she&rsquo;s as deaf as a post&mdash;I say, Mrs.
      Macleuchar!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am just serving a customer.&mdash;Indeed, hinny, it will no be a bodle
      cheaper than I tell ye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman,&rdquo; reiterated the traveller, &ldquo;do you think we can stand here all day
      till you have cheated that poor servant wench out of her half-year&rsquo;s fee
      and bountith?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cheated!&rdquo; retorted Mrs. Macleuchar, eager to take up the quarrel upon a
      defensible ground; &ldquo;I scorn your words, sir: you are an uncivil person,
      and I desire you will not stand there, to slander me at my ain
      stair-head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The woman,&rdquo; said the senior, looking with an arch glance at his destined
      travelling companion, &ldquo;does not understand the words of action.&mdash;Woman,&rdquo;
       again turning to the vault, &ldquo;I arraign not thy character, but I desire to
      know what is become of thy coach?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s your wull?&rdquo; answered Mrs. Macleuchar, relapsing into deafness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have taken places, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said the younger stranger, &ldquo;in your
      diligence for Queensferry&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;&ldquo;Which should have been half-way
      on the road before now,&rdquo; continued the elder and more impatient traveller,
      rising in wrath as he spoke: &ldquo;and now in all likelihood we shall miss the
      tide, and I have business of importance on the other side&mdash;and your
      cursed coach&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The coach?&mdash;Gude guide us, gentlemen, is it no on the stand yet?&rdquo;
       answered the old lady, her shrill tone of expostulation sinking into a
      kind of apologetic whine. &ldquo;Is it the coach ye hae been waiting for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else could have kept us broiling in the sun by the side of the
      gutter here, you&mdash;you faithless woman, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Macleuchar now ascended her trap stair (for such it might be called,
      though constructed of stone), until her nose came upon a level with the
      pavement; then, after wiping her spectacles to look for that which she
      well knew was not to be found, she exclaimed, with well-feigned
      astonishment, &ldquo;Gude guide us&mdash;saw ever onybody the like o&rsquo; that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you abominable woman,&rdquo; vociferated the traveller, &ldquo;many have seen
      the like of it, and all will see the like of it that have anything to do
      with your trolloping sex;&rdquo; then pacing with great indignation before the
      door of the shop, still as he passed and repassed, like a vessel who gives
      her broadside as she comes abreast of a hostile fortress, he shot down
      complaints, threats, and reproaches, on the embarrassed Mrs. Macleuchar.
      He would take a post-chaise&mdash;he would call a hackney coach&mdash;he
      would take four horses&mdash;he must&mdash;he would be on the north side,
      to-day&mdash;and all the expense of his journey, besides damages, direct
      and consequential, arising from delay, should be accumulated on the
      devoted head of Mrs. Macleuchar.
    </p>
    <p>
      There, was something so comic in his pettish resentment, that the younger
      traveller, who was in no such pressing hurry to depart, could not help
      being amused with it, especially as it was obvious, that every now and
      then the old gentleman, though very angry, could not help laughing at his
      own vehemence. But when Mrs. Macleuchar began also to join in the
      laughter, he quickly put a stop to her ill-timed merriment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is that advertisement thine?&rdquo; showing a bit of crumpled
      printed paper: &ldquo;Does it not set forth, that, God willing, as you
      hypocritically express it, the Hawes Fly, or Queensferry Diligence, would
      set forth to-day at twelve o&rsquo;clock; and is it not, thou falsest of
      creatures, now a quarter past twelve, and no such fly or diligence to be
      seen?&mdash;Dost thou know the consequence of seducing the lieges by false
      reports?&mdash;dost thou know it might be brought under the statute of
      leasing-making? Answer&mdash;and for once in thy long, useless, and evil
      life, let it be in the words of truth and sincerity,&mdash;hast thou such
      a coach?&mdash;is it <i>in rerum natura?</i>&mdash;or is this base
      annunciation a mere swindle on the incautious to beguile them of their
      time, their patience, and three shillings of sterling money of this realm?&mdash;Hast
      thou, I say, such a coach? ay or no?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O dear, yes, sir; the neighbours ken the diligence weel, green picked oat
      wi&rsquo; red&mdash;three yellow wheels and a black ane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman, thy special description will not serve&mdash;it may be only a lie
      with a circumstance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, man, man!&rdquo; said the overwhelmed Mrs. Macleuchar, totally exhausted at
      having been so long the butt of his rhetoric, &ldquo;take back your three
      shillings, and make me quit o&rsquo; ye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so fast, not so fast, woman&mdash;Will three shillings transport me
      to Queensferry, agreeably to thy treacherous program?&mdash;or will it
      requite the damage I may sustain by leaving my business undone, or repay
      the expenses which I must disburse if I am obliged to tarry a day at the
      South Ferry for lack of tide?&mdash;Will it hire, I say, a pinnace, for
      which alone the regular price is five shillings?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here his argument was cut short by a lumbering noise, which proved to be
      the advance of the expected vehicle, pressing forward with all the
      dispatch to which the broken-winded jades that drew it could possibly be
      urged. With ineffable pleasure, Mrs. Macleuchar saw her tormentor
      deposited in the leathern convenience; but still, as it was driving off,
      his head thrust out of the window reminded her, in words drowned amid the
      rumbling of the wheels, that, if the diligence did not attain the Ferry in
      time to save the flood-tide, she, Mrs. Macleuchar, should be held
      responsible for all the consequences that might ensue.
    </p>
    <p>
      The coach had continued in motion for a mile or two before the stranger
      had completely repossessed himself of his equanimity, as was manifested by
      the doleful ejaculations, which he made from time to time, on the too
      great probability, or even certainty, of their missing the flood-tide. By
      degrees, however, his wrath subsided; he wiped his brows, relaxed his
      frown, and, undoing the parcel in his hand, produced his folio, on which
      he gazed from time to time with the knowing look of an amateur, admiring
      its height and condition, and ascertaining, by a minute and individual
      inspection of each leaf, that the volume was uninjured and entire from
      title-page to colophon. His fellow-traveller took the liberty of inquiring
      the subject of his studies. He lifted up his eyes with something of a
      sarcastic glance, as if he supposed the young querist would not relish, or
      perhaps understand, his answer, and pronounced the book to be Sandy
      Gordon&rsquo;s <i>Itinerarium Septentrionale,</i>* a book illustrative of the
      Roman remains in Scotland.
    </p>
    <p>
      * Note B. Sandy Gordon&rsquo;s <i>Itinerarium.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      The querist, unappalled by this learned title, proceeded to put several
      questions, which indicated that he had made good use of a good education,
      and, although not possessed of minute information on the subject of
      antiquities, had yet acquaintance enough with the classics to render him
      an interested and intelligent auditor when they were enlarged upon. The
      elder traveller, observing with pleasure the capacity of his temporary
      companion to understand and answer him, plunged, nothing loath, into a sea
      of discussion concerning urns, vases, votive, altars, Roman camps, and the
      rules of castrametation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pleasure of this discourse had such a dulcifying tendency, that,
      although two causes of delay occurred, each of much more serious duration
      than that which had drawn down his wrath upon the unlucky Mrs. Macleuchar,
      our =Antiquary= only bestowed on the delay the honour of a few episodical
      poohs and pshaws, which rather seemed to regard the interruption of his
      disquisition than the retardation of his journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first of these stops was occasioned by the breaking of a spring, which
      half an hour&rsquo;s labour hardly repaired. To the second, the Antiquary was
      himself accessory, if not the principal cause of it; for, observing that
      one of the horses had cast a fore-foot shoe, he apprized the coachman of
      this important deficiency. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s Jamie Martingale that furnishes the naigs
      on contract, and uphauds them,&rdquo; answered John, &ldquo;and I am not entitled to
      make any stop, or to suffer prejudice by the like of these accidents.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when you go to&mdash;I mean to the place you deserve to go to, you
      scoundrel,&mdash;who do you think will uphold <i>you</i> on contract? If
      you don&rsquo;t stop directly and carry the poor brute, to the next smithy, I&rsquo;ll
      have you punished, if there&rsquo;s a justice of peace in Mid-Lothian;&rdquo; and,
      opening the coach-door, out he jumped, while the coachman obeyed his
      orders, muttering, that &ldquo;if the gentlemen lost the tide now, they could
      not say but it was their ain fault, since he was willing to get on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I like so little to analyze the complication of the causes which influence
      actions, that I will not venture to ascertain whether our Antiquary&rsquo;s
      humanity to the poor horse was not in some degree aided by his desire of
      showing his companion a Pict&rsquo;s camp, or Round-about, a subject which he
      had been elaborately discussing, and of which a specimen, &ldquo;very curious
      and perfect indeed,&rdquo; happened to exist about a hundred yards distant from
      the spot where this interruption took place. But were I compelled to
      decompose the motives of my worthy friend (for such was the gentleman in
      the sober suit, with powdered wig and slouched hat), I should say, that,
      although he certainly would not in any case have suffered the coachman to
      proceed while the horse was unfit for service, and likely to suffer by
      being urged forward, yet the man of whipcord escaped some severe abuse and
      reproach by the agreeable mode which the traveller found out to pass the
      interval of delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      So much time was consumed by these interruptions of their journey, that
      when they descended the hill above the Hawes (for so the inn on the
      southern side of the Queensferry is denominated), the experienced eye of
      the Antiquary at once discerned, from the extent of wet sand, and the
      number of black stones and rocks, covered with sea-weed, which were
      visible along the skirts of the shore, that the hour of tide was past. The
      young traveller expected a burst of indignation; but whether, as Croaker
      says in &ldquo;The Good-natured Man,&rdquo; our hero had exhausted himself in fretting
      away his misfortunes beforehand, so that he did not feel them when they
      actually arrived, or whether he found the company in which he was placed
      too congenial to lead him to repine at anything which delayed his journey,
      it is certain that he submitted to his lot with much resignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The d&mdash;l&rsquo;s in the diligence and the old hag, it belongs to!&mdash;Diligence,
      quoth I? Thou shouldst have called it the Sloth&mdash;Fly, quoth she? why,
      it moves like a fly through a glue-pot, as the Irishman says. But,
      however, time and tide tarry for no man, and so, my young friend, we&rsquo;ll
      have a snack here at the Hawes, which is a very decent sort of a place,
      and I&rsquo;ll be very happy to finish the account I was giving you of the
      difference between the mode of entrenching <i>castra stativa</i> and <i>castra
      aestiva,</i> things confounded by too many of our historians. Lack-a-day,
      if they had ta&rsquo;en the pains to satisfy their own eyes, instead of
      following each other&rsquo;s blind guidance!&mdash;Well! we shall be pretty
      comfortable at the Hawes; and besides, after all, we must have dined
      somewhere, and it will be pleasanter sailing with the tide of ebb and the
      evening breeze.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In this Christian temper of making the best of all occurrences, our
      travellers alighted at the Hawes.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SECOND.
    </h2>
<pre>
              Sir, they do scandal me upon the road here!
                A poor quotidian rack of mutton roasted
                Dry to be grated! and that driven down
              With beer and butter-milk, mingled together.
                It is against my freehold, my inheritance.
              Wine is the word that glads the heart of man,
              And mine&rsquo;s the house of wine. <i>Sack,</i> says my bush,
             <i>Be merry and drink Sherry,</i> that&rsquo;s my posie.
                        Ben Jonson&rsquo;s <i>New Inn.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      As the senior traveller descended the crazy steps of the diligence at the
      inn, he was greeted by the fat, gouty, pursy landlord, with that mixture
      of familiarity and respect which the Scotch innkeepers of the old school
      used to assume towards their more valued customers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have a care o&rsquo; us, Monkbarns (distinguishing him by his territorial
      epithet, always most agreeable to the ear of a Scottish proprietor), is
      this you? I little thought to have seen your honour here till the summer
      session was ower.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye donnard auld deevil,&rdquo; answered his guest, his Scottish accent
      predominating when in anger though otherwise not particularly remarkable,&mdash;&ldquo;ye
      donnard auld crippled idiot, what have I to do with the session, or the
      geese that flock to it, or the hawks that pick their pinions for them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, and that&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; said mine host, who, in fact, only spoke upon a
      very general recollection of the stranger&rsquo;s original education, yet would
      have been sorry not to have been supposed accurate as to the station and
      profession of him, or any other occasional guest&mdash;&ldquo;That&rsquo;s very true,&mdash;but
      I thought ye had some law affair of your ain to look after&mdash;I have
      ane mysell&mdash;a ganging plea that my father left me, and his father
      afore left to him. It&rsquo;s about our back-yard&mdash;ye&rsquo;ll maybe hae heard of
      it in the Parliament-house, Hutchison against Mackitchinson&mdash;it&rsquo;s a
      weel-kenn&rsquo;d plea&mdash;its been four times in afore the fifteen, and deil
      ony thing the wisest o&rsquo; them could make o&rsquo;t, but just to send it out again
      to the outer-house.&mdash;O it&rsquo;s a beautiful thing to see how lang and how
      carefully justice is considered in this country!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold your tongue, you fool,&rdquo; said the traveller, but in great
      good-humour, &ldquo;and tell us what you can give this young gentleman and me
      for dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, there&rsquo;s fish, nae doubt,&mdash;that&rsquo;s sea-trout and caller haddocks,&rdquo;
       said Mackitchinson, twisting his napkin; &ldquo;and ye&rsquo;ll be for a mutton-chop,
      and there&rsquo;s cranberry tarts, very weel preserved, and&mdash;and there&rsquo;s
      just ony thing else ye like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which is to say, there is nothing else whatever? Well, well, the fish and
      the chop, and the tarts, will do very well. But don&rsquo;t imitate the cautious
      delay that you praise in the courts of justice. Let there be no remits
      from the inner to the outer house, hear ye me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na,&rdquo; said Mackitchinson, whose long and heedful perusal of volumes of
      printed session papers had made him acquainted with some law phrases&mdash;&ldquo;the
      denner shall be served <i>quam primum</i> and that <i>peremptorie.</i>&rdquo;
       And with the flattering laugh of a promising host, he left them in his
      sanded parlour, hung with prints of the Four Seasons.
    </p>
    <p>
      As, notwithstanding his pledge to the contrary, the glorious delays of the
      law were not without their parallel in the kitchen of the inn, our younger
      traveller had an opportunity to step out and make some inquiry of the
      people of the house concerning the rank and station of his companion. The
      information which he received was of a general and less authentic nature,
      but quite sufficient to make him acquainted with the name, history, and
      circumstances of the gentleman, whom we shall endeavour, in a few words,
      to introduce more accurately to our readers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jonathan Oldenbuck, or Oldinbuck, by popular contraction Oldbuck, of
      Monkbarns, was the second son of a gentleman possessed of a small property
      in the neighbourhood of a thriving seaport town on the north-eastern coast
      of Scotland, which, for various reasons, we shall denominate Fairport.
      They had been established for several generations, as landholders in the
      county, and in most shires of England would have been accounted a family
      of some standing. But the shire of&mdash;&mdash;was filled with gentlemen
      of more ancient descent and larger fortune. In the last generation, also,
      the neighbouring gentry had been almost uniformly Jacobites, while the
      proprietors of Monkbarns, like the burghers of the town near which they
      were settled, were steady assertors of the Protestant succession. The
      latter had, however, a pedigree of their own, on which they prided
      themselves as much as those who despised them valued their respective
      Saxon, Norman, or Celtic genealogies. The first Oldenbuck, who had settled
      in their family mansion shortly after the Reformation, was, they asserted,
      descended from one of the original printers of Germany, and had left his
      country in consequence of the persecutions directed against the professors
      of the Reformed religion. He had found a refuge in the town near which his
      posterity dwelt, the more readily that he was a sufferer in the Protestant
      cause, and certainly not the less so, that he brought with him money
      enough to purchase the small estate of Monkbarns, then sold by a
      dissipated laird, to whose father it had been gifted, with other church
      lands, on the dissolution of the great and wealthy monastery to which it
      had belonged. The Oldenbucks were therefore, loyal subjects on all
      occasions of insurrection; and, as they kept up a good intelligence with
      the borough, it chanced that the Laird of Monkbarns, who flourished in
      1745, was provost of the town during that ill-fated year, and had exerted
      himself with much spirit in favour of King George, and even been put to
      expenses on that score, which, according to the liberal conduct of the
      existing government towards their friends, had never been repaid him. By
      dint of solicitation, however, and borough interest, he contrived to gain
      a place in the customs, and, being a frugal, careful man, had found
      himself enabled to add considerably to his paternal fortune. He had only
      two sons, of whom, as we have hinted, the present laird was the younger,
      and two daughters, one of whom still flourished in single blessedness, and
      the other, who was greatly more juvenile, made a love-match with a captain
      in the <i>Forty-twa,</i> who had no other fortune but his commission and a
      Highland pedigree. Poverty disturbed a union which love would otherwise
      have made happy, and Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, in justice to his wife and two
      children, a boy and girl, had found himself obliged to seek his fortune in
      the East Indies. Being ordered upon an expedition against Hyder Ally, the
      detachment to which he belonged was cut off, and no news ever reached his
      unfortunate wife, whether he fell in battle, or was murdered in prison, or
      survived in what the habits of the Indian tyrant rendered a hopeless
      captivity. She sunk under the accumulated load of grief and uncertainty,
      and left a son and daughter to the charge of her brother, the existing
      Laird of Monkbarns.
    </p>
    <p>
      The history of that proprietor himself is soon told. Being, as we have
      said, a second son, his father destined him to a share in a substantial
      mercantile concern, carried on by some of his maternal relations. From
      this Jonathan&rsquo;s mind revolted in the most irreconcilable manner. He was
      then put apprentice to the profession of a writer, or attorney, in which
      he profited so far, that he made himself master of the whole forms of
      feudal investitures, and showed such pleasure in reconciling their
      incongruities, and tracing their origin, that his master had great hope he
      would one day be an able conveyancer. But he halted upon the threshold,
      and, though he acquired some knowledge of the origin and system of the law
      of his country, he could never be persuaded to apply it to lucrative and
      practical purposes. It was not from any inconsiderate neglect of the
      advantages attending the possession of money that he thus deceived the
      hopes of his master. &ldquo;Were he thoughtless or light-headed, or <i>rei suae
      prodigus,</i>&rdquo; said his instructor, &ldquo;I would know what to make of him. But
      he never pays away a shilling without looking anxiously after the change,
      makes his sixpence go farther than another lad&rsquo;s half-crown, and wilt
      ponder over an old black-letter copy of the acts of parliament for days,
      rather than go to the golf or the change-house; and yet he will not bestow
      one of these days on a little business of routine, that would put twenty
      shillings in his pocket&mdash;a strange mixture of frugality and industry,
      and negligent indolence&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know what to make of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But in process of time his pupil gained the means of making what he
      pleased of himself; for his father having died, was not long survived by
      his eldest son, an arrant fisher and fowler, who departed this life, in
      consequence of a cold caught in his vocation, while shooting ducks in the
      swamp called Kittlefittingmoss, notwithstanding his having drunk a bottle
      of brandy that very night to keep the cold out of his stomach. Jonathan,
      therefore, succeeded to the estate, and with it to the means of subsisting
      without the hated drudgery of the law. His wishes were very moderate; and
      as the rent of his small property rose with the improvement of the
      country, it soon greatly exceeded his wants and expenditure; and though
      too indolent to make money, he was by no means insensible to the pleasure
      of beholding it accumulate. The burghers of the town near which he lived
      regarded him with a sort of envy, as one who affected to divide himself
      from their rank in society, and whose studies and pleasures seemed to them
      alike incomprehensible. Still, however, a sort of hereditary respect for
      the Laird of Monkbarns, augmented by the knowledge of his being a
      ready-money man, kept up his consequence with this class of his
      neighbours. The country gentlemen were generally above him in fortune, and
      beneath him in intellect, and, excepting one with whom he lived in habits
      of intimacy, had little intercourse with Mr. Oldbuck of Monkbarns. He,
      had, however, the usual resources, the company of the clergyman, and of
      the doctor, when he chose to request it, and also his own pursuits and
      pleasures, being in correspondence with most of the virtuosi of his time,
      who, like himself, measured decayed entrenchments, made plans of ruined
      castles, read illegible inscriptions, and wrote essays on medals in the
      proportion of twelve pages to each letter of the legend. Some habits of
      hasty irritation he had contracted, partly, it was said in the borough of
      Fairport, from an early disappointment in love in virtue of which he had
      commenced misogynist, as he called it, but yet more by the obsequious
      attention paid to him by his maiden sister and his orphan niece, whom he
      had trained to consider him as the greatest man upon earth, and whom he
      used to boast of as the only women he had ever seen who were well broke in
      and bitted to obedience; though, it must be owned, Miss Grizzy Oldbuck was
      sometimes apt to <i>jibb</i> when he pulled the reins too tight. The rest
      of his character must be gathered from the story, and we dismiss with
      pleasure the tiresome task of recapitulation.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the time of dinner, Mr. Oldbuck, actuated by the same curiosity
      which his fellow-traveller had entertained on his account, made some
      advances, which his age and station entitled him to do in a more direct
      manner, towards ascertaining the name, destination, and quality of his
      young companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      His name, the young gentleman said, was Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! the cat, the rat, and Lovel our dog? Was he descended from King
      Richard&rsquo;s favourite?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had no pretensions,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to call himself a whelp of that litter;
      his father was a north-of-England gentleman. He was at present travelling
      to Fairport (the town near to which Monkbarns was situated), and, if he
      found the place agreeable, might perhaps remain there for some weeks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was Mr. Lovel&rsquo;s excursion solely for pleasure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not entirely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps on business with some of the commercial people of Fairport?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was partly on business, but had no reference to commerce.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here he paused; and Mr. Oldbuck, having pushed his inquiries as far as
      good manners permitted, was obliged to change the conversation. The
      Antiquary, though by no means an enemy to good cheer, was a determined foe
      to all unnecessary expense on a journey; and upon his companion giving a
      hint concerning a bottle of port wine, he drew a direful picture of the
      mixture, which, he said, was usually sold under that denomination, and
      affirming that a little punch was more genuine and better suited for the
      season, he laid his hand upon the bell to order the materials. But
      Mackitchinson had, in his own mind, settled their beverage otherwise, and
      appeared bearing in his hand an immense double quart bottle, or magnum, as
      it is called in Scotland, covered with saw-dust and cobwebs, the warrants
      of its antiquity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Punch!&rdquo; said he, catching that generous sound as he entered the parlour,
      &ldquo;the deil a drap punch ye&rsquo;se get here the day, Monkbarns, and that ye may
      lay your account wi&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean, you impudent rascal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, it&rsquo;s nae matter for that&mdash;but do you mind the trick ye
      served me the last time ye were here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trick you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, just yoursell, Monkbarns. The Laird o&rsquo; Tamlowrie and Sir Gilbert
      Grizzlecleuch, and Auld Rossballoh, and the Bailie, were just setting in
      to make an afternoon o&rsquo;t, and you, wi&rsquo; some o&rsquo; your auld-warld stories,
      that the mind o&rsquo; man canna resist, whirl&rsquo;d them to the back o&rsquo; beyont to
      look at the auld Roman camp&mdash;Ah, sir!&rdquo; turning to Lovel, &ldquo;he wad wile
      the bird aff the tree wi&rsquo; the tales he tells about folk lang syne&mdash;and
      did not I lose the drinking o&rsquo; sax pints o&rsquo; gude claret, for the deil ane
      wad hae stirred till he had seen that out at the least?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&rsquo;ye hear the impudent scoundrel!&rdquo; said Monkbarns, but laughing at the
      same time; for the worthy landlord, as he used to boast, know the measure
      of a guest&rsquo;s foot as well as e&rsquo;er a souter on this side Solway; &ldquo;well,
      well, you may send us in a bottle of port.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Port! na, na! ye maun leave port and punch to the like o&rsquo; us, it&rsquo;s claret
      that&rsquo;s fit for you lairds; and, I dare say, nane of the folk ye speak so
      much o&rsquo; ever drank either of the twa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear how absolute the knave is? Well, my young friend, we must for
      once prefer the <i>Falernian</i> to the <i>vile Sabinum.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ready landlord had the cork instantly extracted, decanted the wine
      into a vessel of suitable capaciousness, and, declaring it <i>parfumed</i>
      the very room, left his guests to make the most of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mackitchinson&rsquo;s wine was really good, and had its effect upon the spirits
      of the elder guest, who told some good stories, cut some sly jokes, and at
      length entered into a learned discussion concerning the ancient
      dramatists; a ground on which he found his new acquaintance so strong,
      that at length he began to suspect he had made them his professional
      study. &ldquo;A traveller partly for business and partly for pleasure?&mdash;why,
      the stage partakes of both; it is a labour to the performers, and affords,
      or is meant to afford, pleasure to the spectators. He seems, in manner and
      rank, above the class of young men who take that turn; but I remember
      hearing them say, that the little theatre at Fairport was to open with the
      performance of a young gentleman, being his first appearance on any stage.&mdash;If
      this should be thee, Lovel!&mdash;Lovel? yes, Lovel or Belville are just
      the names which youngsters are apt to assume on such occasions&mdash;on my
      life, I am sorry for the lad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck was habitually parsimonious, but in no respects mean; his
      first thought was to save his fellow-traveller any part of the expense of
      the entertainment, which he supposed must be in his situation more or less
      inconvenient. He therefore took an opportunity of settling privately with
      Mr. Mackitchinson. The young traveller remonstrated against his
      liberality, and only acquiesced in deference to his years and
      respectability.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mutual satisfaction which they found in each other&rsquo;s society induced
      Mr. Oldbuck to propose, and Lovel willingly to accept, a scheme for
      travelling together to the end of their journey. Mr. Oldbuck intimated a
      wish to pay two-thirds of the hire of a post-chaise, saying, that a
      proportional quantity of room was necessary to his accommodation; but this
      Mr. Lovel resolutely declined. Their expense then was mutual, unless when
      Lovel occasionally slipt a shilling into the hand of a growling postilion;
      for Oldbuck, tenacious of ancient customs, never extended his guerdon
      beyond eighteen-pence a stage. In this manner they travelled, until they
      arrived at Fairport* about two o&rsquo;clock on the following day.
    </p>
    <p>
      * [The &ldquo;Fairport&rdquo; of this novel is supposed to refer to the town of *
      Arbroath, in Forfarshire, and &ldquo;Musselcrag,&rdquo; <i>post,</i> to the fishing
      village of * Auchmithie, in the same county.]
    </p>
    <p>
      Lovel probably expected that his travelling companion would have invited
      him to dinner on his arrival; but his consciousness of a want of ready
      preparation for unexpected guests, and perhaps some other reasons,
      prevented Oldbuck from paying him that attention. He only begged to see
      him as early as he could make it convenient to call in a forenoon,
      recommended him to a widow who had apartments to let, and to a person who
      kept a decent ordinary; cautioning both of them apart, that he only knew
      Mr. Lovel as a pleasant companion in a post-chaise, and did not mean to
      guarantee any bills which he might contract while residing at Fairport.
      The young gentleman&rsquo;s figure and manners; not to mention a well-furnished
      trunk, which soon arrived by sea, to his address at Fairport, probably
      went as far in his favour as the limited recommendation of his
      fellow-traveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THIRD.
    </h2>
<pre>
                 He had a routh o&rsquo; auld nick-nackets,
                 Rusty airn caps, and jinglin-jackets,
               Would held the Loudons three in tackets,
                            A towmond gude;
               And parritch-pats, and auld sayt-backets,
                           Afore the flude.
                                           Burns.
</pre>
    <p>
      After he had settled himself in his new apartments at Fairport, Mr. Lovel
      bethought him of paying the requested visit to his fellow-traveller. He
      did not make it earlier, because, with all the old gentleman&rsquo;s good-humour
      and information, there had sometimes glanced forth in his language and
      manner towards him an air of superiority, which his companion considered
      as being fully beyond what the difference of age warranted. He therefore
      waited the arrival of his baggage from Edinburgh, that he might arrange
      his dress according to the fashion of the day, and make his exterior
      corresponding to the rank in society which he supposed or felt himself
      entitled to hold.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the fifth day after his arrival, that, having made the necessary
      inquiries concerning the road, he went forth to pay his respects at
      Monkbarns. A footpath leading over a heathy hill, and through two or three
      meadows, conducted him to this mansion, which stood on the opposite side
      of the hill aforesaid, and commanded a fine prospect of the bay and
      shipping. Secluded from the town by the rising ground, which also screened
      it from the north-west wind, the house had a solitary, and sheltered
      appearance. The exterior had little to recommend it. It was an irregular
      old-fashioned building, some part of which had belonged to a grange, or
      solitary farm-house, inhabited by the bailiff, or steward, of the
      monastery, when the place was in possession of the monks. It was here that
      the community stored up the grain, which they received as ground-rent from
      their vassals; for, with the prudence belonging to their order, all their
      conventional revenues were made payable in kind, and hence, as the present
      proprietor loved to tell, came the name of Monkbarns. To the remains of
      the bailiff&rsquo;s house, the succeeding lay inhabitants had made various
      additions in proportion to the accommodation required by their families;
      and, as this was done with an equal contempt of convenience within and
      architectural regularity without, the whole bore the appearance of a
      hamlet which had suddenly stood still when in the act of leading down one
      of Amphion&rsquo;s, or Orpheus&rsquo;s, country dances. It was surrounded by tall
      clipped hedges of yew and holly, some of which still exhibited the skill
      of the <i>topiarian</i> artist,* and presented curious arm-chairs, towers,
      and the figures of Saint George and the Dragon.
    </p>
    <p>
      * <i>Ars Topiaria,</i> the art of clipping yew-hedges into fantastic
      figures. A Latin poem, entitled <i>Ars Topiaria,</i> contains a curious
      account of the process.
    </p>
    <p>
      The taste of Mr. Oldbuck did not disturb these monuments of an art now
      unknown, and he was the less tempted so to do, as it must necessarily have
      broken the heart of the old gardener. One tall embowering holly was,
      however, sacred from the shears; and, on a garden seat beneath its shade,
      Lovel beheld his old friend with spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
      busily employed in perusing the London Chronicle, soothed by the summer
      breeze through the rustling leaves, and the distant dash of the waves as
      they rippled upon the sand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck immediately rose, and advanced to greet his travelling
      acquaintance with a hearty shake of the hand. &ldquo;By my faith,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I
      began to think you had changed your mind, and found the stupid people of
      Fairport so tiresome, that you judged them unworthy of your talents, and
      had taken French leave, as my old friend and brother-antiquary Mac-Cribb
      did, when he went off with one of my Syrian medals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope, my good sir, I should have fallen under no such imputation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite as bad, let me tell you, if you had stolen yourself away without
      giving me the pleasure of seeing you again. I had rather you had taken my
      copper Otho himself.&mdash;But come, let me show you the way into my <i>sanctum
      sanctorum</i>&mdash;my cell I may call it, for, except two idle hussies of
      womankind,&rdquo; (by this contemptuous phrase, borrowed from his
      brother-antiquary, the cynic Anthony a-Wood, Mr. Oldbuck was used to
      denote the fair sex in general, and his sister and niece in particular),
      &ldquo;that, on some idle pretext of relationship, have established themselves
      in my premises, I live here as much a Coenobite as my predecessor, John o&rsquo; 
      the Girnell, whose grave I will show you by and by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus speaking the old gentleman led the way through a low door; but before
      entrance, suddenly stopped short to point out some vestiges of what he
      called an inscription, and, shaking his head as he pronounced it totally
      illegible, &ldquo;Ah! if you but knew, Mr. Lovel, the time and trouble that
      these mouldering traces of letters have cost me! No mother ever travailed
      so for a child&mdash;and all to no purpose&mdash;although I am almost
      positive that these two last marks imply the figures, or letters, LV, and
      may give us a good guess at the real date of the building, since we know,
      <i>aliunde,</i> that it was founded by Abbot Waldimir about the middle of
      the fourteenth century&mdash;and, I profess, I think that centre ornament
      might be made out by better eyes than mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; answered Lovel, willing to humour the old man, &ldquo;it has
      something the appearance of a mitre.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I protest you are right! you are right! it never struck me before&mdash;see
      what it is to have younger eyes&mdash;A mitre&mdash;a mitre&mdash;it
      corresponds in every respect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The resemblance was not much nearer than that of Polonius&rsquo;s cloud to a
      whale, or an owzel; it was sufficient, however, to set the Antiquary&rsquo;s
      brains to work. &ldquo;A mitre, my dear sir,&rdquo; continued he, as he led the way
      through a labyrinth of inconvenient and dark passages, and accompanied his
      disquisition with certain necessary cautions to his guest&mdash;&ldquo;A mitre,
      my dear sir, will suit our abbot as well as a bishop&mdash;he was a mitred
      abbot, and at the very top of the roll&mdash;take care of these three
      steps&mdash;I know Mac-Cribb denies this, but it is as certain as that he
      took away my Antigonus, no leave asked&mdash;you&rsquo;ll see the name of the
      Abbot of Trotcosey, <i>Abbas Trottocosiensis,</i> at the head of the rolls
      of parliament in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries&mdash;there is
      very little light here, and these cursed womankind always leave their tubs
      in the passage&mdash;now take, care of the corner&mdash;ascend twelve
      steps, and ye are safe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="image-0005">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pa026.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="The Antiquary and Lovel--the Sanctum  "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck had by this time attained the top of the winding stair which
      led to his own apartment, and opening a door, and pushing aside a piece of
      tapestry with which it was covered, his first exclamation was, &ldquo;What are
      you about here, you sluts?&rdquo; A dirty barefooted chambermaid threw down her
      duster, detected in the heinous fact of arranging the <i>sanctum
      sanctorum,</i> and fled out of an opposite door from the face of her
      incensed master. A genteel-looking young woman, who was superintending the
      operation, stood her ground, but with some timidity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, uncle, your room was not fit to be seen, and I just came to see
      that Jenny laid everything down where she took it up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how dare you, or Jenny either, presume to meddle with my private
      matters?&rdquo; (Mr. Oldbuck hated <i>puttting to rights</i> as much as Dr.
      Orkborne, or any other professed student.) &ldquo;Go, sew your sampler, you
      monkey, and do not let me find you here again, as you value your ears.&mdash;I
      assure you, Mr. Lovel, that the last inroad of these pretended friends to
      cleanliness was almost as fatal to my collection as Hudibras&rsquo;s visit to
      that of Sidrophel; and I have ever since missed
    </p>
<pre>
                    My copperplate, with almanacks
                    Engraved upon&rsquo;t and other knacks
                    My moon-dial, with Napier&rsquo;s bones,
                    And several constellation Stones;
                    My flea, my morpeon, and punaise,
                      I purchased for my proper ease.
</pre>
    <p>
      And so forth, as old Butler has it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young lady, after courtesying to Lovel, had taken the opportunity to
      make her escape during this enumeration of losses. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll be poisoned
      here with the volumes of dust they have raised,&rdquo; continued the Antiquary;
      &ldquo;but I assure you the dust was very ancient, peaceful, quiet dust, about
      an hour ago, and would have remained so for a hundred years, had not these
      gipsies disturbed it, as they do everything else in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed some time before Lovel could, through the thick atmosphere,
      perceive in what sort of den his friend had constructed his retreat. It
      was a lofty room of middling size, obscurely lighted by high narrow
      latticed windows. One end was entirely occupied by book-shelves, greatly
      too limited in space for the number of volumes placed upon them, which
      were, therefore, drawn up in ranks of two or three files deep, while
      numberless others littered the floor and the tables, amid a chaos of maps,
      engraving, scraps of parchment, bundles of papers, pieces of old armour,
      swords, dirks, helmets, and Highland targets. Behind Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s seat
      (which was an ancient leathern-covered easy-chair, worn smooth by constant
      use) was a huge oaken cabinet, decorated at each corner with Dutch
      cherubs, having their little duck-wings displayed, and great jolter-headed
      visages placed between them. The top of this cabinet was covered with
      busts, and Roman lamps and paterae, intermingled with one or two bronze
      figures. The walls of the apartment were partly clothed with grim old
      tapestry, representing the memorable story of Sir Gawaine&rsquo;s wedding, in
      which full justice was done to the ugliness of the Lothely Lady; although,
      to judge from his own looks, the gentle knight had less reason to be
      disgusted with the match on account of disparity of outward favour, than
      the romancer has given us to understand. The rest of the room was
      panelled, or wainscotted, with black oak, against which hung two or three
      portraits in armour, being characters in Scottish history, favourites of
      Mr. Oldbuck, and as many in tie-wigs and laced coats, staring
      representatives of his own ancestors. A large old-fashioned oaken table
      was covered with a profusion of papers, parchments, books, and nondescript
      trinkets and gewgaws, which seemed to have little to recommend them,
      besides rust and the antiquity which it indicates. In the midst of this
      wreck of ancient books and utensils, with a gravity equal to Marius among
      the ruins of Carthage, sat a large black cat, which, to a superstitious
      eye, might have presented the <i>genius loci,</i> the tutelar demon of the
      apartment. The floor, as well as the table and chairs, was overflowed by
      the same <i>mare magnum</i> of miscellaneous trumpery, where it would have
      been as impossible to find any individual article wanted, as to put it to
      any use when discovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amid this medley, it was no easy matter to find one&rsquo;s way to a chair,
      without stumbling over a prostrate folio, or the still more awkward
      mischance of overturning some piece of Roman or ancient British pottery.
      And, when the chair was attained, it had to be disencumbered, with a
      careful hand, of engravings which might have received damage, and of
      antique spurs and buckles, which would certainly have occasioned it to any
      sudden occupant. Of this the Antiquary made Lovel particularly aware,
      adding, that his friend, the Rev. Doctor Heavysterne from the Low
      Countries, had sustained much injury by sitting down suddenly and
      incautiously on three ancient calthrops, or <i>craw-taes,</i> which had
      been lately dug up in the bog near Bannockburn, and which, dispersed by
      Robert Bruce to lacerate the feet of the English chargers, came thus in
      process of time to endamage the sitting part of a learned professor of
      Utrecht.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having at length fairly settled himself, and being nothing loath to make
      inquiry concerning the strange objects around him, which his host was
      equally ready, as far as possible, to explain, Lovel was introduced to a
      large club, or bludgeon, with an iron spike at the end of it, which, it
      seems, had been lately found in a field on the Monkbarns property,
      adjacent to an old burying-ground. It had mightily the air of such a stick
      as the Highland reapers use to walk with on their annual peregrinations
      from their mountains; but Mr. Oldbuck was strongly tempted to believe,
      that, as its shape was singular, it might have been one of the clubs with
      which the monks armed their peasants in lieu of more martial weapons,&mdash;whence,
      he observed, the villains were called <i>Colve-carles,</i> or <i>Kolb-kerls,</i>
      that is, <i>Clavigeri,</i> or club-bearers. For the truth of this custom,
      he quoted the chronicle of Antwerp and that of St. Martin; against which
      authorities Lovel had nothing to oppose, having never heard of them till
      that moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck next exhibited thumb-screws, which had given the Covenanters
      of former days the cramp in their joints, and a collar with the name of a
      fellow convicted of theft, whose services, as the inscription bore, had
      been adjudged to a neighbouring baron, in lieu of the modern Scottish
      punishment, which, as Oldbuck said, sends such culprits to enrich England
      by their labour, and themselves by their dexterity. Many and various were
      the other curiosities which he showed;&mdash;but it was chiefly upon his
      books that he prided himself, repeating, with a complacent air, as he led
      the way to the crowded and dusty shelves, the verses of old Chaucer&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
               For he would rather have, at his bed-head,
               A twenty books, clothed in black or red,
                    Of Aristotle, or his philosophy,
                    Than robes rich, rebeck, or saltery.
</pre>
    <p>
      This pithy motto he delivered, shaking his head, and giving each guttural
      the true Anglo-Saxon enunciation, which is now forgotten in the southern
      parts of this realm.
    </p>
    <p>
      The collection was indeed a curious one, and might well be envied by an
      amateur. Yet it was not collected at the enormous prices of modern times,
      which are sufficient to have appalled the most determined as well as
      earliest bibliomaniac upon record, whom we take to have been none else
      than the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, as, among other slight
      indications of an infirm understanding, he is stated, by his veracious
      historian, Cid Hamet Benengeli, to have exchanged fields and farms for
      folios and quartos of chivalry. In this species of exploit, the good
      knight-errant has been imitated by lords, knights, and squires of our own
      day, though we have not yet heard of any that has mistaken an inn for a
      castle, or laid his lance in rest against a windmill. Mr. Oldbuck did not
      follow these collectors in such excess of expenditure; but, taking a
      pleasure in the personal labour of forming his library, saved his purse at
      the expense of his time and toil, He was no encourager of that ingenious
      race of peripatetic middle-men, who, trafficking between the obscure
      keeper of a stall and the eager amateur, make their profit at once of the
      ignorance of the former, and the dear-bought skill and taste of the
      latter. When such were mentioned in his hearing, he seldom failed to point
      out how necessary it was to arrest the object of your curiosity in its
      first transit, and to tell his favourite story of Snuffy Davie and
      Caxton&rsquo;s Game at Chess.&mdash;&ldquo;Davy Wilson,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;commonly called
      Snuffy Davy, from his inveterate addiction to black rappee, was the very
      prince of scouts for searching blind alleys, cellars, and stalls for rare
      volumes. He had the scent of a slow-hound, sir, and the snap of a
      bull-dog. He would detect you an old black-letter ballad among the leaves
      of a law-paper, and find an <i>editio princeps</i> under the mask of a
      school Corderius. Snuffy Davy bought the Game of Chess, 1474, the first
      book ever printed in England, from a stall in Holland, for about two
      groschen, or twopence of our money. He sold it to Osborne for twenty
      pounds, and as many books as came to twenty pounds more. Osborne resold
      this inimitable windfall to Dr. Askew for sixty guineas. At Dr. Askew&rsquo;s
      sale,&rdquo; continued the old gentleman, kindling as he spoke, &ldquo;this
      inestimable treasure blazed forth in its full value, and was purchased by
      Royalty itself for one hundred and seventy pounds!&mdash;Could a copy now
      occur, Lord only knows,&rdquo; he ejaculated, with a deep sigh and lifted-up
      hands&mdash;&ldquo;Lord only knows what would be its ransom; and yet it was
      originally secured, by skill and research, for the easy equivalent of
      two-pence sterling. * Happy, thrice happy, Snuffy Davie!&mdash;and blessed
      were the times when thy industry could be so rewarded!
    </p>
    <p>
      * This bibliomaniacal anecdote is literally true; and David Wilson, the
      author need not tell his brethren of the Roxburghe and Bannatyne Clubs,
      was a real personage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even I, sir,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;though far inferior in industry and
      discernment and presence of mind, to that great man, can show you a few&mdash;a
      very few things, which I have collected, not by force of money, as any
      wealthy man might,&mdash;although, as my friend Lucian says, he might
      chance to throw away his coin only to illustrate his ignorance,&mdash;but
      gained in a manner that shows I know something of the matter. See this
      bundle of ballads, not one of them later than 1700, and some of them an
      hundred years older. I wheedled an old woman out of these, who loved them
      better than her psalm-book. Tobacco, sir, snuff, and the Complete Syren,
      were the equivalent! For that, mutilated copy of the Complaynt of
      Scotland, I sat out the drinking of two dozen bottles of strong ale with
      the late learned proprietor, who, in gratitude, bequeathed it to me by his
      last will. These little Elzevirs are the memoranda and trophies of many a
      walk by night and morning through the Cowgate, the Canongate, the Bow, St.
      Mary&rsquo;s Wynd,&mdash;wherever, in fine, there were to be found brokers and
      trokers, those miscellaneous dealers in things rare and curious. How often
      have I stood haggling on a halfpenny, lest, by a too ready acquiescence in
      the dealer&rsquo;s first price, he should be led to suspect the value I set upon
      the article!&mdash;how have I trembled, lest some passing stranger should
      chop in between me and the prize, and regarded each poor student of
      divinity that stopped to turn over the books at the stall, as a rival
      amateur, or prowling bookseller in disguise!&mdash;And then, Mr. Lovel,
      the sly satisfaction with which one pays the consideration, and pockets
      the article, affecting a cold indifference, while the hand is trembling
      with pleasure!&mdash;Then to dazzle the eyes of our wealthier and emulous
      rivals by showing them such a treasure as this&rdquo; (displaying a little black
      smoked book about the size of a primer); &ldquo;to enjoy their surprise and
      envy, shrouding meanwhile, under a veil of mysterious consciousness, our
      own superior knowledge and dexterity these, my young friend, these are the
      white moments of life, that repay the toil, and pains, and sedulous
      attention, which our profession, above all others, so peculiarly demands!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel was not a little amused at hearing the old gentleman run on in this
      manner, and, however incapable of entering into the full merits of what he
      beheld, he admired, as much as could have been expected, the various
      treasures which Oldbuck exhibited. Here were editions esteemed as being
      the first, and there stood those scarcely less regarded as being the last
      and best; here was a book valued because it had the author&rsquo;s final
      improvements, and there another which (strange to tell!) was in request
      because it had them not. One was precious because it was a folio, another
      because it was a duodecimo; some because they were tall, some because they
      were short; the merit of this lay in the title-page&mdash;of that in the
      arrangement of the letters in the word Finis. There was, it seemed, no
      peculiar distinction, however trifling or minute, which might not give
      value to a volume, providing the indispensable quality of scarcity, or
      rare occurrence, was attached to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not the least fascinating was the original broadside,&mdash;the Dying
      Speech, Bloody Murder, or Wonderful Wonder of Wonders,&mdash;in its
      primary tattered guise, as it was hawked through the streets, and sold for
      the cheap and easy price of one penny, though now worth the weight of that
      penny in gold. On these the Antiquary dilated with transport, and read,
      with a rapturous voice, the elaborate titles, which bore the same
      proportion to the contents that the painted signs without a showman&rsquo;s
      booth do to the animals within. Mr. Oldbuck, for example, piqued himself
      especially in possessing an <i>unique</i> broadside, entitled and called
      &ldquo;Strange and Wonderful News from Chipping-Norton, in the County of Oxon,
      of certain dreadful Apparitions which were seen in the Air on the 26th of
      July 1610, at Half an Hour after Nine o&rsquo;Clock at Noon, and continued till
      Eleven, in which Time was seen Appearances of several flaming Swords,
      strange Motions of the superior Orbs; with the unusual Sparkling of the
      Stars, with their dreadful Continuations; With the Account of the Opening
      of the Heavens, and strange Appearances therein disclosing themselves,
      with several other prodigious Circumstances not heard of in any Age, to
      the great Amazement of the Beholders, as it was communicated in a Letter
      to one Mr. Colley, living in West Smithfield, and attested by Thomas
      Brown, Elizabeth Greenaway, and Anne Gutheridge, who were Spectators of
      the dreadful Apparitions: And if any one would be further satisfied of the
      Truth of this Relation, let them repair to Mr. Nightingale&rsquo;s at the Bear
      Inn, in West Smithfield, and they may be satisfied.&rdquo; *
    </p>
    <p>
      * Of this thrice and four times rare broadside, the author possesses an
      exemplar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You laugh at this,&rdquo; said the proprietor of the collection, &ldquo;and I forgive
      you. I do acknowledge that the charms on which we doat are not so obvious
      to the eyes of youth as those of a fair lady; but you will grow wiser, and
      see more justly, when you come to wear spectacles.&mdash;Yet stay, I have
      one piece of antiquity, which you, perhaps, will prize more highly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Mr. Oldbuck unlocked a drawer, and took out a bundle of keys,
      then pulled aside a piece of the tapestry which concealed the door of a
      small closet, into which he descended by four stone steps, and, after some
      tinkling among bottles and cans, produced two long-stalked wine-glasses
      with bell mouths, such as are seen in Teniers&rsquo; pieces, and a small bottle
      of what he called rich racy canary, with a little bit of diet cake, on a
      small silver server of exquisite old workmanship. &ldquo;I will say nothing of
      the server,&rdquo; he remarked, &ldquo;though it is said to have been wrought by the
      old mad Florentine, Benvenuto Cellini. But, Mr. Lovel, our ancestors drank
      sack&mdash;you, who admire the drama, know where that&rsquo;s to be found.&mdash;Here&rsquo;s
      success to your exertions at Fairport, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to you, sir, and an ample increase to your treasure, with no more
      trouble on your part than is just necessary to make the acquisitions
      valuable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a libation so suitable to the amusement in which they had been
      engaged, Lovel rose to take his leave, and Mr. Oldbuck prepared to give
      him his company a part of the way, and show him something worthy of his
      curiosity on his return to Fairport.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOURTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                The pawkie auld carle cam ower the lea,
                Wi&rsquo; mony good-e&rsquo;ens and good-morrows to me,
                    Saying, Kind Sir, for your courtesy,
                    Will ye lodge a silly puir man?
                                  The Gaberlunzie Man.
</pre>
    <p>
      Our two friends moved through a little orchard, where the aged
      apple-trees, well loaded with fruit, showed, as is usual in the
      neighbourhood of monastic buildings, that the days of the monks had not
      always been spent in indolence, but often dedicated to horticulture and
      gardening. Mr. Oldbuck failed not to make Lovel remark, that the planters
      of those days were possessed of the modern secret of preventing the roots
      of the fruit-trees from penetrating the till, and compelling them to
      spread in a lateral direction, by placing paving-stones beneath the trees
      when first planted, so as to interpose between their fibres and the
      subsoil. &ldquo;This old fellow,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;which was blown down last summer,
      and still, though half reclined on the ground, is covered with fruit, has
      been, as you may see, accommodated with such a barrier between his roots
      and the unkindly till. That other tree has a story:&mdash;the fruit is
      called the Abbot&rsquo;s Apple; the lady of a neighbouring baron was so fond of
      it, that she would often pay a visit to Monkbarns, to have the pleasure of
      gathering it from the tree. The husband, a jealous man, belike, suspected
      that a taste so nearly resembling that of Mother Eve prognosticated a
      similar fall. As the honour of a noble family is concerned, I will say no
      more on the subject, only that the lands of Lochard and Cringlecut still
      pay a fine of six bolls of barley annually, to atone the guilt of their
      audacious owner, who intruded himself and his worldly suspicions upon the
      seclusion of the Abbot and his penitent.&mdash;Admire the little belfry
      rising above the ivy-mantled porch&mdash;there was here a <i>hospitium,
      hospitale,</i> or <i>hospitamentum</i> (for it is written all these
      various ways in the old writings and evidents), in which the monks
      received pilgrims. I know our minister has said, in the Statistical
      Account, that the <i>hospitium</i> was situated either in the lands of
      Haltweary or upon those of Half-starvet; but he is incorrect, Mr. Lovel&mdash;that
      is the gate called still the Palmer&rsquo;s Port, and my gardener found many
      hewn stones, when he was trenching the ground for winter celery, several
      of which I have sent as specimens to my learned friends, and to the
      various antiquarian societies of which I am an unworthy member. But I will
      say no more at present; I reserve something for another visit, and we have
      an object of real curiosity before us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While he was thus speaking, he led the way briskly through one or two rich
      pasture-meadows, to an open heath or common, and so to the top of a gentle
      eminence. &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Mr. Lovel, is a truly remarkable spot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It commands a fine view,&rdquo; said his companion, looking around him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True: but it is not for the prospect I brought you hither; do you see
      nothing else remarkable?&mdash;nothing on the surface of the ground?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes; I do see something like a ditch, indistinctly marked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indistinctly!&mdash;pardon me, sir, but the indistinctness must be in
      your powers of vision. Nothing can be more plainly traced&mdash;a proper
      <i>agger</i> or <i>vallum,</i> with its corresponding ditch or <i>fossa.</i>
      Indistinctly! why, Heaven help you, the lassie, my niece, as light-headed
      a goose as womankind affords, saw the traces of the ditch at once.
      Indistinct!&mdash;why, the great station at Ardoch, or that at Burnswark
      in Annandale, may be clearer, doubtless, because they are stative forts,
      whereas this was only an occasional encampment. Indistinct!&mdash;why, you
      must suppose that fools, boors, and idiots, have ploughed up the land,
      and, like beasts and ignorant savages, have thereby obliterated two sides
      of the square, and greatly injured the third; but you see, yourself, the
      fourth side is quite entire!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel endeavoured to apologize, and to explain away his ill-timed phrase,
      and pleaded his inexperience. But he was not at once quite successful. His
      first expression had come too frankly and naturally not to alarm the
      Antiquary, and he could not easily get over the shock it had given him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear sir,&rdquo; continued the senior, &ldquo;your eyes are not inexperienced: you
      know a ditch from level ground, I presume, when you see them? Indistinct!
      why, the very common people, the very least boy that can herd a cow, calls
      it the Kaim of Kinprunes; and if that does not imply an ancient camp, I am
      ignorant what does.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel having again acquiesced, and at length lulled to sleep the irritated
      and suspicious vanity of the Antiquary, he proceeded in his task of
      cicerone. &ldquo;You must know,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;our Scottish antiquaries have been
      greatly divided about the local situation of the final conflict between
      Agricola and the Caledonians; some contend for Ardoch in Strathallan, some
      for Innerpeffry, some for the Raedykes in the Mearns, and some are for
      carrying the scene of action as far north as Blair in Athole. Now, after
      all this discussion,&rdquo; continued the old gentleman, with one of his slyest
      and most complacent looks, &ldquo;what would you think, Mr. Lovel,&mdash;I say,
      what would you think,&mdash;if the memorable scene of conflict should
      happen to be on the very spot called the Kaim of Kinprunes, the property
      of the obscure and humble individual who now speaks to you?&rdquo; Then, having
      paused a little, to suffer his guest to digest a communication so
      important, he resumed his disquisition in a higher tone. &ldquo;Yes, my good
      friend, I am indeed greatly deceived if this place does not correspond
      with all the marks of that celebrated place of action. It was near to the
      Grampian mountains&mdash;lo! yonder they are, mixing and contending with
      the sky on the skirts of the horizon! It was <i>in conspectu classis</i>&mdash;in
      sight of the Roman fleet; and would any admiral, Roman or British, wish a
      fairer bay to ride in than that on your right hand? It is astonishing how
      blind we professed antiquaries sometimes are! Sir Robert Sibbald, Saunders
      Gordon, General Roy, Dr. Stokely,&mdash;why, it escaped all of them. I was
      unwilling to say a word about it till I had secured the ground, for it
      belonged to auld Johnnie Howie, a bonnet-laird* hard by, and many a
      communing we had before he and I could agree.
    </p>
    <p>
      * A bonnet-laird signifies a petty proprietor, wearing the dress, along
      with the habits of a yeoman.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length&mdash;I am almost ashamed to say it&mdash;but I even brought my
      mind to give acre for acre of my good corn-land for this barren spot. But
      then it was a national concern; and when the scene of so celebrated an
      event became my own, I was overpaid.&mdash;Whose patriotism would not grow
      warmer, as old Johnson says, on the plains of Marathon? I began to trench
      the ground, to see what might be discovered; and the third day, sir, we
      found a stone, which I have transported to Monkbarns, in order to have the
      sculpture taken off with plaster of Paris; it bears a sacrificing vessel,
      and the letters A. D. L. L. which may stand, without much violence, for <i>Agricola
      Dicavit Libens Lubens.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, sir; for the Dutch Antiquaries claim Caligula as the founder
      of a light-house, on the sole authority of the letters C. C. P. F., which
      they interpret <i>Caius Caligula Pharum Fecit.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, and it has ever been recorded as a sound exposition. I see we shall
      make something of you even before you wear spectacles, notwithstanding you
      thought the traces of this beautiful camp indistinct when you first
      observed them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In time, sir, and by good instruction&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;You will become more apt&mdash;I doubt it not. You shall peruse,
      upon your next visit to Monkbarns, my trivial Essay upon Castrametation,
      with some particular Remarks upon the Vestiges of Ancient Fortifications
      lately discovered by the Author at the Kaim of Kinprunes. I think I have
      pointed out the infallible touchstone of supposed antiquity. I premise a
      few general rules on that point, on the nature, namely, of the evidence to
      be received in such cases. Meanwhile be pleased to observe, for example,
      that I could press into my service Claudian&rsquo;s famous line,
    </p>
<pre>
               Ille Caledoniis posuit qui castra pruinis.
</pre>
    <p>
      For <i>pruinis,</i> though interpreted to mean <i>hoar frosts,</i> to
      which I own we are somewhat subject in this north-eastern sea-coast, may
      also signify a locality, namely, <i>Prunes;</i> the <i>Castra Pruinis
      posita</i> would therefore be the Kaim of Kinprunes. But I waive this, for
      I am sensible it might be laid hold of by cavillers as carrying down my
      Castra to the time of Theodosius, sent by Valentinian into Britain as late
      as the year 367, or thereabout. No, my good friend, I appeal to people&rsquo;s
      eye-sight. Is not here the Decuman gate? and there, but for the ravage of
      the horrid plough, as a learned friend calls it, would be the Praetorian
      gate. On the left hand you may see some slight vestiges of the <i>porta
      sinistra,</i> and on the right, one side of the <i>porta dextra</i>
      wellnigh entire. Here, then, let us take our stand, on this tumulus,
      exhibiting the foundation of ruined buildings,&mdash;the central point&mdash;the
      <i>praetorium,</i> doubtless, of the camp. From this place, now scarce to
      be distinguished but by its slight elevation and its greener turf from the
      rest of the fortification, we may suppose Agricola to have looked forth on
      the immense army of Caledonians, occupying the declivities of yon opposite
      hill,&mdash;the infantry rising rank over rank, as the form of ground
      displayed their array to its utmost advantage,&mdash;the cavalry and <i>covinarii,</i>
      by which I understand the charioteers&mdash;another guise of folks from
      your Bond-street four-in-hand men, I trow&mdash;scouring the more level
      space below&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                       &mdash;See, then, Lovel&mdash;See&mdash;
            See that huge battle moving from the mountains!
        Their gilt coats shine like dragon scales;&mdash;their march
        Like a rough tumbling storm.&mdash;See them, and view them,
                       And then see Rome no more!&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      Yes, my dear friend, from this stance it is probable&mdash;nay, it is
      nearly certain, that Julius Agricola beheld what our Beaumont has so
      admirably described!&mdash;From this very Praetorium&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      A voice from behind interrupted his ecstatic description&mdash;&ldquo;Praetorian
      here, Praetorian there, I mind the bigging o&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both at once turned round, Lovel with surprise, and Oldbuck with mingled
      surprise and indignation, at so uncivil an interruption. An auditor had
      stolen upon them, unseen and unheard, amid the energy of the Antiquary&rsquo;s
      enthusiastic declamation, and the attentive civility of Lovel. He had the
      exterior appearance of a mendicant. A slouched hat of huge dimensions; a
      long white beard which mingled with his grizzled hair; an aged but
      strongly marked and expressive countenance, hardened, by climate and
      exposure, to a right brick-dust complexion; a long blue gown, with a
      pewter badge on the right arm; two or three wallets, or bags, slung across
      his shoulder, for holding the different kinds of meal, when he received
      his charity in kind from those who were but a degree richer than himself:&mdash;all
      these marked at once a beggar by profession, and one of that privileged
      class which are called in Scotland the King&rsquo;s Bedesmen, or, vulgarly,
      Blue-Gowns.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that you say, Edie?&rdquo; said Oldbuck, hoping, perhaps, that his ears
      had betrayed their duty&mdash;&ldquo;what were you speaking about!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About this bit bourock, your honour,&rdquo; answered the undaunted Edie; &ldquo;I
      mind the bigging o&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil you do! Why, you old fool, it was here before you were born,
      and will be after you are hanged, man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hanged or drowned, here or awa, dead or alive, I mind the bigging o&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;you&mdash;you&mdash;,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, stammering between
      confusion and anger, &ldquo;you strolling old vagabond, what the devil do you
      know about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, I ken this about it, Monkbarns&mdash;and what profit have I for
      telling ye a lie?&mdash;l just ken this about it, that about twenty years
      syne, I, and a wheen hallenshakers like mysell, and the mason-lads that
      built the lang dike that gaes down the loaning, and twa or three herds
      maybe, just set to wark, and built this bit thing here that ye ca&rsquo; the&mdash;the&mdash;Praetorian,
      and a&rsquo; just for a bield at auld Aiken Drum&rsquo;s bridal, and a bit blithe
      gae-down wi&rsquo; had in&rsquo;t, some sair rainy weather. Mair by token, Monkbarns,
      if ye howk up the bourock, as ye seem to have began, yell find, if ye hae
      not fund it already, a stane that ane o&rsquo; the mason-callants cut a ladle on
      to have a bourd at the bridegroom, and he put four letters on&rsquo;t, that&rsquo;s A.
      D. L. L.&mdash;Aiken Drum&rsquo;s Lang Ladle&mdash;for Aiken was ane o&rsquo; the
      kale-suppers o&rsquo; Fife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This,&rdquo; thought Lovel to himself, &ldquo;is a famous counterpart to the story of
      <i>Keip on this syde.</i>&rdquo; He then ventured to steal a glance at our
      Antiquary, but quickly withdrew it in sheer compassion. For, gentle
      reader, if thou hast ever beheld the visage of a damsel of sixteen, whose
      romance of true love has been blown up by an untimely discovery, or of a
      child of ten years, whose castle of cards has been blown down by a
      malicious companion, I can safely aver to you, that Jonathan Oldbuck of
      Monkbarns looked neither more wise nor less disconcerted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is some mistake about this,&rdquo; he said, abruptly turning away from
      the mendicant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deil a bit on my side o&rsquo; the wa&rsquo;,&rdquo; answered the sturdy beggar; &ldquo;I never
      deal in mistakes, they aye bring mischances.&mdash;Now, Monkbarns, that
      young gentleman, that&rsquo;s wi&rsquo; your honour, thinks little of a carle like me;
      and yet, I&rsquo;ll wager I&rsquo;ll tell him whar he was yestreen at the gloamin,
      only he maybe wadna like to hae&rsquo;t spoken o&rsquo; in company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel&rsquo;s soul rushed to his cheeks, with the vivid blush of two-and-twenty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind the old rogue,&rdquo; said Mr. Oldbuck; &ldquo;don&rsquo;t suppose I think the
      worse of you for your profession; they are only prejudiced fools and
      coxcombs that do so. You remember what old Tully says in his oration, <i>pro
      Archia poeta,</i> concerning one of your confraternity&mdash;<i>quis
      nostrum tam anino agresti ac duro fuit&mdash;ut&mdash;ut</i>&mdash;I
      forget the Latin&mdash;the meaning is, which of us was so rude and
      barbarous as to remain unmoved at the death of the great Roscius, whose
      advanced age was so far from preparing us for his death, that we rather
      hoped one so graceful, so excellent in his art, ought to be exempted from
      the common lot of mortality? So the Prince of Orators spoke of the stage
      and its professor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The words of the old man fell upon Lovel&rsquo;s ears, but without conveying any
      precise idea to his mind, which was then occupied in thinking by what
      means the old beggar, who still continued to regard him with a countenance
      provokingly sly and intelligent, had contrived to thrust himself into any
      knowledge of his affairs. He put his hand in his pocket as the readiest
      mode of intimating his desire of secrecy, and securing the concurrence of
      the person whom he addressed; and while he bestowed on him an alms, the
      amount of which rather bore proportion to his fears than to his charity,
      looked at him with a marked expression, which the mendicant, a
      physiognomist by profession, seemed perfectly to understand.&mdash;&ldquo;Never
      mind me, sir&mdash;I am no tale-pyet; but there are mair een in the warld
      than mine,&rdquo; answered he as he pocketed Lovel&rsquo;s bounty, but in a tone to be
      heard by him alone, and with an expression which amply filled up what was
      left unspoken. Then turning to Oldbuck&mdash;&ldquo;I am awa&rsquo; to the manse, your
      honour. Has your honour ony word there, or to Sir Arthur, for I&rsquo;ll come in
      by Knockwinnock Castle again e&rsquo;en?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck started as from a dream; and, in a hurried tone, where vexation
      strove with a wish to conceal it, paying, at the same time, a tribute to
      Edie&rsquo;s smooth, greasy, unlined hat, he said, &ldquo;Go down, go down to
      Monkbarns&mdash;let them give you some dinner&mdash;Or stay; if you do go
      to the manse, or to Knockwinnock, ye need say nothing about that foolish
      story of yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who, I?&rdquo; said the mendicant&mdash;&ldquo;Lord bless your honour, naebody sall
      ken a word about it frae me, mair than if the bit bourock had been there
      since Noah&rsquo;s flood. But, Lord, they tell me your honour has gien Johnnie
      Howie acre for acre of the laigh crofts for this heathery knowe! Now, if
      he has really imposed the bourock on ye for an ancient wark, it&rsquo;s my real
      opinion the bargain will never haud gude, if you would just bring down
      your heart to try it at the law, and say that he beguiled ye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Provoking scoundrel!&rdquo; muttered the indignant Antiquary between his teeths&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
      have the hangman&rsquo;s lash and his back acquainted for this.&rdquo; And then, in a
      louder tone,&mdash;&ldquo;Never mind, Edie&mdash;it is all a mistake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, I am thinking sae,&rdquo; continued his tormentor, who seemed to have
      pleasure in rubbing the galled wound, &ldquo;troth, I aye thought sae; and it&rsquo;s
      no sae lang since I said to Luckie Gemmers, Never think you, luckie&rsquo; said
      I, that his honour Monkbarns would hae done sic a daft-like thing as to
      gie grund weel worth fifty shillings an acre, for a mailing that would be
      dear o&rsquo;a pund Scots. Na, na,&rsquo; quo&rsquo; I, depend upon&rsquo;t the lard&rsquo;s been
      imposed upon wi that wily do-little deevil, Johnnie Howie.&rsquo; But Lord haud
      a care o&rsquo; us, sirs, how can that be,&rsquo; quo&rsquo; she again, when the laird&rsquo;s sae
      book-learned, there&rsquo;s no the like o&rsquo; him in the country side, and Johnnie
      Howie has hardly sense eneugh to ca&rsquo; the cows out o&rsquo; his kale-yard?&rsquo; 
      Aweel, aweel,&rsquo; quo&rsquo; I, but ye&rsquo;ll hear he&rsquo;s circumvented him with some of
      his auld-warld stories,&rsquo;&mdash;for ye ken, laird, yon other time about the
      bodle that ye thought was an auld coin&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to the devil!&rdquo; said Oldbuck; and then in a more mild tone, as one that
      was conscious his reputation lay at the mercy of his antagonist, he added&mdash;&ldquo;Away
      with you down to Monkbarns, and when I come back, I&rsquo;ll send ye a bottle of
      ale to the kitchen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven reward your honour!&rdquo; This was uttered with the true mendicant
      whine, as, setting his pike-staff before him, he began to move in the
      direction of Monkbarns.&mdash;&ldquo;But did your honour,&rdquo; turning round, &ldquo;ever
      get back the siller ye gae to the travelling packman for the bodle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Curse thee, go about thy business!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, aweel, sir, God bless your honour! I hope ye&rsquo;ll ding Johnnie Howie
      yet, and that I&rsquo;ll live to see it.&rdquo; And so saying, the old beggar moved
      off, relieving Mr. Oldbuck of recollections which were anything rather
      than agreeable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is this familiar old gentleman?&rdquo; said Lovel, when the mendicant was
      out of hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, one of the plagues of the country&mdash;I have been always against
      poor&rsquo;s-rates and a work-house&mdash;I think I&rsquo;ll vote for them now, to
      have that scoundrel shut up. O, your old-remembered guest of a beggar
      becomes as well acquainted with you as he is with his dish&mdash;as
      intimate as one of the beasts familiar to man which signify love, and with
      which his own trade is especially conversant. Who is he?&mdash;why, he has
      gone the vole&mdash; has been soldier, ballad-singer, travelling tinker,
      and is now a beggar. He is spoiled by our foolish gentry, who laugh at his
      jokes, and rehearse Edie Ochiltree&rsquo;s good thing&rsquo;s as regularly as Joe
      Miller&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he uses freedom apparently, which is the soul of wit,&rdquo; answered
      Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O ay, freedom enough,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;he generally invents some
      damned improbable lie or another to provoke you, like that nonsense he
      talked just now&mdash;not that I&rsquo;ll publish my tract till I have examined
      the thing to the bottom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In England,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;such a mendicant would get a speedy check.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, your churchwardens and dog-whips would make slender allowance for
      his vein of humour! But here, curse him! he is a sort of privileged
      nuisance&mdash;one of the last specimens of the old fashioned Scottish
      mendicant, who kept his rounds within a particular space, and was the
      news-carrier, the minstrel, and sometimes the historian of the district.
      That rascal, now, knows more old ballads and traditions than any other man
      in this and the four next parishes. And after all,&rdquo; continued he,
      softening as he went on describing Edie&rsquo;s good gifts, &ldquo;the dog has some
      good humour. He has borne his hard fate with unbroken spirits, and it&rsquo;s
      cruel to deny him the comfort of a laugh at his betters. The pleasure of
      having quizzed me, as you gay folk would call it, will be meat and drink
      to him for a day or two. But I must go back and look after him, or he will
      spread his d&mdash;d nonsensical story over half the country.&rdquo; *
    </p>
    <p>
      * Note C. Praetorium.
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying our heroes parted, Mr. Oldbuck to return to his <i>hospitium</i>
      at Monkbarns, and Lovel to pursue his way to Fairport, where he arrived
      without farther adventure.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIFTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                     <i>Launcelot Gobbo.</i> Mark me now:
                      Now will I raise the waters.
                                         Merchant of Venice.
</pre>
    <p>
      The theatre at Fairport had opened, but no Mr. Lovel appeared on the
      boards, nor was there anything in the habits or deportment of the young
      gentleman so named, which authorised Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s conjecture that his
      fellow-traveller was a candidate for the public favour. Regular were the
      Antiquary&rsquo;s inquiries at an old-fashioned barber who dressed the only
      three wigs in the parish which, in defiance of taxes and times, were still
      subjected to the operation of powdering and frizzling, and who for that
      purpose divided his time among the three employers whom fashion had yet
      left him; regular, I say, were Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s inquiries at this personage
      concerning the news of the little theatre at Fairport, expecting every day
      to hear of Mr. Lovel&rsquo;s appearance; on which occasion the old gentleman had
      determined to put himself to charges in honour of his young friend, and
      not only to go to the play himself, but to carry his womankind along with
      him. But old Jacob Caxon conveyed no information which warranted his
      taking so decisive a step as that of securing a box.
    </p>
    <p>
      He brought information, on the contrary, that there was a young man
      residing at Fairport, of whom the <i>town</i> (by which he meant all the
      gossips, who, having no business of their own, fill up their leisure
      moments by attending to that of other people) could make nothing. He
      sought no society, but rather avoided that which the apparent gentleness
      of his manners, and some degree of curiosity, induced many to offer him.
      Nothing could be more regular, or less resembling an adventurer, than his
      mode of living, which was simple, but so completely well arranged, that
      all who had any transactions with him were loud in their approbation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are not the virtues of a stage-struck hero,&rdquo; thought Oldbuck to
      himself; and, however habitually pertinacious in his opinions, he must
      have been compelled to abandon that which he had formed in the present
      instance, but for a part of Caxon&rsquo;s communication. &ldquo;The young gentleman,&rdquo;
       he said, &ldquo;was sometimes heard speaking to himsell, and rampauging about in
      his room, just as if he was ane o&rsquo; the player folk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing, however, excepting this single circumstance, occurred to confirm
      Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s supposition; and it remained a high and doubtful question,
      what a well-informed young man, without friends, connections, or
      employment of any kind, could have to do as a resident at Fairport.
      Neither port wine nor whist had apparently any charms for him. He declined
      dining with the mess of the volunteer cohort which had been lately
      embodied, and shunned joining the convivialities of either of the two
      parties which then divided Fairport, as they did more important places. He
      was too little of an aristocrat to join the club of Royal True Blues, and
      too little of a democrat to fraternise with an affiliated society of the
      <i>soi-disant</i> Friends of the People, which the borough had also the
      happiness of possessing. A coffee-room was his detestation; and, I grieve
      to say it, he had as few sympathies with the tea-table.&mdash;In short,
      since the name was fashionable in novel-writing, and that is a great while
      agone, there was never a Master Lovel of whom so little positive was
      known, and who was so universally described by negatives.
    </p>
    <p>
      One negative, however, was important&mdash;nobody knew any harm of Lovel.
      Indeed, had such existed, it would have been speedily made public; for the
      natural desire of speaking evil of our neighbour could in his case have
      been checked by no feelings of sympathy for a being so unsocial. On one
      account alone he fell somewhat under suspicion. As he made free use of his
      pencil in his solitary walks, and had drawn several views of the harbour,
      in which the signal tower, and even the four-gun battery, were introduced,
      some zealous friends of the public sent abroad a whisper, that this
      mysterious stranger must certainly be a French spy. The Sheriff paid his
      respects to Mr. Lovel accordingly; but in the interview which followed, it
      would seem that he had entirely removed that magistrate&rsquo;s suspicions,
      since he not only suffered him to remain undisturbed in his retirement,
      but it was credibly reported, sent him two invitations to dinner-parties,
      both which were civilly declined. But what the nature of the explanation
      was, the magistrate kept a profound secret, not only from the public at
      large, but from his substitute, his clerk, his wife and his two daughters,
      who formed his privy council on all questions of official duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these particulars being faithfully reported by Mr. Caxon to his patron
      at Monkbarns, tended much to raise Lovel in the opinion of his former
      fellow-traveller. &ldquo;A decent sensible lad,&rdquo; said he to himself, &ldquo;who scorns
      to enter into the fooleries and nonsense of these idiot people at Fairport&mdash;I
      must do something for him&mdash;I must give him a dinner;&mdash;and I will
      write Sir Arthur to come to Monkbarns to meet him. I must consult my
      womankind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, such consultation having been previously held, a special
      messenger, being no other than Caxon himself, was ordered to prepare for a
      walk to Knockwinnock Castle with a letter, &ldquo;For the honoured Sir Arthur
      Wardour, of Knockwinnock, Bart.&rdquo; The contents ran thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Sir Arthur,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On Tuesday the 17th curt. <i>stilo novo,</i> I hold a coenobitical
      symposion at Monkbarns, and pray you to assist thereat, at four o&rsquo;clock
      precisely. If my fair enemy, Miss Isabel, can and will honour us by
      accompanying you, my womankind will be but too proud to have the aid of
      such an auxiliary in the cause of resistance to awful rule and right
      supremacy. If not, I will send the womankind to the manse for the day. I
      have a young acquaintance to make known to you, who is touched with some
      strain of a better spirit than belongs to these giddy-paced times&mdash;reveres
      his elders, and has a pretty notion of the classics&mdash;and, as such a
      youth must have a natural contempt for the people about Fairport, I wish
      to show him some rational as well as worshipful society.&mdash;I am, Dear
      Sir Arthur, etc. etc. etc.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fly with this letter, Caxon,&rdquo; said the senior, holding out his missive,
      <i>signatum atque sigillatum,</i> &ldquo;fly to Knockwinnock, and bring me back
      an answer. Go as fast as if the town-council were met and waiting for the
      provost, and the provost was waiting for his new-powdered wig.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah sir,&rdquo; answered the messenger, with a deep sigh, &ldquo;thae days hae lang
      gane by. Deil a wig has a provost of Fairport worn sin&rsquo; auld Provost
      Jervie&rsquo;s time&mdash;and he had a quean of a servant-lass that dressed it
      herself, wi&rsquo; the doup o&rsquo; a candle and a drudging-box. But I hae seen the
      day, Monkbarns, when the town-council of Fairport wad hae as soon wanted
      their town-clerk, or their gill of brandy ower-head after the haddies, as
      they wad hae wanted ilk ane a weel-favoured, sonsy, decent periwig on his
      pow. Hegh, sirs! nae wonder the commons will be discontent and rise
      against the law, when they see magistrates and bailies, and deacons, and
      the provost himsell, wi&rsquo; heads as bald and as bare as ane o&rsquo; my blocks!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as well furnished within, Caxon. But away with you!&mdash;you have an
      excellent view of public affairs, and, I dare say, have touched the cause
      of our popular discontent as closely as the provost could have done
      himself. But away with you, Caxon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And off went Caxon upon his walk of three miles&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                  He hobbled&mdash;but his heart was good!
                  Could he go faster than he could?&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      While he is engaged in his journey and return, it may not be impertinent
      to inform the reader to whose mansion he was bearing his embassy.
    </p>
    <p>
      We have said that Mr. Oldbuck kept little company with the surrounding
      gentlemen, excepting with one person only. This was Sir Arthur Wardour, a
      baronet of ancient descent, and of a large but embarrassed fortune. His
      father, Sir Anthony, had been a Jacobite, and had displayed all the
      enthusiasm of that party, while it could be served with words only. No man
      squeezed the orange with more significant gesture; no one could more
      dexterously intimate a dangerous health without coming under the penal
      statutes; and, above all, none drank success to the cause more deeply and
      devoutly. But, on the approach of the Highland army in 1745, it would
      appear that the worthy baronet&rsquo;s zeal became a little more moderate just
      when its warmth was of most consequence. He talked much, indeed, of taking
      the field for the rights of Scotland and Charles Stuart; but his
      demi-pique saddle would suit only one of his horses; and that horse could
      by no means be brought to stand fire. Perhaps the worshipful owner
      sympathized in the scruples of this sagacious quadruped, and began to
      think, that what was so much dreaded by the horse could not be very
      wholesome for the rider. At any rate, while Sir Anthony Wardour talked,
      and drank, and hesitated, the Sturdy provost of Fairport (who, as we
      before noticed, was the father of our Antiquary) sallied from his ancient
      burgh, heading a body of whig-burghers, and seized at once, in the name of
      George II., upon the Castle of Knockwinnock, and on the four
      carriage-horses, and person of the proprietor. Sir Anthony was shortly
      after sent off to the Tower of London by a secretary of state&rsquo;s warrant,
      and with him went his son, Arthur, then a youth. But as nothing appeared
      like an overt act of treason, both father and son were soon set at
      liberty, and returned to their own mansion of Knockwinnock, to drink
      healths five fathoms deep, and talk of their sufferings in the royal
      cause. This became so much a matter of habit with Sir Arthur, that, even
      after his father&rsquo;s death, the non-juring chaplain used to pray regularly
      for the restoration of the rightful sovereign, for the downfall of the
      usurper, and for deliverance from their cruel and bloodthirsty enemies;
      although all idea of serious opposition to the House of Hanover had long
      mouldered away, and this treasonable liturgy was kept up rather as a
      matter of form than as conveying any distinct meaning. So much was this
      the case, that, about the year 1770, upon a disputed election occurring in
      the county, the worthy knight fairly gulped down the oaths of abjuration
      and allegiance, in order to serve a candidate in whom he was interested;&mdash;thus
      renouncing the heir for whose restoration he weekly petitioned Heaven, and
      acknowledging the usurper whose dethronement he had never ceased to pray
      for. And to add to this melancholy instance of human inconsistency, Sir
      Arthur continued to pray for the House of Stuart even after the family had
      been extinct, and when, in truth, though in his theoretical loyalty he was
      pleased to regard them as alive, yet, in all actual service and practical
      exertion, he was a most zealous and devoted subject of George III.
    </p>
    <p>
      In other respects, Sir Arthur Wardour lived like most country gentlemen in
      Scotland, hunted and fished&mdash;gave and received dinners&mdash;attended
      races and county meetings&mdash;was a deputy-lieutenant and trustee upon
      turnpike acts. But, in his more advanced years, as he became too lazy or
      unwieldy for field-sports, he supplied them by now and then reading
      Scottish history; and, having gradually acquired a taste for antiquities,
      though neither very deep nor very correct, he became a crony of his
      neighbour, Mr. Oldbuck of Monkbarns, and a joint-labourer with him in his
      antiquarian pursuits.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were, however, points of difference between these two humourists,
      which sometimes occasioned discord. The faith of Sir Arthur, as an
      antiquary, was boundless, and Mr. Oldbuck (notwithstanding the affair of
      the Praetorium at the Kaim of Kinprunes) was much more scrupulous in
      receiving legends as current and authentic coin. Sir Arthur would have
      deemed himself guilty of the crime of leze-majesty had he doubted the
      existence of any single individual of that formidable head-roll of one
      hundred and four kings of Scotland, received by Boethius, and rendered
      classical by Buchanan, in virtue of whom James VI. claimed to rule his
      ancient kingdom, and whose portraits still frown grimly upon the walls of
      the gallery of Holyrood. Now Oldbuck, a shrewd and suspicious man, and no
      respecter of divine hereditary right, was apt to cavil at this sacred
      list, and to affirm, that the procession of the posterity of Fergus
      through the pages of Scottish history, was as vain and unsubstantial as
      the gleamy pageant of the descendants of Banquo through the cavern of
      Hecate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another tender topic was the good fame of Queen Mary, of which the knight
      was a most chivalrous assertor, while the esquire impugned it, in spite
      both of her beauty and misfortunes. When, unhappily, their conversation
      turned on yet later times, motives of discord occurred in almost every
      page of history. Oldbuck was, upon principle, a staunch Presbyterian, a
      ruling elder of the kirk, and a friend to revolution principles and
      Protestant succession, while Sir Arthur was the very reverse of all this.
      They agreed, it is true, in dutiful love and allegiance to the sovereign
      who now fills* the throne; but this was their only point of union.
    </p>
    <p>
      * The reader will understand that this refers to the reign of our late
      gracious Sovereign, George the Third.
    </p>
    <p>
      It therefore often happened, that bickerings hot broke out between them,
      in which Oldbuck was not always able to suppress his caustic humour, while
      it would sometimes occur to the Baronet that the descendant of a German
      printer, whose sires had &ldquo;sought the base fellowship of paltry burghers,&rdquo;
       forgot himself, and took an unlicensed freedom of debate, considering the
      rank and ancient descent of his antagonist. This, with the old feud of the
      coach-horses, and the seizure of his manor-place and tower of strength by
      Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s father, would at times rush upon his mind, and inflame at
      once his cheeks and his arguments. And, lastly, as Mr. Oldbuck thought his
      worthy friend and compeer was in some respects little better than a fool,
      he was apt to come more near communicating to him that unfavourable
      opinion, than the rules of modern politeness warrant. In such cases they
      often parted in deep dudgeon, and with something like a resolution to
      forbear each other&rsquo;s company in future:
    </p>
    <p>
      But with the morning calm reflection came; and as each was sensible that
      the society of the other had become, through habit, essential to his
      comfort, the breach was speedily made up between them. On such occasions,
      Oldbuck, considering that the Baronet&rsquo;s pettishness resembled that of a
      child, usually showed his superior sense by compassionately making the
      first advances to reconciliation. But it once or twice happened that the
      aristocratic pride of the far-descended knight took a flight too offensive
      to the feelings of the representative of the typographer. In these cases,
      the breach between these two originals might have been immortal, but for
      the kind exertion and interposition of the Baronet&rsquo;s daughter, Miss
      Isabella Wardour, who, with a son, now absent upon foreign and military
      service, formed his whole surviving family. She was well aware how
      necessary Mr. Oldbuck was to her father&rsquo;s amusement and comfort, and
      seldom failed to interpose with effect, when the office of a mediator
      between them was rendered necessary by the satirical shrewdness of the
      one, or the assumed superiority of the other. Under Isabella&rsquo;s mild
      influence, the wrongs of Queen Mary were forgotten by her father, and Mr.
      Oldbuck forgave the blasphemy which reviled the memory of King William.
      However, as she used in general to take her father&rsquo;s part playfully in
      these disputes, Oldbuck was wont to call Isabella his fair enemy, though
      in fact he made more account of her than any other of her sex, of whom, as
      we have seen, he, was no admirer.
    </p>
    <p>
      There existed another connection betwixt these worthies, which had
      alternately a repelling and attractive influence upon their intimacy. Sir
      Arthur always wished to borrow; Mr. Oldbuck was not always willing to
      lend. Mr. Oldbuck, per contra, always wished to be repaid with regularity;
      Sir Arthur was not always, nor indeed often, prepared to gratify this
      reasonable desire; and, in accomplishing an arrangement between tendencies
      so opposite, little <i>miffs</i> would occasionally take place. Still
      there was a spirit of mutual accommodation upon the whole, and they
      dragged on like dogs in couples, with some difficulty and occasional
      snarling, but without absolutely coming to a stand-still or throttling
      each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some little disagreement, such as we have mentioned, arising out of
      business, or politics, had divided the houses of Knockwinnock and
      Monkbarns, when the emissary of the latter arrived to discharge his
      errand. In his ancient Gothic parlour, whose windows on one side looked
      out upon the restless ocean, and, on the other, upon the long straight
      avenue, was the Baronet seated, now turning over the leaves of a folio,
      now casting a weary glance where the sun quivered on the dark-green
      foliage and smooth trunks of the large and branching limes with which the
      avenue was planted. At length, sight of joy! a moving object is seen, and
      it gives rise to the usual inquiries, Who is it? and what can be his
      errand? The old whitish-grey coat, the hobbling gait, the hat
      half-slouched, half-cocked, announced the forlorn maker of periwigs, and
      left for investigation only the second query. This was soon solved by a
      servant entering the parlour,&mdash;&ldquo;A letter from Monkbarns, Sir Arthur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur took the epistle with a due assumption of consequential
      dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take the old man into the kitchen, and let him get some refreshment,&rdquo;
       said the young lady, whose compassionate eye had remarked his thin grey
      hair and wearied gait.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Oldbuck, my love, invites us to dinner on Tuesday the 17th,&rdquo; said the
      Baronet, pausing;&mdash;&ldquo;he really seems to forget that he has not of late
      conducted himself so civilly towards me as might have been expected.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear sir, you have so many advantages over poor Mr. Oldbuck, that no
      wonder it should put him a little out of humour; but I know he has much
      respect for your person and your conversation;&mdash;nothing would give
      him more pain than to be wanting in any real attention.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, true, Isabella; and one must allow for the original descent;&mdash;something
      of the German boorishness still flows in the blood; something of the
      whiggish and perverse opposition to established rank and privilege. You
      may observe that he never has any advantage of me in dispute, unless when
      he avails himself of a sort of pettifogging intimacy with dates, names,
      and trifling matters of fact&mdash;a tiresome and frivolous accuracy of
      memory, which is entirely owing to his mechanical descent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must find it convenient in historical investigation, I should think,
      sir?&rdquo; said the young lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It leads to an uncivil and positive mode of disputing; and nothing seems
      more unreasonable than to hear him impugn even Bellenden&rsquo;s rare
      translation of Hector Boece, which I have the satisfaction to possess, and
      which is a black-letter folio of great value, upon the authority of some
      old scrap of parchment which he has saved from its deserved destiny of
      being cut up into tailor&rsquo;s measures. And besides, that habit of minute and
      troublesome accuracy leads to a mercantile manner of doing business, which
      ought to be beneath a landed proprietor whose family has stood two or
      three generations. I question if there&rsquo;s a dealer&rsquo;s clerk in Fairport that
      can sum an account of interest better than Monkbarns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;ll accept his invitation, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, ye&mdash;yes; we have no other engagement on hand, I think. Who can
      the young man be he talks of?&mdash;he seldom picks up new acquaintance;
      and he has no relation that I ever heard of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Probably some relation of his brother-in-law Captain M&rsquo;Intyre.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very possibly&mdash;yes, we will accept&mdash;the M&rsquo;Intyres are of a very
      ancient Highland family. You may answer his card in the affirmative,
      Isabella; I believe I have, no leisure to be <i>Dear Sirring</i> myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So this important matter being adjusted, Miss Wardour intimated &ldquo;her own
      and Sir Arthur&rsquo;s compliments, and that they would have the honour of
      waiting upon Mr. Oldbuck. Miss Wardour takes this opportunity to renew her
      hostility with Mr. Oldbuck, on account of his late long absence from
      Knockwinnock, where his visits give so much pleasure.&rdquo; With this <i>placebo</i>
      she concluded her note, with which old Caxon, now refreshed in limbs and
      wind, set out on his return to the Antiquary&rsquo;s mansion.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIXTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                   <i>Moth.</i> By Woden, God of Saxons,
            From whence comes Wensday, that is, Wodnesday,
                   Truth is a thing that I will ever keep
                   Unto thylke day in which I creep into
                             My sepulcre&mdash;
                             Cartwright&rsquo;s <i>Ordinary.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      Our young friend Lovel, who had received a corresponding invitation,
      punctual to the hour of appointment, arrived at Monkbarns about five
      minutes before four o&rsquo;clock on the 17th of July. The day had been
      remarkably sultry, and large drops of rain had occasionally fallen, though
      the threatened showers had as yet passed away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck received him at the Palmer&rsquo;s-port in his complete brown suit,
      grey silk stockings, and wig powdered with all the skill of the veteran
      Caxon, who having smelt out the dinner, had taken care not to finish his
      job till the hour of eating approached.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are welcome to my symposion, Mr. Lovel. And now let me introduce you
      to my Clogdogdo&rsquo;s, as Tom Otter calls them&mdash;my unlucky and
      good-for-nothing womankind&mdash;<i>malae bestiae,</i> Mr. Lovel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be disappointed, sir, if I do not find the ladies very
      undeserving of your satire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tilley-valley, Mr. Lovel,&mdash;which, by the way, one commentator
      derives from <i>tittivillitium,</i> and another from <i>talley-ho</i>&mdash;but
      tilley-valley, I say&mdash;a truce with your politeness. You will find
      them but samples of womankind&mdash;But here they be, Mr. Lovel. I present
      to you in due order, my most discreet sister Griselda, who disdains the
      simplicity, as well as patience annexed to the poor old name of Grizzel;
      and my most exquisite niece Maria, whose mother was called Mary, and
      sometimes Molly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The elderly lady rustled in silks and satins, and bore upon her head a
      structure resembling the fashion in the ladies&rsquo; memorandum-book for the
      year 1770&mdash;a superb piece of architecture, not much less than a
      modern Gothic castle, of which the curls might represent the turrets, the
      black pins the <i>chevaux de frise,</i> and the lappets the banners.
    </p>
    <p>
      The face, which, like that of the ancient statues of Vesta, was thus
      crowned with towers, was large and long, and peaked at nose and chin, and
      bore, in other respects, such a ludicrous resemblance to the physiognomy
      of Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, that Lovel, had they not appeared at once, like
      Sebastian and Viola in the last scene of the &ldquo;Twelfth Night,&rdquo; might have
      supposed that the figure before him was his old friend masquerading in
      female attire. An antique flowered silk gown graced the extraordinary
      person to whom belonged this unparalleled <i>tete,</i> which her brother
      was wont to say was fitter for a turban for Mahound or Termagant, than a
      head-gear for a reasonable creature, or Christian gentlewoman. Two long
      and bony arms were terminated at the elbows by triple blond ruffles, and
      being, folded saltire-ways in front of her person, and decorated with long
      gloves of a bright vermilion colour, presented no bad resemblance to a
      pair of gigantic lobsters. High-heeled shoes, and a short silk cloak,
      thrown in easy negligence over her shoulders, completed the exterior of
      Miss Griselda Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her niece, the same whom Lovel had seen transiently during his first
      visit, was a pretty young woman, genteelly dressed according to the
      fashion of the day, with an air of <i>espieglerie</i> which became her
      very well, and which was perhaps derived from the caustic humour peculiar
      to her uncle&rsquo;s family, though softened by transmission.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lovel paid his respects to both ladies, and was answered by the elder
      with the prolonged courtesy of 1760, drawn from the righteous period,
    </p>
<pre>
                       When folks conceived a grace
                       Of half an hour&rsquo;s space,
                       And rejoiced in a Friday&rsquo;s capon,
</pre>
    <p>
      and by the younger with a modern reverence, which, like the festive
      benediction of a modern divine, was of much shorter duration.
    </p>
    <p>
      While this salutation was exchanging, Sir Arthur, with his fair daughter
      hanging upon his arm, having dismissed his chariot, appeared at the garden
      door, and in all due form paid his respects to the ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir Arthur,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;and you, my fair foe, let me make known
      to you my young friend Mr. Lovel, a gentleman who, during the
      scarlet-fever which is epidemic at present in this our island, has the
      virtue and decency to appear in a coat of a civil complexion. You see,
      however, that the fashionable colour has mustered in his cheeks which
      appears not in his garments. Sir Arthur, let me present to you a young
      gentleman, whom your farther knowledge will find grave, wise, courtly, and
      scholar-like, well seen, deeply read, and thoroughly grounded in all the
      hidden mysteries of the green-room and stage, from the days of Davie
      Lindsay down to those of Dibdin&mdash;he blushes again, which is a sign of
      grace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother,&rdquo; said Miss Griselda, addressing Lovel, &ldquo;has a humorous way of
      expressing himself, sir; nobody thinks anything of what Monkbarns says&mdash;so
      I beg you will not be so confused for the matter of his nonsense; but you
      must have had a warm walk beneath this broiling sun&mdash;would you take
      anything?&mdash;a glass of balm-wine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ere Lovel could answer, the Antiquary interposed. &ldquo;Aroint thee, witch!
      wouldst thou poison my guests with thy infernal decoctions? Dost thou not
      remember how it fared with the clergyman whom you seduced to partake of
      that deceitful beverage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O fy, fy, brother!&mdash;Sir Arthur, did you ever hear the like?&mdash;he
      must have everything his ain way, or he will invent such stories&mdash;But
      there goes Jenny to ring the old bell to tell us that the dinner is
      ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rigid in his economy, Mr. Oldbuck kept no male servant. This he disguised
      under the pretext that the masculine sex was too noble to be employed in
      those acts of personal servitude, which, in all early periods of society,
      were uniformly imposed on the female. &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; would he say, &ldquo;did the boy,
      Tam Rintherout, whom, at my wise sister&rsquo;s instigation, I, with equal
      wisdom, took upon trial&mdash;why did he pilfer apples, take birds&rsquo; nests,
      break glasses, and ultimately steal my spectacles, except that he felt
      that noble emulation which swells in the bosom of the masculine sex, which
      has conducted him to Flanders with a musket on his shoulder, and doubtless
      will promote him to a glorious halbert, or even to the gallows? And why
      does this girl, his full sister, Jenny Rintherout, move in the same
      vocation with safe and noiseless step&mdash;shod, or unshod&mdash;soft as
      the pace of a cat, and docile as a spaniel&mdash;Why? but because she is
      in her vocation. Let them minister to us, Sir Arthur,&mdash;let them
      minister, I say,&mdash;it&rsquo;s the only thing they are fit for. All ancient
      legislators, from Lycurgus to Mahommed, corruptly called Mahomet, agree in
      putting them in their proper and subordinate rank, and it is only the
      crazy heads of our old chivalrous ancestors that erected their Dulcineas
      into despotic princesses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour protested loudly against this ungallant doctrine; but the
      bell now rung for dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me do all the offices of fair courtesy to so fair an antagonist,&rdquo;
       said the old gentleman, offering his arm. &ldquo;I remember, Miss Wardour,
      Mahommed (vulgarly Mahomet) had some hesitation about the mode of
      summoning his Moslemah to prayer. He rejected bells as used by Christians,
      trumpets as the summons of the Guebres, and finally adopted the human
      voice. I have had equal doubt concerning my dinner-call. Gongs, now in
      present use, seemed a newfangled and heathenish invention, and the voice
      of the female womankind I rejected as equally shrill and dissonant;
      wherefore, contrary to the said Mahommed, or Mahomet, I have resumed the
      bell. It has a local propriety, since it was the conventual signal for
      spreading the repast in their refectory, and it has the advantage over the
      tongue of my sister&rsquo;s prime minister, Jenny, that, though not quite so
      loud and shrill, it ceases ringing the instant you drop the bell-rope:
      whereas we know, by sad experience, that any attempt to silence Jenny,
      only wakes the sympathetic chime of Miss Oldbuck and Mary M&rsquo;Intyre to join
      in chorus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this discourse he led the way to his dining-parlour, which Lovel had
      not yet seen;&mdash;it was wainscotted, and contained some curious
      paintings. The dining-table was attended by Jenny; but an old
      superintendent, a sort of female butler, stood by the sideboard, and
      underwent the burden of bearing several reproofs from Mr. Oldbuck, and
      inuendos, not so much marked, but not less cutting, from his sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dinner was such as suited a professed antiquary, comprehending many
      savoury specimens of Scottish viands, now disused at the tables of those
      who affect elegance. There was the relishing Solan goose, whose smell is
      so powerful that he is never cooked within doors. Blood-raw he proved to
      be on this occasion, so that Oldbuck half threatened to throw the greasy
      sea-fowl at the head of the negligent housekeeper, who acted as priestess
      in presenting this odoriferous offering. But, by good-hap, she had been
      most fortunate in the hotch-potch, which was unanimously pronounced to be
      inimitable. &ldquo;I knew we should succeed here,&rdquo; said Oldbuck exultingly, &ldquo;for
      Davie Dibble, the gardener (an old bachelor like myself), takes care the
      rascally women do not dishonour our vegetables. And here is fish and
      sauce, and crappit-heads&mdash;I acknowledge our womankind excel in that
      dish&mdash;it procures them the pleasure of scolding, for half an hour at
      least, twice a-week, with auld Maggy Mucklebackit, our fish-wife. The
      chicken-pie, Mr. Lovel, is made after a recipe bequeathed to me by my
      departed grandmother of happy memory&mdash;And if you will venture on a
      glass of wine, you will find it worthy of one who professes the maxim of
      King Alphonso of Castile,&mdash;Old wood to burn&mdash;old books to read&mdash;old
      wine to drink&mdash;and old friends, Sir Arthur&mdash;ay, Mr. Lovel, and
      young friends too, to converse with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what news do you bring us from Edinburgh, Monkbarns?&rdquo; said Sir
      Arthur; &ldquo;how wags the world in Auld Reekie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mad, Sir Arthur, mad&mdash;irretrievably frantic&mdash;far beyond dipping
      in the sea, shaving the crown, or drinking hellebore. The worst sort of
      frenzy, a military frenzy, hath possessed man, woman, and child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And high time, I think,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, &ldquo;when we are threatened with
      invasion from abroad and insurrection at home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I did not doubt you would join the scarlet host against me&mdash;women,
      like turkeys, are always subdued by a red rag&mdash;But what says Sir
      Arthur, whose dreams are of standing armies and German oppression?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I say, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; replied the knight, &ldquo;that so far as I am
      capable of judging, we ought to resist <i>cum toto corpore regni</i>&mdash;as
      the phrase is, unless I have altogether forgotten my Latin&mdash;an enemy
      who comes to propose to us a Whiggish sort of government, a republican
      system, and who is aided and abetted by a sort of fanatics of the worst
      kind in our own bowels. I have taken some measures, I assure you, such as
      become my rank in the community; for I have directed the constables to
      take up that old scoundrelly beggar, Edie Ochiltree, for spreading
      disaffection against church and state through the whole parish. He said
      plainly to old Caxon, that Willie Howie&rsquo;s Kilmarnock cowl covered more
      sense than all the three wigs in the parish&mdash;I think it is easy to
      make out that inuendo&mdash;But the rogue shall be taught better manners.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O no, my dear sir,&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Wardour, &ldquo;not old Edie, that we have
      known so long;&mdash;I assure you no constable shall have my good graces
      that executes such a warrant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, there it goes,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;you, to be a staunch Tory, Sir
      Arthur, have nourished a fine sprig of Whiggery in your bosom&mdash;Why,
      Miss Wardour is alone sufficient to control a whole quarter-session&mdash;a
      quarter-session? ay, a general assembly or convocation to boot&mdash;a
      Boadicea she&mdash;an Amazon, a Zenobia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet, with all my courage, Mr. Oldbuck, I am glad to hear our people
      are getting under arms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Under arms, Lord love thee! didst thou ever read the history of Sister
      Margaret, which flowed from a head, that, though now old and somedele
      grey, has more sense and political intelligence than you find now-a-days
      in the whole synod? Dost thou remember the Nurse&rsquo;s dream in that exquisite
      work, which she recounts in such agony to Hubble Bubble?&mdash;When she
      would have taken up a piece of broad-cloth in her vision, lo! it exploded
      like a great iron cannon; when she put out her hand to save a pirn, it
      perked up in her face in the form of a pistol. My own vision in Edinburgh
      has been something similar. I called to consult my lawyer; he was clothed
      in a dragoon&rsquo;s dress, belted and casqued, and about to mount a charger,
      which his writing-clerk (habited as a sharp-shooter) walked to and fro
      before his door. I went to scold my agent for having sent me to advise
      with a madman; he had stuck into his head the plume, which in more sober
      days he wielded between his fingers, and figured as an artillery officer.
      My mercer had his spontoon in his hand, as if he measured his cloth by
      that implement, instead of a legitimate yard. The banker&rsquo;s clerk, who was
      directed to sum my cash-account, blundered it three times, being
      disordered by the recollection of his military <i>tellings-off</i> at the
      morning-drill. I was ill, and sent for a surgeon&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
               He came&mdash;but valour so had fired his eye,
               And such a falchion glittered on his thigh,
               That, by the gods, with such a load of steel,
              I thought he came to murder,&mdash;not to heal.
</pre>
    <p>
      I had recourse to a physician, but he also was practising a more wholesale
      mode of slaughter than that which his profession had been supposed at all
      times to open to him. And now, since I have returned here, even our wise
      neighbours of Fairport have caught the same valiant humour. I hate a gun
      like a hurt wild duck&mdash;I detest a drum like a quaker;&mdash;and they
      thunder and rattle out yonder upon the town&rsquo;s common, so that every volley
      and roll goes to my very heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear brother, dinna speak that gate o&rsquo; the gentlemen volunteers&mdash;I
      am sure they have a most becoming uniform&mdash;Weel I wot they have been
      wet to the very skin twice last week&mdash;I met them marching in terribly
      doukit, an mony a sair hoast was amang them&mdash;And the trouble they
      take, I am sure it claims our gratitude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I am sure,&rdquo; said Miss M&rsquo;Intyre, &ldquo;that my uncle sent twenty guineas to
      help out their equipments.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was to buy liquorice and sugar-candy,&rdquo; said the cynic, &ldquo;to encourage
      the trade of the place, and to refresh the throats of the officers who had
      bawled themselves hoarse in the service of their country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care, Monkbarns! we shall set you down among the black-nebs by and
      by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No Sir Arthur&mdash;a tame grumbler I. I only claim the privilege of
      croaking in my own corner here, without uniting my throat to the grand
      chorus of the marsh&mdash;<i>Ni quito Rey, ni pongo Rey</i>&mdash;I
      neither make king nor mar king, as Sancho says, but pray heartily for our
      own sovereign, pay scot and lot, and grumble at the exciseman&mdash;But
      here comes the ewe-milk cheese in good time; it is a better digestive than
      politics.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When dinner was over, and the decanters placed on the table, Mr. Oldbuck
      proposed the King&rsquo;s health in a bumper, which was readily acceded to both
      by Lovel and the Baronet, the Jacobitism of the latter being now a sort of
      speculative opinion merely,&mdash;the shadow of a shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the ladies had left the apartment, the landlord and Sir Arthur
      entered into several exquisite discussions, in which the younger guest,
      either on account of the abstruse erudition which they involved, or for
      some other reason, took but a slender share, till at length he was
      suddenly started out of a profound reverie by an unexpected appeal to his
      judgment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will stand by what Mr. Lovel says; he was born in the north of England,
      and may know the very spot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur thought it unlikely that so young a gentleman should have paid
      much attention to matters of that sort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am avised of the contrary,&rdquo; said Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How say you, Mr. Lovel?&mdash;speak up for your own credit, man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel was obliged to confess himself in the ridiculous situation of one
      alike ignorant of the subject of conversation and controversy which had
      engaged the company for an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord help the lad, his head has been wool-gathering!&mdash;I thought how
      it would be when the womankind were admitted&mdash;no getting a word of
      sense out of a young fellow for six hours after.&mdash;Why, man, there was
      once a people called the Piks&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More properly <i>Picts,</i>&rdquo; interrupted the Baronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say the <i>Pikar, Pihar, Piochtar, Piaghter,</i> or <i>Peughtar,</i>&rdquo;
       vociferated Oldbuck; &ldquo;they spoke a Gothic dialect&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Genuine Celtic,&rdquo; again asseverated the knight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gothic! Gothic! I&rsquo;ll go to death upon it!&rdquo; counter-asseverated the
      squire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, gentlemen,&rdquo; sad Lovel, &ldquo;I conceive that is a dispute which may be
      easily settled by philologists, if there are any remains of the language.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is but one word,&rdquo; said the Baronet, &ldquo;but, in spite of Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s
      pertinacity, it is decisive of the question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, in my favour,&rdquo; said Oldbuck: &ldquo;Mr. Lovel, you shall be judge&mdash;I
      have the learned Pinkerton on my side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, on mine, the indefatigable and erudite Chalmers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gordon comes into my opinion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir Robert Sibbald holds mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Innes is with me!&rdquo; vociferated Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Riston has no doubt!&rdquo; shouted the Baronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, gentlemen,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;before you muster your forces and
      overwhelm me with authorities, I should like to know the word in dispute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Benval</i>&rdquo; said both the disputants at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which signifies <i>caput valli,</i>&rdquo; said Sir Arthur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The head of the wall,&rdquo; echoed Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a deep pause.&mdash;&ldquo;It is rather a narrow foundation to build a
      hypothesis upon,&rdquo; observed the arbiter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a whit, not a whit,&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;men fight best in a narrow ring&mdash;an
      inch is as good as a mile for a home-thrust.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is decidedly Celtic,&rdquo; said the Baronet; &ldquo;every hill in the Highlands
      begins with <i>Ben.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what say you to <i>Val,</i> Sir Arthur; is it not decidedly the Saxon
      <i>wall?</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the Roman <i>vallum,</i>&rdquo; said Sir Arthur;&mdash;&ldquo;the Picts
      borrowed that part of the word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No such thing; if they borrowed anything, it must have been your <i>Ben,</i>
      which they might have from the neighbouring Britons of Strath Cluyd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Piks, or Picts,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;must have been singularly poor in
      dialect, since, in the only remaining word of their vocabulary, and that
      consisting only of two syllables, they have been confessedly obliged to
      borrow one of them from another language; and, methinks, gentlemen, with
      submission, the controversy is not unlike that which the two knights
      fought, concerning the shield that had one side white and the other black.
      Each of you claim one-half of the word, and seem to resign the other. But
      what strikes me most, is the poverty of the language which has left such
      slight vestiges behind it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are in an error,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur; &ldquo;it was a copious language, and
      they were a great and powerful people; built two steeples&mdash;one at
      Brechin, one at Abernethy. The Pictish maidens of the blood-royal were
      kept in Edinburgh Castle, thence called <i>Castrum Puellarum.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A childish legend,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;invented to give consequence to
      trumpery womankind. It was called the Maiden Castle, <i>quasi lucus a non
      lucendo,</i> because it resisted every attack, and women never do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a list of the Pictish kings,&rdquo; persisted Sir Arthur, &ldquo;well
      authenticated from Crentheminachcryme (the date of whose reign is somewhat
      uncertain) down to Drusterstone, whose death concluded their dynasty. Half
      of them have the Celtic patronymic <i>Mac</i> prefixed&mdash;Mac, <i>id
      est filius;</i>&mdash;what do you say to that, Mr. Oldbuck? There is Drust
      Macmorachin, Trynel Maclachlin (first of that ancient clan, as it may be
      judged), and Gormach Macdonald, Alpin Macmetegus, Drust Mactallargam&rdquo;
       (here he was interrupted by a fit of coughing)&mdash;&ldquo;ugh, ugh, ugh&mdash;Golarge
      Macchan&mdash;ugh, ugh&mdash;Macchanan&mdash;ugh&mdash;Macchananail,
      Kenneth&mdash;ugh&mdash;ugh&mdash; Macferedith, Eachan Macfungus&mdash;and
      twenty more, decidedly Celtic names, which I could repeat, if this damned
      cough would let me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take a glass of wine, Sir Arthur, and drink down that bead-roll of
      unbaptized jargon, that would choke the devil&mdash;why, that last fellow
      has the only intelligible name you have repeated&mdash;they are all of the
      tribe of Macfungus&mdash;mushroom monarchs every one of them; sprung up
      from the fumes of conceit, folly, and falsehood, fermenting in the brains
      of some mad Highland seannachie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am surprised to hear you, Mr. Oldbuck: you know, or ought to know, that
      the list of these potentates was copied by Henry Maule of Melguin, from
      the Chronicles of Loch Leven and St. Andrews, and put forth by him in his
      short but satisfactory history of the Picts, printed by Robert Freebairn
      of Edinburgh, and sold by him at his shop in the Parliament Close, in the
      year of God seventeen hundred and five, or six, I am not precisely certain
      which&mdash;but I have a copy at home that stands next to my twelvemo copy
      of the Scots Acts, and ranges on the shelf with them very well. What say
      you to that, Mr. Oldbuck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say?&mdash;why, I laugh at Harry Maule and his history,&rdquo; answered
      Oldbuck, &ldquo;and thereby comply with his request, of giving it entertainment
      according to its merits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not laugh at a better man than yourself,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, somewhat
      scornfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not conceive I do, Sir Arthur, in laughing either at him or his
      history.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Henry Maule of Melgum was a gentleman, Mr. Oldbuck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I presume he had no advantage of me in <i>that</i> particular,&rdquo; replied
      the Antiquary, somewhat tartly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Permit me, Mr. Oldbuck&mdash;he was a gentleman of high family, and
      ancient descent, and therefore&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The descendant of a Westphalian printer should speak of him with
      deference? Such may be your opinion, Sir Arthur&mdash;it is not mine. I
      conceive that my descent from that painful and industrious typographer,
      Wolfbrand Oldenbuck, who, in the month of December 1493, under the
      patronage, as the colophon tells us, of Sebaldus Scheyter and Sebastian
      Kammermaister, accomplished the printing of the great Chronicle of
      Nuremberg&mdash;I conceive, I say, that my descent from that great
      restorer of learning is more creditable to me as a man of letters, than if
      I had numbered in my genealogy all the brawling, bullet-headed,
      iron-fisted, old Gothic barons since the days of Crentheminachcryme&mdash;not
      one of whom, I suppose, could write his own name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you mean the observation as a sneer at my ancestry,&rdquo; said the knight,
      with an assumption of dignified superiority and composure, &ldquo;I have the
      pleasure to inform you, that the name of my ancestor, Gamelyn de
      Guardover, Miles, is written fairly with his own hand in the earliest copy
      of the Ragman-roll.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which only serves to show that he was one of the earliest who set the
      mean example of submitting to Edward I. What have, you to say for the
      stainless loyalty of your family, Sir Arthur, after such a backsliding as
      that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s enough, sir,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, starting up fiercely, and pushing
      back his chair; &ldquo;I shall hereafter take care how I honour with my company
      one who shows himself so ungrateful for my condescension.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that you will do as you find most agreeable, Sir Arthur;&mdash;I hope,
      that as I was not aware of the extent of the obligation which you have
      done me by visiting my poor house, I may be excused for not having carried
      my gratitude to the extent of servility.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mighty well&mdash;mighty well, Mr. Oldbuck&mdash;I wish you a good
      evening&mdash;Mr. a&mdash;a&mdash;a&mdash;Shovel&mdash;I wish you a very
      good evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Out of the parlour door flounced the incensed Sir Arthur, as if the spirit
      of the whole Round Table inflamed his single bosom, and traversed with
      long strides the labyrinth of passages which conducted to the
      drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever hear such an old tup-headed ass?&rdquo; said Oldbuck, briefly
      apostrophizing Lovel. &ldquo;But I must not let him go in this mad-like way
      neither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he pushed off after the retreating Baronet, whom he traced by
      the clang of several doors which he opened in search of the apartment for
      tea, and slammed with force behind him at every disappointment. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll do
      yourself a mischief,&rdquo; roared the Antiquary; &ldquo;<i>Qui ambulat in tenebris,
      nescit quo vadit</i>&mdash;You&rsquo;ll tumble down the back-stair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur had now got involved in darkness, of which the sedative effect
      is well known to nurses and governesses who have to deal with pettish
      children. It retarded the pace of the irritated Baronet, if it did not
      abate his resentment, and Mr. Oldbuck, better acquainted with the <i>locale,</i>
      got up with him as he had got his grasp upon the handle of the
      drawing-room door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay a minute, Sir Arthur,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, opposing his abrupt entrance;
      &ldquo;don&rsquo;t be quite so hasty, my good old friend. I was a little too rude with
      you about Sir Gamelyn&mdash;why, he is an old acquaintance of mine, man,
      and a favourite; he kept company with Bruce and Wallace&mdash;and, I&rsquo;ll be
      sworn on a black-letter Bible, only subscribed the Ragman-roll with the
      legitimate and justifiable intention of circumventing the false Southern&mdash;&lsquo;twas
      right Scottish craft, my good knight&mdash;hundreds did it. Come, come,
      forget and forgive&mdash;confess we have given the young fellow here a
      right to think us two testy old fools.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak for yourself, Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur with much
      majesty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-well, a-well&mdash;a wilful man must have his way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that the door opened, and into the drawing-room marched the tall
      gaunt form of Sir Arthur, followed by Lovel and Mr. Oldbuck, the
      countenances of all the three a little discomposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been waiting for you, sir,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, &ldquo;to propose we
      should walk forward to meet the carriage, as the evening is so fine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur readily assented to this proposal, which suited the angry mood
      in which he found himself; and having, agreeable to the established custom
      in cases of pet, refused the refreshment of tea and coffee, he tucked his
      daughter under his arm; and after taking a ceremonious leave of the
      ladies, and a very dry one of Oldbuck&mdash;off he marched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think Sir Arthur has got the black dog on his back again,&rdquo; said Miss
      Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Black dog!&mdash;black devil!&mdash;he&rsquo;s more absurd than womankind&mdash;What
      say you, Lovel?&mdash;Why, the lad&rsquo;s gone too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He took his leave, uncle, while Miss Wardour was putting on her things;
      but I don&rsquo;t think you observed him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil&rsquo;s in the people! This is all one gets by fussing and bustling,
      and putting one&rsquo;s self out of one&rsquo;s way in order to give dinners, besides
      all the charges they are put to!&mdash;O Seged, Emperor of Ethiopia!&rdquo; said
      he, taking up a cup of tea in the one hand, and a volume of the Rambler in
      the other,&mdash;for it was his regular custom to read while he was eating
      or drinking in presence of his sister, being a practice which served at
      once to evince his contempt for the society of womankind, and his
      resolution to lose no moment of instruction,&mdash;&ldquo;O Seged, Emperor of
      Ethiopia! well hast thou spoken&mdash;No man should presume to say, This
      shall be a day of happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck proceeded in his studies for the best part of an hour,
      uninterrupted by the ladies, who each, in profound silence, pursued some
      female employment. At length, a light and modest tap was heard at the
      parlour door. &ldquo;Is that you, Caxon?&mdash;come in, come in, man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man opened the door, and thrusting in his meagre face, thatched
      with thin grey locks, and one sleeve of his white coat, said in a subdued
      and mysterious tone of voice, &ldquo;I was wanting to speak to you, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in then, you old fool, and say what you have got to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll maybe frighten the ladies,&rdquo; said the ex-friseur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Frighten!&rdquo; answered the Antiquary,&mdash;&ldquo;what do you mean?&mdash;never
      mind the ladies. Have you seen another ghaist at the Humlock-knowe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, sir&mdash;it&rsquo;s no a ghaist this turn,&rdquo; replied Caxton;&mdash;&ldquo;but I&rsquo;m
      no easy in my mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever hear of any body that was?&rdquo; answered Oldbuck;&mdash;&ldquo;what
      reason has an old battered powder-puff like you to be easy in your mind,
      more than all the rest of the world besides?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s no for mysell, sir; but it threatens an awfu&rsquo; night; and Sir Arthur,
      and Miss Wardour, poor thing&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, man, they must have met the carriage at the head of the loaning, or
      thereabouts; they must be home long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, sir; they didna gang the road by the turnpike to meet the carriage,
      they gaed by the sands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The word operated like electricity on Oldbuck. &ldquo;The sands!&rdquo; he exclaimed;
      &ldquo;impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, sir, that&rsquo;s what I said to the gardener; but he says he saw them turn
      down by the Mussel-craig. In troth, says I to him, an that be the case,
      Davie, I am misdoubting&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An almanac! an almanac!&rdquo; said Oldbuck, starting up in great alarm&mdash;&ldquo;not
      that bauble!&rdquo; flinging away a little pocket almanac which his niece
      offered him.&mdash;&ldquo;Great God! my poor dear Miss Isabella!&mdash;Fetch me
      instantly the Fairport Almanac.&rdquo;&mdash;It was brought, consulted, and
      added greatly to his agitation. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go myself&mdash;call the gardener
      and ploughman&mdash;bid them bring ropes and ladders&mdash;bid them raise
      more help as they come along&mdash;keep the top of the cliffs, and halloo
      down to them&mdash;I&rsquo;ll go myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; inquired Miss Oldbuck and Miss M&rsquo;Intyre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The tide!&mdash;the tide!&rdquo; answered the alarmed Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had not Jenny better&mdash;but no, I&rsquo;ll run myself,&rdquo; said the younger
      lady, partaking in all her uncle&rsquo;s terrors&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll run myself to
      Saunders Mucklebackit, and make him get out his boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, my dear, that&rsquo;s the wisest word that has been spoken yet&mdash;Run!
      run!&mdash;To go by the sands!&rdquo; seizing his hat and cane; &ldquo;was there ever
      such madness heard of!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                       &mdash;Pleased awhile to view
               The watery waste, the prospect wild and new;
               The now receding waters gave them space,
               On either side, the growing shores to trace
               And then returning, they contract the scene,
               Till small and smaller grows the walk between.
                                            Crabbe.
</pre>
    <p>
      The information of Davie Dibble, which had spread such general alarm at
      Monkbarns, proved to be strictly correct. Sir Arthur and his daughter had
      set out, according to their first proposal, to return to Knockwinnock by
      the turnpike road; but when they reached the head of the loaning, as it
      was called, or great lane, which on one side made a sort of avenue to the
      house of Monkbarns, they discerned, a little way before them, Lovel, who
      seemed to linger on the way as if to give him an opportunity to join them.
      Miss Wardour immediately proposed to her father that they should take
      another direction; and, as the weather was fine, walk home by the sands,
      which, stretching below a picturesque ridge of rocks, afforded at almost
      all times a pleasanter passage between Knockwinnock and Monkbarns than the
      high-road.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="image-0006">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pa082.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      Sir Arthur acquiesced willingly. &ldquo;It would be unpleasant,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to be
      joined by that young fellow, whom Mr. Oldbuck had taken the freedom to
      introduce them to.&rdquo; And his old-fashioned politeness had none of the ease
      of the present day which permits you, if you have a mind, to <i>cut</i>
      the person you have associated with for a week, the instant you feel or
      suppose yourself in a situation which makes it disagreeable to own him.
      Sir Arthur only stipulated, that a little ragged boy, for the guerdon of
      one penny sterling, should run to meet his coachman, and turn his equipage
      back to Knockwinnock.
    </p>
    <p>
      When this was arranged, and the emissary despatched, the knight and his
      daughter left the high-road, and following a wandering path among sandy
      hillocks, partly grown over with furze and the long grass called bent,
      soon attained the side of the ocean. The tide was by no means so far out
      as they had computed but this gave them no alarm;&mdash;there were seldom
      ten days in the year when it approached so near the cliffs as not to leave
      a dry passage. But, nevertheless, at periods of spring-tide, or even when
      the ordinary flood was accelerated by high winds, this road was altogether
      covered by the sea; and tradition had recorded several fatal accidents
      which had happened on such occasions. Still, such dangers were considered
      as remote and improbable; and rather served, with other legends, to amuse
      the hamlet fireside, than to prevent any one from going between
      Knockwinnock and Monkbarns by the sands.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour paced along, enjoying the pleasant footing
      afforded by the cool moist hard sand, Miss Wardour could not help
      observing that the last tide had risen considerably above the usual
      water-mark. Sir Arthur made the same observation, but without its
      occurring to either of them to be alarmed at the circumstance. The sun was
      now resting his huge disk upon the edge of the level ocean, and gilded the
      accumulation of towering clouds through which he had travelled the
      livelong day, and which now assembled on all sides, like misfortunes and
      disasters around a sinking empire and falling monarch. Still, however, his
      dying splendour gave a sombre magnificence to the massive congregation of
      vapours, forming out of their unsubstantial gloom the show of pyramids and
      towers, some touched with gold, some with purple, some with a hue of deep
      and dark red. The distant sea, stretched beneath this varied and gorgeous
      canopy, lay almost portentously still, reflecting back the dazzling and
      level beams of the descending luminary, and the splendid colouring of the
      clouds amidst which he was setting. Nearer to the beach the tide rippled
      onward in waves of sparkling silver, that imperceptibly, yet rapidly,
      gained upon the sand.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a mind employed in admiration of the romantic scene, or perhaps on
      some more agitating topic, Miss Wardour advanced in silence by her
      father&rsquo;s side, whose recently offended dignity did not stoop to open any
      conversation. Following the windings of the beach, they passed one
      projecting point of headland or rock after another, and now found
      themselves under a huge and continued extent of the precipices by which
      that iron-bound coast is in most places defended. Long projecting reefs of
      rock, extending under water and only evincing their existence by here and
      there a peak entirely bare, or by the breakers which foamed over those
      that were partially covered, rendered Knockwinnock bay dreaded by pilots
      and ship-masters. The crags which rose between the beach and the mainland,
      to the height of two or three hundred feet, afforded in their crevices
      shelter for unnumbered sea-fowl, in situations seemingly secured by their
      dizzy height from the rapacity of man. Many of these wild tribes, with the
      instinct which sends them to seek the land before a storm arises, were now
      winging towards their nests with the shrill and dissonant clang which
      announces disquietude and fear. The disk of the sun became almost totally
      obscured ere he had altogether sunk below the horizon, and an early and
      lurid shade of darkness blotted the serene twilight of a summer evening.
      The wind began next to arise; but its wild and moaning sound was heard for
      some time, and its effects became visible on the bosom of the sea, before
      the gale was felt on shore. The mass of waters, now dark and threatening,
      began to lift itself in larger ridges, and sink in deeper furrows, forming
      waves that rose high in foam upon the breakers, or burst upon the beach
      with a sound resembling distant thunder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Appalled by this sudden change of weather, Miss Wardour drew close to her
      father, and held his arm fast. &ldquo;I wish,&rdquo; at length she said, but almost in
      a whisper, as if ashamed to express her increasing apprehensions, &ldquo;I wish
      we had kept the road we intended, or waited at Monkbarns for the
      carriage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur looked round, but did not see, or would not acknowledge, any
      signs of an immediate storm. They would reach Knockwinnock, he said, long
      before the tempest began. But the speed with which he walked, and with
      which Isabella could hardly keep pace, indicated a feeling that some
      exertion was necessary to accomplish his consolatory prediction.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were now near the centre of a deep but narrow bay or recess, formed
      by two projecting capes of high and inaccessible rock, which shot out into
      the sea like the horns of a crescent;&mdash;and neither durst communicate
      the apprehension which each began to entertain, that, from the unusually
      rapid advance of the tide, they might be deprived of the power of
      proceeding by doubling the promontory which lay before them, or of
      retreating by the road which brought them thither.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they thus pressed forward, longing doubtless to exchange the easy
      curving line, which the sinuosities of the bay compelled them to adopt,
      for a straighter and more expeditious path, Sir Arthur observed a human
      figure on the beach advancing to meet them. &ldquo;Thank God,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;we
      shall get round Halket-head!&mdash;that person must have passed it;&rdquo; thus
      giving vent to the feeling of hope, though he had suppressed that of
      apprehension.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God, indeed!&rdquo; echoed his daughter, half audibly, half internally,
      as expressing the gratitude which she strongly felt.
    </p>
    <p>
      The figure which advanced to meet them made many signs, which the haze of
      the atmosphere, now disturbed by wind and by a drizzling rain, prevented
      them from seeing or comprehending distinctly.&mdash;Some time before they
      met, Sir Arthur could recognise the old blue-gowned beggar, Edie
      Ochiltree. It is said that even the brute creation lay aside their
      animosities and antipathies when pressed by an instant and common danger.
      The beach under Halket-head, rapidly diminishing in extent by the
      encroachments of a spring-tide and a north-west wind, was in like manner a
      neutral field, where even a justice of peace and a strolling mendicant
      might meet upon terms of mutual forbearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turn back! turn back!&rdquo; exclaimed the vagrant; &ldquo;why did ye not turn when I
      waved to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We thought,&rdquo; replied Sir Arthur, in great agitation, &ldquo;we thought we could
      get round Halket-head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halket-head!&mdash;the tide will be running on Halket-head by this time
      like the Fall of Fyers!&mdash;it was a&rsquo; I could do to get round it twenty
      minutes since&mdash;it was coming in three feet abreast. We will maybe get
      back by Bally-burgh Ness Point yet. The Lord help us!&mdash;it&rsquo;s our only
      chance. We can but try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God, my child!&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;My father! my dear father!&rdquo; exclaimed the
      parent and daughter, as, fear lending them strength and speed, they turned
      to retrace their steps, and endeavoured to double the point, the
      projection of which formed the southern extremity of the bay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard ye were here frae the bit callant ye sent to meet your carriage,&rdquo;
       said the beggar, as he trudged stoutly on a step or two behind Miss
      Wardour; &ldquo;and I couldna bide to think o&rsquo; the dainty young leddy&rsquo;s peril,
      that has aye been kind to ilka forlorn heart that cam near her. Sae I
      lookit at the lift and the rin o&rsquo; the tide, till I settled it that if I
      could get down time eneugh to gie you warning, we wad do weel yet. But I
      doubt, I doubt, I have been beguiled! for what mortal ee ever saw sic a
      race as the tide is risening e&rsquo;en now? See, yonder&rsquo;s the Ratton&rsquo;s Skerry&mdash;he
      aye held his neb abune the water in my day&mdash;but he&rsquo;s aneath it now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur cast a look in the direction in which the old man pointed. A
      huge rock, which in general, even in spring-tides, displayed a hulk like
      the keel of a large vessel, was now quite under water, and its place only
      indicated by the boiling and breaking of the eddying waves which
      encountered its submarine resistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mak haste, mak haste, my bonny leddy,&rdquo; continued the old man&mdash;&ldquo;mak
      haste, and we may do yet! Take haud o&rsquo; my arm&mdash;an auld and frail arm
      it&rsquo;s now, but it&rsquo;s been in as sair stress as this is yet. Take haud o&rsquo; my
      arm, my winsome leddy! D&rsquo;ye see yon wee black speck amang the wallowing
      waves yonder? This morning it was as high as the mast o&rsquo; a brig&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      sma&rsquo; eneugh now&mdash;but, while I see as muckle black about it as the
      crown o&rsquo; my hat, I winna believe but we&rsquo;ll get round the Ballyburgh Ness,
      for a&rsquo; that&rsquo;s come and gane yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Isabella, in silence, accepted from the old man the assistance which Sir
      Arthur was less able to afford her. The waves had now encroached so much
      upon the beach, that the firm and smooth footing which they had hitherto
      had on the sand must be exchanged for a rougher path close to the foot of
      the precipice, and in some places even raised upon its lower ledges. It
      would have been utterly impossible for Sir Arthur Wardour, or his
      daughter, to have found their way along these shelves without the guidance
      and encouragement of the beggar, who had been there before in high tides,
      though never, he acknowledged, &ldquo;in sae awsome a night as this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed a dreadful evening. The howling of the storm mingled with
      the shrieks of the sea-fowl, and sounded like the dirge of the three
      devoted beings, who, pent between two of the most magnificent, yet most
      dreadful objects of nature&mdash;a raging tide and an insurmountable
      precipice&mdash;toiled along their painful and dangerous path, often
      lashed by the spray of some giant billow, which threw itself higher on the
      beach than those that had preceded it. Each minute did their enemy gain
      ground perceptibly upon them! Still, however, loth to relinquish the last
      hopes of life, they bent their eyes on the black rock pointed out by
      Ochiltree. It was yet distinctly visible among the breakers, and continued
      to be so, until they came to a turn in their precarious path, where an
      intervening projection of rock hid it from their sight. Deprived of the
      view of the beacon on which they had relied, they now experienced the
      double agony of terror and suspense. They struggled forward, however; but,
      when they arrived at the point from which they ought to have seen the
      crag, it was no longer visible: the signal of safety was lost among a
      thousand white breakers, which, dashing upon the point of the promontory,
      rose in prodigious sheets of snowy foam, as high as the mast of a
      first-rate man-of-war, against the dark brow of the precipice.
    </p>
    <p>
      The countenance of the old man fell. Isabella gave a faint shriek, and,
      &ldquo;God have mercy upon us!&rdquo; which her guide solemnly uttered, was piteously
      echoed by Sir Arthur&mdash;&ldquo;My child! my child!&mdash;to die such a
      death!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father! my dear father!&rdquo; his daughter exclaimed, clinging to him&mdash;&ldquo;and
      you too, who have lost your own life in endeavouring to save ours!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not worth the counting,&rdquo; said the old man. &ldquo;I hae lived to be
      weary o&rsquo; life; and here or yonder&mdash;at the back o&rsquo; a dyke, in a wreath
      o&rsquo; snaw, or in the wame o&rsquo; a wave, what signifies how the auld gaberlunzie
      dies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good man,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, &ldquo;can you think of nothing?&mdash;of no help?&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
      make you rich&mdash;I&rsquo;ll give you a farm&mdash;I&rsquo;ll&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our riches will be soon equal,&rdquo; said the beggar, looking out upon the
      strife of the waters&mdash;&ldquo;they are sae already; for I hae nae land, and
      you would give your fair bounds and barony for a square yard of rock that
      would be dry for twal hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While they exchanged these words, they paused upon the highest ledge of
      rock to which they could attain; for it seemed that any further attempt to
      move forward could only serve to anticipate their fate. Here, then, they
      were to await the sure though slow progress of the raging element,
      something in the situation of the martyrs of the early church, who,
      exposed by heathen tyrants to be slain by wild beasts, were compelled for
      a time to witness the impatience and rage by which the animals were
      agitated, while awaiting the signal for undoing their grates, and letting
      them loose upon the victims.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet even this fearful pause gave Isabella time to collect the powers of a
      mind naturally strong and courageous, and which rallied itself at this
      terrible juncture. &ldquo;Must we yield life,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;without a struggle? Is
      there no path, however dreadful, by which we could climb the crag, or at
      least attain some height above the tide, where we could remain till
      morning, or till help comes? They must be aware of our situation, and will
      raise the country to relieve us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur, who heard, but scarcely comprehended, his daughter&rsquo;s question,
      turned, nevertheless, instinctively and eagerly to the old man, as if
      their lives were in his gift. Ochiltree paused&mdash;&ldquo;I was a bauld
      craigsman,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;ance in my life, and mony a kittywake&rsquo;s and lungie&rsquo;s
      nest hae I harried up amang thae very black rocks; but it&rsquo;s lang, lang
      syne, and nae mortal could speel them without a rope&mdash;and if I had
      ane, my ee-sight, and my footstep, and my hand-grip, hae a&rsquo; failed mony a
      day sinsyne&mdash;And then, how could I save <i>you?</i> But there was a
      path here ance, though maybe, if we could see it, ye would rather bide
      where we are&mdash;His name be praised!&rdquo; he ejaculated suddenly, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s
      ane coming down the crag e&rsquo;en now!&rdquo;&mdash;Then, exalting his voice, he
      hilloa&rsquo;d out to the daring adventurer such instructions as his former
      practice, and the remembrance of local circumstances, suddenly forced upon
      his mind:&mdash;&ldquo;Ye&rsquo;re right!&mdash;ye&rsquo;re right!&mdash;that gate&mdash;that
      gate!&mdash;fasten the rope weel round Crummies-horn, that&rsquo;s the muckle
      black stane&mdash;cast twa plies round it&mdash;that&rsquo;s it!&mdash;now,
      weize yoursell a wee easel-ward&mdash;a wee mair yet to that ither stane&mdash;we
      ca&rsquo;d it the Cat&rsquo;s-lug&mdash;there used to be the root o&rsquo; an aik tree there&mdash;that
      will do!&mdash;canny now, lad&mdash;canny now&mdash;tak tent and tak time&mdash;Lord
      bless ye, tak time&mdash;Vera weel!&mdash;Now ye maun get to Bessy&rsquo;s
      apron, that&rsquo;s the muckle braid flat blue stane&mdash;and then, I think,
      wi&rsquo; your help and the tow thegither, I&rsquo;ll win at ye, and then we&rsquo;ll be
      able to get up the young leddy and Sir Arthur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The adventurer, following the directions of old Edie, flung him down the
      end of the rope, which he secured around Miss Wardour, wrapping her
      previously in his own blue gown, to preserve her as much as possible from
      injury. Then, availing himself of the rope, which was made fast at the
      other end, he began to ascend the face of the crag&mdash;a most precarious
      and dizzy undertaking, which, however, after one or two perilous escapes,
      placed him safe on the broad flat stone beside our friend Lovel. Their
      joint strength was able to raise Isabella to the place of safety which
      they had attained. Lovel then descended in order to assist Sir Arthur,
      around whom he adjusted the rope; and again mounting to their place of
      refuge, with the assistance of old Ochiltree, and such aid as Sir Arthur
      himself could afford, he raised himself beyond the reach of the billows.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="image-0007">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pa092.jpg" style="width:100%;" 
           alt="The Rescue of Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      The sense of reprieve from approaching and apparently inevitable death,
      had its usual effect. The father and daughter threw themselves into each
      other&rsquo;s arms, kissed and wept for joy, although their escape was connected
      with the prospect of passing a tempestuous night upon a precipitous ledge
      of rock, which scarce afforded footing for the four shivering beings, who
      now, like the sea-fowl around them, clung there in hopes of some shelter
      from the devouring element which raged beneath. The spray of the billows,
      which attained in fearful succession the foot of the precipice,
      overflowing the beach on which they so lately stood, flew as high as their
      place of temporary refuge; and the stunning sound with which they dashed
      against the rocks beneath, seemed as if they still demanded the fugitives
      in accents of thunder as their destined prey. It was a summer night,
      doubtless; yet the probability was slender, that a frame so delicate as
      that of Miss Wardour should survive till morning the drenching of the
      spray; and the dashing of the rain, which now burst in full violence,
      accompanied with deep and heavy gusts of wind, added to the constrained
      and perilous circumstances of their situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lassie!&mdash;the puir sweet, lassie!&rdquo; said the old man: &ldquo;mony such a
      night have I weathered at hame and abroad, but, God guide us, how can she
      ever win through it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His apprehension was communicated in smothered accents to Lovel; for with
      the sort of freemasonry by which bold and ready spirits correspond in
      moments of danger, and become almost instinctively known to each other,
      they had established a mutual confidence.&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll climb up the cliff
      again,&rdquo; said Lovel&mdash;&ldquo;there&rsquo;s daylight enough left to see my footing;
      I&rsquo;ll climb up, and call for more assistance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do so, do so, for Heaven&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo; said Sir Arthur eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are ye mad?&rdquo; said the mendicant: &ldquo;Francie o&rsquo; Fowlsheugh, and he was the
      best craigsman that ever speel&rsquo;d heugh (mair by token, he brake his neck
      upon the Dunbuy of Slaines), wodna hae ventured upon the Halket-head
      craigs after sun-down&mdash;It&rsquo;s God&rsquo;s grace, and a great wonder besides,
      that ye are not in the middle o&rsquo; that roaring sea wi&rsquo; what ye hae done
      already&mdash;I didna think there was the man left alive would hae come
      down the craigs as ye did. I question an I could hae done it mysell, at
      this hoar and in this weather, in the youngest and yaldest of my strength&mdash;But
      to venture up again&mdash;it&rsquo;s a mere and a clear tempting o&rsquo; Providence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no fear,&rdquo; answered Lovel; &ldquo;I marked all the stations perfectly as
      I came down, and there is still light enough left to see them quite well&mdash;I
      am sure I can do it with perfect safety. Stay here, my good friend, by Sir
      Arthur and the young lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dell be in my feet then,&rdquo; answered the bedesman sturdily; &ldquo;if ye gang,
      I&rsquo;ll gang too; for between the twa o&rsquo; us, we&rsquo;ll hae mair than wark eneugh
      to get to the tap o&rsquo; the heugh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no&mdash;stay you here and attend to Miss Wardour&mdash;you see Sir
      Arthur is quite exhausted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay yoursell then, and I&rsquo;ll gae,&rdquo; said the old man;&mdash;&ldquo;let death
      spare the green corn and take the ripe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay both of you, I charge you,&rdquo; said Isabella, faintly; &ldquo;I am well, and
      can spend the night very well here&mdash;I feel quite refreshed.&rdquo; So
      saying, her voice failed her&mdash;she sunk down, and would have fallen
      from the crag, had she not been supported by Lovel and Ochiltree, who
      placed her in a posture half sitting, half reclining, beside her father,
      who, exhausted by fatigue of body and mind so extreme and unusual, had
      already sat down on a stone in a sort of stupor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is impossible to leave them,&rdquo; said Lovel&mdash;&ldquo;What is to be done?&mdash;Hark!
      hark!&mdash;did I not hear a halloo?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The skreigh of a Tammie Norie,&rdquo; answered Ochiltree&mdash;&ldquo;I ken the skirl
      weel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, by Heaven!&rdquo; replied Lovel, &ldquo;it was a human voice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A distant hail was repeated, the sound plainly distinguishable among the
      various elemental noises, and the clang of the sea-mews by which they were
      surrounded. The mendicant and Lovel exerted their voices in a loud halloo,
      the former waving Miss Wardour&rsquo;s handkerchief on the end of his staff to
      make them conspicuous from above. Though the shouts were repeated, it was
      some time before they were in exact response to their own, leaving the
      unfortunate sufferers uncertain whether, in the darkening twilight and
      increasing storm, they had made the persons who apparently were traversing
      the verge of the precipice to bring them assistance, sensible of the place
      in which they had found refuge. At length their halloo was regularly and
      distinctly answered, and their courage confirmed, by the assurance that
      they were within hearing, if not within reach, of friendly assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER EIGHTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
              There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
                 Looks fearfully on the confined deep;
                 Bring me but to the very brim of it,
              And I&rsquo;ll repair the misery thou dost bear.
                                    King Lear.
</pre>
    <p>
      The shout of human voices from above was soon augmented, and the gleam of
      torches mingled with those lights of evening which still remained amidst
      the darkness of the storm. Some attempt was made to hold communication
      between the assistants above and the sufferers beneath, who were still
      clinging to their precarious place of safety; but the howling of the
      tempest limited their intercourse to cries as inarticulate as those of the
      winged denizens of the crag, which shrieked in chorus, alarmed by the
      reiterated sound of human voices, where they had seldom been heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the verge of the precipice an anxious group had now assembled. Oldbuck
      was the foremost and most earnest, pressing forward with unwonted
      desperation to the very brink of the crag, and extending his head (his hat
      and wig secured by a handkerchief under his chin) over the dizzy height,
      with an air of determination which made his more timorous assistants
      tremble.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haud a care, haud a care, Monkbarns!&rdquo; cried Caxon, clinging to the skirts
      of his patron, and withholding him from danger as far as his strength
      permitted&mdash;&ldquo;God&rsquo;s sake, haud a care!&mdash;Sir Arthur&rsquo;s drowned
      already, and an ye fa&rsquo; over the cleugh too, there will be but ae wig left
      in the parish, and that&rsquo;s the minister&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mind the peak there,&rdquo; cried Mucklebackit, an old fisherman and smuggler&mdash;&ldquo;mind
      the peak&mdash;Steenie, Steenie Wilks, bring up the tackle&mdash;I&rsquo;se
      warrant we&rsquo;ll sune heave them on board, Monkbarns, wad ye but stand out o&rsquo; 
      the gate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see them,&rdquo; said Oldbuck&mdash;&ldquo;I see them low down on that flat stone&mdash;Hilli-hilloa,
      hilli-ho-a!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see them mysell weel eneugh,&rdquo; said Mucklebackit; &ldquo;they are sitting down
      yonder like hoodie-craws in a mist; but d&rsquo;yo think ye&rsquo;ll help them wi&rsquo; 
      skirling that gate like an auld skart before a flaw o&rsquo; weather?&mdash;Steenie,
      lad, bring up the mast&mdash;Od, I&rsquo;se hae them up as we used to bouse up
      the kegs o&rsquo; gin and brandy lang syne&mdash;Get up the pickaxe, make a step
      for the mast&mdash;make the chair fast with the rattlin&mdash;haul taught
      and belay!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fishers had brought with them the mast of a boat, and as half of the
      country fellows about had now appeared, either out of zeal or curiosity,
      it was soon sunk in the ground, and sufficiently secured. A yard across
      the upright mast, and a rope stretched along it, and reeved through a
      block at each end, formed an extempore crane, which afforded the means of
      lowering an arm-chair, well secured and fastened, down to the flat shelf
      on which the sufferers had roosted. Their joy at hearing the preparations
      going on for their deliverance was considerably qualified when they beheld
      the precarious vehicle by means of which they were to be conveyed to upper
      air. It swung about a yard free of the spot which they occupied, obeying
      each impulse of the tempest, the empty air all around it, and depending
      upon the security of a rope, which, in the increasing darkness, had
      dwindled to an almost imperceptible thread. Besides the hazard of
      committing a human being to the vacant atmosphere in such a slight means
      of conveyance, there was the fearful danger of the chair and its occupant
      being dashed, either by the wind or the vibrations of the cord, against
      the rugged face of the precipice. But to diminish the risk as much as
      possible, the experienced seaman had let down with the chair another line,
      which, being attached to it, and held by the persons beneath, might serve
      by way of <i>gy,</i> as Mucklebackit expressed it, to render its descent
      in some measure steady and regular. Still, to commit one&rsquo;s self in such a
      vehicle, through a howling tempest of wind and rain, with a beetling
      precipice above and a raging abyss below, required that courage which
      despair alone can inspire. Yet, wild as the sounds and sights of danger
      were, both above, beneath, and around, and doubtful and dangerous as the
      mode of escaping appeared to be, Lovel and the old mendicant agreed, after
      a moment&rsquo;s consultation, and after the former, by a sudden strong pull,
      had, at his own imminent risk, ascertained the security of the rope, that
      it would be best to secure Miss Wardour in the chair, and trust to the
      tenderness and care of those above for her being safely craned up to the
      top of the crag.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let my father go first,&rdquo; exclaimed Isabella; &ldquo;for God&rsquo;s sake, my friends,
      place him first in safety!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It cannot be, Miss Wardour,&rdquo; said Lovel;&mdash;&ldquo;your life must be first
      secured&mdash;the rope which bears your weight may&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not listen to a reason so selfish!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But ye maun listen to it, my bonnie lassie,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;for a&rsquo; our
      lives depend on it&mdash;besides, when ye get on the tap o&rsquo; the heugh
      yonder, ye can gie them a round guess o&rsquo; what&rsquo;s ganging on in this Patmos
      o&rsquo; ours&mdash;and Sir Arthur&rsquo;s far by that, as I&rsquo;m thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Struck with the truth of this reasoning, she exclaimed, &ldquo;True, most true;
      I am ready and willing to undertake the first risk&mdash;What shall I say
      to our friends above?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just to look that their tackle does not graze on the face o&rsquo; the crag,
      and to let the chair down and draw it up hooly and fairly;&mdash;we will
      halloo when we are ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With the sedulous attention of a parent to a child, Lovel bound Miss
      Wardour with his handkerchief, neckcloth, and the mendicant&rsquo;s leathern
      belt, to the back and arms of the chair, ascertaining accurately the
      security of each knot, while Ochiltree kept Sir Arthur quiet. &ldquo;What are ye
      doing wi&rsquo; my bairn?&mdash;what are ye doing?&mdash;She shall not be
      separated from me&mdash;Isabel, stay with me, I command you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lordsake, Sir Arthur, haud your tongue, and be thankful to God that
      there&rsquo;s wiser folk than you to manage this job,&rdquo; cried the beggar, worn
      out by the unreasonable exclamations of the poor Baronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farewell, my father!&rdquo; murmured Isabella&mdash;&ldquo;farewell, my&mdash;my
      friends!&rdquo; and shutting her eyes, as Edie&rsquo;s experience recommended, she
      gave the signal to Lovel, and he to those who were above. She rose, while
      the chair in which she sate was kept steady by the line which Lovel
      managed beneath. With a beating heart he watched the flutter of her white
      dress, until the vehicle was on a level with the brink of the precipice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Canny now, lads, canny now!&rdquo; exclaimed old Mucklebackit, who acted as
      commodore; &ldquo;swerve the yard a bit&mdash;Now&mdash;there! there she sits
      safe on dry land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A loud shout announced the successful experiment to her fellow-sufferers
      beneath, who replied with a ready and cheerful halloo. Monkbarns, in his
      ecstasy of joy, stripped his great-coat to wrap up the young lady, and
      would have pulled off his coat and waistcoat for the same purpose, had he
      not been withheld by the cautious Caxon. &ldquo;Haud a care o&rsquo; us! your honour
      will be killed wi&rsquo; the hoast&mdash;ye&rsquo;ll no get out o&rsquo;your night-cowl this
      fortnight&mdash;and that will suit us unco ill.&mdash;Na, na&mdash;there&rsquo;s
      the chariot down by; let twa o&rsquo; the folk carry the young leddy there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re right,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, readjusting the sleeves and collar of
      his coat, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re right, Caxon; this is a naughty night to swim in.&mdash;Miss
      Wardour, let me convey you to the chariot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not for worlds till I see my father safe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a few distinct words, evincing how much her resolution had surmounted
      even the mortal fear of so agitating a hazard, she explained the nature of
      the situation beneath, and the wishes of Lovel and Ochiltree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right, right, that&rsquo;s right too&mdash;I should like to see the son of Sir
      Gamelyn de Guardover on dry land myself&mdash;I have a notion he would
      sign the abjuration oath, and the Ragman-roll to boot, and acknowledge
      Queen Mary to be nothing better than she should be, to get alongside my
      bottle of old port that he ran away from, and left scarce begun. But he&rsquo;s
      safe now, and here a&rsquo; comes&rdquo;&mdash;(for the chair was again lowered, and
      Sir Arthur made fast in it, without much consciousness on his own part)&mdash;&ldquo;here
      a&rsquo; comes&mdash;Bowse away, my boys! canny wi&rsquo; him&mdash;a pedigree of a
      hundred links is hanging on a tenpenny tow&mdash;the whole barony of
      Knockwinnock depends on three plies of hemp&mdash;<i>respice finem,
      respice funem</i>&mdash;look to your end&mdash;look to a rope&rsquo;s end.&mdash;Welcome,
      welcome, my good old friend, to firm land, though I cannot say to warm
      land or to dry land. A cord for ever against fifty fathom of water, though
      not in the sense of the base proverb&mdash;a fico for the phrase,&mdash;better
      <i>sus. per funem,</i> than <i>sus. per coll.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Oldbuck ran on in this way, Sir Arthur was safely wrapped in the
      close embraces of his daughter, who, assuming that authority which the
      circumstances demanded, ordered some of the assistants to convey him to
      the chariot, promising to follow in a few minutes, She lingered on the
      cliff, holding an old countryman&rsquo;s arm, to witness probably the safety of
      those whose dangers she had shared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have we here?&rdquo; said Oldbuck, as the vehicle once more ascended&mdash;&ldquo;what
      patched and weather-beaten matter is this?&rdquo; Then as the torches illumed
      the rough face and grey hairs of old Ochiltree,&mdash;&ldquo;What! is it thou?&mdash;Come,
      old Mocker, I must needs be friends with thee&mdash;but who the devil
      makes up your party besides?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ane that&rsquo;s weel worth ony twa o&rsquo; us, Monkbarns;&mdash;it&rsquo;s the young
      stranger lad they ca&rsquo; Lovel&mdash;and he&rsquo;s behaved this blessed night as
      if he had three lives to rely on, and was willing to waste them a&rsquo; rather
      than endanger ither folk&rsquo;s. Ca&rsquo; hooly, sirs, as ye, wad win an auld man&rsquo;s
      blessing!&mdash;mind there&rsquo;s naebody below now to haud the gy&mdash;Hae a
      care o&rsquo; the Cat&rsquo;s-lug corner&mdash;bide weel aff Crummie&rsquo;s-horn!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have a care indeed,&rdquo; echoed Oldbuck. &ldquo;What! is it my <i>rara avis</i>&mdash;my
      black swan&mdash;my phoenix of companions in a post-chaise?&mdash;take
      care of him, Mucklebackit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As muckle care as if he were a graybeard o&rsquo; brandy; and I canna take mair
      if his hair were like John Harlowe&rsquo;s.&mdash;Yo ho, my hearts! bowse away
      with him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel did, in fact, run a much greater risk than any of his precursors.
      His weight was not sufficient to render his ascent steady amid such a
      storm of wind, and he swung like an agitated pendulum at the mortal risk
      of being dashed against the rocks. But he was young, bold, and active,
      and, with the assistance of the beggar&rsquo;s stout piked staff, which he had
      retained by advice of the proprietor, contrived to bear himself from the
      face of the precipice, and the yet more hazardous projecting cliffs which
      varied its surface. Tossed in empty space, like an idle and unsubstantial
      feather, with a motion that agitated the brain at once with fear and with
      dizziness, he retained his alertness of exertion and presence of mind; and
      it was not until he was safely grounded upon the summit of the cliff, that
      he felt temporary and giddy sickness. As he recovered from a sort of half
      swoon, he cast his eyes eagerly around. The object which they would most
      willingly have sought, was already in the act of vanishing. Her white
      garment was just discernible as she followed on the path which her father
      had taken. She had lingered till she saw the last of their company rescued
      from danger, and until she had been assured by the hoarse voice of
      Mucklebackit, that &ldquo;the callant had come off wi&rsquo; unbrizzed banes, and that
      he was but in a kind of dwam.&rdquo; But Lovel was not aware that she had
      expressed in his fate even this degree of interest,&mdash;which, though
      nothing more than was due to a stranger who had assisted her in such an
      hour of peril, he would have gladly purchased by braving even more
      imminent danger than he had that evening been exposed to. The beggar she
      had already commanded to come to Knockwinnock that night. He made an
      excuse.&mdash;&ldquo;Then to-morrow let me see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man promised to obey. Oldbuck thrust something into his hand&mdash;Ochiltree
      looked at it by the torchlight, and returned it&mdash;&ldquo;Na, na! I never tak
      gowd&mdash;besides, Monkbarns, ye wad maybe be rueing it the morn.&rdquo; Then
      turning to the group of fishermen and peasants&mdash;&ldquo;Now, sirs, wha will
      gie me a supper and some clean pease-strae?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I,&rdquo; &ldquo;and I,&rdquo; &ldquo;and I,&rdquo; answered many a ready voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, since sae it is, and I can only sleep in ae barn at ance, I&rsquo;ll gae
      down with Saunders Mucklebackit&mdash;he has aye a soup o&rsquo; something
      comfortable about his begging&mdash;and, bairns, I&rsquo;ll maybe live to put
      ilka ane o&rsquo; ye in mind some ither night that ye hae promised me quarters
      and my awmous;&rdquo; and away he went with the fisherman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck laid the band of strong possession on Lovel&mdash;&ldquo;Deil a stride
      ye&rsquo;s go to Fairport this night, young man&mdash;you must go home with me
      to Monkbarns. Why, man, you have been a hero&mdash;a perfect Sir William
      Wallace, by all accounts. Come, my good lad, take hold of my arm;&mdash;I
      am not a prime support in such a wind&mdash;but Caxon shall help us out&mdash;Here,
      you old idiot, come on the other side of me.&mdash;And how the deil got
      you down to that infernal Bessy&rsquo;s-apron, as they call it? Bess, said they?
      Why, curse her, she has spread out that vile pennon or banner of
      womankind, like all the rest of her sex, to allure her votaries to death
      and headlong ruin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been pretty well accustomed to climbing, and I have long observed
      fowlers practise that pass down the cliff.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how, in the name of all that is wonderful, came you to discover the
      danger of the pettish Baronet and his far more deserving daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw them from the verge of the precipice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the verge!&mdash;umph&mdash;And what possessed you <i>dumosa pendere
      procul de rupe?</i>&mdash;though <i>dumosa</i> is not the appropriate
      epithet&mdash;what the deil, man, tempted ye to the verge of the craig?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;I like to see the gathering and growling of a coming storm&mdash;or,
      in your own classical language, Mr. Oldbuck, <i>suave mari magno</i>&mdash;and
      so forth&mdash;but here we reach the turn to Fairport. I must wish you
      good-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a step, not a pace, not an inch, not a shathmont, as I may say,&mdash;the
      meaning of which word has puzzled many that think themselves antiquaries.
      I am clear we should read <i>salmon-length</i> for <i>shathmont&rsquo;s-length.</i>
      You are aware that the space allotted for the passage of a salmon through
      a dam, dike, or weir, by statute, is the length within which a full-grown
      pig can turn himself round. Now I have a scheme to prove, that, as
      terrestrial objects were thus appealed to for ascertaining submarine
      measurement, so it must be supposed that the productions of the water were
      established as gauges of the extent of land.&mdash;Shathmont&mdash;salmont&mdash;you
      see the close alliance of the sounds; dropping out two <i>h</i>'s, and a
      <i>t,</i> and assuming an <i>l,</i> makes the whole difference&mdash;I
      wish to heaven no antiquarian derivation had demanded heavier
      concessions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my dear sir, I really must go home&mdash;I am wet to the skin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shalt have my night-gown, man, and slippers, and catch the antiquarian
      fever as men do the plague, by wearing infected garments. Nay, I know what
      you would be at&mdash;you are afraid to put the old bachelor to charges.
      But is there not the remains of that glorious chicken-pie&mdash;which, <i>meo
      arbitrio,</i> is better cold than hot&mdash;and that bottle of my oldest
      port, out of which the silly brain-sick Baronet (whom I cannot pardon,
      since he has escaped breaking his neck) had just taken one glass, when his
      infirm noddle went a wool-gathering after Gamelyn de Guardover?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying he dragged Lovel forward, till the Palmer&rsquo;s-port of Monkbarns
      received them. Never, perhaps, had it admitted two pedestrians more
      needing rest for Monkbarns&rsquo;s fatigue had been in a degree very contrary to
      his usual habits, and his more young and robust companion had that evening
      undergone agitation of mind which had harassed and wearied him even more
      than his extraordinary exertions of body.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER NINTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
           &ldquo;Be brave,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;you yet may be our guest,
               Our haunted room was ever held the best.
               If, then, your valour can the sight sustain
               Of rustling curtains and the clinking chain
            If your courageous tongue have powers to talk,
            When round your bed the horrid ghost shall walk
               If you dare ask it why it leaves its tomb,
            I&rsquo;ll see your sheets well air&rsquo;d, and show the Room.&rdquo;
                                         True Story.
</pre>
    <p>
      They reached the room in which they had dined, and were clamorously
      welcomed by Miss Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s the younger womankind?&rdquo; said the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, brother, amang a&rsquo; the steery, Maria wadna be guided by me she set
      away to the Halket-craig-head&mdash;I wonder ye didna see her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh!&mdash;what&mdash;what&rsquo;s that you say, sister?&mdash;did the girl go
      out in a night like this to the Halket-head?&mdash;Good God! the misery of
      the night is not ended yet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But ye winna wait, Monkbarns&mdash;ye are so imperative and impatient&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tittle-tattle, woman,&rdquo; said the impatient and agitated Antiquary, &ldquo;where
      is my dear Mary?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just where ye suld be yoursell, Monkbarns&mdash;up-stairs, and in her
      warm bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could have sworn it,&rdquo; said Oldbuck laughing, but obviously much
      relieved&mdash;&ldquo;I could have sworn it;&mdash;the lazy monkey did not care
      if we were all drowned together. Why did you say she went out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But ye wadna wait to hear out my tale, Monkbarns&mdash;she gaed out, and
      she came in again with the gardener sae sune as she saw that nane o&rsquo; ye
      were clodded ower the Craig, and that Miss Wardour was safe in the
      chariot; she was hame a quarter of an hour syne, for it&rsquo;s now ganging ten&mdash;sair
      droukit was she, puir thing, sae I e&rsquo;en put a glass o&rsquo; sherry in her
      water-gruel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right, Grizel, right&mdash;let womankind alone for coddling each other.
      But hear me, my venerable sister&mdash;start not at the word venerable; it
      implies many praiseworthy qualities besides age; though that too is
      honourable, albeit it is the last quality for which womankind would wish
      to be honoured&mdash;But perpend my words: let Lovel and me have forthwith
      the relics of the chicken-pie, and the reversion of the port.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The chicken-pie! the port!&mdash;ou dear! brother&mdash;there was but a
      wheen banes, and scarce a drap o&rsquo; the wine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary&rsquo;s countenance became clouded, though he was too well bred to
      give way, in the presence of a stranger, to his displeased surprise at the
      disappearance of the viands on which he had reckoned with absolute
      certainty. But his sister understood these looks of ire. &ldquo;Ou dear!
      Monkbarns, what&rsquo;s the use of making a wark?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I make no wark, as ye call it, woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what&rsquo;s the use o&rsquo; looking sae glum and glunch about a pickle banes?&mdash;an
      ye will hae the truth, ye maun ken the minister came in, worthy man&mdash;sair
      distressed he was, nae doubt, about your precarious situation, as he ca&rsquo;d
      it (for ye ken how weel he&rsquo;s gifted wi&rsquo; words), and here he wad bide till
      he could hear wi&rsquo; certainty how the matter was likely to gang wi&rsquo; ye a&rsquo;&mdash;He
      said fine things on the duty of resignation to Providence&rsquo;s will, worthy
      man! that did he.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck replied, catching the same tone, &ldquo;Worthy man!&mdash;he cared not
      how soon Monkbarns had devolved on an heir-female, I&rsquo;ve a notion;&mdash;and
      while he was occupied in this Christian office of consolation against
      impending evil, I reckon that the chicken-pie and my good port
      disappeared?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear brother, how can you speak of sic frivolities, when you have had sic
      an escape from the craig?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better than my supper has had from the minister&rsquo;s <i>craig,</i> Grizzle&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      all discussed, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout, Monkbarns, ye speak as if there was nae mair meat in the house&mdash;wad
      ye not have had me offer the honest man some slight refreshment after his
      walk frae the manse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck half-whistled, half-hummed, the end of the old Scottish ditty,
    </p>
<pre>
                 O, first they eated the white puddings,
                    And then they eated the black, O,
                 And thought the gudeman unto himsell,
                    The deil clink down wi&rsquo; that, O!
</pre>
    <p>
      His sister hastened to silence his murmurs, by proposing some of the
      relies of the dinner. He spoke of another bottle of wine, but recommended
      in preference a glass of brandy which was really excellent. As no
      entreaties could prevail on Lovel to indue the velvet night-cap and
      branched morning-gown of his host, Oldbuck, who pretended to a little
      knowledge of the medical art, insisted on his going to bed as soon as
      possible, and proposed to despatch a messenger (the indefatigable Caxon)
      to Fairport early in the morning, to procure him a change of clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the first intimation Miss Oldbuck had received that the young
      stranger was to be their guest for the night; and such was the surprise
      with which she was struck by a proposal so uncommon, that, had the
      superincumbent weight of her head-dress, such as we before described, been
      less preponderant, her grey locks must have started up on end, and hurled
      it from its position.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord haud a care o&rsquo; us!&rdquo; exclaimed the astounded maiden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter now, Grizel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wad ye but just speak a moment, Monkbarns?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak!&mdash;what should I speak about? I want to get to my bed&mdash;and
      this poor young fellow&mdash;let a bed be made ready for him instantly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bed?&mdash;The Lord preserve us!&rdquo; again ejaculated Grizel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what&rsquo;s the matter now?&mdash;are there not beds and rooms enough in
      the house?&mdash;was it not an ancient <i>hospitium,</i> in which, I am
      warranted to say, beds were nightly made down for a score of pilgrims?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O dear, Monkbarns! wha kens what they might do lang syne?&mdash;but in
      our time&mdash;beds&mdash;ay, troth, there&rsquo;s beds enow sic as they are&mdash;and
      rooms enow too&mdash;but ye ken yoursell the beds haena been sleepit in,
      Lord kens the time, nor the rooms aired.&mdash;If I had kenn&rsquo;d, Mary and
      me might hae gaen down to the manse&mdash;Miss Beckie is aye fond to see
      us&mdash;(and sae is the minister, brother)&mdash;But now, gude save us!&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there not the Green Room, Grizel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth is there, and it is in decent order too, though naebody has sleepit
      there since Dr. Heavysterne, and&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what! I am sure ye ken yoursell what a night he had&mdash;ye wadna
      expose the young gentleman to the like o&rsquo; that, wad ye?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel interfered upon hearing this altercation, and protested he would far
      rather walk home than put them to the least inconvenience&mdash;that the
      exercise would be of service to him&mdash;that he knew the road perfectly,
      by night or day, to Fairport&mdash;that the storm was abating, and so
      forth&mdash;adding all that civility could suggest as an excuse for
      escaping from a hospitality which seemed more inconvenient to his host
      than he could possibly have anticipated. But the howling of the wind, and
      the pattering of the rain against the windows, with his knowledge of the
      preceding fatigues of the evening, must have prohibited Oldbuck, even had
      he entertained less regard for his young friend than he really felt, from
      permitting him to depart. Besides, he was piqued in honour to show that he
      himself was not governed by womankind&mdash;&ldquo;Sit ye down, sit ye down, sit
      ye down, man,&rdquo; he reiterated;&mdash;&ldquo;an ye part so, I would I might never
      draw a cork again, and here comes out one from a prime bottle of&mdash;strong
      ale&mdash;right <i>anno domini</i>&mdash;none of your Wassia Quassia
      decoctions, but brewed of Monkbarns barley&mdash;John of the Girnel never
      drew a better flagon to entertain a wandering minstrel, or palmer, with
      the freshest news from Palestine.&mdash;And to remove from your mind the
      slightest wish to depart, know, that if you do so, your character as a
      gallant knight is gone for ever. Why, &lsquo;tis an adventure, man, to sleep in
      the Green Room at Monkbarns.&mdash;Sister, pray see it got ready&mdash;And,
      although the bold adventurer, Heavysterne, dree&rsquo;d pain and dolour in that
      charmed apartment, it is no reason why a gallant knight like you, nearly
      twice as tall, and not half so heavy, should not encounter and break the
      spell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! a haunted apartment, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure, to be sure&mdash;every mansion in this country of the
      slightest antiquity has its ghosts and its haunted chamber, and you must
      not suppose us worse off than our neighbours. They are going, indeed,
      somewhat out of fashion. I have seen the day, when if you had doubted the
      reality of a ghost in an old manor-house you ran the risk of being made a
      ghost yourself, as Hamlet says.&mdash;Yes, if you had challenged the
      existence of Redcowl in the Castle of Glenstirym, old Sir Peter
      Pepperbrand would have had ye out to his court-yard, made you betake
      yourself to your weapon, and if your trick of fence were not the better,
      would have sticked you like a paddock, on his own baronial midden-stead. I
      once narrowly escaped such an affray&mdash;but I humbled myself, and
      apologised to Redcowl; for, even in my younger days, I was no friend to
      the <i>monomachia,</i> or duel, and would rather walk with Sir Priest than
      with Sir Knight&mdash;I care not who knows so much of my valour. Thank
      God, I am old now, and can indulge my irritabilities without the necessity
      of supporting them by cold steel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Miss Oldbuck re-entered, with a singularly sage expression of
      countenance.&mdash;&ldquo;Mr. Lovel&rsquo;s bed&rsquo;s ready, brother&mdash;clean sheets&mdash;weel
      aired&mdash;a spunk of fire in the chimney&mdash;I am sure, Mr. Lovel,&rdquo;
       (addressing him), &ldquo;it&rsquo;s no for the trouble&mdash;and I hope you will have
      a good night&rsquo;s rest&mdash;But&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are resolved,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;to do what you can to prevent
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me?&mdash;I am sure I have said naething, Monkbarns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear madam,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;allow me to ask you the meaning of your
      obliging anxiety on my account.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, Monkbarns does not like to hear of it&mdash;but he kens himsell that
      the room has an ill name. It&rsquo;s weel minded that it was there auld Rab Tull
      the town-clerk was sleeping when he had that marvellous communication
      about the grand law-plea between us and the feuars at the Mussel-craig.
      &mdash;It had cost a hantle siller, Mr. Lovel; for law-pleas were no
      carried on without siller lang syne mair than they are now&mdash;and the
      Monkbarns of that day&mdash;our gudesire, Mr. Lovel, as I said before&mdash;was
      like to be waured afore the Session for want of a paper&mdash;Monkbarns
      there kens weel what paper it was, but I&rsquo;se warrant he&rsquo;ll no help me out
      wi&rsquo; my tale&mdash;but it was a paper of great significance to the plea,
      and we were to be waured for want o&rsquo;t. Aweel, the cause was to come on
      before the fifteen&mdash;in presence, as they ca&rsquo;t&mdash;and auld Rab
      Tull, the town-clerk, he cam ower to make a last search for the paper that
      was wanting, before our gudesire gaed into Edinburgh to look after his
      plea&mdash;so there was little time to come and gang on. He was but a
      doited snuffy body, Rab, as I&rsquo;ve heard &mdash;but then he was the
      town-clerk of Fairport, and the Monkbarns heritors aye employed him on
      account of their connection wi&rsquo; the burgh, ye ken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sister Grizel, this is abominable,&rdquo; interrupted Oldbuck; &ldquo;I vow to Heaven
      ye might have raised the ghosts of every abbot of Trotcosey, since the
      days of Waldimir, in the time you have been detailing the introduction to
      this single spectre.&mdash;Learn to be succinct in your narrative.&mdash;Imitate
      the concise style of old Aubrey, an experienced ghost-seer, who entered
      his memoranda on these subjects in a terse business-like manner; <i>exempli
      gratia</i>&mdash;At Cirencester, 5th March, 1670, was an apparition.&mdash;Being
      demanded whether good spirit or bad, made no answer, but instantly
      disappeared with a curious perfume, and a melodious twang&rsquo;&mdash;<i>Vide</i>
      his Miscellanies, p. eighteen, as well as I can remember, and near the
      middle of the page.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Monkbarns, man! do ye think everybody is as book-learned as yoursell?&mdash;But
      ye like to gar folk look like fools&mdash;ye can do that to Sir Arthur,
      and the minister his very sell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nature has been beforehand with me, Grizel, in both these instances, and
      in another which shall be nameless&mdash;but take a glass of ale, Grizel,
      and proceed with your story, for it waxes late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jenny&rsquo;s just warming your bed, Monkbarns, and ye maun e&rsquo;en wait till
      she&rsquo;s done.&mdash;Weel, I was at the search that our gudesire, Monkbarns
      that then was, made wi&rsquo; auld Rab Tull&rsquo;s assistance;&mdash;but
      ne&rsquo;er-be-licket could they find that was to their purpose. And sae after
      they had touzled out mony a leather poke-full o&rsquo; papers, the town-clerk
      had his drap punch at e&rsquo;en to wash the dust out of his throat&mdash;we
      never were glass-breakers in this house, Mr. Lovel, but the body had got
      sic a trick of sippling and tippling wi&rsquo; the bailies and deacons when they
      met (which was amaist ilka night) concerning the common gude o&rsquo; the burgh,
      that he couldna weel sleep without it&mdash;But his punch he gat, and to
      bed he gaed; and in the middle of the night he got a fearfu&rsquo; wakening!&mdash;he
      was never just himsell after it, and he was strucken wi&rsquo; the dead palsy
      that very day four years. He thought, Mr. Lovel, that he heard the
      curtains o&rsquo; his bed fissil, and out he lookit, fancying, puir man, it
      might hae been the cat&mdash;But he saw&mdash;God hae a care o&rsquo; us! it
      gars my flesh aye creep, though I hae tauld the story twenty times&mdash;he
      saw a weel-fa&rsquo;ard auld gentleman standing by his bedside, in the
      moonlight, in a queer-fashioned dress, wi&rsquo; mony a button and band-string
      about it, and that part o&rsquo; his garments which it does not become a leddy
      to particulareeze, was baith side and wide, and as mony plies o&rsquo;t as of
      ony Hamburgh skipper&rsquo;s&mdash;He had a beard too, and whiskers turned
      upwards on his upper-lip, as lang as baudrons&rsquo;&mdash;and mony mair
      particulars there were that Rab Tull tauld o&rsquo;, but they are forgotten now&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      an auld story. Aweel, Rab was a just-living man for a country writer&mdash;and
      he was less feared than maybe might just hae been expected; and he asked
      in the name o&rsquo; goodness what the apparition wanted&mdash;and the spirit
      answered in an unknown tongue. Then Rab said he tried him wi&rsquo; Erse, for he
      cam in his youth frae the braes of Glenlivat&mdash;but it wadna do. Aweel,
      in this strait, he bethought him of the twa or three words o&rsquo; Latin that
      he used in making out the town&rsquo;s deeds, and he had nae sooner tried the
      spirit wi&rsquo; that, than out cam sic a blatter o&rsquo; Latin about his lugs, that
      poor Rab Tull, wha was nae great scholar, was clean overwhelmed. Od, but
      he was a bauld body, and he minded the Latin name for the deed that he was
      wanting. It was something about a cart, I fancy, for the ghaist cried aye,
      <i>Carter, carter</i>&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Carta,</i> you transformer of languages!&rdquo; cried Oldbuck;&mdash;&ldquo;if my
      ancestor had learned no other language in the other world, at least he
      would not forget the Latinity for which he was so famous while in this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, weel, <i>carta</i> be it then, but they ca&rsquo;d it <i>carter</i> that
      tell&rsquo;d me the story. It cried aye <i>carta,</i> if sae be that it was <i>carta,</i>
      and made a sign to Rab to follow it. Rab Tull keepit a Highland heart, and
      banged out o&rsquo; bed, and till some of his readiest claes&mdash;and he did
      follow the thing up stairs and down stairs to the place we ca&rsquo; the high
      dow-cot&mdash;(a sort of a little tower in the corner of the auld house,
      where there was a Rickle o&rsquo; useless boxes and trunks)&mdash;and there the
      ghaist gae Rab a kick wi&rsquo; the tae foot, and a kick wi&rsquo; the tother, to that
      very auld east-country tabernacle of a cabinet that my brother has
      standing beside his library table, and then disappeared like a fuff o&rsquo; 
      tobacco, leaving Rab in a very pitiful condition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Tenues secessit in auras,</i>&rdquo; quoth Oldbuck. &ldquo;Marry, sir, <i>mansit
      odor</i>&mdash;But, sure enough, the deed was there found in a drawer of
      this forgotten repository, which contained many other curious old papers,
      now properly labelled and arranged, and which seemed to have belonged to
      my ancestor, the first possessor of Monkbarns. The deed, thus strangely
      recovered, was the original Charter of Erection of the Abbey, Abbey Lands,
      and so forth, of Trotcosey, comprehending Monkbarns and others, into a
      Lordship of Regality in favour of the first Earl of Glengibber, a
      favourite of James the Sixth. It is subscribed by the King at Westminster,
      the seventeenth day of January, A. D. one thousand six hundred and twelve&mdash;thirteen.
      It&rsquo;s not worth while to repeat the witnesses&rsquo; names.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would rather,&rdquo; said Lovel with awakened curiosity, &ldquo;I would rather hear
      your opinion of the way in which the deed was discovered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, if I wanted a patron for my legend, I could find no less a one than
      Saint Augustine, who tells the story of a deceased person appearing to his
      son, when sued for a debt which had been paid, and directing him where, to
      find the discharge.*
    </p>
    <p>
      *Note D. Mr. Rutherford&rsquo;s dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      But I rather opine with Lord Bacon, who says that imagination is much akin
      to miracle-working faith. There was always some idle story of the room
      being haunted by the spirit of Aldobrand Oldenbuck, my
      great-great-great-grandfather&mdash;it&rsquo;s a shame to the English language
      that, we have not a less clumsy way of expressing a relationship of which
      we have occasion to think and speak so frequently. He was a foreigner, and
      wore his national dress, of which tradition had preserved an accurate
      description; and indeed there is a print of him, supposed to be by
      Reginald Elstracke, pulling the press with his own hand, as it works off
      the sheets of his scarce edition of the Augsburg Confession. He was a
      chemist as well as a good mechanic, and either of these qualities in this
      country was at that time sufficient to constitute a white witch at least.
      This superstitious old writer had heard all this, and probably believed
      it, and in his sleep the image and idea of my ancestor recalled that of
      his cabinet, which, with the grateful attention to antiquities and the
      memory of our ancestors not unusually met with, had been pushed into the
      pigeon-house to be out of the way&mdash;Add a <i>quantum sufficit</i> of
      exaggeration, and you have a key to the whole mystery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O brother! brother! but Dr. Heavysterne, brother&mdash;whose sleep was so
      sore broken, that he declared he wadna pass another night in the Green
      Room to get all Monkbarns, so that Mary and I were forced to yield our&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Grizel, the doctor is a good, honest, pudding-headed German, of much
      merit in his own way, but fond of the mystical, like many of his
      countrymen. You and he had a traffic the whole evening in which you
      received tales of Mesmer, Shropfer, Cagliostro, and other modern
      pretenders to the mystery of raising spirits, discovering hidden treasure,
      and so forth, in exchange for your legends of the green bedchamber;&mdash;and
      considering that the <i>Illustrissimus</i> ate a pound and a half of
      Scotch collops to supper, smoked six pipes, and drank ale and brandy in
      proportion, I am not surprised at his having a fit of the night-mare. But
      everything is now ready. Permit me to light you to your apartment, Mr.
      Lovel&mdash;I am sure you have need of rest&mdash;and I trust my ancestor
      is too sensible of the duties of hospitality to interfere with the repose
      which you have so well merited by your manly and gallant behaviour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, the Antiquary took up a bedroom candlestick of massive silver
      and antique form, which, he observed, was wrought out of the silver found
      in the mines of the Harz mountains, and had been the property of the very
      personage who had supplied them with a subject for conversation. And
      having so said, he led the way through many a dusky and winding passage,
      now ascending, and anon descending again, until he came to the apartment
      destined for his young guest.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                 When midnight o&rsquo;er the moonless skies
                 Her pall of transient death has spread,
                 When mortals sleep, when spectres rise,
                   And none are wakeful but the dead;
                   No bloodless shape my way pursues,
                   No sheeted ghost my couch annoys,
                   Visions more sad my fancy views,&mdash;
                       Visions of long departed joys.
                                        W. R. Spenser.
</pre>
    <p>
      When they reached the Green Room, as it was called, Oldbuck placed the
      candle on the toilet table, before a huge mirror with a black japanned
      frame, surrounded by dressing-boxes of the same, and looked around him
      with something of a disturbed expression of countenance. &ldquo;I am seldom in
      this apartment,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and never without yielding to a melancholy
      feeling&mdash;not, of course, on account of the childish nonsense that
      Grizel was telling you, but owing to circumstances of an early and unhappy
      attachment. It is at such moments as these, Mr. Lovel, that we feel the
      changes of time. The same objects are before us&mdash;those inanimate
      things which we have gazed on in wayward infancy and impetuous youth, in
      anxious and scheming manhood&mdash;they are permanent and the same; but
      when we look upon them in cold unfeeling old age, can we, changed in our
      temper, our pursuits, our feelings&mdash;changed in our form, our limbs,
      and our strength,&mdash;can we be ourselves called the same? or do we not
      rather look back with a sort of wonder upon our former selves, as being
      separate and distinct from what we now are? The philosopher who appealed
      from Philip inflamed with wine to Philip in his hours of sobriety, did not
      choose a judge so different, as if he had appealed from Philip in his
      youth to Philip in his old age. I cannot but be touched with the feeling
      so beautifully expressed in a poem which I have heard repeated:*
    </p>
    <p>
      *Probably Wordsworth&rsquo;s Lyrical Ballads had not as yet been published.
    </p>
<pre>
                   My eyes are dim with childish tears,
                       My heart is idly stirred,
                   For the same sound is in my ears
                      Which in those days I heard.

                   Thus fares it still in our decay;
                        And yet the wiser mind
                   Mourns less for what time takes away,
                       Than what he leaves behind.
</pre>
    <p>
      Well, time cures every wound, and though the scar may remain and
      occasionally ache, yet the earliest agony of its recent infliction is felt
      no more.&rdquo;&mdash;So saying, he shook Lovel cordially by the hand, wished
      him good-night, and took his leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Step after step Lovel could trace his host&rsquo;s retreat along the various
      passages, and each door which he closed behind him fell with a sound more
      distant and dead. The guest, thus separated from the living world, took up
      the candle and surveyed the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fire blazed cheerfully. Mrs. Grizel&rsquo;s attention had left some fresh
      wood, should he choose to continue it, and the apartment had a
      comfortable, though not a lively appearance. It was hung with tapestry,
      which the looms of Arras had produced in the sixteenth century, and which
      the learned typographer, so often mentioned, had brought with him as a
      sample of the arts of the Continent. The subject was a hunting-piece; and
      as the leafy boughs of the forest-trees, branching over the tapestry,
      formed the predominant colour, the apartment had thence acquired its name
      of the Green Chamber. Grim figures in the old Flemish dress, with slashed
      doublets covered with ribbands, short cloaks, and trunk-hose, were engaged
      in holding grey-hounds, or stag-hounds, in the leash, or cheering them
      upon the objects of their game. Others, with boar-spears, swords, and
      old-fashioned guns, were attacking stags or boars whom they had brought to
      bay. The branches of the woven forest were crowded with fowls of various
      kinds, each depicted with its proper plumage. It seemed as if the prolific
      and rich invention of old Chaucer had animated the Flemish artist with its
      profusion, and Oldbuck had accordingly caused the following verses, from
      that ancient and excellent poet, to be embroidered in Gothic letters, on a
      sort of border which he had added to the tapestry:-
    </p>
<pre>
              Lo! here be oakis grete, streight as a line,
              Under the which the grass, so fresh of line,
              Be&rsquo;th newly sprung&mdash;at eight foot or nine.
              Everich tree well from his fellow grew,
              With branches broad laden with leaves new,
              That sprongen out against the sonne sheene,
              Some golden red and some a glad bright green.
</pre>
    <p>
      And in another canton was the following similar legend:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                  And many an hart and many an hind,
                    Was both before me, and behind.
                  Of fawns, sownders, bucks and does,
                    Was full the wood and many roes,
                    And many squirrels that ysate
                    High on the trees and nuts ate.
</pre>
    <p>
      The bed was of a dark and faded green, wrought to correspond with the
      tapestry, but by a more modern and less skilful hand. The large and heavy
      stuff-bottomed chairs, with black ebony backs, were embroidered after the
      same pattern, and a lofty mirror, over the antique chimney-piece,
      corresponded in its mounting with that on the old-fashioned toilet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard,&rdquo; muttered Lovel, as he took a cursory view of the room and
      its furniture, &ldquo;that ghosts often chose the best room in the mansion to
      which they attached themselves; and I cannot disapprove of the taste of
      the disembodied printer of the Augsburg Confession.&rdquo; But he found it so
      difficult to fix his mind upon the stories which had been told him of an
      apartment with which they seemed so singularly to correspond, that he
      almost regretted the absence of those agitated feelings, half fear half
      curiosity, which sympathise with the old legends of awe and wonder, from
      which the anxious reality of his own hopeless passion at present detached
      him. For he now only felt emotions like those expressed in the lines,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                 Ah! cruel maid, how hast thou changed
                        The temper of my mind!
                 My heart, by thee from all estranged,
                        Becomes like thee unkind.
</pre>
    <p>
      He endeavoured to conjure up something like the feelings which would, at
      another time, have been congenial to his situation, but his heart had no
      room for these vagaries of imagination. The recollection of Miss Wardour,
      determined not to acknowledge him when compelled to endure his society,
      and evincing her purpose to escape from it, would have alone occupied his
      imagination exclusively. But with this were united recollections more
      agitating if less painful,&mdash;her hair-breadth escape&mdash;the
      fortunate assistance which he had been able to render her&mdash;Yet what
      was his requital? She left the cliff while his fate was yet doubtful&mdash;while
      it was uncertain whether her preserver had not lost the life which he had
      exposed for her so freely. Surely gratitude, at least, called for some
      little interest in his fate&mdash;But no&mdash;she could not be selfish or
      unjust&mdash;it was no part of her nature. She only desired to shut the
      door against hope, and, even in compassion to him, to extinguish a passion
      which she could never return.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this lover-like mode of reasoning was not likely to reconcile him to
      his fate, since the more amiable his imagination presented Miss Wardour,
      the more inconsolable he felt he should be rendered by the extinction of
      his hopes. He was, indeed, conscious of possessing the power of removing
      her prejudices on some points; but, even in extremity, he determined to
      keep the original determination which he had formed, of ascertaining that
      she desired an explanation, ere he intruded one upon her. And, turn the
      matter as he would, he could not regard his suit as desperate. There was
      something of embarrassment as well as of grave surprise in her look when
      Oldbuck presented him&mdash;and, perhaps, upon second thoughts, the one
      was assumed to cover the other. He would not relinquish a pursuit which
      had already cost him such pains. Plans, suiting the romantic temper of the
      brain that entertained them, chased each other through his head, thick and
      irregular as the motes of the sun-beam, and, long after he had laid
      himself to rest, continued to prevent the repose which he greatly needed.
      Then, wearied by the uncertainty and difficulties with which each scheme
      appeared to be attended, he bent up his mind to the strong effort of
      shaking off his love, &ldquo;like dew-drops from the lion&rsquo;s mane,&rdquo; and resuming
      those studies and that career of life which his unrequited affection had
      so long and so fruitlessly interrupted. In this last resolution he
      endeavoured to fortify himself by every argument which pride, as well as
      reason, could suggest. &ldquo;She shall not suppose,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that, presuming
      on an accidental service to her or to her father, I am desirous to intrude
      myself upon that notice, to which, personally, she considered me as having
      no title. I will see her no more. I will return to the land which, if it
      affords none fairer, has at least many as fair, and less haughty than Miss
      Wardour. Tomorrow I will bid adieu to these northern shores, and to her
      who is as cold and relentless as her climate.&rdquo; When he had for some time
      brooded over this sturdy resolution, exhausted nature at length gave way,
      and, despite of wrath, doubt, and anxiety, he sank into slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is seldom that sleep, after such violent agitation, is either sound or
      refreshing. Lovel&rsquo;s was disturbed by a thousand baseless and confused
      visions. He was a bird&mdash;he was a fish&mdash;or he flew like the one,
      and swam like the other,&mdash;qualities which would have been very
      essential to his safety a few hours before. Then Miss Wardour was a syren,
      or a bird of Paradise; her father a triton, or a sea-gull; and Oldbuck
      alternately a porpoise and a cormorant. These agreeable imaginations were
      varied by all the usual vagaries of a feverish dream;&mdash;the air
      refused to bear the visionary, the water seemed to burn him&mdash;the
      rocks felt like down pillows as he was dashed against them&mdash;whatever
      he undertook, failed in some strange and unexpected manner&mdash;and
      whatever attracted his attention, underwent, as he attempted to
      investigate it, some wild and wonderful metamorphosis, while his mind
      continued all the while in some degree conscious of the delusion, from
      which it in vain struggled to free itself by awaking;&mdash;feverish
      symptoms all, with which those who are haunted by the night-hag, whom the
      learned call Ephialtes, are but too well acquainted. At length these crude
      phantasmata arranged themselves into something more regular, if indeed the
      imagination of Lovel, after he awoke (for it was by no means the faculty
      in which his mind was least rich), did not gradually, insensibly, and
      unintentionally, arrange in better order the scene of which his sleep
      presented, it may be, a less distinct outline. Or it is possible that his
      feverish agitation may have assisted him in forming the vision.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leaving this discussion to the learned, we will say, that after a
      succession of wild images, such as we have above described, our hero, for
      such we must acknowledge him, so far regained a consciousness of locality
      as to remember where he was, and the whole furniture of the Green Chamber
      was depicted to his slumbering eye. And here, once more, let me protest,
      that if there should be so much old-fashioned faith left among this shrewd
      and sceptical generation, as to suppose that what follows was an
      impression conveyed rather by the eye than by the imagination, I do not
      impugn their doctrine. He was, then, or imagined himself, broad awake in
      the Green Chamber, gazing upon the flickering and occasional flame which
      the unconsumed remnants of the faggots sent forth, as, one by one, they
      fell down upon the red embers, into which the principal part of the boughs
      to which they belonged had crumbled away. Insensibly the legend of
      Aldobrand Oldenbuck, and his mysterious visits to the inmates of the
      chamber, awoke in his mind, and with it, as we often feel in dreams, an
      anxious and fearful expectation, which seldom fails instantly to summon up
      before our mind&rsquo;s eye the object of our fear. Brighter sparkles of light
      flashed from the chimney, with such intense brilliancy as to enlighten all
      the room. The tapestry waved wildly on the wall, till its dusky forms
      seemed to become animated. The hunters blew their horns&mdash;the stag
      seemed to fly, the boar to resist, and the hounds to assail the one and
      pursue the other; the cry of deer, mangled by throttling dogs&mdash;the
      shouts of men, and the clatter of horses&rsquo; hoofs, seemed at once to
      surround him&mdash;while every group pursued, with all the fury of the
      chase, the employment in which the artist had represented them as engaged.
      Lovel looked on this strange scene devoid of wonder (which seldom intrudes
      itself upon the sleeping fancy), but with an anxious sensation of awful
      fear. At length an individual figure among the tissued huntsmen, as he
      gazed upon them more fixedly, seemed to leave the arras and to approach
      the bed of the slumberer. As he drew near, his figure appeared to alter.
      His bugle-horn became a brazen clasped volume; his hunting-cap changed to
      such a furred head-gear as graces the burgomasters of Rembrandt; his
      Flemish garb remained but his features, no longer agitated with the fury
      of the chase, were changed to such a state of awful and stern composure,
      as might best portray the first proprietor of Monkbarns, such as he had
      been described to Lovel by his descendants in the course of the preceding
      evening. As this metamorphosis took place, the hubbub among the other
      personages in the arras disappeared from the imagination of the dreamer,
      which was now exclusively bent on the single figure before him. Lovel
      strove to interrogate this awful person in the form of exorcism proper for
      the occasion; but his tongue, as is usual in frightful dreams, refused its
      office, and clung, palsied, to the roof of his mouth. Aldobrand held up
      his finger, as if to impose silence upon the guest who had intruded on his
      apartment, and began deliberately to unclasp the venerable, volume which
      occupied his left hand. When it was unfolded, he turned over the leaves
      hastily for a short space, and then raising his figure to its full
      dimensions, and holding the book aloft in his left hand, pointed to a
      passage in the page which he thus displayed. Although the language was
      unknown to our dreamer, his eye and attention were both strongly caught by
      the line which the figure seemed thus to press upon his notice, the words
      of which appeared to blaze with a supernatural light, and remained riveted
      upon his memory. As the vision shut his volume, a strain of delightful
      music seemed to fill the apartment&mdash;Lovel started, and became
      completely awake. The music, however, was still in his ears, nor ceased
      till he could distinctly follow the measure of an old Scottish tune.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sate up in bed, and endeavoured to clear his brain of the phantoms
      which had disturbed it during this weary night. The beams of the morning
      sun streamed through the half-closed shutters, and admitted a distinct
      light into the apartment. He looked round upon the hangings,&mdash;but the
      mixed groups of silken and worsted huntsmen were as stationary as
      tenter-hooks could make them, and only trembled slightly as the early
      breeze, which found its way through an open crevice of the latticed
      window, glided along their surface. Lovel leapt out of bed, and, wrapping
      himself in a morning-gown, that had been considerately laid by his
      bedside, stepped towards the window, which commanded a view of the sea,
      the roar of whose billows announced it still disquieted by the storm of
      the preceding evening, although the morning was fair and serene. The
      window of a turret, which projected at an angle with the wall, and thus
      came to be very near Lovel&rsquo;s apartment, was half-open, and from that
      quarter he heard again the same music which had probably broken short his
      dream. With its visionary character it had lost much of its charms&mdash;it
      was now nothing more than an air on the harpsichord, tolerably well
      performed&mdash;such is the caprice of imagination as affecting the fine
      arts. A female voice sung, with some taste and great simplicity, something
      between a song and a hymn, in words to the following effect:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                 &ldquo;Why sitt&rsquo;st thou by that ruin&rsquo;d hall,
                  Thou aged carle so stern and grey?
                  Dost thou its former pride recall,
                     Or ponder how it passed away?

             &ldquo;Know&rsquo;st thou not me!&rdquo; the Deep Voice cried,
                   &ldquo;So long enjoyed, so oft misused&mdash;
                    Alternate, in thy fickle pride,
                    Desired, neglected, and accused?

                &ldquo;Before my breath, like, blazing flax,
                    Man and his marvels pass away;
                    And changing empires wane and wax,
                   Are founded, flourish and decay.

                &ldquo;Redeem mine hours&mdash;the space is brief&mdash;
                While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
                   And measureless thy joy or grief,
                When Time and thou shalt part for ever!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      While the verses were yet singing, Lovel had returned to his bed; the
      train of ideas which they awakened was romantic and pleasing, such as his
      soul delighted in, and, willingly adjourning till more broad day the
      doubtful task of determining on his future line of conduct, he abandoned
      himself to the pleasing languor inspired by the music, and fell into a
      sound and refreshing sleep, from which he was only awakened at a late hour
      by old Caxon, who came creeping into the room to render the offices of a
      valet-de-chambre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have brushed your coat, sir,&rdquo; said the old man, when he perceived Lovel
      was awake; &ldquo;the callant brought it frae Fairport this morning, for that ye
      had on yesterday is scantly feasibly dry, though it&rsquo;s been a&rsquo; night at the
      kitchen fire; and I hae cleaned your shoon. I doubt ye&rsquo;ll no be wanting me
      to tie your hair, for&rdquo; (with a gentle sigh) &ldquo;a&rsquo; the young gentlemen wear
      crops now; but I hae the curling tangs here to gie it a bit turn ower the
      brow, if ye like, before ye gae down to the leddies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel, who was by this time once more on his legs, declined the old man&rsquo;s
      professional offices, but accompanied the refusal with such a douceur as
      completely sweetened Caxon&rsquo;s mortification.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a pity he disna get his hair tied and pouthered,&rdquo; said the ancient
      friseur, when he had got once more into the kitchen, in which, on one
      pretence or other, he spent three parts of his idle time&mdash;that is to
      say, of his <i>whole</i> time&mdash;&ldquo;it&rsquo;s a great pity, for he&rsquo;s a comely
      young gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout awa, ye auld gowk,&rdquo; said Jenny Rintherout, &ldquo;would ye creesh his
      bonny brown hair wi&rsquo; your nasty ulyie, and then moust it like the auld
      minister&rsquo;s wig? Ye&rsquo;ll be for your breakfast, I&rsquo;se warrant?&mdash;hae,
      there&rsquo;s a soup parritch for ye&mdash;it will set ye better tae be
      slaistering at them and the lapper-milk than meddling wi&rsquo; Mr. Lovel&rsquo;s head&mdash;ye
      wad spoil the maist natural and beautifaest head o&rsquo; hair in a&rsquo; Fairport,
      baith burgh and county.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poor barber sighed over the disrespect into which his art had so
      universally fallen, but Jenny was a person too important to offend by
      contradiction; so, sitting quietly down in the kitchen, he digested at
      once his humiliation, and the contents of a bicker which held a Scotch
      pint of substantial oatmeal porridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
            Sometimes he thinks that Heaven this pageant sent,
               And ordered all the pageants as they went;
             Sometimes that only &lsquo;twas wild Fancy&rsquo;s play,&mdash;
               The loose and scattered relics of the day.
</pre>
    <p>
      We must now request our readers to adjourn to the breakfast parlour of Mr.
      Oldbuck, who, despising the modern slops of tea and coffee, was
      substantially regaling himself, <i>more majorum,</i> with cold roast-beef,
      and a glass of a sort of beverage called <i>mum</i>&mdash;a species of fat
      ale, brewed from wheat and bitter herbs, of which the present generation
      only know the name by its occurrence in revenue acts of parliament,
      coupled with cider, perry, and other excisable commodities. Lovel, who was
      seduced to taste it, with difficulty refrained from pronouncing it
      detestable, but <i>did</i> refrain, as he saw he should otherwise give
      great offence to his host, who had the liquor annually prepared with
      peculiar care, according to the approved recipe bequeathed to him by the
      so-often mentioned Aldobrand Oldenbuck. The hospitality of the ladies
      offered Lovel a breakfast more suited to modern taste, and while he was
      engaged in partaking of it, he was assailed by indirect inquiries
      concerning the manner in which he had passed the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We canna compliment Mr. Lovel on his looks this morning, brother&mdash;but
      he winna condescend on any ground of disturbance he has had in the night
      time. I am certain he looks very pale, and when he came here he was as
      fresh as a rose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, sister, consider this rose of yours has been knocked about by sea
      and wind all yesterday evening, as if he had been a bunch of kelp or
      tangle, and how the devil would you have him retain his colour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly do still feel somewhat fatigued,&rdquo; said Lovel,
      &ldquo;notwithstanding the excellent accommodations with which your hospitality
      so amply supplied me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, sir!&rdquo; said Miss Oldbuck looking at him with a knowing smile, or what
      was meant to be one, &ldquo;ye&rsquo;ll not allow of ony inconvenience, out of
      civility to us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, madam,&rdquo; replied Lovel, &ldquo;I had no disturbance; for I cannot term
      such the music with which some kind fairy favoured me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I doubted Mary wad waken you wi&rsquo; her skreighing; she dinna ken I had left
      open a chink of your window, for, forbye the ghaist, the Green Room disna
      vent weel in a high wind&mdash;But I am judging ye heard mair than Mary&rsquo;s
      lilts yestreen. Weel, men are hardy creatures&mdash;they can gae through
      wi&rsquo; a&rsquo; thing. I am sure, had I been to undergo ony thing of that nature,&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      to say that&rsquo;s beyond nature&mdash;I would hae skreigh&rsquo;d out at once, and
      raised the house, be the consequence what liket&mdash;and, I dare say, the
      minister wad hae done as mickle, and sae I hae tauld him,&mdash;I ken
      naebody but my brother, Monkbarns himsell, wad gae through the like o&rsquo;t,
      if, indeed, it binna you, Mr. Lovel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man of Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s learning, madam,&rdquo; answered the questioned party,
      &ldquo;would not be exposed to the inconvenience sustained by the Highland
      gentleman you mentioned last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay&mdash;ye understand now where the difficulty lies. Language? he
      has ways o&rsquo; his ain wad banish a&rsquo; thae sort o&rsquo; worricows as far as the
      hindermost parts of Gideon&rdquo; (meaning possibly Midian), &ldquo;as Mr. Blattergowl
      says&mdash;only ane widna be uncivil to ane&rsquo;s forbear, though he be a
      ghaist. I am sure I will try that receipt of yours, brother, that ye
      showed me in a book, if onybody is to sleep in that room again, though I
      think, in Christian charity, ye should rather fit up the matted-room&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      a wee damp and dark, to be sure, but then we hae sae seldom occasion for a
      spare bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, sister;&mdash;dampness and darkness are worse than spectres&mdash;ours
      are spirits of light, and I would rather have you try the spell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do that blythely, Monkbarns, an I had the ingredients, as my
      cookery book ca&rsquo;s them&mdash;There was <i>vervain</i> and <i>dill</i>&mdash;I
      mind that&mdash;Davie Dibble will ken about them, though, maybe, he&rsquo;ll gie
      them Latin names&mdash;and Peppercorn, we hae walth o&rsquo; them, for&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hypericon, thou foolish woman!&rdquo; thundered Oldbuck; &ldquo;d&rsquo;ye suppose you&rsquo;re
      making a haggis&mdash;or do you think that a spirit, though he be formed
      of air, can be expelled by a receipt against wind?&mdash;This wise Grizel
      of mine, Mr. Lovel, recollects (with what accuracy you may judge) a charm
      which I once mentioned to her, and which, happening to hit her
      superstitious noddle, she remembers better than anything tending to a
      useful purpose, I may chance to have said for this ten years. But many an
      old woman besides herself&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Auld woman, Monkbarns!&rdquo; said Miss Oldbuck, roused something above her
      usual submissive tone; &ldquo;ye really are less than civil to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not less than just, Grizel: however, I include in the same class many a
      sounding name, from Jamblichus down to Aubrey, who have wasted their time
      in devising imaginary remedies for non-existing diseases.&mdash;But I
      hope, my young friend, that, charmed or uncharmed&mdash;secured by the
      potency of Hypericon,
    </p>
<pre>
                      With vervain and with dill,
                      That hinder witches of their will,
</pre>
    <p>
      or left disarmed and defenceless to the inroads of the invisible world,
      you will give another night to the terrors of the haunted apartment, and
      another day to your faithful and feal friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heartily wish I could, but&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, but me no <i>buts</i>&mdash;I have set my heart upon it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am greatly obliged, my dear sir, but&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look ye there, now&mdash;<i>but</i> again!&mdash;I hate <i>but;</i> I
      know no form of expression in which he can appear, that is amiable,
      excepting as a <i>butt</i> of sack. But is to me a more detestable
      combination of letters than <i>no</i> itself.<i>No</i> is a surly, honest
      fellow&mdash;speaks his mind rough and round at once. <i>But</i> is a
      sneaking, evasive, half-bred, exceptuous sort of a conjunction, which
      comes to pull away the cup just when it is at your lips&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                             &mdash;it does allay
                The good precedent&mdash;fie upon <i>but yet!</i>
                <i>But yet</i> is as a jailor to bring forth
                         Some monstrous malefactor.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; answered Lovel, whose motions were really undetermined at
      the moment, &ldquo;you shall not connect the recollection of my name with so
      churlish a particle. I must soon think of leaving Fairport, I am afraid&mdash;and
      I will, since you are good enough to wish it, take this opportunity of
      spending another day here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you shall be rewarded, my boy. First, you shall see John o&rsquo; the
      Girnel&rsquo;s grave, and then we&rsquo;ll walk gently along the sands, the state of
      the tide being first ascertained (for we will have no more Peter Wilkins&rsquo; 
      adventures, no more Glum and Gawrie work), as far as Knockwinnock Castle,
      and inquire after the old knight and my fair foe&mdash;which will but be
      barely civil, and then&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg pardon, my dear sir; but, perhaps, you had better adjourn your
      visit till to-morrow&mdash;I am a stranger, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And are, therefore, the more bound to show civility, I should suppose.
      But I beg your pardon for mentioning a word that perhaps belongs only to a
      collector of antiquities&mdash;I am one of the old school,
    </p>
<pre>
  When courtiers galloped o&rsquo;er four counties
  The ball&rsquo;s fair partner to behold,
  And humbly hope she caught no cold.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, if&mdash;if&mdash;if you thought it would be expected&mdash;but I
      believe I had better stay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, nay, my good friend, I am not so old-fashioned as to press you to
      what is disagreeable, neither&mdash;it is sufficient that I see there is
      some <i>remora,</i> some cause of delay, some mid impediment, which I have
      no title to inquire into. Or you are still somewhat tired, perhaps;&mdash;I
      warrant I find means to entertain your intellects without fatiguing your
      limbs&mdash;I am no friend to violent exertion myself&mdash;a walk in the
      garden once a-day is exercise, enough for any thinking being&mdash;none
      but a fool or a fox-hunter would require more. Well, what shall we set
      about?&mdash;my Essay on Castrametation&mdash;but I have that in <i>petto</i>
      for our afternoon cordial;&mdash;or I will show you the controversy upon
      Ossian&rsquo;s Poems between Mac-Cribb and me. I hold with the acute Orcadian&mdash;he
      with the defenders of the authenticity;&mdash;the controversy began in
      smooth, oily, lady-like terms, but is now waxing more sour and eager as we
      get on&mdash;it already partakes somewhat of old Scaliger&rsquo;s style. I fear
      the rogue will get some scent of that story of Ochiltree&rsquo;s&mdash;but at
      worst, I have a hard repartee for him on the affair of the abstracted
      Antigonus&mdash;I will show you his last epistle and the scroll of my
      answer&mdash;egad, it is a trimmer!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, the Antiquary opened a drawer, and began rummaging among a
      quantity of miscellaneous papers, ancient and modern. But it was the
      misfortune of this learned gentleman, as it may be that of many learned
      and unlearned, that he frequently experienced, on such occasions, what
      Harlequin calls <i>l&rsquo;embarras des richesses;</i> in other words, the
      abundance of his collection often prevented him from finding the article
      he sought for. &ldquo;Curse the papers!&mdash;I believe,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, as he
      shuffled them to and fro&mdash;&ldquo;I believe they make themselves wings like
      grasshoppers, and fly away bodily&mdash;but here, in the meanwhile, look
      at that little treasure.&rdquo; So saying, he put into his hand a case made of
      oak, fenced at the corner with silver roses and studs&mdash;&ldquo;Pr&rsquo;ythee,
      undo this button,&rdquo; said he, as he observed Lovel fumbling at the clasp. He
      did so,&mdash;the lid opened, and discovered a thin quarto, curiously
      bound in black shagreen&mdash;&ldquo;There, Mr. Lovel&mdash;there is the work I
      mentioned to you last night&mdash;the rare quarto of the Augsburg
      Confession, the foundation at once and the bulwark of the Reformation
      drawn up by the learned and venerable Melancthon, defended by the Elector
      of Saxony, and the other valiant hearts who stood up for their faith, even
      against the front of a powerful and victorious emperor, and imprinted by
      the scarcely less venerable and praiseworthy Aldobrand Oldenbuck, my happy
      progenitor, during the yet more tyrannical attempts of Philip II. to
      suppress at once civil and religious liberty. Yes, sir&mdash;for printing
      this work, that eminent man was expelled from his ungrateful country, and
      driven to establish his household gods even here at Monkbarns, among the
      ruins of papal superstition and domination.&mdash;Look upon his venerable
      effigies, Mr. Lovel, and respect the honourable occupation in which it
      presents him, as labouring personally at the press for the diffusion of
      Christian and political knowledge.&mdash;And see here his favourite motto,
      expressive of his independence and self- reliance, which scorned to owe
      anything to patronage that was not earned by desert&mdash;expressive also
      of that firmness of mind and tenacity of purpose recommended by Horace. He
      was indeed a man who would have stood firm, had his whole printing-house,
      presses, fonts, forms, great and small pica, been shivered to pieces
      around him&mdash;Read, I say, his motto,&mdash;for each printer had his
      motto, or device, when that illustrious art was first practised. My
      ancestor&rsquo;s was expressed, as you see, in the Teutonic phrase, Kunst macht
      Gunst&mdash;that is, skill, or prudence, in availing ourselves of our
      natural talents and advantages, will compel favour and patronage, even
      where it is withheld from prejudice or ignorance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that,&rdquo; said Lovel, after a moment&rsquo;s thoughtful silence&mdash;&ldquo;that,
      then, is the meaning of these German words?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unquestionably. You perceive the appropriate application to a
      consciousness of inward worth, and of eminence in a useful and honourable
      art.&mdash;Each printer in those days, as I have already informed you, had
      his device, his impresa, as I may call it, in the same manner as the
      doughty chivalry of the age, who frequented tilt and tournament. My
      ancestor boasted as much in his, as if he had displayed it over a
      conquered field of battle, though it betokened the diffusion of knowledge,
      not the effusion of blood. And yet there is a family tradition which
      affirms him to have chosen it from a more romantic circumstance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what is that said to have been, my good sir?&rdquo; inquired his young
      friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it rather encroaches on my respected predecessor&rsquo;s fame for prudence
      and wisdom&mdash;<i>Sed semel insanivimus omnes</i>&mdash;everybody has
      played the fool in their turn. It is said, my ancestor, during his
      apprenticeship with the descendant of old Faust, whom popular tradition
      hath sent to the devil under the name of Faustus, was attracted by a
      paltry slip of womankind, his master&rsquo;s daughter, called Bertha&mdash;they
      broke rings, or went through some idiotical ceremony, as is usual on such
      idle occasions as the plighting of a true-love troth, and Aldobrand set
      out on his journey through Germany, as became an honest <i>hand-werker;</i>
      for such was the custom of mechanics at that time, to make a tour through
      the empire, and work at their trade for a time in each of the most eminent
      towns, before they finally settled themselves for life. It was a wise
      custom; for, as such travellers were received like brethren in each town
      by those of their own handicraft, they were sure, in every case, to have
      the means either of gaining or communicating knowledge. When my ancestor
      returned to Nuremburg, he is said to have found his old master newly dead,
      and two or three gallant young suitors, some of them half-starved sprigs
      of nobility forsooth, in pursuit of the <i>Yung-fraw</i> Bertha, whose
      father was understood to have bequeathed her a dowry which might weigh
      against sixteen armorial quarters. But Bertha, not a bad sample of
      womankind, had made a vow she would only marry that man who would work her
      father&rsquo;s press. The skill, at that time, was as rare as wonderful; besides
      that the expedient rid her at once of most of her <i>gentle</i> suitors,
      who would have as soon wielded a conjuring wand as a composing stick. Some
      of the more ordinary typographers made the attempt: but none were
      sufficiently possessed of the mystery&mdash;But I tire you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By no means; pray, proceed, Mr. Oldbuck&mdash;I listen with uncommon
      interest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! it is all folly. However&mdash;Aldobrand arrived in the ordinary
      dress, as we would say, of a journeyman printer&mdash;the same in which he
      had traversed Germany, and conversed with Luther, Melancthon, Erasmus, and
      other learned men, who disdained not his knowledge, and the power he
      possessed of diffusing it, though hid under a garb so homely. But what
      appeared respectable in the eyes of wisdom, religion, learning, and
      philosophy, seemed mean, as might readily be supposed, and disgusting, in
      those of silly and affected womankind, and Bertha refused to acknowledge
      her former lover, in the torn doublet, skin cap, clouted shoes, and
      leathern apron, of a travelling handicraftsman or mechanic. He claimed his
      privilege, however, of being admitted to a trial; and when the rest of the
      suitors had either declined the contest, or made such work as the devil
      could not read if his pardon depended on it, all eyes were bent on the
      stranger. Aldobrand stepped gracefully forward, arranged the types without
      omission of a single letter, hyphen, or comma, imposed them without
      deranging a single space, and pulled off the first proof as clear and free
      from errors, as if it had been a triple revise! All applauded the worthy
      successor of the immortal Faustus&mdash;the blushing maiden acknowledged
      her error in trusting to the eye more than the intellect&mdash;and the
      elected bridegroom thenceforward chose for his impress or device the
      appropriate words, <i>Skill wins favour.</i>&rsquo;&mdash;But what is the matter
      with you?&mdash;you are in a brown study! Come, I told you this was but
      trumpery conversation for thinking people&mdash;and now I have my hand on
      the Ossianic Controversy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; said Lovel; &ldquo;I am going to appear very silly and
      changeable in your eyes, Mr. Oldbuck&mdash;but you seemed to think Sir
      Arthur might in civility expect a call from me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Psha! psha! I can make your apology; and if you must leave us so soon as
      you say, what signifies how you stand in his honours good graces?&mdash;And
      I warn you that the Essay on Castrametation is something prolix, and will
      occupy the time we can spare after dinner, so you may lose the Ossianic
      Controversy if we do not dedicate this morning to it. We will go out to my
      ever-green bower, my sacred holly-tree yonder, and have it <i>fronde super
      viridi.</i>
    </p>
<pre>
               Sing heigh-ho! heigh-ho! for the green holly,
         Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
</pre>
    <p>
      But, egad,&rdquo; continued the old gentleman, &ldquo;when I look closer at you, I
      begin to think you may be of a different opinion. Amen with all my heart&mdash;I
      quarrel with no man&rsquo;s hobby, if he does not run it a tilt against mine,
      and if he does&mdash;let him beware his eyes. What say you?&mdash;in the
      language of the world and worldlings base, if you can condescend to so
      mean a sphere, shall we stay or go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the language of selfishness, then, which is of course the language of
      the world&mdash;let us go by all means.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amen, amen, quo&rsquo; the Earl Marshall,&rdquo; answered Oldbuck, as he exchanged
      his slippers for a pair of stout walking shoes, with <i>cutikins,</i> as
      he called them, of black cloth. He only interrupted the walk by a slight
      deviation to the tomb of John o&rsquo; the Girnel, remembered as the last
      bailiff of the abbey who had resided at Monkbarns. Beneath an old oak-tree
      upon a hillock, sloping pleasantly to the south, and catching a distant
      view of the sea over two or three rich enclosures, and the Mussel-crag,
      lay a moss-grown stone, and, in memory of the departed worthy, it bore an
      inscription, of which, as Mr. Oldbuck affirmed (though many doubted), the
      defaced characters could be distinctly traced to the following effect:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                    Here lyeth John o&rsquo; ye Girnell;
                Erth has ye nit, and heuen ye kirnell.
                 In hys tyme ilk wyfe&rsquo;s hennis clokit,
             Ilka gud mannis herth wi&rsquo; bairnis was stokit.
              He deled a boll o&rsquo; bear in firlottis fyve,
        Four for ye halie kirke, and ane for puir mennis wyvis.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see how modest the author of this sepulchral commendation was;&mdash;he
      tells us that honest John could make five firlots, or quarters, as you
      would say, out of the boll, instead of four,&mdash;that he gave the fifth
      to the wives of the parish, and accounted for the other four to the abbot
      and CHAPTER&mdash;that in his time the wives&rsquo; hens always laid eggs&mdash;and
      devil thank them, if they got one-fifth of the abbey rents; and that
      honest men&rsquo;s hearths were never unblest with offspring&mdash;an addition
      to the miracle, which they, as well as I, must have considered as
      perfectly unaccountable. But come on&mdash;leave we Jock o&rsquo; the Girnel,
      and let us jog on to the yellow sands, where the sea, like a repulsed
      enemy, is now retreating from the ground on which he gave us battle last
      night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus saying, he led the way to the sands. Upon the links or downs close to
      them, were seen four or five huts inhabited by fishers, whose boats, drawn
      high upon the beach, lent the odoriferous vapours of pitch melting under a
      burning sun, to contend with those of the offals of fish and other
      nuisances usually collected round Scottish cottages. Undisturbed by these
      complicated steams of abomination, a middle-aged woman, with a face which
      had defied a thousand storms, sat mending a net at the door of one of the
      cottages. A handkerchief close bound about her head, and a coat which had
      formerly been that of a man, gave her a masculine air, which was increased
      by her strength, uncommon stature, and harsh voice. &ldquo;What are ye for the
      day, your honour?&rdquo; she said, or rather screamed, to Oldbuck; &ldquo;caller
      haddocks and whitings&mdash;a bannock-fluke and a cock-padle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much for the bannock-fluke and cock-padle?&rdquo; demanded the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four white shillings and saxpence,&rdquo; answered the Naiad.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four devils and six of their imps!&rdquo; retorted the Antiquary; &ldquo;do you think
      I am mad, Maggie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And div ye think,&rdquo; rejoined the virago, setting her arms akimbo, &ldquo;that my
      man and my sons are to gae to the sea in weather like yestreen and the day&mdash;sic
      a sea as it&rsquo;s yet outby&mdash;and get naething for their fish, and be
      misca&rsquo;d into the bargain, Monkbarns? It&rsquo;s no fish ye&rsquo;re buying&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      men&rsquo;s lives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Maggie, I&rsquo;ll bid you fair&mdash;I&rsquo;ll bid you a shilling for the
      fluke and the cock-padle, or sixpence separately&mdash;and if all your
      fish are as well paid, I think your man, as you call him, and your sons,
      will make a good voyage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deil gin their boat were knockit against the Bell-Rock rather! it wad be
      better, and the bonnier voyage o&rsquo; the twa. A shilling for thae twa bonnie
      fish! Od, that&rsquo;s ane indeed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, you old beldam, carry your fish up to Monkbarns, and see what
      my sister will give you for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na, Monkbarns, deil a fit&mdash;I&rsquo;ll rather deal wi&rsquo; yoursell; for
      though you&rsquo;re near enough, yet Miss Grizel has an unco close grip&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
      gie ye them&rdquo; (in a softened tone) &ldquo;for three-and-saxpence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighteen-pence, or nothing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighteen-pence!!!&rdquo; (in a loud tone of astonishment, which declined into a
      sort of rueful whine, when the dealer turned as if to walk away)&mdash;&ldquo;Yell
      no be for the fish then?&rdquo;&mdash;(then louder, as she saw him moving off)&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
      gie ye them&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;and a half-a-dozen o&rsquo; partans to
      make the sauce, for three shillings and a dram.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Half-a-crown then, Maggie, and a dram.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, your honour maun hae&rsquo;t your ain gate, nae doubt; but a dram&rsquo;s
      worth siller now&mdash;the distilleries is no working.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I hope they&rsquo;ll never work again in my time,&rdquo; said Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay&mdash;it&rsquo;s easy for your honour, and the like o&rsquo; you gentle-folks
      to say sae, that hae stouth and routh, and fire and fending and meat and
      claith, and sit dry and canny by the fireside&mdash;but an ye wanted fire,
      and meat, and dry claes, and were deeing o&rsquo; cauld, and had a sair heart,
      whilk is warst ava&rsquo;, wi&rsquo; just tippence in your pouch, wadna ye be glad to
      buy a dram wi&rsquo;t, to be eilding and claes, and a supper and heart&rsquo;s ease
      into the bargain, till the morn&rsquo;s morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s even too true an apology, Maggie. Is your goodman off to sea this
      morning, after his exertions last night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In troth is he, Monkbarns; he was awa this morning by four o&rsquo;clock, when
      the sea was working like barm wi&rsquo; yestreen&rsquo;s wind, and our bit coble
      dancing in&rsquo;t like a cork.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he&rsquo;s an industrious fellow. Carry the fish up to Monkbarns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will&mdash;or I&rsquo;ll send little Jenny, she&rsquo;ll rin faster; but I&rsquo;ll
      ca&rsquo; on Miss Grizzy for the dram mysell, and say ye sent me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A nondescript animal, which might have passed for a mermaid, as it was
      paddling in a pool among the rocks, was summoned ashore by the shrill
      screams of its dam; and having been made decent, as her mother called it,
      which was performed by adding a short red cloak to a petticoat, which was
      at first her sole covering, and which reached scantily below her knee, the
      child was dismissed with the fish in a basket, and a request on the part
      of Monkbarns that they might be prepared for dinner. &ldquo;It would have been
      long,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, with much self-complacency, &ldquo;ere my womankind could
      have made such a reasonable bargain with that old skin-flint, though they
      sometimes wrangle with her for an hour together under my study window,
      like three sea-gulls screaming and sputtering in a gale of wind. But come,
      wend we on our way to Knockwinnock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWELFTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
              Beggar?&mdash;the only freeman of your commonwealth;
              Free above Scot-free, that observe no laws,
                   Obey no governor, use no religion
           But what they draw from their own ancient custom,
           Or constitute themselves, yet they are no rebels.
                                            Brome.
</pre>
    <p>
      With our reader&rsquo;s permission, we will outstep the slow, though sturdy pace
      of the Antiquary, whose halts, as he, turned round to his companion at
      every moment to point out something remarkable in the landscape, or to
      enforce some favourite topic more emphatically than the exercise of
      walking permitted, delayed their progress considerably.
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding the fatigues and dangers of the preceding evening, Miss
      Wardour was able to rise at her usual hour, and to apply herself to her
      usual occupations, after she had first satisfied her anxiety concerning
      her father&rsquo;s state of health. Sir Arthur was no farther indisposed than by
      the effects of great agitation and unusual fatigue, but these were
      sufficient to induce him to keep his bedchamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      To look back on the events of the preceding day, was, to Isabella, a very
      unpleasing retrospect. She owed her life, and that of her father, to the
      very person by whom, of all others, she wished least to be obliged,
      because she could hardly even express common gratitude towards him without
      encouraging hopes which might be injurious to them both. &ldquo;Why should it be
      my fate to receive such benefits, and conferred at so much personal risk,
      from one whose romantic passion I have so unceasingly laboured to
      discourage? Why should chance have given him this advantage over me? and
      why, oh why, should a half-subdued feeling in my own bosom, in spite of my
      sober reason, almost rejoice that he has attained it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Miss Wardour thus taxed herself with wayward caprice, she, beheld
      advancing down the avenue, not her younger and more dreaded preserver, but
      the old beggar who had made such a capital figure in the melodrama of the
      preceding evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rang the bell for her maid-servant. &ldquo;Bring the old man up stairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant returned in a minute or two&mdash;&ldquo;He will come up at no rate,
      madam;&mdash;he says his clouted shoes never were on a carpet in his life,
      and that, please God, they never shall.&mdash;Must I take him into the
      servants&rsquo; hall?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; stay, I want to speak with him&mdash;Where is he?&rdquo; for she had lost
      sight of him as he approached the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sitting in the sun on the stone-bench in the court, beside the window of
      the flagged parlour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="image-0008">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pa146.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="Eddie Ochiltree Visits Miss Wardour  "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bid him stay there&mdash;I&rsquo;ll come down to the parlour, and speak with
      him at the window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She came down accordingly, and found the mendicant half-seated,
      half-reclining, upon the bench beside the window. Edie Ochiltree, old man
      and beggar as he was, had apparently some internal consciousness of the
      favourable, impressions connected with his tall form, commanding features,
      and long white beard and hair. It used to be remarked of him, that he was
      seldom seen but in a posture which showed these personal attributes to
      advantage. At present, as he lay half-reclined, with his wrinkled yet
      ruddy cheek, and keen grey eye turned up towards the sky, his staff and
      bag laid beside him, and a cast of homely wisdom and sarcastic irony in
      the expression of his countenance, while he gazed for a moment around the
      court-yard, and then resumed his former look upward, he might have been
      taken by an artist as the model of an old philosopher of the Cynic school,
      musing upon the frivolity of mortal pursuits, and the precarious tenure of
      human possessions, and looking up to the source from which aught
      permanently good can alone be derived. The young lady, as she presented
      her tall and elegant figure at the open window, but divided from the
      court-yard by a grating, with which, according to the fashion of ancient
      times, the lower windows of the castle were secured, gave an interest of a
      different kind, and might be supposed, by a romantic imagination, an
      imprisoned damsel communicating a tale of her durance to a palmer, in
      order that he might call upon the gallantry of every knight whom he should
      meet in his wanderings, to rescue her from her oppressive thraldom.
    </p>
    <p>
      After Miss Wardour had offered, in the terms she thought would be most
      acceptable, those thanks which the beggar declined as far beyond his
      merit, she began to express herself in a manner which she supposed would
      speak more feelingly to his apprehension. &ldquo;She did not know,&rdquo; she said,
      &ldquo;what her father intended particularly to do for their preserver, but
      certainly it would be something that would make him easy for life; if he
      chose to reside at the castle, she would give orders&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man smiled, and shook his head. &ldquo;I wad be baith a grievance and a
      disgrace to your fine servants, my leddy, and I have never been a disgrace
      to onybody yet, that I ken of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir Arthur would give strict orders&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye&rsquo;re very kind&mdash;I doubtna, I doubtna; but there are some things a
      master can command, and some he canna&mdash;I daresay he wad gar them keep
      hands aff me&mdash;(and troth, I think they wad hardly venture on that ony
      gate)&mdash;and he wad gar them gie me my soup parritch and bit meat. But
      trow ye that Sir Arthur&rsquo;s command could forbid the gibe o&rsquo; the tongue or
      the blink o&rsquo; the ee, or gar them gie me my food wi&rsquo; the look o&rsquo; kindness
      that gars it digest sae weel, or that he could make them forbear a&rsquo; the
      slights and taunts that hurt ane&rsquo;s spirit mair nor downright misca&rsquo;ing?&mdash;Besides,
      I am the idlest auld carle that ever lived; I downa be bound down to hours
      o&rsquo; eating and sleeping; and, to speak the honest truth, I wad be a very
      bad example in ony weel regulated family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, Edie, what do you think of a neat cottage and a garden, and a
      daily dole, and nothing to do but to dig a little in your garden when you
      pleased yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how often wad that be, trow ye, my leddy? maybe no ance atween
      Candlemas and Yule and if a&rsquo; thing were done to my hand, as if I was Sir
      Arthur himsell, I could never bide the staying still in ae place, and just
      seeing the same joists and couples aboon my head night after night.--And
      then I have a queer humour o&rsquo; my ain, that sets a strolling beggar weel
      eneugh, whase word naebody minds&mdash;but ye ken Sir Arthur has odd sort
      o&rsquo; ways&mdash;and I wad be jesting or scorning at them&mdash;and ye wad be
      angry, and then I wad be just fit to hang mysell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, you are a licensed man,&rdquo; said Isabella; &ldquo;we shall give you all
      reasonable scope: So you had better be ruled, and remember your age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am no that sair failed yet,&rdquo; replied the mendicant. &ldquo;Od, ance I gat
      a wee soupled yestreen, I was as yauld as an eel. And then what wad a&rsquo; the
      country about do for want o&rsquo; auld Edie Ochiltree, that brings news and
      country cracks frae ae farm-steading to anither, and gingerbread to the
      lasses, and helps the lads to mend their fiddles, and the gudewives to
      clout their pans, and plaits rush-swords and grenadier caps for the weans,
      and busks the laird&rsquo;s flees, and has skill o&rsquo; cow-ills and horse-ills, and
      kens mair auld sangs and tales than a&rsquo; the barony besides, and gars ilka
      body laugh wherever he comes? Troth, my leddy, I canna lay down my
      vocation; it would be a public loss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Edie, if your idea of your importance is so strong as not to be
      shaken by the prospect of independence&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na, Miss&mdash;it&rsquo;s because I am mair independent as I am,&rdquo; answered
      the old man; &ldquo;I beg nae mair at ony single house than a meal o&rsquo; meat, or
      maybe but a mouthfou o&rsquo;t&mdash;if it&rsquo;s refused at ae place, I get it at
      anither&mdash;sae I canna be said to depend on onybody in particular, but
      just on the country at large.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, only promise me that you will let me know should you ever
      wish to settle as you turn old, and more incapable of making your usual
      rounds; and, in the meantime, take this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na, my leddy: I downa take muckle siller at ance&mdash;it&rsquo;s against
      our rule; and&mdash;though it&rsquo;s maybe no civil to be repeating the like o&rsquo; 
      that&mdash;they say that siller&rsquo;s like to be scarce wi&rsquo; Sir Arthur
      himsell, and that he&rsquo;s run himsell out o&rsquo; thought wi&rsquo; his honkings and
      minings for lead and copper yonder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Isabella had some anxious anticipations to the same effect, but was
      shocked to hear that her father&rsquo;s embarrassments were such public talk; as
      if scandal ever failed to stoop upon so acceptable a quarry as the
      failings of the good man, the decline of the powerful, or the decay of the
      prosperous.&mdash;Miss Wardour sighed deeply&mdash;&ldquo;Well, Edie, we have
      enough to pay our debts, let folks say what they will, and requiting you
      is one of the foremost&mdash;let me press this sum upon you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I might be robbed and murdered some night between town and town? or,
      what&rsquo;s as bad, that I might live in constant apprehension o&rsquo;t?&mdash;I am
      no&rdquo;&mdash;(lowering his voice to a whisper, and looking keenly around him)&mdash;&ldquo;I
      am no that clean unprovided for neither; and though I should die at the
      back of a dyke, they&rsquo;ll find as muckle quilted in this auld blue gown as
      will bury me like a Christian, and gie the lads and lasses a blythe
      lykewake too; sae there&rsquo;s the gaberlunzie&rsquo;s burial provided for, and I
      need nae mair. Were the like o&rsquo; me ever to change a note, wha the deil
      d&rsquo;ye think wad be sic fules as to gie me charity after that?&mdash;it wad
      flee through the country like wildfire, that auld Edie suld hae done
      siccan a like thing, and then, I&rsquo;se warrant, I might grane my heart out or
      onybody wad gie me either a bane or a bodle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there nothing, then, that I can do for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou ay&mdash;I&rsquo;ll aye come for my awmous as usual,&mdash;and whiles I wad
      be fain o&rsquo; a pickle sneeshin, and ye maun speak to the constable and
      ground-officer just to owerlook me; and maybe ye&rsquo;ll gie a gude word for me
      to Sandie Netherstanes, the miller, that he may chain up his muckle dog&mdash;I
      wadna hae him to hurt the puir beast, for it just does its office in
      barking at a gaberlunzie like me. And there&rsquo;s ae thing maybe mair,&mdash;but
      ye&rsquo;ll think it&rsquo;s very bald o&rsquo; the like o&rsquo; me to speak o&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Edie?&mdash;if it respects you it shall be done if it is in
      my power.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It respects yoursell, and it is in your power, and I maun come out wi&rsquo;t.
      Ye are a bonny young leddy, and a gude ane, and maybe a weel-tochered ane&mdash;but
      dinna ye sneer awa the lad Lovel, as ye did a while sinsyne on the walk
      beneath the Briery-bank, when I saw ye baith, and heard ye too, though ye
      saw nae me. Be canny wi&rsquo; the lad, for he loes ye weel, and it&rsquo;s to him,
      and no to anything I could have done for you, that Sir Arthur and you wan
      ower yestreen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He uttered these words in a low but distinct tone of voice; and without
      waiting for an answer, walked towards a low door which led to the
      apartments of the servants, and so entered the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour remained for a moment or two in the situation in which she
      had heard the old man&rsquo;s last extraordinary speech, leaning, namely,
      against the bars of the window; nor could she determine upon saying even a
      single word, relative to a subject so delicate, until the beggar was out
      of sight. It was, indeed, difficult to determine what to do. That her
      having had an interview and private conversation with this young and
      unknown stranger, should be a secret possessed by a person of the last
      class in which a young lady would seek a confidant, and at the mercy of
      one who was by profession gossip-general to the whole neighbourhood, gave
      her acute agony. She had no reason, indeed, to suppose that the old man
      would wilfully do anything to hurt her feelings, much less to injure her;
      but the mere freedom of speaking to her upon such a subject, showed, as
      might have been expected, a total absence of delicacy; and what he might
      take it into his head to do or say next, that she was pretty sure so
      professed an admirer of liberty would not hesitate to do or say without
      scruple. This idea so much hurt and vexed her, that she half-wished the
      officious assistance of Lovel and Ochiltree had been absent upon the
      preceding evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was in this agitation of spirits, she suddenly observed Oldbuck
      and Lovel entering the court. She drew instantly so far back from the
      window, that she could without being seen, observe how the Antiquary
      paused in front of the building, and pointing to the various scutcheons of
      its former owners, seemed in the act of bestowing upon Lovel much curious
      and erudite information, which, from the absent look of his auditor,
      Isabella might shrewdly guess was entirely thrown away. The necessity that
      she should take some resolution became instant and pressing;&mdash;she
      rang, therefore, for a servant, and ordered him to show the visitors to
      the drawing-room, while she, by another staircase, gained her own
      apartment, to consider, ere she made her appearance, what line of conduct
      were fittest for her to pursue. The guests, agreeably to her instructions,
      were introduced into the room where company was usually received.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                     &mdash;The time was that I hated thee,
                And yet it is not that I bear thee love.
                Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
                            I will endure&mdash;
                But do not look for further recompense.
                                        As You Like It.
</pre>
    <p>
      Miss Isabella Wardour&rsquo;s complexion was considerably heightened, when,
      after the delay necessary to arrange her ideas, she presented herself in
      the drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad you are come, my fair foe,&rdquo; said the Antiquary greeting her
      with much kindness, &ldquo;for I have had a most refractory, or at least
      negligent auditor, in my young friend here, while I endeavoured to make
      him acquainted with the history of Knockwinnock Castle. I think the danger
      of last night has mazed the poor lad. But you, Miss Isabel,&mdash;why, you
      look as if flying through the night air had been your natural and most
      congenial occupation; your colour is even better than when you honoured my
      <i>hospitium</i> yesterday. And Sir Arthur&mdash;how fares my good old
      friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indifferently well, Mr. Oldbuck; but I am afraid, not quite able to
      receive your congratulations, or to pay&mdash;to pay&mdash;Mr. Lovel his
      thanks for his unparalleled exertions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say not&mdash;A good down pillow for his good white head were more
      meet than a couch so churlish as Bessy&rsquo;s-apron, plague on her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had no thought of intruding,&rdquo; said Lovel, looking upon the ground, and
      speaking with hesitation and suppressed emotion; &ldquo;I did not&mdash;did not
      mean to intrude upon Sir Arthur or Miss Wardour the presence of one who&mdash;who
      must necessarily be unwelcome&mdash;as associated, I mean, with painful
      reflections.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not think my father so unjust and ungrateful,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour. &ldquo;I
      dare say,&rdquo; she continued, participating in Lovel&rsquo;s embarrassment&mdash;&ldquo;I
      dare say&mdash;I am certain&mdash;that my father would be happy to show
      his gratitude&mdash;in any way&mdash;that is, which Mr. Lovel could
      consider it as proper to point out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why the deuce,&rdquo; interrupted Oldbuck, &ldquo;what sort of a qualification is
      that?&mdash;On my word, it reminds me of our minister, who, choosing, like
      a formal old fop as he is, to drink to my sister&rsquo;s inclinations, thought
      it necessary to add the saving clause, Provided, madam, they be virtuous.
      Come, let us have no more of this nonsense&mdash;I dare say Sir Arthur
      will bid us welcome on some future day. And what news from the kingdom of
      subterranean darkness and airy hope?&mdash;What says the swart spirit of
      the mine? Has Sir Arthur had any good intelligence of his adventure lately
      in Glen-Withershins?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour shook her head&mdash;&ldquo;But indifferent, I fear, Mr. Oldbuck;
      but there lie some specimens which have lately been sent down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my poor dear hundred pounds, which Sir Arthur persuaded me to give
      for a share in that hopeful scheme, would have bought a porter&rsquo;s load of
      mineralogy&mdash;But let me see them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so saying, he sat down at the table in the recess, on which the
      mineral productions were lying, and proceeded to examine them, grumbling
      and pshawing at each which he took up and laid aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime, Lovel, forced as it were by this secession of Oldbuck,
      into a sort of tete-a&rsquo;-tete with Miss Wardour, took an opportunity of
      addressing her in a low and interrupted tone of voice. &ldquo;I trust Miss
      Wardour will impute, to circumstances almost irresistible, this intrusion
      of a person who has reason to think himself&mdash;so unacceptable a
      visitor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Lovel,&rdquo; answered Miss Wardour, observing the same tone of caution, &ldquo;I
      trust you will not&mdash;I am sure you are incapable of abusing the
      advantages given to you by the services you have rendered us, which, as
      they affect my father, can never be sufficiently acknowledged or repaid.
      Could Mr. Lovel see me without his own peace being affected&mdash;could he
      see me as a friend&mdash;as a sister&mdash;no man will be&mdash;and, from
      all I have ever heard of Mr. Lovel, ought to be, more welcome but&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck&rsquo;s anathema against the preposition <i>but</i> was internally
      echoed by Lovel. &ldquo;Forgive me if I interrupt you, Miss Wardour; you need
      not fear my intruding upon a subject where I have been already severely
      repressed;&mdash;but do not add to the severity of repelling my sentiments
      the rigour of obliging me to disavow them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am much embarrassed, Mr. Lovel,&rdquo; replied the young lady, &ldquo;by your&mdash;I
      would not willingly use a strong word&mdash;your romantic and hopeless
      pertinacity. It is for yourself I plead, that you would consider the calls
      which your country has upon your talents&mdash;that you will not waste, in
      an idle and fanciful indulgence of an ill-placed predilection, time,
      which, well redeemed by active exertion, should lay the foundation of
      future distinction. Let me entreat that you would form a manly resolution&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is enough, Miss Wardour;&mdash;I see plainly that&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Lovel, you are hurt&mdash;and, believe me, I sympathize in the pain
      which I inflict; but can I, in justice to myself, in fairness to you, do
      otherwise? Without my father&rsquo;s consent, I never will entertain the
      addresses of any one, and how totally impossible it is that he should
      countenance the partiality with which you honour me, you are yourself
      fully aware; and, indeed&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss Wardour,&rdquo; answered Lovel, in a tone of passionate entreaty; &ldquo;do
      not go farther&mdash;is it not enough to crush every hope in our present
      relative situation?&mdash;do not carry your resolutions farther&mdash;why
      urge what would be your conduct if Sir Arthur&rsquo;s objections could be
      removed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is indeed vain, Mr. Lovel,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, &ldquo;because their removal
      is impossible; and I only wish, as your friend, and as one who is obliged
      to you for her own and her father&rsquo;s life, to entreat you to suppress this
      unfortunate attachment&mdash;to leave a country which affords no scope for
      your talents, and to resume the honourable line of the profession which
      you seem to have abandoned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Miss Wardour, your wishes shall be obeyed;&mdash;have patience with
      me one little month, and if, in the course of that space, I cannot show
      you such reasons for continuing my residence at Fairport, as even you
      shall approve of, I will bid adieu to its vicinity, and, with the same
      breath, to all my hopes of happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so, Mr. Lovel; many years of deserved happiness, founded on a more
      rational basis than your present wishes, are, I trust, before, you. But it
      is full time, to finish this conversation. I cannot force you to adopt my
      advice&mdash;I cannot shut the door of my father&rsquo;s house against the
      preserver of his life and mine; but the sooner Mr. Lovel can teach his
      mind to submit to the inevitable disappointment of wishes which have been
      so rashly formed, the more highly he will rise in my esteem&mdash;and, in
      the meanwhile, for his sake as well as mine, he must excuse my putting an
      interdict upon conversation on a subject so painful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A servant at this moment announced that Sir Arthur desired to speak to Mr.
      Oldbuck in his dressing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me show you the way,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, who apparently dreaded a
      continuation of her tete-a-tete with Lovel, and she conducted the
      Antiquary accordingly to her father&rsquo;s apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur, his legs swathed in flannel, was stretched on the couch.
      &ldquo;Welcome, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I trust you have come better off than I
      have done from the inclemency of yesterday evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, Sir Arthur, I was not so much exposed to it&mdash;I kept <i>terra
      firma</i>&mdash;you fairly committed yourself to the cold night-air in the
      most literal of all senses. But such adventures become a gallant knight
      better than a humble esquire,&mdash;to rise on the wings of the night-wind&mdash;to
      dive into the bowels of the earth. What news from our subterranean Good
      Hope!&mdash;the <i>terra incognita</i> of Glen-Withershins?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing good as yet,&rdquo; said the Baronet, turning himself hastily, as if
      stung by a pang of the gout; &ldquo;but Dousterswivel does not despair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he not?&rdquo; quoth Oldbuck; &ldquo;I do though, under his favour. Why, old Dr.
      H&mdash;n* told me, when I was in Edinburgh, that we should never find
      copper enough, judging from the specimens I showed him, to make a pair of
      sixpenny knee-buckles&mdash;and I cannot see that those samples on the
      table below differ much in quality.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      * Probably Dr. Hutton, the celebrated geologist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The learned doctor is not infallible, I presume?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; but he is one of our first chemists; and this tramping philosopher of
      yours&mdash;this Dousterswivel&mdash;is, I have a notion, one, of those
      learned adventurers described by Kirchner, <i>Artem habent sine arte,
      partem sine parte, quorum medium est mentiri, vita eorum mendicatum ire;</i>
      that is to say, Miss Wardour&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is unnecessary to translate,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour&mdash;&ldquo;I comprehend
      your general meaning; but I hope Mr. Dousterswivel will turn out a more
      trustworthy character.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I doubt it not a little,&rdquo; said the Antiquary,&mdash;&ldquo;and we are a foul
      way out if we cannot discover this infernal vein that he has prophesied
      about these two years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> have no great interest in the matter, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said the
      Baronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too much, too much, Sir Arthur; and yet, for the sake of my fair foe
      here, I would consent to lose it all so you had no more on the venture.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a painful silence of a few moments, for Sir Arthur was too proud
      to acknowledge the downfall of his golden dreams, though he could no
      longer disguise to himself that such was likely to be the termination of
      the adventure. &ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; he at length said, &ldquo;that the young
      gentleman, to whose gallantry and presence of mind we were so much
      indebted last night, has favoured me with a visit&mdash;I am distressed
      that I am unable to see him, or indeed any one, but an old friend like
      you, Mr. Oldbuck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A declination of the Antiquary&rsquo;s stiff backbone acknowledged the
      preference.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You made acquaintance with this young gentleman in Edinburgh, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck told the circumstances of their becoming known to each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, then, my daughter is an older acquaintance, of Mr. Lovel than you
      are,&rdquo; said the Baronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! I was not aware of that,&rdquo; answered Oldbuck somewhat surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I met Mr. Lovel,&rdquo; said Isabella, slightly colouring, &ldquo;when I resided this
      last spring with my aunt, Mrs. Wilmot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Yorkshire?&mdash;and what character did he bear then, or how was he
      engaged?&rdquo; said Oldbuck,&mdash;&ldquo;and why did not you recognise him when I
      introduced you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Isabella answered the least difficult question, and passed over the other&mdash;&ldquo;He
      had a commission in the army, and had, I believe, served with reputation;
      he was much respected, as an amiable and promising young man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And pray, such being the case,&rdquo; replied the Antiquary, not disposed to
      take one reply in answer to two distinct questions, &ldquo;why did you not speak
      to the lad at once when you met him at my house? I thought you had less of
      the paltry pride of womankind about you, Miss Wardour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was a reason for it,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur with dignity; &ldquo;you know the
      opinions&mdash;prejudices, perhaps you will call them&mdash;of our house
      concerning purity of birth. This young gentleman is, it seems, the
      illegitimate son of a man of fortune; my daughter did not choose to renew
      their acquaintance till she should know whether I approved of her holding
      any intercourse with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it had been with his mother instead of himself,&rdquo; answered Oldbuck,
      with his usual dry causticity of humour, &ldquo;I could see an excellent reason
      for it. Ah, poor lad! that was the cause, then, that he seemed so absent
      and confused while I explained to him the reason of the bend of bastardy
      upon the shield yonder under the corner turret!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True,&rdquo; said the Baronet, with complacency&mdash;&ldquo;it is the shield of
      Malcolm the Usurper, as he is called. The tower which he built is termed,
      after him, Malcolm&rsquo;s Tower, but more frequently Misticot&rsquo;s Tower, which I
      conceive to be a corruption for <i>Misbegot.</i> He is denominated, in the
      Latin pedigree of our family, <i>Milcolumbus Nothus;</i> and his temporary
      seizure of our property, and most unjust attempt to establish his own
      illegitimate line in the estate of Knockwinnock, gave rise to such family
      feuds and misfortunes, as strongly to found us in that horror and
      antipathy to defiled blood and illegitimacy which has been handed down to
      me from my respected ancestry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know the story,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;and I was telling it to Lovel this
      moment, with some of the wise maxims and consequences which it has
      engrafted on your family politics. Poor fellow! he must have been much
      hurt: I took the wavering of his attention for negligence, and was
      something piqued at it, and it proves to be only an excess of feeling. I
      hope, Sir Arthur, you will not think the less of your life because it has
      been preserved by such assistance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor the less of my assistant either,&rdquo; said the Baronet; &ldquo;my doors and
      table shall be equally open to him as if he had descended of the most
      unblemished lineage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, I am glad of that&mdash;he&rsquo;ll know where he can get a dinner, then,
      if he wants one. But what views can he have in this neighbourhood? I must
      catechise him; and if I find he wants it&mdash;or, indeed, whether he does
      or not&mdash;he shall have my best advice.&rdquo; As the Antiquary made this
      liberal promise, he took his leave of Miss Wardour and her father, eager
      to commence operations upon Mr. Lovel. He informed him abruptly that Miss
      Wardour sent her compliments, and remained in attendance on her father,
      and then, taking him by the arm, he led him out of the castle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Knockwinnock still preserved much of the external attributes of a baronial
      castle. It had its drawbridge, though now never drawn up, and its dry
      moat, the sides of which had been planted with shrubs, chiefly of the
      evergreen tribes. Above these rose the old building, partly from a
      foundation of red rock scarped down to the sea-beach, and partly from the
      steep green verge of the moat. The trees of the avenue have been already
      mentioned, and many others rose around of large size,&mdash;as if to
      confute the prejudice that timber cannot be raised near to the ocean. Our
      walkers paused, and looked back upon the castle, as they attained the
      height of a small knoll, over which lay their homeward road; for it is to
      be supposed they did not tempt the risk of the tide by returning along the
      sands. The building flung its broad shadow upon the tufted foliage of the
      shrubs beneath it, while the front windows sparkled in the sun. They were
      viewed by the gazers with very different feelings. Lovel, with the fond
      eagerness of that passion which derives its food and nourishment from
      trifles, as the chameleon is said to live on the air, or upon the
      invisible insects which it contains, endeavoured to conjecture which of
      the numerous windows belonged to the apartment now graced by Miss
      Wardour&rsquo;s presence. The speculations of the Antiquary were of a more
      melancholy cast, and were partly indicated by the ejaculation of <i>cito
      peritura!</i> as he turned away from the prospect. Lovel, roused from his
      reverie, looked at him as if to inquire the meaning of an exclamation so
      ominous. The old man shook his head. &ldquo;Yes, my young friend,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I
      doubt greatly&mdash;and it wrings my heart to say it&mdash;this ancient
      family is going fast to the ground!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; answered Lovel&mdash;&ldquo;you surprise me greatly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We harden ourselves in vain,&rdquo; continued the Antiquary, pursuing his own
      train of thought and feeling&mdash;&ldquo;we harden ourselves in vain to treat
      with the indifference they deserve, the changes of this trumpery whirligig
      world. We strive ineffectually to be the self-sufficing invulnerable
      being, the <i>teres atque rotundus</i> of the poet;&mdash;the stoical
      exemption which philosophy affects to give us over the pains and vexations
      of human life, is as imaginary as the state of mystical quietism and
      perfection aimed at by some crazy enthusiasts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Heaven forbid that it should be otherwise!&rdquo; said Lovel, warmly&mdash;&ldquo;Heaven
      forbid that any process of philosophy were capable so to sear and indurate
      our feelings, that nothing should agitate them but what arose instantly
      and immediately out of our own selfish interests! I would as soon wish my
      hand to be as callous as horn, that it might escape an occasional cut or
      scratch, as I would be ambitious of the stoicism which should render my
      heart like a piece of the nether millstone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary regarded his youthful companion with a look half of pity,
      half of sympathy, and shrugged up his shoulders as he replied&mdash;&ldquo;Wait,
      young man&mdash;wait till your bark has been battered by the storm of
      sixty years of mortal vicissitude: you will learn by that time, to reef
      your sails, that she may obey the helm;&mdash;or, in the language of this
      world, you will find distresses enough, endured and to endure, to keep
      your feelings and sympathies in full exercise, without concerning yourself
      more in the fate of others than you cannot possibly avoid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mr. Oldbuck, it may be so;&mdash;but as yet I resemble you more in
      your practice than in your theory, for I cannot help being deeply
      interested in the fate of the family we have just left.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And well you may,&rdquo; replied Oldbuck. &ldquo;Sir Arthur&rsquo;s embarrassments have of
      late become so many and so pressing, that I am surprised you have not
      heard of them. And then his absurd and expensive operations carried on by
      this High-German landlouper, Dousterswivel&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I have seen that person, when, by some rare chance, I happened to
      be in the coffee-room at Fairport;&mdash;a tall, beetle-browed,
      awkward-built man, who entered upon scientific subjects, as it appeared to
      my ignorance at least, with more assurance than knowledge&mdash;was very
      arbitrary in laying down and asserting his opinions, and mixed the terms
      of science with a strange jargon of mysticism. A simple youth whispered me
      that he was an <i>Illumine&rsquo;,</i> and carried on an intercourse with the
      invisible world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, the same&mdash;the same. He has enough of practical knowledge to speak
      scholarly and wisely to those of whose intelligence he stands in awe; and,
      to say the truth, this faculty, joined to his matchless impudence, imposed
      upon me for some time when I first knew him. But I have since understood,
      that when he is among fools and womankind, he exhibits himself as a
      perfect charlatan&mdash;talks of the <i>magisterium</i>&mdash;of
      sympathies and antipathies&mdash;of the cabala&mdash;of the divining-rod&mdash;and
      all the trumpery with which the Rosicrucians cheated a darker age, and
      which, to our eternal disgrace, has in some degree revived in our own. My
      friend Heavysterne knew this fellow abroad, and unintentionally (for he,
      you must know, is, God bless the mark! a sort of believer) let me into a
      good deal of his real character. Ah! were I caliph for a day, as Honest
      Abon Hassan wished to be, I would scourge me these jugglers out of the
      commonwealth with rods of scorpions. They debauch the spirit of the
      ignorant and credulous with mystical trash, as effectually as if they had
      besotted their brains with gin, and then pick their pockets with the same
      facility. And now has this strolling blackguard and mountebank put the
      finishing blow to the ruin of an ancient and honourable family!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how could he impose upon Sir Arthur to any ruinous extent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I don&rsquo;t know. Sir Arthur is a good honourable gentleman; but, as you
      may see from his loose ideas concerning the Pikish language, he is by no
      means very strong in the understanding. His estate is strictly entailed,
      and he has been always an embarrassed man. This rapparee promised him
      mountains of wealth, and an English company was found to advance large
      sums of money&mdash;I fear on Sir Arthur&rsquo;s guarantee. Some gentlemen&mdash;I
      was ass enough to be one&mdash;took small shares in the concern, and Sir
      Arthur himself made great outlay; we were trained on by specious
      appearances and more specious lies; and now, like John Bunyan, we awake,
      and behold it is a dream!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am surprised that you, Mr. Oldbuck, should have encouraged Sir Arthur
      by your example.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, dropping his large grizzled eyebrow, &ldquo;I am something
      surprised and ashamed at it myself; it was not the lucre of gain&mdash;nobody
      cares less for money (to be a prudent man) than I do&mdash;but I thought I
      might risk this small sum. It will be expected (though I am sure I cannot
      see why) that I should give something to any one who will be kind enough
      to rid me of that slip of womankind, my niece, Mary M&rsquo;Intyre; and perhaps
      it may be thought I should do something to get that jackanapes, her
      brother, on in the army. In either case, to treble my venture, would have
      helped me out. And besides, I had some idea that the Phoenicians had in
      former times wrought copper in that very spot. That cunning scoundrel,
      Dousterswivel, found out my blunt side, and brought strange tales (d&mdash;n
      him) of appearances of old shafts, and vestiges of mining operations,
      conducted in a manner quite different from those of modern times; and I&mdash;in
      short, I was a fool, and there is an end. My loss is not much worth
      speaking about; but Sir Arthur&rsquo;s engagements are, I understand, very deep,
      and my heart aches for him and the poor young lady who must share his
      distress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the conversation paused, until renewed in the next CHAPTER.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
              If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,
              My dreams presage some joyful news at hand:
              My bosom&rsquo;s lord sits lightly on his throne,
                 And all this day, an unaccustomed spirit
              Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
                                    Romeo and Juliet.
</pre>
    <p>
      The account of Sir Arthur&rsquo;s unhappy adventure had led Oldbuck somewhat
      aside from his purpose of catechising Lovel concerning the cause of his
      residence at Fairport. He was now, however, resolved to open the subject.
      &ldquo;Miss Wardour was formerly known to you, she tells me, Mr. Lovel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had had the pleasure,&rdquo; Lovel answered, &ldquo;to see her at Mrs. Wilmot&rsquo;s,
      in Yorkshire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! you never mentioned that to me before, and you did not accost her
      as an old acquaintance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I did not know,&rdquo; said Lovel, a good deal embarrassed, &ldquo;it was the
      same lady, till we met; and then it was my duty to wait till she should
      recognise me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am aware of your delicacy: the knight&rsquo;s a punctilious old fool, but I
      promise you his daughter is above all nonsensical ceremony and prejudice.
      And now, since you have, found a new set of friends here, may I ask if you
      intend to leave Fairport as soon as you proposed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What if I should answer your question by another,&rdquo; replied Lovel, &ldquo;and
      ask you what is your opinion of dreams?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of dreams, you foolish lad!&mdash;why, what should I think of them but as
      the deceptions of imagination when reason drops the reins? I know no
      difference betwixt them and the hallucinations of madness&mdash;the
      unguided horses run away with the carriage in both cases, only in the one
      the coachman is drunk, and in the other he slumbers. What says our Marcus
      Tullius&mdash;<i>Si insanorum visis fides non est habenda, cur credatur
      somnientium visis, quae multo etiam perturbatiora sunt, non intelligo.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; but Cicero also tells us, that as he who passes the whole day
      in darting the javelin must sometimes hit the mark, so, amid the cloud of
      nightly dreams, some may occur consonant to future events.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay&mdash;that is to say, <i>you</i> have hit the mark in your own sage
      opinion? Lord! Lord! how this world is given to folly! Well, I will allow
      for once the Oneirocritical science&mdash;I will give faith to the
      exposition of dreams, and say a Daniel hath arisen to interpret them, if
      you can prove to me that that dream of yours has pointed to a prudent line
      of conduct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, then,&rdquo; answered Lovel, &ldquo;why when I was hesitating whether to
      abandon an enterprise, which I have perhaps rashly undertaken, I should
      last night dream I saw your ancestor pointing to a motto which encouraged
      me to perseverance?&mdash;why should I have thought of those words which I
      cannot remember to have heard before, which are in a language unknown to
      me, and which yet conveyed, when translated, a lesson which I could so
      plainly apply to my own circumstances?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary burst into a fit of laughing. &ldquo;Excuse me, my young friend&mdash;but
      it is thus we silly mortals deceive ourselves, and look out of doors for
      motives which originate in our own wilful will. I think I can help out the
      cause of your vision. You were so abstracted in your contemplations
      yesterday after dinner, as to pay little attention to the discourse
      between Sir Arthur and me, until we fell upon the controversy concerning
      the Piks, which terminated so abruptly;&mdash;but I remember producing to
      Sir Arthur a book printed by my ancestor, and making him observe the
      motto; your mind was bent elsewhere, but your ear had mechanically
      received and retained the sounds, and your busy fancy, stirred by Grizel&rsquo;s
      legend I presume, had introduced this scrap of German into your dream. As
      for the waking wisdom which seized on so frivolous a circumstance as an
      apology for persevering in some course which it could find no better
      reason to justify, it is exactly one of those juggling tricks which the
      sagest of us play off now and then, to gratify our inclination at the
      expense of our understanding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I own it,&rdquo; said Lovel, blushing deeply;&mdash;&ldquo;I believe you are right,
      Mr. Oldbuck, and I ought to sink in your esteem for attaching a moment&rsquo;s
      consequence to such a frivolity;&mdash;but I was tossed by contradictory
      wishes and resolutions, and you know how slight a line will tow a boat
      when afloat on the billows, though a cable would hardly move her when
      pulled up on the beach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right, right,&rdquo; exclaimed the Antiquary. &ldquo;Fall in my opinion!&mdash;not a
      whit&mdash;I love thee the better, man;&mdash;why, we have story for story
      against each other, and I can think with less shame on having exposed
      myself about that cursed Praetorium&mdash;though I am still convinced
      Agricola&rsquo;s camp must have been somewhere in this neighbourhood. And now,
      Lovel, my good lad, be sincere with me&mdash;What make you from
      Wittenberg?&mdash;why have you left your own country and professional
      pursuits, for an idle residence in such a place as Fairport? A truant
      disposition, I fear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even so,&rdquo; replied Lovel, patiently submitting to an interrogatory which
      he could not well evade. &ldquo;Yet I am so detached from all the world, have so
      few in whom I am interested, or who are interested in me, that my very
      state of destitution gives me independence. He whose good or evil fortune
      affects himself alone, has the best right to pursue it according to his
      own fancy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, young man,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, laying his hand kindly on his
      shoulder, and making a full halt&mdash;&ldquo;<i>sufflamina</i>&mdash;a little
      patience, if you please. I will suppose that you have no friends to share
      or rejoice in your success in life&mdash;that you cannot look back to
      those to whom you owe gratitude, or forward to those to whom you ought to
      afford protection; but it is no less incumbent on you to move steadily in
      the path of duty&mdash;for your active exertions are due not only to
      society, but in humble gratitude to the Being who made you a member of it,
      with powers to serve yourself and others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am unconscious of possessing such powers,&rdquo; said Lovel, somewhat
      impatiently. &ldquo;I ask nothing of society but the permission of walking
      innoxiously through the path of life, without jostling others, or
      permitting myself to be jostled. I owe no man anything&mdash;I have the
      means of maintaining, myself with complete independence; and so moderate
      are my wishes in this respect, that even these means, however limited,
      rather exceed than fall short of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, then,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, removing his hand, and turning again to the
      road, &ldquo;if you are so true a philosopher as to think you have money enough,
      there&rsquo;s no more to be said&mdash;I cannot pretend to be entitled to advise
      you;&mdash;you have attained the <i>acme'</i>&mdash;the summit of
      perfection. And how came Fairport to be the selected abode of so much
      self-denying philosophy? It is as if a worshipper of the true religion had
      set up his staff by choice among the multifarious idolaters of the land of
      Egypt. There is not a man in Fairport who is not a devoted worshipper of
      the Golden Calf&mdash;the mammon of unrighteousness. Why, even I, man, am
      so infected by the bad neighbourhood, that I feel inclined occasionally to
      become an idolater myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My principal amusements being literary,&rdquo; answered Lovel, &ldquo;and
      circumstances which I cannot mention having induced me, for a time at
      least, to relinquish the military service, I have pitched on Fairport as a
      place where I might follow my pursuits without any of those temptations to
      society which a more elegant circle might have presented to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; replied Oldbuck, knowingly,&mdash;&ldquo;I begin to understand your
      application of my ancestor&rsquo;s motto. You are a candidate for public favour,
      though not in the way I first suspected,&mdash;you are ambitious to shine
      as a literary character, and you hope to merit favour by labour and
      perseverance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel, who was rather closely pressed by the inquisitiveness of the old
      gentleman, concluded it would be best to let him remain in the error which
      he had gratuitously adopted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been at times foolish enough,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;to nourish some
      thoughts of the kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, poor fellow! nothing can be more melancholy; unless, as young men
      sometimes do, you had fancied yourself in love with some trumpery specimen
      of womankind, which is indeed, as Shakspeare truly says, pressing to
      death, whipping, and hanging all at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then proceeded with inquiries, which he was sometimes kind enough to
      answer himself. For this good old gentleman had, from his antiquarian
      researches, acquired a delight in building theories out of premises which
      were often far from affording sufficient ground for them; and being, as
      the reader must have remarked, sufficiently opinionative, he did not
      readily brook being corrected, either in matter of fact or judgment, even
      by those who were principally interested in the subjects on which he
      speculated. He went on, therefore, chalking out Lovel&rsquo;s literary career
      for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And with what do you propose to commence your debut as a man of letters?&mdash;But
      I guess&mdash;poetry&mdash;poetry&mdash;the soft seducer of youth. Yes!
      there is an acknowledging modesty of confusion in your eye and manner. And
      where lies your vein?&mdash;are you inclined to soar to the higher regions
      of Parnassus, or to flutter around the base of the hill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have hitherto attempted only a few lyrical pieces,&rdquo; said Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just as I supposed&mdash;pruning your wing, and hopping from spray to
      spray. But I trust you intend a bolder flight. Observe, I would by no
      means recommend your persevering in this unprofitable pursuit&mdash;but
      you say you are quite independent of the public caprice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Entirely so,&rdquo; replied Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that you are determined not to adopt a more active course of life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the present, such is my resolution,&rdquo; replied the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, then, it only remains for me to give you my best advice and
      assistance in the object of your pursuit. I have myself published two
      essays in the Antiquarian Repository,&mdash;and therefore am an author of
      experience, There was my Remarks on Hearne&rsquo;s edition of Robert of
      Gloucester, signed <i>Scrutator;</i> and the other signed <i>Indagator,</i>
      upon a passage in Tacitus. I might add, what attracted considerable notice
      at the time, and that is my paper in the Gentleman&rsquo;s Magazine, upon the
      inscription of OElia Lelia, which I subscribed <i>OEdipus.</i> So you see
      I am not an apprentice in the mysteries of author-craft, and must
      necessarily understand the taste and temper of the times. And now, once
      more, what do you intend to commence with?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no instant thoughts of publishing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that will never do; you must have the fear of the public before your
      eyes in all your undertakings. Let us see now: A collection of fugitive
      pieces; but no&mdash;your fugitive poetry is apt to become stationary with
      the bookseller. It should be something at once solid and attractive&mdash;none
      of your romances or anomalous novelties&mdash;I would have you take high
      ground at once. Let me see: What think you of a real epic?&mdash;the grand
      old-fashioned historical poem which moved through twelve or twenty-four
      books. We&rsquo;ll have it so&mdash;I&rsquo;ll supply you with a subject&mdash;The
      battle between the Caledonians and Romans&mdash;The Caledoniad; or,
      Invasion Repelled;&mdash;let that be the title&mdash;it will suit the
      present taste, and you may throw in a touch of the times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the invasion of Agricola was <i>not</i> repelled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; but you are a poet&mdash;free of the corporation, and as little bound
      down to truth or probability as Virgil himself&mdash;You may defeat the
      Romans in spite of Tacitus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And pitch Agricola&rsquo;s camp at the Kaim of&mdash;what do you call it,&rdquo;
       answered Lovel, &ldquo;in defiance of Edie Ochiltree?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more of that, an thou lovest me&mdash;And yet, I dare say, ye may
      unwittingly speak most correct truth in both instances, in despite of the
      <i>toga</i> of the historian and the blue gown of the mendicant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gallantly counselled!&mdash;Well, I will do my best&mdash;your kindness
      will assist me with local information.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will I not, man?&mdash;why, I will write the critical and historical
      notes on each canto, and draw out the plan of the story myself. I pretend
      to some poetical genius, Mr. Lovel, only I was never able to write
      verses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a pity, sir, that you should have failed in a qualification
      somewhat essential to the art.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Essential?&mdash;not a whit&mdash;it is the mere mechanical department. A
      man may be a poet without measuring spondees and dactyls like the
      ancients, or clashing the ends of lines into rhyme like the moderns, as
      one may be an architect though unable to labour like a stone-mason&mdash;Dost
      think Palladio or Vitruvius ever carried a hod?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case, there should be two authors to each poem&mdash;one to think
      and plan, another to execute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it would not be amiss; at any rate, we&rsquo;ll make the experiment;&mdash;not
      that I would wish to give my name to the public&mdash;assistance from a
      learned friend might be acknowledged in the preface after what flourish
      your nature will&mdash;I am a total stranger to authorial vanity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel was much entertained by a declaration not very consistent with the
      eagerness wherewith his friend seemed to catch at an opportunity of coming
      before the public, though in a manner which rather resembled stepping up
      behind a carriage than getting into one. The Antiquary was indeed
      uncommonly delighted; for, like many other men who spend their lives in
      obscure literary research, he had a secret ambition to appear in print,
      which was checked by cold fits of diffidence, fear of criticism, and
      habits of indolence and procrastination. &ldquo;But,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;I may, like a
      second Teucer, discharge my shafts from behind the shield of my ally; and,
      admit that he should not prove to be a first-rate poet, I am in no shape
      answerable for his deficiencies, and the good notes may very probably help
      off an indifferent text. But he is&mdash;he must be a good poet; he has
      the real Parnassian abstraction&mdash;seldom answers a question till it is
      twice repeated&mdash;drinks his tea scalding, and eats without knowing
      what he is putting into his mouth. This is the real <i>aestus,</i> the <i>awen</i>
      of the Welsh bards, the <i>divinus afflatus</i> that transports the poet
      beyond the limits of sublunary things. His visions, too, are very
      symptomatical of poetic fury&mdash;I must recollect to send Caxon to see
      he puts out his candle to-night&mdash;poets and visionaries are apt to be
      negligent in that respect.&rdquo; Then, turning to his companion, he expressed
      himself aloud in continuation&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my dear Lovel, you shall have full notes; and, indeed, think we may
      introduce the whole of the Essay on Castrametation into the appendix&mdash;it
      will give great value to the work. Then we will revive the good old forms
      so disgracefully neglected in modern times. You shall invoke the Muse&mdash;and
      certainly she ought to be propitious to an author who, in an apostatizing
      age, adheres with the faith of Abdiel to the ancient form of adoration.&mdash;Then
      we must have a vision&mdash;in which the Genius of Caledonia shall appear
      to Galgacus, and show him a procession of the real Scottish monarchs:&mdash;and
      in the notes I will have a hit at Boethius&mdash;No; I must not touch that
      topic, now that Sir Arthur is likely to have vexation enough besides&mdash;but
      I&rsquo;ll annihilate Ossian, Macpherson, and Mac-Cribb.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we must consider the expense of publication,&rdquo; said Lovel, willing to
      try whether this hint would fall like cold water on the blazing zeal of
      his self-elected coadjutor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Expense!&rdquo; said Mr. Oldbuck, pausing, and mechanically fumbling in his
      pocket&mdash;&ldquo;that is true;&mdash;I would wish to do something&mdash;but
      you would not like to publish by subscription?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By no means,&rdquo; answered Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; gladly acquiesced the Antiquary&mdash;&ldquo;it is not respectable.
      I&rsquo;ll tell you what: I believe I know a bookseller who has a value for my
      opinion, and will risk print and paper, and I will get as many copies sold
      for you as I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I am no mercenary author,&rdquo; answered Lovel, smiling; &ldquo;I only wish to be
      out of risk of loss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! hush! we&rsquo;ll take care of that&mdash;throw it all on the publishers.
      I do long to see your labours commenced. You will choose blank verse,
      doubtless?&mdash;it is more grand and magnificent for an historical
      subject; and, what concerneth you, my friend, it is, I have an idea, more
      easily written.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This conversation brought them to Monkbarns, where the Antiquary had to
      undergo a chiding from his sister, who, though no philosopher, was waiting
      to deliver a lecture to him in the portico. &ldquo;Guide us, Monkbarns! are
      things no dear eneugh already, but ye maun be raising the very fish on us,
      by giving that randy, Luckie Mucklebackit, just what she likes to ask?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Grizel,&rdquo; said the sage, somewhat abashed at this unexpected attack,
      &ldquo;I thought I made a very fair bargain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fair bargain! when ye gied the limmer a full half o&rsquo; what she seekit!&mdash;An
      ye will be a wife-carle, and buy fish at your ain hands, ye suld never bid
      muckle mair than a quarter. And the impudent quean had the assurance to
      come up and seek a dram&mdash;But I trow, Jenny and I sorted her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly,&rdquo; said Oldbuck (with a sly look to his companion), &ldquo;I think our
      estate was gracious that kept us out of hearing of that controversy.&mdash;Well,
      well, Grizel, I was wrong for once in my life <i>ultra crepidam</i>&mdash;I
      fairly admit. But hang expenses!&mdash;care killed a cat&mdash;we&rsquo;ll eat
      the fish, cost what it will.&mdash;And then, Lovel, you must know I
      pressed you to stay here to-day, the rather because our cheer will be
      better than usual, yesterday having been a gaude&rsquo; day&mdash;I love the
      reversion of a feast better than the feast itself. I delight in the <i>analecta,</i>
      the <i>collectanea,</i> as I may call them, of the preceding day&rsquo;s dinner,
      which appear on such occasions&mdash;And see, there is Jenny going to ring
      the dinner-bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
        Be this letter delivered with haste&mdash;haste&mdash;post-haste!
        Ride, villain, ride,&mdash;for thy life&mdash;for thy life&mdash;for thy life.
                  Ancient Indorsation of Letters of Importance.
</pre>
    <p>
      Leaving Mr. Oldbuck and his friend to enjoy their hard bargain of fish, we
      beg leave to transport the reader to the back-parlour of the post-master&rsquo;s
      house at Fairport, where his wife, he himself being absent, was employed
      in assorting for delivery the letters which had come by the Edinburgh
      post. This is very often in country towns the period of the day when
      gossips find it particularly agreeable to call on the man or woman of
      letters, in order, from the outside of the epistles, and, if they are not
      belied, occasionally from the inside also, to amuse themselves with
      gleaning information, or forming conjectures about the correspondence and
      affairs of their neighbours. Two females of this description were, at the
      time we mention, assisting, or impeding, Mrs. Mailsetter in her official
      duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, preserve us, sirs!&rdquo; said the butcher&rsquo;s wife, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s ten&mdash;
      eleven&mdash;twall letters to Tennant and Co.&mdash;thae folk do mair
      business than a&rsquo; the rest o&rsquo; the burgh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay; but see, lass,&rdquo; answered the baker&rsquo;s lady, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s twa o&rsquo; them
      faulded unco square, and sealed at the tae side&mdash;I doubt there will
      be protested bills in them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there ony letters come yet for Jenny Caxon?&rdquo; inquired the woman of
      joints and giblets; &ldquo;the lieutenant&rsquo;s been awa three weeks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just ane on Tuesday was a week,&rdquo; answered the dame of letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wast a ship-letter?&rdquo; asked the Fornerina.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In troth wast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wad be frae the lieutenant then,&rdquo; replied the mistress of the rolls,
      somewhat disappointed&mdash;&ldquo;I never thought he wad hae lookit ower his
      shouther after her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Od, here&rsquo;s another,&rdquo; quoth Mrs. Mailsetter. &ldquo;A ship-letter&mdash;post-mark,
      Sunderland.&rdquo; All rushed to seize it.&mdash;&ldquo;Na, na, leddies,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Mailsetter, interfering; &ldquo;I hae had eneugh o&rsquo; that wark&mdash;Ken ye that
      Mr. Mailsetter got an unco rebuke frae the secretary at Edinburgh, for a
      complaint that was made about the letter of Aily Bisset&rsquo;s that ye opened,
      Mrs. Shortcake?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me opened!&rdquo; answered the spouse of the chief baker of Fairport; &ldquo;ye ken
      yoursell, madam, it just cam open o&rsquo; free will in my hand&mdash;what could
      I help it?&mdash;folk suld seal wi&rsquo; better wax.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel I wot that&rsquo;s true, too,&rdquo; said Mrs. Mailsetter, who kept a shop of
      small wares, &ldquo;and we have got some that I can honestly recommend, if ye
      ken onybody wanting it. But the short and the lang o&rsquo;t is, that we&rsquo;ll lose
      the place gin there&rsquo;s ony mair complaints o&rsquo; the kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout, lass&mdash;the provost will take care o&rsquo; that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na, I&rsquo;ll neither trust to provost nor bailier&rdquo; said the postmistress,&mdash;&ldquo;but
      I wad aye be obliging and neighbourly, and I&rsquo;m no again your looking at
      the outside of a letter neither&mdash;See, the seal has an anchor on&rsquo;t&mdash;he&rsquo;s
      done&rsquo;t wi&rsquo; ane o&rsquo; his buttons, I&rsquo;m thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Show me! show me!&rdquo; quoth the wives of the chief butcher and chief baker;
      and threw themselves on the supposed love-letter, like the weird sisters
      in Macbeth upon the pilot&rsquo;s thumb, with curiosity as eager and scarcely
      less malignant. Mrs. Heukbane was a tall woman&mdash;she held the precious
      epistle up between her eyes and the window. Mrs. Shortcake, a little squat
      personage, strained and stood on tiptoe to have her share of the
      investigation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, it&rsquo;s frae him, sure eneugh,&rdquo; said the butcher&rsquo;s lady;&mdash;&ldquo;I can
      read Richard Taffril on the corner, and it&rsquo;s written, like John Thomson&rsquo;s
      wallet, frae end to end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haud it lower down, madam,&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Shortcake, in a tone above the
      prudential whisper which their occupation required&mdash;&ldquo;haud it lower
      down&mdash;Div ye think naebody can read hand o&rsquo; writ but yoursell?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whist, whist, sirs, for God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo; said Mrs. Mailsetter, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s
      somebody in the shop,&rdquo;&mdash;then aloud&mdash;&ldquo;Look to the customers,
      Baby!&rdquo;&mdash;Baby answered from without in a shrill tone&mdash;&ldquo;It&rsquo;s
      naebody but Jenny Caxon, ma&rsquo;am, to see if there&rsquo;s ony letters to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell her,&rdquo; said the faithful postmistress, winking to her compeers, &ldquo;to
      come back the morn at ten o&rsquo;clock, and I&rsquo;ll let her ken&mdash;we havena
      had time to sort the mail letters yet&mdash;she&rsquo;s aye in sic a hurry, as
      if her letters were o&rsquo; mair consequence than the best merchant&rsquo;s o&rsquo; the
      town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Poor Jenny, a girl of uncommon beauty and modesty, could only draw her
      cloak about her to hide the sigh of disappointment and return meekly home
      to endure for another night the sickness of the heart occasioned by hope
      delayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s something about a needle and a pole,&rdquo; said Mrs. Shortcake, to
      whom her taller rival in gossiping had at length yielded a peep at the
      subject of their curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, that&rsquo;s downright shamefu&rsquo;,&rdquo; said Mrs. Heukbane, &ldquo;to scorn the poor
      silly gait of a lassie after he&rsquo;s keepit company wi&rsquo; her sae lang, and had
      his will o&rsquo; her, as I make nae doubt he has.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s but ower muckle to be doubted,&rdquo; echoed Mrs. Shortcake;&mdash;&ldquo;to
      cast up to her that her father&rsquo;s a barber and has a pole at his door, and
      that she&rsquo;s but a manty-maker hersell! Hout fy for shame!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout tout, leddies,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Mailsetter, &ldquo;ye&rsquo;re clean wrang&mdash;It&rsquo;s
      a line out o&rsquo; ane o&rsquo; his sailors&rsquo; sangs that I have heard him sing, about
      being true like the needle to the pole.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, weel, I wish it may be sae,&rdquo; said the charitable Dame Heukbane,&mdash;&ldquo;but
      it disna look weel for a lassie like her to keep up a correspondence wi&rsquo; 
      ane o&rsquo; the king&rsquo;s officers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m no denying that,&rdquo; said Mrs. Mailsetter; &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s a great advantage
      to the revenue of the post-office thae love-letters. See, here&rsquo;s five or
      six letters to Sir Arthur Wardour&mdash;maist o&rsquo; them sealed wi&rsquo; wafers,
      and no wi&rsquo; wax. There will be a downcome, there, believe me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay; they will be business letters, and no frae ony o&rsquo; his grand friends,
      that seals wi&rsquo; their coats of arms, as they ca&rsquo; them,&rdquo; said Mrs. Heukbane;&mdash;&ldquo;pride
      will hae a fa&rsquo;&mdash;he hasna settled his account wi&rsquo; my gudeman, the
      deacon, for this twalmonth&mdash;he&rsquo;s but slink, I doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor wi&rsquo; huz for sax months,&rdquo; echoed Mrs. Shortcake&mdash;&ldquo;He&rsquo;s but a
      brunt crust.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a letter,&rdquo; interrupted the trusty postmistress, &ldquo;from his son,
      the captain, I&rsquo;m thinking&mdash;the seal has the same things wi&rsquo; the
      Knockwinnock carriage. He&rsquo;ll be coming hame to see what he can save out o&rsquo; 
      the fire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baronet thus dismissed, they took up the esquire&mdash;&ldquo;Twa letters
      for Monkbarns&mdash;they&rsquo;re frae some o&rsquo; his learned friends now; see sae
      close as they&rsquo;re written, down to the very seal&mdash;and a&rsquo; to save
      sending a double letter&mdash;that&rsquo;s just like Monkbarns himsell. When he
      gets a frank he fills it up exact to the weight of an unce, that a
      carvy-seed would sink the scale&mdash;but he&rsquo;s neer a grain abune it. Weel
      I wot I wad be broken if I were to gie sic weight to the folk that come to
      buy our pepper and brimstone, and suchlike sweetmeats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a shabby body the laird o&rsquo; Monkbarns,&rdquo; said Mrs. Heukbane; &ldquo;he&rsquo;ll
      make as muckle about buying a forequarter o&rsquo; lamb in August as about a
      back sey o&rsquo; beef. Let&rsquo;s taste another drop of the sinning&rdquo; (perhaps she
      meant <i>cinnamon</i>) &ldquo;waters, Mrs. Mailsetter, my dear. Ah, lasses! an
      ye had kend his brother as I did&mdash;mony a time he wad slip in to see
      me wi&rsquo; a brace o&rsquo; wild deukes in his pouch, when my first gudeman was awa
      at the Falkirk tryst&mdash;weel, weel&mdash;we&rsquo;se no speak o&rsquo; that
      e&rsquo;enow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I winna say ony ill o&rsquo;this Monkbarns,&rdquo; said Mrs. Shortcake; &ldquo;his brother
      neer brought me ony wild-deukes, and this is a douce honest man; we serve
      the family wi&rsquo; bread, and he settles wi&rsquo; huz ilka week&mdash;only he was
      in an unco kippage when we sent him a book instead o&rsquo; the <i>nick-sticks,</i>*
      whilk, he said, were the true ancient way o&rsquo; counting between tradesmen
      and customers; and sae they are, nae doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      * Note E. Nick-sticks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But look here, lasses,&rdquo; interrupted Mrs. Mailsetter, &ldquo;here&rsquo;s a sight for
      sair e&rsquo;en! What wad ye gie to ken what&rsquo;s in the inside o&rsquo; this letter?
      This is new corn&mdash;I haena seen the like o&rsquo; this&mdash;For William
      Lovel, Esquire, at Mrs. Hadoway&rsquo;s, High Street, Fairport, by Edinburgh, N.
      B. This is just the second letter he has had since he was here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord&rsquo;s sake, let&rsquo;s see, lass!&mdash;Lord&rsquo;s sake, let&rsquo;s see!&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      him that the hale town kens naething about&mdash;and a weel-fa&rsquo;ard lad he
      is; let&rsquo;s see, let&rsquo;s see!&rdquo; Thus ejaculated the two worthy representatives
      of mother Eve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na, sirs,&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Mailsetter; &ldquo;haud awa&mdash;bide aff, I
      tell you; this is nane o&rsquo; your fourpenny cuts that we might make up the
      value to the post-office amang ourselves if ony mischance befell it;&mdash;the
      postage is five-and-twenty shillings&mdash;and here&rsquo;s an order frae the
      Secretary to forward it to the young gentleman by express, if he&rsquo;s no at
      hame. Na, na, sirs, bide aff;&mdash;this maunna be roughly guided.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But just let&rsquo;s look at the outside o&rsquo;t, woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing could be gathered from the outside, except remarks on the various
      properties which philosophers ascribe to matter,&mdash;length, breadth,
      depth, and weight, The packet was composed of strong thick paper,
      imperviable by the curious eyes of the gossips, though they stared as if
      they would burst from their sockets. The seal was a deep and well-cut
      impression of arms, which defied all tampering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Od, lass,&rdquo; said Mrs. Shortcake, weighing it in her hand, and wishing,
      doubtless, that the too, too solid wax would melt and dissolve itself, &ldquo;I
      wad like to ken what&rsquo;s in the inside o&rsquo; this, for that Lovel dings a&rsquo; that
      ever set foot on the plainstanes o&rsquo; Fairport&mdash;naebody kens what to
      make o&rsquo; him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="image-0009">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pa185.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="Mrs. Heukbane and Mrs. Shortcake  "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, weel, leddies,&rdquo; said the postmistress, &ldquo;we&rsquo;se sit down and crack
      about it.&mdash;Baby, bring ben the tea-water&mdash;Muckle obliged to ye
      for your cookies, Mrs. Shortcake&mdash;and we&rsquo;ll steek the shop, and cry
      ben Baby, and take a hand at the cartes till the gudeman comes hame&mdash;and
      then we&rsquo;ll try your braw veal sweetbread that ye were so kind as send me,
      Mrs. Heukbane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But winna ye first send awa Mr. Lovel&rsquo;s letter?&rdquo; said Mrs. Heukbane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth I kenna wha to send wi&rsquo;t till the gudeman comes hame, for auld
      Caxon tell&rsquo;d me that Mr. Lovel stays a&rsquo; the day at Monkbarns&mdash;he&rsquo;s in
      a high fever, wi&rsquo; pu&rsquo;ing the laird and Sir Arthur out o&rsquo; the sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silly auld doited carles!&rdquo; said Mrs. Shortcake; &ldquo;what gar&rsquo;d them gang to
      the douking in a night like yestreen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was gi&rsquo;en to understand it was auld Edie that saved them,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Heukbane&mdash;&ldquo;Edie Ochiltree, the Blue-Gown, ye ken; and that he pu&rsquo;d
      the hale three out of the auld fish-pound, for Monkbarns had threepit on
      them to gang in till&rsquo;t to see the wark o&rsquo; the monks lang syne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout, lass, nonsense!&rdquo; answered the postmistress; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell ye, a&rsquo; about
      it, as Caxon tell&rsquo;d it to me. Ye see, Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour, and Mr.
      Lovel, suld hae dined at Monkbarns&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Mrs. Mailsetter,&rdquo; again interrupted Mrs. Heukbane, &ldquo;will ye no be
      for sending awa this letter by express?&mdash;there&rsquo;s our powny and our
      callant hae gane express for the office or now, and the powny hasna gane
      abune thirty mile the day;&mdash;Jock was sorting him up as I came ower
      by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mrs. Heukbane,&rdquo; said the woman of letters, pursing up her mouth, &ldquo;ye
      ken my gudeman likes to ride the expresses himsell&mdash;we maun gie our
      ain fish-guts to our ain sea-maws&mdash;it&rsquo;s a red half-guinea to him
      every time he munts his mear; and I dare say he&rsquo;ll be in sune&mdash;or I
      dare to say, it&rsquo;s the same thing whether the gentleman gets the express
      this night or early next morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only that Mr. Lovel will be in town before the express gaes aff,&rdquo; said
      Mrs. Heukbane; &ldquo;and where are ye then, lass? But ye ken yere ain ways
      best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, weel, Mrs. Heukbane,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Mailsetter, a little out of
      humour, and even out of countenance, &ldquo;I am sure I am never against being
      neighbour-like, and living and letting live, as they say; and since I hae
      been sic a fule as to show you the post-office order&mdash;ou, nae doubt,
      it maun be obeyed. But I&rsquo;ll no need your callant, mony thanks to ye&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
      send little Davie on your powny, and that will be just five-and-threepence
      to ilka ane o&rsquo; us, ye ken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Davie! the Lord help ye, the bairn&rsquo;s no ten year auld; and, to be plain
      wi&rsquo; ye, our powny reists a bit, and it&rsquo;s dooms sweer to the road, and
      naebody can manage him but our Jock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry for that,&rdquo; answered the postmistress, gravely; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s like we
      maun wait then till the gudeman comes hame, after a&rsquo;&mdash;for I wadna
      like to be responsible in trusting the letter to sic a callant as Jock&mdash;our
      Davie belangs in a manner to the office.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, aweel, Mrs. Mailsetter, I see what ye wad be at&mdash;but an ye
      like to risk the bairn, I&rsquo;ll risk the beast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Orders were accordingly given. The unwilling pony was brought out of his
      bed of straw, and again equipped for service&mdash;Davie (a leathern
      post-bag strapped across his shoulders) was perched upon the saddle, with
      a tear in his eye, and a switch in his hand. Jock good-naturedly led the
      animal out of town, and, by the crack of his whip, and the whoop and
      halloo of his too well-known voice, compelled it to take the road towards
      Monkbarns.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the gossips, like the sibyls after consulting their leaves,
      arranged and combined the information of the evening, which flew next
      morning through a hundred channels, and in a hundred varieties, through
      the world of Fairport. Many, strange, and inconsistent, were the rumours
      to which their communications and conjectures gave rise. Some said Tennant
      and Co. were broken, and that all their bills had come back protested&mdash;others
      that they had got a great contract from Government, and letters from the
      principal merchants at Glasgow, desiring to have shares upon a premium.
      One report stated, that Lieutenant Taffril had acknowledged a private
      marriage with Jenny Caxon&mdash;another, that he had sent her a letter
      upbraiding her with the lowness of her birth and education, and bidding
      her an eternal adieu. It was generally rumoured that Sir Arthur Wardour&rsquo;s
      affairs had fallen into irretrievable confusion, and this report was only
      doubted by the wise, because it was traced to Mrs. Mailsetter&rsquo;s shop,&mdash;a
      source more famous for the circulation of news than for their accuracy.
      But all agreed that a packet from the Secretary of State&rsquo;s office, had
      arrived, directed for Mr. Lovel, and that it had been forwarded by an
      orderly dragoon, despatched from the head-quarters at Edinburgh, who had
      galloped through Fairport without stopping, except just to inquire the way
      to Monkbarns. The reason of such an extraordinary mission to a very
      peaceful and retired individual, was variously explained. Some said Lovel
      was an emigrant noble, summoned to head an insurrection that had broken
      out in La Vende&rsquo;e&mdash;others that he was a spy&mdash;others that he was
      a general officer, who was visiting the coast privately&mdash;others that
      he was a prince of the blood, who was travelling <i>incognito.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the progress of the packet which occasioned so much speculation,
      towards its destined owner at Monkbarns, had been perilous and
      interrupted. The bearer, Davie Mailsetter, as little resembling a bold
      dragoon as could well be imagined, was carried onwards towards Monkbarns
      by the pony, so long as the animal had in his recollection the crack of
      his usual instrument of chastisement, and the shout of the butcher&rsquo;s boy.
      But feeling how Davie, whose short legs were unequal to maintain his
      balance, swung to and fro upon his back, the pony began to disdain furthur
      compliance with the intimations he had received. First, then, he slackened
      his pace to a walk This was no point of quarrel between him and his rider,
      who had been considerably discomposed by the rapidity of his former
      motion, and who now took the opportunity of his abated pace to gnaw a
      piece of gingerbread, which had been thrust into his hand by his mother in
      order to reconcile this youthful emissary of the post-office to the
      discharge of his duty. By and by, the crafty pony availed himself of this
      surcease of discipline to twitch the rein out of Davies hands, and applied
      himself to browse on the grass by the side of the lane. Sorely astounded
      by these symptoms of self-willed rebellion, and afraid alike to sit or to
      fall, poor Davie lifted up his voice and wept aloud. The pony, hearing
      this pudder over his head, began apparently to think it would be best both
      for himself and Davie to return from whence they came, and accordingly
      commenced a retrograde movement towards Fairport. But, as all retreats are
      apt to end in utter rout, so the steed, alarmed by the boy&rsquo;s cries, and by
      the flapping of the reins, which dangled about his forefeet&mdash;finding
      also his nose turned homeward, began to set off at a rate which, if Davie
      kept the saddle (a matter extremely dubious), would soon have presented
      him at Heukbane&rsquo;s stable-door,&mdash;when, at a turn of the road, an
      intervening auxiliary, in the shape of old Edie Ochiltree, caught hold of
      the rein, and stopped his farther proceeding. &ldquo;Wha&rsquo;s aught ye, callant?
      whaten a gate&rsquo;s that to ride?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I canna help it!&rdquo; blubbered the express; &ldquo;they ca&rsquo; me little Davie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where are ye gaun?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m gaun to Monkbarns wi&rsquo; a letter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stirra, this is no the road to Monkbarns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Davie could oinly answer the expostulation with sighs and tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Edie was easily moved to compassion where childhood was in the
      case.--&ldquo;I wasna gaun that gate,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s the best o&rsquo; my way
      o&rsquo; life that I canna be weel out o&rsquo; my road. They&rsquo;ll gie me quarters at
      Monkbarns readily eneugh, and I&rsquo;ll e&rsquo;en hirple awa there wi&rsquo; the wean, for
      it will knock its hams out, puir thing, if there&rsquo;s no somebody to guide
      the pony.&mdash;Sae ye hae a letter, hinney? will ye let me see&rsquo;t?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m no gaun to let naebody see the letter,&rdquo; sobbed the boy, &ldquo;till I gie&rsquo;t
      to Mr. Lovel, for I am a faithfu&rsquo; servant o&rsquo; the office&mdash;if it werena
      for the powny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very right, my little man,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, turning the reluctant pony&rsquo;s
      head towards Monkbarns; &ldquo;but we&rsquo;ll guide him atween us, if he&rsquo;s no a&rsquo; the
      sweerer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Upon the very height of Kinprunes, to which Monkbarns had invited Lovel
      after their dinner, the Antiquary, again reconciled to the once degraded
      spot, was expatiating upon the topics the scenery afforded for a
      description of Agricola&rsquo;s camp at the dawn of morning, when his eye was
      caught by the appearance of the mendicant and his protegee. &ldquo;What the
      devil!&mdash;here comes Old Edie, bag and baggage, I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The beggar explained his errand, and Davie, who insisted upon a literal
      execution of his commission by going on to Monkbarns, was with difficulty
      prevailed upon to surrender the packet to its proper owner, although he
      met him a mile nearer than the place he had been directed to. &ldquo;But my
      minnie said, I maun be sure to get twenty shillings and five shillings for
      the postage, and ten shillings and sixpence for the express&mdash;there&rsquo;s
      the paper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me see&mdash;let me see,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, putting on his spectacles,
      and examining the crumpled copy of regulations to which Davie appealed.
      &ldquo;Express, per man and horse, one day, not to exceed ten shillings and
      sixpence. One day? why, it&rsquo;s not an hour&mdash;Man and horse? why, &lsquo;tis a
      monkey on a starved cat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father wad hae come himsell,&rdquo; said Davie, &ldquo;on the muckle red mear, an ye
      wad hae bidden till the morn&rsquo;s night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four-and-twenty hours after the regular date of delivery! You little
      cockatrice egg, do you understand the art of imposition so early?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout Monkbarns! dinna set your wit against a bairn,&rdquo; said the beggar;
      &ldquo;mind the butcher risked his beast, and the wife her wean, and I am sure
      ten and sixpence isna ower muckle. Ye didna gang sae near wi&rsquo; Johnnie
      Howie, when&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Lovel, who, sitting on the supposed <i>Praetorium,</i> had glanced over
      the contents of the packet, now put an end to the altercation by paying
      Davies demand; and then turning to Mr. Oldbuck, with a look of much
      agitation, he excused himself from returning with him to Monkbarns&rsquo; that
      evening.&mdash;&ldquo;I must instantly go to Fairport, and perhaps leave it on a
      moment&rsquo;s notice;&mdash;your kindness, Mr. Oldbuck, I can never forget.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No bad news, I hope?&rdquo; said the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of a very chequered complexion,&rdquo; answered his friend. &ldquo;Farewell&mdash;in
      good or bad fortune I will not forget your regard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, nay&mdash;stop a moment. If&mdash;if&mdash;&rdquo; (making an effort)&mdash;&ldquo;if
      there be any pecuniary inconvenience&mdash;I have fifty&mdash;or a hundred
      guineas at your service&mdash;till&mdash;till Whitsunday&mdash;or indeed
      as long as you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am much obliged, Mr. Oldbuck, but I am amply provided,&rdquo; said his
      mysterious young friend. &ldquo;Excuse me&mdash;I really cannot sustain further
      conversation at present. I will write or see you, before I leave Fairport&mdash;that
      is, if I find myself obliged to go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he shook the Antiquary&rsquo;s hand warmly, turned from him, and
      walked rapidly towards the town, &ldquo;staying no longer question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very extraordinary indeed!&rdquo; said Oldbuck;&mdash;&ldquo;but there&rsquo;s something
      about this lad I can never fathom; and yet I cannot for my heart think ill
      of him neither. I must go home and take off the fire in the Green Room,
      for none of my womankind will venture into it after twilight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how am I to win hame?&rdquo; blubbered the disconsolate express.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fine night,&rdquo; said the Blue-Gown, looking up to the skies; &ldquo;I had
      as gude gang back to the town, and take care o&rsquo; the wean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do so, do so, Edie;&rdquo; and rummaging for some time in his huge waistcoat
      pocket till he found the object of his search, the Antiquary added,
      &ldquo;there&rsquo;s sixpence to ye to buy sneeshin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
     &ldquo;I am bewitched with the rogue&rsquo;s company. If the rascal has not
     given me medicines to make me love him, I&rsquo;ll be hanged; it could
     not be else. I have drunk medicines.&rdquo;
                             Second Part of Henry IV.
</pre>
    <p>
      Regular for a fortnight were the inquiries of the Antiquary at the veteran
      Caxon, whether he had heard what Mr. Lovel was about; and as regular were
      Caxon&rsquo;s answers, &ldquo;that the town could learn naething about him whatever,
      except that he had received anither muckle letter or twa frae the south,
      and that he was never seen on the plainstanes at a&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How does he live, Caxon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, Mrs. Hadoway just dresses him a beefsteak or a muttonchop, or makes
      him some Friar&rsquo;s chicken, or just what she likes hersell, and he eats it
      in the little red parlour off his bedroom. She canna get him to say that
      he likes ae thing better than anither; and she makes him tea in a morning,
      and he settles honourably wi&rsquo; her every week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But does he never stir abroad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has clean gi&rsquo;en up walking, and he sits a&rsquo; day in his room reading or
      writing; a hantle letters he has written, but he wadna put them into our
      post-house, though Mrs. Hadoway offered to carry them hersell, but sent
      them a&rsquo; under ae cover to the sheriff; and it&rsquo;s Mrs. Mailsetter&rsquo;s belief,
      that the sheriff sent his groom to put them into the post-office at
      Tannonburgh; it&rsquo;s my puir thought, that he jaloused their looking into his
      letters at Fairport; and weel had he need, for my puir daughter Jenny&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tut, don&rsquo;t plague me with your womankind, Caxon. About this poor young
      lad.&mdash;Does he write nothing but letters?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, ay&mdash;hale sheets o&rsquo; other things, Mrs. Hadoway says. She wishes
      muckle he could be gotten to take a walk; she thinks he&rsquo;s but looking very
      puirly, and his appetite&rsquo;s clean gane; but he&rsquo;ll no hear o&rsquo; ganging ower
      the door-stane&mdash;him that used to walk sae muckle too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s wrong&mdash;I have a guess what he&rsquo;s busy about; but he must not
      work too hard neither. I&rsquo;ll go and see him this very day&mdash;he&rsquo;s deep,
      doubtless, in the Caledoniad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having formed this manful resolution, Mr. Oldbuck equipped himself for the
      expedition with his thick walking-shoes and gold-headed cane, muttering
      the while the words of Falstaff which we have chosen for the motto of this
      CHAPTER; for the Antiquary was himself rather surprised at the degree of
      attachment which he could not but acknowledge be entertained for this
      stranger. The riddle was notwithstanding easily solved. Lovel had many
      attractive qualities, but he won our Antiquary&rsquo;s heart by being on most
      occasions an excellent listener.
    </p>
    <p>
      A walk to Fairport had become somewhat of an adventure with Mr. Oldbuck,
      and one which he did not often care to undertake. He hated greetings in
      the market-place; and there were generally loiterers in the streets to
      persecute him, either about the news of the day, or about some petty
      pieces of business. So, on this occasion, he had no sooner entered the
      streets of Fairport, than it was &ldquo;Good-morrow, Mr. Oldbuck&mdash;a sight
      o&rsquo; you&rsquo;s gude, for sair een: what d&rsquo;ye think of the news in the Sun the
      day?&mdash;they say the great attempt will be made in a fortnight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to the Lord it were made and over, that I might hear no more about
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monkbarns, your honour,&rdquo; said the nursery and seedsman, &ldquo;I hope the
      plants gied satisfaction?&mdash;and if ye wanted ony flower-roots fresh
      frae Holland, or&rdquo; (this in a lower key) &ldquo;an anker or twa o&rsquo; Cologne gin,
      ane o&rsquo; our brigs cam in yestreen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank ye, thank ye,&mdash;no occasion at present, Mr. Crabtree,&rdquo; said the
      Antiquary, pushing resolutely onward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said the town-clerk (a more important person, who came in
      front and ventured to stop the old gentleman), &ldquo;the provost, understanding
      you were in town, begs on no account that you&rsquo;ll quit it without seeing
      him; he wants to speak to ye about bringing the water frae the
      Fairwell-spring through a part o&rsquo; your lands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the deuce!&mdash;have they nobody&rsquo;s land but mine to cut and carve
      on?&mdash;I won&rsquo;t consent, tell them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the provost,&rdquo; said the clerk, going on, without noticing the rebuff,
      &ldquo;and the council, wad be agreeable that you should hae the auld stones at
      Donagild&rsquo;s chapel, that ye was wussing to hae.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh!&mdash;what?&mdash;Oho! that&rsquo;s another story&mdash;Well, well, I&rsquo;ll
      call upon the provost, and we&rsquo;ll talk about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But ye maun speak your mind on&rsquo;t forthwith, Monkbarns, if ye want the
      stones; for Deacon Harlewalls thinks the carved through-stanes might be
      put with advantage on the front of the new council-house&mdash;that is,
      the twa cross-legged figures that the callants used to ca&rsquo; Robin and
      Bobbin, ane on ilka door-cheek; and the other stane, that they ca&rsquo;d Ailie
      Dailie, abune the door. It will be very tastefu&rsquo;, the Deacon says, and
      just in the style of modern Gothic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord deliver me from this Gothic generation!&rdquo; exclaimed the Antiquary,&mdash;&ldquo;A
      monument of a knight-templar on each side of a Grecian porch, and a
      Madonna on the top of it!&mdash;<i>O crimini!</i>&mdash;Well, tell the
      provost I wish to have the stones, and we&rsquo;ll not differ about the
      water-course. It&rsquo;s lucky I happened to come this way to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They parted mutually satisfied; but the wily clerk had most reason to
      exult in the dexterity he had displayed, since the whole proposal of an
      exchange between the monuments (which the council had determined to remove
      as a nuisance, because they encroached three feet upon the public road),
      and the privilege of conveying the water to the burgh through the estate
      of Monkbarns, was an idea which had originated with himself upon the
      pressure of the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through these various entanglements, Monkbarns (to use the phrase by which
      he was distinguished in the country) made his way at length to Mrs.
      Hadoway&rsquo;s. This good woman was the widow of a late clergyman at Fairport,
      who had been reduced by her husband&rsquo;s untimely death, to that state of
      straitened and embarrassed circumstances in which the widows of the Scotch
      clergy are too often found. The tenement which she occupied, and the
      furniture of which she was possessed, gave her the means of letting a part
      of her house; and as Lovel had been a quiet, regular, and profitable
      lodger, and had qualified the necessary intercourse which they had
      together with a great deal of gentleness and courtesy, Mrs. Hadoway, not,
      perhaps, much used to such kindly treatment, had become greatly attached
      to her lodger, and was profuse in every sort of personal attention which
      circumstances permitted her to render him. To cook a dish somewhat better
      than ordinary for &ldquo;the poor young gentleman&rsquo;s dinner;&rdquo; to exert her
      interest with those who remembered her husband, or loved her for her own
      sake and his, in order to procure scarce vegetables, or something which
      her simplicity supposed might tempt her lodger&rsquo;s appetite, was a labour in
      which she delighted, although she anxiously concealed it from the person
      who was its object. She did not adopt this secrecy of benevolence to avoid
      the laugh of those who might suppose that an oval face and dark eyes, with
      a clear brown complexion, though belonging to a woman of five-and-forty,
      and enclosed within a widow&rsquo;s close-drawn pinners, might possibly still
      aim at making conquests; for, to say truth, such a ridiculous suspicion
      having never entered into her own head, she could not anticipate its
      having birth in that of any one else. But she concealed her attentions
      solely out of delicacy to her guest, whose power of repaying them she
      doubted as much as she believed in his inclination to do so, and in his
      being likely to feel extreme pain at leaving any of her civilities
      unrequited. She now opened the door to Mr. Oldbuck, and her surprise at
      seeing him brought tears into her eyes, which she could hardly restrain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad to see you, sir&mdash;I am very glad to see you. My poor
      gentleman is, I am afraid, very unwell; and oh, Mr. Oldbuck, he&rsquo;ll see
      neither doctor, nor minister, nor writer! And think what it would be, if,
      as my poor Mr. Hadoway used to say, a man was to die without advice of the
      three learned faculties!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Greatly better than with them,&rdquo; grumbled the cynical Antiquary. &ldquo;I tell
      you, Mrs. Hadoway, the clergy live by our sins, the medical faculty by our
      diseases, and the law gentry by our misfortunes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O fie, Monkbarns!&mdash;to hear the like o&rsquo; that frae you!&mdash;But yell
      walk up and see the poor young lad?&mdash;Hegh sirs? sae young and
      weel-favoured&mdash;and day by day he has eat less and less, and now he
      hardly touches onything, only just pits a bit on the plate to make fashion&mdash;and
      his poor cheek has turned every day thinner and paler, sae that he now
      really looks as auld as me, that might be his mother&mdash;no that I might
      be just that neither, but something very near it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why does he not take some exercise?&rdquo; said Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think we have persuaded him to do that, for he has bought a horse from
      Gibbie Golightly, the galloping groom. A gude judge o&rsquo; horse-flesh Gibbie
      tauld our lass that he was&mdash;for he offered him a beast he thought wad
      answer him weel eneugh, as he was a bookish man, but Mr. Lovel wadna look
      at it, and bought ane might serve the Master o&rsquo; Morphie&mdash;they keep it
      at the Graeme&rsquo;s Arms, ower the street;&mdash;and he rode out yesterday
      morning and this morning before breakfast&mdash;But winna ye walk up to
      his room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Presently, presently. But has he no visitors?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O dear, Mr. Oldbuck, not ane; if he wadna receive them when he was weel
      and sprightly, what chance is there of onybody in Fairport looking in upon
      him now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, very true,&mdash;I should have been surprised had it been
      otherwise&mdash;Come, show me up stairs, Mrs. Hadoway, lest I make a
      blunder, and go where I should not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good landlady showed Mr. Oldbuck up her narrow staircase, warning him
      of every turn, and lamenting all the while that he was laid under the
      necessity of mounting up so high. At length she gently tapped at the door
      of her guest&rsquo;s parlour. &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; said Lovel; and Mrs. Hadoway ushered in
      the Laird of Monkbarns.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little apartment was neat and clean, and decently furnished&mdash;ornamented,
      too, by such relics of her youthful arts of sempstress-ship as Mrs.
      Hadoway had retained; but it was close, overheated, and, as it appeared to
      Oldbuck, an unwholesome situation for a young person in delicate health,&mdash;an
      observation which ripened his resolution touching a project that had
      already occurred to him in Lovel&rsquo;s behalf. With a writing-table before
      him, on which lay a quantity of books and papers, Lovel was seated on a
      couch, in his night-gown and slippers. Oldbuck was shocked at the change
      which had taken place in his personal appearance. His cheek and brow had
      assumed a ghastly white, except where a round bright spot of hectic red
      formed a strong and painful contrast, totally different from the general
      cast of hale and hardy complexion which had formerly overspread and
      somewhat embrowned his countenance. Oldbuck observed, that the dress he
      wore belonged to a deep mourning suit, and a coat of the same colour hung
      on a chair near to him. As the Antiquary entered, Lovel arose and came
      forward to welcome him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is very kind,&rdquo; he said, shaking him by the hand, and thanking him
      warmly for his visit&mdash;&ldquo;this is very kind, and has anticipated a visit
      with which I intended to trouble you. You must know I have become a
      horseman lately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand as much from Mrs. Hadoway&mdash;I only hope, my good young
      friend, you have been fortunate in a quiet horse. I myself inadvertently
      bought one from the said Gibbie Golightly, which brute ran two miles on
      end with me after a pack of hounds, with which I had no more to do than
      the last year&rsquo;s snow; and after affording infinite amusement, I suppose,
      to the whole hunting field, he was so good as to deposit me in a dry ditch&mdash;I
      hope yours is a more peaceful beast?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope, at least, we shall make our excursions on a better plan of mutual
      understanding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is to say, you think yourself a good horseman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not willingly,&rdquo; answered Lovel, &ldquo;confess myself a very bad one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;all you young fellows think that would be equal to calling
      yourselves tailors at once&mdash;But have you had experience? for, <i>crede
      experto,</i> a horse in a passion is no joker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I should be sorry to boast myself as a great horseman; but when I
      acted as aide-de-camp to Sir&mdash;&mdash;in the cavalry action at&mdash;,
      last year, I saw many better cavaliers than myself dismounted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you have looked in the face of the grisly god of arms then?&mdash;you
      are acquainted with the frowns of Mars armipotent? That experience fills
      up the measure of your qualifications for the epopea! The Britons,
      however, you will remember, fought in chariots&mdash;<i>covinarii</i> is
      the phrase of Tacitus;&mdash;you recollect the fine description of their
      dashing among the Roman infantry, although the historian tells us how ill
      the rugged face of the ground was calculated for equestrian combat; and
      truly, upon the whole, what sort of chariots could be driven in Scotland
      anywhere but on turnpike roads, has been to me always matter of amazement.
      And well now&mdash;has the Muse visited you?&mdash;have you got anything
      to show me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My time,&rdquo; said Lovel, with a glance at his black dress, &ldquo;has been less
      pleasantly employed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The death of a friend?&rdquo; said the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mr. Oldbuck&mdash;of almost the only friend I could ever boast of
      possessing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed? Well, young man,&rdquo; replied his visitor, in a tone of seriousness
      very different from his affected gravity, &ldquo;be comforted. To have lost a
      friend by death while your mutual regard was warm and unchilled, while the
      tear can drop unembittered by any painful recollection of coldness or
      distrust or treachery, is perhaps an escape from a more heavy
      dispensation. Look round you&mdash;how few do you see grow old in the
      affections of those with whom their early friendships were formed! Our
      sources of common pleasure gradually dry up as we journey on through the
      vale of Bacha, and we hew out to ourselves other reservoirs, from which
      the first companions of our pilgrimage are excluded;&mdash;jealousies,
      rivalries, envy, intervene to separate others from our side, until none
      remain but those who are connected with us rather by habit than
      predilection, or who, allied more in blood than in disposition, only keep
      the old man company in his life, that they may not be forgotten at his
      death&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                    <i>Haec data poena diu viventibus.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      Ah, Mr. Lovel! if it be your lot to reach the chill, cloudy, and
      comfortless evening of life, you will remember the sorrows of your youth
      as the light shadowy clouds that intercepted for a moment the beams of the
      sun when it was rising. But I cram these words into your ears against the
      stomach of your sense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sensible of your kindness,&rdquo; answered the youth; &ldquo;but the wound that
      is of recent infliction must always smart severely, and I should be little
      comforted under my present calamity&mdash;forgive me for saying so&mdash;by
      the conviction that life had nothing in reserve for me but a train of
      successive sorrows. And permit me to add, you, Mr. Oldbuck, have least
      reason of many men to take so gloomy a view of life. You have a competent
      and easy fortune&mdash;are generally respected&mdash;may, in your own
      phrase, <i>vacare musis,</i> indulge yourself in the researches to which
      your taste addicts you; you may form your own society without doors&mdash;and
      within you have the affectionate and sedulous attention of the nearest
      relatives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes&mdash;the womankind, for womankind, are, thanks to my training,
      very civil and tractable&mdash;do not disturb me in my morning studies&mdash;creep
      across the floor with the stealthy pace of a cat, when it suits me to take
      a nap in my easy-chair after dinner or tea. All this is very well; but I
      want something to exchange ideas with&mdash;something to talk to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why do you not invite your nephew, Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, who is
      mentioned by every one as a fine spirited young fellow, to become a member
      of your family?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; exclaimed Monkbarns, &ldquo;my nephew Hector?&mdash;the Hotspur of the
      North? Why, Heaven love you, I would as soon invite a firebrand into my
      stackyard. He&rsquo;s an Almanzor, a Chamont&mdash;has a Highland pedigree as
      long as his claymore, and a claymore as long as the High Street of
      Fairport, which he unsheathed upon the surgeon the last time he was at
      Fairport. I expect him here one of these days; but I will keep him at
      staff&rsquo;s end, I promise you. He an inmate of my house! to make my very
      chairs and tables tremble at his brawls. No, no&mdash;I&rsquo;ll none of Hector
      M&rsquo;Intyre. But hark ye, Lovel;&mdash;you are a quiet, gentle-tempered lad;
      had not you better set up your staff at Monkbarns for a month or two,
      since I conclude you do not immediately intend to leave this country?&mdash;I
      will have a door opened out to the garden&mdash;it will cost but a trifle&mdash;there
      is the space for an old one which was condemned long ago&mdash;by which
      said door you may pass and repass into the Green Chamber at pleasure, so
      you will not interfere with the old man, nor he with you. As for your
      fare, Mrs. Hadoway tells me you are, as she terms it, very moderate of
      your mouth, so you will not quarrel with my humble table. Your washing&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold, my dear Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; interposed Lovel, unable to repress a smile;
      &ldquo;and before your hospitality settles all my accommodations, let me thank
      you most sincerely for so kind an offer&mdash;it is not at present in my
      power to accept of it; but very likely, before I bid adieu to Scotland, I
      shall find an opportunity to pay you a visit of some length.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s countenance fell. &ldquo;Why, I thought I had hit on the very
      arrangement that would suit us both,&mdash;and who knows what might happen
      in the long run, and whether we might ever part? Why, I am master of my
      acres, man&mdash;there is the advantage of being descended from a man of
      more sense than pride&mdash;they cannot oblige me to transmit my goods
      chattels, and heritages, any way but as I please. No string of substitute
      heirs of entail, as empty and unsubstantial as the morsels of paper strung
      to the train of a boy&rsquo;s kite, to cumber my flights of inclination, and my
      humours of predilection. Well,&mdash;I see you won&rsquo;t be tempted at present&mdash;but
      Caledonia goes on I hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O certainly,&rdquo; said Lovel; &ldquo;I cannot think of relinquishing a plan so
      hopeful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is indeed,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, looking gravely upward,&mdash;for,
      though shrewd and acute enough in estimating the variety of plans formed
      by others, he had a very natural, though rather disproportioned good
      opinion of the importance of those which originated with himself&mdash;&ldquo;it
      is indeed one of those undertakings which, if achieved with spirit equal
      to that which dictates its conception, may redeem from the charge of
      frivolity the literature of the present generation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here he was interrupted by a knock at the room door, which introduced a
      letter for Mr. Lovel. The servant waited, Mrs. Hadoway said, for an
      answer. &ldquo;You are concerned in this matter, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said Lovel, after
      glancing over the billet, and handing it to the Antiquary as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a letter from Sir Arthur Wardour, couched in extremely civil
      language, regetting that a fit of the gout had prevented his hitherto
      showing Mr. Lovel the attentions to which his conduct during a late
      perilous occasion had so well entitled him&mdash;apologizing for not
      paying his respects in person, but hoping Mr. Lovel would dispense with
      that ceremony, and be a member of a small party which proposed to visit
      the ruins of Saint Ruth&rsquo;s priory on the following day, and afterwards to
      dine and spend the evening at Knockwinnock Castle. Sir Arthur concluded
      with saying, that he had sent to request the Monkbarns family to join the
      party of pleasure which he thus proposed. The place of rendezvous was
      fixed at a turnpike-gate, which was about an equal distance from all the
      points from which the company were to assemble.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What shall we do?&rdquo; said Lovel, looking at the Antiquary, but pretty
      certain of the part he would take.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, man&mdash;we&rsquo;ll go, by all means. Let me see&mdash;it will cost a
      post-chaise though, which will hold you and me, and Mary M&rsquo;Intyre, very
      well&mdash;and the other womankind may go to the manse&mdash;and you can
      come out in the chaise to Monkbarns, as I will take it for the day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I rather think I had better ride.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, true, I forgot your Bucephalus. You are a foolish lad, by the by,
      for purchasing the brute outright; you should stick to eighteenpence a
      side, if you will trust any creature&rsquo;s legs in preference to your own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, as the horse&rsquo;s have the advantage of moving considerably faster, and
      are, besides, two pair to one, I own I incline&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough said&mdash;enough said&mdash;do as you please. Well then, I&rsquo;ll
      bring either Grizel or the minister, for I love to have my full pennyworth
      out of post-horses&mdash;and we meet at Tirlingen turnpike on Friday, at
      twelve o&rsquo;clock precisely. &ldquo;&mdash;And with this ageement the friends
      separated.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
          Of seats they tell, where priests, &lsquo;mid tapers dim,
          Breathed the warm prayer, or tuned the midnight hymn
               To scenes like these the fainting soul retired;
               Revenge and Anger in these cells expired:
             By Pity soothed, Remorse lost half her fears,
             And softened Pride dropped penitential tears.
                           Crabbe&rsquo;s Borough.
</pre>
    <p>
      The morning of Friday was as serene and beautiful as if no pleasure party
      had been intended; and that is a rare event, whether in novel-writing or
      real life. Lovel, who felt the genial influence of the weather, and
      rejoiced at the prospect of once more meeting with Miss Wardour, trotted
      forward to the place of rendezvous with better spirits than he had for
      some time enjoyed. His prospects seemed in many respects to open and
      brighten before him&mdash;and hope, although breaking like the morning sun
      through clouds and showers, appeared now about to illuminate the path
      before him. He was, as might have been expected from this state of
      spirits, first at the place of meeting,&mdash;and, as might also have been
      anticipated, his looks were so intently directed towards the road from
      Knockwinnock Castles that he was only apprized of the arrival of the
      Monkbarns division by the gee-hupping of the postilion, as the post-chaise
      lumbered up behind him. In this vehicle were pent up, first, the stately
      figure of Mr. Oldbuck himself; secondly, the scarce less portly person of
      the Reverend Mr. Blattergowl, minister of Trotcosey, the parish in which
      Monkbarns and Knockwinnock were both situated. The reverend gentleman was
      equipped in a buzz wig, upon the top of which was an equilateral cocked
      hat. This was the paragon of the three yet remaining wigs of the parish,
      which differed, as Monkbarns used to remark, like the three degrees of
      comparison&mdash;Sir Arthur&rsquo;s ramilies being the positive, his own bob-wig
      the comparative, and the overwhelming grizzle of the worthy clergyman
      figuring as the superlative. The superintendent of these antique
      garnitures, deeming, or affecting to deem, that he could not well be
      absent on an occasion which assembled all three together, had seated
      himself on the board behind the carriage, &ldquo;just to be in the way in case
      they wanted a touch before the gentlemen sat down to dinner.&rdquo; Between the
      two massive figures of Monkbarns and the clergyman was stuck, by way of
      bodkin, the slim form of Mary M&rsquo;Intyre, her aunt having preferred a visit
      to the manse, and a social chat with Miss Beckie Blattergowl, to
      investigating the ruins of the priory of Saint Ruth.
    </p>
    <p>
      As greetings passed between the members of the Monkbarns party and Mr.
      Lovel, the Baronet&rsquo;s carriage, an open barouche, swept onward to the place
      of appointment, making, with its smoking bays, smart drivers, arms,
      blazoned panels, and a brace of outriders, a strong contrast with the
      battered vehicle and broken-winded hacks which had brought thither the
      Antiquary and his followers. The principal seat of the carriage was
      occupied by Sir Arthur and his daughter. At the first glance which passed
      betwixt Miss Wardour and Lovel, her colour rose considerably;&mdash;but
      she had apparently made up her mind to receive him as a friend, and only
      as such, and there was equal composure and courtesy in the mode of her
      reply to his fluttered salutation. Sir Arthur halted the barouche to shake
      his preserver kindly by the hand, and intimate the pleasure he had on this
      opportunity of returning him his personal thanks; then mentioned to him,
      in a tone of slight introduction, &ldquo;Mr. Dousterswivel, Mr. Lovel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel took the necessary notice of the German adept, who occupied the
      front seat of the carriage, which is usually conferred upon dependants or
      inferiors. The ready grin and supple inclination with which his
      salutation, though slight, was answered by the foreigner, increased the
      internal dislike which Lovel had already conceived towards him; and it was
      plain, from the lower of the Antiquary&rsquo;s shaggy eye-brow, that he too
      looked with displeasure on this addition to the company. Little more than
      distant greeting passed among the members of the party, until, having
      rolled on for about three miles beyond the place at which they met, the
      carriages at length stopped at the sign of the Four Horse-shoes, a small
      hedge inn, where Caxon humbly opened the door, and let down the step of
      the hack-chaise, while the inmates of the barouche were, by their more
      courtly attendants, assisted to leave their equipage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here renewed greetings passed: the young ladies shook hands; and Oldbuck,
      completely in his element, placed himself as guide and cicerone at the
      head of the party, who were now to advance on foot towards the object of
      their curiosity. He took care to detain Lovel close beside him as the best
      listener of the party, and occasionally glanced a word of explanation and
      instruction to Miss Wardour and Mary M&rsquo;Intyre, who followed next in order.
      The Baronet and the clergyman he rather avoided, as he was aware both of
      them conceived they understood such matters as well, or better than he
      did; and Dousterswivel, besides that he looked on him as a charlatan, was
      so nearly connected with his apprehended loss in the stock of the mining
      company, that he could not abide the sight of him. These two latter
      satellites, therefore, attended upon the orb of Sir Arthur, to whom,
      moreover, as the most important person of the society, they were naturally
      induced to attach themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      It frequently happens that the most beautiful points of Scottish scenery
      lie hidden in some sequestered dell, and that you may travel through the
      country in every direction without being aware of your vicinity to what is
      well worth seeing, unless intention or accident carry you to the very
      spot. This is particularly the case in the country around Fairport, which
      is, generally speaking, open, unenclosed, and bare. But here and there the
      progress of rills, or small rivers, has formed dells, glens, or as they
      are provincially termed, <i>dens,</i> on whose high and rocky banks trees
      and shrubs of all kinds find a shelter, and grow with a luxuriant
      profusion, which is the more gratifying, as it forms an unexpected
      contrast with the general face of the country. This was eminently the case
      with the approach to the ruins of Saint Ruth, which was for some time
      merely a sheep-track, along the side of a steep and bare hill. By degrees,
      however, as this path descended, and winded round the hillside, trees
      began to appear, at first singly, stunted, and blighted, with locks of
      wool upon their trunks, and their roots hollowed out into recesses, in
      which the sheep love to repose themselves&mdash;a sight much more
      gratifying to the eye of an admirer of the picturesque than to that of a
      planter or forester. By and by the trees formed groups, fringed on the
      edges, and filled up in the middle, by thorns and hazel bushes; and at
      length these groups closed so much together, that although a broad glade
      opened here and there under their boughs, or a small patch of bog or heath
      occurred which had refused nourishment to the seed which they sprinkled
      round, and consequently remained open and waste, the scene might on the
      whole be termed decidedly woodland. The sides of the valley began to
      approach each other more closely; the rush of a brook was heard below, and
      between the intervals afforded by openings in the natural wood, its waters
      were seen hurling clear and rapid under their silvan canopy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck now took upon himself the full authority of cicerone, and
      anxiously directed the company not to go a foot-breadth off the track
      which he pointed out to them, if they wished to enjoy in full perfection
      what they came to see. &ldquo;You are happy in me for a guide, Miss Wardour,&rdquo;
       exclaimed the veteran, waving his hand and head in cadence as he repeated
      with emphasis,
    </p>
<pre>
               I know each lane, and every alley green,
               Dingle, or bushy dell, of this wild wood,
               And every bosky bower from side to side. *
</pre>
    <p>
      * (Milton&rsquo;s <i>Comus.</i>)
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah! deuce take it!&mdash;that spray of a bramble has demolished all
      Caxon&rsquo;s labours, and nearly canted my wig into the stream&mdash;so much
      for recitations, <i>hors de propos.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, my dear sir,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour; &ldquo;you have your faithful
      attendant ready to repair such a disaster when it happens, and when you
      appear with it as restored to its original splendour, I will carry on the
      quotation:
    </p>
<pre>
                So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
                And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
               And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
                       Flames on the forehead&rdquo;&mdash;*
</pre>
    <p>
      * (<i>Lycidas.</i>)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O! enough, enough!&rdquo; answered Oldbuck; &ldquo;I ought to have known what it was
      to give you advantage over me&mdash;But here is what will stop your career
      of satire, for you are an admirer of nature, I know.&rdquo; In fact, when they
      had followed him through a breach in a low, ancient, and ruinous wall,
      they came suddenly upon a scene equally unexpected and interesting.
    </p>
    <p>
      They stood pretty high upon the side of the glen, which had suddenly
      opened into a sort of amphitheatre to give room for a pure and profound
      lake of a few acres extent, and a space of level ground around it. The
      banks then arose everywhere steeply, and in some places were varied by
      rocks&mdash;in others covered with the copse, which run up, feathering
      their sides lightly and irregularly, and breaking the uniformity of the
      green pasture-ground.&mdash;Beneath, the lake discharged itself into the
      huddling and tumultuous brook, which had been their companion since they
      had entered the glen. At the point at which it issued from &ldquo;its parent
      lake,&rdquo; stood the ruins which they had come to visit. They were not of
      great extent; but the singular beauty, as well as the wild and sequestered
      character of the spot on which they were situated, gave them an interest
      and importance superior to that which attaches itself to architectural
      remains of greater consequence, but placed near to ordinary houses, and
      possessing less romantic accompaniments. The eastern window of the church
      remained entire, with all its ornaments and tracery work; and the sides,
      upheld by flying buttresses whose airy support, detached from the wall
      against which they were placed, and ornamented with pinnacles and carved
      work, gave a variety and lightness to the building. The roof and western
      end of the church were completely ruinous; but the latter appeared to have
      made one side of a square, of which the ruins of the conventual buildings
      formed other two, and the gardens a fourth. The side of these buildings
      which overhung the brook, was partly founded on a steep and precipitous
      rock; for the place had been occasionally turned to military purposes, and
      had been taken with great slaughter during Montrose&rsquo;s wars. The ground
      formerly occupied by the garden was still marked by a few orchard trees.
      At a greater distance from the buildings were detached oaks and elms and
      chestnuts, growing singly, which had attained great size. The rest of the
      space between the ruins and the hill was a close-cropt sward, which the
      daily pasture of the sheep kept in much finer order than if it had been
      subjected to the scythe and broom. The whole scene had a repose, which was
      still and affecting without being monotonous. The dark, deep basin, in
      which the clear blue lake reposed, reflecting the water lilies which grew
      on its surface, and the trees which here and there threw their arms from
      the banks, was finely contrasted with the haste and tumult of the brook
      which broke away from the outlet, as if escaping from confinement and
      hurried down the glen, wheeling around the base of the rock on which the
      ruins were situated, and brawling in foam and fury with every shelve and
      stone which obstructed its passage. A similar contrast was seen between
      the level green meadow, in which the ruins were situated, and the large
      timber-trees which were scattered over it, compared with the precipitous
      banks which arose at a short distance around, partly fringed with light
      and feathery underwood, partly rising in steeps clothed with purple heath,
      and partly more abruptly elevated into fronts of grey rock, chequered with
      lichen, and with those hardy plants which find root even in the most arid
      crevices of the crags.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was the retreat of learning in the days of darkness, Mr. Lovel!&rdquo;
       said Oldbuck,&mdash;around whom the company had now grouped themselves
      while they admired the unexpected opening of a prospect so romantic;&mdash;&ldquo;there
      reposed the sages who were aweary of the world, and devoted either to that
      which was to come, or to the service of the generations who should follow
      them in this. I will show you presently the library;&mdash;see that
      stretch of wall with square-shafted windows&mdash;there it existed,
      stored, as an old manuscript in my possession assures me, with five
      thousand volumes. And here I might well take up the lamentation of the
      learned Leland, who, regretting the downfall of the conventual libraries,
      exclaims, like Rachel weeping for her children, that if the Papal laws,
      decrees, decretals, clementines, and other such drugs of the devil&mdash;yea,
      if Heytesburg&rsquo;s sophisms, Porphyry&rsquo;s universals, Aristotle&rsquo;s logic, and
      Dunse&rsquo;s divinity, with such other lousy legerdemains (begging your pardon,
      Miss Wardour) and fruits of the bottomless pit,&mdash;had leaped out of
      our libraries, for the accommodation of grocers, candlemakers,
      soapsellers, and other worldly occupiers, we might have been therewith
      contented. But to put our ancient chronicles, our noble histories, our
      learned commentaries, and national muniments, to such offices of contempt
      and subjection, has greatly degraded our nation, and showed ourselves
      dishonoured in the eyes of posterity to the utmost stretch of time&mdash;O
      negligence most unfriendly to our land!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, O John Knox&rdquo; said the Baronet, &ldquo;through whose influence, and under
      whose auspices, the patriotic task was accomplished!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary, somewhat in the situation of a woodcock caught in his own
      springe, turned short round and coughed, to excuse a slight blush as he
      mustered his answer&mdash;&ldquo;as to the Apostle of the Scottish Reformation&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      But Miss Wardour broke in to interrupt a conversation so dangerous. &ldquo;Pray,
      who was the author you quoted, Mr. Oldbuck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The learned Leland, Miss Wardour, who lost his senses on witnessing the
      destruction of the conventual libraries in England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, I think,&rdquo; replied the young lady, &ldquo;his misfortune may have saved the
      rationality of some modern antiquaries, which would certainly have been
      drowned if so vast a lake of learning had not been diminished by
      draining.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, thank Heaven, there is no danger now&mdash;they have hardly left us
      a spoonful in which to perform the dire feat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Mr. Oldbuck led the way down the bank, by a steep but secure
      path, which soon placed them on the verdant meadow where the ruins stood.
      &ldquo;There they lived,&rdquo; continued the Antiquary, &ldquo;with nought to do but to
      spend their time in investigating points of remote antiquity, transcribing
      manuscripts, and composing new works for the information of posterity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And,&rdquo; added the Baronet, &ldquo;in exercising the rites of devotion with a pomp
      and ceremonial worthy of the office of the priesthood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if Sir Arthur&rsquo;s excellence will permit,&rdquo; said the German, with a low
      bow, &ldquo;the monksh might also make de vary curious experiment in deir
      laboraties, both in chemistry and <i>magia naturalis.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; said the clergyman, &ldquo;they would have enough to do in collecting
      the teinds of the parsonage and vicarage of three good parishes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And all,&rdquo; added Miss Wardour, nodding to the Antiquary, &ldquo;without
      interruption from womankind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, my fair foe,&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;this was a paradise where no Eve was
      admitted, and we may wonder the rather by what chance the good fathers
      came to lose it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With such criticisms on the occupations of those by whom the ruins had
      been formerly possessed, they wandered for some time from one moss-grown
      shrine to another, under the guidance of Oldbuck, who explained, with much
      plausibility, the ground-plan of the edifice, and read and expounded to
      the company the various mouldering inscriptions which yet were to be
      traced upon the tombs of the dead, or under the vacant niches of the
      sainted images.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the reason,&rdquo; at length Miss Wardour asked the Antiquary, &ldquo;why
      tradition has preserved to us such meagre accounts of the inmates of these
      stately edifices, raised with such expense of labour and taste, and whose
      owners were in their times personages of such awful power and importance?
      The meanest tower of a freebooting baron or squire who lived by his lance
      and broadsword, is consecrated by its appropriate legend, and the shepherd
      will tell you with accuracy the names and feats of its inhabitants;&mdash;but
      ask a countryman concerning these beautiful and extensive remains&mdash;these
      towers, these arches, and buttresses, and shafted windows, reared at such
      cost,&mdash;three words fill up his answer&mdash;they were made up by the
      monks lang syne.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The question was somewhat puzzling. Sir Arthur looked upward, as if hoping
      to be inspired with an answer&mdash;Oldbuck shoved back his wig&mdash;the
      clergyman was of opinion that his parishioners were too deeply impressed
      with the true presbyterian doctrine to preserve any records concerning the
      papistical cumberers of the land, offshoots as they were of the great
      overshadowing tree of iniquity, whose roots are in the bowels of the seven
      hills of abomination&mdash;Lovel thought the question was best resolved by
      considering what are the events which leave the deepest impression on the
      minds of the common people&mdash;&ldquo;These,&rdquo; he contended, &ldquo;were not such as
      resemble the gradual progress of a fertilizing river, but the headlong and
      precipitous fury of some portentous flood. The eras by which the vulgar
      compute time, have always reference to some period of fear and
      tribulation, and they date by a tempest, an earthquake, or burst of civil
      commotion. When such are the facts most alive, in the memory of the common
      people, we cannot wonder,&rdquo; he concluded, &ldquo;that the ferocious warrior is
      remembered, and the peaceful abbots are abandoned to forgetfulness and
      oblivion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you pleashe, gentlemans and ladies, and ashking pardon of Sir Arthur
      and Miss Wardour, and this worthy clergymansh, and my goot friend Mr.
      Oldenbuck, who is my countrymansh, and of goot young Mr. Lofel also, I
      think it is all owing to de hand of glory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The hand of what?&rdquo; exclaimed Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;De hand of glory, my goot Master Oldenbuck, which is a vary great and
      terrible secrets&mdash;which de monksh used to conceal their treasures
      when they were triven from their cloisters by what you call de Reform.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, indeed! tell us about that,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;for these are secrets
      worth knowing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, my goot Master Oldenbuck, you will only laugh at me&mdash;But de
      hand of glory is vary well known in de countries where your worthy
      progenitors did live&mdash;and it is hand cut off from a dead man, as has
      been hanged for murther, and dried very nice in de shmoke of juniper wood;
      and if you put a little of what you call yew wid your juniper, it will not
      be any better&mdash;that is, it will not be no worse&mdash;then you do
      take something of de fatsh of de bear, and of de badger, and of de great
      eber, as you call de grand boar, and of de little sucking child as has not
      been christened (for dat is very essentials), and you do make a candle,
      and put it into de hand of glory at de proper hour and minute, with de
      proper ceremonish, and he who seeksh for treasuresh shall never find none
      at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare take my corporal oath of that conclusion,&rdquo; said the Antiquary.
      &ldquo;And was it the custom, Mr. Dousterswivel, in Westphalia, to make use of
      this elegant candelabrum?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alwaysh, Mr. Oldenbuck, when you did not want nobody to talk of nothing
      you wash doing about&mdash;And the monksh alwaysh did this when they did
      hide their church-plates, and their great chalices, and de rings, wid very
      preshious shtones and jewels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, notwithstanding, you knights of the Rosy Cross have means, no doubt,
      of breaking the spell, and discovering what the poor monks have put
      themselves to so much trouble to conceal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! goot Mr. Oldenbuck,&rdquo; replied the adept, shaking his head
      mysteriously, &ldquo;you was very hard to believe; but if you had seen de great
      huge pieces of de plate so massive, Sir Arthur,&mdash;so fine fashion,
      Miss Wardour&mdash;and de silver cross dat we did find (dat was Schroepfer
      and my ownself) for de Herr Freygraf, as you call de Baron Von
      Blunderhaus, I do believe you would have believed then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seeing <i>is</i> believing indeed. But what was your art&mdash;what was
      your mystery, Mr. Dousterswivel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha, Mr. Oldenbuck! dat is my little secret, mine goot sir&mdash;you sall
      forgife me that I not tell that. But I will tell you dere are various ways&mdash;yes,
      indeed, dere is de dream dat you dream tree times&mdash;dat is a vary goot
      way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad of that,&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;I have a friend&rdquo; (with a side-glance
      to Lovel) &ldquo;who is peculiarly favoured by the visits of Queen Mab.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Den dere is de sympathies, and de antipathies, and de strange properties
      and virtues natural of divers herb, and of de little divining-rod.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would gladly rather see some of these wonders than hear of them,&rdquo; said
      Miss Wardour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, but, my much-honoured young lady, this is not de time or de way to do
      de great wonder of finding all de church&rsquo;s plate and treasure; but to
      oblige you, and Sir Arthur my patron, and de reverend clergymans, and goot
      Mr. Oldenbuck, and young Mr. Lofel, who is a very goot young gentleman
      also, I will show you dat it is possible, a vary possible, to discover de
      spring, of water, and de little fountain hidden in de ground, without any
      mattock, or spade, or dig at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Umph!&rdquo; quoth the Antiquary, &ldquo;I have heard of that conundrum. That will be
      no very productive art in our country;&mdash;you should carry that
      property to Spain or Portugal, and turn it to good account.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my goot Master Oldenbuck, dere is de Inquisition and de Auto-da-fe&mdash;they
      would burn me, who am but a simple philosopher, for one great conjurer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They would cast away their coals then,&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;but,&rdquo; continued
      he, in a whisper to Lovel, &ldquo;were they to pillory him for one of the most
      impudent rascals that ever wagged a tongue, they would square the
      punishment more accurately with his deserts. But let us see: I think he is
      about to show us some of his legerdemain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In truth, the German was now got to a little copse-thicket at some
      distance from the ruins, where he affected busily to search for such a
      wand as would suit the purpose of his mystery: and after cutting and
      examining, and rejecting several, he at length provided himself with a
      small twig of hazel terminating in a forked end, which he pronounced to
      possess the virtue proper for the experiment that he was about to exhibit.
      Holding the forked ends of the wand, each between a finger and thumb, and
      thus keeping the rod upright, he proceeded to pace the ruined aisles and
      cloisters, followed by the rest of the company in admiring procession. &ldquo;I
      believe dere was no waters here,&rdquo; said the adept, when he had made the
      round of several of the buildings, without perceiving any of those
      indications which he pretended to expect&mdash;&ldquo;I believe those Scotch
      monksh did find de water too cool for de climate, and alwaysh drank de
      goot comfortable, Rhinewine. But, aha!&mdash;see there!&rdquo; Accordingly, the
      assistants observed the rod to turn in his fingers, although he pretended
      to hold it very tight.&mdash;&ldquo;Dere is water here about, sure enough,&rdquo; and,
      turning this way and that way, as the agitation of the divining-rod seemed
      to increase or diminish, he at length advanced into the midst of a vacant
      and roofless enclosure which had been the kitchen of the priory, when the
      rod twisted itself so as to point almost straight downwards. &ldquo;Here is de
      place,&rdquo; said the adept, &ldquo;and if you do not find de water here, I will give
      you all leave to call me an impudent knave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall take that license,&rdquo; whispered the Antiquary to Lovel, &ldquo;whether
      the water is discovered or no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A servant, who had come up with a basket of cold refreshments, was now
      despatched to a neighbouring forester&rsquo;s hut for a mattock and pick-axe.
      The loose stones and rubbish being removed from the spot indicated by the
      German, they soon came to the sides of a regularly-built well; and when a
      few feet of rubbish were cleared out by the assistance of the forester and
      his sons, the water began to rise rapidly, to the delight of the
      philosopher, the astonishment of the ladies, Mr. Blattergowl, and Sir
      Arthur, the surprise of Lovel, and the confusion of the incredulous
      Antiquary. He did not fail, however, to enter his protest in Lovers ear
      against the miracle. &ldquo;This is a mere trick,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;the rascal had made
      himself sure of the existence of this old well, by some means or other,
      before he played off this mystical piece of jugglery. Mark what he talks
      of next. I am much mistaken if this is not intended as a prelude to some
      more serious fraud. See how the rascal assumes consequence, and plumes
      himself upon the credit of his success, and how poor Sir Arthur takes in
      the tide of nonsense which he is delivering to him as principles of occult
      science!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do see, my goot patron, you do see, my goot ladies, you do see,
      worthy Dr. Bladderhowl, and even Mr. Lofel and Mr. Oldenbuck may see, if
      they do will to see, how art has no enemy at all but ignorance. Look at
      this little slip of hazel nuts&mdash;it is fit for nothing at all but to
      whip de little child&rdquo;&mdash;(&ldquo;I would choose a cat and nine tails for your
      occasions,&rdquo; whispered Oldbuck apart)&mdash;&ldquo;and you put it in the hands of
      a philosopher&mdash;paf! it makes de grand discovery. But this is nothing,
      Sir Arthur,&mdash;nothing at all, worthy Dr. Botherhowl&mdash;nothing at
      all, ladies&mdash;nothing at all, young Mr. Lofel and goot Mr. Oldenbuck,
      to what art can do. Ah! if dere was any man that had de spirit and de
      courage, I would show him better things than de well of water&mdash;I
      would show him&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a little money would be necessary also, would it not?&rdquo; said the
      Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! one trifle, not worth talking about, maight be necessaries,&rdquo;
       answered the adept.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought as much,&rdquo; rejoined the Antiquary, drily; &ldquo;and I, in the
      meanwhile, without any divining-rod, will show you an excellent venison
      pasty, and a bottle of London particular Madeira, and I think that will
      match all that Mr. Dousterswivel&rsquo;s art is like to exhibit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The feast was spread <i>fronde super viridi,</i> as Oldbuck expressed
      himself, under a huge old tree called the Prior&rsquo;s Oak, and the company,
      sitting down around it, did ample honour to the contents of the basket.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
               As when a Gryphon through the wilderness,
               With winged course, o&rsquo;er hill and moory dale,
                 Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth
                 Had from his wakeful custody purloined
                  The guarded gold: So eagerly the Fiend&mdash;
                                   Paradise Lost.
</pre>
    <p>
      When their collation was ended, Sir Arthur resumed the account of the
      mysteries of the divining-rod, as a subject on which he had formerly
      conversed with Dousterswivel. &ldquo;My friend Mr. Oldbuck will now be prepared,
      Mr. Dousterswivel, to listen with more respect to the stories you have
      told us of the late discoveries in Germany by the brethren of your
      association.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Sir Arthur, that was not a thing to speak to those gentlemans,
      because it is want of credulity&mdash;what you call faith&mdash;that
      spoils the great enterprise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least, however, let my daughter read the narrative she has taken down
      of the story of Martin Waldeck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that was vary true story&mdash;but Miss Wardour, she is so sly and so
      witty, that she has made it just like one romance&mdash;as well as Goethe
      or Wieland could have done it, by mine honest wort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To say the truth, Mr. Dousterswivel,&rdquo; answered Miss Wardour, &ldquo;the
      romantic predominated in the legend so much above the probable, that it
      was impossible for a lover of fairyland like me to avoid lending a few
      touches to make it perfect in its kind. But here it is, and if you do not
      incline to leave this shade till the heat of the day has somewhat
      declined, and will have sympathy with my bad composition, perhaps Sir
      Arthur or Mr. Oldbuck will read it to us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur; &ldquo;I was never fond of reading aloud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;for I have forgot my spectacles. But here is
      Lovel, with sharp eyes and a good voice; for Mr. Blattergowl, I know,
      never reads anything, lest he should be suspected of reading his sermons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The task was therefore imposed upon Lovel, who received, with some
      trepidation, as Miss Wardour delivered, with a little embarrassment, a
      paper containing the lines traced by that fair hand, the possession of
      which he coveted as the highest blessing the earth could offer to him. But
      there was a necessity of suppressing his emotions; and after glancing over
      the manuscript, as if to become acquainted with the character, he
      collected himself, and read the company the following tale:&mdash;
    </p>
    <h3>
      The Fortunes of Martin Waldeck.
    </h3>
    <p>
      The solitudes of the Harz forest in Germany, but especially the mountains
      called Blocksberg, or rather Brockenberg, are the chosen scenes for tales
      of witches, demons, and apparitions.
    </p>
<pre>
[The outline of this story is taken from the German, though the Author
    is at present unable to say in which of the various collections of the
    popular legends in that language the original is to be found.]
</pre>
    <p>
      The occupation of the inhabitants, who are either miners or foresters, is
      of a kind that renders them peculiarly prone to superstition, and the
      natural phenomena which they witness in pursuit of their solitary or
      subterraneous profession, are often set down by them to the interference
      of goblins or the power of magic. Among the various legends current in
      that wild country, there is a favourite one, which supposes the Harz to be
      haunted by a sort of tutelar demon, in the shape of a wild man, of huge
      stature, his head wreathed with oak leaves, and his middle cinctured with
      the same, bearing in his hand a pine torn up by the roots. It is certain
      that many persons profess to have seen such a form traversing, with huge
      strides, in a line parallel to their own course, the opposite ridge of a
      mountain, when divided from it by a narrow glen; and indeed the fact of
      the apparition is so generally admitted, that modern scepticism has only
      found refuge by ascribing it to optical deception. *
    </p>
    <p>
      *The shadow of the person who sees the phantom, being reflected upon a
      cloud of mist, like the image of the magic lantern upon a white sheet, is
      supposed to have formed the apparition.
    </p>
    <p>
      In elder times, the intercourse of the demon with the inhabitants was more
      familiar, and, according to the traditions of the Harz, he was wont, with
      the caprice usually ascribed to these earth-born powers, to interfere with
      the affairs of mortals, sometimes for their weal, sometimes for their wo.
      But it was observed that even his gifts often turned out, in the long run,
      fatal to those on whom they were bestowed, and it was no uncommon thing
      for the pastors, in their care of their flocks, to compose long sermons,
      the burden whereof was a warning against having any intercourse, direct or
      indirect, with the Harz demon. The fortunes of Martin Waldeck have been
      often quoted by the aged to their giddy children, when they were heard to
      scoff at a danger which appeared visionary.
    </p>
    <p>
      A travelling capuchin had possessed himself of the pulpit of the thatched
      church at a little hamlet called <i>Morgenbrodt,</i> lying in the Harz
      district, from which he declaimed against the wickedness of the
      inhabitants, their communication with fiends, witches, and fairies, and,
      in particular, with the woodland goblin of the Harz. The doctrines of
      Luther had already begun to spread among the peasantry (for the incident
      is placed under the reign of Charles V. ), and they laughed to scorn the
      zeal with which the venerable man insisted upon his topic. At length, as
      his vehemence increased with opposition, so their opposition rose in
      proportion to his vehemence. The inhabitants did not like to hear an
      accustomed quiet demon, who had inhabited the Brockenberg for so many
      ages, summarily confounded with Baal-peor, Ashtaroth, and Beelzebub
      himself, and condemned without reprieve to the bottomless Tophet. The
      apprehensions that the spirit might avenge himself on them for listening
      to such an illiberal sentence, added to their national interest in his
      behalf. A travelling friar, they said, that is here to-day and away
      to-morrow, may say what he pleases: but it is we, the ancient and constant
      inhabitants of the country, that are left at the mercy of the insulted
      demon, and must, of course, pay for all. Under the irritation occasioned
      by these reflections, the peasants from injurious language betook
      themselves to stones, and having pebbled the priest pretty handsomely,
      they drove him out of the parish to preach against demons elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three young men, who had been present and assisting on this occasion were
      upon their return to the hut where they carried on the laborious and mean
      occupation of preparing charcoal for the smelting furnaces. On the way,
      their conversation naturally turned upon the demon of the Harz and the
      doctrine of the capuchin. Max and George Waldeck, the two elder brothers,
      although they allowed the language of the capuchin to have been indiscreet
      and worthy of censure, as presuming to determine upon the precise
      character and abode of the spirit, yet contended it was dangerous, in the
      highest degree, to accept of his gifts, or hold any communication with
      him, He was powerful, they allowed, but wayward and capricious, and those
      who had intercourse with him seldom came to a good end. Did he not give
      the brave knight, Ecbert of Rabenwald, that famous black steed, by means
      of which he vanquished all the champions at the great tournament at
      Bremen? and did not the same steed afterwards precipitate itself with its
      rider into an abyss so steep and fearful, that neither horse nor man were
      ever seen more? Had he not given to Dame Gertrude Trodden a curious spell
      for making butter come? and was she not burnt for a witch by the grand
      criminal judge of the Electorate, because she availed herself of his gift?
      But these, and many other instances which they quoted, of mischance and
      ill-luck ultimately attending on the apparent benefits conferred by the
      Harz spirit, failed to make any impression upon Martin Waldeck, the
      youngest of the brothers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Martin was youthful, rash, and impetuous; excelling in all the exercises
      which distinguish a mountaineer, and brave and undaunted from his familiar
      intercourse with the dangers that attend them. He laughed at the timidity
      of his brothers. &ldquo;Tell me not of such folly,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;the demon is a
      good demon&mdash;he lives among us as if he were a peasant like ourselves&mdash;haunts
      the lonely crags and recesses of the mountains like a huntsman or goatherd&mdash;and
      he who loves the Harz forest and its wild scenes cannot be indifferent to
      the fate of the hardy children of the soil. But, if the demon were as
      malicious as you would make him, how should he derive power over mortals,
      who barely avail themselves of his gifts, without binding themselves to
      submit to his pleasure? When you carry your charcoal to the furnace, is
      not the money as good that is paid you by blaspheming Blaize, the old
      reprobate overseer, as if you got it from the pastor himself? It is not
      the goblins gifts which can endanger you, then, but it is the use you
      shall make of them that you must account for. And were the demon to appear
      to me at this moment, and indicate to me a gold or silver mine, I would
      begin to dig away even before his back were turned,&mdash;and I would
      consider myself as under protection of a much Greater than he, while I
      made a good use of the wealth he pointed out to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To this the elder brother replied, that wealth ill won was seldom well
      spent; while Martin presumptuously declared, that the possession of all
      the treasures of the Harz would not make the slightest alteration on his
      habits, morals, or character.
    </p>
    <p>
      His brother entreated Martin to talk less wildly upon the subject, and
      with some difficulty contrived to withdraw his attention, by calling it to
      the consideration of the approaching boar-chase. This talk brought them to
      their hut, a wretched wigwam, situated upon one side of a wild, narrow,
      and romantic dell, in the recesses of the Brockenberg. They released their
      sister from attending upon the operation of charring the wood, which
      requires constant attention, and divided among themselves the duty of
      watching it by night, according to their custom, one always waking, while
      his brothers slept.
    </p>
    <p>
      Max Waldeck, the eldest, watched during the first two hours of the night,
      and was considerably alarmed by observing, upon the opposite bank of the
      glen, or valley, a huge fire surrounded by some figures that appeared to
      wheel around it with antic gestures. Max at first bethought him of calling
      up his brothers; but recollecting the daring character of the youngest,
      and finding it impossible to wake the elder without also disturbing Martin&mdash;conceiving
      also what he saw to be an illusion of the demon, sent perhaps in
      consequence of the venturous expressions used by Martin on the preceding
      evening, he thought it best to betake himself to the safeguard of such
      prayers as he could murmur over, and to watch in great terror and
      annoyance this strange and alarming apparition. After blazing for some
      time, the fire faded gradually away into darkness, and the rest of Max&rsquo;s
      watch was only disturbed by the remembrance of its terrors.
    </p>
    <p>
      George now occupied the place of Max, who had retired to rest. The
      phenomenon of a huge blazing fire, upon the opposite bank of the glen,
      again presented itself to the eye of the watchman. It was surrounded as
      before by figures, which, distinguished by their opaque forms, being
      between the spectator and the red glaring light, moved and fluctuated
      around it as if engaged in some mystical ceremony. George, though equally
      cautious, was of a bolder character than his elder brother. He resolved to
      examine more nearly the object of his wonder; and, accordingly after
      crossing the rivulet which divided the glen, he climbed up the opposite
      bank, and approached within an arrow&rsquo;s flight of the fire, which blazed
      apparently with the same fury as when he first witnessed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The appearance, of the assistants who surrounded it resembled those
      phantoms which are seen in a troubled dream, and at once confirmed the
      idea he had entertained from the first, that they did not belong to the
      human world. Amongst these strange unearthly forms, George Waldeck
      distinguished that of a giant overgrown with hair, holding an uprooted fir
      in his hand, with which, from time to time, he seemed to stir the blazing
      fire, and having no other clothing than a wreath of oak leaves around his
      forehead and loins. George&rsquo;s heart sunk within him at recognising the
      well-known apparition of the Harz demon, as he had been often described to
      him by the ancient shepherds and huntsmen who had seen his form traversing
      the mountains. He turned, and was about to fly; but upon second thoughts,
      blaming his own cowardice, he recited mentally the verse of the Psalmist,
      &ldquo;All good angels, praise the Lord!&rdquo; which is in that country supposed
      powerful as an exorcism, and turned himself once more towards the place
      where he had seen the fire. But it was no longer visible.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pale moon alone enlightened the side of the valley; and when George,
      with trembling steps, a moist brow, and hair bristling upright under his
      collier&rsquo;s cap, came to the spot on which the fire had been so lately
      visible, marked as it was by a scathed oak-tree, there appeared not on the
      heath the slightest vestiges of what he had seen. The moss and wild
      flowers were unscorched, and the branches of the oak-tree, which had so
      lately appeared enveloped in wreaths of flame and smoke, were moist with
      the dews of midnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      George returned to his hut with trembling steps, and, arguing like his
      elder brother, resolved to say nothing of what he had seen, lest he should
      awake in Martin that daring curiosity which he almost deemed to be allied
      with impiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now Martin&rsquo;s turn to watch. The household cock had given his first
      summons, and the night was well-nigh spent. Upon examining the state of
      the furnace in which the wood was deposited in order to its being <i>coked</i>
      or <i>charred,</i> he was surprised to find that the fire had not been
      sufficiently maintained; for in his excursion and its consequences, George
      had forgot the principal object of his watch. Martin&rsquo;s first thought was
      to call up the slumberers; but observing that both his brothers slept
      unwontedly deep and heavily, he respected their repose, and set himself to
      supply the furnace with fuel without requiring their aid. What he heaped
      upon it was apparently damp and unfit for the purpose, for the fire seemed
      rather to decay than revive. Martin next went to collect some boughs from
      a stack which had been carefully cut and dried for this purpose; but, when
      he returned, he found the fire totally extinguished. This was a serious
      evil, and threatened them with loss of their trade for more than one day.
      The vexed and mortified watchman set about to strike a light in order to
      rekindle the fire but the tinder was moist, and his labour proved in this
      respect also ineffectual. He was now about to call up his brothers, for
      circumstances seemed to be pressing, when flashes of light glimmered not
      only through the window, but through every crevice of the rudely built
      hut, and summoned him to behold the same apparition which had before
      alarmed the successive watches of his brethren. His first idea was, that
      the Muhllerhaussers, their rivals in trade, and with whom they had had
      many quarrels, might have encroached upon their bounds for the purpose of
      pirating their wood; and he resolved to awake his brothers, and be
      revenged on them for their audacity. But a short reflection and
      observation on the gestures and manner of those who seemed to &ldquo;work in the
      fire,&rdquo; induced him to dismiss this belief, and although rather sceptical
      in such matters, to conclude that what he saw was a supernatural
      phenomenon. &ldquo;But be they men or fiends,&rdquo; said the undaunted forester,
      &ldquo;that busy themselves yonder with such fantastical rites and gestures, I
      will go and demand a light to rekindle our furnace.&rdquo; He, relinquished at
      the same time the idea of awaking his brethren. There was a belief that
      such adventures as he was about to undertake were accessible only to one
      person at a time; he feared also that his brothers, in their scrupulous
      timidity, might interfere to prevent his pursuing the investigation he had
      resolved to commence; and, therefore, snatching his boar-spear from the
      wall, the undaunted Martin Waldeck set forth on the adventure alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the same success as his brother George, but with courage far
      superior, Martin crossed the brook, ascended the hill, and approached so
      near the ghostly assembly, that he could recognise, in the presiding
      figure, the attributes of the Harz demon. A cold shuddering assailed him
      for the first time in his life; but the recollection that he had at a
      distance dared and even courted the intercourse which was now about to
      take place, confirmed his staggering courage; and pride supplying what he
      wanted in resolution, he advanced with tolerable firmness towards the
      fire, the figures which surrounded it appearing still more wild,
      fantastical, and supernatural, the more near he approached to the
      assembly. He was received with a loud shout of discordant and unnatural
      laughter, which, to his stunned ears, seemed more alarming than a
      combination of the most dismal and melancholy sounds that could be
      imagined. &ldquo;Who art thou?&rdquo; said the giant, compressing his savage and
      exaggerated features into a sort of forced gravity, while they were
      occasionally agitated by the convulsion of the laughter which he seemed to
      suppress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martin Waldeck, the forester,&rdquo; answered the hardy youth;&mdash;&ldquo;and who
      are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The King of the Waste and of the Mine,&rdquo; answered the spectre;&mdash;&ldquo;and
      why hast thou dared to encroach on my mysteries?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came in search of light to rekindle my fire,&rdquo; answered Martin, hardily,
      and then resolutely asked in his turn, &ldquo;What mysteries are those that you
      celebrate here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We celebrate,&rdquo; answered the complaisant demon, &ldquo;the wedding of Hermes
      with the Black Dragon&mdash;But take thy fire that thou camest to seek,
      and begone! no mortal may look upon us and live.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The peasant struck his spear-point into a large piece of blazing wood,
      which he heaved up with some difficulty, and then turned round to regain
      his hut, the shouts of laughter being renewed behind him with treble
      violence, and ringing far down the narrow valley. When Martin returned to
      the hut, his first care, however much astonished with what he had seen,
      was to dispose the kindled coal among the fuel so as might best light the
      fire of his furnace; but after many efforts, and all exertions of bellows
      and fire-prong, the coal he had brought from the demon&rsquo;s fire became
      totally extinct without kindling any of the others. He turned about, and
      observed the fire still blazing on the hill, although those who had been
      busied around it had disappeared. As he conceived the spectre had been
      jesting with him, he gave way to the natural hardihood of his temper, and,
      determining to see the adventure to an end, resumed the road to the fire,
      from which, unopposed by the demon, he brought off in the same manner a
      blazing piece of charcoal, but still without being able to succeed in
      lighting his fire. Impunity having increased his rashness, he resolved
      upon a third experiment, and was as successful as before in reaching the
      fire; but when he had again appropriated a piece of burning coal, and had
      turned to depart, he heard the harsh and supernatural voice which had
      before accosted him, pronounce these words, &ldquo;Dare not return hither a
      fourth time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The attempt to kindle the fire with this last coal having proved as
      ineffectual as on the former occasions, Martin relinquished the hopeless
      attempt, and flung himself on his bed of leaves, resolving to delay till
      the next morning the communication of his supernatural adventure to his
      brothers. He was awakened from a heavy sleep into which he had sunk, from
      fatigue of body and agitation of mind, by loud exclamations of surprise
      and joy. His brothers, astonished at finding the fire extinguished when
      they awoke, had proceeded to arrange the fuel in order to renew it, when
      they found in the ashes three huge metallic masses, which their skill (for
      most of the peasants in the Harz are practical mineralogists) immediately
      ascertained to be pure gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was some damp upon their joyful congratulations when they learned from
      Martin the mode in which he had obtained this treasure, to which their own
      experience of the nocturnal vision induced them to give full credit. But
      they were unable to resist the temptation of sharing in their brother&rsquo;s
      wealth. Taking now upon him as head of the house, Martin Waldeck bought
      lands and forests, built a castle, obtained a patent of nobility, and,
      greatly to the indignation of the ancient aristocracy of the
      neighbourhood, was invested with all the privileges of a man of family.
      His courage in public war, as well as in private feuds, together with the
      number of retainers whom he kept in pay, sustained him for some time
      against the odium which was excited by his sudden elevation, and the
      arrogance of his pretensions.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now it was seen in the instance of Martin Waldeck, as it has been in
      that of many others, how little mortals can foresee the effect of sudden
      prosperity on their own disposition. The evil propensities in his nature,
      which poverty had checked and repressed, ripened and bore their unhallowed
      fruit under the influence of temptation and the means of indulgence. As
      Deep calls unto Deep, one bad passion awakened another the fiend of
      avarice invoked that of pride, and pride was to be supported by cruelty
      and oppression. Waldeck&rsquo;s character, always bold and daring but rendered
      harsh and assuming by prosperity, soon made him odious, not to the nobles
      only, but likewise to the lower ranks, who saw, with double dislike, the
      oppressive rights of the feudal nobility of the empire so remorselessly
      exercised by one who had risen from the very dregs of the people. His
      adventure, although carefully concealed, began likewise to be whispered
      abroad, and the clergy already stigmatized as a wizard and accomplice of
      fiends, the wretch, who, having acquired so huge a treasure in so strange
      a manner, had not sought to sanctify it by dedicating a considerable
      portion to the use of the church. Surrounded by enemies, public and
      private, tormented by a thousand feuds, and threatened by the church with
      excommunication, Martin Waldeck, or, as we must now call him, the Baron
      von Waldeck, often regretted bitterly the labours and sports of his
      unenvied poverty. But his courage failed him not under all these
      difficulties, and seemed rather to augment in proportion to the danger
      which darkened around him, until an accident precipitated his fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      A proclamation by the reigning Duke of Brunswick had invited to a solemn
      tournament all German nobles of free and honourable descent; and Martin
      Waldeck, splendidly armed, accompanied by his two brothers, and a
      gallantly-equipped retinue, had the arrogance to appear among the chivalry
      of the province, and demand permission to enter the lists. This was
      considered as filling up the measure of his presumption. A thousand voices
      exclaimed, &ldquo;We will have no cinder-sifter mingle in our games of
      chivalry.&rdquo; Irritated to frenzy, Martin drew his sword and hewed down the
      herald, who, in compliance with the general outcry, opposed his entry into
      the lists. An hundred swords were unsheathed to avenge what was in those
      days regarded as a crime only inferior to sacrilege or regicide. Waldeck,
      after defending himself like a lion, was seized, tried on the spot by the
      judges of the lists, and condemned, as the appropriate punishment for
      breaking the peace of his sovereign, and violating the sacred person of a
      herald-at-arms, to have his right hand struck from his body, to be
      ignominiously deprived of the honour of nobility, of which he was
      unworthy, and to be expelled from the city. When he had been stripped of
      his arms, and sustained the mutilation imposed by this severe sentence,
      the unhappy victim of ambition was abandoned to the rabble, who followed
      him with threats and outcries levelled alternately against the necromancer
      and oppressor, which at length ended in violence. His brothers (for his
      retinue were fled and dispersed) at length succeeded in rescuing him from
      the hands of the populace, when, satiated with cruelty, they had left him
      half dead through loss of blood, and through the outrages he had
      sustained. They were not permitted, such was the ingenious cruelty of
      their enemies, to make use of any other means of removing him, excepting
      such a collier&rsquo;s cart as they had themselves formerly used, in which they
      deposited their brother on a truss of straw, scarcely expecting to reach
      any place of shelter ere death should release him from his misery.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Waldecks, journeying in this miserable manner, had approached the
      verge of their native country, in a hollow way, between two mountains,
      they perceived a figure advancing towards them, which at first sight
      seemed to be an aged man. But as he approached, his limbs and stature
      increased, the cloak fell from his shoulders, his pilgrim&rsquo;s staff was
      changed into an uprooted pine-tree, and the gigantic figure of the Harz
      demon passed before them in his terrors. When he came opposite to the cart
      which contained the miserable Waldeck, his huge features dilated into a
      grin of unutterable contempt and malignity, as he asked the sufferer, &ldquo;How
      like you the fire my coals have kindled?&rdquo; The power of motion, which
      terror suspended in his two brothers, seemed to be restored to Martin by
      the energy of his courage. He raised himself on the cart, bent his brows,
      and, clenching his fist, shook it at the spectre with a ghastly look of
      hate and defiance. The goblin vanished with his usual tremendous and
      explosive laugh, and left Waldeck exhausted with this effort of expiring
      nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      The terrified brethren turned their vehicle toward the towers of a
      convent, which arose in a wood of pine-trees beside the road. They were
      charitably received by a bare-footed and long-bearded capuchin, and Martin
      survived only to complete the first confession he had made since the day
      of his sudden prosperity, and to receive absolution from the very priest
      whom, precisely on that day three years, he had assisted to pelt out of
      the hamlet of Morgenbrodt. The three years of precarious prosperity were
      supposed to have a mysterious correspondence with the number of his visits
      to the spectral fire upon the bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      The body of Martin Waldeck was interred in the convent where he expired,
      in which his brothers, having assumed the habit of the order, lived and
      died in the performance of acts of charity and devotion. His lands, to
      which no one asserted any claim, lay waste until they were reassumed by
      the emperor as a lapsed fief, and the ruins of the castle, which Waldeck
      had called by his own name, are still shunned by the miner and forester as
      haunted by evil spirits. Thus were the miseries attendant upon wealth,
      hastily attained and ill employed, exemplified in the fortunes of Martin
      Waldeck.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                 Here has been such a stormy encounter
                 Betwixt my cousin Captain, and this soldier,
                 About I know not what!&mdash;nothing, indeed;
                 Competitions, degrees, and comparatives
                          Of soldiership!&mdash;
                                    A Faire Qurrell.
</pre>
    <p>
      The attentive audience gave the fair transcriber of the foregoing legend
      the thanks which politeness required. Oldbuck alone curled up his nose,
      and observed, that Miss Wardour&rsquo;s skill was something like that of the
      alchemists, for she had contrived to extract a sound and valuable moral
      out of a very trumpery and ridiculous legend. &ldquo;It is the fashion, as I am
      given to understand, to admire those extravagant fictions&mdash;for me,
    </p>
<pre>
                            &mdash;I bear an English heart,
             Unused at ghosts and rattling bones to start.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Under your favour, my goot Mr. Oldenbuck,&rdquo; said the German, &ldquo;Miss Wardour
      has turned de story, as she does every thing as she touches, very pretty
      indeed; but all the history of de Harz goblin, and how he walks among de
      desolate mountains wid a great fir-tree for his walking cane, and wid de
      great green bush around his head and his waist&mdash;that is as true as I
      am an honest man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no disputing any proposition so well guaranteed,&rdquo; answered the
      Antiquary, drily. But at this moment the approach of a stranger cut short
      the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The new comer was a handsome young man, about five-and-twenty, in a
      military undress, and bearing, in his look and manner, a good deal of the
      martial profession&mdash;nay, perhaps a little more than is quite
      consistent with the ease of a man of perfect good-breeding, in whom no
      professional habit ought to predominate. He was at once greeted by the
      greater part of the company. &ldquo;My dear Hector!&rdquo; said Miss M&rsquo;Intyre, as she
      rose to take his hand&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hector, son of Priam, whence comest thou?&rdquo; said the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From Fife, my liege,&rdquo; answered the young soldier, and continued, when he
      had politely saluted the rest of the company, and particularly Sir Arthur
      and his daughter&mdash;&ldquo;I learned from one of the servants, as I rode
      towards Monkbarns to pay my respects to you, that I should find the
      present company in this place, and I willingly embrace the opportunity to
      pay my respects to so many of my friends at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to a new one also, my trusty Trojan,&rdquo; said Oldbuck. &ldquo;Mr. Lovel, this
      is my nephew, Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&mdash;Hector, I recommend Mr. Lovel to your
      acquaintance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young soldier fixed his keen eye upon Lovel, and paid his compliment
      with more reserve than cordiality and as our acquaintance thought his
      coldness almost supercilious, he was equally frigid and haughty in making
      the necessary return to it; and thus a prejudice seemed to arise between
      them at the very commencement of their acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The observations which Lovel made during the remainder of this pleasure
      party did not tend to reconcile him with this addition to their society.
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, with the gallantry to be expected from his age and
      profession, attached himself to the service of Miss Wardour, and offered
      her, on every possible opportunity, those marks of attention which Lovel
      would have given the world to have rendered, and was only deterred from
      offering by the fear of her displeasure. With forlorn dejection at one
      moment, and with irritated susceptibility at another, he saw this handsome
      young soldier assume and exercise all the privileges of a <i>cavaliere
      servente.</i> He handed Miss Wardour&rsquo;s gloves, he assisted her in putting
      on her shawl, he attached himself to her in the walks, had a hand ready to
      remove every impediment in her path, and an arm to support her where it
      was rugged or difficult; his conversation was addressed chiefly to her,
      and, where circumstances permitted, it was exclusively so. All this, Lovel
      well knew, might be only that sort of egotistical gallantry which induces
      some young men of the present day to give themselves the air of engrossing
      the attention of the prettiest women in company, as if the others were
      unworthy of their notice. But he thought he observed in the conduct of
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre something of marked and peculiar tenderness, which was
      calculated to alarm the jealousy of a lover. Miss Wardour also received
      his attentions; and although his candour allowed they were of a kind which
      could not be repelled without some strain of affectation, yet it galled
      him to the heart to witness that she did so.
    </p>
    <p>
      The heart-burning which these reflections occasioned proved very
      indifferent seasoning to the dry antiquarian discussions with which
      Oldbuck, who continued to demand his particular attention, was
      unremittingly persecuting him; and he underwent, with fits of impatience
      that amounted almost to loathing, a course of lectures upon monastic
      architecture, in all its styles, from the massive Saxon to the florid
      Gothic, and from that to the mixed and composite architecture of James the
      First&rsquo;s time, when, according to Oldbuck, all orders were confounded, and
      columns of various descriptions arose side by side, or were piled above
      each other, as if symmetry had been forgotten, and the elemental
      principles of art resolved into their primitive confusion. &ldquo;What can be
      more cutting to the heart than the sight of evils,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, in
      rapturous enthusiasm, &ldquo;which we are compelled to behold, while we do not
      possess the power of remedying them?&rdquo; Lovel answered by an involulatary
      groan. &ldquo;I see, my dear young friend, and most congenial spirit, that you
      feel these enormities almost as much as I do. Have you ever approached
      them, or met them, without longing to tear, to deface, what is so
      dishonourable?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dishonourable!&rdquo; echoed Lovel&mdash;&ldquo;in what respect dishonourable?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean, disgraceful to the arts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where? how?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon the portico, for example, of the schools of Oxford, where, at
      immense expense, the barbarous, fantastic, and ignorant architect has
      chosen to represent the whole five orders of architecture on the front of
      one building.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By such attacks as these, Oldbuck, unconscious of the torture he was
      giving, compelled Lovel to give him a share of his attention,&mdash;as a
      skilful angler, by means of his line, maintains an influence over the most
      frantic movements of his agonized prey.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were now on their return to the spot where they had left the
      carriages; and it is inconceivable how often, in the course of that short
      walk, Lovel, exhausted by the unceasing prosing of his worthy companion,
      mentally bestowed on the devil, or any one else that would have rid him of
      hearing more of them, all the orders and disorders of architecture which
      had been invented or combined from the building of Solomon&rsquo;s temple
      downwards. A slight incident occurred, however, which sprinkled a little
      patience on the heat of his distemperature.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour, and her self-elected knight companion, rather preceded the
      others in the narrow path, when the young lady apparently became desirous
      to unite herself with the rest of the party, and, to break off her <i>tete-a-tete</i>
      with the young officer, fairly made a pause until Mr. Oldbuck came up. &ldquo;I
      wished to ask you a question, Mr. Oldbuck, concerning the date of these
      interesting ruins.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It would be doing injustice to Miss Wardour&rsquo;s <i>savoir faire,</i> to
      suppose she was not aware that such a question would lead to an answer of
      no limited length. The Antiquary, starting like a war-horse at the trumpet
      sound, plunged at once into the various arguments for and against the date
      of 1273, which had been assigned to the priory of St. Ruth by a late
      publication on Scottish architectural antiquities. He raked up the names
      of all the priors who had ruled the institution, of the nobles who had
      bestowed lands upon it, and of the monarchs who had slept their last sleep
      among its roofless courts. As a train which takes fire is sure to light
      another, if there be such in the vicinity, the Baronet, catching at the
      name of one of his ancestors which occurred in Oldbuck&rsquo;s disquisition,
      entered upon an account of his wars, his conquests, and his trophies; and
      worthy Dr. Blattergowl was induced, from the mention of a grant of lands,
      <i>cum decimis inclusis tam vicariis quam garbalibus, et nunquan antea
      separatis,</i> to enter into a long explanation concerning the
      interpretation given by the Teind Court in the consideration of such a
      clause, which had occurred in a process for localling his last
      augmentation of stipend. The orators, like three racers, each pressed
      forward to the goal, without much regarding how each crossed and jostled
      his competitors. Mr. Oldbuck harangued, the Baronet declaimed, Mr.
      Blattergowl prosed and laid down the law, while the Latin forms of feudal
      grants were mingled with the jargon of blazonry, and the yet more
      barbarous phraseology of the Teind Court of Scotland. &ldquo;He was,&rdquo; exclaimed
      Oldbuck, speaking of the Prior Adhemar, &ldquo;indeed an exemplary prelate; and,
      from his strictness of morals, rigid execution of penance, joined to the
      charitable disposition of his mind, and the infirmities endured by his
      great age and ascetic habits&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he chanced to cough, and Sir Arthur burst in, or rather continued&mdash;&ldquo;was
      called popularly Hell-in-Harness; he carried a shield, gules with a sable
      fess, which we have since disused, and was slain at the battle of Vernoil,
      in France, after killing six of the English with his own&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Decreet of certification,&rdquo; proceeded the clergyman, in that prolonged,
      steady, prosing tone, which, however overpowered at first by the vehemence
      of competition, promised, in the long run, to obtain the ascendancy in
      this strife of narrators;&mdash;&ldquo;Decreet of certification having gone out,
      and parties being held as confessed, the proof seemed to be held as
      concluded, when their lawyer moved to have it opened up, on the allegation
      that they had witnesses to bring forward, that they had been in the habit
      of carrying the ewes to lamb on the teind-free land; which was a mere
      evasion, for&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      But here the Baronet and Mr. Oldbuck having recovered their wind, and
      continued their respective harangues, the three <i>strands</i> of the
      conversation, to speak the language of a rope-work, were again twined
      together into one undistinguishable string of confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, howsoever uninteresting this piebald jargon might seem, it was
      obviously Miss Wardour&rsquo;s purpose to give it her attention, in preference
      to yielding Captain M&rsquo;Intyre an opportunity of renewing their private
      conversation. So that, after waiting for a little time with displeasure,
      ill concealed by his haughty features, he left her to enjoy her bad taste,
      and taking his sister by the arm, detained her a little behind the rest of
      the party.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I find, Mary, that your neighbour has neither become more lively nor
      less learned during my absence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We lacked your patience and wisdom to instruct us, Hector.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, my dear sister. But you have got a wiser, if not so lively an
      addition to your society, than your unworthy brother&mdash;Pray, who is
      this Mr. Lovel, whom our old uncle has at once placed so high in his good
      graces?&mdash;he does not use to be so accessible to strangers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Lovel, Hector, is a very gentleman-like young man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&mdash;that is to say, he bows when he comes into a room, and wears a
      coat that is whole at the elbows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, brother; it says a great deal more. It says that his manners and
      discourse express the feelings and education of the higher class.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I desire to know what is his birth and his rank in society, and what
      is his title to be in the circle in which I find him domesticated?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you mean, how he comes to visit at Monkbarns, you must ask my uncle,
      who will probably reply, that he invites to his own house such company as
      he pleases; and if you mean to ask Sir Arthur, you must know that Mr.
      Lovel rendered Miss Wardour and him a service of the most important kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! that romantic story is true, then?&mdash;And pray, does the
      valorous knight aspire, as is befitting on such occasions, to the hand of
      the young lady whom he redeemed from peril? It is quite in the rule of
      romance, I am aware; and I did think that she was uncommonly dry to me as
      we walked together, and seemed from time to time as if she watched whether
      she was not giving offence to her gallant cavalier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Hector,&rdquo; said his sister, &ldquo;if you really continue to nourish any
      affection for Miss Wardour&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If, Mary?&mdash;what an <i>if</i> was there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;I own I consider your perseverance as hopeless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why hopeless, my sage sister?&rdquo; asked Captain M&rsquo;Intyre: &ldquo;Miss Wardour,
      in the state of her father&rsquo;s affairs, cannot pretend to much fortune;&mdash;and,
      as to family, I trust that of Mlntyre is not inferior.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Hector,&rdquo; continued his sister, &ldquo;Sir Arthur always considers us as
      members of the Monkbarns family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir Arthur may consider what he pleases,&rdquo; answered the Highlander
      scornfully; &ldquo;but any one with common sense will consider that the wife
      takes rank from the husband, and that my father&rsquo;s pedigree of fifteen
      unblemished descents must have ennobled my mother, if her veins had been
      filled with printer&rsquo;s ink.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, Hector,&rdquo; replied his anxious sister, &ldquo;take care of
      yourself! a single expression of that kind, repeated to my uncle by an
      indiscreet or interested eavesdropper, would lose you his favour for ever,
      and destroy all chance of your succeeding to his estate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it so,&rdquo; answered the heedless young man; &ldquo;I am one of a profession
      which the world has never been able to do without, and will far less
      endure to want for half a century to come; and my good old uncle may tack
      his good estate and his plebeian name to your apron-string if he pleases,
      Mary, and you may wed this new favourite of his if you please, and you may
      both of you live quiet, peaceable, well-regulated lives, if it pleases
      Heaven. My part is taken&mdash;I&rsquo;ll fawn on no man for an inheritance
      which should be mine by birth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss M&rsquo;Intyre laid her hand on her brother&rsquo;s arm, and entreated him to
      suppress his vehemence. &ldquo;Who,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;injures or seeks to injure you,
      but your own hasty temper?&mdash;what dangers are you defying, but those
      you have yourself conjured up?&mdash;Our uncle has hitherto been all that
      is kind and paternal in his conduct to us, and why should you suppose he
      will in future be otherwise than what he has ever been, since we were left
      as orphans to his care?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is an excellent old gentleman, I must own,&rdquo; replied M&rsquo;Intyre, &ldquo;and I
      am enraged at myself when I chance to offend him; but then his eternal
      harangues upon topics not worth the spark of a flint&mdash;his
      investigations about invalided pots and pans and tobacco-stoppers past
      service&mdash;all these things put me out of patience. I have something of
      Hotspur in me, sister, I must confess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too much, too much, my dear brother! Into how many risks, and, forgive me
      for saying, some of them little creditable, has this absolute and violent
      temper led you! Do not let such clouds darken the time you are now to pass
      in our neighbourhood, but let our old benefactor see his kinsman as he is&mdash;generous,
      kind, and lively, without being rude, headstrong, and impetuous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; answered Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, &ldquo;I am schooled&mdash;good-manners be my
      speed! I&rsquo;ll do the civil thing by your new friend&mdash;I&rsquo;ll have some
      talk with this Mr. Lovel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this determination, in which he was for the time perfectly sincere,
      he joined the party who were walking before them. The treble disquisition
      was by this time ended; and Sir Arthur was speaking on the subject of
      foreign news, and the political and military situation of the country,
      themes upon which every man thinks himself qualified to give an opinion.
      An action of the preceding year having come upon the <i>tapis,</i> Lovel,
      accidentally mingling in the conversation, made some assertion concerning
      it, of the accuracy of which Captain M&rsquo;Intyre seemed not to be convinced,
      although his doubts were politely expressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must confess yourself in the wrong here, Hector,&rdquo; said his uncle,
      &ldquo;although I know no man less willing to give up an argument; but you were
      in England at the time, and Mr. Lovel was probably concerned in the
      affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am speaking to a military man, then?&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre; &ldquo;may I inquire to
      what regiment Mr. Lovel belongs?&rdquo;&mdash;Mr. Lovel gave him the number of
      the regiment. &ldquo;It happens strangely that we should never have met before,
      Mr. Lovel. I know your regiment very well, and have served along with them
      at different times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A blush crossed Lovel&rsquo;s countenance. &ldquo;I have not lately been with my
      regiment,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;I served the last campaign upon the staff of
      General Sir&mdash;&mdash;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! that is more wonderful than the other circumstance!&mdash;for
      although I did not serve with General Sir&mdash;&mdash;, yet I had an
      opportunity of knowing the names of the officers who held situations in
      his family, and I cannot recollect that of Lovel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this observation Lovel again blushed so deeply as to attract the
      attention of the whole company, while, a scornful laugh seemed to indicate
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s triumph. &ldquo;There is something strange in this,&rdquo; said
      Oldbuck to himself; &ldquo;but I will not readily give up my phoenix of
      post-chaise companions&mdash;all his actions, language, and bearing, are
      those of a gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel in the meanwhile had taken out his pocket-book, and selecting a
      letter, from which he took off the envelope, he handed it to Mlntyre. &ldquo;You
      know the General&rsquo;s hand, in all probability&mdash;I own I ought not to
      show these exaggerated expressions of his regard and esteem for me.&rdquo; The
      letter contained a very handsome compliment from the officer in question
      for some military service lately performed. Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, as he
      glanced his eye over it, could not deny that it was written in the
      General&rsquo;s hand, but drily observed, as he returned it, that the address
      was wanting. &ldquo;The address, Captain M&rsquo;Intyre,&rdquo; answered Lovel, in the same
      tone, &ldquo;shall be at your service whenever you choose to inquire after it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly shall not fail to do so,&rdquo; rejoined the soldier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; exclaimed Oldbuck, &ldquo;what is the meaning of all this? Have we
      got Hiren here?&mdash;We&rsquo;ll have no swaggering youngsters. Are you come
      from the wars abroad, to stir up domestic strife in our peaceful land? Are
      you like bull-dog puppies, forsooth, that when the bull, poor fellow, is
      removed from the ring, fall to brawl among themselves, worry each other,
      and bite honest folk&rsquo;s shins that are standing by?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur trusted, he said, the young gentlemen would not so far forget
      themselves as to grow warm upon such a trifling subject as the back of a
      letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Both the disputants disclaimed any such intention, and, with high colour
      and flashing eyes, protested they were never so cool in their lives. But
      an obvious damp was cast over the party;&mdash;they talked in future too
      much by the rule to be sociable, and Lovel, conceiving himself the object
      of cold and suspicious looks from the rest of the company, and sensible
      that his indirect replies had given them permission to entertain strange
      opinions respecting him, made a gallant determination to sacrifice the
      pleasure he had proposed in spending the day at Knockwinnock.
    </p>
    <p>
      He affected, therefore, to complain of a violent headache, occasioned by
      the heat of the day, to which he had not been exposed since his illness,
      and made a formal apology to Sir Arthur, who, listening more to recent
      suspicion than to the gratitude due for former services, did not press him
      to keep his engagement more than good-breeding exactly demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Lovel took leave of the ladies, Miss Wardour&rsquo;s manner seemed more
      anxious than he had hitherto remarked it. She indicated by a glance of her
      eye towards Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, perceptible only by Lovel, the subject of
      her alarm, and hoped, in a voice greatly under her usual tone, it was not
      a less pleasant engagement which deprived them of the pleasure of Mr.
      Lovel&rsquo;s company. &ldquo;No engagement had intervened,&rdquo; he assured her; &ldquo;it was
      only the return of a complaint by which he had been for some time
      occasionally attacked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The best remedy in such a case is prudence, and I&mdash;every friend of
      Mr. Lovel&rsquo;s will expect him to employ it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel bowed low and coloured deeply, and Miss Wardour, as if she felt that
      she had said too much, turned and got into the carriage. Lovel had next to
      part with Oldbuck, who, during this interval, had, with Caxon&rsquo;s
      assistance, been arranging his disordered periwig, and brushing his coat,
      which exhibited some marks of the rude path they had traversed. &ldquo;What,
      man!&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;you are not going to leave us on account of that
      foolish Hector&rsquo;s indiscreet curiosity and vehemence? Why, he is a
      thoughtless boy&mdash;a spoiled child from the time he was in the nurse&rsquo;s
      arms&mdash;he threw his coral and bells at my head for refusing him a bit
      of sugar; and you have too much sense to mind such a shrewish boy: <i>aequam
      servare mentem</i> is the motto of our friend Horace. I&rsquo;ll school Hector
      by and by, and put it all to rights.&rdquo; But Lovel persisted in his design of
      returning to Fairport.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary then assumed a graver tone.&mdash;&ldquo;Take heed, young man, to
      your present feelings. Your life has been given you for useful and
      valuable purposes, and should be reserved to illustrate the literature of
      your country, when you are not called upon to expose it in her defence, or
      in the rescue of the innocent. Private war, a practice unknown to the
      civilised ancients, is, of all the absurdities introduced by the Gothic
      tribes, the most gross, impious, and cruel. Let me hear no more of these
      absurd quarrels, and I will show you the treatise upon the duello, which I
      composed when the town-clerk and provost Mucklewhame chose to assume the
      privileges of gentlemen, and challenged each other. I thought of printing
      my Essay, which is signed <i>Pacificator;</i> but there was no need, as
      the matter was taken up by the town-council of the borough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I assure you, my dear sir, there is nothing between Captain M&rsquo;Intyre
      and me that can render such respectable interference necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See it be so; for otherwise, I will stand second to both parties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, the old gentleman got into the chaise, close to which Miss
      M&rsquo;Intyre had detained her brother, upon the same principle that the owner
      of a quarrelsome dog keeps him by his side to prevent his fastening upon
      another. But Hector contrived to give her precaution the slip, for, as he
      was on horseback, he lingered behind the carriages until they had fairly
      turned the corner in the road to Knockwinnock, and then, wheeling his
      horse&rsquo;s head round, gave him the spur in the opposite direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      A very few minutes brought him up with Lovel, who, perhaps anticipating
      his intention, had not put his horse beyond a slow walk, when the clatter
      of hoofs behind him announced Captain Mlntyre. The young soldier, his
      natural heat of temper exasperated by the rapidity of motion, reined his
      horse up suddenly and violently by Lovel&rsquo;s side, and touching his hat
      slightly, inquired, in a very haughty tone of voice, &ldquo;What am I to
      understand, sir, by your telling me that your address was at my service?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simply, sir,&rdquo; replied Lovel, &ldquo;that my name is Lovel, and that my
      residence is, for the present, Fairport, as you will see by this card.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is this all the information you are disposed to give me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see no right you have to require more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I find you, sir, in company with my sister,&rdquo; said the young soldier, &ldquo;and
      I have a right to know who is admitted into Miss M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s society.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall take the liberty of disputing that right,&rdquo; replied Lovel, with a
      manner as haughty as that of the young soldier;&mdash;&ldquo;you find me in
      society who are satisfied with the degree of information on my affairs
      which I have thought proper to communicate, and you, a mere stranger, have
      no right to inquire further.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Lovel, if you served as you say you have&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If!&rdquo; interrupted Lovel,&mdash;&ldquo;<i>if</i> I have served as <i>I say</i> I
      have?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir, such is my expression&mdash;<i>if</i> you have so served, you
      must know that you owe me satisfaction either in one way or other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that be your opinion, I shall be proud to give it to you, Captain
      M&rsquo;Intyre, in the way in which the word is generally used among gentlemen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, sir,&rdquo; rejoined Hector, and, turning his horse round, galloped
      off to overtake his party.
    </p>
    <p>
      His absence had already alarmed them, and his sister, having stopped the
      carriage, had her neck stretched out of the window to see where he was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you now?&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;riding to and fro
      as your neck were upon the wager&mdash;why do you not keep up with the
      carriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forgot my glove, sir,&rdquo; said Hector.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgot your glove!&mdash;I presume you meant to say you went to throw it
      down&mdash;But I will take order with you, my young gentleman&mdash;you
      shall return with me this night to Monkbarns.&rdquo; So saying, he bid the
      postilion go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWENTIETH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                         &mdash;If you fail Honour here,
                 Never presume to serve her any more;
                 Bid farewell to the integrity of armes;
                    And the honourable name of soldier
            Fall from you, like a shivered wreath of laurel
            By thunder struck from a desertlesse forehead.
                                    A Faire Quarrell.
</pre>
    <p>
      Early the next morning, a gentleman came to wait upon Mr. Lovel, who was
      up and ready to receive him. He was a military gentleman, a friend of
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s, at present in Fairport on the recruiting service.
      Lovel and he were slightly known to each other. &ldquo;I presume, sir,&rdquo; said Mr.
      Lesley (such was the name of the visitor), &ldquo;that you guess the occasion of
      my troubling you so early?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A message from Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, I presume?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same. He holds himself injured by the manner in which you declined
      yesterday to answer certain inquiries which he conceived himself entitled
      to make respecting a gentleman whom he found in intimate society with his
      family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I ask, if you, Mr. Lesley, would have inclined to satisfy
      interrogatories so haughtily and unceremoniously put to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps not;&mdash;and therefore, as I know the warmth of my friend
      M&rsquo;Intyre on such occasions, I feel very desirous of acting as peacemaker.
      From Mr. Lovel&rsquo;s very gentleman-like manners, every one must strongly wish
      to see him repel all that sort of dubious calumny which will attach itself
      to one whose situation is not fully explained. If he will permit me, in
      friendly conciliation, to inform Captain M&rsquo;Intyre of his real name, for we
      are led to conclude that of Lovel is assumed&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, sir, but I cannot admit that inference.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;Or at least,&rdquo; said Lesley, proceeding, &ldquo;that it is not the name by
      which Mr. Lovel has been at all times distinguished&mdash;if Mr. Lovel
      will have the goodness to explain this circumstance, which, in my opinion,
      he should do in justice to his own character, I will answer for the
      amicable arrangement of this unpleasant business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which is to say, Mr. Lesley, that if I condescend to answer questions
      which no man has a right to ask, and which are now put to me under penalty
      of Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s resentment, Captain MIntyre will condescend to rest
      satisfied? Mr. Lesley, I have just one word to say on this subject&mdash;I
      have no doubt my secret, if I had one, might be safely entrusted to your
      honour, but I do not feel called upon to satisfy the curiosity of any one.
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre met me in society which of itself was a warrant to all
      the world, and particularly ought to be such to him, that I was a
      gentleman. He has, in my opinion, no right to go any further, or to
      inquire the pedigree, rank, or circumstances, of a stranger, who, without
      seeking any intimate connection with him, or his, chances to dine with his
      uncle, or walk in company with his sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case, Captain M&rsquo;Intyre requests you to be informed, that your
      farther visits at Monkbarns, and all connection with Miss M&rsquo;Intyre, must
      be dropt, as disagreeable to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall certainly,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;visit Mr. Oldbuck when it suits me,
      without paying the least respect to his nephew&rsquo;s threats or irritable
      feelings. I respect the young lady&rsquo;s name too much (though nothing can be
      slighter than our acquaintance) to introduce it into such a discussion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since that is your resolution, sir,&rdquo; answered Lesley, &ldquo;Captain M&rsquo;Intyre
      requests that Mr. Lovel, unless he wishes to be announced as a very
      dubious character, will favour him with a meeting this evening, at seven,
      at the thorn-tree in the little valley close by the ruins of St. Ruth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most unquestionably, I will wait upon him. There is only one difficulty&mdash;I
      must find a friend to accompany me, and where to seek one on this short
      notice, as I have no acquaintance in Fairport&mdash;I will be on the spot,
      however&mdash;Captain M&rsquo;Intyre may be assured of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lesley had taken his hat, and was as far as the door of the apartment,
      when, as if moved by the peculiarity of Lovel&rsquo;s situation, he returned,
      and thus addressed him: &ldquo;Mr. Lovel, there is something so singular in all
      this, that I cannot help again resuming the argument. You must be yourself
      aware at this moment of the inconvenience of your preserving an incognito,
      for which, I am convinced, there can be no dishonourable reason. Still,
      this mystery renders it difficult for you to procure the assistance of a
      friend in a crisis so delicate&mdash;nay, let me add, that many persons
      will even consider it as a piece of Quixotry in M&rsquo;Intyre to give you a
      meeting, while your character and circumstances are involved in such
      obscurity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand your innuendo, Mr. Lesley,&rdquo; rejoined Lovel; and though I
      might be offended at its severity, I am not so, because it is meant
      kindly. But, in my opinion, he is entitled to all the privileges of a
      gentleman, to whose charge, during the time he has been known in the
      society where he happens to move, nothing can be laid that is unhandsome
      or unbecoming. For a friend, I dare say I shall find some one or other who
      will do me that good turn; and if his experience be less than I could
      wish, I am certain not to suffer through that circumstance when you are in
      the field for my antagonist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trust you will not,&rdquo; said Lesley; &ldquo;but as I must, for my own sake, be
      anxious to divide so heavy a responsibility with a capable assistant,
      allow me to say, that Lieutenant Taffril&rsquo;s gun-brig is come into the
      roadstead, and he himself is now at old Caxon&rsquo;s, where he lodges. I think
      you have the same degree of acquaintance with him as with me, and, as I am
      sure I should willingly have rendered you such a service were I not
      engaged on the other side, I am convinced he will do so at your first
      request.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the thorn-tree, then, Mr. Lesley, at seven this evening&mdash;the
      arms, I presume, are pistols?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly. M&rsquo;Intyre has chosen the hour at which he can best escape from
      Monkbarns&mdash;he was with me this morning by five, in order to return
      and present himself before his uncle was up. Good-morning to you, Mr.
      Lovel.&rdquo; And Lesley left the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lovel was as brave as most men; but none can internally regard such a
      crisis as now approached, without deep feelings of awe and uncertainty. In
      a few hours he might be in another world to answer for an action which his
      calmer thought told him was unjustifiable in a religious point of view, or
      he might be wandering about in the present like Cain, with the blood of
      his brother on his head. And all this might be saved by speaking a single
      word. Yet pride whispered, that to speak that word now, would be ascribed
      to a motive which would degrade him more low than even the most injurious
      reasons that could be assigned for his silence. Every one, Miss Wardour
      included, must then, he thought, account him a mean dishonoured poltroon,
      who gave to the fear of meeting Captain M&rsquo;Intyre the explanation he had
      refused to the calm and handsome expostulations of Mr. Lesley. M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s
      insolent behaviour to himself personally, the air of pretension which he
      assumed towards Miss Wardour, and the extreme injustice, arrogance, and
      incivility of his demands upon a perfect stranger, seemed to justify him
      in repelling his rude investigation. In short, he formed the resolution
      which might have been expected from so young a man,&mdash;to shut the
      eyes, namely, of his calmer reason, and follow the dictates of his
      offended pride. With this purpose he sought Lieutenant Taffril.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lieutenant received him with the good breeding of a gentleman and the
      frankness of a sailor, and listened with no small surprise to the detail
      which preceded his request that he might be favoured with his company at
      his meeting with Captain M&rsquo;Intyre. When he had finished, Taffril rose up
      and walked through his apartment once or twice. &ldquo;This is a most singular
      circumstance,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and really&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am conscious, Mr. Taffril, how little I am entitled to make my present
      request, but the urgency of circumstances hardly leaves me an
      alternative.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Permit me to ask you one question,&rdquo; asked the sailor;&mdash;&ldquo;is there
      anything of which you are ashamed in the circumstances which you have
      declined to communicate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my honour, no; there is nothing but what, in a very short time, I
      trust I may publish to the whole world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope the mystery arises from no false shame at the lowness of your
      friends perhaps, or connections?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, on my word,&rdquo; replied Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have little sympathy for that folly,&rdquo; said Taffril&mdash;&ldquo;indeed I
      cannot be supposed to have any; for, speaking of my relations, I may be
      said to have come myself from before the mast, and I believe I shall very
      soon form a connection, which the world will think low enough, with a very
      amiable girl, to whom I have been attached since we were next-door
      neighbours, at a time when I little thought of the good fortune which has
      brought me forward in the service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you, Mr. Taffril,&rdquo; replied Lovel, &ldquo;whatever were the rank of my
      parents, I should never think of concealing it from a spirit of petty
      pride. But I am so situated at present, that I cannot enter on the subject
      of my family with any propriety.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is quite enough,&rdquo; said the honest sailor&mdash;&ldquo;give me your hand;
      I&rsquo;ll see you as well through this business as I can, though it is but an
      unpleasant one after all&mdash;But what of that? our own honour has the
      next call on us after our country;&mdash;you are a lad of spirit, and I
      own I think Mr. Hector M&rsquo;Intyre, with his long pedigree and his airs of
      family, very much of a jackanapes. His father was a soldier of fortune as
      I am a sailor&mdash;he himself, I suppose, is little better, unless just
      as his uncle pleases; and whether one pursues fortune by land, or sea,
      makes no great difference, I should fancy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None in the universe, certainly,&rdquo; answered Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said his new ally, &ldquo;we will dine together and arrange matters for
      this rencounter. I hope you understand the use of the weapon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not particularly,&rdquo; Lovel replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry for that&mdash;M&rsquo;Intyre is said to be a marksman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry for it also,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;both for his sake and my own: I
      must then, in self-defence, take my aim as well as I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; added Taffril, &ldquo;I will have our surgeon&rsquo;s mate on the field&mdash;a
      good clever young fellow at caulking a shot-hole. I will let Lesley, who
      is an honest fellow for a landsman, know that he attends for the benefit
      of either party. Is there anything I can do for you in case of an
      accident?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have but little occasion to trouble you,&rdquo; said Lovel. &ldquo;This small
      billet contains the key of my escritoir, and my very brief secret. There
      is one letter in the escritoir&rdquo; (digesting a temporary swelling of the
      heart as he spoke), &ldquo;which I beg the favour of you to deliver with your
      own hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; said the sailor. &ldquo;Nay, my friend, never be ashamed for the
      matter&mdash;an affectionate heart may overflow for an instant at the
      eyes, if the ship were clearing for action; and, depend on it, whatever
      your injunctions are, Dan Taffril will regard them like the bequest of a
      dying brother. But this is all stuff;&mdash;we must get our things in
      fighting order, and you will dine with me and my little surgeon&rsquo;s mate, at
      the Graeme&rsquo;s-Arms over the way, at four o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Agreed,&rdquo; said Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Agreed,&rdquo; said Taffril; and the whole affair was arranged.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a beautiful summer evening, and the shadow of the solitary
      thorn-tree was lengthening upon the short greensward of the narrow valley,
      which was skirted by the woods that closed around the ruins of St. Ruth. *
    </p>
    <p>
      * [Supposed to have been suggested by the old Abbey of Arbroath in *
      Forfarshire.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="image-0010">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pa261.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="St. Ruth (arbroath Abbey) "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      Lovel and Lieutenant Taffril, with the surgeon, came upon the ground with
      a purpose of a nature very uncongenial to the soft, mild, and pacific
      character of the hour and scene. The sheep, which during the ardent heat
      of the day had sheltered in the breaches and hollows of the gravelly bank,
      or under the roots of the aged and stunted trees, had now spread
      themselves upon the face of the hill to enjoy their evening&rsquo;s pasture, and
      bleated, to each other with that melancholy sound which at once gives life
      to a landscape, and marks its solitude.&mdash;Taffril and Lovel came on in
      deep conference, having, for fear of discovery, sent their horses back to
      the town by the Lieutenant&rsquo;s servant. The opposite party had not yet
      appeared on the field. But when they came upon the ground, there sat upon
      the roots of the old thorn a figure as vigorous in his decay as the
      moss-grown but strong and contorted boughs which served him for a canopy.
      It was old Ochiltree. &ldquo;This is embarrassing enough,&rdquo; said Lovel:&mdash;&ldquo;How
      shall we get rid of this old fellow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, father Adam,&rdquo; cried Taffril, who knew the mendicant of yore&mdash;&ldquo;here&rsquo;s
      half-a-crown for you. You must go to the Four Horse-shoes yonder&mdash;the
      little inn, you know, and inquire for a servant with blue and yellow
      livery. If he is not come, you&rsquo;ll wait for him, and tell him we shall be
      with his master in about an hour&rsquo;s time. At any rate, wait there till we
      come back,&mdash;and&mdash;Get off with you&mdash;Come, come, weigh
      anchor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank ye for your awmous,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, pocketing the piece of
      money; &ldquo;but I beg your pardon, Mr. Taffril&mdash;I canna gang your errand
      e&rsquo;en now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not, man? what can hinder you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wad speak a word wi&rsquo; young Mr. Lovel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With me?&rdquo; answered Lovel: &ldquo;what would you say with me? Come, say on, and
      be brief.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mendicant led him a few paces aside. &ldquo;Are ye indebted onything to the
      Laird o&rsquo; Monkbarns?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indebted!&mdash;no, not I&mdash;what of that?&mdash;what makes you think
      so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye maun ken I was at the shirra&rsquo;s the day; for, God help me, I gang about
      a&rsquo; gates like the troubled spirit; and wha suld come whirling there in a
      post-chaise, but Monkbarns in an unco carfuffle&mdash;now, it&rsquo;s no a
      little thing that will make his honour take a chaise and post-horse twa
      days rinnin&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well; but what is all this to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, ye&rsquo;se hear, ye&rsquo;se hear. Weel, Monkbarns is closeted wi&rsquo; the shirra
      whatever puir folk may be left thereout&mdash;ye needna doubt that&mdash;the
      gentlemen are aye unco civil amang themsells.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For heaven&rsquo;s sake, my old friend&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Canna ye bid me gang to the deevil at ance, Mr. Lovel? it wad be mair
      purpose fa&rsquo;ard than to speak o&rsquo; heaven in that impatient gate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have private business with Lieutenant Taffril here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, weel, a&rsquo; in gude time,&rdquo; said the beggar&mdash;&ldquo;I can use a little
      wee bit freedom wi&rsquo; Mr. Daniel Taffril;&mdash;mony&rsquo;s the peery and the tap
      I worked for him langsyne, for I was a worker in wood as weel as a
      tinkler.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are either mad, Adam, or have a mind to drive me mad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nane o&rsquo; the twa,&rdquo; said Edie, suddenly changing his manner from the
      protracted drawl of the mendicant to a brief and decided tone. &ldquo;The shirra
      sent for his clerk, and as the lad is rather light o&rsquo; the tongue, I fand
      it was for drawing a warrant to apprehend you&mdash;I thought it had been
      on a <i>fugie</i> warrant for debt; for a&rsquo; body kens the laird likes
      naebody to pit his hand in his pouch&mdash;But now I may haud my tongue,
      for I see the M&rsquo;Intyre lad and Mr. Lesley coming up, and I guess that
      Monkbarns&rsquo;s purpose was very kind, and that yours is muckle waur than it
      should be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The antagonist now approached, and saluted with the stern civility which
      befitted the occasion. &ldquo;What has this old fellow to do here?&rdquo; said
      M&rsquo;Intyre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am an auld fallow,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;but I am also an auld soldier o&rsquo; your
      father&rsquo;s, for I served wi&rsquo; him in the 42d.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Serve where you please, you have no title to intrude on us,&rdquo; said
      M&rsquo;Intyre, &ldquo;or&rdquo;&mdash;and he lifted his cane <i>in terrorem,</i> though
      without the idea of touching the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Ochiltree&rsquo;s courage was roused by the insult. &ldquo;Haud down your switch,
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre! I am an auld soldier, as I said before, and I&rsquo;ll take
      muckle frae your father&rsquo;s son; but no a touch o&rsquo; the wand while my
      pike-staff will haud thegither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, I was wrong&mdash;I was wrong,&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre; &ldquo;here&rsquo;s a
      crown for you&mdash;go your ways&mdash;what&rsquo;s the matter now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man drew himself up to the full advantage of his uncommon height,
      and in despite of his dress, which indeed had more of the pilgrim than the
      ordinary beggar, looked from height, manner, and emphasis of voice and
      gesture, rather like a grey palmer or eremite preacher, the ghostly
      counsellor of the young men who were around him, than the object of their
      charity. His speech, indeed, was as homely as his habit, but as bold and
      unceremonious as his erect and dignified demeanour. &ldquo;What are ye come here
      for, young men?&rdquo; he said, addressing himself to the surprised audience;
      &ldquo;are ye come amongst the most lovely works of God to break his laws? Have
      ye left the works of man, the houses and the cities that are but clay and
      dust, like those that built them&mdash;and are ye come here among the
      peaceful hills, and by the quiet waters, that will last whiles aught
      earthly shall endure, to destroy each other&rsquo;s lives, that will have but an
      unco short time, by the course of nature, to make up a lang account at the
      close o&rsquo;t? O sirs! hae ye brothers, sisters, fathers, that hae tended ye,
      and mothers that hae travailed for ye, friends that hae ca&rsquo;d ye like a
      piece o&rsquo; their ain heart? and is this the way ye tak to make them
      childless and brotherless and friendless? Ohon! it&rsquo;s an ill feight whar he
      that wins has the warst o&rsquo;t. Think on&rsquo;t, bairns. I&rsquo;m a puir man&mdash;but
      I&rsquo;m an auld man too&mdash;and what my poverty takes awa frae the weight o&rsquo; 
      my counsel, grey hairs and a truthfu&rsquo; heart should add it twenty times.
      Gang hame, gang hame, like gude lads&mdash;the French will be ower to
      harry us ane o&rsquo; thae days, and ye&rsquo;ll hae feighting eneugh, and maybe auld
      Edie will hirple out himsell if he can get a feal-dyke to lay his gun
      ower, and may live to tell you whilk o&rsquo; ye does the best where there&rsquo;s a
      good cause afore ye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something in the undaunted and independent manner, hardy
      sentiment, and manly rude elocution of the old man, that had its effect
      upon the party, and particularly on the seconds, whose pride was
      uninterested in bringing the dispute to a bloody arbitrament, and who, on
      the contrary, eagerly watched for an opportunity to recommend
      reconciliation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, Mr. Lesley,&rdquo; said Taffril, &ldquo;old Adam speaks like an oracle.
      Our friends here were very angry yesterday, and of course very foolish;&mdash;today
      they should be cool, or at least we must be so in their behalf. I think
      the word should be forget and forgive on both sides,&mdash;that we should
      all shake hands, fire these foolish crackers in the air, and go home to
      sup in a body at the Graeme&rsquo;s-Arms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would heartily recommend it,&rdquo; said Lesley; &ldquo;for, amidst a great deal of
      heat and irritation on both sides, I confess myself unable to discover any
      rational ground of quarrel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre, very coldly, &ldquo;all this should have been
      thought of before. In my opinion, persons that have carried this matter so
      far as we have done, and who should part without carrying it any farther,
      might go to supper at the Graeme&rsquo;s-Arms very joyously, but would rise the
      next morning with reputations as ragged as our friend here, who has
      obliged us with a rather unnecessary display of his oratory. I speak for
      myself, that I find myself bound to call upon you to proceed without more
      delay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;as I never desired any, have also to request these
      gentlemen to arrange preliminaries as fast as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bairns! bairns!&rdquo; cried old Ochiltree; but perceiving he was no longer
      attended to&mdash;&ldquo;Madmen, I should say&mdash;but your blood be on your
      heads!&rdquo; And the old man drew off from the ground, which was now measured
      out by the seconds, and continued muttering and talking to himself in
      sullen indignation, mixed with anxiety, and with a strong feeling of
      painful curiosity. Without paying farther attention to his presence or
      remonstrances, Mr. Lesley and the Lieutenant made the necessary
      arrangements for the duel, and it was agreed that both parties should fire
      when Mr. Lesley dropped his handkerchief.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fatal sign was given, and both fired almost in the same moment.
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s ball grazed the side of his opponent, but did not draw
      blood. That of Lovel was more true to the aim; M&rsquo;Intyre reeled and fell.
      Raising himself on his arm, his first exclamation was, &ldquo;It is nothing&mdash;it
      is nothing&mdash;give us the other pistols.&rdquo; But in an instant he said, in
      a lower tone, &ldquo;I believe I have enough&mdash;and what&rsquo;s worse, I fear I
      deserve it. Mr. Lovel, or whatever your name is, fly and save yourself&mdash;Bear
      all witness, I provoked this matter.&rdquo; Then raising himself again on his
      arm, he added, &ldquo;Shake hands, Lovel&mdash;I believe you to be a gentleman&mdash;forgive
      my rudeness, and I forgive you my death&mdash;My poor sister!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The surgeon came up to perform his part of the tragedy, and Lovel stood
      gazing on the evil of which he had been the active, though unwilling
      cause, with a dizzy and bewildered eye. He was roused from his trance by
      the grasp of the mendicant. &ldquo;Why stand you gazing on your deed?&mdash;What&rsquo;s
      doomed is doomed&mdash;what&rsquo;s done is past recalling. But awa, awa, if ye
      wad save your young blood from a shamefu&rsquo; death&mdash;I see the men out by
      yonder that are come ower late to part ye&mdash;but, out and alack! sune
      eneugh, and ower sune, to drag ye to prison.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is right&mdash;he is right,&rdquo; exclaimed Taffril; &ldquo;you must not attempt
      to get on the high-road&mdash;get into the wood till night. My brig will
      be under sail by that time, and at three in the morning, when the tide
      will serve, I shall have the boat waiting for you at the Mussel-crag.
      Away-away, for Heaven&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O yes! fly, fly!&rdquo; repeated the wounded man, his words faltering with
      convulsive sobs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come with me,&rdquo; said the mendicant, almost dragging him off; &ldquo;the
      Captain&rsquo;s plan is the best&mdash;I&rsquo;ll carry ye to a place where ye might
      be concealed in the meantime, were they to seek ye &lsquo;wi&rsquo; sleuth-hounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, go,&rdquo; again urged Lieutenant Taffril&mdash;&ldquo;to stay here is mere
      madness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was worse madness to have come hither,&rdquo; said Lovel, pressing his hand&mdash;&ldquo;But
      farewell!&rdquo; And he followed Ochiltree into the recesses of the wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.
    </h2>
<pre>
                      &mdash;The Lord Abbot had a soul
               Subtile and quick, and searching as the fire;
               By magic stairs he went as deep as hell,
               And if in devils&rsquo; possession gold be kept,
         He brought some sure from thence&mdash;&lsquo;tis hid in caves,
                        Known, save to me, to none.&mdash;
                                   The Wonder of a Kingdome.
</pre>
    <p>
      Lovel almost mechanically followed the beggar, who led the way with a
      hasty and steady pace, through bush and bramble, avoiding the beaten path,
      and often turning to listen whether there were any sounds of pursuit
      behind them. They sometimes descended into the very bed of the torrent,
      sometimes kept a narrow and precarious path, that the sheep (which, with
      the sluttish negligence towards property of that sort universal in
      Scotland, were allowed to stray in the copse) had made along the very
      verge of its overhanging banks. From time to time Lovel had a glance of
      the path which he had traversed the day before in company with Sir Arthur,
      the Antiquary, and the young ladies. Dejected, embarrassed, and occupied
      by a thousand inquietudes, as he then was, what would he now have given to
      regain the sense of innocence which alone can counter-balance a thousand
      evils! &ldquo;Yet, then,&rdquo; such was his hasty and involuntary reflection, &ldquo;even
      then, guiltless and valued by all around me, I thought myself unhappy.
      What am I now, with this young man&rsquo;s blood upon my hands?&mdash;the
      feeling of pride which urged me to the deed has now deserted me, as the
      actual fiend himself is said to do those whom he has tempted to guilt.&rdquo;
       Even his affection for Miss Wardour sunk for the time before the first
      pangs of remorse, and he thought he could have encountered every agony of
      slighted love to have had the conscious freedom from blood-guiltiness
      which he possessed in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      These painful reflections were not interrupted by any conversation on the
      part of his guide, who threaded the thicket before him, now holding back
      the sprays to make his path easy, now exhorting him to make haste, now
      muttering to himself, after the custom of solitary and neglected old age,
      words which might have escaped Lovel&rsquo;s ear even had he listened to them,
      or which, apprehended and retained, were too isolated to convey any
      connected meaning,&mdash;a habit which may be often observed among people
      of the old man&rsquo;s age and calling.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, as Lovel, exhausted by his late indisposition, the harrowing
      feelings by which he was agitated, and the exertion necessary to keep up
      with his guide in a path so rugged, began to flag and fall behind, two or
      three very precarious steps placed him on the front of a precipice
      overhung with brushwood and copse. Here a cave, as narrow in its entrance
      as a fox-earth, was indicated by a small fissure in the rock, screened by
      the boughs of an aged oak, which, anchored by its thick and twisted roots
      in the upper part of the cleft, flung its branches almost straight outward
      from the cliff, concealing it effectually from all observation. It might
      indeed have escaped the attention even of those who had stood at its very
      opening, so uninviting was the portal at which the beggar entered. But
      within, the cavern was higher and more roomy, cut into two separate
      branches, which, intersecting each other at right angles, formed an emblem
      of the cross, and indicated the abode of an anchoret of former times.
      There are many caves of the same kind in different parts of Scotland. I
      need only instance those of Gorton, near Rosslyn, in a scene well known to
      the admirers of romantic nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      The light within the eave was a dusky twilight at the entrance, which
      failed altogether in the inner recesses. &ldquo;Few folks ken o&rsquo; this place,&rdquo;
       said the old man; &ldquo;to the best o&rsquo;my knowledge, there&rsquo;s just twa living by
      mysell, and that&rsquo;s Jingling Jock and the Lang Linker. I have had mony a
      thought, that when I fand mysell auld and forfairn, and no able to enjoy
      God&rsquo;s blessed air ony langer, I wad drag mysell here wi&rsquo; a pickle
      ait-meal; and see, there&rsquo;s a bit bonny dropping well that popples that
      self-same gate simmer and winter;&mdash;and I wad e&rsquo;en streek mysell out
      here, and abide my removal, like an auld dog that trails its useless
      ugsome carcass into some bush or bracken no to gie living things a scunner
      wi&rsquo; the sight o&rsquo;t when it&rsquo;s dead&mdash;Ay, and then, when the dogs barked
      at the lone farm-stead, the gudewife wad cry, Whisht, stirra, that&rsquo;ll be
      auld Edie,&rsquo; and the bits o&rsquo; weans wad up, puir things, and toddle to the
      door to pu&rsquo; in the auld Blue-Gown that mends a&rsquo; their bonny-dies&mdash;But
      there wad be nae mair word o&rsquo; Edie, I trow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then led Lovel, who followed him unresistingly, into one of the
      interior branches of the cave. &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is a bit turnpike-stair
      that gaes up to the auld kirk abune. Some folks say this place was howkit
      out by the monks lang syne to hide their treasure in, and some said that
      they used to bring things into the abbey this gate by night, that they
      durstna sae weel hae brought in by the main port and in open day&mdash;And
      some said that ane o&rsquo; them turned a saint (or aiblins wad hae had folk
      think sae), and settled him down in this Saint Ruth&rsquo;s cell, as the auld
      folks aye ca&rsquo;d it, and garr&rsquo;d big the stair, that he might gang up to the
      kirk when they were at the divine service. The Laird o&rsquo; Monkbarns wad hae
      a hantle to say about it, as he has about maist things, if he ken&rsquo;d only
      about the place. But whether it was made for man&rsquo;s devices or God&rsquo;s
      service, I have seen ower muckle sin done in it in my day, and far ower
      muckle have I been partaker of&mdash;ay, even here in this dark cove. Mony
      a gudewife&rsquo;s been wondering what for the red cock didna craw her up in the
      morning, when he&rsquo;s been roasting, puir fallow, in this dark hole&mdash;And,
      ohon! I wish that and the like o&rsquo; that had been the warst o&rsquo;t! Whiles they
      wad hae heard the din we were making in the very bowels o&rsquo; the earth, when
      Sanders Aikwood, that was forester in thae days, the father o&rsquo; Ringan that
      now is, was gaun daundering about the wood at e&rsquo;en, to see after the
      Laird&rsquo;s game and whiles he wad hae seen a glance o&rsquo; the light frae the
      door o&rsquo; the cave, flaughtering against the hazels on the other bank;&mdash;and
      then siccan stories as Sanders had about the worricows and gyre-carlins
      that haunted about the auld wa&rsquo;s at e&rsquo;en, and the lights that he had seen,
      and the cries that he had heard, when there was nae mortal e&rsquo;e open but
      his ain; and eh! as he wad thrum them ower and ower to the like o&rsquo; me
      ayont the ingle at e&rsquo;en, and as I wad gie the auld silly carle grane for
      grane, and tale for tale, though I ken&rsquo;d muckle better about it than ever
      he did. Ay, ay&mdash;they were daft days thae;&mdash;but they were a&rsquo; 
      vanity, and waur,&mdash;and it&rsquo;s fitting that they wha hae led a light and
      evil life, and abused charity when they were young, suld aiblins come to
      lack it when they are auld.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Ochiltree was thus recounting the exploits and tricks of his earlier
      life, with a tone in which glee and compunction alternately predominated,
      his unfortunate auditor had sat down upon the hermit&rsquo;s seat, hewn out of
      the solid rock, and abandoned himself to that lassitude, both of mind and
      body, which generally follows a course of events that have agitated both,
      The effect of his late indisposition, which had much weakened his system,
      contributed to this lethargic despondency. &ldquo;The puir bairn!&rdquo; said auld
      Edie, &ldquo;an he sleeps in this damp hole, he&rsquo;ll maybe wauken nae mair, or
      catch some sair disease. It&rsquo;s no the same to him as to the like o&rsquo; us,
      that can sleep ony gate an anes our wames are fu&rsquo;. Sit up, Maister Lovel,
      lad! After a&rsquo;s come and gane, I dare say the captain-lad will do weel
      eneugh&mdash;and, after a&rsquo;, ye are no the first that has had this
      misfortune. I hae seen mony a man killed, and helped to kill them mysell,
      though there was nae quarrel between us&mdash;and if it isna wrang to kill
      folk we have nae quarrel wi&rsquo;, just because they wear another sort of a
      cockade, and speak a foreign language, I canna see but a man may have
      excuse for killing his ain mortal foe, that comes armed to the fair field
      to kill him. I dinna say it&rsquo;s right&mdash;God forbid&mdash;or that it isna
      sinfu&rsquo; to take away what ye canna restore, and that&rsquo;s the breath of man,
      whilk is in his nostrils; but I say it is a sin to be forgiven if it&rsquo;s
      repented of. Sinfu&rsquo; men are we a&rsquo;; but if ye wad believe an auld grey
      sinner that has seen the evil o&rsquo; his ways, there is as much promise atween
      the twa boards o&rsquo; the Testament as wad save the warst o&rsquo; us, could we but
      think sae.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With such scraps of comfort and of divinity as he possessed, the mendicant
      thus continued to solicit and compel the attention of Lovel, until the
      twilight began to fade into night. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;I will carry ye
      to a mair convenient place, where I hae sat mony a time to hear the howlit
      crying out of the ivy tod, and to see the moonlight come through the auld
      windows o&rsquo; the ruins. There can be naebody come here after this time o&rsquo; 
      night; and if they hae made ony search, thae blackguard shirra&rsquo;-officers
      and constables, it will hae been ower lang syne. Od, they are as great
      cowards as ither folk, wi&rsquo; a&rsquo; their warrants and king&rsquo;s keys*&mdash;I hae
      gien some o&rsquo; them a gliff in my day, when they were coming rather ower
      near me&mdash;But, lauded be grace for it! they canna stir me now for ony
      waur than an auld man and a beggar, and my badge is a gude protection; and
      then Miss Isabella Wardour is a tower o&rsquo; strength, ye ken&rdquo;&mdash;(Lovel
      sighed)&mdash;&ldquo;Aweel, dinna be cast down&mdash;bowls may a&rsquo; row right yet&mdash;gie
      the lassie time to ken her mind. She&rsquo;s the wale o&rsquo; the country for beauty,
      and a gude friend o&rsquo; mine&mdash;I gang by the bridewell as safe as by the
      kirk on a Sabbath&mdash;deil ony o&rsquo; them daur hurt a hair o&rsquo; auld Edie&rsquo;s
      head now; I keep the crown o&rsquo; the causey when I gae to the borough, and
      rub shouthers wi&rsquo; a bailie wi&rsquo; as little concern as an he were a brock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      * The king&rsquo;s keys are, in law phrase, the crow-bars and hammers used to
      force doors and locks, in execution of the king&rsquo;s warrant.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the mendicant spoke thus, he was busied in removing a few loose
      stones in one angle of the eave, which obscured the entrance of the
      staircase of which he had spoken, and led the way into it, followed by
      Lovel in passive silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The air&rsquo;s free eneugh,&rdquo; said the old man; &ldquo;the monks took care o&rsquo; that,
      for they werena a lang-breathed generation, I reckon; they hae contrived
      queer tirlie-wirlie holes, that gang out to the open air, and keep the
      stair as caller as a kail-blade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel accordingly found the staircase well aired, and, though narrow, it
      was neither ruinous nor long, but speedily admitted them into a narrow
      gallery contrived to run within the side wall of the chancel, from which
      it received air and light through apertures ingeniously hidden amid the
      florid ornaments of the Gothic architecture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This secret passage ance gaed round great part o&rsquo; the biggin,&rdquo; said the
      beggar, &ldquo;and through the wa&rsquo; o&rsquo; the place I&rsquo;ve heard Monkbarns ca&rsquo; the
      Refractory&rdquo; [meaning probably <i>Refectory</i>], &ldquo;and so awa to the
      Prior&rsquo;s ain house. It&rsquo;s like he could use it to listen what the monks were
      saying at meal-time,&mdash;and then he might come ben here and see that
      they were busy skreighing awa wi&rsquo; the psalms doun below there; and then,
      when he saw a&rsquo; was right and tight, he might step awa and fetch in a
      bonnie lass at the cove yonder&mdash;for they were queer hands the monks,
      unless mony lees is made on them. But our folk were at great pains lang
      syne to big up the passage in some parts, and pu&rsquo; it down in others, for
      fear o&rsquo; some uncanny body getting into it, and finding their way down to
      the cove: it wad hae been a fashious job that&mdash;by my certie, some o&rsquo; 
      our necks wad hae been ewking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They now came to a place where the gallery was enlarged into a small
      circle, sufficient to contain a stone seat. A niche, constructed exactly
      before it, projected forward into the chancel, and as its sides were
      latticed, as it were, with perforated stone-work, it commanded a full view
      of the chancel in every direction, and was probably constructed, as Edie
      intimated, to be a convenient watch-tower, from which the superior priest,
      himself unseen, might watch the behaviour of his monks, and ascertain, by
      personal inspection, their punctual attendance upon those rites of
      devotion which his rank exempted him from sharing with them. As this niche
      made one of a regular series which stretched along the wall of the
      chancel, and in no respect differed from the rest when seen from below,
      the secret station, screened as it was by the stone figure of St. Michael
      and the dragon, and the open tracery around the niche, was completely hid
      from observation. The private passage, confined to its pristine breadth,
      had originally continued beyond this seat; but the jealous precautions of
      the vagabonds who frequented the cave of St. Ruth had caused them to build
      it carefully up with hewn stones from the ruin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall be better here,&rdquo; said Edie, seating himself on the stone bench,
      and stretching the lappet of his blue gown upon the spot, when he motioned
      Lovel to sit down beside him&mdash;&ldquo;we shall be better here than doun
      below; the air&rsquo;s free and mild, and the savour of the wallflowers, and
      siccan shrubs as grow on thae ruined wa&rsquo;s, is far mair refreshing than the
      damp smell doun below yonder. They smell sweetest by night-time thae
      flowers, and they&rsquo;re maist aye seen about rained buildings. Now, Maister
      Lovel, can ony o&rsquo; you scholars gie a gude reason for that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel replied in the negative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am thinking,&rdquo; resumed the beggar, &ldquo;that they&rsquo;ll be, like mony folk&rsquo;s
      gude gifts, that often seem maist gracious in adversity&mdash;or maybe
      it&rsquo;s a parable, to teach us no to slight them that are in the darkness of
      sin and the decay of tribulation, since God sends odours to refresh the
      mirkest hour, and flowers and pleasant bushes to clothe the ruined
      buildings. And now I wad like a wise man to tell me whether Heaven is
      maist pleased wi&rsquo; the sight we are looking upon&mdash;thae pleasant and
      quiet lang streaks o&rsquo; moonlight that are lying sae still on the floor o&rsquo; 
      this auld kirk, and glancing through the great pillars and stanchions o&rsquo; 
      the carved windows, and just dancing like on the leaves o&rsquo; the dark ivy as
      the breath o&rsquo; wind shakes it&mdash;I wonder whether this is mair pleasing
      to Heaven than when it was lighted up wi&rsquo; lamps, and candles nae doubt,
      and roughies,* and wi&rsquo; the mirth and the frankincent that they speak of in
      the Holy Scripture, and wi&rsquo; organs assuredly, and men and women singers,
      and sackbuts, and dulcimers, and a&rsquo; instruments o&rsquo; music&mdash;I wonder if
      that was acceptable, or whether it is of these grand parafle o&rsquo; ceremonies
      that holy writ says, It is an abomination to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      * Links, or torches.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am thinking, Maister Lovel, if twa puir contrite spirits like yours and
      mine fand grace to make our petition&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Lovel laid his hand eagerly on the mendicant&rsquo;s arm, saying,&mdash;&ldquo;Hush!
      I heard some one speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am dull o&rsquo; hearing,&rdquo; answered Edie, in a whisper, &ldquo;but we&rsquo;re surely
      safe here&mdash;where was the sound?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lovel pointed to the door of the chancel, which, highly ornamented,
      occupied the west end of the building, surmounted by the carved window,
      which let in a flood of moonlight over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They can be nane o&rsquo; our folk,&rdquo; said Edie in the same low and cautious
      tone; &ldquo;there&rsquo;s but twa o&rsquo; them kens o&rsquo; the place, and they&rsquo;re mony a mile
      off, if they are still bound on their weary pilgrimage. I&rsquo;ll never think
      it&rsquo;s the officers here at this time o&rsquo; night. I am nae believer in auld
      wives&rsquo; stories about ghaists, though this is gey like a place for them&mdash;But
      mortal, or of the other world, here they come!&mdash;twa men and a light.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And in very truth, while the mendicant spoke, two human figures darkened
      with their shadows the entrance of the chancel&mdash;which had before
      opened to the moon-lit meadow beyond, and the small lantern which one of
      them displayed, glimmered pale in the clear and strong beams of the moon,
      as the evening star does among the lights of the departing day. The first
      and most obvious idea was, that, despite the asseverations of Edie
      Ochiltree, the persons who approached the ruins at an hour so uncommon
      must be the officers of justice in quest of Lovel. But no part of their
      conduct confirmed the suspicion. A touch and a whisper from the old man
      warned Lovel that his best course was to remain quiet, and watch their
      motions from their present place of concealment. Should anything appear to
      render retreat necessary, they had behind them the private stair-case and
      cavern, by means of which they could escape into the wood long before any
      danger of close pursuit. They kept themselves, therefore, as still as
      possible, and observed with eager and anxious curiosity every accent and
      motion of these nocturnal wanderers.
    </p>
    <p>
      After conversing together some time in whispers, the two figures advanced
      into the middle of the chancel; and a voice, which Lovel at once
      recognised, from its tone and dialect, to be that of Dousterswivel,
      pronounced in a louder but still a smothered tone, &ldquo;Indeed, mine goot sir,
      dere cannot be one finer hour nor season for dis great purpose. You shall
      see, mine goot sir, dat it is all one bibble-babble dat Mr. Oldenbuck
      says, and dat he knows no more of what he speaks than one little child.
      Mine soul! he expects to get as rich as one Jew for his poor dirty one
      hundred pounds, which I care no more about, by mine honest wort, than I
      care for an hundred stivers. But to you, my most munificent and reverend
      patron, I will show all de secrets dat art can show&mdash;ay, de secret of
      de great Pymander.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="image-0011">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pa278.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="The Ruins of St. Ruth "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      &ldquo;That other ane,&rdquo; whispered Edie, &ldquo;maun be, according to a&rsquo; likelihood,
      Sir Arthur Wardour&mdash;I ken naebody but himsell wad come here at this
      time at e&rsquo;en wi&rsquo; that German blackguard;&mdash;ane wad think he&rsquo;s
      bewitched him&mdash;he gars him e&rsquo;en trow that chalk is cheese. Let&rsquo;s see
      what they can be doing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This interruption, and the low tone in which Sir Arthur spoke, made Lovel
      lose all Sir Arthur&rsquo;s answer to the adept, excepting the last three
      emphatic words, &ldquo;Very great expense;&rdquo; to which Dousterswivel at once
      replied&mdash;&ldquo;Expenses!&mdash;to be sure&mdash;dere must be de great
      expenses. You do not expect to reap before you do sow de seed: de expense
      is de seed&mdash;de riches and de mine of goot metal, and now de great big
      chests of plate, they are de crop&mdash;vary goot crop too, on mine wort.
      Now, Sir Arthur, you have sowed this night one little seed of ten guineas
      like one pinch of snuff, or so big; and if you do not reap de great
      harvest&mdash;dat is, de great harvest for de little pinch of seed, for it
      must be proportions, you must know&mdash;then never call one honest man,
      Herman Dousterswivel. Now you see, mine patron&mdash;for I will not
      conceal mine secret from you at all&mdash;you see this little plate of
      silver; you know de moon measureth de whole zodiack in de space of
      twenty-eight day&mdash;every shild knows dat. Well, I take a silver plate
      when she is in her fifteenth mansion, which mansion is in de head of <i>Libra,</i>
      and I engrave upon one side de worts, [Shedbarschemoth Schartachan]&mdash;dat
      is, de Emblems of de Intelligence of de moon&mdash;and I make this picture
      like a flying serpent with a turkey-cock&rsquo;s head&mdash;vary well. Then upon
      this side I make de table of de moon, which is a square of nine,
      multiplied into itself, with eighty-one numbers on every side, and
      diameter nine&mdash;dere it is done very proper. Now I will make dis avail
      me at de change of every quarter-moon dat I shall find by de same
      proportions of expenses I lay out in de suffumigations, as nine, to de
      product of nine multiplied into itself&mdash;But I shall find no more
      to-night as maybe two or dree times nine, because dere is a thwarting
      power in de house of ascendency.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Dousterswivel,&rdquo; said the simple Baronet, &ldquo;does not this look like
      magic?&mdash;I am a true though unworthy son of the Episcopal church, and
      I will have nothing to do with the foul fiend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! bah!&mdash;not a bit magic in it at all&mdash;not a bit&mdash;It is
      all founded on de planetary influence, and de sympathy and force of
      numbers. I will show you much finer dan dis. I do not say dere is not de
      spirit in it, because of de suffumigation; but, if you are not afraid, he
      shall not be invisible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no curiosity to see him at all,&rdquo; said the Baronet, whose courage
      seemed, from a certain quaver in his accent, to have taken a fit of the
      ague.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dat is great pity,&rdquo; said Dousterswivel; &ldquo;I should have liked to show you
      de spirit dat guard dis treasure like one fierce watchdog&mdash;but I know
      how to manage him;&mdash;you would not care to see him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; answered the Baronet, in a tone of feigned indifference; &ldquo;I
      think we have but little time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall pardon me, my patron; it is not yet twelve, and twelve precise
      is just our planetary hours; and I could show you de spirit vary well, in
      de meanwhile, just for pleasure. You see I would draw a pentagon within a
      circle, which is no trouble at all, and make my suffumigation within it,
      and dere we would be like in one strong castle, and you would hold de
      sword while I did say de needful worts. Den you should see de solid wall
      open like de gate of ane city, and den&mdash;let me see&mdash;ay, you
      should see first one stag pursued by three black greyhounds, and they
      should pull him down as they do at de elector&rsquo;s great hunting-match; and
      den one ugly, little, nasty black negro should appear and take de stag
      from them&mdash;and paf&mdash;all should be gone; den you should hear
      horns winded dat all de ruins should ring&mdash;mine wort, they should
      play fine hunting piece, as goot as him you call&rsquo;d Fischer with his oboi;
      vary well&mdash;den comes one herald, as we call Ernhold, winding his horn&mdash;and
      den come de great Peolphan, called de mighty Hunter of de North, mounted
      on hims black steed. But you would not care to see all this?&rdquo; *
    </p>
    <p>
      * Note F. Witchcraft.
    </p>
<pre>
 &ldquo;Why, I am not afraid,&rdquo; answered the poor Baronet,&mdash;&ldquo;if&mdash;that is&mdash;does
anything&mdash;any great mischiefs, happen on such occasions?&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! mischiefs? no!&mdash;sometimes if de circle be no quite just, or de
      beholder be de frightened coward, and not hold de sword firm and straight
      towards him, de Great Hunter will take his advantage, and drag him
      exorcist out of de circle and throttle him. Dat does happens.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then, Dousterswivel, with every confidence in my courage and your
      skill, we will dispense with this apparition, and go on to the business of
      the night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all mine heart&mdash;it is just one thing to me&mdash;and now it is
      de time&mdash;hold you de sword till I kindle de little what you call
      chip.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dousterswivel accordingly set fire to a little pile of chips, touched and
      prepared with some bituminous substance to make them burn fiercely; and
      when the flame was at the highest, and lightened, with its shortlived
      glare, all the ruins around, the German flung in a handful of perfumes
      which produced a strong and pungent odour. The exorcist and his pupil both
      were so much affected as to cough and sneeze heartily; and, as the vapour
      floated around the pillars of the building, and penetrated every crevice,
      it produced the same effect on the beggar and Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was that an echo?&rdquo; said the Baronet, astonished at the sternutation which
      resounded from above; &ldquo;or&rdquo;&mdash;drawing close to the adept, &ldquo;can it be
      the spirit you talked of, ridiculing our attempt upon his hidden
      treasures?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N&mdash;n&mdash;no,&rdquo; muttered the German, who began to partake of his
      pupil&rsquo;s terrors, &ldquo;I hope not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here a violent of sneezing, which the mendicant was unable to suppress,
      and which could not be considered by any means as the dying fall of an
      echo, accompanied by a grunting half-smothered cough, confounded the two
      treasure-seekers. &ldquo;Lord have mercy on us!&rdquo; said the Baronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Alle guten Geistern loben den Herrn!</i>&rdquo; ejaculated the terrified
      adept. &ldquo;I was begun to think,&rdquo; he continued, after a moment&rsquo;s silence,
      &ldquo;that this would be de bestermost done in de day-light&mdash;we was
      bestermost to go away just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You juggling villain!&rdquo; said the Baronet, in whom these expressions
      awakened a suspicion that overcame his terrors, connected as it was with
      the sense of desperation arising from the apprehension of impending ruin&mdash;&ldquo;you
      juggling mountebank! this is some legerdemain trick of yours to get off
      from the performance of your promise, as you have so often done before.
      But, before Heaven! I will this night know what I have trusted to when I
      suffered you to fool me on to my ruin! Go on, then&mdash;come fairy, come
      fiend, you shall show me that treasure, or confess yourself a knave and an
      impostor, or, by the faith of a desperate and ruined man, I&rsquo;ll send you
      where you shall see spirits enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The treasure-finder, trembling between his terror for the supernatural
      beings by whom he supposed himself to be surrounded, and for his life,
      which seemed to be at the mercy of a desperate man, could only bring out,
      &ldquo;Mine patron, this is not the allerbestmost usage. Consider, mine honoured
      sir, that de spirits&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Edie, who began to enter into the humour of the scene, uttered an
      extraordinary howl, being an exaltation and a prolongation of the most
      deplorable whine in which he was accustomed to solicit charity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dousterswivel flung himself on his knees&mdash;&ldquo;Dear Sir Arthurs, let us
      go, or let me go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you cheating scoundrel!&rdquo; said the knight, unsheathing the sword which
      he had brought for the purposes of the exorcism, &ldquo;that shift shall not
      serve you&mdash;Monkbarns warned me long since of your juggling pranks&mdash;I
      will see this treasure before you leave this place, or I will have you
      confess yourself an impostor, or, by Heaven, I&rsquo;ll run this sword through
      you, though all the spirits of the dead should rise around us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For de lofe of Heaven be patient, mine honoured patron, and you shall
      hafe all de treasure as I knows of&mdash;yes, you shall indeed&mdash;But
      do not speak about de spirits&mdash;it makes dem angry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edie Ochiltree here prepared himself to throw in another groan, but was
      restrained by Lovel, who began to take a more serious interest, as he
      observed the earnest and almost desperate demeanour of Sir Arthur.
      Dousterswivel, having at once before his eyes the fear of the foul fiend,
      and the violence of Sir Arthur, played his part of a conjuror extremely
      ill, hesitating to assume the degree of confidence necessary to deceive
      the latter, lest it should give offence to the invisible cause of his
      alarm. However, after rolling his eyes, muttering and sputtering German
      exorcisms, with contortions of his face and person, rather flowing from
      the impulse of terror than of meditated fraud, he at length proceeded to a
      corner of the building where a flat stone lay upon the ground, bearing
      upon its surface the effigy of an armed warrior in a recumbent posture
      carved in bas-relief. He muttered to Sir Arthur, &ldquo;Mine patrons, it is here&mdash;Got
      save us all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur, who, after the first moment of his superstitious fear was
      over, seemed to have bent up all his faculties to the pitch of resolution
      necessary to carry on the adventure, lent the adept his assistance to turn
      over the stone, which, by means of a lever that the adept had provided,
      their joint force with difficulty effected. No supernatural light burst
      forth from below to indicate the subterranean treasury, nor was there any
      apparition of spirits, earthly or infernal. But when Dousterswivel had,
      with great trepidation, struck a few strokes with a mattock, and as
      hastily thrown out a shovelful or two of earth (for they came provided
      with the tools necessary for digging), something was heard to ring like
      the sound of a falling piece of metal, and Dousterswivel, hastily catching
      up the substance which produced it, and which his shovel had thrown out
      along with the earth, exclaimed, &ldquo;On mine dear wort, mine patrons, dis is
      all&mdash;it is indeed; I mean all we can do to-night;&rdquo;&mdash;and he gazed
      round him with a cowering and fearful glance, as if to see from what
      corner the avenger of his imposture was to start forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me see it,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur; and then repeated, still more sternly,
      &ldquo;I will be satisfied&mdash;I will judge by mine own eyes.&rdquo; He accordingly
      held the object to the light of the lantern. It was a small case, or
      casket,&mdash;for Lovel could not at the distance exactly discern its
      shape, which, from the Baronet&rsquo;s exclamation as he opened it, he concluded
      was filled with coin. &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said the Baronet, &ldquo;this is being indeed in
      good luck! and if it omens proportional success upon a larger venture, the
      venture shall be made. That six hundred of Goldieword&rsquo;s, added to the
      other incumbent claims, must have been ruin indeed. If you think we can
      parry it by repeating this experiment&mdash;suppose when the moon next
      changes,&mdash;I will hazard the necessary advance, come by it how I may.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, mine good patrons, do not speak about all dat,&rdquo; said Dousterswivel,
      &ldquo;as just now, but help me to put de shtone to de rights, and let us begone
      our own ways.&rdquo; And accordingly, so soon as the stone was replaced, he
      hurried Sir Arthur, who was now resigned once more to his guidance, away
      from a spot, where the German&rsquo;s guilty conscience and superstitious fears
      represented goblins as lurking behind each pillar with the purpose of
      punishing his treachery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saw onybody e&rsquo;er the like o&rsquo; that!&rdquo; said Edie, when they had disappeared
      like shadows through the gate by which they had entered&mdash;&ldquo;saw ony
      creature living e&rsquo;er the like o&rsquo; that!&mdash;But what can we do for that
      puir doited deevil of a knight-baronet? Od, he showed muckle mair spunk,
      too, than I thought had been in him&mdash;I thought he wad hae sent cauld
      iron through the vagabond&mdash;Sir Arthur wasna half sae bauld at
      Bessie&rsquo;s-apron yon night&mdash;but then, his blood was up even now, and
      that makes an unco difference. I hae seen mony a man wad hae felled
      another an anger him, that wadna muckle hae liked a clink against
      Crummies-horn yon time. But what&rsquo;s to be done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;his faith in this fellow is entirely restored by
      this deception, which, unquestionably, he had arranged beforehand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! the siller?&mdash;Ay, ay&mdash;trust him for that&mdash;they that
      hide ken best where to find. He wants to wile him out o&rsquo; his last guinea,
      and then escape to his ain country, the land-louper. I wad likeit weel
      just to hae come in at the clipping-time, and gien him a lounder wi&rsquo; my
      pike-staff; he wad hae taen it for a bennison frae some o&rsquo; the auld dead
      abbots. But it&rsquo;s best no to be rash; sticking disna gang by strength, but
      by the guiding o&rsquo; the gally. I&rsquo;se be upsides wi&rsquo; him ae day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What if you should inform Mr. Oldbuck?&rdquo; said Lovel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, I dinna ken&mdash;Monkbarns and Sir Arthur are like, and yet they&rsquo;re
      no like neither. Monkbarns has whiles influence wi&rsquo; him, and whiles Sir
      Arthur cares as little about him as about the like o&rsquo; me. Monkbarns is no
      that ower wise himsell, in some things;&mdash;he wad believe a bodle to be
      an auld Roman coin, as he ca&rsquo;s it, or a ditch to be a camp, upon ony
      leasing that idle folk made about it. I hae garr&rsquo;d him trow mony a queer
      tale mysell, gude forgie me. But wi&rsquo; a&rsquo; that, he has unco little sympathy
      wi&rsquo; ither folks; and he&rsquo;s snell and dure eneugh in casting up their
      nonsense to them, as if he had nane o&rsquo; his ain. He&rsquo;ll listen the hale day,
      an yell tell him about tales o&rsquo; Wallace, and Blind Harry, and Davie
      Lindsay; but ye maunna speak to him about ghaists or fairies, or spirits
      walking the earth, or the like o&rsquo; that;&mdash;he had amaist flung auld
      Caxon out o&rsquo; the window (and he might just as weel hae flung awa his best
      wig after him), for threeping he had seen a ghaist at the humlock-knowe.
      Now, if he was taking it up in this way, he wad set up the tother&rsquo;s birse,
      and maybe do mair ill nor gude&mdash;he&rsquo;s done that twice or thrice about
      thae mine-warks; ye wad thought Sir Arthur had a pleasure in gaun on wi&rsquo; 
      them the deeper, the mair he was warned against it by Monkbarns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What say you then,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;to letting Miss Wardour know the
      circumstance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, puir thing, how could she stop her father doing his pleasure?&mdash;and,
      besides, what wad it help? There&rsquo;s a sough in the country about that six
      hundred pounds, and there&rsquo;s a writer chield in Edinburgh has been driving
      the spur-rowels o&rsquo; the law up to the head into Sir Arthur&rsquo;s sides to gar
      him pay it, and if he canna, he maun gang to jail or flee the country.
      He&rsquo;s like a desperate man, and just catches at this chance as a&rsquo; he has
      left, to escape utter perdition; so what signifies plaguing the puir
      lassie about what canna be helped? And besides, to say the truth, I wadna
      like to tell the secret o&rsquo; this place. It&rsquo;s unco convenient, ye see
      yoursell, to hae a hiding-hole o&rsquo; ane&rsquo;s ain; and though I be out o&rsquo; the
      line o&rsquo; needing ane e&rsquo;en now, and trust in the power o&rsquo; grace that I&rsquo;ll
      neer do onything to need ane again, yet naebody kens what temptation ane
      may be gien ower to&mdash;and, to be brief, I downa bide the thought of
      anybody kennin about the place;&mdash;they say, keep a thing seven year,
      an&rsquo; yell aye find a use for&rsquo;t&mdash;and maybe I may need the cove, either
      for mysell, or for some ither body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This argument, in which Edie Ochiltree, notwithstanding his scraps of
      morality and of divinity, seemed to take, perhaps from old habit, a
      personal interest, could not be handsomely controverted by Lovel, who was
      at that moment reaping the benefit of the secret of which the old man
      appeared to be so jealous.
    </p>
    <p>
      This incident, however, was of great service to Lovel, as diverting his
      mind from the unhappy occurrence of the evening, and considerably rousing
      the energies which had been stupefied by the first view of his calamity.
      He reflected that it by no means necessarily followed that a dangerous
      wound must be a fatal one&mdash;that he had been hurried from the spot
      even before the surgeon had expressed any opinion of Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s
      situation&mdash;and that he had duties on earth to perform, even should
      the very worst be true, which, if they could not restore his peace of mind
      or sense of innocence, would furnish a motive for enduring existence, and
      at the same time render it a course of active benevolence.&mdash;Such were
      Lovel&rsquo;s feelings, when the hour arrived when, according to Edie&rsquo;s
      calculation&mdash;who, by some train or process of his own in observing
      the heavenly bodies, stood independent of the assistance of a watch or
      time-keeper&mdash;it was fitting they should leave their hiding-place, and
      betake themselves to the seashore, in order to meet Lieutenant Taffril&rsquo;s
      boat according to appointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      They retreated by the same passage which had admitted them to the prior&rsquo;s
      secret seat of observation, and when they issued from the grotto into the
      wood, the birds which began to chirp, and even to sing, announced that the
      dawn was advanced. This was confirmed by the light and amber clouds that
      appeared over the sea, as soon as their exit from the copse permitted them
      to view the horizon.&mdash;Morning, said to be friendly to the muses, has
      probably obtained this character from its effect upon the fancy and
      feelings of mankind. Even to those who, like Lovel, have spent a sleepless
      and anxious night, the breeze of the dawn brings strength and quickening
      both of mind and body. It was, therefore, with renewed health and vigour
      that Lovel, guided by the trusty mendicant, brushed away the dew as he
      traversed the downs which divided the Den of St. Ruth, as the woods
      surrounding the ruins were popularly called, from the sea-shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first level beam of the sun, as his brilliant disk began to emerge
      from the ocean, shot full upon the little gun-brig which was lying-to in
      the offing&mdash;close to the shore the boat was already waiting, Taffril
      himself, with his naval cloak wrapped about him, seated in the stern. He
      jumped ashore when he saw the mendicant and Lovel approach, and, shaking
      the latter heartily by the hand, begged him not to be cast down.
      &ldquo;M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s wound,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;was doubtful, but far from desperate.&rdquo; His
      attention had got Lovel&rsquo;s baggage privately sent on board the brig; &ldquo;and,&rdquo;
       he said, &ldquo;he trusted that, if Lovel chose to stay with the vessel, the
      penalty of a short cruise would be the only disagreeable consequence of
      his rencontre. As for himself, his time and motions were a good deal at
      his own disposal, he said, excepting the necessary obligation of remaining
      on his station.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will talk of our farther motions,&rdquo; said Lovel, &ldquo;as we go on board.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then turning to Edie, he endeavoured to put money into his hand. &ldquo;I
      think,&rdquo; said Edie, as he tendered it back again, &ldquo;the hale folk here have
      either gane daft, or they hae made a vow to rain my trade, as they say
      ower muckle water drowns the miller. I hae had mair gowd offered me within
      this twa or three weeks than I ever saw in my life afore. Keep the siller,
      lad&mdash;yell hae need o&rsquo;t, I&rsquo;se warrant ye, and I hae nane my claes is
      nae great things, and I get a blue gown every year, and as mony siller
      groats as the king, God bless him, is years auld&mdash;you and I serve the
      same master, ye ken, Captain Taffril; there&rsquo;s rigging provided for&mdash;and
      my meat and drink I get for the asking in my rounds, or, at an orra time,
      I can gang a day without it, for I make it a rule never to pay for nane;&mdash;so
      that a&rsquo; the siller I need is just to buy tobacco and sneeshin, and maybe a
      dram at a time in a cauld day, though I am nae dram-drinker to be a
      gaberlunzie;&mdash;sae take back your gowd, and just gie me a lily-white
      shilling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Upon these whims, which he imagined intimately connected with the honour
      of his vagabond profession, Edie was flint and adamant, not to be moved by
      rhetoric or entreaty; and therefore Lovel was under the necessity of again
      pocketing his intended bounty, and taking a friendly leave of the
      mendicant by shaking him by the hand, and assuring him of his cordial
      gratitude for the very important services which he had rendered him,
      recommending, at the same time, secrecy as to what they had that night
      witnessed.&mdash;&ldquo;Ye needna doubt that,&rdquo; said Ochiltree; &ldquo;I never tell&rsquo;d
      tales out o&rsquo; yon cove in my life, though mony a queer thing I hae seen
      in&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boat now put off. The old man remained looking after it as it made
      rapidly towards the brig under the impulse of six stout rowers, and Lovel
      beheld him again wave his blue bonnet as a token of farewell ere he turned
      from his fixed posture, and began to move slowly along the sands as if
      resuming his customary perambulations.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br ><br > <br ><br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <h2>
      VOLUME II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIRST.
    </h2>
<pre>
                 Wiser Raymondus, in his closet pent,
                 Laughs at such danger and adventurement
              When half his lands are spent in golden smoke,
              And now his second hopeful glasse is broke,
                 But yet, if haply his third furnace hold,
                Devoteth all his pots and pans to gold.*
</pre>
    <p>
      * The author cannot remember where these lines are to be found: perhaps in
      Bishop Hall&rsquo;s Satires. [They occur in Book iv. Satire iii.]
    </p>
    <p>
      About a week after the adventures commemorated in our last CHAPTER, Mr.
      Oldbuck, descending to his breakfast-parlour, found that his womankind
      were not upon duty, his toast not made, and the silver jug, which was wont
      to receive his libations of mum, not duly aired for its reception.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This confounded hot-brained boy!&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;now that he begins
      to get out of danger, I can tolerate this life no longer. All goes to
      sixes and sevens&mdash;an universal saturnalia seems to be proclaimed in
      my peaceful and orderly family. I ask for my sister&mdash;no answer. I
      call, I shout&mdash;I invoke my inmates by more names than the Romans gave
      to their deities&mdash;at length Jenny, whose shrill voice I have heard
      this half-hour lilting in the Tartarean regions of the kitchen,
      condescends to hear me and reply, but without coming up stairs, so the
      conversation must be continued at the top of my lungs. &ldquo;&mdash;Here he
      again began to hollow aloud&mdash;&ldquo;Jenny, where&rsquo;s Miss Oldbuck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Grizzy&rsquo;s in the captain&rsquo;s room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Umph!&mdash;I thought so&mdash;and where&rsquo;s my niece?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Mary&rsquo;s making the captain&rsquo;s tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Umph! I supposed as much again&mdash;and where&rsquo;s Caxon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Awa to the town about the captain&rsquo;s fowling-gun, and his setting-dog.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who the devil&rsquo;s to dress my periwig, you silly jade?&mdash;when you
      knew that Miss Wardour and Sir Arthur were coming here early after
      breakfast, how could you let Caxon go on such a Tomfool&rsquo;s errand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me! what could I hinder him?&mdash;your honour wadna hae us contradict
      the captain e&rsquo;en now, and him maybe deeing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dying!&rdquo; said the alarmed Antiquary,&mdash;&ldquo;eh! what? has he been worse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, he&rsquo;s no nae waur that I ken of.&rdquo; *
    </p>
    <p>
      * It is, I believe, a piece of free-masonry, or a point of conscience,
      among the Scottish lower orders, never to admit that a patient is doing
      better. The closest approach to recovery which they can be brought to
      allow, is, that the pairty inquired after is &ldquo;Nae waur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he must be better&mdash;and what good is a dog and a gun to do here,
      but the one to destroy all my furniture, steal from my larder, and perhaps
      worry the cat, and the other to shoot somebody through the head. He has
      had gunning and pistolling enough to serve him one while, I should think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Miss Oldbuck entered the parlour, at the door of which Oldbuck was
      carrying on this conversation, he bellowing downward to Jenny, and she
      again screaming upward in reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear brother,&rdquo; said the old lady, &ldquo;ye&rsquo;ll cry yoursell as hoarse as a
      corbie&mdash;is that the way to skreigh when there&rsquo;s a sick person in the
      house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, the sick person&rsquo;s like to have all the house to himself,&mdash;
      I have gone without my breakfast, and am like to go without my wig; and I
      must not, I suppose, presume to say I feel either hunger or cold, for fear
      of disturbing the sick gentleman who lies six rooms off, and who feels
      himself well enough to send for his dog and gun, though he knows I detest
      such implements ever since our elder brother, poor Williewald, marched out
      of the world on a pair of damp feet, caught in the Kittlefitting-moss. But
      that signifies nothing; I suppose I shall be expected by and by to lend a
      hand to carry Squire Hector out upon his litter, while he indulges his
      sportsmanlike propensities by shooting my pigeons, or my turkeys&mdash;I
      think any of the <i>ferae naturae</i> are safe from him for one while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss M&rsquo;Intyre now entered, and began to her usual morning&rsquo;s task of
      arranging her uncle&rsquo;s breakfast, with the alertness of one who is too late
      in setting about a task, and is anxious to make up for lost time. But this
      did not avail her. &ldquo;Take care, you silly womankind&mdash;that mum&rsquo;s too
      near the fire&mdash;the bottle will burst; and I suppose you intend to
      reduce the toast to a cinder as a burnt-offering for Juno, or what do you
      call her&mdash;the female dog there, with some such Pantheon kind of a
      name, that your wise brother has, in his first moments of mature
      reflection, ordered up as a fitting inmate of my house (I thank him), and
      meet company to aid the rest of the womankind of my household in their
      daily conversation and intercourse with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear uncle, don&rsquo;t be angry about the poor spaniel; she&rsquo;s been tied up at
      my brother&rsquo;s lodgings at Fairport, and she&rsquo;s broke her chain twice, and
      came running down here to him; and you would not have us beat the faithful
      beast away from the door?&mdash;it moans as if it had some sense of poor
      Hector&rsquo;s misfortune, and will hardly stir from the door of his room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; said his uncle, &ldquo;they said Caxon had gone to Fairport after his dog
      and gun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O dear sir, no,&rdquo; answered Miss M&rsquo;Intyre, &ldquo;it was to fetch some dressings
      that were wanted, and Hector only wished him to bring out his gun, as he
      was going to Fairport at any rate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, it is not altogether so foolish a business, considering what
      a mess of womankind have been about it&mdash;Dressings, quotha?&mdash;and
      who is to dress my wig?&mdash;But I suppose Jenny will undertake&rdquo;&mdash;continued
      the old bachelor, looking at himself in the glass&mdash;&ldquo;to make it
      somewhat decent. And now let us set to breakfast&mdash;with what appetite
      we may. Well may I say to Hector, as Sir Isaac Newton did to his dog
      Diamond, when the animal (I detest dogs) flung down the taper among
      calculations which had occupied the philosopher for twenty years, and
      consumed the whole mass of materials&mdash;Diamond, Diamond, thou little
      knowest the mischief thou hast done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you, sir,&rdquo; replied his niece, &ldquo;my brother is quite sensible of
      the rashness of his own behaviour, and allows that Mr. Lovel behaved very
      handsomely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And much good that will do, when he has frightened the lad out of the
      country! I tell thee, Mary, Hector&rsquo;s understanding, and far more that of
      feminity, is inadequate to comprehend the extent of the loss which he has
      occasioned to the present age and to posterity&mdash;<i>aureum quidem opus</i>&mdash;a
      poem on such a subject, with notes illustrative of all that is clear, and
      all that is dark, and all that is neither dark nor clear, but hovers in
      dusky twilight in the region of Caledonian antiquities. I would have made
      the Celtic panegyrists look about them. Fingal, as they conceitedly term
      Fin-Mac-Coul, should have disappeared before my search, rolling himself in
      his cloud like the spirit of Loda. Such an opportunity can hardly again
      occur to an ancient and grey-haired man; and to see it lost by the madcap
      spleen of a hot-headed boy! But I submit&mdash;Heaven&rsquo;s will be done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus continued the Antiquary to <i>maunder,</i> as his sister expressed
      it, during the whole time of breakfast, while, despite of sugar and honey,
      and all the comforts of a Scottish morning tea-table, his reflections
      rendered the meal bitter to all who heard them. But they knew the nature
      of the man. &ldquo;Monkbarns&rsquo;s bark,&rdquo; said Miss Griselda Oldbuck, in
      confidential intercourse with Miss Rebecca Blattergowl, &ldquo;is muckle waur
      than his bite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In fact, Mr. Oldbuck had suffered in mind extremely while his nephew was
      in actual danger, and now felt himself at liberty, upon his returning
      health, to indulge in complaints respecting the trouble he had been put
      to, and the interruption of his antiquarian labours. Listened to,
      therefore, in respectful silence, by his niece and sister, he unloaded his
      discontent in such grumblings as we have rehearsed, venting many a sarcasm
      against womankind, soldiers, dogs, and guns, all which implements of
      noise, discord, and tumult, as he called them, he professed to hold in
      utter abomination.
    </p>
    <p>
      This expectoration of spleen was suddenly interrupted by the noise of a
      carriage without, when, shaking off all sullenness at the sound, Oldbuck
      ran nimbly up stairs and down stairs, for both operations were necessary
      ere he could receive Miss Wardour and her father at the door of his
      mansion.
    </p>
    <p>
      A cordial greeting passed on both sides. And Sir Arthur, referring to his
      previous inquiries by letter and message, requested to be particularly
      informed of Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s health.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better than he deserves,&rdquo; was the answer&mdash;&ldquo;better than he deserves,
      for disturbing us with his vixen brawls, and breaking God&rsquo;s peace and the
      King&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The young gentleman,&rdquo; Sir Arthur said, &ldquo;had been imprudent; but he
      understood they were indebted to him for the detection of a suspicious
      character in the young man Lovel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more suspicious than his own,&rdquo; answered the Antiquary, eager in his
      favourites defence;&mdash;&ldquo;the young gentleman was a little foolish and
      headstrong, and refused to answer Hector&rsquo;s impertinent interrogatories&mdash;
      that is all. Lovel, Sir Arthur, knows how to choose his confidants better&mdash;Ay,
      Miss Wardour, you may look at me&mdash;but it is very true;&mdash;it was
      in my bosom that he deposited the secret cause of his residence at
      Fairport; and no stone should have been left unturned on my part to assist
      him in the pursuit to which he had dedicated himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this magnanimous declaration on the part of the old Antiquary,
      Miss Wardour changed colour more than once, and could hardly trust her own
      ears. For of all confidants to be selected as the depositary of love
      affairs,&mdash;and such she naturally supposed must have been the subject
      of communication,&mdash;next to Edie Ochiltree, Oldbuck seemed the most
      uncouth and extraordinary; nor could she sufficiently admire or fret at
      the extraordinary combination of circumstances which thus threw a secret
      of such a delicate nature into the possession of persons so unfitted to be
      entrusted with it. She had next to fear the mode of Oldbuck&rsquo;s entering
      upon the affair with her father, for such, she doubted not, was his
      intention. She well knew that the honest gentleman, however vehement in
      his prejudices, had no great sympathy with those of others, and she had to
      fear a most unpleasant explosion upon an <i>e&rsquo;claircissement</i> taking
      place between them. It was therefore with great anxiety that she heard her
      father request a private interview, and observed Oldbuck readily arise and
      show the way to his library. She remained behind, attempting to converse
      with the ladies of Monkbarns, but with the distracted feelings of Macbeth,
      when compelled to disguise his evil conscience by listening and replying
      to the observations of the attendant thanes upon the storm of the
      preceding night, while his whole soul is upon the stretch to listen for
      the alarm of murder, which he knows must be instantly raised by those who
      have entered the sleeping apartment of Duncan. But the conversation of the
      two virtuosi turned on a subject very different from that which Miss
      Wardour apprehended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, when they had, after a due exchange of
      ceremonies, fairly seated themselves in the <i>sanctum sanctorum</i> of
      the Antiquary,&mdash;&ldquo;you, who know so much of my family matters, may
      probably be surprised at the question I am about to put to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Sir Arthur, if it relates to money, I am very sorry, but&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does relate to money matters, Mr. Oldbuck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, then, Sir Arthur,&rdquo; continued the Antiquary, &ldquo;in the present state
      of the money-market&mdash;and stocks being so low&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mistake my meaning, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said the Baronet; &ldquo;I wished to ask
      your advice about laying out a large sum of money to advantage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil!&rdquo; exclaimed the Antiquary; and, sensible that his involuntary
      ejaculation of wonder was not over and above civil, he proceeded to
      qualify it by expressing his joy that Sir Arthur should have a sum of
      money to lay out when the commodity was so scarce. &ldquo;And as for the mode of
      employing it,&rdquo; said he, pausing, &ldquo;the funds are low at present, as I said
      before, and there are good bargains of land to be had. But had you not
      better begin by clearing off encumbrances, Sir Arthur?&mdash;There is the
      sum in the personal bond&mdash;and the three notes of hand,&rdquo; continued he,
      taking out of the right-hand drawer of his cabinet a certain red
      memorandum-book, of which Sir Arthur, from the experience of former
      frequent appeals to it, abhorred the very sight&mdash;&ldquo;with the interest
      thereon, amounting altogether to&mdash;let me see&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To about a thousand pounds,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, hastily; &ldquo;you told me the
      amount the other day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there&rsquo;s another term&rsquo;s interest due since that, Sir Arthur, and it
      amounts (errors excepted) to eleven hundred and thirteen pounds, seven
      shillings, five pennies, and three-fourths of a penny sterling&mdash;But
      look over the summation yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay you are quite right, my dear sir,&rdquo; said the Baronet, putting
      away the book with his hand, as one rejects the old-fashioned civility
      that presses food upon you after you have eaten till you nauseate&mdash;
      &ldquo;perfectly right, I dare say; and in the course of three days or less you
      shall have the full value&mdash;that is, if you choose to accept it in
      bullion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bullion! I suppose you mean lead. What the deuce! have we hit on the vein
      then at last? But what could I do with a thousand pounds&rsquo; worth, and
      upwards, of lead? The former abbots of Trotcosey might have roofed their
      church and monastery with it indeed&mdash;but for me&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By bullion,&rdquo; said the Baronet, &ldquo;I mean the precious metals,&mdash;gold
      and silver.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay! indeed?&mdash;and from what Eldorado is this treasure to be
      imported?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not far from hence,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, significantly. &ldquo;And naow I think of
      it, you shall see the whole process, on one small condition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what is that?&rdquo; craved the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it will be necessary for you to give me your friendly assistance, by
      advancing one hundred pounds or thereabouts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck, who had already been grasping in idea the sum, principal and
      interest, of a debt which he had long regarded as wellnigh desperate, was
      so much astounded at the tables being so unexpectedly turned upon him,
      that he could only re-echo, in an accent of wo and surprise, the words,
      &ldquo;Advance one hundred pounds!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my good sir,&rdquo; continued Sir Arthur; &ldquo;but upon the best possible
      security of being repaid in the course of two or three days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause&mdash;either Oldbuck&rsquo;s nether jaw had not recovered its
      position, so as to enable him to utter a negative, or his curiosity kept
      him silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not propose to you,&rdquo; continued Sir Arthur, &ldquo;to oblige me thus
      far, if I did not possess actual proofs of the reality of those
      expectations which I now hold out to you. And I assure you, Mr. Oldbuck,
      that in entering fully upon this topic, it is my purpose to show my
      confidence in you, and my sense of your kindness on many former
      occasions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck professed his sense of obligation, but carefully avoided
      committing himself by any promise of farther assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dousterswivel,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, &ldquo;having discovered&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Oldbuck broke in, his eyes sparkling with indignation. &ldquo;Sir Arthur, I
      have so often warned you of the knavery of that rascally quack, that I
      really wonder you should quote him to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But listen&mdash;listen,&rdquo; interrupted Sir Arthur in his turn, &ldquo;it will do
      you no harm. In short, Dousterswivel persuaded me to witness an experiment
      which he had made in the ruins of St. Ruth&mdash;and what do you think we
      found?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another spring of water, I suppose, of which the rogue had beforehand
      taken care to ascertain the situation and source.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed&mdash;a casket of gold and silver coins&mdash;here they are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that, Sir Arthur drew from his pocket a large ram&rsquo;s horn, with a
      copper cover, containing a considerable quantity of coins, chiefly silver,
      but with a few gold pieces intermixed. The Antiquary&rsquo;s eyes glistened as
      he eagerly spread them out on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word&mdash;Scotch, English, and foreign coins, of the fifteenth
      and sixteenth centuries, and some of them <i>rari&mdash;et rariores&mdash;etiam
      rarissimi!</i> Here is the bonnet-piece of James V., the unicorn of James
      II.,&mdash;ay, and the gold festoon of Queen Mary, with her head and the
      Dauphin&rsquo;s. And these were really found in the ruins of St. Ruth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most assuredly&mdash;my own eyes witnessed it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; replied Oldbuck; &ldquo;but you must tell me the when&mdash;the
      where-the how.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The when,&rdquo; answered Sir Arthur, &ldquo;was at midnight the last full moon&mdash;the
      where, as I have told you, in the ruins of St. Ruth&rsquo;s priory&mdash;the
      how, was by a nocturnal experiment of Dousterswivel, accompanied only by
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;and what means of discovery did you employ?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only a simple suffumigation,&rdquo; said the Baronet, &ldquo;accompanied by availing
      ourselves of the suitable planetary hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simple suffumigation? simple nonsensification&mdash;planetary hour?
      planetary fiddlestick! <i>Sapiens dominabitur astris.</i> My dear Sir
      Arthur, that fellow has made a gull of you above ground and under ground,
      and he would have made a gull of you in the air too, if he had been by
      when you was craned up the devil&rsquo;s turnpike yonder at Halket-head&mdash;to
      be sure the transformation would have been then peculiarly <i>apropos.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mr. Oldbuck, I am obliged to you for your indifferent opinion of my
      discernment; but I think you will give me credit for having seen what I <i>say</i>
      I saw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, Sir Arthur,&rdquo; said the Antiquary,&mdash;&ldquo;to this extent at
      least, that I know Sir Arthur Wardour will not say he saw anything but
      what he <i>thought</i> he saw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; replied the Baronet, &ldquo;as there is a heaven above us, Mr.
      Oldbuck, I saw, with my own eyes, these coins dug out of the chancel of
      St. Ruth at midnight. And as to Dousterswivel, although the discovery be
      owing to his science, yet, to tell the truth, I do not think he would have
      had firmness of mind to have gone through with it if I had not been beside
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay! indeed?&rdquo; said Oldbuck, in the tone used when one wishes to hear the
      end of a story before making any comment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes truly,&rdquo; continued Sir Arthur&mdash;&ldquo;I assure you I was upon my guard&mdash;we
      did hear some very uncommon sounds, that is certain, proceeding from among
      the ruins.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you did?&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;an accomplice hid among them, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a jot,&rdquo; said the Baronet;&mdash;&ldquo;the sounds, though of a hideous and
      preternatural character, rather resembled those of a man who sneezes
      violently than any other&mdash;one deep groan I certainly heard besides;
      and Dousterswivel assures me that he beheld the spirit Peolphan, the Great
      Hunter of the North&mdash;(look for him in your Nicolaus Remigius, or
      Petrus Thyracus, Mr. Oldbuck)&mdash;who mimicked the motion of
      snuff-taking and its effects.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These indications, however singular as proceeding from such a personage,
      seem to have been <i>apropos</i> to the matter,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;for
      you see the case, which includes these coins, has all the appearance of
      being an old-fashioned Scottish snuff-mill. But you persevered, in spite
      of the terrors of this sneezing goblin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I think it probable that a man of inferior sense or consequence
      might have given way; but I was jealous of an imposture, conscious of the
      duty I owed to my family in maintaining my courage under every
      contingency, and therefore I compelled Dousterswivel, by actual and
      violent threats, to proceed with what he was about to do;&mdash;and, sir,
      the proof of his skill and honesty is this parcel of gold and silver
      pieces, out of which I beg you to select such coins or medals as will best
      suit your collection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Sir Arthur, since you are so good, and on condition you will permit
      me to mark the value according to Pinkerton&rsquo;s catalogue and appreciation,
      against your account in my red book, I will with pleasure select&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur Wardour, &ldquo;I do not mean you should consider them as
      anything but a gift of friendship and least of all would I stand by the
      valuation of your friend Pinkerton, who has impugned the ancient and
      trustworthy authorities upon which, as upon venerable and moss-grown
      pillars, the credit of Scottish antiquities reposed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; rejoined Oldbuck, &ldquo;you mean, I suppose, Mair and Boece, the
      Jachin and Boaz, not of history but of falsification and forgery. And
      notwithstanding all you have told me, I look on your friend Dousterswivel
      to be as apocryphal as any of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why then, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, &ldquo;not to awaken old disputes, I
      suppose you think, that because I believe in the ancient history of my
      country, I have neither eyes nor ears to ascertain what modern events pass
      before me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, Sir Arthur,&rdquo; rejoined the Antiquary; &ldquo;but I consider all the
      affectation of terror which this worthy gentleman, your coadjutor, chose
      to play off, as being merely one part of his trick or mystery. And with
      respect to the gold or silver coins, they are so mixed and mingled in
      country and date, that I cannot suppose they could be any genuine hoard,
      and rather suppose them to be, like the purses upon the table of
      Hudibras&rsquo;s lawyer&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                       &mdash;Money placed for show,
                   Like nest-eggs, to make clients lay,
                   And for his false opinions pay.&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      It is the trick of all professions, my dear Sir Arthur. Pray, may I ask
      you how much this discovery cost you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About ten guineas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have gained what is equivalent to twenty in actual bullion, and
      what may be perhaps worth as much more to such fools as ourselves, who are
      willing to pay for curiosity. This was allowing you a tempting profit on
      the first hazard, I must needs admit. And what is the next venture he
      proposes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An hundred and fifty pounds;&mdash;I have given him one-third part of the
      money, and I thought it likely you might assist me with the balance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think that this cannot be meant as a parting blow&mdash;is not
      of weight and importance sufficient; he will probably let us win this hand
      also, as sharpers manage a raw gamester.&mdash;Sir Arthur, I hope you
      believe I would serve you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, Mr. Oldbuck; I think my confidence in you on these occasions
      leaves no room to doubt that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, allow me to speak to Dousterswivel. If the money can be
      advanced usefully and advantageously for you, why, for old neighbourhood&rsquo;s
      sake, you shall not want it but if, as I think, I can recover the treasure
      for you without making such an advance, you will, I presume, have no
      objection!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unquestionably, I can have none whatsoever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then where is Dousterswivel?&rdquo; continued the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell you the truth, he is in my carriage below; but knowing your
      prejudice against him&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank Heaven, I am not prejudiced against any man, Sir Arthur: it is
      systems, not individuals, that incur my reprobation.&rdquo; He rang the bell.
      &ldquo;Jenny, Sir Arthur and I offer our compliments to Mr. Dousterswivel, the
      gentleman in Sir Arthur&rsquo;s carriage, and beg to have the pleasure of
      speaking with him here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jenny departed and delivered her message. It had been by no means a part
      of the project of Dousterswivel to let Mr. Oldbuck into his supposed
      mystery. He had relied upon Sir Arthur&rsquo;s obtaining the necessary
      accommodation without any discussion as to the nature of the application,
      and only waited below for the purpose of possessing himself of the deposit
      as soon as possible, for he foresaw that his career was drawing to a
      close. But when summoned to the presence of Sir Arthur and Mr. Oldbuck, he
      resolved gallantly to put confidence in his powers of impudence, of which,
      the reader may have observed, his natural share was very liberal.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SECOND.
    </h2>
<pre>
                          &mdash;And this Doctor,
             Your sooty smoky-bearded compeer, he
             Will close you so much gold in a bolt&rsquo;s head,
             And, on a turn, convey in the stead another
             With sublimed mercury, that shall burst i&rsquo; the heat,
                      And all fly out <i>in fumo.</i>&mdash;
                                        The Alchemist.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you do, goot Mr. Oldenbuck? and I do hope your young gentleman,
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, is getting better again? Ach! it is a bat business when
      young gentlemens will put lead balls into each other&rsquo;s body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lead adventures of all kinds are very precarious, Mr. Dousterswivel; but
      I am happy to learn,&rdquo; continued the Antiquary, &ldquo;from my friend Sir Arthur,
      that you have taken up a better trade, and become a discoverer of gold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, Mr. Oldenbuck, mine goot and honoured patron should not have told a
      word about dat little matter; for, though I have all reliance&mdash;yes,
      indeed, on goot Mr. Oldenbuck&rsquo;s prudence and discretion, and his great
      friendship for Sir Arthur Wardour&mdash;yet, my heavens! it is an great
      ponderous secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More ponderous than any of the metal we shall make by it, I fear,&rdquo;
       answered Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dat is just as you shall have de faith and de patience for de grand
      experiment&mdash;If you join wid Sir Arthur, as he is put one hundred and
      fifty&mdash;see, here is one fifty in your dirty Fairport bank-note&mdash;you
      put one other hundred and fifty in de dirty notes, and you shall have de
      pure gold and silver, I cannot tell how much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor any one for you, I believe,&rdquo; said the Antiquary. &ldquo;But, hark you, Mr.
      Dousterswivel: Suppose, without troubling this same sneezing spirit with
      any farther fumigations, we should go in a body, and having fair day-light
      and our good consciences to befriend us, using no other conjuring
      implements than good substantial pick-axes and shovels, fairly trench the
      area of the chancel in the ruins of St. Ruth, from one end to the other,
      and so ascertain the existence of this supposed treasure, without putting
      ourselves to any farther expense&mdash;the ruins belong to Sir Arthur
      himself, so there can be no objection&mdash;do you think we shall succeed
      in this way of managing the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&mdash;you will not find one copper thimble&mdash;But Sir Arthur will
      do his pleasure. I have showed him how it is possible&mdash;very possible&mdash;to
      have de great sum of money for his occasions&mdash;I have showed him de
      real experiment. If he likes not to believe, goot Mr. Oldenbuck, it is
      nothing to Herman Dousterswivel&mdash;he only loses de money and de gold
      and de silvers&mdash;dat is all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur Wardour cast an intimidated glance at Oldbuck who, especially
      when present, held, notwithstanding their frequent difference of opinion,
      no ordinary influence over his sentiments. In truth, the Baronet felt,
      what he would not willingly have acknowledged, that his genius stood
      rebuked before that of the Antiquary. He respected him as a shrewd,
      penetrating, sarcastic character&mdash;feared his satire, and had some
      confidence in the general soundness of his opinions. He therefore looked
      at him as if desiring his leave before indulging his credulity.
      Dousterswivel saw he was in danger of losing his dupe, unless he could
      make some favourable impression on the adviser.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, my goot Mr. Oldenbuck, it is one vanity to speak to you about de
      spirit and de goblin. But look at this curious horn;&mdash;I know, you
      know de curiosity of all de countries, and how de great Oldenburgh horn,
      as they keep still in the Museum at Copenhagen, was given to de Duke of
      Oldenburgh by one female spirit of de wood. Now I could not put one trick
      on you if I were willing&mdash;you who know all de curiosity so well&mdash;and
      dere it is de horn full of coins;&mdash;if it had been a box or case, I
      would have said nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Being a horn,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;does indeed strengthen your argument. It
      was an implement of nature&rsquo;s fashioning, and therefore much used among
      rude nations, although, it may be, the metaphorical horn is more frequent
      in proportion to the progress of civilisation. And this present horn,&rdquo; he
      continued, rubbing it upon his sleeve, &ldquo;is a curious and venerable relic,
      and no doubt was intended to prove a <i>cornucopia,</i> or horn of plenty,
      to some one or other; but whether to the adept or his patron, may be
      justly doubted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mr. Oldenbuck, I find you still hard of belief&mdash;but let me
      assure you, de monksh understood de <i>magisterium.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us leave talking of the <i>magisterium,</i> Mr. Dousterswivel, and
      think a little about the magistrate. Are you aware that this occupation of
      yours is against the law of Scotland, and that both Sir Arthur and myself
      are in the commission of the peace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine heaven! and what is dat to de purpose when I am doing you all de
      goot I can?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you must know that when the legislature abolished the cruel laws
      against witchcraft, they had no hope of destroying the superstitious
      feelings of humanity on which such chimeras had been founded; and to
      prevent those feelings from being tampered with by artful and designing
      persons, it is enacted by the ninth of George the Second, chap. 5, that
      whosoever shall pretend, by his alleged skill in any occult or crafty
      science, to discover such goods as are lost, stolen or concealed, he shall
      suffer punishment by pillory and imprisonment, as a common cheat and
      impostor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is dat de laws?&rdquo; asked Dousterswivel, with some agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thyself shall see the act,&rdquo; replied the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Den, gentlemens, I shall take my leave of you, dat is all; I do not like
      to stand on your what you call pillory&mdash;it is very bad way to take de
      air, I think; and I do not like your prisons no more, where one cannot
      take de air at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If such be your taste, Mr. Dousterswivel,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;I advise
      you to stay where you are, for I cannot let you go, unless it be in the
      society of a constable; and, moreover, I expect you will attend us just
      now to the ruins of St. Ruth, and point out the place where you propose to
      find this treasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine heaven, Mr. Oldenbuck! what usage is this to your old friend, when I
      tell you so plain as I can speak, dat if you go now, you will not get so
      much treasure as one poor shabby sixpence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will try the experiment, however, and you shall be dealt with according
      to its success,&mdash;always with Sir Arthur&rsquo;s permission.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre>
Sir Arthur, during this investigation, had looked extremely embarrassed,
and, to use a vulgar but expressive phrase, chop-fallen. Oldbuck&rsquo;s
obstinate disbelief led him strongly to suspect the imposture of
Dousterswivel, and the adept&rsquo;s mode of keeping his ground was less
resolute than he had expected. Yet he did not entirely give him up.

 &ldquo;Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said the Baronet, &ldquo;you do Mr. Dousterswivel less than
justice. He has undertaken to make this discovery by the use of his art,
and by applying characters descriptive of the Intelligences presiding
over the planetary hour in which the experiment is to be made; and you
require him to proceed, under pain of punishment, without allowing him
the use of any of the preliminaries which he considers as the means of
procuring success.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not say that exactly&mdash;I only required him to be present when
      we make the search, and not to leave us during the interval. I fear he may
      have some intelligence with the Intelligences you talk of, and that
      whatever may be now hidden at Saint Ruth may disappear before we get
      there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, gentlemens,&rdquo; said Dousterswivel, sullenly, &ldquo;I will make no
      objections to go along with you but I tell you beforehand, you shall not
      find so much of anything as shall be worth your going twenty yard from
      your own gate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will put that to a fair trial,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; and the Baronet&rsquo;s
      equipage being ordered, Miss Wardour received an intimation from her
      father, that she was to remain at Monkbarns until his return from an
      airing. The young lady was somewhat at a loss to reconcile this direction
      with the communication which she supposed must have passed between Sir
      Arthur and the Antiquary; but she was compelled, for the present, to
      remain in a most unpleasant state of suspense.
    </p>
    <p>
      The journey of the treasure-seekers was melancholy enough. Dousterswivel
      maintained a sulky silence, brooding at once over disappointed expectation
      and the risk of punishment; Sir Arthur, whose golden dreams had been
      gradually fading away, surveyed, in gloomy prospect, the impending
      difficulties of his situation; and Oldbuck, who perceived that his having
      so far interfered in his neighbours affairs gave the Baronet a right to
      expect some actual and efficient assistance, sadly pondered to what extent
      it would be necessary to draw open the strings of his purse. Thus each
      being wrapped in his own unpleasant ruminations, there was hardly a word
      said on either side, until they reached the Four Horse-shoes, by which
      sign the little inn was distinguished. They procured at this place the
      necessary assistance and implements for digging, and, while they were busy
      about these preparations, were suddenly joined by the old beggar, Edie
      Ochiltree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lord bless your honour,&rdquo; began the Blue-Gown, with the genuine
      mendicant whine, &ldquo;and long life to you!&mdash;weel pleased am I to hear
      that young Captain M&rsquo;Intyre is like to be on his legs again sune&mdash;Think
      on your poor bedesman the day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha, old true-penny!&rdquo; replied the Antiquary. &ldquo;Why, thou hast never come
      to Monkbarns since thy perils by rock and flood&mdash;here&rsquo;s something for
      thee to buy snuff,&rdquo;&mdash;and, fumbling for his purse, he pulled out at
      the same time the horn which enclosed the coins.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, and there&rsquo;s something to pit it in,&rdquo; said the mendicant, eyeing the
      ram&rsquo;s horn&mdash;&ldquo;that loom&rsquo;s an auld acquaintance o&rsquo; mine. I could take
      my aith to that sneeshing-mull amang a thousand&mdash;I carried it for
      mony a year, till I niffered it for this tin ane wi&rsquo; auld George Glen, the
      dammer and sinker, when he took a fancy till&rsquo;t doun at Glen-Withershins
      yonder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay! indeed?&rdquo; said Oldbuck;&mdash;&ldquo;so you exchanged it with a miner? but I
      presume you never saw it so well filled before&rdquo;&mdash;and opening it, he
      showed the coins.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, ye may swear that, Monkbarns: when it was mine it neer had abune
      the like o&rsquo; saxpenny worth o&rsquo; black rappee in&rsquo;t at ance. But I reckon
      ye&rsquo;ll be gaun to mak an antic o&rsquo;t, as ye hae dune wi&rsquo; mony an orra thing
      besides. Od, I wish anybody wad mak an antic o&rsquo; me; but mony ane will find
      worth in rousted bits o&rsquo; capper and horn and airn, that care unco little
      about an auld carle o&rsquo; their ain country and kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may now guess,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, turning to Sir Arthur, &ldquo;to whose good
      offices you were indebted the other night. To trace this cornucopia of
      yours to a miner, is bringing it pretty near a friend of ours&mdash;I hope
      we shall be as successful this morning, without paying for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And whare is your honours gaun the day,&rdquo; said the mendicant, &ldquo;wi&rsquo; a&rsquo; your
      picks and shules?&mdash;Od, this will be some o&rsquo; your tricks, Monkbarns:
      ye&rsquo;ll be for whirling some o&rsquo; the auld monks down by yonder out o&rsquo; their
      graves afore they hear the last call&mdash;but, wi&rsquo; your leave, I&rsquo;se
      follow ye at ony rate, and see what ye mak o&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The party soon arrived at the ruins of the priory, and, having gained the
      chancel, stood still to consider what course they were to pursue next. The
      Antiquary, meantime, addressed the adept.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray, Mr. Dousterswivel, what is your advice in this matter? Shall we
      have most likelihood of success if we dig from east to west, or from west
      to east?&mdash;or will you assist us with your triangular vial of May-dew,
      or with your divining-rod of witches-hazel?&mdash;or will you have the
      goodness to supply us with a few thumping blustering terms of art, which,
      if they fail in our present service, may at least be useful to those who
      have not the happiness to be bachelors, to still their brawling children
      withal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Oldenbuck,&rdquo; said Dousterswivel, doggedly, &ldquo;I have told you already
      that you will make no good work at all, and I will find some way of mine
      own to thank you for your civilities to me&mdash;yes, indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your honours are thinking of tirling the floor,&rdquo; said old Edie, &ldquo;and
      wad but take a puir body&rsquo;s advice, I would begin below that muckle stane
      that has the man there streekit out upon his back in the midst o&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have some reason for thinking favourably of that plan myself,&rdquo; said the
      Baronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I have nothing to say against it,&rdquo; said Oldbuck: &ldquo;it was not unusual
      to hide treasure in the tombs of the deceased&mdash;many instances might
      be quoted of that from Bartholinus and others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tombstone, the same beneath which the coins had been found by Sir
      Arthur and the German, was once more forced aside, and the earth gave easy
      way to the spade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s travell&rsquo;d earth that,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;it howks gae eithly&mdash;I ken
      it weel, for ance I wrought a simmer wi&rsquo; auld Will Winnet, the bedral, and
      howkit mair graves than ane in my day; but I left him in winter, for it
      was unco cald wark; and then it cam a green Yule, and the folk died thick
      and fast&mdash;for ye ken a green Yule makes a fat kirkyard; and I never
      dowed to bide a hard turn o&rsquo; wark in my life&mdash;sae aff I gaed, and
      left Will to delve his last dwellings by himsell for Edie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The diggers were now so far advanced in their labours as to discover that
      the sides of the grave which they were clearing out had been originally
      secured by four walls of freestone, forming a parallelogram, for the
      reception, probably, of the coffin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is worth while proceeding in our labours,&rdquo; said the Antiquary to Sir
      Arthur, &ldquo;were it but for curiosity&rsquo;s sake. I wonder on whose sepulchre
      they have bestowed such uncommon pains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The arms on the shield,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, and sighed as he spoke it, &ldquo;are
      the same with those on Misticot&rsquo;s tower, supposed to have been built by
      Malcolm the usurper. No man knew where he was buried, and there is an old
      prophecy in our family, that bodes us no good when his grave shall be
      discovered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wot,&rdquo; said the beggar, &ldquo;I have often heard that when I was a bairn&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
              If Malcolm the Misticot&rsquo;s grave were fun&rsquo;,
              The lands of Knockwinnock were lost and won.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Oldbuck, with his spectacles on his nose, had already knelt down on the
      monument, and was tracing, partly with his eye, partly with his finger,
      the mouldered devices upon the effigy of the deceased warrior. &ldquo;It is the
      Knockwinnock arms, sure enough,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;quarterly with the coat of
      Wardour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Richard, called the red-handed Wardour, married Sybil Knockwinnock, the
      heiress of the Saxon family, and by that alliance,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur,
      &ldquo;brought the castle and estate into the name of Wardour, in the year of
      God 1150.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very true, Sir Arthur; and here is the baton-sinister, the mark of
      illegitimacy, extended diagonally through both coats upon the shield.
      Where can our eyes have been, that they did not see this curious monument
      before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, whare was the through-stane, that it didna come before our een till
      e&rsquo;enow?&rdquo; said Ochiltree; &ldquo;for I hae ken&rsquo;d this auld kirk, man and bairn,
      for saxty lang years, and I neer noticed it afore; and it&rsquo;s nae sic mote
      neither, but what ane might see it in their parritch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All were now induced to tax their memory as to the former state of the
      ruins in that corner of the chancel, and all agreed in recollecting a
      considerable pile of rubbish which must have been removed and spread
      abroad in order to make the tomb visible. Sir Arthur might, indeed, have
      remembered seeing the monument on the former occasion, but his mind was
      too much agitated to attend to the circumstance as a novelty.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the assistants were engaged in these recollections and discussions,
      the workmen proceeded with their labour. They had already dug to the depth
      of nearly five feet, and as the flinging out the soil became more and more
      difficult, they began at length to tire of the job.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We&rsquo;re down to the till now,&rdquo; said one of them, &ldquo;and the neer a coffin or
      onything else is here&mdash;some cunninger chiel&rsquo;s been afore us, I
      reckon;&rdquo;&mdash;and the labourer scrambled out of the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout, lad,&rdquo; said Edie, getting down in his room&mdash;&ldquo;let me try my hand
      for an auld bedral;&mdash;ye&rsquo;re gude seekers, but ill finders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So soon as he got into the grave, he struck his pike-staff forcibly down;
      it encountered resistance in its descent, and the beggar exclaimed, like a
      Scotch schoolboy when he finds anything, &ldquo;Nae halvers and quarters&mdash;hale
      o&rsquo; mine ain and &lsquo;nane o&rsquo; my neighbour&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Everybody, from the dejected Baronet to the sullen adept, now caught the
      spirit of curiosity, crowded round the grave, and would have jumped into
      it, could its space have contained them. The labourers, who had begun to
      flag in their monotonous and apparently hopeless task, now resumed their
      tools, and plied them with all the ardour of expectation. Their shovels
      soon grated upon a hard wooden surface, which, as the earth was cleared
      away, assumed the distinct form of a chest, but greatly smaller than that
      of a coffin. Now all hands were at work to heave it out of the grave, and
      all voices, as it was raised, proclaimed its weight and augured its value.
      They were not mistaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the chest or box was placed on the surface, and the lid forced up by
      a pickaxe, there was displayed first a coarse canvas cover, then a
      quantity of oakum, and beneath that a number of ingots of silver. A
      general exclamation hailed a discovery so surprising and unexpected. The
      Baronet threw his hands and eyes up to heaven, with the silent rapture of
      one who is delivered from inexpressible distress of mind. Oldbuck, almost
      unable to credit his eyes, lifted one piece of silver after another. There
      was neither inscription nor stamp upon them, excepting one, which seemed
      to be Spanish. He could have no doubt of the purity and great value of the
      treasure before him. Still, however, removing piece by piece, he examined
      row by row, expecting to discover that the lower layers were of inferior
      value; but he could perceive no difference in this respect, and found
      himself compelled to admit, that Sir Arthur had possessed himself of
      bullion to the value, perhaps of a thousand pounds sterling. Sir Arthur
      now promised the assistants a handsome recompense for their trouble, and
      began to busy himself about the mode of conveying this rich windfall to
      the Castle of Knockwinnock, when the adept, recovering from his surprise,
      which had equalled that exhibited by any other individual of the party,
      twitched his sleeve, and having offered his humble congratulations, turned
      next to Oldbuck with an air of triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did tell you, my goot friend, Mr. Oldenbuck, dat I was to seek
      opportunity to thank you for your civility; now do you not think I have
      found out vary goot way to return thank?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mr. Dousterswivel, do you pretend to have had any hand in our good
      success?&mdash;you forget you refused us all aid of your science, man; and
      you are here without your weapons that should have fought the battle which
      you pretend to have gained in our behalf: you have used neither charm,
      lamen, sigil, talisman, spell, crystal, pentacle, magic mirror, nor
      geomantic figure. Where be your periapts, and your abracadabras man? your
      Mayfern, your vervain,
    </p>
<pre>
           Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and your panther,
           Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop,
                Your Lato, Azoch, Zernich, Chibrit, Heautarit,
           With all your broths, your menstrues, your materials,
                      Would burst a man to name?&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      Ah! rare Ben Jonson! long peace to thy ashes for a scourge of the quacks
      of thy day!&mdash;who expected to see them revive in our own?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The answer of the adept to the Antiquary&rsquo;s tirade we must defer to our
      next CHAPTER.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THIRD.
    </h2>
<pre>
   <i>Clause.</i>&mdash;You now shall know the king o&rsquo; the beggars&rsquo; treasure:&mdash;
            Yes&mdash;ere to-morrow you shall find your harbour
            Here,&mdash;fail me not, for if I live I&rsquo;ll fit you.
                                       The Beggar&rsquo;s Bush.
</pre>
    <p>
      The German, determined, it would seem, to assert the vantage-ground on
      which the discovery had placed him, replied with great pomp and
      stateliness to the attack of the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maister Oldenbuck, all dis may be very witty and comedy, but I have
      nothing to say&mdash;nothing at all&mdash;to people dat will not believe
      deir own eye-sights. It is vary true dat I ave not any of de things of de
      art, and it makes de more wonder what I has done dis day. But I would ask
      of you, mine honoured and goot and generous patron, to put your hand into
      your right-hand waistcoat pocket, and show me what you shall find dere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur obeyed his direction, and pulled out the small plate of silver
      which he had used under the adept&rsquo;s auspices upon the former occasion. &ldquo;It
      is very true,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, looking gravely at the Antiquary; &ldquo;this is
      the graduated and calculated sigil by which Mr. Dousterswivel and I
      regulated our first discovery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw! pshaw! my dear friend,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;you are too wise to believe
      in the influence of a trumpery crown-piece, beat out thin, and a parcel of
      scratches upon it. I tell thee, Sir Arthur, that if Dousterswivel had
      known where to get this treasure himself, you would not have been lord of
      the least share of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In troth, please your honour,&rdquo; said Edie, who put in his word on all
      occasions, &ldquo;I think, since Mr. Dunkerswivel has had sae muckle merit in
      discovering a&rsquo; the gear, the least ye can do is to gie him that o&rsquo;t that&rsquo;s
      left behind for his labour; for doubtless he that kend where to find sae
      muckle will hae nae difficulty to find mair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dousterswivel&rsquo;s brow grew very dark at this proposal of leaving him to his
      &ldquo;ain purchase,&rdquo; as Ochiltree expressed it; but the beggar, drawing him
      aside, whispered a word or two in his ear, to which he seemed to give
      serious attention,
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Sir Arthur, his heart warm with his good fortune, said aloud,
      &ldquo;Never mind our friend Monkbarns, Mr. Dousterswivel, but come to the
      Castle to-morrow, and I&rsquo;ll convince you that I am not ungrateful for the
      hints you have given me about this matter&mdash;and the fifty Fairport
      dirty notes, as you call them, are heartily at your service. Come, my
      lads, get the cover of this precious chest fastened up again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the cover had in the confusion fallen aside among the rubbish, or the
      loose earth which had been removed from the grave&mdash;in short, it was
      not to be seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, my good lads, tie the tarpaulin over it, and get it away to
      the carriage.&mdash;Monkbarns, will you walk? I must go back your way to
      take up Miss Wardour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, I hope, to take up your dinner also, Sir Arthur, and drink a glass
      of wine for joy of our happy adventure. Besides, you should write about
      the business to the Exchequer, in case of any interference on the part of
      the Crown. As you are lord of the manor, it will be easy to get a deed of
      gift, should they make any claim. We must talk about it, though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I particularly recommend silence to all who are present,&rdquo; said Sir
      Arthur, looking round. All bowed and professed themselves dumb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, as to that,&rdquo; said Monkbarns, &ldquo;recommending secrecy where a dozen of
      people are acquainted with the circumstance to be concealed, is only
      putting the truth in masquerade, for the story will be circulated under
      twenty different shapes. But never mind&mdash;we will state the true one
      to the Barons, and that is all that is necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I incline to send off an express to-night,&rdquo; said the Baronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can recommend your honour to a sure hand,&rdquo; said Ochiltree; &ldquo;little
      Davie Mailsetter, and the butcher&rsquo;s reisting powny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will talk over the matter as we go to Monkbarns,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur. &ldquo;My
      lads&rdquo; (to the work-people), &ldquo;come with me to the Four Horse-shoes, that I
      may take down all your names.&mdash;Dousterswivel, I won&rsquo;t ask you to go
      down to Monkbarns, as the laird and you differ so widely in opinion; but
      do not fail to come to see me to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dousterswivel growled out an answer, in which the words, &ldquo;duty,&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;mine
      honoured patron,&rdquo;&mdash;and &ldquo;wait upon Sir Arthurs,&rdquo;&mdash;were alone
      distinguishable; and after the Baronet and his friend had left the ruins,
      followed by the servants and workmen, who, in hope of reward and whisky,
      joyfully attended their leader, the adept remained in a brown study by the
      side of the open grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was it as could have thought this?&rdquo; he ejaculated unconsciously.
      &ldquo;Mine heiligkeit! I have heard of such things, and often spoken of such
      things&mdash;but, sapperment! I never, thought to see them! And if I had
      gone but two or dree feet deeper down in the earth&mdash;mein himmel! it
      had been all mine own&mdash;so much more as I have been muddling about to
      get from this fool&rsquo;s man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the German ceased his soliloquy, for, raising his eyes, he
      encountered those of Edie Ochiltree, who had not followed the rest of the
      company, but, resting as usual on his pike-staff, had planted himself on
      the other side of the grave. The features of the old man, naturally shrewd
      and expressive almost to an appearance of knavery, seemed in this instance
      so keenly knowing, that even the assurance of Dousterswivel, though a
      professed adventurer, sunk beneath their glances. But he saw the necessity
      of an e&rsquo;claircissement, and, rallying his spirits, instantly began to
      sound the mendicant on the occurrences of the day. &ldquo;Goot Maister Edies
      Ochiltrees&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Edie Ochiltree, nae maister&mdash;your puir bedesman and the king&rsquo;s,&rdquo;
       answered the Blue-Gown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Awell den, goot Edie, what do you think of all dis?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was just thinking it was very kind (for I darena say very simple) o&rsquo; 
      your honour to gie thae twa rich gentles, wha hae lands and lairdships,
      and siller without end, this grand pose o&rsquo; silver and treasure (three
      times tried in the fire, as the Scripture expresses it), that might hae
      made yoursell and ony twa or three honest bodies beside, as happy and
      content as the day was lang.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, Edie, mine honest friends, dat is very true; only I did not know,
      dat is, I was not sure, where to find the gelt myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! was it not by your honours advice and counsel that Monkbarns and
      the Knight of Knockwinnock came here then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha&mdash;yes; but it was by another circumstance. I did not know dat dey
      would have found de treasure, mine friend; though I did guess, by such a
      tintamarre, and cough, and sneeze, and groan, among de spirit one other
      night here, dat there might be treasure and bullion hereabout. Ach, mein
      himmel! the spirit will hone and groan over his gelt, as if he were a
      Dutch Burgomaster counting his dollars after a great dinner at the
      Stadthaus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you really believe the like o&rsquo; that, Mr. Dusterdeevil!&mdash;a
      skeelfu&rsquo; man like you&mdash;hout fie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mein friend,&rdquo; answered the adept, foreed by circumstances to speak
      something nearer the truth than he generally used to do, &ldquo;I believed it no
      more than you and no man at all, till I did hear them hone and moan and
      groan myself on de oder night, and till I did this day see de cause, which
      was an great chest all full of de pure silver from Mexico&mdash;and what
      would you ave nae think den?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what wad ye gie to ony ane,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;that wad help ye to sic
      another kistfu&rsquo; o&rsquo; silver!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give?&mdash;mein himmel!&mdash;one great big quarter of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now if the secret were mine,&rdquo; said the mendicant, &ldquo;I wad stand out for a
      half; for you see, though I am but a puir ragged body, and couldna carry
      silver or gowd to sell for fear o&rsquo; being taen up, yet I could find mony
      folk would pass it awa for me at unco muckle easier profit than ye&rsquo;re
      thinking on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach, himmel!&mdash;Mein goot friend, what was it I said?&mdash;I did mean
      to say you should have de tree quarter for your half, and de one quarter
      to be my fair half.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Mr. Dusterdeevil, we will divide equally what we find, like
      brother and brother. Now, look at this board that I just flung into the
      dark aisle out o&rsquo; the way, while Monkbarns was glowering ower a&rsquo; the
      silver yonder. He&rsquo;s a sharp chiel Monkbarns&mdash;I was glad to keep the
      like o&rsquo; this out o&rsquo; his sight. Ye&rsquo;ll maybe can read the character better
      than me&mdash;I am nae that book learned, at least I&rsquo;m no that muckle in
      practice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this modest declaration of ignorance, Ochiltree brought forth from
      behind a pillar the cover of the box or chest of treasure, which, when
      forced from its hinges, had been carelessly flung aside during the ardour
      of curiosity to ascertain the contents which it concealed, and had been
      afterwards, as it seems, secreted by the mendicant. There was a word and a
      number upon the plank, and the beggar made them more distinct by spitting
      upon his ragged blue handkerchief, and rubbing off the clay by which the
      inscription was obscured. It was in the ordinary black letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can ye mak ought o&rsquo;t?&rdquo; said Edie to the adept.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;S,&rdquo; said the philosopher, like a child getting his lesson in the primer&mdash;&ldquo;S,
      T, A, R, C, H,&mdash;<i>Starch!</i>&mdash;dat is what de woman-washers put
      into de neckerchers, and de shirt collar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Search!&rdquo; echoed Ochiltree; &ldquo;na, na, Mr. Dusterdeevil, ye are mair of a
      conjuror than a clerk&mdash;it&rsquo;s <i>search,</i> man, <i>search</i>&mdash;See,
      there&rsquo;s the <i>Ye</i> clear and distinct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! I see it now&mdash;it is <i>search&mdash;number one.</i> Mein
      himmel! then there must be a <i>number two,</i> mein goot friend: for <i>search</i>
      is what you call to seek and dig, and this is but <i>number one!</i> Mine
      wort, there is one great big prize in de wheel for us, goot Maister
      Ochiltree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, it may be sae; but we canna howk fort enow&mdash;we hae nae
      shules, for they hae taen them a&rsquo; awa&mdash;and it&rsquo;s like some o&rsquo; them
      will be sent back to fling the earth into the hole, and mak a&rsquo; things trig
      again. But an ye&rsquo;ll sit down wi&rsquo; me a while in the wood, I&rsquo;se satisfy your
      honour that ye hae just lighted on the only man in the country that could
      hae tauld about Malcolm Misticot and his hidden treasure&mdash;But first
      we&rsquo;ll rub out the letters on this board, for fear it tell tales.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, by the assistance of his knife, the beggar erased and defaced the
      characters so as to make them quite unintelligible, and then daubed the
      board with clay so as to obliterate all traces of the erasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dousterswivel stared at him in ambiguous silence. There was an
      intelligence and alacrity about all the old man&rsquo;s movements, which
      indicated a person that could not be easily overreached, and yet (for even
      rogues acknowledge in some degree the spirit of precedence) our adept felt
      the disgrace of playing a secondary part, and dividing winnings with so
      mean an associate. His appetite for gain, however, was sufficiently sharp
      to overpower his offended pride, and though far more an impostor than a
      dupe, he was not without a certain degree of personal faith even in the
      gross superstitions by means of which he imposed upon others. Still, being
      accustomed to act as a leader on such occasions, he felt humiliated at
      feeling himself in the situation of a vulture marshalled to his prey by a
      carrion-crow.&mdash;&ldquo;Let me, however, hear this story to an end,&rdquo; thought
      Dousterswivel, &ldquo;and it will be hard if I do not make mine account in it
      better as Maister Edie Ochiltrees makes proposes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The adept, thus transformed into a pupil from a teacher of the mystic art,
      followed Ochiltree in passive acquiescence to the Prior&rsquo;s Oak&mdash;a
      spot, as the reader may remember, at a short distance from the ruins,
      where the German sat down, and silence waited the old man&rsquo;s communication.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maister Dustandsnivel,&rdquo; said the narrator, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s an unco while since I
      heard this business treated anent;&mdash;for the lairds of Knockwinnock,
      neither Sir Arthur, nor his father, nor his grandfather&mdash;and I mind a
      wee bit about them a&rsquo;&mdash;liked to hear it spoken about; nor they dinna
      like it yet&mdash;But nae matter; ye may be sure it was clattered about in
      the kitchen, like onything else in a great house, though it were forbidden
      in the ha&rsquo;&mdash;and sae I hae heard the circumstance rehearsed by auld
      servants in the family; and in thir present days, when things o&rsquo; that
      auld-warld sort arena keepit in mind round winter fire-sides as they used
      to be, I question if there&rsquo;s onybody in the country can tell the tale but
      mysell&mdash;aye out-taken the laird though, for there&rsquo;s a parchment book
      about it, as I have heard, in the charter-room at Knockwinnock Castle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, all dat is vary well&mdash;but get you on with your stories, mine
      goot friend,&rdquo; said Dousterswivel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, ye see,&rdquo; continued the mendicant, &ldquo;this was a job in the auld
      times o&rsquo; rugging and riving through the hale country, when it was ilka ane
      for himsell, and God for us a&rsquo;&mdash;when nae man wanted property if he
      had strength to take it, or had it langer than he had power to keep it. It
      was just he ower her, and she ower him, whichever could win upmost, a&rsquo; 
      through the east country here, and nae doubt through the rest o&rsquo; Scotland
      in the self and same manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sae in these days Sir Richard Wardour came into the land, and that was
      the first o&rsquo; the name ever was in this country. There&rsquo;s been mony o&rsquo; them
      sin&rsquo; syne; and the maist, like him they ca&rsquo;d Hell-in-Harness, and the rest
      o&rsquo; them, are sleeping down in yon ruins. They were a proud dour set o&rsquo; 
      men, but unco brave, and aye stood up for the weel o&rsquo; the country, God
      sain them a&rsquo;&mdash;there&rsquo;s no muckle popery in that wish. They ca&rsquo;d them
      the Norman Wardours, though they cam frae the south to this country. So
      this Sir Richard, that they ca&rsquo;d Red-hand, drew up wi&rsquo; the auld
      Knockwinnock o&rsquo; that day&mdash;for then they were Knockwinnocks of that
      Ilk&mdash;and wad fain marry his only daughter, that was to have the
      castle and the land. Laith, laith was the lass&mdash;(Sybil Knockwinnock
      they ca&rsquo;d her that tauld me the tale)&mdash;laith, laith was she to gie
      into the match, for she had fa&rsquo;en a wee ower thick wi&rsquo; a cousin o&rsquo; her ain
      that her father had some ill-will to; and sae it was, that after she had
      been married to Sir Richard jimp four months&mdash;for marry him she maun,
      it&rsquo;s like&mdash;ye&rsquo;ll no hinder her gieing them a present o&rsquo; a bonny knave
      bairn. Then there was siccan a ca&rsquo;-thro&rsquo;, as the like was never seen; and
      she&rsquo;s be burnt, and he&rsquo;s be slain, was the best words o&rsquo; their mouths. But
      it was a&rsquo; sowdered up again some gait, and the bairn was sent awa, and
      bred up near the Highlands, and grew up to be a fine wanle fallow, like
      mony ane that comes o&rsquo; the wrang side o&rsquo; the blanket; and Sir Richard wi&rsquo; 
      the Red-hand, he had a fair offspring o&rsquo;his ain, and a was lound and quiet
      till his head was laid in the ground. But then down came Malcolm Misticot&mdash;(Sir
      Arthur says it should be <i>Misbegot,</i> but they aye ca&rsquo;d him Misticot
      that spoke o&rsquo;t lang syne)&mdash;down cam this Malcolm, the love-begot,
      frae Glen-isla, wi&rsquo; a string o&rsquo; lang-legged Highlanders at his heels,
      that&rsquo;s aye ready for onybody&rsquo;s mischief, and he threeps the castle and
      lands are his ain as his mother&rsquo;s eldest son, and turns a&rsquo; the Wardours
      out to the hill. There was a sort of fighting and blude-spilling about it,
      for the gentles took different sides; but Malcolm had the uppermost for a
      lang time, and keepit the Castle of Knockwinnock, and strengthened it, and
      built that muckle tower that they ca&rsquo; Misticot&rsquo;s tower to this day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine goot friend, old Mr. Edie Ochiltree.&rdquo; interrupted the German, &ldquo;this
      is all as one like de long histories of a baron of sixteen quarters in
      mine countries; but I would as rather hear of de silver and gold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, ye see,&rdquo; continued the mendicant, &ldquo;this Malcolm was weel helped by
      an uncle, a brother o&rsquo; his father&rsquo;s, that was Prior o&rsquo; St. Ruth here; and
      muckle treasure they gathered between them, to secure the succession of
      their house in the lands of Knockwinnock. Folk said that the monks in thae
      days had the art of multiplying metals&mdash;at ony rate, they were very
      rich. At last it came to this, that the young Wardour, that was Red-hand&rsquo;s
      son, challenged Misticot to fight with him in the lists as they ca&rsquo;d them&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      no lists or tailor&rsquo;s runds and selvedges o&rsquo; claith, but a palin&rsquo;-thing
      they set up for them to fight in like game-cocks. Aweel, Misticot was
      beaten, and at his brother&rsquo;s mercy&mdash;but he wadna touch his life, for
      the blood of Knockwinnock that was in baith their veins: so Malcolm was
      compelled to turn a monk, and he died soon after in the priory, of pure
      despite and vexation. Naebody ever kenn&rsquo;d whare his uncle the prior earded
      him, or what he did wi&rsquo; his gowd and silver, for he stood on the right o&rsquo; 
      halie kirk, and wad gie nae account to onybody. But the prophecy gat
      abroad in the country, that whenever Misticot&rsquo;s grave was fund out, the
      estate of Knockwinnock should be lost and won.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ach! mine goot old friend, Maister Edie, and dat is not so very unlikely,
      if Sir Arthurs will quarrel wit his goot friends to please Mr. Oldenbuck.&mdash;And
      so you do tink dat dis golds and silvers belonged to goot Mr. Malcolm
      Mishdigoat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth do I, Mr. Dousterdeevil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you do believe dat dere is more of dat sorts behind?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my certie do I&mdash;How can it be otherwise?&mdash;<i>Search&mdash;No.
      I</i>&mdash;that is as muckle as to say, search and ye&rsquo;ll find number twa.
      Besides, yon kist is only silver, and I aye heard that&rsquo; Misticot&rsquo;s pose
      had muckle yellow gowd in&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Den, mine goot friends,&rdquo; said the adept, jumping up hastily, &ldquo;why do we
      not set about our little job directly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For twa gude reasons,&rdquo; answered the beggar, who quietly kept his sitting
      posture;&mdash;&ldquo;first, because, as I said before, we have naething to dig
      wi&rsquo;, for they hae taen awa the picks and shules; and, secondly, because
      there will be a wheen idle gowks coming to glower at the hole as lang as
      it is daylight, and maybe the laird may send somebody to fill it up&mdash;and
      ony way we wad be catched. But if you will meet me on this place at twal
      o&rsquo;clock wi&rsquo; a dark lantern, I&rsquo;ll hae tools ready, and we&rsquo;ll gang quietly
      about our job our twa sells, and naebody the wiser for&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be&mdash;be&mdash;but, mine goot friend,&rdquo; said Dousterswivel, from whose
      recollection his former nocturnal adventure was not to be altogether
      erased, even by the splendid hopes which Edie&rsquo;s narrative held forth, &ldquo;it
      is not so goot or so safe, to be about goot Maister Mishdigoat&rsquo;s grabe at
      dat time of night&mdash;you have forgot how I told you de spirits did hone
      and mone dere. I do assure you, dere is disturbance dere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If ye&rsquo;re afraid of ghaists,&rdquo; answered the mendicant, coolly, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do the
      job mysell, and bring your share o&rsquo; the siller to ony place you like to
      appoint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;mine excellent old Mr. Edie,&mdash;too much trouble for
      you&mdash;I will not have dat&mdash;I will come myself&mdash;and it will
      be bettermost; for, mine old friend, it was I, Herman Dousterswivel,
      discovered Maister Mishdigoat&rsquo;s grave when I was looking for a place as to
      put away some little trumpery coins, just to play one little trick on my
      dear friend Sir Arthur, for a little sport and pleasures. Yes, I did take
      some what you call rubbish, and did discover Maister Mishdigoat&rsquo;s own
      monumentsh&mdash; It&rsquo;s like dat he meant I should be his heirs&mdash;so it
      would not be civility in me not to come mineself for mine inheritance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At twal o&rsquo;clock, then,&rdquo; said the mendicant, &ldquo;we meet under this tree.
      I&rsquo;ll watch for a while, and see that naebody meddles wi&rsquo; the grave&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      only saying the laird&rsquo;s forbade it&mdash;then get my bit supper frae
      Ringan the poinder up by, and leave to sleep in his barn; and I&rsquo;ll slip
      out at night, and neer be mist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do so, mine goot Maister Edie, and I will meet you here on this very
      place, though all de spirits should moan and sneeze deir very brains out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying he shook hands with the old man, and with this mutual pledge of
      fidelity to their appointment, they separated for the present.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOURTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                          &mdash;See thou shake the bags
                 Of hoarding abbots; angels imprisoned
                         Set thou at liberty&mdash;
                Bell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back,
                        If gold and silver beckon to come on.
                                              King John.
</pre>
    <p>
      The night set in stormy, with wind and occasional showers of rain. &ldquo;Eh,
      sirs,&rdquo; said the old mendicant, as he took his place on the sheltered side
      of the large oak-tree to wait for his associate&mdash;&ldquo;Eh, sirs, but human
      nature&rsquo;s a wilful and wilyard thing!&mdash;Is it not an unco lucre o&rsquo; gain
      wad bring this Dousterdivel out in a blast o&rsquo; wind like this, at twal
      o&rsquo;clock at night, to thir wild gousty wa&rsquo;s?&mdash;and amna I a bigger fule
      than himsell to bide here waiting for him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having made these sage reflections, he wrapped himself close in his cloak,
      and fixed his eye on the moon as she waded amid the stormy and dusky
      clouds, which the wind from time to time drove across her surface. The
      melancholy and uncertain gleams that she shot from between the passing
      shadows fell full upon the rifted arches and shafted windows of the old
      building, which were thus for an instant made distinctly visible in their
      ruinous state, and anon became again a dark, undistinguished, and shadowy
      mass. The little lake had its share of these transient beams of light, and
      showed its waters broken, whitened, and agitated under the passing storm,
      which, when the clouds swept over the moon, were only distinguished by
      their sullen and murmuring plash against the beach. The wooded glen
      repeated, to every successive gust that hurried through its narrow trough,
      the deep and various groan with which the trees replied to the whirlwind,
      and the sound sunk again, as the blast passed away, into a faint and
      passing murmur, resembling the sighs of an exhausted criminal after the
      first pangs of his torture are over. In these sounds, superstition might
      have found ample gratification for that State of excited terror which she
      fears and yet loves. But such feeling is made no part of Ochiltree&rsquo;s
      composition. His mind wandered back to the scenes of his youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have kept guard on the outposts baith in Germany and America,&rdquo; he said
      to himself, &ldquo;in mony a waur night than this, and when I ken&rsquo;d there was
      maybe a dozen o&rsquo; their riflemen in the thicket before me. But I was aye
      gleg at my duty&mdash;naebody ever catched Edie sleeping.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he muttered thus to himself, he instinctively shouldered his trusty
      pike-staff, assumed the port of a sentinel on duty, and, as a step
      advanced towards the tree, called, with a tone assorting better with his
      military reminiscences than his present state&mdash;&ldquo;Stand! who goes
      there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;De devil, goot Edie,&rdquo; answered Dousterswivel, &ldquo;why does you speak so loud
      as a baarenhauter, or what you call a factionary&mdash;I mean a sentinel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just because I thought I was a sentinel at that moment,&rdquo; answered the
      mendicant. &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s an awsome night! Hae ye brought the lantern and a pock
      for the siller?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay-ay, mine goot friend,&rdquo; said the German, &ldquo;here it is&mdash;my pair of
      what you call saddlebag; one side will be for you, one side for me;&mdash;I
      will put dem on my horse to save you de trouble, as you are old man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you a horse here, then?&rdquo; asked Edie Ochiltree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O yes, mine friend&mdash;tied yonder by de stile,&rdquo; responded the adept.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, I hae just ae word to the bargain&mdash;there sall nane o&rsquo; my gear
      gang on your beast&rsquo;s back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was it as you would be afraid of?&rdquo; said the foreigner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only of losing sight of horse, man, and money,&rdquo; again replied the
      gaberlunzie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does you know dat you make one gentlemans out to be one great rogue?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mony gentlemen,&rdquo; replied Ochiltree, &ldquo;can make that out for themselves&mdash;
      But what&rsquo;s the sense of quarrelling?&mdash;If ye want to gang on, gang on&mdash;if
      no&mdash;I&rsquo;ll gae back to the gude ait-straw in Ringan Aikwood&rsquo;s barn that
      I left wi&rsquo; right ill-will e&rsquo;now, and I&rsquo;ll pit back the pick and shule whar
      I got them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dousterswivel deliberated a moment, whether, by suffering Edie to depart,
      he might not secure the whole of the expected wealth for his own exclusive
      use. But the want of digging implements, the uncertainty whether, if he
      had them, he could clear out the grave to a sufficient depth without
      assistance, and, above all, the reluctance which he felt, owing to the
      experience of the former night, to venture alone on the terrors of
      Misticot&rsquo;s grave, satisfied him the attempt would be hazardous.
      Endeavouring, therefore, to assume his usual cajoling tone, though
      internally incensed, he begged &ldquo;his goot friend Maister Edie Ochiltrees
      would lead the way, and assured him of his acquiescence in all such an
      excellent friend could propose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, aweel, then,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;tak gude care o&rsquo; your feet amang the
      lang grass and the loose stones. I wish we may get the light keepit in
      neist, wi&rsquo; this fearsome wind&mdash;but there&rsquo;s a blink o&rsquo; moonlight at
      times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus saying, old Edie, closely accompanied by the adept, led the way
      towards the ruins, but presently made a full halt in front of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye&rsquo;re a learned man, Mr. Dousterdeevil, and ken muckle o&rsquo; the marvellous
      works o&rsquo; nature&mdash;Now, will ye tell me ae thing?&mdash;D&rsquo;ye believe in
      ghaists and spirits that walk the earth?&mdash;d&rsquo;ye believe in them, ay or
      no?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, goot Mr. Edie,&rdquo; whispered Dousterswivel, in an expostulatory tone of
      voice, &ldquo;is this a times or a places for such a questions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed is it, baith the tane and the t&rsquo;other, Mr. Dustanshovel; for I
      maun fairly tell ye, there&rsquo;s reports that auld Misticot walks. Now this
      wad be an uncanny night to meet him in, and wha kens if he wad be ower
      weel pleased wi&rsquo; our purpose of visiting his pose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Alle guten Geister</i>&rdquo;&mdash;muttered the adept, the rest of the
      conjuration being lost in a tremulous warble of his voice,&mdash;&ldquo;I do
      desires you not to speak so, Mr. Edie; for, from all I heard dat one other
      night, I do much believes&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, entering the chancel, and flinging abroad his arm
      with an air of defiance, &ldquo;I wadna gie the crack o&rsquo; my thumb for him were
      he to appear at this moment: he&rsquo;s but a disembodied spirit, as we are
      embodied anes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the lofe of heavens,&rdquo; said Dousterswivel, &ldquo;say nothing at all neither
      about somebodies or nobodies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel,&rdquo; said the beggar (expanding the shade of the lantern), &ldquo;here&rsquo;s the
      stane, and, spirit or no spirit, I&rsquo;se be a wee bit deeper in the grave;&rdquo;
       and he jumped into the place from which the precious chest had that
      morning been removed. After striking a few strokes, he tired, or affected
      to tire, and said to his companion, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m auld and failed now, and canna
      keep at it&mdash;time about&rsquo;s fair play, neighbour; ye maun get in and tak
      the shule a bit, and shule out the loose earth, and then I&rsquo;ll tak turn
      about wi&rsquo; you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dousterswivel accordingly took the place which the beggar had evacuated,
      and toiled with all the zeal that awakened avarice, mingled with the
      anxious wish to finish the undertaking and leave the place as soon as
      possible, could inspire in a mind at once greedy, suspicious, and
      timorous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edie, standing much at his ease by the side of the hole, contented himself
      with exhorting his associate to labour hard. &ldquo;My certie! few ever wrought
      for siccan a day&rsquo;s wage; an it be but&mdash;say the tenth part o&rsquo; the size
      o&rsquo; the kist, No. I., it will double its value, being filled wi&rsquo; gowd
      instead of silver. Od, ye work as if ye had been bred to pick and shule&mdash;ye
      could win your round half-crown ilka day. Tak care o&rsquo; your taes wi&rsquo; that
      stane!&rdquo; giving a kick to a large one which the adept had heaved out with
      difficulty, and which Edie pushed back again to the great annoyance of his
      associate&rsquo;s shins.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus exhorted by the mendicant, Dousterswivel struggled and laboured among
      the stones and stiff clay, toiling like a horse, and internally
      blaspheming in German. When such an unhallowed syllable escaped his lips,
      Edie changed his battery upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O dinna swear! dinna swear! Wha kens whals listening!&mdash;Eh! gude
      guide us, what&rsquo;s yon!&mdash;Hout, it&rsquo;s just a branch of ivy flightering
      awa frae the wa&rsquo;; when the moon was in, it lookit unco like a dead man&rsquo;s
      arm wi&rsquo; a taper in&rsquo;t&mdash;I thought it was Misticot himsell. But never
      mind, work you away&mdash;fling the earth weel up by out o&rsquo; the gate&mdash;Od,
      if ye&rsquo;re no as clean a worker at a grave as Win Winnet himsell! What gars
      ye stop now?&mdash;ye&rsquo;re just at the very bit for a chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo; said the German, in a tone of anger and disappointment, &ldquo;why, I am
      down at de rocks dat de cursed ruins (God forgife me!) is founded upon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel,&rdquo; said the beggar, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s the likeliest bit of ony. It will be but
      a muckle through-stane laid doun to kiver the gowd&mdash;tak the pick
      till&rsquo;t, and pit mair strength, man&mdash;ae gude down-right devvel will
      split it, I&rsquo;se warrant ye&mdash;Ay, that will do Od, he comes on wi&rsquo; 
      Wallace&rsquo;s straiks!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In fact, the adept, moved by Edie&rsquo;s exhortations, fetched two or three
      desperate blows, and succeeded in breaking, not indeed that against which
      he struck, which, as he had already conjectured, was the solid rock, but
      the implement which he wielded, jarring at the same time his arms up to
      the shoulder-blades.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurra, boys!&mdash;there goes Ringan&rsquo;s pick-axe!&rdquo; cried Edie &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a
      shame o&rsquo; the Fairport folk to sell siccan frail gear. Try the shule&mdash;at
      it again, Mr. Dusterdeevil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The adept, without reply, scrambled out of the pit, which was now about
      six feet deep, and addressed his associate in a voice that trembled with
      anger. &ldquo;Does you know, Mr. Edies Ochiltrees, who it is you put off your
      gibes and your jests upon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brawly, Mr. Dusterdeevil&mdash;brawly do I ken ye, and has done mony a
      day; but there&rsquo;s nae jesting in the case, for I am wearying to see ae our
      treasures; we should hae had baith ends o&rsquo; the pockmanky filled by this
      time&mdash;I hope it&rsquo;s bowk eneugh to haud a&rsquo; the gear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look you, you base old person,&rdquo; said the incensed philosopher, &ldquo;if you do
      put another jest upon me, I will cleave your skull-piece with this
      shovels!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And whare wad my hands and my pike-staff be a&rsquo; the time?&rdquo; replied Edie,
      in a tone that indicated no apprehension. &ldquo;Hout, tout, Maister
      Dusterdeevil, I haena lived sae lang in the warld neither, to be shuled
      out o&rsquo;t that gate. What ails ye to be cankered, man, wi&rsquo; your friends?
      I&rsquo;ll wager I&rsquo;ll find out the treasure in a minute;&rdquo; and he jumped into the
      pit, and took up the spade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do swear to you,&rdquo; said the adept, whose suspicions were now fully
      awake, &ldquo;that if you have played me one big trick, I will give you one big
      beating, Mr. Edies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear till him now!&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;he kens how to gar folk find out the
      gear&mdash;Od, I&rsquo;m thinking he&rsquo;s been drilled that way himsell some day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this insinuation, which alluded obviously to the former scene betwixt
      himself and Sir Arthur, the philosopher lost the slender remnant of
      patience he had left, and being of violent passions, heaved up the
      truncheon of the broken mattock to discharge it upon the old man&rsquo;s head.
      The blow would in all probability have been fatal, had not he at whom it
      was aimed exclaimed in a stern and firm voice, &ldquo;Shame to ye, man!&mdash;do
      ye think Heaven or earth will suffer ye to murder an auld man that might
      be your father?&mdash;Look behind ye, man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dousterswivel turned instinctively, and beheld, to his utter astonishment,
      a tall dark figure standing close behind him. The apparition gave him no
      time to proceed by exorcism or otherwise, but having instantly recourse to
      the <i>voie de fait,</i> took measure of the adept&rsquo;s shoulders three or
      four times with blows so substantial, that he fell under the weight of
      them, and remained senseless for some minutes between fear and
      stupefaction. When he came to himself, he was alone in the ruined chancel,
      lying upon the soft and damp earth which had been thrown out of Misticot&rsquo;s
      grave. He raised himself with a confused sensation of anger, pain, and
      terror, and it was not until he had sat upright for some minutes, that he
      could arrange his ideas sufficiently to recollect how he came there, or
      with what purpose. As his recollection returned, he could have little
      doubt that the bait held out to him by Ochiltree, to bring him to that
      solitary spot, the sarcasms by which he had provoked him into a quarrel,
      and the ready assistance which he had at hand for terminating it in the
      manner in which it had ended, were all parts of a concerted plan to bring
      disgrace and damage on Herman Dousterswivel. He could hardly suppose that
      he was indebted for the fatigue, anxiety, and beating which he had
      undergone, purely to the malice of Edie Ochiltree singly, but concluded
      that the mendicant had acted a part assigned to him by some person of
      greater importance. His suspicions hesitated between Oldbuck and Sir
      Arthur Wardour. The former had been at no pains to conceal a marked
      dislike of him&mdash;but the latter he had deeply injured; and although he
      judged that Sir Arthur did not know the extent of his wrongs towards him,
      yet it was easy to suppose he had gathered enough of the truth to make him
      desirous of revenge. Ochiltree had alluded to at least one circumstance
      which the adept had every reason to suppose was private between Sir Arthur
      and himself, and therefore must have been learned from the former. The
      language of Oldbuck also intimated a conviction of his knavery, which Sir
      Arthur heard without making any animated defence. Lastly, the way in which
      Dousterswivel supposed the Baronet to have exercised his revenge, was not
      inconsistent with the practice of other countries with which the adept was
      better acquainted than with those of North Britain. With him, as with many
      bad men, to suspect an injury, and to nourish the purpose of revenge, was
      one and the same movement. And before Dousterswivel had fairly recovered
      his legs, he had mentally sworn the ruin of his benefactor, which,
      unfortunately, he possessed too much the power of accelerating.
    </p>
    <p>
      But although a purpose of revenge floated through his brain, it was no
      time to indulge such speculations. The hour, the place, his own situation,
      and perhaps the presence or near neighbourhood of his assailants, made
      self-preservation the adept&rsquo;s first object. The lantern had been thrown
      down and extinguished in the scuffle. The wind, which formerly howled so
      loudly through the aisles of the ruin, had now greatly fallen, lulled by
      the rain, which was descending very fast. The moon, from the same cause,
      was totally obscured, and though Dousterswivel had some experience of the
      ruins, and knew that he must endeavour to regain the eastern door of the
      chancel, yet the confusion of his ideas was such, that he hesitated for
      some time ere he could ascertain in what direction he was to seek it. In
      this perplexity, the suggestions of superstition, taking the advantage of
      darkness and his evil conscience, began again to present themselves to his
      disturbed imagination. &ldquo;But bah!&rdquo; quoth he valiantly to himself, &ldquo;it is
      all nonsense all one part of de damn big trick and imposture. Devil! that
      one thick-skulled Scotch Baronet, as I have led by the nose for five year,
      should cheat Herman Dousterswivel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he had come to this conclusion, an incident occurred which tended
      greatly to shake the grounds on which he had adopted it. Amid the
      melancholy <i>sough</i> of the dying wind, and the plash of the rain-drops
      on leaves and stones, arose, and apparently at no great distance from the
      listener, a strain of vocal music so sad and solemn, as if the departed
      spirits of the churchmen who had once inhabited these deserted ruins were
      mourning the solitude and desolation to which their hallowed precincts had
      been abandoned. Dousterswivel, who had now got upon his feet, and was
      groping around the wall of the chancel, stood rooted to the ground on the
      occurrence of this new phenomenon. Each faculty of his soul seemed for the
      moment concentred in the sense of hearing, and all rushed back with the
      unanimous information, that the deep, wild, and prolonged chant which he
      now heard, was the appropriate music of one of the most solemn dirges of
      the Church of Rome. Why performed in such a solitude, and by what class of
      choristers, were questions which the terrified imagination of the adept,
      stirred with all the German superstitions of nixies, oak-kings,
      wer-wolves, hobgoblins, black spirits and white, blue spirits and grey,
      durst not even attempt to solve.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another of his senses was soon engaged in the investigation. At the
      extremity of one of the transepts of the church, at the bottom of a few
      descending steps, was a small iron-grated door, opening, as far as he
      recollected, to a sort of low vault or sacristy. As he cast his eye in the
      direction of the sound, he observed a strong reflection of red light
      glimmering through these bars, and against the steps which descended to
      them. Dousterswivel stood a moment uncertain what to do; then, suddenly
      forming a desperate resolution, he moved down the aisle to the place from
      which the light proceeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Aimage-0005">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pb052.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="The Funeral of the Countess "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      Fortified with the sign of the cross, and as many exorcisms as his memory
      could recover, he advanced to the grate, from which, unseen, he could see
      what passed in the interior of the vault. As he approached with timid and
      uncertain steps, the chant, after one or two wild and prolonged cadences,
      died away into profound silence. The grate, when he reached it, presented
      a singular spectacle in the interior of the sacristy. An open grave, with
      four tall flambeaus, each about six feet high, placed at the four corners&mdash;a
      bier, having a corpse in its shroud, the arms folded upon the breast,
      rested upon tressels at one side of the grave, as if ready to be interred&mdash;a
      priest, dressed in his cope and stole, held open the service book&mdash;another
      churchman in his vestments bore a holy-water sprinkler, and two boys in
      white surplices held censers with incense&mdash;a man, of a figure once
      tall and commanding, but now bent with age or infirmity, stood alone and
      nearest to the coffin, attired in deep mourning&mdash;such were the most
      prominent figures of the group. At a little distance were two or three
      persons of both sexes, attired in long mourning hoods and cloaks; and five
      or six others in the same lugubrious dress, still farther removed from the
      body, around the walls of the vault, stood ranged in motionless order,
      each bearing in his hand a huge torch of black wax. The smoky light from
      so many flambeaus, by the red and indistinct atmosphere which it spread
      around, gave a hazy, dubious, and as it were phantom-like appearance to
      the outlines of this singular apparition, The voice of the priest&mdash;loud,
      clear, and sonorous&mdash;now recited, from the breviary which he held in
      his hand, those solemn words which the ritual of the Catholic church has
      consecrated to the rendering of dust to dust. Meanwhile, Dousterswivel,
      the place, the hour, and the surprise considered, still remained uncertain
      whether what he saw was substantial, or an unearthly representation of the
      rites to which in former times these walls were familiar, but which are
      now rarely practised in Protestant countries, and almost never in
      Scotland. He was uncertain whether to abide the conclusion of the
      ceremony, or to endeavour to regain the chancel, when a change in his
      position made him visible through the grate to one of the attendant
      mourners. The person who first espied him indicated his discovery to the
      individual who stood apart and nearest the coffin, by a sign, and upon his
      making a sign in reply, two of the group detached themselves, and, gliding
      along with noiseless steps, as if fearing to disturb the service, unlocked
      and opened the grate which separated them from the adept. Each took him by
      an arm, and exerting a degree of force, which he would have been incapable
      of resisting had his fear permitted him to attempt opposition, they placed
      him on the ground in the chancel, and sat down, one on each side of him,
      as if to detain him. Satisfied he was in the power of mortals like
      himself, the adept would have put some questions to them; but while one
      pointed to the vault, from which the sound of the priest&rsquo;s voice was
      distinctly heard, the other placed his finger upon his lips in token of
      silence, a hint which the German thought it most prudent to obey. And thus
      they detained him until a loud Alleluia, pealing through the deserted
      arches of St. Ruth, closed the singular ceremony which it had been his
      fortune to witness.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the hymn had died away with all its echoes, the voice of one of the
      sable personages under whose guard the adept had remained, said, in a
      familiar tone and dialect, &ldquo;Dear sirs, Mr. Dousterswivel, is this you?
      could not ye have let us ken an ye had wussed till hae been present at the
      ceremony?&mdash;My lord couldna tak it weel your coming blinking and
      jinking in, in that fashion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In de name of all dat is gootness, tell me what you are?&rdquo; interrupted the
      German in his turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I am? why, wha should I be but Ringan Aikwood, the Knockwinnock
      poinder?&mdash;and what are ye doing here at this time o&rsquo; night, unless ye
      were come to attend the leddy&rsquo;s burial?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do declare to you, mine goot Poinder Aikwood,&rdquo; said the German, raising
      himself up, &ldquo;that I have been this vary nights murdered, robbed, and put
      in fears of my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Robbed! wha wad do sic a deed here?&mdash;Murdered! od ye speak pretty
      blithe for a murdered man&mdash;Put in fear! what put you in fear, Mr.
      Dousterswivel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you, Maister Poinder Aikwood Ringan, just dat old miscreant
      dog villain blue-gown, as you call Edie Ochiltrees.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll neer believe that,&rdquo; answered Ringan;&mdash;&ldquo;Edie was ken&rsquo;d to me,
      and my father before me, for a true, loyal, and sooth-fast man; and, mair
      by token, he&rsquo;s sleeping up yonder in our barn, and has been since ten at
      e&rsquo;en&mdash;Sae touch ye wha liket, Mr. Dousterswivel, and whether onybody
      touched ye or no, I&rsquo;m sure Edie&rsquo;s sackless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maister Ringan Aikwood Poinders, I do not know what you call sackless,&mdash;
      but let alone all de oils and de soot dat you say he has, and I will tell
      you I was dis night robbed of fifty pounds by your oil and sooty friend,
      Edies Ochiltree; and he is no more in your barn even now dan I ever shall
      be in de kingdom of heafen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, sir, if ye will gae up wi&rsquo; me, as the burial company has dispersed,
      we&rsquo;se mak ye down a bed at the lodge, and we&rsquo;se see if Edie&rsquo;s at the barn.
      There was twa wild-looking chaps left the auld kirk when we were coming up
      wi&rsquo; the corpse, that&rsquo;s certain; and the priest, wha likes ill that ony
      heretics should look on at our church ceremonies, sent twa o&rsquo; the riding
      saulies after them; sae we&rsquo;ll hear a&rsquo; about it frae them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus speaking, the kindly apparition, with the assistance of the mute
      personage, who was his son, disencumbered himself of his cloak, and
      prepared to escort Dousterswivel to the place of that rest which the adept
      so much needed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will apply to the magistrates to-morrow,&rdquo; said the adept; &ldquo;oder, I will
      have de law put in force against all the peoples.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While he thus muttered vengeance against the cause of his injury, he
      tottered from among the ruins, supporting himself on Ringan and his son,
      whose assistance his state of weakness rendered very necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they were clear of the priory, and had gained the little meadow in
      which it stands, Dousterswivel could perceive the torches which had caused
      him so much alarm issuing in irregular procession from the ruins, and
      glancing their light, like that of the <i>ignis fatuus,</i> on the banks
      of the lake. After moving along the path for some short space with a
      fluctuating and irregular motion, the lights were at once extinguished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We aye put out the torches at the Halie-cross Well on sic occasions,&rdquo;
       said the forester to his guest. And accordingly no farther visible sign of
      the procession offered itself to Dousterswivel, although his ear could
      catch the distant and decreasing echo of horses&rsquo; hoofs in the direction
      towards which the mourners had bent their course.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIFTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                       O weel may the boatie row
                       And better may she speed,
                      And weel may the boatie row
                    That earns the bairnies&rsquo; bread!
                   The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
                       The boatie rows fu&rsquo; weel,
                 And lightsome be their life that bear
                       The merlin and the creel!
                                        Old Ballad.
</pre>
    <p>
      We must now introduce our reader to the interior of the fisher&rsquo;s cottage
      mentioned in CHAPTER eleventh of this edifying history. I wish I could say
      that its inside was well arranged, decently furnished, or tolerably clean.
      On the contrary, I am compelled to admit, there was confusion,&mdash;
      there was dilapidation,&mdash;there was dirt good store. Yet, with all
      this, there was about the inmates, Luckie Mucklebackit and her family, an
      appearance of ease, plenty, and comfort, that seemed to warrant their old
      sluttish proverb, &ldquo;The clartier the cosier.&rdquo; A huge fire, though the
      season was summer, occupied the hearth, and served at once for affording
      light, heat, and the means of preparing food. The fishing had been
      successful, and the family, with customary improvidence, had, since
      unlading the cargo, continued an unremitting operation of broiling and
      frying that part of the produce reserved for home consumption, and the
      bones and fragments lay on the wooden trenchers, mingled with morsels of
      broken bannocks and shattered mugs of half-drunk beer. The stout and
      athletic form of Maggie herself, bustling here and there among a pack of
      half-grown girls and younger children, of whom she chucked one now here
      and another now there, with an exclamation of &ldquo;Get out o&rsquo; the gate, ye
      little sorrow!&rdquo; was strongly contrasted with the passive and
      half-stupified look and manner of her husband&rsquo;s mother, a woman advanced
      to the last stage of human life, who was seated in her wonted chair close
      by the fire, the warmth of which she coveted, yet hardly seemed to be
      sensible of&mdash;now muttering to herself, now smiling vacantly to the
      children as they pulled the strings of her <i>toy</i> or close cap, or
      twitched her blue checked apron. With her distaff in her bosom, and her
      spindle in her hand, she plied lazily and mechanically the old-fashioned
      Scottish thrift, according to the old-fashioned Scottish manner. The
      younger children, crawling among the feet of the elder, watched the
      progress of grannies spindle as it twisted, and now and then ventured to
      interrupt its progress as it danced upon the floor in those vagaries which
      the more regulated spinning-wheel has now so universally superseded, that
      even the fated Princess in the fairy tale might roam through all Scotland
      without the risk of piercing her hand with a spindle, and dying of the
      wound. Late as the hour was (and it was long past midnight), the whole
      family were still on foot, and far from proposing to go to bed; the dame
      was still busy broiling car-cakes on the girdle, and the elder girl, the
      half-naked mermaid elsewhere commemorated, was preparing a pile of
      Findhorn haddocks (that is, haddocks smoked with green wood), to be eaten
      along with these relishing provisions.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were thus employed, a slight tap at the door, accompanied with
      the question, &ldquo;Are ye up yet, sirs?&rdquo; announced a visitor. The answer, &ldquo;Ay,
      ay,&mdash;come your ways ben, hinny,&rdquo; occasioned the lifting of the latch,
      and Jenny Rintherout, the female domestic of our Antiquary, made her
      appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; exclaimed the mistress of the family&mdash;&ldquo;Hegh, sirs! can this
      be you, Jenny?&mdash;a sight o&rsquo; you&rsquo;s gude for sair een, lass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O woman, we&rsquo;ve been sae ta&rsquo;en up wi&rsquo; Captain Hector&rsquo;s wound up by, that I
      havena had my fit out ower the door this fortnight; but he&rsquo;s better now,
      and auld Caxon sleeps in his room in case he wanted onything. Sae, as soon
      as our auld folk gaed to bed, I e&rsquo;en snodded my head up a bit, and left
      the house-door on the latch, in case onybody should be wanting in or out
      while I was awa, and just cam down the gate to see an there was ony cracks
      amang ye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; answered Luckie Mucklebackit, &ldquo;I see you hae gotten a&rsquo; your
      braws on; ye&rsquo;re looking about for Steenie now&mdash;but he&rsquo;s no at hame
      the night; and ye&rsquo;ll no do for Steenie, lass&mdash;a feckless thing like
      you&rsquo;s no fit to mainteen a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Steenie will no do for me,&rdquo; retorted Jenny, with a toss of her head that
      might have become a higher-born damsel; &ldquo;I maun hae a man that can
      mainteen his wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou ay, hinny&mdash;thae&rsquo;s your landward and burrows-town notions. My
      certie!&mdash;fisherwives ken better&mdash;they keep the man, and keep the
      house, and keep the siller too, lass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A wheen poor drudges ye are,&rdquo; answered the nymph of the land to the nymph
      of the sea. &ldquo;As sune as the keel o&rsquo; the coble touches the sand, deil a bit
      mair will the lazy fisher loons work, but the wives maun kilt their coats,
      and wade into the surf to tak the fish ashore. And then the man casts aff
      the wat and puts on the dry, and sits down wi&rsquo; his pipe and his gill-stoup
      ahint the ingle, like ony auld houdie, and neer a turn will he do till the
      coble&rsquo;s afloat again! And the wife she maun get the scull on her back, and
      awa wi&rsquo; the fish to the next burrows-town, and scauld and ban wi&rsquo;ilka wife
      that will scauld and ban wi&rsquo;her till it&rsquo;s sauld&mdash;and that&rsquo;s the gait
      fisher-wives live, puir slaving bodies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Slaves?&mdash;gae wa&rsquo;, lass!&mdash;ca&rsquo; the head o&rsquo; the house slaves?
      little ye ken about it, lass. Show me a word my Saunders daur speak, or a
      turn he daur do about the house, without it be just to tak his meat, and
      his drink, and his diversion, like ony o&rsquo; the weans. He has mair sense
      than to ca&rsquo; anything about the bigging his ain, frae the rooftree down to
      a crackit trencher on the bink. He kens weel eneugh wha feeds him, and
      cleeds him, and keeps a&rsquo; tight, thack and rape, when his coble is jowing
      awa in the Firth, puir fallow. Na, na, lass!&mdash;them that sell the
      goods guide the purse&mdash;them that guide the purse rule the house. Show
      me ane o&rsquo; yer bits o&rsquo; farmer-bodies that wad let their wife drive the
      stock to the market, and ca&rsquo; in the debts. Na, na.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, aweel, Maggie, ilka land has its ain lauch&mdash;But where&rsquo;s
      Steenie the night, when a&rsquo;s come and gane? And where&rsquo;s the gudeman?&rdquo; *
    </p>
    <p>
      * Note G. Gynecocracy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hae putten the gudeman to his bed, for he was e&rsquo;en sair forfain; and
      Steenie&rsquo;s awa out about some barns-breaking wi&rsquo; the auld gaberlunzie, Edie
      Ochiltree: they&rsquo;ll be in sune, and ye can sit doun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, gudewife&rdquo; (taking a seat), &ldquo;I haena that muckle time to stop&mdash;but
      I maun tell ye about the news. Yell hae heard o&rsquo; the muckle kist o&rsquo; gowd
      that Sir Arthur has fund down by at St. Ruth?&mdash;He&rsquo;ll be grander than
      ever now&mdash;he&rsquo;ll no can haud down his head to sneeze, for fear o&rsquo; 
      seeing his shoon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou ay&mdash;a&rsquo; the country&rsquo;s heard o&rsquo; that; but auld Edie says that they
      ca&rsquo; it ten times mair than ever was o&rsquo;t, and he saw them howk it up. Od,
      it would be lang or a puir body that needed it got sic a windfa&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, that&rsquo;s sure eneugh.&mdash;And yell hae heard o&rsquo; the Countess o&rsquo; 
      Glenallan being dead and lying in state, and how she&rsquo;s to be buried at St.
      Ruth&rsquo;s as this night fa&rsquo;s, wi&rsquo; torch-light; and a&rsquo; the popist servants,
      and Ringan Aikwood, that&rsquo;s a papist too, are to be there, and it will be
      the grandest show ever was seen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, hinny,&rdquo; answered the Nereid, &ldquo;if they let naebody but papists come
      there, it&rsquo;ll no be muckle o&rsquo; a show in this country, for the auld harlot,
      as honest Mr. Blattergowl ca&rsquo;s her, has few that drink o&rsquo; her cup o&rsquo; 
      enchantments in this corner o&rsquo; our chosen lands.&mdash;But what can ail
      them to bury the auld carlin (a rudas wife she was) in the night-time?&mdash;I
      dare say our gudemither will ken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here she exalted her voice, and exclaimed twice or thrice, &ldquo;Gudemither!
      gudemither!&rdquo; but, lost in the apathy of age and deafness, the aged sibyl
      she addressed continued plying her spindle without understanding the
      appeal made to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak to your grandmither, Jenny&mdash;Od, I wad rather hail the coble
      half a mile aff, and the nor-wast wind whistling again in my teeth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grannie,&rdquo; said the little mermaid, in a voice to which the old woman was
      better accustomed, &ldquo;minnie wants to ken what for the Glenallan folk aye
      bury by candle-light in the ruing of St. Ruth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old woman paused in the act of twirling the spindle, turned round to
      the rest of the party, lifted her withered, trembling, and clay-coloured
      hand, raised up her ashen-hued and wrinkled face, which the quick motion
      of two light-blue eyes chiefly distinguished from the visage of a corpse,
      and, as if catching at any touch of association with the living world,
      answered, &ldquo;What gars the Glenallan family inter their dead by torchlight,
      said the lassie?&mdash;Is there a Glenallan dead e&rsquo;en now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We might be a&rsquo; dead and buried too,&rdquo; said Maggie, &ldquo;for onything ye wad
      ken about it;&rdquo;&mdash;and then, raising her voice to the stretch of her
      mother-in-law&rsquo;s comprehension, she added,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the auld Countess, gudemither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is she ca&rsquo;d hame then at last?&rdquo; said the old woman, in a voice that
      seemed to be agitated with much more feeling than belonged to her extreme
      old age, and the general indifference and apathy of her manner&mdash;&ldquo;is
      she then called to her last account after her lang race o&rsquo; pride and
      power?&mdash;O God, forgie her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But minnie was asking ye,&rdquo; resumed the lesser querist, &ldquo;what for the
      Glenallan family aye bury their dead by torch-light?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They hae aye dune sae,&rdquo; said the grandmother, &ldquo;since the time the Great
      Earl fell in the sair battle o&rsquo; the Harlaw, when they say the coronach was
      cried in ae day from the mouth of the Tay to the Buck of the Cabrach, that
      ye wad hae heard nae other sound but that of lamentation for the great
      folks that had fa&rsquo;en fighting against Donald of the Isles. But the Great
      Earl&rsquo;s mither was living&mdash;they were a doughty and a dour race, the
      women o&rsquo; the house o&rsquo; Glenallan&mdash;and she wad hae nae coronach cried
      for her son, but had him laid in the silence o&rsquo; midnight in his place o&rsquo; 
      rest, without either drinking the dirge, or crying the lament. She said he
      had killed enow that day he died, for the widows and daughters o&rsquo; the
      Highlanders he had slain to cry the coronach for them they had lost, and
      for her son too; and sae she laid him in his gave wi&rsquo; dry eyes, and
      without a groan or a wail. And it was thought a proud word o&rsquo; the family,
      and they aye stickit by it&mdash;and the mair in the latter times, because
      in the night-time they had mair freedom to perform their popish ceremonies
      by darkness and in secrecy than in the daylight&mdash;at least that was
      the case in my time; they wad hae been disturbed in the day-time baith by
      the law and the commons of Fairport&mdash;they may be owerlooked now, as I
      have heard: the warlds changed&mdash;I whiles hardly ken whether I am
      standing or sitting, or dead or living.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And looking round the fire, as if in a state of unconscious uncertainty of
      which she complained, old Elspeth relapsed into her habitual and
      mechanical occupation of twirling the spindle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, sirs!&rdquo; said Jenny Rintherout, under her breath to her gossip, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s
      awsome to hear your gudemither break out in that gait&mdash;it&rsquo;s like the
      dead speaking to the living.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye&rsquo;re no that far wrang, lass; she minds naething o&rsquo; what passes the day&mdash;but
      set her on auld tales, and she can speak like a prent buke. She kens mair
      about the Glenallan family than maist folk&mdash;the gudeman&rsquo;s father was
      their fisher mony a day. Ye maun ken the papists make a great point o&rsquo; 
      eating fish&mdash;it&rsquo;s nae bad part o&rsquo; their religion that, whatever the
      rest is&mdash;I could aye sell the best o&rsquo; fish at the best o&rsquo; prices for
      the Countess&rsquo;s ain table, grace be wi&rsquo; her! especially on a Friday&mdash;But
      see as our gudemither&rsquo;s hands and lips are ganging&mdash;now it&rsquo;s working
      in her head like barm&mdash;she&rsquo;ll speak eneugh the night. Whiles she&rsquo;ll
      no speak a word in a week, unless it be to the bits o&rsquo; bairns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hegh, Mrs. Mucklebackit, she&rsquo;s an awsome wife!&rdquo; said Jenny in reply.
      &ldquo;D&rsquo;ye think she&rsquo;s a&rsquo;thegither right? Folk say she downa gang to the kirk,
      or speak to the minister, and that she was ance a papist but since her
      gudeman&rsquo;s been dead, naebody kens what she is. D&rsquo;ye think yoursell that
      she&rsquo;s no uncanny?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Canny, ye silly tawpie! think ye ae auld wife&rsquo;s less canny than anither?
      unless it be Alison Breck&mdash;I really couldna in conscience swear for
      her; I have kent the boxes she set fill&rsquo;d wi&rsquo; partans, when&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whisht, whisht, Maggie,&rdquo; whispered Jenny&mdash;&ldquo;your gudemither&rsquo;s gaun to
      speak again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wasna there some ane o&rsquo; ye said,&rdquo; asked the old sibyl, &ldquo;or did I dream,
      or was it revealed to me, that Joscelind, Lady Glenallan, is dead, an&rsquo; 
      buried this night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, gudemither,&rdquo; screamed the daughter-in-law, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s e&rsquo;en sae.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And e&rsquo;en sae let it be,&rdquo; said old Elspeth; &ldquo;she&rsquo;s made mony a sair heart
      in her day&mdash;ay, e&rsquo;en her ain son&rsquo;s&mdash;is he living yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, he&rsquo;s living yet; but how lang he&rsquo;ll live&mdash;however, dinna ye mind
      his coming and asking after you in the spring, and leaving siller?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be sae, Magge&mdash;I dinna mind it&mdash;but a handsome gentleman
      he was, and his father before him. Eh! if his father had lived, they might
      hae been happy folk! But he was gane, and the lady carried it in&mdash;ower
      and out-ower wi&rsquo; her son, and garr&rsquo;d him trow the thing he never suld hae
      trowed, and do the thing he has repented a&rsquo; his life, and will repent
      still, were his life as lang as this lang and wearisome ane o&rsquo; mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O what was it, grannie?&rdquo;&mdash;and &ldquo;What was it, gudemither?&rdquo;&mdash;and
      &ldquo;What was it, Luckie Elspeth?&rdquo; asked the children, the mother, and the
      visitor, in one breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never ask what it was,&rdquo; answered the old sibyl, &ldquo;but pray to God that ye
      arena left to the pride and wilfu&rsquo;ness o&rsquo; your ain hearts: they may be as
      powerful in a cabin as in a castle&mdash;I can bear a sad witness to that.
      O that weary and fearfu&rsquo; night! will it never gang out o&rsquo; my auld head!&mdash;Eh!
      to see her lying on the floor wi&rsquo; her lang hair dreeping wi&rsquo; the salt
      water!&mdash;Heaven will avenge on a&rsquo; that had to do wi&rsquo;t. Sirs! is my son
      out wi&rsquo; the coble this windy e&rsquo;en?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na, mither&mdash;nae coble can keep the sea this wind; he&rsquo;s sleeping
      in his bed out-ower yonder ahint the hallan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Steenie out at sea then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, grannie&mdash;Steenie&rsquo;s awa out wi&rsquo; auld Edie Ochiltree, the
      gaberlunzie; maybe they&rsquo;ll be gaun to see the burial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That canna be,&rdquo; said the mother of the family; &ldquo;we kent naething o&rsquo;t till
      Jock Rand cam in, and tauld us the Aikwoods had warning to attend&mdash;
      they keep thae things unco private&mdash;and they were to bring the corpse
      a&rsquo; the way frae the Castle, ten miles off, under cloud o&rsquo; night. She has
      lain in state this ten days at Glenallan House, in a grand chamber a&rsquo; hung
      wi&rsquo; black, and lighted wi&rsquo; wax cannle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God assoilzie her!&rdquo; ejaculated old Elspeth, her head apparently still
      occupied by the event of the Countess&rsquo;s death; &ldquo;she was a hard-hearted
      woman, but she&rsquo;s gaen to account for it a&rsquo;, and His mercy is infinite&mdash;
      God grant she may find it sae!&rdquo; And she relapsed into silence, which she
      did not break again during the rest of the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder what that auld daft beggar carle and our son Steenie can be
      doing out in sic a nicht as this,&rdquo; said Maggie Mucklebackit; and her
      expression of surprise was echoed by her visitor. &ldquo;Gang awa, ane o&rsquo; ye,
      hinnies, up to the heugh head, and gie them a cry in case they&rsquo;re within
      hearing; the car-cakes will be burnt to a cinder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little emissary departed, but in a few minutes came running back with
      the loud exclamation, &ldquo;Eh, Minnie! eh, grannie! there&rsquo;s a white bogle
      chasing twa black anes down the heugh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A noise of footsteps followed this singular annunciation, and young
      Steenie Mucklebackit, closely followed by Edie Ochiltree, bounced into the
      hut. They were panting and out of breath. The first thing Steenie did was
      to look for the bar of the door, which his mother reminded him had been
      broken up for fire-wood in the hard winter three years ago; &ldquo;for what
      use,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;had the like o&rsquo; them for bars?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s naebody chasing us,&rdquo; said the beggar, after he had taken his
      breath: &ldquo;we&rsquo;re e&rsquo;en like the wicked, that flee when no one pursueth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, but we were chased,&rdquo; said Steenie, &ldquo;by a spirit or something
      little better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a man in white on horseback,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;for the soft grund that
      wadna bear the beast, flung him about, I wot that weel; but I didna think
      my auld legs could have brought me aff as fast; I ran amaist as fast as if
      I had been at Prestonpans.&rdquo; *
    </p>
    <p>
      * [This refers to the flight of the government forces at the battle of
      Prestonpans, 1745.]
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout, ye daft gowks!&rdquo; said Luckie Mucklebackit, &ldquo;it will hae been some o&rsquo; 
      the riders at the Countess&rsquo;s burial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;is the auld Countess buried the night at St. Ruth&rsquo;s?
      Ou, that wad be the lights and the noise that scarr&rsquo;d us awa; I wish I had
      ken&rsquo;d&mdash;I wad hae stude them, and no left the man yonder&mdash;but
      they&rsquo;ll take care o&rsquo; him. Ye strike ower hard, Steenie I doubt ye
      foundered the chield.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neer a bit,&rdquo; said Steenie, laughing; &ldquo;he has braw broad shouthers, and I
      just took measure o&rsquo; them wi&rsquo; the stang. Od, if I hadna been something
      short wi&rsquo; him, he wad hae knockit your auld hams out, lad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, an I win clear o&rsquo; this scrape,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;I&rsquo;se tempt Providence
      nae mair. But I canna think it an unlawfu&rsquo; thing to pit a bit trick on sic
      a landlouping scoundrel, that just lives by tricking honester folk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what are we to do with this?&rdquo; said Steenie, producing a pocket-book.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Od guide us, man,&rdquo; said Edie in great alarm, &ldquo;what garr&rsquo;d ye touch the
      gear? a very leaf o&rsquo; that pocket-book wad be eneugh to hang us baith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dinna ken,&rdquo; said Steenie; &ldquo;the book had fa&rsquo;en out o&rsquo; his pocket, I
      fancy, for I fand it amang my feet when I was graping about to set him on
      his logs again, and I just pat it in my pouch to keep it safe; and then
      came the tramp of horse, and you cried, Rin, rin,&rsquo; and I had nae mair
      thought o&rsquo; the book.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We maun get it back to the loon some gait or other; ye had better take it
      yoursell, I think, wi&rsquo; peep o&rsquo; light, up to Ringan Aikwood&rsquo;s. I wadna for
      a hundred pounds it was fund in our hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Steenie undertook to do as he was directed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bonny night ye hae made o&rsquo;t, Mr. Steenie,&rdquo; said Jenny Rintherout, who,
      impatient of remaining so long unnoticed, now presented herself to the
      young fisherman&mdash;&ldquo;A bonny night ye hae made o&rsquo;t, tramping about wi&rsquo; 
      gaberlunzies, and getting yoursell hunted wi&rsquo; worricows, when ye suld be
      sleeping in your bed, like your father, honest man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This attack called forth a suitable response of rustic raillery from the
      young fisherman. An attack was now commenced upon the car-cakes and smoked
      fish, and sustained with great perseverance by assistance of a bicker or
      two of twopenny ale and a bottle of gin. The mendicant then retired to the
      straw of an out-house adjoining,&mdash;the children had one by one crept
      into their nests,&mdash;the old grandmother was deposited in her
      flock-bed,&mdash;Steenie, notwithstanding his preceding fatigue, had the
      gallantry to accompany Miss Rintherout to her own mansion, and at what
      hour he returned the story saith not,&mdash;and the matron of the family,
      having laid the gathering-coal upon the fire, and put things in some sort
      of order, retired to rest the last of the family.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIXTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                           &mdash;Many great ones
          Would part with half their states, to have the plan
                 And credit to beg in the first style.
                                            Beggar&rsquo;s Bush.
</pre>
    <p>
      Old Edie was stirring with the lark, and his first inquiry was after
      Steenie and the pocket-book. The young fisherman had been under the
      necessity of attending his father before daybreak, to avail themselves of
      the tide, but he had promised that, immediately on his return, the
      pocket-book, with all its contents, carefully wrapped up in a piece of
      sail-cloth, should be delivered by him to Ringan Aikwood, for
      Dousterswivel, the owner.
    </p>
    <p>
      The matron had prepared the morning meal for the family, and, shouldering
      her basket of fish, tramped sturdily away towards Fairport. The children
      were idling round the door, for the day was fair and sun-shiney. The
      ancient grandame, again seated on her wicker-chair by the fire, had
      resumed her eternal spindle, wholly unmoved by the yelling and screaming
      of the children, and the scolding of the mother, which had preceded the
      dispersion of the family. Edie had arranged his various bags, and was
      bound for the renewal of his wandering life, but first advanced with due
      courtesy to take his leave of the ancient crone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gude day to ye, cummer, and mony ane o&rsquo; them. I will be back about the
      fore-end o&rsquo;har&rsquo;st, and I trust to find ye baith haill and fere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray that ye may find me in my quiet grave,&rdquo; said the old woman, in a
      hollow and sepulchral voice, but without the agitation of a single
      feature.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye&rsquo;re auld, cummer, and sae am I mysell; but we maun abide His will&mdash;
      we&rsquo;ll no be forgotten in His good time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor our deeds neither,&rdquo; said the crone: &ldquo;what&rsquo;s dune in the body maun be
      answered in the spirit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wot that&rsquo;s true; and I may weel tak the tale hame to mysell, that hae
      led a misruled and roving life. But ye were aye a canny wife. We&rsquo;re a&rsquo; 
      frail&mdash;but ye canna hae sae muckle to bow ye down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Less than I might have had&mdash;but mair, O far mair, than wad sink the
      stoutest brig e&rsquo;er sailed out o&rsquo; Fairport harbour!&mdash;Didna somebody
      say yestreen&mdash;at least sae it is borne in on my mind, but auld folk
      hae weak fancies&mdash;did not somebody say that Joscelind, Countess of
      Glenallan, was departed frae life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They said the truth whaever said it,&rdquo; answered old Edie; &ldquo;she was buried
      yestreen by torch-light at St. Ruth&rsquo;s, and I, like a fule, gat a gliff wi&rsquo; 
      seeing the lights and the riders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was their fashion since the days of the Great Earl that was killed at
      Harlaw;&mdash;they did it to show scorn that they should die and be buried
      like other mortals; the wives o&rsquo; the house of Glenallan wailed nae wail
      for the husband, nor the sister for the brother.&mdash;But is she e&rsquo;en
      ca&rsquo;d to the lang account?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As sure,&rdquo; answered Edie, &ldquo;as we maun a&rsquo; abide it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll unlade my mind, come o&rsquo;t what will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This she spoke with more alacrity than usually attended her expressions,
      and accompanied her words with an attitude of the hand, as if throwing
      something from her. She then raised up her form, once tall, and still
      retaining the appearance of having been so, though bent with age and
      rheumatism, and stood before the beggar like a mummy animated by some
      wandering spirit into a temporary resurrection. Her light-blue eyes
      wandered to and fro, as if she occasionally forgot and again remembered
      the purpose for which her long and withered hand was searching among the
      miscellaneous contents of an ample old-fashioned pocket. At length she
      pulled out a small chip-box, and opening it, took out a handsome ring, in
      which was set a braid of hair, composed of two different colours, black
      and light brown, twined together, encircled with brilliants of
      considerable value.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gudeman,&rdquo; she said to Ochiltree, &ldquo;as ye wad e&rsquo;er deserve mercy, ye maun
      gang my errand to the house of Glenallan, and ask for the Earl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Earl of Glenallan, cummer! ou, he winna see ony o&rsquo; the gentles o&rsquo; the
      country, and what likelihood is there that he wad see the like o&rsquo; an auld
      gaberlunzie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gang your ways and try;&mdash;and tell him that Elspeth o&rsquo; the
      Craigburnfoot&mdash;he&rsquo;ll mind me best by that name&mdash;maun see him or
      she be relieved frae her lang pilgrimage, and that she sends him that ring
      in token of the business she wad speak o&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ochiltree looked on the ring with some admiration of its apparent value,
      and then carefully replacing it in the box, and wrapping it in an old
      ragged handkerchief, he deposited the token in his bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, gudewife,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;se do your bidding, or it&rsquo;s no be my fault.
      But surely there was never sic a braw propine as this sent to a yerl by an
      auld fishwife, and through the hands of a gaberlunzie beggar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this reflection, Edie took up his pike-staff, put on his
      broad-brimmed bonnet, and set forth upon his pilgrimage. The old woman
      remained for some time standing in a fixed posture, her eyes directed to
      the door through which her ambassador had departed. The appearance of
      excitation, which the conversation had occasioned, gradually left her
      features; she sank down upon her accustomed seat, and resumed her
      mechanical labour of the distaff and spindle, with her wonted air of
      apathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edie Ochiltree meanwhile advanced on his journey. The distance to
      Glenallan was ten miles, a march which the old soldier accomplished in
      about four hours. With the curiosity belonging to his idle trade and
      animated character, he tortured himself the whole way to consider what
      could be the meaning of this mysterious errand with which he was
      entrusted, or what connection the proud, wealthy, and powerful Earl of
      Glenallan could have with the crimes or penitence of an old doting woman,
      whose rank in life did not greatly exceed that of her messenger. He
      endeavoured to call to memory all that he had ever known or heard of the
      Glenallan family, yet, having done so, remained altogether unable to form
      a conjecture on the subject. He knew that the whole extensive estate of
      this ancient and powerful family had descended to the Countess, lately
      deceased, who inherited, in a most remarkable degree, the stern, fierce,
      and unbending character which had distinguished the house of Glenallan
      since they first figured in Scottish annals. Like the rest of her
      ancestors, she adhered zealously to the Roman Catholic faith, and was
      married to an English gentleman of the same communion, and of large
      fortune, who did not survive their union two years. The Countess was,
      therefore, left an early widow, with the uncontrolled management of the
      large estates of her two sons. The elder, Lord Geraldin, who was to
      succeed to the title and fortune of Glenallan, was totally dependent on
      his mother during her life. The second, when he came of age, assumed the
      name and arms of his father, and took possession of his estate, according
      to the provisions of the Countess&rsquo;s marriage-settlement. After this
      period, he chiefly resided in England, and paid very few and brief visits
      to his mother and brother; and these at length were altogether dispensed
      with, in consequence of his becoming a convert to the reformed religion.
    </p>
    <p>
      But even before this mortal offence was given to its mistress, his
      residence at Glenallan offered few inducements to a gay young man like
      Edward Geraldin Neville, though its gloom and seclusion seemed to suit the
      retired and melancholy habits of his elder brother. Lord Geraldin, in the
      outset of life, had been a young man of accomplishment and hopes. Those
      who knew him upon his travels entertained the highest expectations of his
      future career. But such fair dawns are often strangely overcast. The young
      nobleman returned to Scotland, and after living about a year in his
      mother&rsquo;s society at Glenallan House, he seemed to have adopted all the
      stern gloom and melancholy of her character. Excluded from politics by the
      incapacities attached to those of his religion, and from all lighter
      avocationas by choice, Lord Geraldin led a life of the strictest
      retirement. His ordinary society was composed of the clergyman of his
      communion, who occasionally visited his mansion; and very rarely, upon
      stated occasions of high festival, one or two families who still professed
      the Catholic religion were formally entertained at Glenallan House. But
      this was all; their heretic neighbours knew nothing of the family
      whatever; and even the Catholics saw little more than the sumptuous
      entertainment and solemn parade which was exhibited on those formal
      occasions, from which all returned without knowing whether most to wonder
      at the stern and stately demeanour of the Countess, or the deep and gloomy
      dejection which never ceased for a moment to cloud the features of her
      son. The late event had put him in possession of his fortune and title,
      and the neighbourhood had already begun to conjecture whether gaiety would
      revive with independence, when those who had some occasional acquaintance
      with the interior of the family spread abroad a report, that the Earl&rsquo;s
      constitution was undermined by religious austerities, and that in all
      probability he would soon follow his mother to the grave. This event was
      the more probable, as his brother had died of a lingering complaint,
      which, in the latter years of his life, had affected at once his frame and
      his spirits; so that heralds and genealogists were already looking back
      into their records to discover the heir of this ill-fated family, and
      lawyers were talking with gleesome anticipation, of the probability of a
      &ldquo;great Glenallan cause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Edie Ochiltree approached the front of Glenallan House,* an ancient
      building of great extent, the most modern part of which had been designed
      by the celebrated Inigo Jones, he began to consider in what way he should
      be most likely to gain access for delivery of his message; and, after much
      consideration, resolved to send the token to the Earl by one of the
      domestics.
    </p>
    <p>
      * [Supposed to represent Glammis Castle, in Forfarshire, with which the
      Author was well acquainted.]
    </p>
    <p>
      With this purpose he stopped at a cottage, where he obtained the means of
      making up the ring in a sealed packet like a petition, addressed, <i>Forr
      his hounor the Yerl of Glenllan&mdash;These.</i> But being aware that
      missives delivered at the doors of great houses by such persons as
      himself, do not always make their way according to address, Edie
      determined, like an old soldier, to reconnoitre the ground before he made
      his final attack. As he approached the porter&rsquo;s lodge, he discovered, by
      the number of poor ranked before it, some of them being indigent persons
      in the vicinity, and others itinerants of his own begging profession,&mdash;that
      there was about to be a general dole or distribution of charity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good turn,&rdquo; said Edie to himself, &ldquo;never goes unrewarded&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
      maybe get a good awmous that I wad hae missed but for trotting on this
      auld wife&rsquo;s errand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, he ranked up with the rest of this ragged regiment, assuming
      a station as near the front as possible,&mdash;a distinction due, as he
      conceived, to his blue gown and badge, no less than to his years and
      experience; but he soon found there was another principle of precedence in
      this assembly, to which he had not adverted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are ye a triple man, friend, that ye press forward sae bauldly?&mdash;I&rsquo;m
      thinking no, for there&rsquo;s nae Catholics wear that badge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na, I am no a Roman,&rdquo; said Edie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then shank yoursell awa to the double folk, or single folk, that&rsquo;s the
      Episcopals or Presbyterians yonder: it&rsquo;s a shame to see a heretic hae sic
      a lang white beard, that would do credit to a hermit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ochiltree, thus rejected from the society of the Catholic mendicants, or
      those who called themselves such, went to station himself with the paupers
      of the communion of the church of England, to whom the noble donor
      allotted a double portion of his charity. But never was a poor occasional
      conformist more roughly rejected by a High-church congregation, even when
      that matter was furiously agitated in the days of good Queen Anne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See to him wi&rsquo; his badge!&rdquo; they said;&mdash;&ldquo;he hears ane o&rsquo; the king&rsquo;s
      Presbyterian chaplains sough out a sermon on the morning of every
      birth-day, and now he would pass himsell for ane o&rsquo; the Episcopal church!
      Na, na!&mdash;we&rsquo;ll take care o&rsquo; that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edie, thus rejected by Rome and Prelacy, was fain to shelter himself from
      the laughter of his brethren among the thin group of Presbyterians, who
      had either disdained to disguise their religious opinions for the sake of
      an augmented dole, or perhaps knew they could not attempt the imposition
      without a certainty of detection.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same degree of precedence was observed in the mode of distributing the
      charity, which consisted in bread, beef, and a piece of money, to each
      individual of all the three classes. The almoner, an ecclesiastic of grave
      appearance and demeanour, superintended in person the accommodation of the
      Catholic mendicants, asking a question or two of each as he delivered the
      charity, and recommending to their prayers the soul of Joscelind, late
      Countess of Glenallan, mother of their benefactor. The porter,
      distinguished by his long staff headed with silver, and by the black gown
      tufted with lace of the same colour, which he had assumed upon the general
      mourning in the family, overlooked the distribution of the dole among the
      prelatists. The less-favoured kirk-folk were committed to the charge of an
      aged domestic.
    </p>
    <p>
      As this last discussed some disputed point with the porter, his name, as
      it chanced to be occasionally mentioned, and then his features, struck
      Ochiltree, and awakened recollections of former times. The rest of the
      assembly were now retiring, when the domestic, again approaching the place
      where Edie still lingered, said, in a strong Aberdeenshire accent, &ldquo;Fat is
      the auld feel-body deeing, that he canna gang avay, now that he&rsquo;s gotten
      baith meat and siller?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Francis Macraw,&rdquo; answered Edie Ochiltree, &ldquo;d&rsquo;ye no mind Fontenoy, and
      keep thegither front and rear?&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ohon! ohon!&rdquo; cried Francie, with a true north-country yell of
      recognition, &ldquo;naebody could hae said that word but my auld front-rank man,
      Edie Ochiltree! But I&rsquo;m sorry to see ye in sic a peer state, man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No sae ill aff as ye may think, Francis. But I&rsquo;m laith to leave this
      place without a crack wi&rsquo; you, and I kenna when I may see you again, for
      your folk dinna mak Protestants welcome, and that&rsquo;s ae reason that I hae
      never been here before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fusht, fusht,&rdquo; said Francie, &ldquo;let that flee stick i&rsquo; the wa&rsquo;&mdash;when
      the dirt&rsquo;s dry it will rub out;&mdash;and come you awa wi&rsquo; me, and I&rsquo;ll
      gie ye something better thau that beef bane, man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having then spoke a confidential word with the porter (probably to request
      his connivance), and having waited until the almoner had returned into the
      house with slow and solemn steps, Francie Macraw introduced his old
      comrade into the court of Glenallan House, the gloomy gateway of which was
      surmounted by a huge scutcheon, in which the herald and undertaker had
      mingled, as usual, the emblems of human pride and of human nothingness,&mdash;the
      Countess&rsquo;s hereditary coat-of-arms, with all its numerous quarterings,
      disposed in a lozenge, and surrounded by the separate shields of her
      paternal and maternal ancestry, intermingled with scythes, hour glasses,
      skulls, and other symbols of that mortality which levels all distinctions.
      Conducting his friend as speedily as possible along the large paved court,
      Macraw led the way through a side-door to a small apartment near the
      servants&rsquo; hall, which, in virtue of his personal attendance upon the Earl
      of Glenallan, he was entitled to call his own. To produce cold meat of
      various kinds, strong beer, and even a glass of spirits, was no difficulty
      to a person of Francis&rsquo;s importance, who had not lost, in his sense of
      conscious dignity, the keen northern prudence which recommended a good
      understanding with the butler. Our mendicant envoy drank ale, and talked
      over old stories with his comrade, until, no other topic of conversation
      occurring, he resolved to take up the theme of his embassy, which had for
      some time escaped his memory.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had a petition to present to the Earl,&rdquo; he said;&mdash;for he judged
      it prudent to say nothing of the ring, not knowing, as he afterwards
      observed, how far the manners of a single soldier* might have been
      corrupted by service in a great house.
    </p>
    <p>
      * A single soldier means, in Scotch, a private soldier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout, tout, man,&rdquo; said Francie, &ldquo;the Earl will look at nae petitions&mdash;
      but I can gie&rsquo;t to the almoner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it relates to some secret, that maybe my lord wad like best to see&rsquo;t
      himsell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m jeedging that&rsquo;s the very reason that the almoner will be for seeing
      it the first and foremost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I hae come a&rsquo; this way on purpose to deliver it, Francis, and ye
      really maun help me at a pinch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neer speed then if I dinna,&rdquo; answered the Aberdeenshire man: &ldquo;let them be
      as cankered as they like, they can but turn me awa, and I was just
      thinking to ask my discharge, and gang down to end my days at Inverurie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this doughty resolution of serving his friend at all ventures, since
      none was to be encountered which could much inconvenience himself, Francie
      Macraw left the apartment. It was long before he returned, and when he
      did, his manner indicated wonder and agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am nae seer gin ye be Edie Ochiltree o&rsquo; Carrick&rsquo;s company in the
      Forty-twa, or gin ye be the deil in his likeness!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what makes ye speak in that gait?&rdquo; demanded the astonished mendicant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because my lord has been in sic a distress and surpreese as I neer saw a
      man in my life. But he&rsquo;ll see you&mdash;I got that job cookit. He was like
      a man awa frae himsell for mony minutes, and I thought he wad hae swarv&rsquo;t
      a&rsquo;thegither,&mdash;and fan he cam to himsell, he asked fae brought the
      packet&mdash;and fat trow ye I said?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An auld soger,&rdquo; says Edie&mdash;&ldquo;that does likeliest at a gentle&rsquo;s door;
      at a farmer&rsquo;s it&rsquo;s best to say ye&rsquo;re an auld tinkler, if ye need ony
      quarters, for maybe the gudewife will hae something to souther.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I said neer ane o&rsquo; the twa,&rdquo; answered Francis; &ldquo;my lord cares as
      little about the tane as the tother&mdash;for he&rsquo;s best to them that can
      souther up our sins. Sae I e&rsquo;en said the bit paper was brought by an auld
      man wi&rsquo; a long fite beard&mdash;he might be a capeechin freer for fat I
      ken&rsquo;d, for he was dressed like an auld palmer. Sae ye&rsquo;ll be sent up for
      fanever he can find mettle to face ye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I was weel through this business,&rdquo; thought Edie to himself; &ldquo;mony
      folk surmise that the Earl&rsquo;s no very right in the judgment, and wha can
      say how far he may be offended wi&rsquo; me for taking upon me sae muckle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But there was now no room for retreat&mdash;a bell sounded from a distant
      part of the mansion, and Macraw said, with a smothered accent, as if
      already in his master&rsquo;s presence, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s my lord&rsquo;s bell!&mdash;follow me,
      and step lightly and cannily, Edie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edie followed his guide, who seemed to tread as if afraid of being
      overheard, through a long passage, and up a back stair, which admitted
      them into the family apartments. They were ample and extensive, furnished
      at such cost as showed the ancient importance and splendour of the family.
      But all the ornaments were in the taste of a former and distant period,
      and one would have almost supposed himself traversing the halls of a
      Scottish nobleman before the union of the crowns. The late Countess,
      partly from a haughty contempt of the times in which she lived, partly
      from her sense of family pride, had not permitted the furniture to be
      altered or modernized during her residence at Glenallan House. The most
      magnificent part of the decorations was a valuable collection of pictures
      by the best masters, whose massive frames were somewhat tarnished by time.
      In this particular also the gloomy taste of the family seemed to
      predominate. There were some fine family portraits by Vandyke and other
      masters of eminence; but the collection was richest in the Saints and
      Martyrdoms of Domenichino, Velasquez, and Murillo, and other subjects of
      the same kind, which had been selected in preference to landscapes or
      historical pieces. The manner in which these awful, and sometimes
      disgusting, subjects were represented, harmonized with the gloomy state of
      the apartments,&mdash;a circumstance which was not altogether lost on the
      old man, as he traversed them under the guidance of his quondam
      fellow-soldier. He was about to express some sentiment of this kind, but
      Francie imposed silence on him by signs, and opening a door at the end of
      the long picture-gallery, ushered him into a small antechamber hung with
      black. Here they found the almoner, with his ear turned to a door opposite
      that by which they entered, in the attitude of one who listens with
      attention, but is at the same time afraid of being detected in the act.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old domestic and churchman started when they perceived each other. But
      the almoner first recovered his recollection, and advancing towards
      Macraw, said, under his breath, but with an authoritative tone, &ldquo;How dare
      you approach the Earl&rsquo;s apartment without knocking? and who is this
      stranger, or what has he to do here?&mdash;Retire to the gallery, and wait
      for me there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s impossible just now to attend your reverence,&rdquo; answered Macraw,
      raising his voice so as to be heard in the next room, being conscious that
      the priest would not maintain the altercation within hearing of his
      patron,&mdash;&ldquo;the Earl&rsquo;s bell has rung.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had scarce uttered the words, when it was rung again with greater
      violence than before; and the ecclesiastic, perceiving further
      expostulation impossible, lifted his finger at Macraw, with a menacing
      attitude, as he left the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell&rsquo;d ye sae,&rdquo; said the Aberdeen man in a whisper to Edie, and then
      proceeded to open the door near which they had observed the chaplain
      stationed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                             &mdash;This ring.&mdash;
               This little ring, with necromantic force,
               Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears,
               Conjured the sense of honour and of love
               Into such shapes, they fright me from myself.
                                     The Fatal Marriage.
</pre>
    <p>
      The ancient forms of mourning were observed in Glenallan House,
      notwithstanding the obduracy with which the members of the family were
      popularly supposed to refuse to the dead the usual tribute of lamentation.
      It was remarked, that when she received the fatal letter announcing the
      death of her second, and, as was once believed, her favourite son, the
      hand of the Countess did not shake, nor her eyelid twinkle, any more than
      upon perusal of a letter of ordinary business. Heaven only knows whether
      the suppression of maternal sorrow, which her pride commanded, might not
      have some effect in hastening her own death. It was at least generally
      supposed that the apoplectic stroke, which so soon afterwards terminated
      her existence, was, as it were, the vengeance of outraged Nature for the
      restraint to which her feelings had been subjected. But although Lady
      Glenallan forebore the usual external signs of grief, she had caused many
      of the apartments, amongst others her own and that of the Earl, to be hung
      with the exterior trappings of woe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Earl of Glenallan was therefore seated in an apartment hung with black
      cloth, which waved in dusky folds along its lofty walls. A screen, also
      covered with black baize, placed towards the high and narrow window,
      intercepted much of the broken light which found its way through the
      stained glass, that represented, with such skill as the fourteenth century
      possessed, the life and sorrows of the prophet Jeremiah. The table at
      which the Earl was seated was lighted with two lamps wrought in silver,
      shedding that unpleasant and doubtful light which arises from the mingling
      of artificial lustre with that of general daylight. The same table
      displayed a silver crucifix, and one or two clasped parchment books. A
      large picture, exquisitely painted by Spagnoletto, represented the
      martyrdom of St. Stephen, and was the only ornament of the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The inhabitant and lord of this disconsolate chamber was a man not past
      the prime of life, yet so broken down with disease and mental misery, so
      gaunt and ghastly, that he appeared but a wreck of manhood; and when he
      hastily arose and advanced towards his visitor, the exertion seemed almost
      to overpower his emaciated frame. As they met in the midst of the
      apartment, the contrast they exhibited was very striking. The hale cheek,
      firm step, erect stature, and undaunted presence and bearing of the old
      mendicant, indicated patience and content in the extremity of age, and in
      the lowest condition to which humanity can sink; while the sunken eye,
      pallid cheek, and tottering form of the nobleman with whom he was
      confronted, showed how little wealth, power, and even the advantages of
      youth, have to do with that which gives repose to the mind, and firmness
      to the frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Earl met the old man in the middle of the room, and having commanded
      his attendant to withdraw into the gallery, and suffer no one to enter the
      antechamber till he rung the bell, awaited, with hurried yet fearful
      impatience, until he heard first the door of his apartment, and then that
      of the antechamber, shut and fastened by the spring-bolt. When he was
      satisfied with this security against being overheard, Lord Glenallan came
      close up to the mendicant, whom he probably mistook for some person of a
      religious order in disguise, and said, in a hasty yet faltering tone, &ldquo;In
      the name of all our religion holds most holy, tell me, reverend father,
      what am I to expect from a communication opened by a token connected with
      such horrible recollections?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man, appalled by a manner so different from what he had expected
      from the proud and powerful nobleman, was at a loss how to answer, and in
      what manner to undeceive him. &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; continued the Earl, in a tone of
      increasing trepidation and agony&mdash;&ldquo;tell me, do you come to say that
      all that has been done to expiate guilt so horrible, has been too little
      and too trivial for the offence, and to point out new and more efficacious
      modes of severe penance?&mdash;I will not blench from it, father&mdash;let
      me suffer the pains of my crime here in the body, rather than hereafter in
      the spirit!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edie had now recollection enough to perceive, that if he did not interrupt
      the frankness of Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s admissions, he was likely to become the
      confidant of more than might be safe for him to know. He therefore uttered
      with a hasty and trembling voice&mdash;&ldquo;Your lordship&rsquo;s honour is mistaken&mdash;I
      am not of your persuasion, nor a clergyman, but, with all reverence, only
      puir Edie Ochiltree, the king&rsquo;s bedesman and your honour&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This explanation he accompanied by a profound bow after his manner, and
      then, drawing himself up erect, rested his arm on his staff, threw back
      his long white hair, and fixed his eyes upon the Earl, as he waited for an
      answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are not then,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan, after a pause of surprise&mdash;
      &ldquo;You are not then a Catholic priest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid!&rdquo; said Edie, forgetting in his confusion to whom he was
      speaking; &ldquo;I am only the king&rsquo;s bedesman and your honour&rsquo;s, as I said
      before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Earl turned hastily away, and paced the room twice or thrice, as if to
      recover the effects of his mistake, and then, coming close up to the
      mendicant, he demanded, in a stern and commanding tone, what he meant by
      intruding himself on his privacy, and from whence he had got the ring
      which he had thought proper to send him. Edie, a man of much spirit, was
      less daunted at this mode of interrogation than he had been confused by
      the tone of confidence in which the Earl had opened their conversation. To
      the reiterated question from whom he had obtained the ring, he answered
      composedly, &ldquo;From one who was better known to the Earl than to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better known to me, fellow?&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan: &ldquo;what is your meaning?&mdash;explain
      yourself instantly, or you shall experience the consequence of breaking in
      upon the hours of family distress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was auld Elspeth Mucklebackit that sent me here,&rdquo; said the beggar, &ldquo;in
      order to say&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You dote, old man!&rdquo; said the Earl; &ldquo;I never heard the name&mdash;but this
      dreadful token reminds me&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mind now, my lord,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;she tauld me your lordship would
      be mair familiar wi&rsquo; her, if I ca&rsquo;d her Elspeth o&rsquo; the Craigburnfoot&mdash;she
      had that name when she lived on your honour&rsquo;s land, that is, your honour&rsquo;s
      worshipful mother&rsquo;s that was then&mdash;Grace be wi&rsquo; her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said the appalled nobleman, as his countenance sunk, and his cheek
      assumed a hue yet more cadaverous; &ldquo;that name is indeed written in the
      most tragic page of a deplorable history. But what can she desire of me?
      Is she dead or living?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Living, my lord; and entreats to see your lordship before she dies, for
      she has something to communicate that hangs upon her very soul, and she
      says she canna flit in peace until she sees you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not until she sees me!&mdash;what can that mean? But she is doting with
      age and infirmity. I tell thee, friend, I called at her cottage myself,
      not a twelvemonth since, from a report that she was in distress, and she
      did not even know my face or voice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your honour wad permit me,&rdquo; said Edie, to whom the length of the
      conference restored a part of his professional audacity and native
      talkativeness&mdash;&ldquo;if your honour wad but permit me, I wad say, under
      correction of your lordship&rsquo;s better judgment, that auld Elspeth&rsquo;s like
      some of the ancient ruined strengths and castles that ane sees amang the
      hills. There are mony parts of her mind that appear, as I may say, laid
      waste and decayed, but then there&rsquo;s parts that look the steever, and the
      stronger, and the grander, because they are rising just like to fragments
      amaong the ruins o&rsquo; the rest. She&rsquo;s an awful woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She always was so,&rdquo; said the Earl, almost unconsciously echoing the
      observation of the mendicant; &ldquo;she always was different from other women&mdash;likest
      perhaps to her who is now no more, in her temper and turn of mind.&mdash;She
      wishes to see me, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before she dies,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;she earnestly entreats that pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be a pleasure to neither of us,&rdquo; said the Earl, sternly, &ldquo;yet she
      shall be gratified. She lives, I think, on the sea-shore to the southward
      of Fairport?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just between Monkbarns and Knockwinnock Castle, but nearer to Monkbarns.
      Your lordship&rsquo;s honour will ken the laird and Sir Arthur, doubtless?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A stare, as if he did not comprehend the question, was Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s
      answer. Edie saw his mind was elsewhere, and did not venture to repeat a
      query which was so little germain to the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you a Catholic, old man?&rdquo; demanded the Earl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my lord,&rdquo; said Ochiltree stoutly; for the remembrance of the unequal
      division of the dole rose in his mind at the moment; &ldquo;I thank Heaven I am
      a good Protestant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He who can conscientiously call himself <i>good,</i> has indeed reason to
      thank Heaven, be his form of Christianity what it will&mdash;But who is he
      that shall dare to do so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I,&rdquo; said Edie; &ldquo;I trust to beware of the sin of presumption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was your trade in your youth?&rdquo; continued the Earl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A soldier, my lord; and mony a sair day&rsquo;s kemping I&rsquo;ve seen. I was to
      have been made a sergeant, but&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A soldier! then you have slain and burnt, and sacked and spoiled?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I winna say,&rdquo; replied Edie, &ldquo;that I have been better than my neighbours;&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      a rough trade&mdash;war&rsquo;s sweet to them that never tried it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are now old and miserable, asking from precarious charity the
      food which in your youth you tore from the hand of the poor peasant?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a beggar, it is true, my lord; but I am nae just sae miserable
      neither. For my sins, I hae had grace to repent of them, if I might say
      sae, and to lay them where they may be better borne than by me; and for my
      food, naebody grudges an auld man a bit and a drink&mdash;Sae I live as I
      can, and am contented to die when I am ca&rsquo;d upon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thus, then, with little to look back upon that is pleasant or
      praiseworthy in your past life&mdash;with less to look forward to on this
      side of eternity, you are contented to drag out the rest of your
      existence? Go, begone! and in your age and poverty and weariness, never
      envy the lord of such a mansion as this, either in his sleeping or waking
      moments&mdash;Here is something for thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Earl put into the old man&rsquo;s hand five or six guineas. Edie would
      perhaps have stated his scruples, as upon other occasions, to the amount
      of the benefaction, but the tone of Lord Glenallan was too absolute to
      admit of either answer or dispute. The Earl then called his servant&mdash;&ldquo;See
      this old man safe from the castle&mdash;let no one ask him any questions&mdash;and
      you, friend, begone, and forget the road that leads to my house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be difficult for me,&rdquo; said Edie, looking at the gold which he
      still held in his hand, &ldquo;that would be e&rsquo;en difficult, since your honour
      has gien me such gade cause to remember it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lord Glenallan stared, as hardly comprehending the old man&rsquo;s boldness in
      daring to bandy words with him, and, with his hand, made him another
      signal of departure, which the mendicant instantly obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER EIGHTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                For he was one in all their idle sport,
               And like a monarch, ruled their little court
               The pliant bow he formed, the flying ball,
               The bat, the wicket, were his labours all.
                                         Crabbe&rsquo;s Village.
</pre>
    <p>
      Francis Macraw, agreeably to the commands of his master, attended the
      mendicant, in order to see him fairly out of the estate, without
      permitting him to have conversation, or intercourse, with any of the
      Earl&rsquo;s dependents or domestics. But, judiciously considering that the
      restriction did not extend to himself, who was the person entrusted with
      the convoy, he used every measure in his power to extort from Edie the
      nature of his confidential and secret interview with Lord Glenallan. But
      Edie had been in his time accustomed to cross-examination, and easily
      evaded those of his quondam comrade. &ldquo;The secrets of grit folk,&rdquo; said
      Ochiltree within himself, &ldquo;are just like the wild beasts that are shut up
      in cages. Keep them hard and fast sneaked up, and it&rsquo;s a&rsquo; very weel or
      better&mdash;but ance let them out, they will turn and rend you. I mind
      how ill Dugald Gunn cam aff for letting loose his tongue about the Major&rsquo;s
      leddy and Captain Bandilier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Francis was therefore foiled in his assaults upon the fidelity of the
      mendicant, and, like an indifferent chess-player, became, at every
      unsuccessful movement, more liable to the counter-checks of his opponent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sae ye uphauld ye had nae particulars to say to my lord but about yer ain
      matters?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, and about the wee bits o&rsquo; things I had brought frae abroad,&rdquo; said
      Edie. &ldquo;I ken&rsquo;d you popist folk are unco set on the relics that are fetched
      frae far-kirks and sae forth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, my Lord maun be turned feel outright,&rdquo; said the domestic, &ldquo;an he
      puts himsell into sic a carfuffle, for onything ye could bring him, Edie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I doubtna ye may say true in the main, neighbour,&rdquo; replied the beggar;
      &ldquo;but maybe he&rsquo;s had some hard play in his younger days, Francis, and that
      whiles unsettles folk sair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, Edie, and ye may say that&mdash;and since it&rsquo;s like yell neer come
      back to the estate, or, if ye dee, that ye&rsquo;ll no find me there, I&rsquo;se e&rsquo;en
      tell you he had a heart in his young time sae wrecked and rent, that it&rsquo;s
      a wonder it hasna broken outright lang afore this day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, say ye sae?&rdquo; said Ochiltree; &ldquo;that maun hae been about a woman, I
      reckon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, and ye hae guessed it,&rdquo; said Francie&mdash;&ldquo;jeest a cusin o&rsquo; his
      nain&mdash;Miss Eveline Neville, as they suld hae ca&rsquo;d her;&mdash;there
      was a sough in the country about it, but it was hushed up, as the grandees
      were concerned;&mdash;it&rsquo;s mair than twenty years syne&mdash;ay, it will
      be three-and-twenty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, I was in America then,&rdquo; said the mendicant, &ldquo;and no in the way to
      hear the country clashes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was little clash about it, man,&rdquo; replied Macraw; &ldquo;he liked this
      young leddy, ana suld hae married her, but his mother fand it out, and
      then the deil gaed o&rsquo;er Jock Webster. At last, the peer lass clodded
      hersell o&rsquo;er the scaur at the Craigburnfoot into the sea, and there was an
      end o&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An end o&rsquo;t wi&rsquo; the puir leddy,&rdquo; said the mendicant, &ldquo;but, as I reckon,
      nae end o&rsquo;t wi&rsquo; the yerl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nae end o&rsquo;t till his life makes an end,&rdquo; answered the Aberdonian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what for did the auld Countess forbid the marriage?&rdquo; continued the
      persevering querist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fat for!&mdash;she maybe didna weel ken for fat hersell, for she gar&rsquo;d a&rsquo; 
      bow to her bidding, right or wrang&mdash;But it was ken&rsquo;d the young leddy
      was inclined to some o&rsquo; the heresies of the country&mdash;mair by token,
      she was sib to him nearer than our Church&rsquo;s rule admits of. Sae the leddy
      was driven to the desperate act, and the yerl has never since held his
      head up like a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel away!&rdquo; replied Ochiltree:&mdash;&ldquo;it&rsquo;s e&rsquo;en queer I neer heard this
      tale afore.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s e&rsquo;en queer that ye heard it now, for deil ane o&rsquo; the servants durst
      hae spoken o&rsquo;t had the auld Countess been living. Eh, man, Edie! but she
      was a trimmer&mdash;it wad hae taen a skeely man to hae squared wi&rsquo; her!&mdash;But
      she&rsquo;s in her grave, and we may loose our tongues a bit fan we meet a
      friend.&mdash;But fare ye weel, Edie&mdash;I maun be back to the
      evening-service. An&rsquo; ye come to Inverurie maybe sax months awa, dinna
      forget to ask after Francie Macraw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What one kindly pressed, the other as firmly promised; and the friends
      having thus parted, with every testimony of mutual regard, the domestic of
      Lord Glenallan took his road back to the seat of his master, leaving
      Ochiltree to trace onward his habitual pilgrimage.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a fine summer evening, and the world&mdash;that is, the little
      circle which was all in all to the individual by whom it was trodden, lay
      before Edie Ochiltree, for the choosing of his night&rsquo;s quarters. When he
      had passed the less hospitable domains of Glenallan, he had in his option
      so many places of refuge for the evening, that he was nice, and even
      fastidious in the choice. Ailie Sim&rsquo;s public was on the road-side about a
      mile before him, but there would be a parcel of young fellows there on the
      Saturday night, and that was a bar to civil conversation. Other &ldquo;gudemen
      and gudewives,&rdquo; as the farmers and their dames are termed in Scotland,
      successively presented themselves to his imagination. But one was deaf,
      and could not hear him; another toothless, and could not make him hear; a
      third had a cross temper; and a fourth an ill-natured house-dog. At
      Monkbarns or Knockwinnock he was sure of a favourable and hospitable
      reception; but they lay too distant to be conveniently reached that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dinna ken how it is,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;but I am nicer about my
      quarters this night than ever I mind having been in my life. I think,
      having seen a&rsquo; the braws yonder, and finding out ane may be happier
      without them, has made me proud o&rsquo; my ain lot&mdash;But I wuss it bode me
      gude, for pride goeth before destruction. At ony rate, the warst barn e&rsquo;er
      man lay in wad be a pleasanter abode than Glenallan House, wi&rsquo; a&rsquo; the
      pictures and black velvet, and silver bonny-wawlies belonging to it&mdash;
      Sae I&rsquo;ll e&rsquo;en settle at ance, and put in for Ailie Sims.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the old man descended the hill above the little hamlet to which he was
      bending his course, the setting sun had relieved its inmates from their
      labour, and the young men, availing themselves of the fine evening, were
      engaged in the sport of long-bowls on a patch of common, while the women
      and elders looked on. The shout, the laugh, the exclamations of winners
      and losers, came in blended chorus up the path which Ochiltree was
      descending, and awakened in his recollection the days when he himself had
      been a keen competitor, and frequently victor, in games of strength and
      agility. These remembrances seldom fail to excite a sigh, even when the
      evening of life is cheered by brighter prospects than those of our poor
      mendicant. &ldquo;At that time of day,&rdquo; was his natural reflection, &ldquo;I would
      have thought as little about ony auld palmering body that was coming down
      the edge of Kinblythemont, as ony o&rsquo; thae stalwart young chiels does
      e&rsquo;enow about auld Edie Ochiltree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was, however, presently cheered, by finding that more importance was
      attached to his arrival than his modesty had anticipated. A disputed cast
      had occurred between the bands of players, and as the gauger favoured the
      one party, and the schoolmaster the other, the matter might be said to be
      taken up by the higher powers. The miller and smith, also, had espoused
      different sides, and, considering the vivacity of two such disputants,
      there was reason to doubt whether the strife might be amicably terminated.
      But the first person who caught a sight of the mendicant exclaimed, &ldquo;Ah!
      here comes auld Edie, that kens the rules of a&rsquo; country games better than
      ony man that ever drave a bowl, or threw an axle-tree, or putted a stane
      either;&mdash;let&rsquo;s hae nae quarrelling, callants&mdash;we&rsquo;ll stand by
      auld Edie&rsquo;s judgment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edie was accordingly welcomed, and installed as umpire, with a general
      shout of gratulation. With all the modesty of a Bishop to whom the mitre
      is proffered, or of a new Speaker called to the chair, the old man
      declined the high trust and responsibility with which it was proposed to
      invest him, and, in requital for his self-denial and humility, had the
      pleasure of receiving the reiterated assurances of young, old, and
      middle-aged, that he was simply the best qualified person for the office
      of arbiter &ldquo;in the haill country-side.&rdquo; Thus encouraged, he proceeded
      gravely to the execution of his duty, and, strictly forbidding all
      aggravating expressions on either side, he heard the smith and gauger on
      one side, the miller and schoolmaster on the other, as junior and senior
      counsel. Edie&rsquo;s mind, however, was fully made up on the subject before the
      pleading began; like that of many a judge, who must nevertheless go
      through all the forms, and endure in its full extent the eloquence and
      argumentation of the Bar. For when all had been said on both sides, and
      much of it said over oftener than once, our senior, being well and ripely
      advised, pronounced the moderate and healing judgment, that the disputed
      cast was a drawn one, and should therefore count to neither party. This
      judicious decision restored concord to the field of players; they began
      anew to arrange their match and their bets, with the clamorous mirth usual
      on such occasions of village sport, and the more eager were already
      stripping their jackets, and committing them, with their coloured
      handkerchiefs, to the care of wives, sisters, and mistresses. But their
      mirth was singularly interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the outside of the group of players began to arise sounds of a
      description very different from those of sport&mdash;that sort of
      suppressed sigh and exclamation, with which the first news of calamity is
      received by the hearers, began to be heard indistinctly. A buzz went about
      among the women of &ldquo;Eh, sirs! sae young and sae suddenly summoned!&rdquo;&mdash;It
      then extended itself among the men, and silenced the sounds of sportive
      mirth.
    </p>
    <p>
      All understood at once that some disaster had happened in the country, and
      each inquired the cause at his neighbour, who knew as little as the
      querist. At length the rumour reached, in a distinct shape, the ears of
      Edie Ochiltree, who was in the very centre of the assembly. The boat of
      Mucklebackit, the fisherman whom we have so often mentioned, had been
      swamped at sea, and four men had perished, it was affirmed, including
      Mucklebackit and his son. Rumour had in this, however, as in other cases,
      gone beyond the truth. The boat had indeed been overset; but Stephen, or,
      as he was called, Steenie Mucklebackit, was the only man who had been
      drowned. Although the place of his residence and his mode of life removed
      the young man from the society of the country folks, yet they failed not
      to pause in their rustic mirth to pay that tribute to sudden calamity
      which it seldom fails to receive in cases of infrequent occurrence. To
      Ochiltree, in particular, the news came like a knell, the rather that he
      had so lately engaged this young man&rsquo;s assistance in an affair of sportive
      mischief; and though neither loss nor injury was designed to the German
      adept, yet the work was not precisely one in which the latter hours of
      life ought to be occupied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Misfortunes never come alone. While Ochiltree, pensively leaning upon his
      staff, added his regrets to those of the hamlet which bewailed the young
      man&rsquo;s sudden death, and internally blamed himself for the transaction in
      which he had so lately engaged him, the old man&rsquo;s collar was seized by a
      peace-officer, who displayed his baton in his right hand, and exclaimed,
      &ldquo;In the king&rsquo;s name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gauger and schoolmaster united their rhetoric, to prove to the
      constable and his assistant that he had no right to arrest the king&rsquo;s
      bedesman as a vagrant; and the mute eloquence of the miller and smith,
      which was vested in their clenched fists, was prepared to give Highland
      bail for their arbiter; his blue gown, they said, was his warrant for
      travelling the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But his blue gown,&rdquo; answered the officer, &ldquo;is nae protection for assault,
      robbery, and murder; and my warrant is against him for these crimes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Murder!&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;murder! wha did I e&rsquo;er murder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. German Doustercivil, the agent at Glen-Withershins mining-works.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Murder Doustersnivel?&mdash;hout, he&rsquo;s living, and life-like, man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nae thanks to you if he be; he had a sair struggle for his life, if a&rsquo; be
      true he tells, and ye maun answer for&rsquo;t at the bidding of the law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The defenders of the mendicant shrunk back at hearing the atrocity of the
      charges against him, but more than one kind hand thrust meat and bread and
      pence upon Edie, to maintain him in the prison, to which the officers were
      about to conduct him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks to ye! God bless ye a&rsquo;, bairns!&mdash;I&rsquo;ve gotten out o&rsquo; mony a
      snare when I was waur deserving o&rsquo; deliverance&mdash;I shall escape like a
      bird from the fowler. Play out your play, and never mind me&mdash;I am
      mair grieved for the puir lad that&rsquo;s gane, than for aught they can do to
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, the unresisting prisoner was led off, while he mechanically
      accepted and stored in his wallets the alms which poured in on every hand,
      and ere he left the hamlet, was as deep-laden as a government victualler.
      The labour of bearing this accumulating burden was, however, abridged, by
      the officer procuring a cart and horse to convey the old man to a
      magistrate, in order to his examination and committal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The disaster of Steenie, and the arrest of Edie, put a stop to the sports
      of the village, the pensive inhabitants of which began to speculate upon
      the vicissitudes of human affairs, which had so suddenly consigned one of
      their comrades to the grave, and placed their master of the revels in some
      danger of being hanged. The character of Dousterswivel being pretty
      generally known, which was in his case equivalent to being pretty
      generally detested, there were many speculations upon the probability of
      the accusation being malicious. But all agreed, that if Edie Ochiltree
      behoved in all events to suffer upon this occasion, it was a great pity he
      had not better merited his fate by killing Dousterswivel outright.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER NINTH
    </h2>
<pre>
               Who is he?&mdash;One that for the lack of land
              Shall fight upon the water&mdash;he hath challenged
              Formerly the grand whale; and by his titles
                 Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth.
                 He tilted with a sword-fish&mdash;Marry, sir,
                 Th&rsquo; aquatic had the best&mdash;the argument
                      Still galls our champion&rsquo;s breech.
                                               Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the poor young fellow, Steenie Mucklebackit, is to be buried this
      morning,&rdquo; said our old friend the Antiquary, as he exchanged his quilted
      night-gown for an old-fashioned black coat in lieu of the snuff-coloured
      vestment which he ordinarily wore, &ldquo;and, I presume, it is expected that I
      should attend the funeral?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, ay,&rdquo; answered the faithful Caxon, officiously brushing the white
      threads and specks from his patron&rsquo;s habit. &ldquo;The body, God help us! was
      sae broken against the rocks that they&rsquo;re fain to hurry the burial. The
      sea&rsquo;s a kittle cast, as I tell my daughter, puir thing, when I want her to
      get up her spirits; the sea, says I, Jenny, is as uncertain a calling&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As the calling of an old periwig-maker, that&rsquo;s robbed of his business by
      crops and the powder-tax. Caxon, thy topics of consolation are as ill
      chosen as they are foreign to the present purpose. <i>Quid mihi cum
      faemina</i>? What have I to do with thy womankind, who have enough and to
      spare of mine own?&mdash;I pray of you again, am I expected by these poor
      people to attend the funeral of their son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, doubtless, your honour is expected,&rdquo; answered Caxon; &ldquo;weel I wot ye
      are expected. Ye ken, in this country ilka gentleman is wussed to be sae
      civil as to see the corpse aff his grounds; ye needna gang higher than the
      loan-head&mdash;it&rsquo;s no expected your honour suld leave the land; it&rsquo;s
      just a Kelso convoy, a step and a half ower the doorstane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Kelso convoy!&rdquo; echoed the inquisitive Antiquary; &ldquo;and why a Kelso
      convoy more than any other?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear sir,&rdquo; answered Caxon, &ldquo;how should I ken? it&rsquo;s just a by-word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caxon,&rdquo; answered Oldbuck, &ldquo;thou art a mere periwig-maker&mdash;Had I
      asked Ochiltree the question, he would have had a legend ready made to my
      hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My business,&rdquo; replied Caxon, with more animation than he commonly
      displayed, &ldquo;is with the outside of your honour&rsquo;s head, as ye are
      accustomed to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, Caxon, true; and it is no reproach to a thatcher that he is not an
      upholsterer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then took out his memorandum-book and wrote down &ldquo;Kelso convoy&mdash;said
      to be a step and a half over the threshold. Authority&mdash;Caxon.&mdash;<i>Quaere</i>&mdash;
      Whence derived? <i>Mem.</i> To write to Dr. Graysteel upon the subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having made this entry, he resumed&mdash;&ldquo;And truly, as to this custom of
      the landlord attending the body of the peasant, I approve it, Caxon. It
      comes from ancient times, and was founded deep in the notions of mutual
      aid and dependence between the lord and cultivator of the soil. And herein
      I must say, the feudal system&mdash;(as also in its courtesy towards
      womankind, in which it exceeded)&mdash;herein, I say, the feudal usages
      mitigated and softened the sternness of classical times. No man, Caxon,
      ever heard of a Spartan attending the funeral of a Helot&mdash;yet I dare
      be sworn that John of the Girnel&mdash;ye have heard of him, Caxon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, sir,&rdquo; answered Caxon; &ldquo;naebody can hae been lang in your honour&rsquo;s
      company without hearing of that gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; continued the Antiquary, &ldquo;I would bet a trifle there was not a <i>kolb
      kerl,</i> or bondsman, or peasant, <i>ascriptus glebae,</i> died upon the
      monks&rsquo; territories down here, but John of the Girnel saw them fairly and
      decently interred.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, but if it like your honour, they say he had mair to do wi&rsquo; the births
      than the burials. Ha! ha! ha!&rdquo; with a gleeful chuckle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good, Caxon, very good!&mdash;why, you shine this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And besides,&rdquo; added Caxon, slyly, encouraged by his patron&rsquo;s approbation,
      &ldquo;they say, too, that the Catholic priests in thae times gat something for
      ganging about to burials.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right, Caxon! right as my glove! By the by, I fancy that phrase comes
      from the custom of pledging a glove as the signal of irrefragable faith&mdash;
      right, I say, as my glove, Caxon&mdash;but we of the Protestant ascendency
      have the more merit in doing that duty for nothing, which cost money in
      the reign of that empress of superstition, whom Spenser, Caxon, terms in
      his allegorical phrase,
    </p>
<pre>
                  &mdash;The daughter of that woman blind,
                    Abessa, daughter of Corecca slow&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      But why talk I of these things to thee?&mdash;my poor Lovel has spoiled
      me, and taught me to speak aloud when it is much the same as speaking to
      myself. Where&rsquo;s my nephew, Hector M&rsquo;Intyre?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s in the parlour, sir, wi&rsquo; the leddies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;I will betake me thither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Monkbarns,&rdquo; said his sister, on his entering the parlour, &ldquo;ye maunna
      be angry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear uncle!&rdquo; began Miss M&rsquo;Intyre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the meaning of all this?&rdquo; said Oldbuck, in alarm of some impending
      bad news, and arguing upon the supplicating tone of the ladies, as a
      fortress apprehends an attack from the very first flourish of the trumpet
      which announces the summons&mdash;&ldquo;what&rsquo;s all this?&mdash;what do you
      bespeak my patience for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No particular matter, I should hope, sir,&rdquo; said Hector, who, with his arm
      in a sling, was seated at the breakfast table;&mdash;&ldquo;however, whatever it
      may amount to I am answerable for it, as I am for much more trouble that I
      have occasioned, and for which I have little more than thanks to offer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! heartily welcome, heartily welcome&mdash;only let it be a warning
      to you,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;against your fits of anger, which is a short
      madness&mdash;<i>Ira furor brevis</i>&mdash;but what is this new
      disaster?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dog, sir, has unfortunately thrown down&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it please Heaven, not the lachrymatory from Clochnaben!&rdquo; interjected
      Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, uncle,&rdquo; said the young lady, &ldquo;I am afraid&mdash;it was that which
      stood upon the sideboard&mdash;the poor thing only meant to eat the pat of
      fresh butter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In which she has fully succeeded, I presume, for I see that on the table
      is salted. But that is nothing&mdash;my lachrymatory, the main pillar of
      my theory on which I rested to show, in despite of the ignorant obstinacy
      of Mac-Cribb, that the Romans had passed the defiles of these mountains,
      and left behind them traces of their arts and arms, is gone&mdash;annihilated&mdash;reduced
      to such fragments as might be the shreds of a broken-flowerpot!
    </p>
<pre>
                            &mdash;Hector, I love thee,
                  But never more be officer of mine.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, really, sir, I am afraid I should make a bad figure in a regiment of
      your raising.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least, Hector, I would have you despatch your camp train, and travel
      <i>expeditus,</i> or <i>relictis impedimentis.</i> You cannot conceive how
      I am annoyed by this beast&mdash;she commits burglary, I believe, for I
      heard her charged with breaking into the kitchen after all the doors were
      locked, and eating up a shoulder of mutton. &ldquo;&mdash;(Our readers, if they
      chance to remember Jenny Rintherout&rsquo;s precaution of leaving the door open
      when she went down to the fisher&rsquo;s cottage, will probably acquit poor Juno
      of that aggravation of guilt which the lawyers call a <i>claustrum fregit,</i>
      and which makes the distinction between burglary and privately stealing. )
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am truly sorry, sir,&rdquo; said Hector, &ldquo;that Juno has committed so much
      disorder; but Jack Muirhead, the breaker, was never able to bring her
      under command. She has more travel than any bitch I ever knew, but&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, Hector, I wish the bitch would travel herself out of my grounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will both of us retreat to-morrow, or to-day, but I would not
      willingly part from my mother&rsquo;s brother in unkindness about a paltry
      pipkin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O brother! brother!&rdquo; ejaculated Miss M&rsquo;Intyre, in utter despair at this
      vituperative epithet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what would you have me call it?&rdquo; continued Hector; &ldquo;it was just such
      a thing as they use in Egypt to cool wine, or sherbet, or water;&mdash;I
      brought home a pair of them&mdash;I might have brought home twenty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;shaped such as that your dog threw down?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir, much such a sort of earthen jar as that which was on the
      sideboard. They are in my lodgings at Fairport; we brought a parcel of
      them to cool our wine on the passage&mdash;they answer wonderfully well.
      If I could think they would in any degree repay your loss, or rather that
      they could afford you pleasure, I am sure I should be much honoured by
      your accepting them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, my dear boy, I should be highly gratified by possessing them. To
      trace the connection of nations by their usages, and the similarity of the
      implements which they employ, has been long my favourite study. Everything
      that can illustrate such connections is most valuable to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, I shall be much gratified by your acceptance of them, and a
      few trifles of the same kind. And now, am I to hope you have forgiven me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, my dear boy, you are only thoughtless and foolish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Juno&mdash;she is only thoughtless too, I assure you&mdash;the
      breaker tells me she has no vice or stubbornness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I grant Juno also a free pardon&mdash;conditioned, that you will
      imitate her in avoiding vice and stubbornness, and that henceforward she
      banish herself forth of Monkbarns parlour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, uncle,&rdquo; said the soldier, &ldquo;I should have been very sorry and
      ashamed to propose to you anything in the way of expiation of my own sins,
      or those of my follower, that I thought <i>worth</i> your acceptance; but
      now, as all is forgiven, will you permit the orphan-nephew, to whom you
      have been a father, to offer you a trifle, which I have been assured is
      really curious, and which only the cross accident of my wound has
      prevented my delivering to you before? I got it from a French savant, to
      whom I rendered some service after the Alexandria affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The captain put a small ring-case into the Antiquary&rsquo;s hands, which, when
      opened, was found to contain an antique ring of massive gold, with a
      cameo, most beautifully executed, bearing a head of Cleopatra. The
      Antiquary broke forth into unrepressed ecstasy, shook his nephew cordially
      by the hand, thanked him an hundred times, and showed the ring to his
      sister and niece, the latter of whom had the tact to give it sufficient
      admiration; but Miss Griselda (though she had the same affection for her
      nephew) had not address enough to follow the lead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a bonny thing,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;Monkbarns, and, I dare say, a valuable;
      but it&rsquo;s out o&rsquo;my way&mdash;ye ken I am nae judge o&rsquo; sic matters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There spoke all Fairport in one voice!&rdquo; exclaimed Oldbuck &ldquo;it is the very
      spirit of the borough has infected us all; I think I have smelled the
      smoke these two days, that the wind has stuck, like a <i>remora,</i> in
      the north-east&mdash;and its prejudices fly farther than its vapours.
      Believe me, my dear Hector, were I to walk up the High Street of Fairport,
      displaying this inestimable gem in the eyes of each one I met, no human
      creature, from the provost to the town-crier, would stop to ask me its
      history. But if I carried a bale of linen cloth under my arm, I could not
      penetrate to the Horsemarket ere I should be overwhelmed with queries
      about its precise texture and price. Oh, one might parody their brutal
      ignorance in the words of Gray:
    </p>
<pre>
                   Weave the warp and weave the woof,
                   The winding-sheet of wit and sense,
                   Dull garment of defensive proof,
                  &lsquo;Gainst all that doth not gather pence.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The most remarkable proof of this peace-offering being quite acceptable
      was, that while the Antiquary was in full declamation, Juno, who held him
      in awe, according to the remarkable instinct by which dogs instantly
      discover those who like or dislike them, had peeped several times into the
      room, and encountering nothing very forbidding in his aspect, had at
      length presumed to introduce her full person; and finally, becoming bold
      by impunity, she actually ate up Mr. Oldbuck&rsquo;s toast, as, looking first at
      one then at another of his audience, he repeated, with self-complacency,
    </p>
<pre>
                  &ldquo;Weave the warp and weave the woof,&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You remember the passage in the Fatal Sisters, which, by the way, is not
      so fine as in the original&mdash;But, hey-day! my toast has vanished!&mdash;I
      see which way&mdash;Ah, thou type of womankind! no wonder they take
      offence at thy generic appellation!&rdquo;&mdash;(So saying, he shook his fist
      at Juno, who scoured out of the parlour.)&mdash;&ldquo;However, as Jupiter,
      according to Homer, could not rule Juno in heaven, and as Jack Muirhead,
      according to Hector M&rsquo;Intyre, has been equally unsuccessful on earth, I
      suppose she must have her own way.&rdquo; And this mild censure the brother and
      sister justly accounted a full pardon for Juno&rsquo;s offences, and sate down
      well pleased to the morning meal.
    </p>
    <p>
      When breakfast was over, the Antiquary proposed to his nephew to go down
      with him to attend the funeral. The soldier pleaded the want of a mourning
      habit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, that does not signify&mdash;your presence is all that is requisite. I
      assure you, you will see something that will entertain&mdash;no, that&rsquo;s an
      improper phrase&mdash;but that will interest you, from the resemblances
      which I will point out betwixt popular customs on such occasions and those
      of the ancients.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven forgive me!&rdquo; thought M&rsquo;Intyre;&mdash;&ldquo;I shall certainly misbehave,
      and lose all the credit I have so lately and accidentally gained.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When they set out, schooled as he was by the warning and entreating looks
      of his sister, the soldier made his resolution strong to give no offence
      by evincing inattention or impatience. But our best resolutions are frail,
      when opposed to our predominant inclinations. Our Antiquary,&mdash;to
      leave nothing unexplained, had commenced with the funeral rites of the
      ancient Scandinavians, when his nephew interrupted him, in a discussion
      upon the &ldquo;age of hills,&rdquo; to remark that a large sea-gull, which flitted
      around them, had come twice within shot. This error being acknowledged and
      pardoned, Oldbuck resumed his disquisition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are circumstances you ought to attend to and be familiar with, my
      dear Hector; for, in the strange contingencies of the present war which
      agitates every corner of Europe, there is no knowing where you may be
      called upon to serve. If in Norway, for example, or Denmark, or any part
      of the ancient Scania, or Scandinavia, as we term it, what could be more
      convenient than to have at your fingers&rsquo; ends the history and antiquities
      of that ancient country, the <i>officina gentium,</i> the mother of modern
      Europe, the nursery of those heroes,
    </p>
<pre>
               Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure,
                         Who smiled in death?&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      How animating, for example, at the conclusion of a weary march, to find
      yourself in the vicinity of a Runic monument, and discover that you have
      pitched your tent beside the tomb of a hero!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid, sir, our mess would be better supplied if it chanced to be
      in the neighbourhood of a good poultry-yard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, that you should say so! No wonder the days of Cressy and Agincourt
      are no more, when respect for ancient valour has died away in the breasts
      of the British soldiery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By no means, sir&mdash;by no manner of means. I dare say that Edward and
      Henry, and the rest of these heroes, thought of their dinner, however,
      before they thought of examining an old tombstone. But I assure you, we
      are by no means insensible to the memoir of our fathers&rsquo; fame; I used
      often of an evening to get old Rory MAlpin to sing us songs out of Ossian
      about the battles of Fingal and Lamon Mor, and Magnus and the Spirit of
      Muirartach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did you believe,&rdquo; asked the aroused Antiquary, &ldquo;did you absolutely
      believe that stuff of Macpherson&rsquo;s to be really ancient, you simple boy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Believe it, sir?&mdash;how could I but believe it, when I have heard the
      songs sung from my infancy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not the same as Macpherson&rsquo;s English Ossian&mdash;you&rsquo;re not absurd
      enough to say that, I hope?&rdquo; said the Antiquary, his brow darkening with
      wrath.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Hector stoutly abode the storm; like many a sturdy Celt, he imagined
      the honour of his country and native language connected with the
      authenticity of these popular poems, and would have fought knee-deep, or
      forfeited life and land, rather than have given up a line of them. He
      therefore undauntedly maintained, that Rory MAlpin could repeat the whole
      book from one end to another;&mdash;and it was only upon cross-examination
      that he explained an assertion so general, by adding &ldquo;At least, if he was
      allowed whisky enough, he could repeat as long as anybody would hearken to
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;and that, I suppose, was not very long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, we had our duty, sir, to attend to, and could not sit listening all
      night to a piper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But do you recollect, now,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, setting his teeth firmly
      together, and speaking without opening them, which was his custom when
      contradicted&mdash;&ldquo;Do you recollect, now, any of these verses you thought
      so beautiful and interesting&mdash;being a capital judge, no doubt, of
      such things?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t pretend to much skill, uncle; but it&rsquo;s not very reasonable to be
      angry with me for admiring the antiquities of my own country more than
      those of the Harolds, Harfagers, and Hacos you are so fond of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, these, sir&mdash;these mighty and unconquered Goths&mdash;<i>were</i>
      your ancestors! The bare-breeched Celts whom theysubdued, and suffered
      only to exist, like a fearful people, in the crevices of the rocks, were
      but their Mancipia and Serfs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hector&rsquo;s brow now grew red in his turn. &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
      understand the meaning of Mancipia and Serfs, but I conceive that such
      names are very improperly applied to Scotch Highlanders: no man but my
      mother&rsquo;s brother dared to have used such language in my presence; and I
      pray you will observe, that I consider it as neither hospitable, handsome,
      kind, nor generous usage towards your guest and your kinsman. My
      ancestors, Mr. Oldbuck&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were great and gallant chiefs, I dare say, Hector; and really I did not
      mean to give you such immense offence in treating a point of remote
      antiquity, a subject on which I always am myself cool, deliberate, and
      unimpassioned. But you are as hot and hasty, as if you were Hector and
      Achilles, and Agamemnon to boot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry I expressed myself so hastily, uncle, especially to you, who
      have been so generous and good. But my ancestors&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more about it, lad; I meant them no affront&mdash;none.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad of it, sir; for the house of M&rsquo;Intyre&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace be with them all, every man of them,&rdquo; said the Antiquary. &ldquo;But to
      return to our subject&mdash;Do you recollect, I say, any of those poems
      which afforded you such amusement?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very hard this,&rdquo; thought M&rsquo;Intyre, &ldquo;that he will speak with such glee of
      everything which is ancient, excepting my family. &ldquo;&mdash;Then, after some
      efforts at recollection, he added aloud, &ldquo;Yes, sir,&mdash;I think I do
      remember some lines; but you do not understand the Gaelic language.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And will readily excuse hearing it. But you can give me some idea of the
      sense in our own vernacular idiom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall prove a wretched interpreter,&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre, running over the
      original, well garnished with <i>aghes, aughs,</i> and <i>oughs,</i> and
      similar gutterals, and then coughing and hawking as if the translation
      stuck in his throat. At length, having premised that the poem was a
      dialogue between the poet Oisin, or Ossian, and Patrick, the tutelar Saint
      of Ireland, and that it was difficult, if not impossible, to render the
      exquisite felicity of the first two or three lines, he said the sense was
      to this purpose:
    </p>
<pre>
                      &ldquo;Patrick the psalm-singer,
            Since you will not listen to one of my stories,
                      Though you never heard it before,
                             I am sorry to tell you
                  You are little better than an ass&rdquo;&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good! good!&rdquo; exclaimed the Antiquary; &ldquo;but go on. Why, this is, after
      all, the most admirable fooling&mdash;I dare say the poet was very right.
      What says the Saint?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He replies in character,&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre; &ldquo;but you should hear MAlpin sing
      the original. The speeches of Ossian come in upon a strong deep bass&mdash;those
      of Patrick are upon a tenor key.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like MAlpin&rsquo;s drone and small pipes, I suppose,&rdquo; said Oldbuck. &ldquo;Well?
      Pray go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then, Patrick replies to Ossian:
    </p>
<pre>
                     Upon my word, son of Fingal,
                     While I am warbling the psalms,
                     The clamour of your old women&rsquo;s tales
                     Disturbs my devotional exercises.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excellent!&mdash;why, this is better and better. I hope Saint Patrick
      sung better than Blattergowl&rsquo;s precentor, or it would be hang&mdash;choice
      between the poet and psalmist. But what I admire is the courtesy of these
      two eminent persons towards each other. It is a pity there should not be a
      word of this in Macpherson&rsquo;s translation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you are sure of that,&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre, gravely, &ldquo;he must have taken
      very unwarrantable liberties with his original.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will go near to be thought so shortly&mdash;but pray proceed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre, &ldquo;this is the answer of Ossian:
    </p>
<pre>
                     Dare you compare your psalms,
                            You son of a&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Son of a what?&rdquo; exclaimed Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It means, I think,&rdquo; said the young soldier, with some reluctance, &ldquo;son of
      a female dog:
    </p>
<pre>
                           Do you compare your psalms,
                To the tales of the bare-arm&rsquo;d Fenians&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure you are translating that last epithet correctly, Hector?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite sure, sir,&rdquo; answered Hector, doggedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I should have thought the nudity might have been quoted as
      existing in a different part of the body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Disdaining to reply to this insinuation, Hector proceeded in his
      recitation:
    </p>
<pre>
                        &ldquo;I shall think it no great harm
             To wring your bald head from your shoulders&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      But what is that yonder?&rdquo; exclaimed Hector, interrupting himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of the herd of Proteus,&rdquo; said the Antiquary&mdash;&ldquo;a <i>phoca,</i> or
      seal, lying asleep on the beach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Upon which M&rsquo;Intyre, with the eagerness of a young sportsman, totally
      forgot both Ossian, Patrick, his uncle, and his wound, and exclaiming&mdash;&ldquo;I
      shall have her! I shall have her!&rdquo; snatched the walking-stick out of the
      hand of the astonished Antiquary, at some risk of throwing him down, and
      set off at full speed to get between the animal and the sea, to which
      element, having caught the alarm, she was rapidly retreating.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not Sancho, when his master interrupted his account of the combatants of
      Pentapolin with the naked arm, to advance in person to the charge of the
      flock of sheep, stood more confounded than Oldbuck at this sudden escapade
      of his nephew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is the devil in him,&rdquo; was his first exclamation, &ldquo;to go to disturb the
      brute that was never thinking of him!&rdquo;&mdash;Then elevating his voice,
      &ldquo;Hector&mdash;nephew&mdash;fool&mdash;let alone the <i>Phoca</i>&mdash;let
      alone the <i>Phoca</i>!&mdash; they bite, I tell you, like furies. He
      minds me no more than a post. There&mdash;there they are at it&mdash;Gad,
      the <i>Phoca</i> has the best of it! I am glad to see it,&rdquo; said he, in the
      bitterness of his heart, though really alarmed for his nephew&rsquo;s safety&mdash;&ldquo;I
      am glad to see it, with all my heart and spirit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In truth, the seal, finding her retreat intercepted by the light-footed
      soldier, confronted him manfully, and having sustained a heavy blow
      without injury, she knitted her brows, as is the fashion of the animal
      when incensed, and making use at once of her fore-paws and her unwieldy
      strength, wrenched the weapon out of the assailant&rsquo;s hand, overturned him
      on the sands, and scuttled away into the sea, without doing him any
      farther injury. Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, a good deal out of countenance at the
      issue of his exploit, just rose in time to receive the ironical
      congratulations of his uncle, upon a single combat worthy to be
      commemorated by Ossian himself, &ldquo;since,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;your
      magnanimous opponent has fled, though not upon eagle&rsquo;s wings, from the foe
      that was low&mdash;Egad, she walloped away with all the grace of triumph,
      and has carried my stick off also, by way of <i>spolia opima.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M&rsquo;Intyre had little to answer for himself, except that a Highlander could
      never pass a deer, a seal, or a salmon, where there was a possibility of
      having a trial of skill with them, and that he had forgot one of his arms
      was in a sling. He also made his fall an apology for returning back to
      Monkbarns, and thus escape the farther raillery of his uncle, as well as
      his lamentations for his walking-stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cut it,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;in the classic woods of Hawthornden, when I did not
      expect always to have been a bachelor&mdash;I would not have given it for
      an ocean of seals&mdash;O Hector! Hector!&mdash;thy namesake was born to
      be the prop of Troy, and thou to be the plague of Monkbarns!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0010">
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
             Tell me not of it, friend&mdash;when the young weep,
         Their tears are luke-warm brine;&mdash;from your old eyes
             Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the North,
             Chilling the furrows of our withered cheeks,
              Cold as our hopes, and hardened as our feeling&mdash;
          Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless&mdash;ours recoil,
             Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before us.
                               Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Antiquary, being now alone, hastened his pace, which had been retarded
      by these various discussions, and the rencontre which had closed them, and
      soon arrived before the half-dozen cottages at Mussel-crag. They had now,
      in addition to their usual squalid and uncomfortable appearance, the
      melancholy attributes of the house of mourning. The boats were all drawn
      up on the beach; and, though the day was fine, and the season favourable,
      the chant, which is used by the fishers when at sea, was silent, as well
      as the prattle of the children, and the shrill song of the mother, as she
      sits mending her nets by the door. A few of the neighbours, some in their
      antique and well-saved suits of black, others in their ordinary clothes,
      but all bearing an expression of mournful sympathy with distress so sudden
      and unexpected, stood gathered around the door of Mucklebackit&rsquo;s cottage,
      waiting till &ldquo;the body was lifted.&rdquo; As the Laird of Monkbarns approached,
      they made way for him to enter, doffing their hats and bonnets as he
      passed, with an air of melancholy courtesy, and he returned their salutes
      in the same manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the inside of the cottage was a scene which our Wilkie alone could have
      painted, with that exquisite feeling of nature that characterises his
      enchanting productions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The body was laid in its coffin within the wooden bedstead which the young
      fisher had occupied while alive. At a little distance stood the father,
      whose rugged weather-beaten countenance, shaded by his grizzled hair, had
      faced many a stormy night and night-like day. He was apparently revolving
      his loss in his mind, with that strong feeling of painful grief peculiar
      to harsh and rough characters, which almost breaks forth into hatred
      against the world, and all that remain in it, after the beloved object is
      withdrawn. The old man had made the most desperate efforts to save his
      son, and had only been withheld by main force from renewing them at a
      moment when, without the possibility of assisting the sufferer, he must
      himself have perished. All this apparently was boiling in his
      recollection. His glance was directed sidelong towards the coffin, as to
      an object on which he could not stedfastly look, and yet from which he
      could not withdraw his eyes. His answers to the necessary questions which
      were occasionally put to him, were brief, harsh, and almost fierce. His
      family had not yet dared to address to him a word, either of sympathy or
      consolation. His masculine wife, virago as she was, and absolute mistress
      of the family, as she justly boasted herself, on all ordinary occasions,
      was, by this great loss, terrified into silence and submission, and
      compelled to hide from her husband&rsquo;s observation the bursts of her female
      sorrow. As he had rejected food ever since the disaster had happened, not
      daring herself to approach him, she had that morning, with affectionate
      artifice, employed the youngest and favourite child to present her husband
      with some nourishment. His first action was to put it from him with an
      angry violence that frightened the child; his next, to snatch up the boy
      and devour him with kisses. &ldquo;Yell be a bra&rsquo; fallow, an ye be spared,
      Patie,&mdash;but ye&rsquo;ll never&mdash;never can be&mdash;what he was to me!&mdash;He
      has sailed the coble wi&rsquo; me since he was ten years auld, and there wasna
      the like o&rsquo; him drew a net betwixt this and Buchan-ness.&mdash;They say
      folks maun submit&mdash;I will try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he had been silent from that moment until compelled to answer the
      necessary questions we have already noticed. Such was the disconsolate
      state of the father.
    </p>
    <p>
      In another corner of the cottage, her face covered by her apron, which was
      flung over it, sat the mother&mdash;the nature of her grief sufficiently
      indicated by the wringing of her hands, and the convulsive agitation of
      the bosom, which the covering could not conceal. Two of her gossips,
      officiously whispering into her ear the commonplace topic of resignation
      under irremediable misfortune, seemed as if they were endeavouring to stun
      the grief which they could not console.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sorrow of the children was mingled with wonder at the preparations
      they beheld around them, and at the unusual display of wheaten bread and
      wine, which the poorest peasant, or fisher, offers to the guests on these
      mournful occasions; and thus their grief for their brother&rsquo;s death was
      almost already lost in admiration of the splendour of his funeral.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the figure of the old grandmother was the most remarkable of the
      sorrowing group. Seated on her accustomed chair, with her usual air of
      apathy, and want of interest in what surrounded her, she seemed every now
      and then mechanically to resume the motion of twirling her spindle; then
      to look towards her bosom for the distaff, although both had been laid
      aside. She would then cast her eyes about, as if surprised at missing the
      usual implements of her industry, and appear struck by the black colour of
      the gown in which they had dressed her, and embarrassed by the number of
      persons by whom she was surrounded. Then, finally, she would raise her
      head with a ghastly look, and fix her eyes upon the bed which contained
      the coffin of her grandson, as if she had at once, and for the first time,
      acquired sense to comprehend her inexpressible calamity. These alternate
      feelings of embarrassment, wonder, and grief, seemed to succeed each other
      more than once upon her torpid features. But she spoke not a word&mdash;neither
      had she shed a tear&mdash;nor did one of the family understand, either
      from look or expression, to what extent she comprehended the uncommon
      bustle around her. Thus she sat among the funeral assembly like a
      connecting link between the surviving mourners and the dead corpse which
      they bewailed&mdash;a being in whom the light of existence was already
      obscured by the encroaching shadows of death.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Oldbuck entered this house of mourning, he was received by a general
      and silent inclination of the head, and, according to the fashion of
      Scotland on such occasions, wine and spirits and bread were offered round
      to the guests. Elspeth, as these refreshments were presented, surprised
      and startled the whole company by motioning to the person who bore them to
      stop; then, taking a glass in her hand, she rose up, and, as the smile of
      dotage played upon her shrivelled features, she pronounced, with a hollow
      and tremulous voice, &ldquo;Wishing a&rsquo; your healths, sirs, and often may we hae
      such merry meetings!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All shrunk from the ominous pledge, and set down the untasted liquor with
      a degree of shuddering horror, which will not surprise those who know how
      many superstitions are still common on such occasions among the Scottish
      vulgar. But as the old woman tasted the liquor, she suddenly exclaimed
      with a sort of shriek, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this?&mdash;this is wine&mdash;how should
      there be wine in my son&rsquo;s house?&mdash;Ay,&rdquo; she continued with a
      suppressed groan, &ldquo;I mind the sorrowful cause now,&rdquo; and, dropping the
      glass from her hand, she stood a moment gazing fixedly on the bed in which
      the coffin of her grandson was deposited, and then sinking gradually into
      her seat, she covered her eyes and forehead with her withered and pallid
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the clergyman entered the cottage. Mr. Blattergowl, though
      a dreadful proser, particularly on the subject of augmentations,
      localities, teinds, and overtures in that session of the General Assembly,
      to which, unfortunately for his auditors, he chanced one year to act as
      moderator, was nevertheless a good man, in the old Scottish presbyterian
      phrase, God-ward and man-ward. No divine was more attentive in visiting
      the sick and afflicted, in catechising the youth, in instructing the
      ignorant, and in reproving the erring. And hence, notwithstanding
      impatience of his prolixity and prejudices, personal or professional, and
      notwithstanding, moreover, a certain habitual contempt for his
      understanding, especially on affairs of genius and taste, on which
      Blattergowl was apt to be diffuse, from his hope of one day fighting his
      way to a chair of rhetoric or belles lettres,&mdash; notwithstanding, I
      say, all the prejudices excited against him by these circumstances, our
      friend the Antiquary looked with great regard and respect on the said
      Blattergowl, though I own he could seldom, even by his sense of decency
      and the remonstrances of his womankind, be <i>hounded out,</i> as he
      called it, to hear him preach. But he regularly took shame to himself for
      his absence when Blattergowl came to Monkbarns to dinner, to which he was
      always invited of a Sunday, a mode of testifying his respect which the
      proprietor probably thought fully as agreeable to the clergyman, and
      rather more congenial to his own habits.
    </p>
    <p>
      To return from a digression which can only serve to introduce the honest
      clergyman more particularly to our readers, Mr. Blattergowl had no sooner
      entered the hut, and received the mute and melancholy salutations of the
      company whom it contained, than he edged himself towards the unfortunate
      father, and seemed to endeavour to slide in a few words of condolence or
      of consolation. But the old man was incapable as yet of receiving either;
      he nodded, however, gruffly, and shook the clergyman&rsquo;s hand in
      acknowledgment of his good intentions, but was either unable or unwilling
      to make any verbal reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister next passed to the mother, moving along the floor as slowly,
      silently, and gradually, as if he had been afraid that the ground would,
      like unsafe ice, break beneath his feet, or that the first echo of a
      footstep was to dissolve some magic spell, and plunge the hut, with all
      its inmates, into a subterranean abyss. The tenor of what he had said to
      the poor woman could only be judged by her answers, as, half-stifled by
      sobs ill-repressed, and by the covering which she still kept over her
      countenance, she faintly answered at each pause in his speech&mdash;&ldquo;Yes,
      sir, yes!&mdash;Ye&rsquo;re very gude&mdash;ye&rsquo;re very gude!&mdash;Nae doubt,
      nae doubt!&mdash;It&rsquo;s our duty to submit!&mdash;But, oh dear! my poor
      Steenie! the pride o&rsquo; my very heart, that was sae handsome and comely, and
      a help to his family, and a comfort to us a&rsquo;, and a pleasure to a&rsquo; that
      lookit on him!&mdash;Oh, my bairn! my bairn! my bairn! what for is thou
      lying there!&mdash;and eh! what for am I left to greet for ye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no contending with this burst of sorrow and natural affection.
      Oldbuck had repeated recourse to his snuff-box to conceal the tears which,
      despite his shrewd and caustic temper, were apt to start on such
      occasions. The female assistants whimpered, the men held their bonnets to
      their faces, and spoke apart with each other. The clergyman, meantime,
      addressed his ghostly consolation to the aged grandmother. At first she
      listened, or seemed to listen, to what he said, with the apathy of her
      usual unconsciousness. But as, in pressing this theme, he approached so
      near to her ear that the sense of his words became distinctly intelligible
      to her, though unheard by those who stood more distant, her countenance at
      once assumed that stern and expressive cast which characterized her
      intervals of intelligence. She drew up her head and body, shook her head
      in a manner that showed at least impatience, if not scorn of his counsel,
      and waved her hand slightly, but with a gesture so expressive, as to
      indicate to all who witnessed it a marked and disdainful rejection of the
      ghostly consolation proffered to her. The minister stepped back as if
      repulsed, and, by lifting gently and dropping his hand, seemed to show at
      once wonder, sorrow, and compassion for her dreadful state of mind. The
      rest of the company sympathized, and a stifled whisper went through them,
      indicating how much her desperate and determined manner impressed them
      with awe, and even horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime, the funeral company was completed, by the arrival of one
      or two persons who had been expected from Fairport. The wine and spirits
      again circulated, and the dumb show of greeting was anew interchanged. The
      grandame a second time took a glass in her hand, drank its contents, and
      exclaimed, with a sort of laugh,&mdash;&ldquo;Ha! ha! I hae tasted wine twice in
      ae day&mdash;Whan did I that before, think ye, cummers?&mdash;Never since&rdquo;&mdash;and
      the transient glow vanishing from her countenance, she set the glass down,
      and sunk upon the settle from whence she had risen to snatch at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the general amazement subsided, Mr. Oldbuck, whose heart bled to
      witness what he considered as the errings of the enfeebled intellect
      struggling with the torpid chill of age and of sorrow, observed to the
      clergyman that it was time to proceed with the ceremony. The father was
      incapable of giving directions, but the nearest relation of the family
      made a sign to the carpenter, who in such cases goes through the duty of
      the undertaker, to proceed in his office. The creak of the screw-nails
      presently announced that the lid of the last mansion of mortality was in
      the act of being secured above its tenant. The last act which separates us
      for ever, even from the mortal relies of the person we assemble to mourn,
      has usually its effect upon the most indifferent, selfish, and
      hard-hearted. With a spirit of contradiction, which we may be pardoned for
      esteeming narrow-minded, the fathers of the Scottish kirk rejected, even
      on this most solemn occasion, the form of an address to the Divinity, lest
      they should be thought to give countenance to the rituals of Rome or of
      England. With much better and more liberal judgment, it is the present
      practice of most of the Scottish clergymen to seize this opportunity of
      offering a prayer, and exhortation, suitable to make an impression upon
      the living, while they are yet in the very presence of the relics of him
      whom they have but lately seen such as they themselves, and who now is
      such as they must in their time become. But this decent and praiseworthy
      practice was not adopted at the time of which I am treating, or at least,
      Mr. Blattergowl did not act upon it, and the ceremony proceeded without
      any devotional exercise.
    </p>
    <p>
      The coffin, covered with a pall, and supported upon hand-spikes by the
      nearest relatives, now only waited the father to support the head, as is
      customary. Two or three of these privileged persons spoke to him, but he
      only answered by shaking his hand and his head in token of refusal. With
      better intention than judgment, the friends, who considered this as an act
      of duty on the part of the living, and of decency towards the deceased,
      would have proceeded to enforce their request, had not Oldbuck interfered
      between the distressed father and his well-meaning tormentors, and
      informed them, that he himself, as landlord and master to the deceased,
      &ldquo;would carry his head to the grave.&rdquo; In spite of the sorrowful occasion,
      the hearts of the relatives swelled within them at so marked a distinction
      on the part of the laird; and old Alison Breck, who was present among
      other fish-women, swore almost aloud, &ldquo;His honour Monkbarns should never
      want sax warp of oysters in the season&rdquo; (of which fish he was understood
      to be fond), &ldquo;if she should gang to sea and dredge for them hersell, in
      the foulest wind that ever blew.&rdquo; And such is the temper of the Scottish
      common people, that, by this instance of compliance with their customs,
      and respect for their persons, Mr. Oldbuck gained more popularity than by
      all the sums which he had yearly distributed in the parish for purposes of
      private or general charity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sad procession now moved slowly forward, preceded by the beadles, or
      saulies, with their batons,&mdash;miserable-looking old men, tottering as
      if on the edge of that grave to which they were marshalling another, and
      clad, according to Scottish guise, with threadbare black coats, and
      hunting-caps decorated with rusty crape. Monkbarns would probably have
      remonstrated against this superfluous expense, had he been consulted; but,
      in doing so, he would have given more offence than he gained popularity by
      condescending to perform the office of chief-mourner. Of this he was quite
      aware, and wisely withheld rebuke, where rebuke and advice would have been
      equally unavailing. In truth, the Scottish peasantry are still infected
      with that rage for funeral ceremonial, which once distinguished the
      grandees of the kingdom so much, that a sumptuary law was made by the
      Parliament of Scotland for the purpose of restraining it; and I have known
      many in the lowest stations, who have denied themselves not merely the
      comforts, but almost the necessaries of life, in order to save such a sum
      of money as might enable their surviving friends to bury them like
      Christians, as they termed it; nor could their faithful executors be
      prevailed upon, though equally necessitous, to turn to the use and
      maintenance of the living the money vainly wasted upon the interment of
      the dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      The procession to the churchyard, at about half-a-mile&rsquo;s distance, was
      made with the mournful solemnity usual on these occasions,&mdash;the body
      was consigned to its parent earth,&mdash;and when the labour of the
      gravediggers had filled up the trench, and covered it with fresh sod, Mr.
      Oldbuck, taking his hat off, saluted the assistants, who had stood by in
      melancholy silence, and with that adieu dispersed the mourners.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clergyman offered our Antiquary his company to walk homeward; but Mr.
      Oldbuck had been so much struck with the deportment of the fisherman and
      his mother, that, moved by compassion, and perhaps also, in some degree,
      by that curiosity which induces us to seek out even what gives us pain to
      witness, he preferred a solitary walk by the coast, for the purpose of
      again visiting the cottage as he passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0011">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ELEVENTH
    </h2>
<pre>
              What is this secret sin, this untold tale,
              That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?
                    &mdash;Her muscles hold their place;
              Nor discomposed, nor formed to steadiness,
               No sudden flushing, and no faltering lip.&mdash;
                                     Mysterious Mother.
</pre>
    <p>
      The coffin had been borne from the place where it rested. The mourners, in
      regular gradation, according to their rank or their relationship to the
      deceased, had filed from the cottage, while the younger male children were
      led along to totter after the bier of their brother, and to view with
      wonder a ceremonial which they could hardly comprehend. The female gossips
      next rose to depart, and, with consideration for the situation of the
      parents, carried along with them the girls of the family, to give the
      unhappy pair time and opportunity to open their hearts to each other and
      soften their grief by communicating it. But their kind intention was
      without effect. The last of them had darkened the entrance of the cottage,
      as she went out, and drawn the door softly behind her, when the father,
      first ascertaining by a hasty glance that no stranger remained, started
      up, clasped his hands wildly above his head, uttered a cry of the despair
      which he had hitherto repressed, and, in all the impotent impatience of
      grief, half rushed half staggered forward to the bed on which the coffin
      had been deposited, threw himself down upon it, and smothering, as it
      were, his head among the bed-clothes, gave vent to the full passion of his
      sorrow. It was in vain that the wretched mother, terrified by the
      vehemence of her husband&rsquo;s affliction&mdash;affliction still more fearful
      as agitating a man of hardened manners and a robust frame&mdash;suppressed
      her own sobs and tears, and, pulling him by the skirts of his coat,
      implored him to rise and remember, that, though one was removed, he had
      still a wife and children to comfort and support. The appeal came at too
      early a period of his anguish, and was totally unattended to; he continued
      to remain prostrate, indicating, by sobs so bitter and violent, that they
      shook the bed and partition against which it rested, by clenched hands
      which grasped the bed-clothes, and by the vehement and convulsive motion
      of his legs, how deep and how terrible was the agony of a father&rsquo;s sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, what a day is this! what a day is this!&rdquo; said the poor mother, her
      womanish affliction already exhausted by sobs and tears, and now almost
      lost in terror for the state in which she beheld her husband&mdash;&ldquo;O,
      what an hour is this! and naebody to help a poor lone woman&mdash;O,
      gudemither, could ye but speak a word to him!&mdash;wad ye but bid him be
      comforted!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To her astonishment, and even to the increase of her fear, her husband&rsquo;s
      mother heard and answered the appeal. She rose and walked across the floor
      without support, and without much apparent feebleness, and standing by the
      bed on which her son had extended himself, she said, &ldquo;Rise up, my son, and
      sorrow not for him that is beyond sin and sorrow and temptation. Sorrow is
      for those that remain in this vale of sorrow and darkness&mdash;I, wha
      dinna sorrow, and wha canna sorrow for ony ane, hae maist need that ye
      should a&rsquo; sorrow for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voice of his mother, not heard for years as taking part in the active
      duties of life, or offering advice or consolation, produced its effect
      upon her son. He assumed a sitting posture on the side of the bed, and his
      appearance, attitude, and gestures, changed from those of angry despair to
      deep grief and dejection. The grandmother retired to her nook, the mother
      mechanically took in her hand her tattered Bible, and seemed to read,
      though her eyes were drowned with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were thus occupied, when a loud knock was heard at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hegh, sirs!&rdquo; said the poor mother, &ldquo;wha is that can be coming in that
      gate e&rsquo;enow?&mdash;They canna hae heard o&rsquo; our misfortune, I&rsquo;m sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The knock being repeated, she rose and opened the door, saying
      querulously, &ldquo;Whatna gait&rsquo;s that to disturb a sorrowfu&rsquo; house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tall man in black stood before her, whom she instantly recognised to be
      Lord Glenallan. &ldquo;Is there not,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;an old woman lodging in this or
      one of the neighbouring cottages, called Elspeth, who was long resident at
      Craigburnfoot of Glenallan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my gudemither, my lord,&rdquo; said Margaret; &ldquo;but she canna see onybody
      e&rsquo;enow&mdash;Ohon! we&rsquo;re dreeing a sair weird&mdash;we hae had a heavy
      dispensation!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan, &ldquo;that I should on light occasion
      disturb your sorrow;&mdash;but my days are numbered&mdash;your
      mother-in-law is in the extremity of age, and, if I see her not to-day, we
      may never meet on this side of time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what,&rdquo; answered the desolate mother, &ldquo;wad ye see at an auld woman,
      broken down wi&rsquo; age and sorrow and heartbreak? Gentle or semple shall not
      darken my door the day my bairn&rsquo;s been carried out a corpse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While she spoke thus, indulging the natural irritability of disposition
      and profession, which began to mingle itself with her grief when its first
      uncontrolled bursts were gone by, she held the door about one-third part
      open, and placed herself in the gap, as if to render the visitor&rsquo;s
      entrance impossible. But the voice of her husband was heard from within&mdash;&ldquo;Wha&rsquo;s
      that, Maggie? what for are ye steaking them out?&mdash;let them come in;
      it doesna signify an auld rope&rsquo;s end wha comes in or wha gaes out o&rsquo; this
      house frae this time forward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman stood aside at her husband&rsquo;s command, and permitted Lord
      Glenallan to enter the hut. The dejection exhibited in his broken frame
      and emaciated countenance, formed a strong contrast with the effects of
      grief, as they were displayed in the rude and weatherbeaten visage of the
      fisherman, and the masculine features of his wife. He approached the old
      woman as she was seated on her usual settle, and asked her, in a tone as
      audible as his voice could make it, &ldquo;Are you Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot
      of Glenallan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wha is it that asks about the unhallowed residence of that evil woman?&rdquo;
       was the answer returned to his query.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The unhappy Earl of Glenallan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Earl!&mdash;Earl of Glenallan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He who was called William Lord Geraldin,&rdquo; said the Earl; &ldquo;and whom his
      mother&rsquo;s death has made Earl of Glenallan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Open the bole,&rdquo; said the old woman firmly and hastily to her
      daughter-in-law, &ldquo;open the bole wi&rsquo; speed, that I may see if this be the
      right Lord Geraldin&mdash;the son of my mistress&mdash;him that I received
      in my arms within the hour after he was born&mdash;him that has reason to
      curse me that I didna smother him before the hour was past!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The window, which had been shut in order that a gloomy twilight might add
      to the solemnity of the funeral meeting, was opened as she commanded, and
      threw a sudden and strong light through the smoky and misty atmosphere of
      the stifling cabin. Falling in a stream upon the chimney, the rays
      illuminated, in the way that Rembrandt would have chosen, the features of
      the unfortunate nobleman, and those of the old sibyl, who now, standing
      upon her feet, and holding him by one hand, peered anxiously in his
      features with her light-blue eyes, and holding her long and withered
      fore-finger within a small distance of his face, moved it slowly as if to
      trace the outlines and reconcile what she recollected with that she now
      beheld. As she finished her scrutiny, she said, with a deep sigh, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a
      sair&mdash;sair change; and wha&rsquo;s fault is it?&mdash;but that&rsquo;s written
      down where it will be remembered&mdash;it&rsquo;s written on tablets of brass
      with a pen of steel, where all is recorded that is done in the flesh.&mdash;And
      what,&rdquo; she said after a pause, &ldquo;what is Lord Geraldin seeking from a poor
      auld creature like me, that&rsquo;s dead already, and only belongs sae far to
      the living that she isna yet laid in the moulds?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; answered Lord Glenallan, &ldquo;in the name of Heaven, why was it that
      you requested so urgently to see me?&mdash;and why did you back your
      request by sending a token which you knew well I dared not refuse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke thus, he took from his purse the ring which Edie Ochiltree had
      delivered to him at Glenallan House. The sight of this token produced a
      strange and instantaneous effect upon the old woman. The palsy of fear was
      immediately added to that of age, and she began instantly to search her
      pockets with the tremulous and hasty agitation of one who becomes first
      apprehensive of having lost something of great importance;&mdash;then, as
      if convinced of the reality of her fears, she turned to the Earl, and
      demanded, &ldquo;And how came ye by it then?&mdash;how came ye by it? I thought
      I had kept it sae securely&mdash;what will the Countess say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; said the Earl, &ldquo;at least you must have heard, that my mother
      is dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dead! are ye no imposing upon me? has she left a&rsquo; at last, lands and
      lordship and lineages?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All, all,&rdquo; said the Earl, &ldquo;as mortals must leave all human vanities.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mind now,&rdquo; answered Elspeth&mdash;&ldquo;I heard of it before but there has
      been sic distress in our house since, and my memory is sae muckle impaired&mdash;
      But ye are sure your mother, the Lady Countess, is gane hame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Earl again assured her that her former mistress was no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Elspeth, &ldquo;it shall burden my mind nae langer!&mdash;When she
      lived, wha dared to speak what it would hae displeased her to hae had
      noised abroad? But she&rsquo;s gane&mdash;and I will confess all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then turning to her son and daughter-in-law, she commanded them
      imperatively to quit the house, and leave Lord Geraldin (for so she still
      called him) alone with her. But Maggie Mucklebackit, her first burst of
      grief being over, was by no means disposed in her own house to pay passive
      obedience to the commands of her mother-in-law, an authority which is
      peculiarly obnoxious to persons in her rank of life, and which she was the
      more astonished at hearing revived, when it seemed to have been so long
      relinquished and forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was an unco thing,&rdquo; she said, in a grumbling tone of voice,&mdash;for
      the rank of Lord Glenallan was somewhat imposing&mdash;&ldquo;it was an unco
      thing to bid a mother leave her ain house wi&rsquo; the tear in her ee, the
      moment her eldest son had been carried a corpse out at the door o&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fisherman, in a stubborn and sullen tone, added to the same purpose.
      &ldquo;This is nae day for your auld-warld stories, mother. My lord, if he be a
      lord, may ca&rsquo; some other day&mdash;or he may speak out what he has gotten
      to say if he likes it; there&rsquo;s nane here will think it worth their while
      to listen to him or you either. But neither for laird or loon, gentle or
      semple, will I leave my ain house to pleasure onybody on the very day my
      poor&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here his voice choked, and he could proceed no farther; but as he had
      risen when Lord Glenallan came in, and had since remained standing, he now
      threw himself doggedly upon a seat, and remained in the sullen posture of
      one who was determined to keep his word.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the old woman, whom this crisis seemed to repossess in all those
      powers of mental superiority with which she had once been eminently
      gifted, arose, and advancing towards him, said, with a solemn voice, &ldquo;My
      son, as ye wad shun hearing of your mother&rsquo;s shame&mdash;as ye wad not
      willingly be a witness of her guilt&mdash;as ye wad deserve her blessing
      and avoid her curse, I charge ye, by the body that bore and that nursed
      ye, to leave me at freedom to speak with Lord Geraldin, what nae mortal
      ears but his ain maun listen to. Obey my words, that when ye lay the
      moulds on my head&mdash;and, oh that the day were come!&mdash;ye may
      remember this hour without the reproach of having disobeyed the last
      earthly command that ever your mother wared on you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The terms of this solemn charge revived in the fisherman&rsquo;s heart the habit
      of instinctive obedience in which his mother had trained him up, and to
      which he had submitted implicitly while her powers of exacting it remained
      entire. The recollection mingled also with the prevailing passion of the
      moment; for, glancing his eye at the bed on which the dead body had been
      laid, he muttered to himself, &ldquo;<i>He</i> never disobeyed <i>me,</i> in
      reason or out o&rsquo; reason, and what for should I vex <i>her</i>?&rdquo; Then,
      taking his reluctant spouse by the arm, he led her gently out of the
      cottage, and latched the door behind them as he left it.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the unhappy parents withdrew, Lord Glenallan, to prevent the old woman
      from relapsing into her lethargy, again pressed her on the subject of the
      communication which she proposed to make to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye will have it sune eneugh,&rdquo; she replied;&mdash;&ldquo;my mind&rsquo;s clear eneugh
      now, and there is not&mdash;I think there is not&mdash;a chance of my
      forgetting what I have to say. My dwelling at Craigburnfoot is before my
      een, as it were present in reality:&mdash;the green bank, with its
      selvidge, just where the burn met wi&rsquo; the sea&mdash;the twa little barks,
      wi&rsquo; their sails furled, lying in the natural cove which it formed&mdash;the
      high cliff that joined it with the pleasure-grounds of the house of
      Glenallan, and hung right ower the stream&mdash;Ah! yes&mdash;I may forget
      that I had a husband and have lost him&mdash; that I hae but ane alive of
      our four fair sons&mdash;that misfortune upon misfortune has devoured our
      ill-gotten wealth&mdash;that they carried the corpse of my son&rsquo;s
      eldest-born frae the house this morning&mdash;But I never can forget the
      days I spent at bonny Craigburnfoot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were a favourite of my mother,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan, desirous to
      bring her back to the point, from which she was wandering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was, I was,&mdash;ye needna mind me o&rsquo; that. She brought me up abune my
      station, and wi&rsquo; knowledge mair than my fellows&mdash;but, like the
      tempter of auld, wi&rsquo; the knowledge of gude she taught me the knowledge of
      evil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, Elspeth,&rdquo; said the astonished Earl, &ldquo;proceed, if you can,
      to explain the dreadful hints you have thrown out! I well know you are
      confidant to one dreadful secret, which should split this roof even to
      hear it named&mdash;but speak on farther.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will,&rdquo; she said&mdash;&ldquo;I will!&mdash;just bear wi&rsquo; me for a little;&rdquo;&mdash;and
      again she seemed lost in recollection, but it was no longer tinged with
      imbecility or apathy. She was now entering upon the topic which had long
      loaded her mind, and which doubtless often occupied her whole soul at
      times when she seemed dead to all around her. And I may add, as a
      remarkable fact, that such was the intense operation of mental energy upon
      her physical powers and nervous system, that, notwithstanding her
      infirmity of deafness, each word that Lord Glenallan spoke during this
      remarkable conference, although in the lowest tone of horror or agony,
      fell as full and distinct upon Elspeth&rsquo;s ear as it could have done at any
      period of her life. She spoke also herself clearly, distinctly, and
      slowly, as if anxious that the intelligence she communicated should be
      fully understood; concisely at the same time, and with none of the
      verbiage or circumlocutory additions natural to those of her sex and
      condition. In short, her language bespoke a better education, as well as
      an uncommonly firm and resolved mind, and a character of that sort from
      which great virtues or great crimes may be naturally expected. The tenor
      of her communication is disclosed in the following CHAPTER.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWELFTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                    Remorse&mdash;she neer forsakes us&mdash;
            A bloodhound staunch&mdash;she tracks our rapid step
            Through the wild labyrinth of youthful frenzy,
            Unheard, perchance, until old age hath tamed us
         Then in our lair, when Time hath chilled our joints,
             And maimed our hope of combat, or of flight,
             We hear her deep-mouthed bay, announcing all
             Of wrath, and wo, and punishment that bides us.
                                            Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I need not tell you,&rdquo; said the old woman, addressing the Earl of
      Glenallan, &ldquo;that I was the favourite and confidential attendant of
      Joscelind, Countess of Glenallan, whom God assoilzie!&rdquo;&mdash;(here she
      crossed herself)&mdash;&ldquo;and I think farther, ye may not have forgotten
      that I shared her regard for mony years. I returned it by the maist
      sincere attachment, but I fell into disgrace frae a trifling act of
      disobedience, reported to your mother by ane that thought, and she wasna
      wrang, that I was a spy upon her actions and yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I charge thee, woman,&rdquo; said the Earl, in a voice trembling with passion,
      &ldquo;name not her name in my hearing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must,&rdquo; returned the penitent firmly and calmly, &ldquo;or how can you
      understand me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Earl leaned upon one of the wooden chairs of the hut, drew his hat
      over his face, clenched his hands together, set his teeth like one who
      summons up courage to undergo a painful operation, and made a signal to
      her to proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, then,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;that my disgrace with my mistress was chiefly
      owing to Miss Eveline Neville, then bred up in Glenallan House as the
      daughter of a cousin-german and intimate friend of your father that was
      gane. There was muckle mystery in her history,&mdash;but wha dared to
      inquire farther than the Countess liked to tell?&mdash;All in Glenallan
      House loved Miss Neville&mdash;all but twa, your mother and mysell&mdash;we
      baith hated her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God! for what reason, since a creature so mild, so gentle, so formed to
      inspire affection, never walked on this wretched world?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may hae been sae,&rdquo; rejoined Elspeth, &ldquo;but your mother hated a&rsquo; that
      cam of your father&rsquo;s family&mdash;a&rsquo; but himsell. Her reasons related to
      strife which fell between them soon after her marriage; the particulars
      are naething to this purpose. But oh! doubly did she hate Eveline Neville
      when she perceived that there was a growing kindness atween you and that
      unfortunate young leddy! Ye may mind that the Countess&rsquo;s dislike didna
      gang farther at first than just showing o&rsquo; the cauld shouther&mdash;at
      least it wasna seen farther; but at the lang run it brak out into such
      downright violence that Miss Neville was even fain to seek refuge at
      Knockwinnock Castle with Sir Arthur&rsquo;s leddy, wha (God sain her!) was then
      wi&rsquo; the living.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You rend my heart by recalling these particulars&mdash;But go on,&mdash;and
      may my present agony be accepted as additional penance for the involuntary
      crime!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had been absent some months,&rdquo; continued Elspeth, &ldquo;when I was ae night
      watching in my hut the return of my husband from fishing, and shedding in
      private those bitter tears that my proud spirit wrung frae me whenever I
      thought on my disgrace. The sneck was drawn, and the Countess your mother
      entered my dwelling. I thought I had seen a spectre, for even in the
      height of my favour, this was an honour she had never done me, and she
      looked as pale and ghastly as if she had risen from the grave. She sat
      down, and wrung the draps from her hair and cloak,&mdash;for the night was
      drizzling, and her walk had been through the plantations, that were a&rsquo; 
      loaded with dew. I only mention these things that you may understand how
      weel that night lives in my memory,&mdash;and weel it may. I was surprised
      to see her, but I durstna speak first, mair than if I had seen a phantom&mdash;
      Na, I durst not, my lord, I that hae seen mony sights of terror, and never
      shook at them. Sae, after a silence, she said, Elspeth Cheyne (for she
      always gave me my maiden name), are not ye the daughter of that Reginald
      Cheyne who died to save his master, Lord Glenallan, on the field of
      Sheriffmuir?&rsquo; And I answered her as proudly as hersell nearly&mdash;As
      sure as you are the daughter of that Earl of Glenallan whom my father
      saved that day by his own death.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here she made a deep pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what followed?&mdash;what followed?&mdash;For Heaven&rsquo;s sake, good
      woman&mdash;But why should I use that word?&mdash;Yet, good or bad, I
      command you to tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And little I should value earthly command,&rdquo; answered Elspeth, &ldquo;were there
      not a voice that has spoken to me sleeping and waking, that drives me
      forward to tell this sad tale. Aweel, my Lord&mdash;the Countess said to
      me, My son loves Eveline Neville&mdash;they are agreed&mdash;they are
      plighted: should they have a son, my right over Glenallan merges&mdash;I
      sink from that moment from a Countess into a miserable stipendiary
      dowager, I who brought lands and vassals, and high blood and ancient fame,
      to my husband, I must cease to be mistress when my son has an heir-male.
      But I care not for that&mdash;had he married any but one of the hated
      Nevilles, I had been patient. But for them&mdash;that they and their
      descendants should enjoy the right and honours of my ancestors, goes
      through my heart like a two-edged dirk. And this girl&mdash;I detest her!&rsquo;&mdash;And
      I answered, for my heart kindled at her words, that her hate was equalled
      by mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretch!&rdquo; exclaimed the Earl, in spite of his determination to preserve
      silence&mdash;&ldquo;wretched woman! what cause of hate could have arisen from a
      being so innocent and gentle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hated what my mistress hated, as was the use with the liege vassals of
      the house of Glenallan; for though, my Lord, I married under my degree,
      yet an ancestor of yours never went to the field of battle, but an
      ancestor of the frail, demented, auld, useless wretch wha now speaks with
      you, carried his shield before him. But that was not a&rsquo;,&rdquo; continued the
      beldam, her earthly and evil passions rekindling as she became heated in
      her narration&mdash;&ldquo;that was not a&rsquo;; I hated Miss Eveline Neville for her
      ain sake, I brought her frae England, and, during our whole journey, she
      gecked and scorned at my northern speech and habit, as her southland
      leddies and kimmers had done at the boarding-school, as they cald it&rdquo;&mdash;(and,
      strange as it may seem, she spoke of an affront offered by a heedless
      school-girl without intention, with a degree of inveteracy which, at such
      a distance of time, a mortal offence would neither have authorized or
      excited in any well-constituted mind)&mdash;&ldquo;Yes, she scorned and jested
      at me&mdash;but let them that scorn the tartan fear the dirk!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused, and then went on&mdash;&ldquo;But I deny not that I hated her mair
      than she deserved. My mistress, the Countess, persevered and said, Elspeth
      Cheyne, this unruly boy will marry with the false English blood. Were days
      as they have been, I could throw her into the Massymore* of Glenallan, and
      fetter him in the Keep of Strathbonnel.
    </p>
    <p>
      * <i>Massa-mora,</i> an ancient name for a dungeon, derived from the
      Moorish language, perhaps as far back as the time of the Crusades.
    </p>
    <p>
      But these times are past, and the authority which the nobles of the land
      should exercise is delegated to quibbling lawyers and their baser
      dependants. Hear me, Elspeth Cheyne! if you are your father&rsquo;s daughter as
      I am mine, I will find means that they shall not marry. She walks often to
      that cliff that overhangs your dwelling to look for her lover&rsquo;s boat&mdash;(ye
      may remember the pleasure ye then took on the sea, my Lord)&mdash;let him
      find her forty fathom lower than he expects!&rsquo;&mdash;Yes! ye may stare and
      frown and clench your hand; but, as sure as I am to face the only Being I
      ever feared&mdash;and, oh that I had feared him mair!&mdash;these were
      your mother&rsquo;s words. What avails it to me to lie to you?&mdash;But I wadna
      consent to stain my hand with blood.&mdash;Then she said, By the religion
      of our holy Church they are ower <i>sibb</i> thegither. But I expect
      nothing but that both will become heretics as well as disobedient
      reprobates;&rsquo;&mdash;that was her addition to that argument. And then, as
      the fiend is ever ower busy wi&rsquo; brains like mine, that are subtle beyond
      their use and station, I was unhappily permitted to add&mdash;But they
      might be brought to think themselves sae <i>sibb</i> as no Christian law
      will permit their wedlock.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the Earl of Glenallan echoed her words, with a shriek so piercing as
      almost to rend the roof of the cottage.&mdash;&ldquo;Ah! then Eveline Neville
      was not the&mdash;the&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The daughter, ye would say, of your father?&rdquo; continued Elspeth. &ldquo;No&mdash;be
      it a torment or be it a comfort to you&mdash;ken the truth, she was nae
      mair a daughter of your father&rsquo;s house than I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman, deceive me not!&mdash;make me not curse the memory of the parent I
      have so lately laid in the grave, for sharing in a plot the most cruel,
      the most infernal&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bethink ye, my Lord Geraldin, ere ye curse the memory of a parent that&rsquo;s
      gane, is there none of the blood of Glenallan living, whose faults have
      led to this dreadfu&rsquo; catastrophe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mean you my brother?&mdash;he, too, is gone,&rdquo; said the Earl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied the sibyl, &ldquo;I mean yoursell, Lord Geraldin. Had you not
      transgressed the obedience of a son by wedding Eveline Neville in secret
      while a guest at Knockwinnock, our plot might have separated you for a
      time, but would have left at least your sorrows without remorse to canker
      them. But your ain conduct had put poison in the weapon that we threw, and
      it pierced you with the mair force because ye cam rushing to meet it. Had
      your marriage been a proclaimed and acknowledged action, our stratagem to
      throw an obstacle into your way that couldna be got ower, neither wad nor
      could hae been practised against ye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great Heaven!&rdquo; said the unfortunate nobleman&mdash;&ldquo;it is as if a film
      fell from my obscured eyes! Yes, I now well understand the doubtful hints
      of consolation thrown out by my wretched mother, tending indirectly to
      impeach the evidence of the horrors of which her arts had led me to
      believe myself guilty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She could not speak mair plainly,&rdquo; answered Elspeth, &ldquo;without confessing
      her ain fraud,&mdash;and she would have submitted to be torn by wild
      horses, rather than unfold what she had done; and if she had still lived,
      so would I for her sake. They were stout hearts the race of Glenallan,
      male and female, and sae were a&rsquo; that in auld times cried their
      gathering-word of <i>Clochnaben</i>&mdash;they stood shouther to shouther&mdash;nae
      man parted frae his chief for love of gold or of gain, or of right or of
      wrang. The times are changed, I hear, now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The unfortunate nobleman was too much wrapped up in his own confused and
      distracted reflections, to notice the rude expressions of savage fidelity,
      in which, even in the latest ebb of life, the unhappy author of his
      misfortunes seemed to find a stern and stubborn source of consolation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great Heaven!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;I am then free from a guilt the most
      horrible with which man can be stained, and the sense of which, however
      involuntary, has wrecked my peace, destroyed my health, and bowed me down
      to an untimely grave. Accept,&rdquo; he fervently uttered, lifting his eyes
      upwards, &ldquo;accept my humble thanks! If I live miserable, at least I shall
      not die stained with that unnatural guilt!&mdash;And thou&mdash;proceed if
      thou hast more to tell&mdash;proceed, while thou hast voice to speak it,
      and I have powers to listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered the beldam, &ldquo;the hour when you shall hear, and I shall
      speak, is indeed passing rapidly away. Death has crossed your brow with
      his finger, and I find his grasp turning every day coulder at my heart.
      Interrupt me nae mair with exclamations and groans and accusations, but
      hear my tale to an end! And then&mdash;if ye be indeed sic a Lord of
      Glenallan as I hae heard of in <i>my</i> day&mdash;make your merrymen
      gather the thorn, and the brier, and the green hollin, till they heap them
      as high as the house-riggin&rsquo;, and burn! burn! burn! the auld witch
      Elspeth, and a&rsquo; that can put ye in mind that sic a creature ever crawled
      upon the land!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; said the Earl, &ldquo;go on&mdash;I will not again interrupt you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke in a half-suffocated yet determined voice, resolved that no
      irritability on his part should deprive him of this opportunity of
      acquiring proofs of the wonderful tale he then heard. But Elspeth had
      become exhausted by a continuous narration of such unusual length; the
      subsequent part of her story was more broken, and though still distinctly
      intelligible in most parts, had no longer the lucid conciseness which the
      first part of her narrative had displayed to such an astonishing degree.
      Lord Glenallan found it necessary, when she had made some attempts to
      continue her narrative without success, to prompt her memory by demanding&mdash;&ldquo;What
      proofs she could propose to bring of the truth of a narrative so different
      from that which she had originally told?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The evidence,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;of Eveline Neville&rsquo;s real birth was in the
      Countess&rsquo;s possession, with reasons for its being for some time kept
      private;&mdash;they may yet be found, if she has not destroyed them, in
      the left hand drawer of the ebony cabinet that stood in the dressing-room.
      These she meant to suppress for the time, until you went abroad again,
      when she trusted, before your return, to send Miss Neville back to her ain
      country, or to get her settled in marriage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But did you not show me letters of my father&rsquo;s, which seemed to me,
      unless my senses altogether failed me in that horrible moment, to avow his
      relationship to&mdash;to the unhappy&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We did; and, with my testimony, how could you doubt the fact, or her
      either? But we suppressed the true explanation of these letters, and that
      was, that your father thought it right the young leddy should pass for his
      daughter for a while, on account o&rsquo;some family reasons that were amang
      them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But wherefore, when you learned our union, was this dreadful artifice
      persisted in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wasna,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;till Lady Glenallan had communicated this fause
      tale, that she suspected ye had actually made a marriage&mdash;nor even
      then did you avow it sae as to satisfy her whether the ceremony had in
      verity passed atween ye or no&mdash;But ye remember, O ye canna but
      remember weel, what passed in that awfu&rsquo; meeting!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman! you swore upon the gospels to the fact which you now disavow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did,&mdash;and I wad hae taen a yet mair holy pledge on it, if there
      had been ane&mdash;I wad not hae spared the blood of my body, or the guilt
      of my soul, to serve the house of Glenallan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretch! do you call that horrid perjury, attended with consequences yet
      more dreadful&mdash;do you esteem that a service to the house of your
      benefactors?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I served her, wha was then the head of Glenallan, as she required me to
      serve her. The cause was between God and her conscience&mdash;the manner
      between God and mine&mdash;She is gane to her account, and I maun follow.
      Have I taulds you a&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Lord Glenallan&mdash;&ldquo;you have yet more to tell&mdash;you
      have to tell me of the death of the angel whom your perjury drove to
      despair, stained, as she thought herself, with a crime so horrible. Speak
      truth&mdash;was that dreadful&mdash;was that horrible incident&rdquo;&mdash;he
      could scarcely articulate the words&mdash;&ldquo;was it as reported? or was it
      an act of yet further, though not more atrocious cruelty, inflicted by
      others?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand you,&rdquo; said Elspeth. &ldquo;But report spoke truth;&mdash;our false
      witness was indeed the cause, but the deed was her ain distracted act. On
      that fearfu&rsquo; disclosure, when ye rushed frae the Countess&rsquo;s presence and
      saddled your horse, and left the castle like a fire-flaught, the Countess
      hadna yet discovered your private marriage; she hadna fund out that the
      union, which she had framed this awfu&rsquo; tale to prevent, had e&rsquo;en taen
      place. Ye fled from the house as if the fire o&rsquo; Heaven was about to fa&rsquo; 
      upon it, and Miss Neville, atween reason and the want o&rsquo;t, was put under
      sure ward. But the ward sleep&rsquo;t, and the prisoner waked&mdash;the window
      was open&mdash;the way was before her&mdash;there was the cliff, and there
      was the sea!&mdash;O, when will I forget that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thus died,&rdquo; said the Earl, &ldquo;even so as was reported?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my lord. I had gane out to the cove&mdash;the tide was in, and it
      flowed, as ye&rsquo;ll remember, to the foot o&rsquo; that cliff&mdash;it was a great
      convenience that for my husband&rsquo;s trade&mdash;Where am I wandering?&mdash;I
      saw a white object dart frae the tap o&rsquo; the cliff like a sea-maw through
      the mist, and then a heavy flash and sparkle of the waters showed me it
      was a human creature that had fa&rsquo;en into the waves. I was bold and strong,
      and familiar with the tide. I rushed in and grasped her gown, and drew her
      out and carried her on my shouthers&mdash;I could hae carried twa sic then&mdash;carried
      her to my hut, and laid her on my bed. Neighbours cam and brought help;
      but the words she uttered in her ravings, when she got back the use of
      speech, were such, that I was fain to send them awa, and get up word to
      Glenallan House. The Countess sent down her Spanish servant Teresa&mdash;if
      ever there was a fiend on earth in human form, that woman was ane. She and
      I were to watch the unhappy leddy, and let no other person approach.&mdash;God
      knows what Teresa&rsquo;s part was to hae been&mdash;she tauld it not to me&mdash;but
      Heaven took the conclusion in its ain hand. The poor leddy! she took the
      pangs of travail before her time, bore a male child, and died in the arms
      of me&mdash;of her mortal enemy! Ay, <i>ye</i> may weep&mdash;she was a
      sightly creature to see to&mdash;but think ye, if I didna mourn her then,
      that I can mourn her now? Na, na, I left Teresa wi&rsquo; the dead corpse and
      new-born babe, till I gaed up to take the Countess&rsquo;s commands what was to
      be done. Late as it was, I ca&rsquo;d her up, and she gar&rsquo;d me ca&rsquo; up your
      brother&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Lord Geraldin, e&rsquo;en your brother, that some said she aye wished to
      be her heir. At ony rate, he was the person maist concerned in the
      succession and heritance of the house of Glenallan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is it possible to believe, then, that my brother, out of avarice to
      grasp at my inheritance, would lend himself to such a base and dreadful
      stratagem?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your mother believed it,&rdquo; said the old beldam with a fiendish laugh&mdash;&ldquo;it
      was nae plot of my making; but what they did or said I will not say,
      because I did not hear. Lang and sair they consulted in the black wainscot
      dressing-room; and when your brother passed through the room where I was
      waiting, it seemed to me (and I have often thought sae since syne) that
      the fire of hell was in his cheek and een. But he had left some of it with
      his mother, at ony rate. She entered the room like a woman demented, and
      the first words she spoke were, Elspeth Cheyne, did you ever pull a
      new-budded flower?&rsquo; I answered, as ye may believe, that I often had.
      Then,&rsquo; said she, ye will ken the better how to blight the spurious and
      heretical blossom that has sprung forth this night to disgrace my father&rsquo;s
      noble house&mdash;See here;&rsquo;&mdash;(and she gave me a golden bodkin)&mdash;nothing
      but gold must shed the blood of Glenallan. This child is already as one of
      the dead, and since thou and Teresa alone ken that it lives, let it be
      dealt upon as ye will answer to me!&rsquo; and she turned away in her fury, and
      left me with the bodkin in my hand.&mdash;Here it is; that and the ring of
      Miss Neville, are a&rsquo; I hae preserved of my ill-gotten gear&mdash;for
      muckle was the gear I got. And weel hae I keepit the secret, but no for
      the gowd or gear either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her long and bony hand held out to Lord Glenallan a gold bodkin, down
      which in fancy he saw the blood of his infant trickling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretch! had you the heart?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I kenna if I could hae had it or no. I returned to my cottage without
      feeling the ground that I trode on; but Teresa and the child were gane&mdash;
      a&rsquo; that was alive was gane&mdash;naething left but the lifeless corpse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did you never learn my infant&rsquo;s fate?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could but guess. I have tauld ye your mother&rsquo;s purpose, and I ken
      Teresa was a fiend. She was never mair seen in Scotland, and I have heard
      that she returned to her ain land. A dark curtain has fa&rsquo;en ower the past,
      and the few that witnessed ony part of it could only surmise something of
      seduction and suicide. You yourself&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know&mdash;I know it all,&rdquo; answered the Earl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You indeed know all that I can say&mdash;And now, heir of Glenallan, can
      you forgive me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Aimage-0006">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pb150.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="Lord Glenallen and Elspeth "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask forgiveness of God, and not of man,&rdquo; said the Earl, turning away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how shall I ask of the pure and unstained what is denied to me by a
      sinner like mysell? If I hae sinned, hae I not suffered?&mdash;Hae I had a
      day&rsquo;s peace or an hour&rsquo;s rest since these lang wet locks of hair first lay
      upon my pillow at Craigburnfoot?&mdash;Has not my house been burned, wi&rsquo; 
      my bairn in the cradle?&mdash;Have not my boats been wrecked, when a&rsquo; 
      others weather&rsquo;d the gale?&mdash;Have not a&rsquo; that were near and dear to me
      dree&rsquo;d penance for my sin?&mdash;Has not the fire had its share o&rsquo; them&mdash;the
      winds had their part&mdash;the sea had her part?&mdash;And oh!&rdquo; she added,
      with a lengthened groan, looking first upwards towards Heaven, and then
      bending her eyes on the floor&mdash;&ldquo;O that the earth would take her part,
      that&rsquo;s been lang lang wearying to be joined to it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lord Glenallan had reached the door of the cottage, but the generosity of
      his nature did not permit him to leave the unhappy woman in this state of
      desperate reprobation. &ldquo;May God forgive thee, wretched woman,&rdquo; he said,
      &ldquo;as sincerely as I do!&mdash;Turn for mercy to Him who can alone grant
      mercy, and may your prayers be heard as if they were mine own!&mdash;I
      will send a religious man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na&mdash;nae priest! nae priest!&rdquo; she ejaculated; and the door of the
      cottage opening as she spoke, prevented her from proceeding.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
          Still in his dead hand clenched remain the strings
              That thrill his father&rsquo;s heart&mdash;e&rsquo;en as the limb,
          Lopped off and laid in grave, retains, they tell us,
              Strange commerce with the mutilated stump,
          Whose nerves are twinging still in maimed existence.
                                           Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Antiquary, as we informed the reader in the end of the thirty-first
      CHAPTER, [tenth] had shaken off the company of worthy Mr. Blattergowl,
      although he offered to entertain him with an abstract of the ablest speech
      he had ever known in the teind court, delivered by the procurator for the
      church in the remarkable case of the parish of Gatherem. Resisting this
      temptation, our senior preferred a solitary path, which again conducted
      him to the cottage of Mucklebackit. When he came in front of the
      fisherman&rsquo;s hut, he observed a man working intently, as if to repair a
      shattered boat which lay upon the beach, and going up to him was surprised
      to find it was Mucklebackit himself. &ldquo;I am glad,&rdquo; he said in a tone of
      sympathy&mdash;&ldquo;I am glad, Saunders, that you feel yourself able to make
      this exertion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what would ye have me to do,&rdquo; answered the fisher gruffly, &ldquo;unless I
      wanted to see four children starve, because ane is drowned? It&rsquo;s weel wi&rsquo; 
      you gentles, that can sit in the house wi&rsquo; handkerchers at your een when
      ye lose a friend; but the like o&rsquo; us maun to our wark again, if our hearts
      were beating as hard as my hammer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without taking more notice of Oldbuck, he proceeded in his labour; and the
      Antiquary, to whom the display of human nature under the influence of
      agitating passions was never indifferent, stood beside him, in silent
      attention, as if watching the progress of the work. He observed more than
      once the man&rsquo;s hard features, as if by the force of association, prepare
      to accompany the sound of the saw and hammer with his usual symphony of a
      rude tune, hummed or whistled,&mdash;and as often a slight twitch of
      convulsive expression showed, that ere the sound was uttered, a cause for
      suppressing it rushed upon his mind. At length, when he had patched a
      considerable rent, and was beginning to mend another, his feelings
      appeared altogether to derange the power of attention necessary for his
      work. The piece of wood which he was about to nail on was at first too
      long; then he sawed it off too short, then chose another equally ill
      adapted for the purpose. At length, throwing it down in anger, after
      wiping his dim eye with his quivering hand, he exclaimed, &ldquo;There is a
      curse either on me or on this auld black bitch of a boat, that I have
      hauled up high and dry, and patched and clouted sae mony years, that she
      might drown my poor Steenie at the end of them, an&rsquo; be d&mdash;d to her!&rdquo;
       and he flung his hammer against the boat, as if she had been the
      intentional cause of his misfortune. Then recollecting himself, he added,
      &ldquo;Yet what needs ane be angry at her, that has neither soul nor sense?&mdash;though
      I am no that muckle better mysell. She&rsquo;s but a rickle o&rsquo; auld rotten deals
      nailed thegither, and warped wi&rsquo; the wind and the sea&mdash;and I am a
      dour carle, battered by foul weather at sea and land till I am maist as
      senseless as hersell. She maun be mended though again the morning tide&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      a thing o&rsquo; necessity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus speaking, he went to gather together his instruments, and attempt to
      resume his labour,&mdash;but Oldbuck took him kindly by the arm. &ldquo;Come,
      come,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Saunders, there is no work for you this day&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
      send down Shavings the carpenter to mend the boat, and he may put the
      day&rsquo;s work into my account&mdash;and you had better not come out
      to-morrow, but stay to comfort your family under this dispensation, and
      the gardener will bring you some vegetables and meal from Monkbarns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank ye, Monkbarns,&rdquo; answered the poor fisher; &ldquo;I am a plain-spoken
      man, and hae little to say for mysell; I might hae learned fairer fashions
      frae my mither lang syne, but I never saw muckle gude they did her;
      however, I thank ye. Ye were aye kind and neighbourly, whatever folk says
      o&rsquo; your being near and close; and I hae often said, in thae times when
      they were ganging to raise up the puir folk against the gentles&mdash;I
      hae often said, neer a man should steer a hair touching to Monkbarns while
      Steenie and I could wag a finger&mdash;and so said Steenie too. And,
      Monkbarns, when ye laid his head in the grave (and mony thanks for the
      respect), ye, saw the mouls laid on an honest lad that likit you weel,
      though he made little phrase about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck, beaten from the pride of his affected cynicism, would not
      willingly have had any one by on that occasion to quote to him his
      favourite maxims of the Stoic philosophy. The large drops fell fast from
      his own eyes, as he begged the father, who was now melted at recollecting
      the bravery and generous sentiments of his son, to forbear useless sorrow,
      and led him by the arm towards his own home, where another scene awaited
      our Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he entered, the first person whom he beheld was Lord Glenallan. Mutual
      surprise was in their countenances as they saluted each other&mdash;with
      haughty reserve on the part of Mr. Oldbuck, and embarrassment on that of
      the Earl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Lord Glenallan, I think?&rdquo; said Mr. Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;much changed from what he was when he knew Mr. Oldbuck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not mean,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;to intrude upon your lordship&mdash;I
      only came to see this distressed family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have found one, sir, who has still greater claims on your
      compassion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My compassion? Lord Glenallan cannot need my compassion. If Lord
      Glenallan could need it, I think he would hardly ask it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our former acquaintance,&rdquo; said the Earl&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is of such ancient date, my lord&mdash;was of such short duration, and
      was connected with circumstances so exquisitely painful, that I think we
      may dispense with renewing it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, the Antiquary turned away, and left the hut; but Lord Glenallan
      followed him into the open air, and, in spite of a hasty &ldquo;Good morning, my
      lord,&rdquo; requested a few minutes&rsquo; conversation, and the favour of his advice
      in an important matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your lordship will find many more capable to advise you, my lord, and by
      whom your intercourse will be deemed an honour. For me, I am a man retired
      from business and the world, and not very fond of raking up the past
      events of my useless life;&mdash;and forgive me if I say, I have
      particular pain in reverting to that period of it when I acted like a
      fool, and your lordship like&rdquo;&mdash;He stopped short.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like a villain, you would say,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan&mdash;&ldquo;for such I
      must have appeared to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord&mdash;my lord, I have no desire to hear your shrift,&rdquo; said the
      Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, sir, if I can show you that I am more sinned against than sinning&mdash;
      that I have been a man miserable beyond the power of description, and who
      looks forward at this moment to an untimely grave as to a haven of rest,
      you will not refuse the confidence which, accepting your appearance at
      this critical moment as a hint from Heaven, I venture thus to press on
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Assuredly, my lord, I shall shun no longer the continuation of this
      extraordinary interview.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must then recall to you our occasional meetings upwards of twenty years
      since at Knockwinnock Castle,&mdash;and I need not remind you of a lady
      who was then a member of that family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The unfortunate Miss Eveline Neville, my lord; I remember it well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Towards whom you entertained sentiments&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very different from those with which I before and since have regarded her
      sex. Her gentleness, her docility, her pleasure in the studies which I
      pointed out to her, attached my affections more than became my age though
      that was not then much advanced&mdash;or the solidity of my character. But
      I need not remind your lordship of the various modes in which you indulged
      your gaiety at the expense of an awkward and retired student, embarrassed
      by the expression of feelings so new to him, and I have no doubt that the
      young lady joined you in the well-deserved ridicule&mdash;it is the way of
      womankind. I have spoken at once to the painful circumstances of my
      addresses and their rejection, that your lordship may be satisfied
      everything is full in my memory, and may, so far as I am concerned, tell
      your story without scruple or needless delicacy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan. &ldquo;But first let me say, you do injustice to
      the memory of the gentlest and kindest, as well as to the most unhappy of
      women, to suppose she could make a jest of the honest affection of a man
      like you. Frequently did she blame me, Mr. Oldbuck, for indulging my
      levity at your expense&mdash;may I now presume you will excuse the gay
      freedoms which then offended you?&mdash;my state of mind has never since
      laid me under the necessity of apologizing for the inadvertencies of a
      light and happy temper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord, you are fully pardoned,&rdquo; said Mr. Oldbuck. &ldquo;You should be aware,
      that, like all others, I was ignorant at the time that I placed myself in
      competition with your lordship, and understood that Miss Neville was in a
      state of dependence which might make her prefer a competent independence
      and the hand of an honest man&mdash;But I am wasting time&mdash;I would I
      could believe that the views entertained towards her by others were as
      fair and honest as mine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Oldbuck, you judge harshly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not without cause, my lord. When I only, of all the magistrates of this
      county&mdash;having neither, like some of them, the honour to be connected
      with your powerful family&mdash;nor, like others, the meanness to fear it,&mdash;
      when I made some inquiry into the manner of Miss Neville&rsquo;s death&mdash;I
      shake you, my lord, but I must be plain&mdash;I do own I had every reason
      to believe that she had met most unfair dealing, and had either been
      imposed upon by a counterfeit marriage, or that very strong measures had
      been adopted to stifle and destroy the evidence of a real union. And I
      cannot doubt in my own mind, that this cruelty on your lordship&rsquo;s part,
      whether coming of your own free will, or proceeding from the influence of
      the late Countess, hurried the unfortunate young lady to the desperate act
      by which her life was terminated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are deceived, Mr. Oldbuck, into conclusions which are not just,
      however naturally they flow from the circumstances. Believe me, I
      respected you even when I was most embarrassed by your active attempts to
      investigate our family misfortunes. You showed yourself more worthy of
      Miss Neville than I, by the spirit with which you persisted in vindicating
      her reputation even after her death. But the firm belief that your
      well-meant efforts could only serve to bring to light a story too horrible
      to be detailed, induced me to join my unhappy mother in schemes to remove
      or destroy all evidence of the legal union which had taken place between
      Eveline and myself. And now let us sit down on this bank,&mdash;for I feel
      unable to remain longer standing,&mdash;and have the goodness to listen to
      the extraordinary discovery which I have this day made.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sate down accordingly; and Lord Glenallan briefly narrated his
      unhappy family history&mdash;his concealed marriage&mdash;the horrible
      invention by which his mother had designed to render impossible that union
      which had already taken place. He detailed the arts by which the Countess,
      having all the documents relative to Miss Neville&rsquo;s birth in her hands,
      had produced those only relating to a period during which, for family
      reasons, his father had consented to own that young lady as his natural
      daughter, and showed how impossible it was that he could either suspect or
      detect the fraud put upon him by his mother, and vouched by the oaths of
      her attendants, Teresa and Elspeth. &ldquo;I left my paternal mansion,&rdquo; he
      concluded, &ldquo;as if the furies of hell had driven me forth, and travelled
      with frantic velocity I knew not whither. Nor have I the slightest
      recollection of what I did or whither I went, until I was discovered by my
      brother. I will not trouble you with an account of my sick-bed and
      recovery, or how, long afterwards, I ventured to inquire after the sharer
      of my misfortunes, and heard that her despair had found a dreadful remedy
      for all the ills of life. The first thing that roused me to thought was
      hearing of your inquiries into this cruel business; and you will hardly
      wonder, that, believing what I did believe, I should join in those
      expedients to stop your investigation, which my brother and mother had
      actively commenced. The information which I gave them concerning the
      circumstances and witnesses of our private marriage enabled them to baffle
      your zeal. The clergyman, therefore, and witnesses, as persons who had
      acted in the matter only to please the powerful heir of Glenallan, were
      accessible to his promises and threats, and were so provided for, that
      they had no objections to leave this country for another. For myself, Mr.
      Oldbuck,&rdquo; pursued this unhappy man, &ldquo;from that moment I considered myself
      as blotted out of the book of the living, and as having nothing left to do
      with this world. My mother tried to reconcile me to life by every art&mdash;even
      by intimations which I can now interpret as calculated to produce a doubt
      of the horrible tale she herself had fabricated. But I construed all she
      said as the fictions of maternal affection. I will forbear all reproach.
      She is no more&mdash;and, as her wretched associate said, she knew not how
      the dart was poisoned, or how deep it must sink, when she threw it from
      her hand. But, Mr. Oldbuck, if ever, during these twenty years, there
      crawled upon earth a living being deserving of your pity, I have been that
      man. My food has not nourished me&mdash;my sleep has not refreshed me&mdash;my
      devotions have not comforted me&mdash;all that is cheering and necessary
      to man has been to me converted into poison. The rare and limited
      intercourse which I have held with others has been most odious to me. I
      felt as if I were bringing the contamination of unnatural and
      inexpressible guilt among the gay and the innocent. There have been
      moments when I had thoughts of another description&mdash;to plunge into
      the adventures of war, or to brave the dangers of the traveller in foreign
      and barbarous climates&mdash;to mingle in political intrigue, or to retire
      to the stern seclusion of the anchorites of our religion;&mdash;all these
      are thoughts which have alternately passed through my mind, but each
      required an energy, which was mine no longer, after the withering stroke I
      had received. I vegetated on as I could in the same spot&mdash;fancy,
      feeling, judgment, and health, gradually decaying, like a tree whose bark
      has been destroyed,&mdash;when first the blossoms fade, then the boughs,
      until its state resembles the decayed and dying trunk that is now before
      you. Do you now pity and forgive me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; answered the Antiquary, much affected, &ldquo;my pity&mdash;my
      forgiveness, you have not to ask, for your dismal story is of itself not
      only an ample excuse for whatever appeared mysterious in your conduct, but
      a narrative that might move your worst enemies (and I, my lord, was never
      of the number) to tears and to sympathy. But permit me to ask what you now
      mean to do, and why you have honoured me, whose opinion can be of little
      consequence, with your confidence on this occasion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; answered the Earl, &ldquo;as I could never have foreseen the
      nature of that confession which I have heard this day, I need not say that
      I had no formed plan of consulting you, or any one, upon affairs the
      tendency of which I could not even have suspected. But I am without
      friends, unused to business, and, by long retirement, unacquainted alike
      with the laws of the land and the habits of the living generation; and
      when, most unexpectedly, I find myself immersed in the matters of which I
      know least, I catch, like a drowning man, at the first support that
      offers. You are that support, Mr. Oldbuck. I have always heard you
      mentioned as a man of wisdom and intelligence&mdash;I have known you
      myself as a man of a resolute and independent spirit;&mdash;and there is
      one circumstance,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;which ought to combine us in some degree&mdash;our
      having paid tribute to the same excellence of character in poor Eveline.
      You offered yourself to me in my need, and you were already acquainted
      with the beginning of my misfortunes. To you, therefore, I have recourse
      for advice, for sympathy, for support.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall seek none of them in vain, my lord,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;so far as
      my slender ability extends;&mdash;and I am honoured by the preference,
      whether it arises from choice, or is prompted by chance. But this is a
      matter to be ripely considered. May I ask what are your principal views at
      present?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To ascertain the fate of my child,&rdquo; said the Earl, &ldquo;be the consequences
      what they may, and to do justice to the honour of Eveline, which I have
      only permitted to be suspected to avoid discovery of the yet more horrible
      taint to which I was made to believe it liable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the memory of your mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must bear its own burden,&rdquo; answered the Earl with a sigh: &ldquo;better that
      she were justly convicted of deceit, should that be found necessary, than
      that others should be unjustly accused of crimes so much more dreadful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, my lord,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;our first business must be to put the
      information of the old woman, Elspeth, into a regular and authenticated
      form.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan, &ldquo;will be at present, I fear, impossible. She
      is exhausted herself, and surrounded by her distressed family. To-morrow,
      perhaps, when she is alone&mdash;and yet I doubt, from her imperfect sense
      of right and wrong, whether she would speak out in any one&rsquo;s presence but
      my own. I am too sorely fatigued.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, my lord,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, whom the interest of the moment
      elevated above points of expense and convenience, which had generally more
      than enough of weight with him, &ldquo;I would propose to your lordship, instead
      of returning, fatigued as you are, so far as to Glenallan House, or taking
      the more uncomfortable alternative of going to a bad inn at Fairport, to
      alarm all the busybodies of the town&mdash;I would propose, I say, that
      you should be my guest at Monkbarns for this night. By to-morrow these
      poor people will have renewed their out-of-doors vocation&mdash;for sorrow
      with them affords no respite from labour,&mdash;and we will visit the old
      woman Elspeth alone, and take down her examination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a formal apology for the encroachment, Lord Glenallan agreed to go
      with him, and underwent with patience in their return home the whole
      history of John of the Girnel, a legend which Mr. Oldbuck was never known
      to spare any one who crossed his threshold.
    </p>
    <p>
      The arrival of a stranger of such note, with two saddle-horses and a
      servant in black, which servant had holsters on his saddle-bow, and a
      coronet upon the holsters, created a general commotion in the house of
      Monkbarns. Jenny Rintherout, scarce recovered from the hysterics which she
      had taken on hearing of poor Steenie&rsquo;s misfortune, chased about the
      turkeys and poultry, cackled and screamed louder than they did, and ended
      by killing one-half too many. Miss Griselda made many wise reflections on
      the hot-headed wilfulness of her brother, who had occasioned such
      devastation, by suddenly bringing in upon them a papist nobleman. And she
      ventured to transmit to Mr. Blattergowl some hint of the unusual slaughter
      which had taken place in the <i>basse-cour,</i> which brought the honest
      clergyman to inquire how his friend Monkbarns had got home, and whether he
      was not the worse of being at the funeral, at a period so near the ringing
      of the bell for dinner, that the Antiquary had no choice left but to
      invite him to stay and bless the meat. Miss M&rsquo;Intyre had on her part some
      curiosity to see this mighty peer, of whom all had heard, as an eastern
      caliph or sultan is heard of by his subjects, and felt some degree of
      timidity at the idea of encountering a person, of whose unsocial habits
      and stern manners so many stories were told, that her fear kept at least
      pace with her curiosity. The aged housekeeper was no less flustered and
      hurried in obeying the numerous and contradictory commands of her
      mistress, concerning preserves, pastry and fruit, the mode of marshalling
      and dishing the dinner, the necessity of not permitting the melted butter
      to run to oil, and the danger of allowing Juno&mdash;who, though formally
      banished from the parlour, failed not to maraud about the out-settlements
      of the family&mdash;to enter the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only inmate of Monkbarns who remained entirely indifferent on this
      momentous occasion was Hector M&rsquo;Intyre, who cared no more for an Earl than
      he did for a commoner, and who was only interested in the unexpected
      visit, as it might afford some protection against his uncle&rsquo;s displeasure,
      if he harboured any, for his not attending the funeral, and still more
      against his satire upon the subject of his gallant but unsuccessful single
      combat with the <i>phoca,</i> or seal.
    </p>
    <p>
      To these, the inmates of his household, Oldbuck presented the Earl of
      Glenallan, who underwent, with meek and subdued civility, the prosing
      speeches of the honest divine, and the lengthened apologies of Miss
      Griselda Oldbuck, which her brother in vain endeavoured to abridge. Before
      the dinner hour, Lord Glenallan requested permission to retire a while to
      his chamber. Mr. Oldbuck accompanied his guest to the Green Room, which
      had been hastily prepared for his reception. He looked around with an air
      of painful recollection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; at length he observed, &ldquo;I think, Mr. Oldbuck, that I have been
      in this apartment before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my lord,&rdquo; answered Oldbuck, &ldquo;upon occasion of an excursion hither
      from Knockwinnock&mdash;and since we are upon a subject so melancholy, you
      may perhaps remember whose taste supplied these lines from Chaucer, which
      now form the motto of the tapestry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess&rdquo;, said the Earl, &ldquo;though I cannot recollect. She excelled me,
      indeed, in literary taste and information, as in everything else; and it
      is one of the mysterious dispensations of Providence, Mr. Oldbuck, that a
      creature so excellent in mind and body should have been cut off in so
      miserable a manner, merely from her having formed a fatal attachment to
      such a wretch as I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck did not attempt an answer to this burst of the grief which lay
      ever nearest to the heart of his guest, but, pressing Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s
      hand with one of his own, and drawing the other across his shaggy
      eyelashes, as if to brush away a mist that intercepted his sight, he left
      the Earl at liberty to arrange himself previous to dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOURTEENTH
    </h2>
<pre>
                           &mdash;Life, with you,
            Glows in the brain and dances in the arteries;
           &lsquo;Tis like the wine some joyous guest hath quaffed,
                 That glads the heart and elevates the fancy:
                 Mine is the poor residuum of the cup,
             Vapid, and dull, and tasteless, only soiling,
             With its base dregs, the vessel that contains it.
                                            Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, only think what a man my brother is, Mr. Blattergowl, for a wise man
      and a learned man, to bring this Yerl into our house without speaking a
      word to a body! And there&rsquo;s the distress of thae Mucklebackits&mdash;we
      canna get a fin o&rsquo; fish&mdash;and we hae nae time to send ower to Fairport
      for beef, and the mutton&rsquo;s but new killed&mdash;and that silly fliskmahoy,
      Jenny Rintherout, has taen the exies, and done naething but laugh and
      greet, the skirl at the tail o&rsquo; the guffaw, for twa days successfully&mdash;and
      now we maun ask that strange man, that&rsquo;s as grand and as grave as the Yerl
      himsell, to stand at the sideboard! and I canna gang into the kitchen to
      direct onything, for he&rsquo;s hovering there, making some pousowdie* for my
      Lord, for he doesna eat like ither folk neither&mdash;And how to sort the
      strange servant man at dinner time&mdash;I am sure, Mr. Blattergowl,
      a&rsquo;thegither, it passes my judgment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      * <i>Pousowdie,</i>&mdash;Miscellaneous mess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, Miss Griselda,&rdquo; replied the divine, &ldquo;Monkbarns was inconsiderate.
      He should have taen a day to see the invitation, as they do wi&rsquo; the
      titular&rsquo;s condescendence in the process of valuation and sale. But the
      great man could not have come on a sudden to ony house in this parish
      where he could have been better served with <i>vivers</i>&mdash;that I
      must say&mdash;and also that the steam from the kitchen is very gratifying
      to my nostrils;&mdash;and if ye have ony household affairs to attend to,
      Mrs. Griselda, never make a stranger of me&mdash;I can amuse mysell very
      weel with the larger copy of Erskine&rsquo;s Institutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And taking down from the window-seat that amusing folio, (the Scottish
      Coke upon Littleton), he opened it, as if instinctively, at the tenth
      title of Book Second, &ldquo;of Teinds or Tythes,&rdquo; and was presently deeply
      wrapped up in an abstruse discussion concerning the temporality of
      benefices.
    </p>
    <p>
      The entertainment, about which Miss Oldbuck expressed so much anxiety, was
      at length placed upon the table; and the Earl of Glenallan, for the first
      time since the date of his calamity, sat at a stranger&rsquo;s board, surrounded
      by strangers. He seemed to himself like a man in a dream, or one whose
      brain was not fully recovered from the effects of an intoxicating potion.
      Relieved, as he had that morning been, from the image of guilt which had
      so long haunted his imagination, he felt his sorrows as a lighter and more
      tolerable load, but was still unable to take any share in the conversation
      that passed around him. It was, indeed, of a cast very different from that
      which he had been accustomed to. The bluntness of Oldbuck, the tiresome
      apologetic harangues of his sister, the pedantry of the divine, and the
      vivacity of the young soldier, which savoured much more of the camp than
      of the court, were all new to a nobleman who had lived in a retired and
      melancholy state for so many years, that the manners of the world seemed
      to him equally strange and unpleasing. Miss M&rsquo;Intyre alone, from the
      natural politeness and unpretending simplicity of her manners, appeared to
      belong to that class of society to which he had been accustomed in his
      earlier and better days.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor did Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s deportment less surprise the company. Though a
      plain but excellent family-dinner was provided (for, as Mr. Blattergowl
      had justly said, it was impossible to surprise Miss Griselda when her
      larder was empty), and though the Antiquary boasted his best port, and
      assimilated it to the Falernian of Horace, Lord Glenallan was proof to the
      allurements of both. His servant placed before him a small mess of
      vegetables, that very dish, the cooking of which had alarmed Miss
      Griselda, arranged with the most minute and scrupulous neatness. He ate
      sparingly of these provisions; and a glass of pure water, sparkling from
      the fountain-head, completed his repast. Such, his servant said, had been
      his lordship&rsquo;s diet for very many years, unless upon the high festivals of
      the Church, or when company of the first rank were entertained at
      Glenallan House, when he relaxed a little in the austerity of his diet,
      and permitted himself a glass or two of wine. But at Monkbarns, no
      anchoret could have made a more simple and scanty meal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary was a gentleman, as we have seen, in feeling, but blunt and
      careless in expression, from the habit of living with those before whom he
      had nothing to suppress. He attacked his noble guest without scruple on
      the severity of his regimen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A few half-cold greens and potatoes&mdash;a glass of ice-cold water to
      wash them down&mdash;antiquity gives no warrant for it, my lord. This
      house used to be accounted a <i>hospitium,</i> a place of retreat for
      Christians; but your lordship&rsquo;s diet is that of a heathen Pythagorean, or
      Indian Bramin&mdash;nay, more severe than either, if you refuse these fine
      apples.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a Catholic, you are aware,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan, wishing to escape
      from the discussion, &ldquo;and you know that our church&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lays down many rules of mortification,&rdquo; proceeded the dauntless
      Antiquary; &ldquo;but I never heard that they were quite so rigorously practised&mdash;Bear
      witness my predecessor, John of the Girnel, or the jolly Abbot, who gave
      his name to this apple, my lord.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as he pared the fruit, in spite of his sister&rsquo;s &ldquo;O fie, Monkbarns!&rdquo;
       and the prolonged cough of the minister, accompanied by a shake of his
      huge wig, the Antiquary proceeded to detail the intrigue which had given
      rise to the fame of the abbot&rsquo;s apple with more slyness and
      circumstantiality than was at all necessary. His jest (as may readily be
      conceived) missed fire, for this anecdote of conventual gallantry failed
      to produce the slightest smile on the visage of the Earl. Oldbuck then
      took up the subject of Ossian, Macpherson, and Mac-Cribb; but Lord
      Glenallan had never so much as heard of any of the three, so little
      conversant had he been with modern literature. The conversation was now in
      some danger of flagging, or of falling into the hands of Mr. Blattergowl,
      who had just pronounced the formidable word, &ldquo;teind-free,&rdquo; when the
      subject of the French Revolution was started&mdash;a political event on
      which Lord Glenallan looked with all the prejudiced horror of a bigoted
      Catholic and zealous aristocrat. Oldbuck was far from carrying his
      detestation of its principles to such a length.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There were many men in the first Constituent Assembly,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;who
      held sound Whiggish doctrines, and were for settling the Constitution with
      a proper provision for the liberties of the people. And if a set of
      furious madmen were now in possession of the government, it was,&rdquo; he
      continued, &ldquo;what often happened in great revolutions, where extreme
      measures are adopted in the fury of the moment, and the State resembles an
      agitated pendulum which swings from side to side for some time ere it can
      acquire its due and perpendicular station. Or it might be likened to a
      storm or hurricane, which, passing over a region, does great damage in its
      passage, yet sweeps away stagnant and unwholesome vapours, and repays, in
      future health and fertility, its immediate desolation and ravage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Earl shook his head; but having neither spirit nor inclination for
      debate, he suffered the argument to pass uncontested.
    </p>
    <p>
      This discussion served to introduce the young soldier&rsquo;s experiences; and
      he spoke of the actions in which he, had been engaged, with modesty, and
      at the same time with an air of spirit and zeal which delighted the Earl,
      who had been bred up, like others of his house, in the opinion that the
      trade of arms was the first duty of man, and believed that to employ them
      against the French was a sort of holy warfare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would I give,&rdquo; said he apart to Oldbuck, as they rose to join the
      ladies in the drawing-room, &ldquo;what would I give to have a son of such
      spirit as that young gentleman!&mdash;He wants something of address and
      manner, something of polish, which mixing in good society would soon give
      him; but with what zeal and animation he expresses himself&mdash;how fond
      of his profession&mdash;how loud in the praise of others&mdash;how modest
      when speaking of himself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hector is much obliged to you, my lord,&rdquo; replied his uncle, gratified,
      yet not so much so as to suppress his consciousness of his own mental
      superiority over the young soldier; &ldquo;I believe in my heart nobody ever
      spoke half so much good of him before, except perhaps the sergeant of his
      company, when was wheedling a Highland recruit to enlist with him. He is a
      good lad notwithstanding, although he be not quite the hero your lordship
      supposes him, and although my commendations rather attest the kindness
      than the vivacity of his character. In fact, his high spirit is a sort of
      constitutional vehemence, which attends him in everything he sets about,
      and is often very inconvenient to his friends. I saw him to-day engage in
      an animated contest with a <i>phoca,</i> or seal (<i>sealgh,</i> our
      people more properly call them, retaining the Gothic guttural <i>gh</i>),
      with as much vehemence as if he had fought against Dumourier&mdash;Marry,
      my lord, the <i>phoca</i> had the better, as the said Dumourier had of
      some other folks. And he&rsquo;ll talk with equal if not superior rapture of the
      good behaviour of a pointer bitch, as of the plan of a campaign.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He shall have full permission to sport over my grounds,&rdquo; said the Earl,
      &ldquo;if he is so fond of that exercise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will bind him to you, my lord,&rdquo; said Monkbarns, &ldquo;body and soul: give
      him leave to crack off his birding-piece at a poor covey of partridges or
      moor-fowl, and he&rsquo;s yours for ever&mdash;I will enchant him by the
      intelligence. But O, my lord, that you could have seen my phoenix Lovel!&mdash;the
      very prince and chieftain of the youth of this age; and not destitute of
      spirit neither&mdash;I promise you he gave my termagant kinsman a <i>quid
      pro quo</i>&mdash;a Rowland for his Oliver, as the vulgar say, alluding to
      the two celebrated Paladins of Charlemagne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After coffee, Lord Glenallan requested a private interview with the
      Antiquary, and was ushered to his library.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must withdraw you from your own amiable family,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to involve
      you in the perplexities of an unhappy man. You are acquainted with the
      world, from which I have long been banished; for Glenallan House has been
      to me rather a prison than a dwelling, although a prison which I had
      neither fortitude nor spirit to break from.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me first ask your lordship,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;what are your own
      wishes and designs in this matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish most especially,&rdquo; answered Lord Glenallan, &ldquo;to declare my luckless
      marriage, and to vindicate the reputation of the unhappy Eveline&mdash;that
      is, if you see a possibility of doing so without making public the conduct
      of my mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Suum cuique tribuito,</i>&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;do right to everyone.
      The memory of that unhappy young lady has too long suffered, and I think
      it might be cleared without further impeaching that of your mother, than
      by letting it be understood in general that she greatly disapproved and
      bitterly opposed the match. All&mdash;forgive me, my lord&mdash;all who
      ever heard of the late Countess of Glenallan, will learn that without much
      surprise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you forget one horrible circumstance, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said the Earl, in
      an agitated voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not aware of it,&rdquo; replied the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fate of the infant&mdash;its disappearance with the confidential
      attendant of my mother, and the dreadful surmises which may be drawn from
      my conversation with Elspeth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you would have my free opinion, my lord,&rdquo; answered Mr. Oldbuck, &ldquo;and
      will not catch too rapidly at it as matter of hope, I would say that it is
      very possible the child yet lives. For thus much I ascertained, by my
      former inquiries concerning the event of that deplorable evening, that a
      child and woman were carried that night from the cottage at the
      Craigburnfoot in a carriage and four by your brother Edward Geraldin
      Neville, whose journey towards England with these companions I traced for
      several stages. I believed then it was a part of the family compact to
      carry a child whom you meant to stigmatize with illegitimacy, out of that
      country where chance might have raised protectors and proofs of its
      rights. But I now think that your brother, having reason, like yourself,
      to believe the child stained with shame yet more indelible, had
      nevertheless withdrawn it, partly from regard to the honour of his house,
      partly from the risk to which it might have been exposed in the
      neighbourhood of the Lady Glenallan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, the Earl of Glenallan grew extremely pale, and had nearly
      fallen from his chair.&mdash;The alarmed Antiquary ran hither and thither
      looking for remedies; but his museum, though sufficiently well filled with
      a vast variety of useless matters, contained nothing that could be
      serviceable on the present or any other occasion. As he posted out of the
      room to borrow his sister&rsquo;s salts, he could not help giving a
      constitutional growl of chagrin and wonder at the various incidents which
      had converted his mansion, first into an hospital for a wounded duellist,
      and now into the sick chamber of a dying nobleman. &ldquo;And yet,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I
      have always kept aloof from the soldiery and the peerage. My <i>coenobitium</i>
      has only next to be made a lying-in hospital, and then, I trow, the
      transformation will be complete.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he returned with the remedy, Lord Glenallan was much better. The new
      and unexpected light which Mr. Oldbuck had thrown upon the melancholy
      history of his family had almost overpowered him. &ldquo;You think, then, Mr.
      Oldbuck&mdash;for you are capable of thinking, which I am not&mdash;you
      think, then, that it is possible&mdash;that is, not impossible&mdash;my
      child may yet live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;it is impossible that it could come to any
      violent harm through your brother&rsquo;s means. He was known to be a gay and
      dissipated man, but not cruel nor dishonourable; nor is it possible, that,
      if he had intended any foul play, he would have placed himself so forward
      in the charge of the infant, as I will prove to your lordship he did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Mr. Oldbuck opened a drawer of the cabinet of his ancestor
      Aldobrand, and produced a bundle of papers tied with a black ribband, and
      labelled,&mdash;Examinations, etc., taken by Jonathan Oldbuck, J. P., upon
      the 18th of February, 17&mdash;; a little under was written, in a small
      hand, <i>Eheu Evelina</i>! The tears dropped fast from the Earl&rsquo;s eyes, as
      he endeavoured, in vain, to unfasten the knot which secured these
      documents.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your lordship,&rdquo; said Mr. Oldbuck, &ldquo;had better not read these at present.
      Agitated as you are, and having much business before you, you must not
      exhaust your strength. Your brother&rsquo;s succession is now, I presume, your
      own, and it will be easy for you to make inquiry among his servants and
      retainers, so as to hear where the child is, if, fortunately, it shall be
      still alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare hardly hope it,&rdquo; said the Earl, with a deep sigh. &ldquo;Why should my
      brother have been silent to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, my lord, why should he have communicated to your lordship the
      existence of a being whom you must have supposed the offspring of&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most true&mdash;there is an obvious and a kind reason for his being
      silent. If anything, indeed, could have added to the horror of the ghastly
      dream that has poisoned my whole existence, it must have been the
      knowledge that such a child of misery existed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; continued the Antiquary, &ldquo;although it would be rash to conclude,
      at the distance of more than twenty years, that your son must needs be
      still alive because he was not destroyed in infancy, I own I think you
      should instantly set on foot inquiries.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall be done,&rdquo; replied Lord Glenallan, catching eagerly at the hope
      held out to him, the first he had nourished for many years;&mdash;&ldquo;I will
      write to a faithful steward of my father, who acted in the same capacity
      under my brother Neville&mdash;But, Mr. Oldbuck, I am not my brother&rsquo;s
      heir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&mdash;I am sorry for that, my lord&mdash;it is a noble estate,
      and the ruins of the old castle of Neville&rsquo;s-Burgh alone, which are the
      most superb relics of Anglo-Norman architecture in that part of the
      country, are a possession much to be coveted. I thought your father had no
      other son or near relative.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had not, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; replied Lord Glenallan; &ldquo;but my brother adopted
      views in politics, and a form of religion, alien from those which had been
      always held by our house. Our tempers had long differed, nor did my
      unhappy mother always think him sufficiently observant to her. In short,
      there was a family quarrel, and my brother, whose property was at his own
      free disposal, availed himself of the power vested in him to choose a
      stranger for his heir. It is a matter which never struck me as being of
      the least consequence&mdash;for if worldly possessions could alleviate
      misery, I have enough and to spare. But now I shall regret it, if it
      throws any difficulty in the way of our inquiries&mdash;and I bethink me
      that it may; for in case of my having a lawful son of my body, and my
      brother dying without issue, my father&rsquo;s possessions stood entailed upon
      my son. It is not therefore likely that this heir, be he who he may, will
      afford us assistance in making a discovery which may turn out so much to
      his own prejudice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And in all probability the steward your lordship mentions is also in his
      service,&rdquo; said the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is most likely; and the man being a Protestant&mdash;how far it is
      safe to entrust him&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should hope, my lord,&rdquo; said Oldbuck gravely, &ldquo;that a Protestant may be
      as trustworthy as a Catholic. I am doubly interested in the Protestant
      faith, my lord. My ancestor, Aldobrand Oldenbuck, printed the celebrated
      Confession of Augsburg, as I can show by the original edition now in this
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not the least doubt of what you say, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; replied the
      Earl, &ldquo;nor do I speak out of bigotry or intolerance; but probably the
      Protestant steward will favour the Protestant heir rather than the
      Catholic&mdash;if, indeed, my son has been bred in his father&rsquo;s faith&mdash;or,
      alas! if indeed he yet lives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must look close into this,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;before committing
      ourselves. I have a literary friend at York, with whom I have long
      corresponded on the subject of the Saxon horn that is preserved in the
      Minster there; we interchanged letters for six years, and have only as yet
      been able to settle the first line of the inscription. I will write
      forthwith to this gentleman, Dr. Dryasdust, and be particular in my
      inquiries concerning the character, etc., of your brother&rsquo;s heir, of the
      gentleman employed in his affairs, and what else may be likely to further
      your lordship&rsquo;s inquiries. In the meantime your lordship will collect the
      evidence of the marriage, which I hope can still be recovered?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unquestionably,&rdquo; replied the Earl: &ldquo;the witnesses, who were formerly
      withdrawn from your research, are still living. My tutor, who solemnized
      the marriage, was provided for by a living in France, and has lately
      returned to this country as an emigrant, a victim of his zeal for loyalty,
      legitimacy, and religion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s one lucky consequence of the French, revolution, my lord&mdash;you
      must allow that, at least,&rdquo; said Oldbuck: &ldquo;but no offence; I will act as
      warmly in your affairs as if I were of your own faith in politics and
      religion. And take my advice&mdash;If you want an affair of consequence
      properly managed, put it into the hands of an antiquary; for as they are
      eternally exercising their genius and research upon trifles, it is
      impossible they can be baffled in affairs of importance;&mdash;use makes
      perfect&mdash;and the corps that is most frequently drilled upon the
      parade, will be most prompt in its exercise upon the day of battle. And,
      talking upon that subject, I would willingly read to your lordship, in
      order to pass away the time betwixt and supper&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg I may not interfere with family arrangements,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan,
      &ldquo;but I never taste anything after sunset.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I either, my lord,&rdquo; answered his host, &ldquo;notwithstanding it is said to
      have been the custom of the ancients. But then I dine differently from
      your lordship, and therefore am better enabled to dispense with those
      elaborate entertainments which my womankind (that is, my sister and niece,
      my lord) are apt to place on the table, for the display rather of their
      own house-wifery than the accommodation of our wants. However, a broiled
      bone, or a smoked haddock, or an oyster, or a slice of bacon of our own
      curing, with a toast and a tankard&mdash;or something or other of that
      sort, to close the orifice of the stomach before going to bed, does not
      fall under my restriction, nor, I hope, under your lordship&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My no-supper is literal, Mr. Oldbuck; but I will attend you at your meal
      with pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my lord,&rdquo; replied the Antiquary, &ldquo;I will endeavour to entertain
      your ears at least, since I cannot banquet your palate. What I am about to
      read to your lordship relates to the upland glens.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lord Glenallan, though he would rather have recurred to the subject of his
      own uncertainties, was compelled to make a sign of rueful civility and
      acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary, therefore, took out his portfolio of loose sheets, and
      after premising that the topographical details here laid down were
      designed to illustrate a slight essay upon castrametation, which had been
      read with indulgence at several societies of Antiquaries, he commenced as
      follows: &ldquo;The subject, my lord, is the hill-fort of Quickens-bog, with the
      site of which your lordship is doubtless familiar&mdash;it is upon your
      store-farm of Mantanner, in the barony of Clochnaben.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I have heard the names of these places,&rdquo; said the Earl, in answer
      to the Antiquary&rsquo;s appeal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heard the name? and the farm brings him six hundred a-year&mdash;O Lord!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such was the scarce-subdued ejaculation of the Antiquary. But his
      hospitality got the better of his surprise, and he proceeded to read his
      essay with an audible voice, in great glee at having secured a patient,
      and, as he fondly hoped, an interested hearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quickens-bog may at first seem to derive its name from the plant <i>Quicken,</i>
      by which, <i>Scottice,</i> we understand couch-grass, dog-grass, or the <i>Triticum
      repens</i> of Linnaeus, and the common English monosyllable <i>Bog,</i> by
      which we mean, in popular language, a marsh or morass&mdash;in Latin, <i>Palus.</i>
      But it may confound the rash adopters of the more obvious etymological
      derivations, to learn that the couch-grass or dog-grass, or, to speak
      scientifically, the <i>Triticum repens</i> of Linnaeus, does not grow
      within a quarter of a mile of this castrum or hill-fort, whose ramparts
      are uniformly clothed with short verdant turf; and that we must seek a bog
      or <i>palus</i> at a still greater distance, the nearest being that of
      Gird-the-mear, a full half-mile distant. The last syllable, <i>bog,</i> is
      obviously, therefore, a mere corruption of the Saxon <i>Burgh,</i> which
      we find in the various transmutations of <i>Burgh, Burrow, Brough, Bruff,
      Buff,</i> and <i>Boff,</i> which last approaches very near the sound in
      question&mdash;since, supposing the word to have been originally <i>borgh,</i>
      which is the genuine Saxon spelling, a slight change, such as modern
      organs too often make upon ancient sounds, will produce first <i>Bogh,</i>
      and then, <i>elisa H,</i> or compromising and sinking the guttural,
      agreeable to the common vernacular practice, you have either <i>Boff</i>
      or <i>Bog</i> as it happens. The word <i>Quickens</i> requires in like
      manner to be altered,&mdash;decomposed, as it were,&mdash;and reduced to
      its original and genuine sound, ere we can discern its real meaning. By
      the ordinary exchange of the <i>Qu</i> into <i>Wh,</i> familiar to the
      rudest tyro who has opened a book of old Scottish poetry, we gain either
      Whilkens, or Whichensborgh&mdash;put we may suppose, by way of question,
      as if those who imposed the name, struck with the extreme antiquity of the
      place, had expressed in it an interrogation, To whom did this fortress
      belong?&rsquo;&mdash;Or, it might be <i>Whackens-burgh,</i> from the Saxon <i>Whacken,</i>
      to strike with the hand, as doubtless the skirmishes near a place of such
      apparent consequence must have legitimated such a derivation,&rdquo; etc. etc.
      etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      I will be more merciful to my readers than Oldbuck was to his guest; for,
      considering his opportunities of gaining patient attention from a person
      of such consequence as Lord Glenallan were not many, he used, or rather
      abused, the present to the uttermost.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                         Crabbed age and youth
                         Cannot live together:&mdash;
                         Youth is full of pleasance,
                              Age is full of care;
                         Youth like summer morn,
                         Age like winter weather;
                         Youth like summer brave,
                         Age like winter bare.
                                      Shakspeare.
</pre>
    <p>
      In the morning of the following day, the Antiquary, who was something of a
      sluggard, was summoned from his bed a full hour earlier than his custom by
      Caxon. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter now?&rdquo; he exclaimed, yawning and stretching forth
      his hand to the huge gold repeater, which, bedded upon his India silk
      handkerchief, was laid safe by his pillow&mdash;&ldquo;what&rsquo;s the matter now,
      Caxon?&mdash;it can&rsquo;t be eight o&rsquo;clock yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, sir,&mdash;but my lord&rsquo;s man sought me out, for he fancies me your
      honour&rsquo;s valley-de-sham,&mdash;and sae I am, there&rsquo;s nae doubt o&rsquo;t, baith
      your honour&rsquo;s and the minister&rsquo;s&mdash;at least ye hae nae other that I
      ken o&rsquo;&mdash;and I gie a help to Sir Arthur too, but that&rsquo;s mair in the
      way o&rsquo; my profession.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well&mdash;never mind that,&rdquo; said the Antiquary&mdash;&ldquo;happy is he
      that is his own valley-de-sham, as you call it&mdash;But why disturb my
      morning&rsquo;s rest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, sir, the great man&rsquo;s been up since peep o&rsquo; day, and he&rsquo;s steered the
      town to get awa an express to fetch his carriage, and it will be here
      briefly, and he wad like to see your honour afore he gaes awa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gadso!&rdquo; ejaculated Oldbuck, &ldquo;these great men use one&rsquo;s house and time as
      if they were their own property. Well, it&rsquo;s once and away. Has Jenny come
      to her senses yet, Caxon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, sir, but just middling,&rdquo; replied the barber; &ldquo;she&rsquo;s been in a
      swither about the jocolate this morning, and was like to hae toomed it a&rsquo; 
      out into the slap-bason, and drank it hersell in her ecstacies&mdash;but
      she&rsquo;s won ower wi&rsquo;t, wi&rsquo; the help o&rsquo; Miss M&rsquo;Intyre.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then all my womankind are on foot and scrambling, and I must enjoy my
      quiet bed no longer, if I would have a well-regulated house&mdash;Lend me
      my gown. And what are the news at Fairport?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ou, sir, what can they be about but this grand news o&rsquo; my lord,&rdquo; answered
      the old man, &ldquo;that hasna been ower the door-stane, they threep to me, for
      this twenty years&mdash;this grand news of his coming to visit your
      honour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; said Monkbarns; &ldquo;and what do they say of that, Caxon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Deed, sir, they hae various opinions. Thae fallows, that are the
      democraws, as they ca&rsquo; them, that are again&rsquo; the king and the law, and
      hairpowder and dressing o&rsquo; gentlemen&rsquo;s wigs&mdash;a wheen blackguards&mdash;they
      say he&rsquo;s come doun to speak wi&rsquo; your honour about bringing doun his hill
      lads and Highland tenantry to break up the meetings of the Friends o&rsquo; the
      People;&mdash;and when I said your honour never meddled wi&rsquo; the like o&rsquo; 
      sic things where there was like to be straiks and bloodshed, they said, if
      ye didna, your nevoy did, and that he was weel ken&rsquo;d to be a kingsman that
      wad fight knee-deep, and that ye were the head and he was the hand, and
      that the Yerl was to bring out the men and the siller.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, laughing&mdash;&ldquo;I am glad the war is to cost
      me nothing but counsel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na,&rdquo; said Caxon&mdash;&ldquo;naebody thinks your honour wad either fight
      yoursell, or gie ony feck o&rsquo; siller to ony side o&rsquo; the question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Umph! well, that&rsquo;s the opinion of the democraws, as you call them&mdash;What
      say the rest o&rsquo; Fairport?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In troth,&rdquo; said the candid reporter, &ldquo;I canna say it&rsquo;s muckle better.
      Captain Coquet, of the volunteers&mdash;that&rsquo;s him that&rsquo;s to be the new
      collector,&mdash;and some of the other gentlemen of the Blue and a&rsquo; Blue
      Club, are just saying it&rsquo;s no right to let popists, that hae sae mony
      French friends as the Yerl of Glenallan, gang through the country, and&mdash;but
      your honour will maybe be angry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I, Caxon,&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;fire away as if you were Captain Coquet&rsquo;s
      whole platoon&mdash;I can stand it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel then, they say, sir, that as ye didna encourage the petition about
      the peace, and wadna petition in favour of the new tax, and as you were
      again&rsquo; bringing in the yeomanry at the meal mob, but just for settling the
      folk wi&rsquo; the constables&mdash;they say ye&rsquo;re no a gude friend to
      government; and that thae sort o&rsquo; meetings between sic a powerfu&rsquo; man as
      the Yerl, and sic a wise man as you,&mdash;Od they think they suld be
      lookit after; and some say ye should baith be shankit aff till Edinburgh
      Castle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On my word,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;I am infinitely obliged to my
      neighbours for their good opinion of me! And so I, that have never
      interfered with their bickerings, but to recommend quiet and moderate
      measures, am given up on both sides as a man very likely to commit high
      treason, either against King or People?&mdash;Give me my coat, Caxon&mdash;give
      me my coat;&mdash;it&rsquo;s lucky I live not in their report. Have you heard
      anything of Taffril and his vessel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Caxon&rsquo;s countenance fell.&mdash;&ldquo;Na, sir, and the winds hae been high, and
      this is a fearfu&rsquo; coast to cruise on in thae eastern gales,&mdash;the
      headlands rin sae far out, that a veshel&rsquo;s embayed afore I could sharp a
      razor; and then there&rsquo;s nae harbour or city of refuge on our coast&mdash;a&rsquo; 
      craigs and breakers;&mdash;a veshel that rins ashore wi&rsquo; us flees asunder
      like the powther when I shake the pluff&mdash;and it&rsquo;s as ill to gather
      ony o&rsquo;t again. I aye tell my daughter thae things when she grows wearied
      for a letter frae Lieutenant Taffril&mdash;It&rsquo;s aye an apology for him. Ye
      sudna blame him, says I, hinny, for ye little ken what may hae happened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, Caxon, thou art as good a comforter as a valet-de-chambre.&mdash;Give
      me a white stock, man,&mdash;dye think I can go down with a handkerchief
      about my neck when I have company?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear sir, the Captain says a three-nookit hankercher is the maist
      fashionable overlay, and that stocks belang to your honour and me that are
      auld warld folk. I beg pardon for mentioning us twa thegither, but it was
      what he said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Captain&rsquo;s a puppy, and you are a goose, Caxon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s very like it may be sae,&rdquo; replied the acquiescent barber: &ldquo;I am sure
      your honour kens best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before breakfast, Lord Glenallan, who appeared in better spirits than he
      had evinced in the former evening, went particularly through the various
      circumstances of evidence which the exertions of Oldbuck had formerly
      collected; and pointing out the means which he possessed of completing the
      proof of his marriage, expressed his resolution instantly to go through
      the painful task of collecting and restoring the evidence concerning the
      birth of Eveline Neville, which Elspeth had stated to be in his mother&rsquo;s
      possession.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I feel like a man who receives important
      tidings ere he is yet fully awake, and doubt whether they refer to actual
      life, or are not rather a continuation of his dream. This woman&mdash;this
      Elspeth,&mdash;she is in the extremity of age, and approaching in many
      respects to dotage. Have I not&mdash;it is a hideous question&mdash;have I
      not been hasty in the admission of her present evidence, against that
      which she formerly gave me to a very&mdash;very different purpose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Oldbuck paused a moment, and then answered with firmness&mdash;&ldquo;No, my
      lord; I cannot think you have any reason to suspect the truth of what she
      has told you last, from no apparent impulse but the urgency of conscience.
      Her confession was voluntary, disinterested, distinct, consistent with
      itself, and with all the other known circumstances of the case. I would
      lose no time, however, in examining and arranging the other documents to
      which she has referred; and I also think her own statement should be taken
      down, if possible in a formal manner. We thought of setting about this
      together. But it will be a relief to your lordship, and moreover have a
      more impartial appearance, were I to attempt the investigation alone in
      the capacity of a magistrate. I will do this&mdash;at least I will attempt
      it, so soon as I shall see her in a favourable state of mind to undergo an
      examination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lord Glenallan wrung the Antiquary&rsquo;s hand in token of grateful
      acquiescence. &ldquo;I cannot express to you,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Mr. Oldbuck, how much
      your countenance and cooperation in this dark and most melancholy business
      gives me relief and confidence. I cannot enough applaud myself for
      yielding to the sudden impulse which impelled me, as it were, to drag you
      into my confidence, and which arose from the experience I had formerly of
      your firmness in discharge of your duty as a magistrate, and as a friend
      to the memory of the unfortunate. Whatever the issue of these matters may
      prove,&mdash;and I would fain hope there is a dawn breaking on the
      fortunes of my house, though I shall not live to enjoy its light,&mdash;but
      whatsoever be the issue, you have laid my family and me under the most
      lasting obligation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; answered the Antiquary, &ldquo;I must necessarily have the greatest
      respect for your lordship&rsquo;s family, which I am well aware is one of the
      most ancient in Scotland, being certainly derived from Aymer de Geraldin,
      who sat in parliament at Perth, in the reign of Alexander II., and who by
      the less vouched, yet plausible tradition of the country, is said to have
      been descended from the Marmor of Clochnaben. Yet, with all my veneration
      for your ancient descent, I must acknowledge that I find myself still more
      bound to give your lordship what assistance is in my limited power, from
      sincere sympathy with your sorrows, and detestation at the frauds which
      have so long been practised upon you.&mdash;But, my lord, the matin meal
      is, I see, now prepared&mdash;Permit me to show your lordship the way
      through the intricacies of my <i>cenobitium,</i> which is rather a
      combination of cells, jostled oddly together, and piled one upon the top
      of the other, than a regular house. I trust you will make yourself some
      amends for the spare diet of yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But this was no part of Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s system. Having saluted the
      company with the grave and melancholy politeness which distinguished his
      manners, his servant placed before him a slice of toasted bread, with a
      glass of fair water, being the fare on which he usually broke his fast.
      While the morning&rsquo;s meal of the young soldier and the old Antiquary was
      despatched in much more substantial manner, the noise of wheels was heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your lordship&rsquo;s carriage, I believe,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, stepping to the
      window. &ldquo;On my word, a handsome <i>quadriga,</i>&mdash;for such, according
      to the best <i>scholium,</i> was the <i>vox signata</i> of the Romans for
      a chariot which, like that of your lordship, was drawn by four horses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I will venture to say,&rdquo; cried Hector, eagerly gazing from the window,
      &ldquo;that four handsomer or better-matched bays never were put in harness&mdash;What
      fine forehands!&mdash;what capital chargers they would make!&mdash; Might
      I ask if they are of your lordship&rsquo;s own breeding?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I&mdash;rather believe so,&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan; &ldquo;but I have been
      so negligent of my domestic matters, that I am ashamed to say I must apply
      to Calvert&rdquo; (looking at the domestic).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are of your lordship&rsquo;s own breeding,&rdquo; said Calvert, &ldquo;got by Mad Tom
      out of Jemina and Yarico, your lordship&rsquo;s brood mares.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are there more of the set?&rdquo; said Lord Glenallan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two, my lord,&mdash;one rising four, the other five off this grass, both
      very handsome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then let Dawkins bring them down to Monkbarns to-morrow,&rdquo; said the Earl&mdash;&ldquo;I
      hope Captain M&rsquo;Intyre will accept them, if they are at all fit for
      service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s eyes sparkled, and he was profuse in grateful
      acknowledgments; while Oldbuck, on the other hand, seizing the Earl&rsquo;s
      sleeve, endeavoured to intercept a present which boded no good to his
      corn-chest and hay-loft.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord&mdash;my lord&mdash;much obliged&mdash;much obliged&mdash;But
      Hector is a pedestrian, and never mounts on horseback in battle&mdash;he
      is a Highland soldier, moreover, and his dress ill adapted for cavalry
      service. Even Macpherson never mounted his ancestors on horseback, though
      he has the impudence to talk of their being car-borne&mdash;and that, my
      lord, is what is running in Hector&rsquo;s head&mdash;it is the vehicular, not
      the equestrian exercise, which he envies&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                Sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum
                           Collegisse juvat.
</pre>
    <p>
      His noddle is running on a curricle, which he has neither money to buy,
      nor skill to drive if he had it; and I assure your lordship, that the
      possession of two such quadrupeds would prove a greater scrape than any of
      his duels, whether with human foe or with my friend the <i>phoca.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must command us all at present, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said the Earl politely;
      &ldquo;but I trust you will not ultimately prevent my gratifying my young friend
      in some way that may afford him pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything useful, my lord,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;but no <i>curriculum</i>&mdash;I
      protest he might as rationally propose to keep a <i>quadriga</i> at once&mdash;And
      now I think of it, what is that old post-chaise from Fairport come
      jingling here for?&mdash;I did not send for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> did, sir,&rdquo; said Hector, rather sulkily, for he was not much
      gratified by his uncle&rsquo;s interference to prevent the Earl&rsquo;s intended
      generosity, nor particularly inclined to relish either the disparagement
      which he cast upon his skill as a charioteer, or the mortifying allusion
      to his bad success in the adventures of the duel and the seal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did, sir?&rdquo; echoed the Antiquary, in answer to his concise
      information. &ldquo;And pray, what may be your business with a post-chaise? Is
      this splendid equipage&mdash;this <i>biga,</i> as I may call it&mdash;to
      serve for an introduction to a <i>quadriga</i> or a <i>curriculum</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, sir,&rdquo; replied the young soldier, &ldquo;if it be necessary to give you
      such a specific explanation, I am going to Fairport on a little business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you permit me to inquire into the nature of that business, Hector?&rdquo;
       answered his uncle, who loved the exercise of a little brief authority
      over his relative. &ldquo;I should suppose any regimental affairs might be
      transacted by your worthy deputy the sergeant&mdash;an honest gentleman,
      who is so good as to make Monkbarns his home since his arrival among us&mdash;I
      should, I say, suppose that he may transact any business of yours, without
      your spending a day&rsquo;s pay on two dog-horses, and such a combination of
      rotten wood, cracked glass, and leather&mdash;such a skeleton of a
      post-chaise, as that before the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not regimental business, sir, that calls me; and, since you insist
      upon knowing, I must inform you Caxon has brought word this morning that
      old Ochiltree, the beggar, is to be brought up for examination to-day,
      previous to his being committed for trial; and I&rsquo;m going to see that the
      poor old fellow gets fair play&mdash;that&rsquo;s all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay?&mdash;I heard something of this, but could not think it serious. And
      pray, Captain Hector, who are so ready to be every man&rsquo;s second on all
      occasions of strife, civil or military, by land, by water, or on the
      sea-beach, what is your especial concern with old Edie Ochiltree?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was a soldier in my father&rsquo;s company, sir,&rdquo; replied Hector; &ldquo;and
      besides, when I was about to do a very foolish thing one day, he
      interfered to prevent me, and gave me almost as much good advice, sir, as
      you could have done yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And with the same good effect, I dare be sworn for it&mdash;eh, Hector?&mdash;
      Come, confess it was thrown away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed it was, sir; but I see no reason that my folly should make me less
      grateful for his intended kindness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo, Hector! that&rsquo;s the most sensible thing I ever heard you say. But
      always tell me your plans without reserve,&mdash;why, I will go with you
      myself, man. I am sure the old fellow is not guilty, and I will assist him
      in such a scrape much more effectually than you can do. Besides, it will
      save thee half-a-guinea, my lad&mdash;a consideration which I heartily
      pray you to have more frequently before your eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s politeness had induced him to turn away and talk with the
      ladies, when the dispute between the uncle and nephew appeared to grow
      rather too animated to be fit for the ear of a stranger, but the Earl
      mingled again in the conversation when the placable tone of the Antiquary
      expressed amity. Having received a brief account of the mendicant, and of
      the accusation brought against him, which Oldbuck did not hesitate to
      ascribe to the malice of Dousterswivel, Lord Glenallan asked, whether the
      individual in question had not been a soldier formerly?&mdash;He was
      answered in the affirmative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had he not,&rdquo; continued his Lordship, &ldquo;a coarse blue coat, or gown, with a
      badge?&mdash;was he not a tall, striking-looking old man, with grey beard
      and hair, who kept his body remarkably erect, and talked with an air of
      ease and independence, which formed a strong contrast to his profession?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All this is an exact picture of the man,&rdquo; refumed Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, then,&rdquo; continued Lord Glenallan, &ldquo;although I fear I can be of no use
      to him in his present condition, yet I owe him a debt of gratitude for
      being the first person who brought me some tidings of the utmost
      importance. I would willingly offer him a place of comfortable retirement,
      when he is extricated from his present situation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear, my lord,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;he would have difficulty in reconciling
      his vagrant habits to the acceptance of your bounty, at least I know the
      experiment has been tried without effect. To beg from the public at large
      he considers as independence, in comparison to drawing his whole support
      from the bounty of an individual. He is so far a true philosopher, as to
      be a contemner of all ordinary rules of hours and times. When he is hungry
      he eats; when thirsty he drinks; when weary he sleeps; and with such
      indifference with respect to the means and appliances about which we make
      a fuss, that I suppose he was never ill dined or ill lodged in his life.
      Then he is, to a certain extent, the oracle of the district through which
      he travels&mdash;their genealogist, their newsman, their master of the
      revels, their doctor at a pinch, or their divine;&mdash;I promise you he
      has too many duties, and is too zealous in performing them, to be easily
      bribed to abandon his calling. But I should be truly sorry if they sent
      the poor light-hearted old man to lie for weeks in a jail. I am convinced
      the confinement would break his heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus finished the conference. Lord Glenallan, having taken leave of the
      ladies, renewed his offer to Captain M&rsquo;Intyre of the freedom of his manors
      for sporting, which was joyously accepted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can only add,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that if your spirits are not liable to be
      damped by dull company, Glenallan House is at all times open to you. On
      two days of the week, Friday and Saturday, I keep my apartment, which will
      be rather a relief to you, as you will be left to enjoy the society of my
      almoner, Mr. Gladsmoor, who is a scholar and a man of the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hector, his heart exulting at the thoughts of ranging through the
      preserves of Glenallan House, and over the well-protected moors of
      Clochnaben&mdash;nay, joy of joys! the deer-forest of Strath-Bonnel&mdash;made
      many acknowledgements of the honour and gratitude he felt. Mr. Oldbuck was
      sensible of the Earl&rsquo;s attention to his nephew; Miss M&rsquo;Intyre was pleased
      because her brother was gratified; and Miss Griselda Oldbuck looked
      forward with glee to the potting of whole bags of moorfowl and black-game,
      of which Mr. Blattergowl was a professed admirer. Thus,&mdash; which is
      always the case when a man of rank leaves a private family where he has
      studied to appear obliging,&mdash;all were ready to open in praise of the
      Earl as soon as he had taken his leave, and was wheeled off in his chariot
      by the four admired bays. But the panegyric was cut short, for Oldbuck and
      his nephew deposited themselves in the Fairport hack, which, with one
      horse trotting, and the other urged to a canter, creaked, jingled, and
      hobbled towards that celebrated seaport, in a manner that formed a strong
      contrast to the rapidity and smoothness with which Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s
      equipage had seemed to vanish from their eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
              Yes! I love justice well&mdash;as well as you do&mdash;
             But since the good dame&rsquo;s blind, she shall excuse me
              If, time and reason fitting, I prove dumb;&mdash;
                  The breath I utter now shall be no means
                  To take away from me my breath in future.
                                          Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      By dint of charity from the town&rsquo;s-people in aid of the load of provisions
      he had brought with him into durance, Edie Ochiltree had passed a day or
      two&rsquo;s confinement without much impatience, regretting his want of freedom
      the less, as the weather proved broken and rainy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The prison,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;wasna sae dooms bad a place as it was ca&rsquo;d. Ye had
      aye a good roof ower your head to fend aff the weather, and, if the
      windows werena glazed, it was the mair airy and pleasant for the summer
      season. And there were folk enow to crack wi&rsquo;, and he had bread eneugh to
      eat, and what need he fash himsell about the rest o&rsquo;t?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The courage of our philosophical mendicant began, however, to abate, when
      the sunbeams shone fair on the rusty bars of his grated dungeon, and a
      miserable linnet, whose cage some poor debtor had obtained permission to
      attach to the window, began to greet them with his whistle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye&rsquo;re in better spirits than I am,&rdquo; said Edie, addressing the bird, &ldquo;for
      I can neither whistle nor sing for thinking o&rsquo; the bonny burnsides and
      green shaws that I should hae been dandering beside in weather like this.
      But hae&mdash;there&rsquo;s some crumbs t&rsquo;ye, an ye are sae merry; and troth ye
      hae some reason to sing an ye kent it, for your cage comes by nae faut o&rsquo; 
      your ain, and I may thank mysell that I am closed up in this weary place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ochiltree&rsquo;s soliloquy was disturbed by a peace-officer, who came to summon
      him to attend the magistrate. So he set forth in awful procession between
      two poor creatures, neither of them so stout as he was himself, to be
      conducted into the presence of inquisitorial justice. The people, as the
      aged prisoner was led along by his decrepit guards, exclaimed to each
      other, &ldquo;Eh! see sic a grey-haired man as that is, to have committed a
      highway robbery, wi&rsquo; ae fit in the grave!&rdquo;&mdash;And the children
      congratulated the officers, objects of their alternate dread and sport,
      Puggie Orrock and Jock Ormston, on having a prisoner as old as themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus marshalled forward, Edie was presented (by no means for the first
      time) before the worshipful Bailie Littlejohn, who, contrary to what his
      name expressed, was a tall portly magistrate, on whom corporation crusts
      had not been conferred in vain. He was a zealous loyalist of that zealous
      time, somewhat rigorous and peremptory in the execution of his duty, and a
      good deal inflated with the sense of his own power and importance;&mdash;otherwise
      an honest, well-meaning, and useful citizen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring him in! bring him in!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Upon my word these are awful
      and unnatural times! the very bedesmen and retainers of his Majesty are
      the first to break his laws. Here has been an old Blue-Gown committing
      robbery&mdash;I suppose the next will reward the royal charity which
      supplies him with his garb, pension, and begging license, by engaging in
      high-treason, or sedition at least&mdash;But bring him in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edie made his obeisance, and then stood, as usual, firm and erect, with
      the side of his face turned a little upward, as if to catch every word
      which the magistrate might address to him. To the first general questions,
      which respected only his name and calling, the mendicant answered with
      readiness and accuracy; but when the magistrate, having caused his clerk
      to take down these particulars, began to inquire whereabout the mendicant
      was on the night when Dousterswivel met with his misfortune, Edie demurred
      to the motion. &ldquo;Can ye tell me now, Bailie, you that understands the law,
      what gude will it do me to answer ony o&rsquo; your questions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good?&mdash;no good certainly, my friend, except that giving a true
      account of yourself, if you are innocent, may entitle me to set you at
      liberty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it seems mair reasonable to me now, that you, Bailie, or anybody that
      has anything to say against me, should prove my guilt, and no to be
      bidding me prove my innocence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t sit here,&rdquo; answered the magistrate, &ldquo;to dispute points of law
      with you. I ask you, if you choose to answer my question, whether you were
      at Ringan Aikwood, the forester&rsquo;s, upon the day I have specified?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, sir, I dinna feel myself called on to remember,&rdquo; replied the
      cautious bedesman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or whether, in the course of that day or night,&rdquo; continued the
      magistrate, &ldquo;you saw Steven, or Steenie, Mucklebackit?&mdash;you knew him,
      I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, brawlie did I ken Steenie, puir fallow,&rdquo; replied the prisoner;&mdash;&ldquo;but
      I canna condeshend on ony particular time I have seen him lately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you at the ruins of St. Ruth any time in the course of that
      evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bailie Littlejohn,&rdquo; said the mendicant, &ldquo;if it be your honour&rsquo;s pleasure,
      we&rsquo;ll cut a lang tale short, and I&rsquo;ll just tell ye, I am no minded to
      answer ony o&rsquo; thae questions&mdash;I&rsquo;m ower auld a traveller to let my
      tongue bring me into trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Write down,&rdquo; said the magistrate, &ldquo;that he declines to answer all
      interrogatories, in respect that by telling the truth he might be brought
      to trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll no hae that set down as ony part o&rsquo; my
      answer&mdash;but I just meant to say, that in a&rsquo; my memory and practice, I
      never saw ony gude come o&rsquo; answering idle questions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Write down,&rdquo; said the Bailie, &ldquo;that, being acquainted with judicial
      interrogatories by long practice, and having sustained injury by answering
      questions put to him on such occasions, the declarant refuses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Na, na, Bailie,&rdquo; reiterated Edie, &ldquo;ye are no to come in on me that gait
      neither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dictate the answer yourself then, friend,&rdquo; said the magistrate, &ldquo;and the
      clerk will take it down from your own mouth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; said Edie&mdash;&ldquo;that&rsquo;s what I ca&rsquo; fair play; I&rsquo;se do that
      without loss o&rsquo; time. Sae, neighbour, ye may just write down, that Edie
      Ochiltree, the declarant, stands up for the liberty&mdash;na, I maunna say
      that neither&mdash;I am nae liberty-boy&mdash;I hae fought again&rsquo; them in
      the riots in Dublin&mdash;besides, I have ate the King&rsquo;s bread mony a day.
      Stay, let me see. Ay&mdash;write that Edie Ochiltree, the Blue-Gown,
      stands up for the prerogative&mdash;(see that ye spell that word right&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      a lang ane)&mdash;for the prerogative of the subjects of the land, and
      winna answer a single word that sall be asked at him this day, unless he
      sees a reason fort. Put down that, young man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, Edie,&rdquo; said the magistrate, &ldquo;since you will give no information on
      the subject, I must send you back to prison till you shall be delivered in
      due course of law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, sir, if it&rsquo;s Heaven&rsquo;s will and man&rsquo;s will, nae doubt I maun
      submit,&rdquo; replied the mendicant. &ldquo;I hae nae great objection to the prison,
      only that a body canna win out o&rsquo;t; and if it wad please you as weel,
      Bailie, I wad gie you my word to appear afore the Lords at the Circuit, or
      in ony other coart ye like, on ony day ye are pleased to appoint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I rather think, my good friend,&rdquo; answered Bailie Littlejohn, &ldquo;your word
      might be a slender security where your neck may be in some danger. I am
      apt to think you would suffer the pledge to be forfeited. If you could
      give me sufficient security, indeed&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the Antiquary and Captain M&rsquo;Intyre entered the apartment.&mdash;&ldquo;Good
      morning to you, gentlemen,&rdquo; said the magistrate; &ldquo;you find me toiling in
      my usual vocation&mdash;looking after the iniquities of the people&mdash;labouring
      for the <i>respublica,</i> Mr. Oldbuck&mdash;serving the King our master,
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre,&mdash;for I suppose you know I have taken up the sword?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is one of the emblems of justice, doubtless,&rdquo; answered the Antiquary;&mdash;&ldquo;but
      I should have thought the scales would have suited you better, Bailie,
      especially as you have them ready in the warehouse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, Monkbarns&mdash;excellent! But I do not take the sword up as
      justice, but as a soldier&mdash;indeed I should rather say the musket and
      bayonet&mdash;there they stand at the elbow of my gouty chair, for I am
      scarce fit for drill yet&mdash;a slight touch of our old acquaintance <i>podagra;</i>
      I can keep my feet, however, while our sergeant puts me through the
      manual. I should like to know, Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, if he follows the
      regulations correctly&mdash;he brings us but awkwardly to the <i>present.</i>&rdquo;
       And he hobbled towards his weapon to illustrate his doubts and display his
      proficiency.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I rejoice we have such zealous defenders, Bailie,&rdquo; replied Mr. Oldbuck;
      &ldquo;and I dare say Hector will gratify you by communicating his opinion on
      your progress in this new calling. Why, you rival the Hecate&rsquo; of the
      ancients, my good sir&mdash;a merchant on the Mart, a magistrate in the
      Townhouse, a soldier on the Links&mdash;<i>quid non pro patria?</i> But my
      business is with the justice; so let commerce and war go slumber.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my good sir,&rdquo; said the Bailie, &ldquo;and what commands have you for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, here&rsquo;s an old acquaintance of mine, called Edie Ochiltree, whom some
      of your myrmidons have mewed up in jail on account of an alleged assault
      on that fellow Dousterswivel, of whose accusation I do not believe one
      word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The magistrate here assumed a very grave countenance. &ldquo;You ought to have
      been informed that he is accused of robbery, as well as assault&mdash;a
      very serious matter indeed; it is not often such criminals come under my
      cognizance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And,&rdquo; replied Oldbuck, &ldquo;you are tenacious of the opportunity of making
      the very most of such as occur. But is this poor old man&rsquo;s case really so
      very bad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is rather out of rule,&rdquo; said the Bailie&mdash;&ldquo;but as you are in the
      commission, Monkbarns, I have no hesitation to show you Dousterswivel&rsquo;s
      declaration, and the rest of the precognition.&rdquo; And he put the papers into
      the Antiquary&rsquo;s hands, who assumed his spectacles, and sat down in a
      corner to peruse them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The officers, in the meantime, had directions to remove their prisoner
      into another apartment; but before they could do so, M&rsquo;Intyre took an
      opportunity to greet old Edie, and to slip a guinea into his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord bless your honour!&rdquo; said the old man; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a young soldier&rsquo;s gift,
      and it should surely thrive wi&rsquo; an auld ane. I&rsquo;se no refuse it, though
      it&rsquo;s beyond my rules; for if they steek me up here, my friends are like
      eneugh to forget me&mdash;out o&rsquo;sight out o&rsquo;mind, is a true proverb; and
      it wadna be creditable for me, that am the king&rsquo;s bedesman, and entitled
      to beg by word of mouth, to be fishing for bawbees out at the jail window
      wi&rsquo; the fit o&rsquo; a stocking, and a string.&rdquo; As he made this observation he
      was conducted out of the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Dousterswivel&rsquo;s declaration contained an exaggerated account of the
      violence he had sustained, and also of his loss.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what I should have liked to have asked him,&rdquo; said Monkbarns, &ldquo;would
      have been his purpose in frequenting the ruins of St. Ruth, so lonely a
      place, at such an hour, and with such a companion as Edie Ochiltree. There
      is no road lies that way, and I do not conceive a mere passion for the
      picturesque would carry the German thither in such a night of storm and
      wind. Depend upon it, he has been about some roguery, and in all
      probability hath been caught in a trap of his own setting&mdash;<i>Nec lex
      justitior ulla.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The magistrate allowed there was something mysterious in that
      circumstance, and apologized for not pressing Dousterswivel, as his
      declaration was voluntarily emitted. But for the support of the main
      charge, he showed the declaration of the Aikwoods concerning the state in
      which Dousterswivel was found, and establishing the important fact that
      the mendicant had left the barn in which he was quartered, and did not
      return to it again. Two people belonging to the Fairport undertaker, who
      had that night been employed in attending the funeral of Lady Glenallan,
      had also given declarations, that, being sent to pursue two suspicious
      persons who left the ruins of St. Ruth as the funeral approached, and who,
      it was supposed, might have been pillaging some of the ornaments prepared
      for the ceremony, they had lost and regained sight of them more than once,
      owing to the nature of the ground, which was unfavourable for riding, but
      had at length fairly lodged them both in Mucklebackit&rsquo;s cottage. And one
      of the men added, that &ldquo;he, the declarant, having dismounted from his
      horse, and gone close up to the window of the hut, he saw the old
      Blue-Gown and young Steenie Mucklebackit, with others, eating and drinking
      in the inside, and also observed the said Steenie Mucklebackit show a
      pocket-book to the others;&mdash;and declarant has no doubt that Ochiltree
      and Steenie Mucklebackit were the persons whom he and his comrade had
      pursued, as above mentioned.&rdquo; And being interrogated why he did not enter
      the said cottage, declares, &ldquo;he had no warrant so to do; and that as
      Mucklebackit and his family were understood to be rough-handed folk, he,
      the declarant, had no desire to meddle or make with their affairs, <i>Causa
      scientiae patet.</i> All which he declares to be truth,&rdquo; etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you say to that body of evidence against your friend?&rdquo; said the
      magistrate, when he had observed the Antiquary had turned the last leaf.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, were it in the case of any other person, I own I should say it
      looked, <i>prima facie,</i> a little ugly; but I cannot allow anybody to
      be in the wrong for beating Dousterswivel&mdash;Had I been an hour
      younger, or had but one single flash of your warlike genius, Bailie, I
      should have done it myself long ago. He is <i>nebulo nebulonum,</i> an
      impudent, fraudulent, mendacious quack, that has cost me a hundred pounds
      by his roguery, and my neighbour Sir Arthur, God knows how much. And
      besides, Bailie, I do not hold him to be a sound friend to Government.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed?&rdquo; said Bailie Littlejohn; &ldquo;if I thought that, it would alter the
      question considerably.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right&mdash;for, in beating him,&rdquo; observed Oldbuck, &ldquo;the bedesman must
      have shown his gratitude to the king by thumping his enemy; and in robbing
      him, he would only have plundered an Egyptian, whose wealth it is lawful
      to spoil. Now, suppose this interview in the ruins of St. Ruth had
      relation to politics,&mdash;and this story of hidden treasure, and so
      forth, was a bribe from the other side of the water for some great man, or
      the funds destined to maintain a seditious club?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear sir,&rdquo; said the magistrate, catching at the idea, &ldquo;you hit my very
      thoughts! How fortunate should I be if I could become the humble means of
      sifting such a matter to the bottom!&mdash;Don&rsquo;t you think we had better
      call out the volunteers, and put them on duty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not just yet, while <i>podagra</i> deprives them of an essential member
      of their body. But will you let me examine Ochiltree?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly; but you&rsquo;ll make nothing of him. He gave me distinctly to
      understand he knew the danger of a judicial declaration on the part of an
      accused person, which, to say the truth, has hanged many an honester man
      than he is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but, Bailie,&rdquo; continued Oldbuck, &ldquo;you have no objection to let me
      try him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None in the world, Monkbarns. I hear the sergeant below&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
      rehearse the manual in the meanwhile. Baby, carry my gun and bayonet down
      to the room below&mdash;it makes less noise there when we ground arms.&rdquo;
       And so exit the martial magistrate, with his maid behind him bearing his
      weapons.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good squire that wench for a gouty champion,&rdquo; observed Oldbuck.&mdash;
      &ldquo;Hector, my lad, hook on, hook on&mdash;Go with him, boy&mdash;keep him
      employed, man, for half-an-hour or so&mdash;butter him with some warlike
      terms&mdash;praise his dress and address.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, who, like many of his profession, looked down with
      infinite scorn on those citizen soldiers who had assumed arms without any
      professional title to bear them, rose with great reluctance, observing
      that he should not know what to say to Mr. Littlejohn; and that to see an
      old gouty shop-keeper attempting the exercise and duties of a private
      soldier, was really too ridiculous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be so, Hector,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, who seldom agreed with any
      person in the immediate proposition which was laid down&mdash;&ldquo;it may
      possibly be so in this and some other instances; but at present the
      country resembles the suitors in a small-debt court, where parties plead
      in person, for lack of cash to retain the professed heroes of the bar. I
      am sure in the one case we never regret the want of the acuteness and
      eloquence of the lawyers; and so, I hope, in the other, we may manage to
      make shift with our hearts and muskets, though we shall lack some of the
      discipline of you martinets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no objection, I am sure, sir, that the whole world should fight if
      they please, if they will but allow me to be quiet,&rdquo; said Hector, rising
      with dogged reluctance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you are a very quiet personage indeed,&rdquo; said his uncle, &ldquo;whose
      ardour for quarrelling cannot pass so much as a poor <i>phoca</i> sleeping
      upon the beach!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Hector, who saw which way the conversation was tending, and hated all
      allusions to the foil he had sustained from the fish, made his escape
      before the Antiquary concluded the sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
            Well, well, at worst, &lsquo;tis neither theft nor coinage,
             Granting I knew all that you charge me with.
            What though the tomb hath borne a second birth,
             And given the wealth to one that knew not on&rsquo;t,
                     Yet fair exchange was never robbery,
                         Far less pure bounty&mdash;
                                          Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Antiquary, in order to avail himself of the permission given him to
      question the accused party, chose rather to go to the apartment in which
      Ochiltree was detained, than to make the examination appear formal by
      bringing him again into the magistrate&rsquo;s office. He found the old man
      seated by a window which looked out on the sea; and as he gazed on that
      prospect, large tears found their way, as if unconsciously, to his eye,
      and from thence trickled down his cheeks and white beard. His features
      were, nevertheless, calm and composed, and his whole posture and mien
      indicated patience and resignation. Oldbuck had approached him without
      being observed, and roused him out of his musing by saying kindly, &ldquo;I am
      sorry, Edie, to see you so much cast down about this matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Aimage-0007">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pb206.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="The Antiquary Visits Edie in Prison  "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      The mendicant started, dried his eyes very hastily with the sleeve of his
      gown, and endeavouring to recover his usual tone of indifference and
      jocularity, answered, but with a voice more tremulous than usual, &ldquo;I might
      weel hae judged, Monkbarns, it was you, or the like o&rsquo; you, was coming in
      to disturb me&mdash;for it&rsquo;s ae great advantage o&rsquo; prisons and courts o&rsquo; 
      justice, that ye may greet your een out an ye like, and nane o&rsquo; the folk
      that&rsquo;s concerned about them will ever ask you what it&rsquo;s for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Edie,&rdquo; replied Oldbuck, &ldquo;I hope your present cause of distress is
      not so bad but it may be removed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I had hoped, Monkbarns,&rdquo; answered the mendicant, in a tone of
      reproach, &ldquo;that ye had ken&rsquo;d me better than to think that this bit
      trifling trouble o&rsquo; my ain wad bring tears into my auld een, that hae seen
      far different kind o&rsquo; distress.&mdash;Na, na!&mdash;But here&rsquo;s been the
      puir lass, Caxon&rsquo;s daughter, seeking comfort, and has gotten unco little&mdash;
      there&rsquo;s been nae speerings o&rsquo; Taffril&rsquo;s gunbrig since the last gale; and
      folk report on the key that a king&rsquo;s ship had struck on the Reef of
      Rattray, and a&rsquo; hands lost&mdash;God forbid! for as sure as you live,
      Monkbarns, the puir lad Lovel, that ye liked sae weel, must have
      perished.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid indeed!&rdquo; echoed the Antiquary, turning pale&mdash;&ldquo;I would
      rather Monkbarns House were on fire. My poor dear friend and coadjutor! I
      will down to the quay instantly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure yell learn naething mair than I hae tauld ye, sir,&rdquo; said
      Ochiltree, &ldquo;for the officer-folk here were very civil (that is, for the
      like o&rsquo; them), and lookit up ae their letters and authorities, and could
      throw nae light on&rsquo;t either ae way or another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be true! it shall not be true!&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;And I won&rsquo;t
      believe it if it were!&mdash;Taffril&rsquo;s an excellent sea man, and Lovel (my
      poor Lovel!) has all the qualities of a safe and pleasant companion by
      land or by sea&mdash;one, Edie, whom, from the ingenuousness of his
      disposition, I would choose, did I ever go a sea-voyage (which I never do,
      unless across the ferry), <i>fragilem mecum solvere phaselum,</i> to be
      the companion of my risk, as one against whom the elements could nourish
      no vengeance. No, Edie, it is not, and cannot be true&mdash;it is a
      fiction of the idle jade Rumour, whom I wish hanged with her trumpet about
      her neck, that serves only with its screech-owl tones to fright honest
      folks out of their senses.&mdash;Let me know how you got into this scrape
      of your own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are ye axing me as a magistrate, Monkbarns, or is it just for your ain
      satisfaction!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For my own satisfaction solely,&rdquo; replied the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put up your pocket-book and your keelyvine pen then, for I downa speak
      out an ye hae writing materials in your hands&mdash;they&rsquo;re a scaur to
      unlearned folk like me&mdash;Od, ane o&rsquo; the clerks in the neist room will
      clink down, in black and white, as muckle as wad hang a man, before ane
      kens what he&rsquo;s saying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Monkbarns complied with the old man&rsquo;s humour, and put up his
      memorandum-book.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edie then went with great frankness through the part of the story already
      known to the reader, informing the Antiquary of the scene which he had
      witnessed between Dousterswivel and his patron in the ruins of St. Ruth,
      and frankly confessing that he could not resist the opportunity of
      decoying the adept once more to visit the tomb of Misticot, with the
      purpose of taking a comic revenge upon him for his quackery. He had easily
      persuaded Steenie, who was a bold thoughtless young fellow, to engage in
      the frolic along with him, and the jest had been inadvertently carried a
      great deal farther than was designed. Concerning the pocket-book, he
      explained that he had expressed his surprise and sorrow as soon as he
      found it had been inadvertently brought off: and that publicly, before all
      the inmates of the cottage, Steenie had undertaken to return it the next
      day, and had only been prevented by his untimely fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary pondered a moment, and then said, &ldquo;Your account seems very
      probable, Edie, and I believe it from what I know of the parties. But I
      think it likely that you know a great deal more than you have thought it
      proper to tell me, about this matter of the treasure trove&mdash;I suspect
      you have acted the part of the Lar Familiaris in Plautus&mdash;a sort of
      Brownie, Edie, to speak to your comprehension, who watched over hidden
      treasures.&mdash;I do bethink me you were the first person we met when Sir
      Arthur made his successful attack upon Misticot&rsquo;s grave, and also that
      when the labourers began to flag, you, Edie, were again the first to leap
      into the trench, and to make the discovery of the treasure. Now you must
      explain all this to me, unless you would have me use you as ill as Euclio
      does Staphyla in the <i>Aulularia.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lordsake, sir,&rdquo; replied the mendicant, &ldquo;what do I ken about your
      Howlowlaria?&mdash;it&rsquo;s mair like a dog&rsquo;s language than a man&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You knew, however, of the box of treasure being there?&rdquo; continued
      Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear sir,&rdquo; answered Edie, assuming a countenance of great simplicity,
      &ldquo;what likelihood is there o&rsquo;that? d&rsquo;ye think sae puir an auld creature as
      me wad hae kend o&rsquo; sic a like thing without getting some gude out o&rsquo;t?&mdash;and
      ye wot weel I sought nane and gat nane, like Michael Scott&rsquo;s man. What
      concern could I hae wi&rsquo;t?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what I want you to explain to me,&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;for I am
      positive you knew it was there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your honour&rsquo;s a positive man, Monkbarns&mdash;and, for a positive man, I
      must needs allow ye&rsquo;re often in the right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You allow, then, Edie, that my belief is well founded?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edie nodded acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then please to explain to me the whole affair from beginning to end,&rdquo;
       said the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it were a secret o&rsquo; mine, Monkbarns,&rdquo; replied the beggar, &ldquo;ye suldna
      ask twice; for I hae aye said ahint your back, that for a&rsquo; the nonsense
      maggots that ye whiles take into your head, ye are the maist wise and
      discreet o&rsquo; a&rsquo; our country gentles. But I&rsquo;se een be open-hearted wi&rsquo; you,
      and tell you that this is a friend&rsquo;s secret, and that they suld draw me
      wi&rsquo; wild horses, or saw me asunder, as they did the children of Ammon,
      sooner than I would speak a word mair about the matter, excepting this,
      that there was nae ill intended, but muckle gude, and that the purpose was
      to serve them that are worth twenty hundred o&rsquo; me. But there&rsquo;s nae law, I
      trow, that makes it a sin to ken where ither folles siller is, if we didna
      pit hand til&rsquo;t oursell?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck walked once or twice up and down the room in profound thought,
      endeavouring to find some plausible reason for transactions of a nature so
      mysterious&mdash;but his ingenuity was totally at fault. He then placed
      himself before the prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This story of yours, friend Edie, is an absolute enigma, and would
      require a second OEdipus to solve it&mdash;who OEdipus was, I will tell
      you some other time if you remind me&mdash;However, whether it be owing to
      the wisdom or to the maggots with which you compliment me, I am strongly
      disposed to believe that you have spoken the truth, the rather that you
      have not made any of those obtestations of the superior powers, which I
      observe you and your comrades always make use of when you mean to deceive
      folks.&rdquo; (Here Edie could not suppress a smile.) &ldquo;If, therefore, you will
      answer me one question, I will endeavour to procure your liberation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If ye&rsquo;ll let me hear the question,&rdquo; said Edie, with the caution of a
      canny Scotchman, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you whether I&rsquo;ll answer it or no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is simply,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;Did Dousterswivel know anything about
      the concealment of the chest of bullion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He, the ill-fa&rsquo;ard loon!&rdquo; answered Edie, with much frankness of manner&mdash;
      &ldquo;there wad hae been little speerings o&rsquo;t had Dustansnivel ken&rsquo;d it was
      there&mdash;it wad hae been butter in the black dog&rsquo;s hause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought as much,&rdquo; said Oldbuck. &ldquo;Well, Edie, if I procure your freedom,
      you must keep your day, and appear to clear me of the bail-bond, for these
      are not times for prudent men to incur forfeitures, unless you can point
      out another <i>Aulam auri plenam quadrilibrem</i>&mdash;another <i>Search,
      No. I.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the beggar, shaking his head, &ldquo;I doubt the bird&rsquo;s flown that
      laid thae golden eggs&mdash;for I winna ca&rsquo; her goose, though that&rsquo;s the
      gait it stands in the story-buick&mdash;But I&rsquo;ll keep my day, Monkbarns;
      ye&rsquo;se no loss a penny by me&mdash;And troth I wad fain be out again, now
      the weather&rsquo;s fine&mdash;and then I hae the best chance o&rsquo; hearing the
      first news o&rsquo; my friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Edie, as the bouncing and thumping beneath has somewhat ceased, I
      presume Bailie Littlejohn has dismissed his military preceptor, and has
      retired from the labours of Mars to those of Themis&mdash;I will have some
      conversation with him&mdash;But I cannot and will not believe any of those
      wretched news you were telling me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God send your honour may be right!&rdquo; said the mendicant, as Oldbuck left
      the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary found the magistrate, exhausted with the fatigues of the
      drill, reposing in his gouty chair, humming the air, &ldquo;How merrily we live
      that soldiers be!&rdquo; and between each bar comforting himself with a spoonful
      of mock-turtle soup. He ordered a similar refreshment for Oldbuck, who
      declined it, observing, that, not being a military man, he did not feel
      inclined to break his habit of keeping regular hours for meals&mdash;&ldquo;Soldiers
      like you, Bailie, must snatch their food as they find means and time. But
      I am sorry to hear ill news of young Taffril&rsquo;s brig.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, poor fellow!&rdquo; said the bailie, &ldquo;he was a credit to the town&mdash;much
      distinguished on the first of June.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;I am shocked to hear you talk of him in the
      preterite tense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth, I fear there may be too much reason for it, Monkbarns;&mdash;and
      yet let us hope the best. The accident is said to have happened in the
      Rattray reef of rocks, about twenty miles to the northward, near
      Dirtenalan Bay&mdash;I have sent to inquire about it&mdash;and your nephew
      run out himself as if he had been flying to get the Gazette of a victory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Hector entered, exclaiming as he came in, &ldquo;I believe it&rsquo;s all a
      damned lie&mdash;I can&rsquo;t find the least authority for it, but general
      rumour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And pray, Mr. Hector,&rdquo; said his uncle, &ldquo;if it had been true, whose fault
      would it have been that Lovel was on board?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not mine, I am sure,&rdquo; answered Hector; &ldquo;it would have been only my
      misfortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; said his uncle, &ldquo;I should not have thought of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, sir, with all your inclination to find me in the wrong,&rdquo; replied the
      young soldier, &ldquo;I suppose you will own my intention was not to blame in
      this case. I did my best to hit Lovel, and if I had been successful, &lsquo;tis
      clear my scrape would have been his, and his scrape would have been mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And whom or what do you intend to hit now, that you are lugging with you
      that leathern magazine there, marked Gunpowder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must be prepared for Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s moors on the twelfth, sir,&rdquo; said
      M&rsquo;Intyre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Hector! thy great <i>chasse,</i> as the French call it, would take
      place best&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                   Omne cum Proteus pecus agitaret altos
                            Visere montes&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      Could you meet but with a martial <i>phoca,</i> instead of an unwarlike
      heath-bird.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil take the seal, sir, or <i>phoca,</i> if you choose to call it
      so! It&rsquo;s rather hard one can never hear the end of a little piece of folly
      like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;I am glad you have the grace to be ashamed of
      it&mdash;as I detest the whole race of Nimrods, I wish them all as well
      matched. Nay, never start off at a jest, man&mdash;I have done with the <i>phoca</i>&mdash;though,
      I dare say, the Bailie could tell us the value of seal-skins just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are up,&rdquo; said the magistrate, &ldquo;they are well up&mdash;the fishing
      has been unsuccessful lately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We can bear witness to that,&rdquo; said the tormenting Antiquary, who was
      delighted with the hank this incident had given him over the young
      sportsman: One word more, Hector, and
    </p>
<pre>
              We&rsquo;ll hang a seal-skin on thy recreant limbs.
</pre>
    <p>
      Aha, my boy! Come, never mind it; I must go to business.&mdash;Bailie, a
      word with you: you must take bail&mdash;moderate bail, you understand&mdash;for
      old Ochiltree&rsquo;s appearance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t consider what you ask,&rdquo; said the Bailie; &ldquo;the offence is
      assault and robbery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! not a word about it,&rdquo; said the Antiquary. &ldquo;I gave you a hint before&mdash;I
      will possess you more fully hereafter&mdash;I promise you, there is a
      secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Mr. Oldbuck, if the state is concerned, I, who do the whole drudgery
      business here, really have a title to be consulted, and until I am&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! hush!&rdquo; said the Antiquary, winking and putting his finger to his
      nose,&mdash;&ldquo;you shall have the full credit, the entire management,
      whenever matters are ripe. But this is an obstinate old fellow, who will
      not hear of two people being as yet let into his mystery, and he has not
      fully acquainted me with the clew to Dousterswivel&rsquo;s devices.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! so we must tip that fellow the alien act, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To say truth, I wish you would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say no more,&rdquo; said the magistrate; &ldquo;it shall forthwith be done&mdash;he
      shall be removed <i>tanquam suspect</i>&mdash;I think that&rsquo;s one of your
      own phrases, Monkbarns?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is classical, Bailie&mdash;you improve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, public business has of late pressed upon me so much, that I have
      been obliged to take my foreman into partnership. I have had two several
      correspondences with the Under Secretary of State&mdash;one on the
      proposed tax on Riga hemp-seed, and the other on putting down political
      societies. So you might as well communicate to me as much as you know of
      this old fellow&rsquo;s discovery of a plot against the state.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, instantly, when I am master of it,&rdquo; replied Oldbuck&mdash;-&ldquo;I
      hate the trouble of managing such matters myself. Remember, however, I did
      not say decidedly a plot against the state I only say I hope to discover,
      by this man&rsquo;s means, a foul plot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it be a plot at all, there must be treason in it, or sedition at
      least,&rdquo; said the Bailie&mdash;&ldquo;Will you bail him for four hundred merks?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four hundred merks for an old Blue-Gown! Think on the act 1701 regulating
      bail-bonds!&mdash;Strike off a cipher from the sum&mdash;I am content to
      bail him for forty merks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mr. Oldbuck, everybody in Fairport is always willing to oblige you&mdash;and
      besides, I know that you are a prudent man, and one that would be as
      unwilling to lose forty, as four hundred merks. So I will accept your
      bail, <i>meo periculo</i>&mdash;what say you to that law phrase again? I
      had it from a learned counsel. I will vouch it, my lord, he said, <i>meo
      periculo.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I will vouch for Edie Ochiltree, <i>meo periculo,</i> in like
      manner,&rdquo; said Oldbuck. &ldquo;So let your clerk draw out the bail-bond, and I
      will sign it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When this ceremony had been performed, the Antiquary communicated to Edie
      the joyful tidings that he was once more at liberty, and directed him to
      make the best of his way to Monkbarns House, to which he himself returned
      with his nephew, after having perfected their good work.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                Full of wise saws and modern instances.
                                       As You Like It.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to Heaven, Hector,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, next morning after
      breakfast, &ldquo;you would spare our nerves, and not be keeping snapping that
      arquebuss of yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, I&rsquo;m sure I&rsquo;m sorry to disturb you,&rdquo; said his nephew, still
      handling his fowling-piece;&mdash;&ldquo;but it&rsquo;s a capital gun&mdash;it&rsquo;s a Joe
      Manton, that cost forty guineas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fool and his money are soon parted, nephew&mdash;there is a Joe Miller
      for your Joe Manton,&rdquo; answered the Antiquary; &ldquo;I am glad you have so many
      guineas to throw away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every one has their fancy, uncle,&mdash;you are fond of books.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, Hector,&rdquo; said the uncle, &ldquo;and if my collection were yours, you would
      make it fly to the gunsmith, the horse-market, the dog-breaker,&mdash; <i>Coemptos
      undique nobiles libros&mdash;mutare loricis Iberis.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not use your books, my dear uncle,&rdquo; said the young soldier,
      &ldquo;that&rsquo;s true; and you will do well to provide for their being in better
      hands. But don&rsquo;t let the faults of my head fall on my heart&mdash;I would
      not part with a Cordery that belonged to an old friend, to get a set of
      horses like Lord Glenallan&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think you would, lad&mdash;I don&rsquo;t think you would,&rdquo; said his
      softening relative. &ldquo;I love to tease you a little sometimes; it keeps up
      the spirit of discipline and habit of subordination&mdash;You will pass
      your time happily here having me to command you, instead of Captain, or
      Colonel, or Knight in Arms,&rsquo; as Milton has it; and instead of the French,&rdquo;
       he continued, relapsing into his ironical humour, &ldquo;you have the <i>Gens
      humida ponti</i>&mdash;for, as Virgil says,
    </p>
<pre>
              Sternunt se somno diversae in littore phocae;
</pre>
    <p>
      which might be rendered,
    </p>
<pre>
                   Here phocae slumber on the beach,
                  Within our Highland Hector&rsquo;s reach.
</pre>
    <p>
      Nay, if you grow angry, I have done. Besides, I see old Edie in the
      court-yard, with whom I have business. Good-bye, Hector&mdash;Do you
      remember how she splashed into the sea like her master Proteus, <i>et se
      jactu dedit aequor in altum</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M&rsquo;Intyre,&mdash;waiting, however, till the door was shut,&mdash;then gave
      way to the natural impatience of his temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My uncle is the best man in the world, and in his way the kindest; but
      rather than hear any more about that cursed <i>phoca,</i> as he is pleased
      to call it, I would exchange for the West Indies, and never see his face
      again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss M&rsquo;Intyre, gratefully attached to her uncle, and passionately fond of
      her brother, was, on such occasions, the usual envoy of reconciliation.
      She hastened to meet her uncle on his return, before he entered the
      parlour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now, Miss Womankind, what is the meaning of that imploring
      countenance?&mdash;has Juno done any more mischief?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle; but Juno&rsquo;s master is in such fear of your joking him about the
      seal&mdash;I assure you, he feels it much more than you would wish;&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      very silly of him, to be sure; but then you can turn everybody so sharply
      into ridicule&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear,&rdquo; answered Oldbuck, propitiated by the compliment, &ldquo;I will
      rein in my satire, and, if possible, speak no more of the <i>phoca</i>&mdash;I
      will not even speak of sealing a letter, but say <i>umph,</i> and give a
      nod to you when I want the wax-light&mdash;I am not <i>monitoribus asper,</i>
      but, Heaven knows, the most mild, quiet, and easy of human beings, whom
      sister, niece, and nephew, guide just as best pleases them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this little panegyric on his own docility, Mr. Oldbuck entered the
      parlour, and proposed to his nephew a walk to the Mussel-crag. &ldquo;I have
      some questions to ask of a woman at Mucklebackit&rsquo;s cottage,&rdquo; he observed,
      &ldquo;and I would willingly have a sensible witness with me&mdash;so, for fault
      of a better, Hector, I must be contented with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is old Edie, sir, or Caxon&mdash;could not they do better than me?&rdquo;
       answered M&rsquo;Intyre, feeling somewhat alarmed at the prospect of a long <i>tete-a-tete</i>
      with his uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, young man, you turn me over to pretty companions, and I am
      quite sensible of your politeness,&rdquo; replied Mr. Oldbuck. &ldquo;No, sir, I
      intend the old Blue-Gown shall go with me&mdash;not as a competent
      witness, for he is, at present, as our friend Bailie Littlejohn says
      (blessings on his learning!) <i>tanquam suspectus,</i> and you are <i>suspicione
      major,</i> as our law has it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I were a major, sir,&rdquo; said Hector, catching only the last, and, to
      a soldier&rsquo;s ear, the most impressive word in the sentence,&mdash;&ldquo;but,
      without money or interest, there is little chance of getting the step.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, most doughty son of Priam,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;be ruled by
      your friends, and there&rsquo;s no saying what may happen&mdash;Come away with
      me, and you shall see what may be useful to you should you ever sit upon a
      court-martial, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been on many a regimental court-martial, sir,&rdquo; answered Captain
      M&rsquo;Intyre. &ldquo;But here&rsquo;s a new cane for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much obliged, much obliged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bought it from our drum-major,&rdquo; added M&rsquo;Intyre, &ldquo;who came into our
      regiment from the Bengal army when it came down the Red Sea. It was cut on
      the banks of the Indus, I assure you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, &lsquo;tis a fine ratan, and well replaces that which the <i>ph</i>&mdash;
      Bah! what was I going to say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The party, consisting of the Antiquary, his nephew, and the old beggar,
      now took the sands towards Mussel-crag&mdash;the former in the very
      highest mood of communicating information, and the others, under a sense
      of former obligation, and some hope for future favours, decently attentive
      to receive it. The uncle and nephew walked together, the mendicant about a
      step and a half behind, just near enough for his patron to speak to him by
      a slight inclination of his neck, and without the trouble of turning
      round. (Petrie, in his Essay on Good-breeding, dedicated to the
      magistrates of Edinburgh, recommends, upon his own experience, as tutor in
      a family of distinction, this attitude to all led captains, tutors,
      dependants, and bottle-holders of every description. ) Thus escorted, the
      Antiquary moved along full of his learning, like a lordly man of war, and
      every now and then yawing to starboard and larboard to discharge a
      broadside upon his followers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so it is your opinion,&rdquo; said he to the mendicant, &ldquo;that this windfall&mdash;this
      <i>arca auri,</i> as Plautus has it, will not greatly avail Sir Arthur in
      his necessities?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless he could find ten times as much,&rdquo; said the beggar, &ldquo;and that I am
      sair doubtful of;&mdash;I heard Puggie Orrock, and the tother thief of a
      sheriff-officer, or messenger, speaking about it&mdash;and things are ill
      aff when the like o&rsquo; them can speak crousely about ony gentleman&rsquo;s
      affairs. I doubt Sir Arthur will be in stane wa&rsquo;s for debt, unless there&rsquo;s
      swift help and certain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You speak like a fool,&rdquo; said the Antiquary.&mdash;&ldquo;Nephew, it is a
      remarkable thing, that in this happy country no man can be legally
      imprisoned for debt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, sir?&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre; &ldquo;I never knew that before&mdash;that part of
      our law would suit some of our mess well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if they arena confined for debt,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;what is&rsquo;t that
      tempts sae mony puir creatures to bide in the tolbooth o&rsquo; Fairport yonder?&mdash;they
      a&rsquo; say they were put there by their creditors&mdash;Od! they maun like it
      better than I do, if they&rsquo;re there o&rsquo; free will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A very natural observation, Edie, and many of your betters would make the
      same; but it is founded entirely upon ignorance of the feudal system.
      Hector, be so good as to attend, unless you are looking out for another&mdash;
      Ahem!&rdquo; (Hector compelled himself to give attention at this hint. ) &ldquo;And
      you, Edie, it may be useful to you <i>reram cognoscere causas.</i> The
      nature and origin of warrant for caption is a thing <i>haud alienum a
      Scaevolae studiis.</i>&mdash;You must know then, once more, that nobody
      can be arrested in Scotland for debt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haena muckle concern wi&rsquo; that, Monkbarns,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;for
      naebody wad trust a bodle to a gaberlunzie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I pr&rsquo;ythee, peace, man&mdash;As a compulsitor, therefore, of payment,
      that being a thing to which no debtor is naturally inclined, as I have too
      much reason to warrant from the experience I have had with my own,&mdash;we
      had first the letters of four forms, a sort of gentle invitation, by which
      our sovereign lord the king, interesting himself, as a monarch should, in
      the regulation of his subjects&rsquo; private affairs, at first by mild
      exhortation, and afterwards by letters of more strict enjoinment and more
      hard compulsion&mdash;What do you see extraordinary about that bird,
      Hector?&mdash;it&rsquo;s but a seamaw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a pictarnie, sir,&rdquo; said Edie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what an if it were&mdash;what does that signify at present?&mdash;But
      I see you&rsquo;re impatient; so I will waive the letters of four forms, and
      come to the modern process of diligence.&mdash;You suppose, now, a man&rsquo;s
      committed to prison because he cannot pay his debt? Quite otherwise: the
      truth is, the king is so good as to interfere at the request of the
      creditor, and to send the debtor his royal command to do him justice
      within a certain time&mdash;fifteen days, or six, as the case may be.
      Well, the man resists and disobeys: what follows? Why, that he be lawfully
      and rightfully declared a rebel to our gracious sovereign, whose command
      he has disobeyed, and that by three blasts of a horn at the market-place
      of Edinburgh, the metropolis of Scotland. And he is then legally
      imprisoned, not on account of any civil debt, but because of his
      ungrateful contempt of the royal mandate. What say you to that, Hector?&mdash;there&rsquo;s
      something you never knew before.&rdquo; *
    </p>
    <p>
      * The doctrine of Monkbarns on the origin of imprisonment for civil debt
      in Scotland, may appear somewhat whimsical, but was referred to, and
      admitted to be correct, by the Bench of the Supreme Scottish Court, on 5th
      December 1828, in the case of Thom <i>v.</i> Black. In fact, the Scottish
      law is in this particular more jealous of the personal liberty of the
      subject than any other code in Europe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle; but, I own, if I wanted money to pay my debts, I would rather
      thank the king to send me some, than to declare me a rebel for not doing
      what I could not do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your education has not led you to consider these things,&rdquo; replied his
      uncle; &ldquo;you are incapable of estimating the elegance of the legal fiction,
      and the manner in which it reconciles that duress, which, for the
      protection of commerce, it has been found necessary to extend towards
      refractory debtors, with the most scrupulous attention to the liberty of
      the subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, sir,&rdquo; answered the unenlightened Hector; &ldquo;but if a man must
      pay his debt or go to jail, it signifies but little whether he goes as a
      debtor or a rebel, I should think. But you say this command of the king&rsquo;s
      gives a license of so many days&mdash;Now, egad, were I in the scrape, I
      would beat a march and leave the king and the creditor to settle it among
      themselves before they came to extremities.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So wad I,&rdquo; said Edie; &ldquo;I wad gie them leg-bail to a certainty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True,&rdquo; replied Monkbarns; &ldquo;but those whom the law suspects of being
      unwilling to abide her formal visit, she proceeds with by means of a
      shorter and more unceremonious call, as dealing with persons on whom
      patience and favour would be utterly thrown away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;that will be what they ca&rsquo; the fugie-warrants&mdash;I
      hae some skeel in them. There&rsquo;s Border-warrants too in the south country,
      unco rash uncanny things;&mdash;I was taen up on ane at Saint James&rsquo;s
      Fair, and keepit in the auld kirk at Kelso the haill day and night; and a
      cauld goustie place it was, I&rsquo;se assure ye.&mdash;But whatna wife&rsquo;s this,
      wi&rsquo; her creel on her back? It&rsquo;s puir Maggie hersell, I&rsquo;m thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was so. The poor woman&rsquo;s sense of her loss, if not diminished, was
      become at least mitigated by the inevitable necessity of attending to the
      means of supporting her family; and her salutation to Oldbuck was made in
      an odd mixture between the usual language of solicitation with which she
      plied her customers, and the tone of lamentation for her recent calamity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How&rsquo;s a&rsquo; wi&rsquo; ye the day, Monkbarns? I havena had the grace yet to come
      down to thank your honour for the credit ye did puir Steenie, wi&rsquo; laying
      his head in a rath grave, puir fallow. &ldquo;&mdash;Here she whimpered and
      wiped her eyes with the corner of her blue apron&mdash;&ldquo;But the fishing
      comes on no that ill, though the gudeman hasna had the heart to gang to
      sea himsell&mdash; Atweel I would fain tell him it wad do him gude to put
      hand to wark&mdash;but I&rsquo;m maist fear&rsquo;d to speak to him&mdash;and it&rsquo;s an
      unco thing to hear ane o&rsquo; us speak that gate o&rsquo; a man&mdash;However, I hae
      some dainty caller haddies, and they sall be but three shillings the
      dozen, for I hae nae pith to drive a bargain ennow, and maun just tak what
      ony Christian body will gie, wi&rsquo; few words and nae flyting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What shall we do, Hector?&rdquo; said Oldbuck, pausing: &ldquo;I got into disgrace
      with my womankind for making a bad bargain with her before. These maritime
      animals, Hector, are unlucky to our family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh, sir, what would you do?&mdash;give poor Maggie what she asks, or
      allow me to send a dish of fish up to Monkbarns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he held out the money to her; but Maggie drew back her hand. &ldquo;Na, na,
      Captain; ye&rsquo;re ower young and ower free o&rsquo; your siller&mdash;ye should
      never tak a fish-wife&rsquo;s first bode; and troth I think maybe a flyte wi&rsquo; 
      the auld housekeeper at Monkbarns, or Miss Grizel, would do me some gude&mdash;And
      I want to see what that hellicate quean Jenny Ritherout&rsquo;s doing&mdash;folk
      said she wasna weel&mdash;She&rsquo;ll be vexing hersell about Steenie, the
      silly tawpie, as if he wad ever hae lookit ower his shouther at the like
      o&rsquo;her!&mdash;Weel, Monkbarns, they&rsquo;re braw caller haddies, and they&rsquo;ll bid
      me unco little indeed at the house if ye want crappit-heads the day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so on she paced with her burden,&mdash;grief, gratitude for the
      sympathy of her betters, and the habitual love of traffic and of gain,
      chasing each other through her thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now that we are before the door of their hut,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;I wad
      fain ken, Monkbarns, what has gar&rsquo;d ye plague yoursell wi&rsquo; me a&rsquo; this
      length? I tell ye sincerely I hae nae pleasure in ganging in there. I
      downa bide to think how the young hae fa&rsquo;en on a&rsquo; sides o&rsquo; me, and left me
      an useless auld stump wi&rsquo; hardly a green leaf on&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This old woman,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;sent you on a message to the Earl of
      Glenallan, did she not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay!&rdquo; said the surprised mendicant; &ldquo;how ken ye that sae weel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord Glenallan told me himself,&rdquo; answered the Antiquary; &ldquo;so there is no
      delation&mdash;no breach of trust on your part; and as he wishes me to
      take her evidence down on some important family matters, I chose to bring
      you with me, because in her situation, hovering between dotage and
      consciousness, it is possible that your voice and appearance may awaken
      trains of recollection which I should otherwise have no means of exciting.
      The human mind&mdash;what are you about, Hector?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was only whistling for the dog, sir,&rdquo; replied the Captain &ldquo;she always
      roves too wide&mdash;I knew I should be troublesome to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all, not at all,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, resuming the subject of his
      disquisition&mdash;&ldquo;the human mind is to be treated like a skein of
      ravelled silk, where you must cautiously secure one free end before you
      can make any progress in disentangling it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ken naething about that,&rdquo; said the gaberlunzie; &ldquo;but an my auld
      acquaintance be hersell, or anything like hersell, she may come to wind us
      a pirn. It&rsquo;s fearsome baith to see and hear her when she wampishes about
      her arms, and gets to her English, and speaks as if she were a prent book,
      let a-be an auld fisher&rsquo;s wife. But, indeed, she had a grand education,
      and was muckle taen out afore she married an unco bit beneath hersell.
      She&rsquo;s aulder than me by half a score years&mdash;but I mind weel eneugh
      they made as muckle wark about her making a half-merk marriage wi&rsquo; Simon
      Mucklebackit, this Saunders&rsquo;s father, as if she had been ane o&rsquo; the
      gentry. But she got into favour again, and then she lost it again, as I
      hae heard her son say, when he was a muckle chield; and then they got
      muckle siller, and left the Countess&rsquo;s land, and settled here. But things
      never throve wi&rsquo; them. Howsomever, she&rsquo;s a weel-educate woman, and an she
      win to her English, as I hae heard her do at an orra time, she may come to
      fickle us a&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER NINETEENTH
    </h2>
<pre>
           Life ebbs from such old age, unmarked and silent,
           As the slow neap-tide leaves yon stranded galley.&mdash;
              Late she rocked merrily at the least impulse
              That wind or wave could give; but now her keel
              Is settling on the sand, her mast has ta&rsquo;en
           An angle with the sky, from which it shifts not.
              Each wave receding shakes her less and less,
              Till, bedded on the strand, she shall remain
                               Useless as motionless.
                                                 Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      As the Antiquary lifted the latch of the hut, he was surprised to hear the
      shrill tremulous voice of Elspeth chanting forth an old ballad in a wild
      and doleful recitative.
    </p>
<pre>
                &ldquo;The herring loves the merry moonlight,
                     The mackerel loves the wind,
                But the oyster loves the dredging sang,
                     For they come of a gentle kind.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      A diligent collector of these legendary scraps of ancient poetry, his foot
      refused to cross the threshold when his ear was thus arrested, and his
      hand instinctively took pencil and memorandum-book. From time to time the
      old woman spoke as if to the children&mdash;&ldquo;Oh ay, hinnies, whisht!
      whisht! and I&rsquo;ll begin a bonnier ane than that&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                 &ldquo;Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle,
                      And listen, great and sma&rsquo;,
                  And I will sing of Glenallan&rsquo;s Earl
                     That fought on the red Harlaw.

                 &ldquo;The cronach&rsquo;s cried on Bennachie,
                       And doun the Don and a&rsquo;,
                  And hieland and lawland may mournfu&rsquo; be
                       For the sair field of Harlaw.&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      I dinna mind the neist verse weel&mdash;my memory&rsquo;s failed, and theres
      unco thoughts come ower me&mdash;God keep us frae temptation!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here her voice sunk in indistinct muttering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a historical ballad,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, eagerly, &ldquo;a genuine and
      undoubted fragment of minstrelsy! Percy would admire its simplicity&mdash;
      Ritson could not impugn its authenticity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, but it&rsquo;s a sad thing,&rdquo; said Ochiltree, &ldquo;to see human nature sae far
      owertaen as to be skirling at auld sangs on the back of a loss like hers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! hush!&rdquo; said the Antiquary&mdash;&ldquo;she has gotten the thread of the
      story again. &ldquo;&mdash;And as he spoke, she sung&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
              &ldquo;They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,
                   They hae bridled a hundred black,
               With a chafron of steel on each horse&rsquo;s head,
                  And a good knight upon his back. &ldquo;&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chafron!&rdquo; exclaimed the Antiquary,&mdash;&ldquo;equivalent, perhaps, to <i>cheveron;</i>&mdash;the
      word&rsquo;s worth a dollar,&rdquo;&mdash;and down it went in his red book.
    </p>
<pre>
                  &ldquo;They hadna ridden a mile, a mile,
                        A mile, but barely ten,
                   When Donald came branking down the brae
                       Wi&rsquo; twenty thousand men.

                 &ldquo;Their tartans they were waving wide,
                       Their glaives were glancing clear,
                  Their pibrochs rung frae side to side,
                       Would deafen ye to hear.

                 &ldquo;The great Earl in his stirrups stood
                      That Highland host to see:
                  Now here a knight that&rsquo;s stout and good
                         May prove a jeopardie:

                 &ldquo;What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay,
                       That rides beside my reyne,
                   Were ye Glenallan&rsquo;s Earl the day,
                       And I were Roland Cheyne?

                 &ldquo;To turn the rein were sin and shame,
                       To fight were wondrous peril,
                 What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne,
                       Were ye Glenallan&rsquo;s Earl?&rsquo; 
</pre>
    <p>
      Ye maun ken, hinnies, that this Roland Cheyne, for as poor and auld as I
      sit in the chimney-neuk, was my forbear, and an awfu&rsquo; man he was that
      dayin the fight, but specially after the Earl had fa&rsquo;en, for he blamed
      himsell for the counsel he gave, to fight before Mar came up wi&rsquo; Mearns,
      and Aberdeen, and Angus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her voice rose and became more animated as she recited the warlike counsel
      of her ancestor&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                  &ldquo;Were I Glenallan&rsquo;s Earl this tide,
                      And ye were Roland Cheyne,
                  The spur should be in my horse&rsquo;s side,
                     And the bridle upon his mane.

                 &ldquo;If they hae twenty thousand blades,
                       And we twice ten times ten,
                  Yet they hae but their tartan plaids,
                       And we are mail-clad men.

                 &ldquo;My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude,
                      As through the moorland fern,
                 Then neer let the gentle Norman blude
                      Grow cauld for Highland kerne.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear that, nephew?&rdquo; said Oldbuck;&mdash;&ldquo;you observe your Gaelic
      ancestors were not held in high repute formerly by the Lowland warriors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hear,&rdquo; said Hector, &ldquo;a silly old woman sing a silly old song. I am
      surprised, sir, that you, who will not listen to Ossian&rsquo;s songs of Selma,
      can be pleased with such trash. I vow, I have not seen or heard a worse
      halfpenny ballad; I don&rsquo;t believe you could match it in any pedlar&rsquo;s pack
      in the country. I should be ashamed to think that the honour of the
      Highlands could be affected by such doggrel. &ldquo;&mdash;And, tossing up his
      head, he snuffed the air indignantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Apparently the old woman heard the sound of their voices; for, ceasing her
      song, she called out, &ldquo;Come in, sirs, come in&mdash;good-will never halted
      at the door-stane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They entered, and found to their surprise Elspeth alone, sitting &ldquo;ghastly
      on the hearth,&rdquo; like the personification of Old Age in the Hunter&rsquo;s song
      of the Owl,* &ldquo;wrinkled, tattered, vile, dim-eyed, discoloured, torpid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      * See Mrs. Grant on the Highland Superstitions, vol. ii. p. 260, for this
      fine translation from the Gaelic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They&rsquo;re a&rsquo; out,&rdquo; she said, as they entered; &ldquo;but an ye will sit a blink,
      somebody will be in. If ye hae business wi&rsquo; my gude-daughter, or my son,
      they&rsquo;ll be in belyve,&mdash;I never speak on business mysell. Bairns, gie
      them seats&mdash;the bairns are a&rsquo; gane out, I trow,&rdquo;&mdash;looking around
      her;&mdash;&ldquo;I was crooning to keep them quiet a wee while since; but they
      hae cruppen out some gate. Sit down, sirs, they&rsquo;ll be in belyve;&rdquo; and she
      dismissed her spindle from her hand to twirl upon the floor, and soon
      seemed exclusively occupied in regulating its motion, as unconscious of
      the presence of the strangers as she appeared indifferent to their rank or
      business there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;she would resume that canticle, or legendary
      fragment. I always suspected there was a skirmish of cavalry before the
      main battle of the Harlaw.&rdquo; *
    </p>
    <p>
      * Note H. Battle of Harlaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your honour pleases,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;had ye not better proceed to the
      business that brought us a&rsquo; here? I&rsquo;se engage to get ye the sang ony
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you are right, Edie&mdash;<i>Do manus</i>&mdash;I submit. But
      how shall we manage? She sits there the very image of dotage. Speak to
      her, Edie&mdash;try if you can make her recollect having sent you to
      Glenallan House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edie rose accordingly, and, crossing the floor, placed himself in the same
      position which he had occupied during his former conversation with her.
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m fain to see ye looking sae weel, cummer; the mair, that the black ox
      has tramped on ye since I was aneath your roof-tree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said Elspeth; but rather from a general idea of misfortune, than any
      exact recollection of what had happened,&mdash;&ldquo;there has been distress
      amang us of late&mdash;I wonder how younger folk bide it&mdash;I bide it
      ill. I canna hear the wind whistle, and the sea roar, but I think I see
      the coble whombled keel up, and some o&rsquo; them struggling in the waves!&mdash;Eh,
      sirs; sic weary dreams as folk hae between sleeping and waking, before
      they win to the lang sleep and the sound! I could amaist think whiles my
      son, or else Steenie, my oe, was dead, and that I had seen the burial.
      Isna that a queer dream for a daft auld carline? What for should ony o&rsquo; 
      them dee before me?&mdash;it&rsquo;s out o&rsquo; the course o&rsquo; nature, ye ken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think you&rsquo;ll make very little of this stupid old woman,&rdquo; said Hector,&mdash;who
      still nourished, perhaps, some feelings of the dislike excited by the
      disparaging mention of his countrymen in her lay&mdash;&ldquo;I think you&rsquo;ll
      make but little of her, sir; and it&rsquo;s wasting our time to sit here and
      listen to her dotage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hector,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, indignantly, &ldquo;if you do not respect her
      misfortunes, respect at least her old age and grey hairs: this is the last
      stage of existence, so finely treated by the Latin poet&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                                &mdash;Omni
               Membrorum damno major dementia, quae nec
               Nomina, servorum, nec vultus agnoscit amici,
               Cum queis preterita coenavit nocte, nec illos
                            Quos genuit, quos eduxit.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Latin!&rdquo; said Elspeth, rousing herself as if she attended to the
      lines, which the Antiquary recited with great pomp of diction&mdash;&ldquo;that&rsquo;s
      Latin!&rdquo; and she cast a wild glance around her&mdash;&ldquo;Has there a priest
      fund me out at last?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, nephew, her comprehension is almost equal to your own of that
      fine passage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you think, sir, that I knew it to be Latin as well as she did?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, as to that&mdash;But stay, she is about to speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will have no priest&mdash;none,&rdquo; said the beldam, with impotent
      vehemence; &ldquo;as I have lived I will die&mdash;none shall say that I
      betrayed my mistress, though it were to save my soul!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That bespoke a foul conscience,&rdquo; said the mendicant;&mdash;&ldquo;I wuss she
      wad mak a clean breast, an it were but for her sake;&rdquo; and he again
      assailed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, gudewife, I did your errand to the Yerl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To what Earl? I ken nae Earl;&mdash;I ken&rsquo;d a Countess ance&mdash;I wish
      to Heaven I had never ken&rsquo;d her! for by that acquaintance, neighbour,
      their cam,&rdquo;&mdash; and she counted her withered fingers as she spoke
      &ldquo;first Pride, then Malice, then Revenge, then False Witness; and Murder
      tirl&rsquo;d at the door-pin, if he camna ben. And werena thae pleasant guests,
      think ye, to take up their quarters in ae woman&rsquo;s heart? I trow there was
      routh o&rsquo; company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, cummer,&rdquo; continued the beggar, &ldquo;it wasna the Countess of Glenallan I
      meant, but her son, him that was Lord Geraldin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mind it now,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I saw him no that langsyne, and we had a heavy
      speech thegither. Eh, sirs! the comely young lord is turned as auld and
      frail as I am: it&rsquo;s muckle that sorrow and heartbreak, and crossing of
      true love, will do wi&rsquo; young blood. But suldna his mither hae lookit to
      that hersell?&mdash;we were but to do her bidding, ye ken. I am sure
      there&rsquo;s naebody can blame me&mdash;he wasna my son, and she was my
      mistress. Ye ken how the rhyme says&mdash;I hae maist forgotten how to
      sing, or else the tune&rsquo;s left my auld head&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                  &ldquo;He turn&rsquo;d him right and round again,
                       Said, Scorn na at my mither;
                   Light loves I may get mony a ane,
                       But minnie neer anither.
</pre>
    <p>
      Then he was but of the half blude, ye ken, and her&rsquo;s was the right
      Glenallan after a&rsquo;. Na, na, I maun never maen doing and suffering for the
      Countess Joscelin&mdash;never will I maen for that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then drawing her flax from the distaff, with the dogged air of one who is
      resolved to confess nothing, she resumed her interrupted occupation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hae heard,&rdquo; said the mendicant, taking his cue from what Oldbuck had
      told him of the family history&mdash;&ldquo;I hae heard, cummer, that some ill
      tongue suld hae come between the Earl, that&rsquo;s Lord Geraldin, and his young
      bride.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ill tongue?&rdquo; she said in hasty alarm; &ldquo;and what had she to fear frae an
      ill tongue?&mdash;she was gude and fair eneugh&mdash;at least a&rsquo; body said
      sae. But had she keepit her ain tongue aff ither folk, she might hae been
      living like a leddy for a&rsquo; that&rsquo;s come and gane yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I hae heard say, gudewife,&rdquo; continued Ochiltree, &ldquo;there was a clatter
      in the country, that her husband and her were ower sibb when they
      married.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wha durst speak o&rsquo; that?&rdquo; said the old woman hastily; &ldquo;wha durst say they
      were married?&mdash;wha ken&rsquo;d o&rsquo; that?&mdash;Not the Countess&mdash;not I.
      If they wedded in secret, they were severed in secret&mdash;They drank of
      the fountains of their ain deceit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, wretched beldam!&rdquo; exclaimed Oldbuck, who could keep silence no
      longer, &ldquo;they drank the poison that you and your wicked mistress prepared
      for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, ha!&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;I aye thought it would come to this. It&rsquo;s but
      sitting silent when they examine me&mdash;there&rsquo;s nae torture in our days;
      and if there is, let them rend me!&mdash;It&rsquo;s ill o&rsquo; the vassal&rsquo;s mouth
      that betrays the bread it eats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak to her, Edie,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;she knows your voice, and
      answers to it most readily.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall mak naething mair out o&rsquo; her,&rdquo; said Ochiltree. &ldquo;When she has
      clinkit hersell down that way, and faulded her arms, she winna speak a
      word, they say, for weeks thegither. And besides, to my thinking, her face
      is sair changed since we cam in. However, I&rsquo;se try her ance mair to
      satisfy your honour.&mdash;So ye canna keep in mind, cummer, that your
      auld mistress, the Countess Joscelin, has been removed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Removed!&rdquo; she exclaimed; for that name never failed to produce its usual
      effect upon her; &ldquo;then we maun a&rsquo; follow&mdash;a&rsquo; maun ride when she is in
      the saddle. Tell them to let Lord Geraldin ken we&rsquo;re on before them. Bring
      my hood and scarf&mdash;ye wadna hae me gang in the carriage wi&rsquo; my leddy,
      and my hair in this fashion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her shrivelled arms, and seemed busied like a woman who puts on
      her cloak to go abroad, then dropped them slowly and stiffly; and the same
      idea of a journey still floating apparently through her head, she
      proceeded, in a hurried and interrupted manner,&mdash;&ldquo;Call Miss Neville&mdash;What
      do you mean by Lady Geraldin? I said Eveline Neville, not Lady Geraldin&mdash;
      there&rsquo;s no Lady Geraldin; tell her that, and bid her change her wet gown,
      and no&rsquo; look sae pale. Bairn! what should she do wi&rsquo; a bairn?&mdash;maidens
      hae nane, I trow.&mdash;Teresa&mdash;Teresa&mdash;my lady calls us!&mdash;Bring
      a candle;&mdash;the grand staircase is as mirk as a Yule midnight&mdash;We
      are coming, my lady!&rdquo;&mdash;With these words she sunk back on the settle,
      and from thence sidelong to the floor. *
    </p>
    <p>
      * Note I. Elspeth&rsquo;s death.
    </p>
<pre>
 Edie ran to support her, but hardly got her in his arms, before he said,
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a&rsquo; ower&mdash;she has passed away even with that last word.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, hastily advancing, as did his nephew. But
      nothing was more certain. She had expired with the last hurried word that
      left her lips; and all that remained before them were the mortal relics of
      the creature who had so long struggled with an internal sense of concealed
      guilt, joined to all the distresses of age and poverty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God grant that she be gane to a better place!&rdquo; said Edie, as he looked on
      the lifeless body; &ldquo;but oh! there was something lying hard and heavy at
      her heart. I have seen mony a ane dee, baith in the field o&rsquo; battle, and a
      fair-strae death at hame; but I wad rather see them a&rsquo; ower again, as sic
      a fearfu&rsquo; flitting as hers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must call in the neighbours,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, when he had somewhat
      recovered his horror and astonishment, &ldquo;and give warning of this
      additional calamity. I wish she could have been brought to a confession.
      And, though of far less consequence, I could have wished to transcribe
      that metrical fragment. But Heaven&rsquo;s will must be done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They left the hut accordingly, and gave the alarm in the hamlet, whose
      matrons instantly assembled to compose the limbs and arrange the body of
      her who might be considered as the mother of their settlement. Oldbuck
      promised his assistance for the funeral.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your honour,&rdquo; said Alison Breck, who was next in age to the deceased,
      &ldquo;suld send doun something to us for keeping up our hearts at the lykewake,
      for a&rsquo; Saunders&rsquo;s gin, puir man, was drucken out at the burial o&rsquo; Steenie,
      and we&rsquo;ll no get mony to sit dry-lipped aside the corpse. Elspeth was unco
      clever in her young days, as I can mind right weel, but there was aye a
      word o&rsquo; her no being that chancy. Ane suldna speak ill o&rsquo; the dead&mdash;mair
      by token, o&rsquo; ane&rsquo;s cummer and neighbour&mdash;but there was queer things
      said about a leddy and a bairn or she left the Craigburnfoot. And sae, in
      gude troth, it will be a puir lykewake, unless your honour sends us
      something to keep us cracking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall have some whisky,&rdquo; answered Oldbuck, &ldquo;the rather that you have
      preserved the proper word for that ancient custom of watching the dead.
      You observe, Hector, this is genuine Teutonic, from the Gothic <i>Leichnam,</i>
      a corpse. It is quite erroneously called <i>Late-wake,</i> though Brand
      favours that modern corruption and derivation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe,&rdquo; said Hector to himself, &ldquo;my uncle would give away Monkbarns
      to any one who would come to ask it in genuine Teutonic! Not a drop of
      whisky would the old creatures have got, had their president asked it for
      the use of the <i>Late-wake.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Oldbuck was giving some farther directions, and promising
      assistance, a servant of Sir Arthur&rsquo;s came riding very hard along the
      sands, and stopped his horse when he saw the Antiquary. &ldquo;There had
      something,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;very particular happened at the Castle&rdquo;&mdash;(he
      could not, or would not, explain what)&mdash;&ldquo;and Miss Wardour had sent
      him off express to Monkbarns, to beg that Mr. Oldbuck would come to them
      without a moment&rsquo;s delay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;his course also is drawing to a close.
      What can I do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do, sir?&rdquo; exclaimed Hector, with his characteristic impatience,&mdash;&ldquo;get
      on the horse, and turn his head homeward&mdash;you will be at Knockwinnock
      Castle in ten minutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is quite a free goer,&rdquo; said the servant, dismounting to adjust the
      girths and stirrups,&mdash;&ldquo;he only pulls a little if he feels a dead
      weight on him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should soon be a dead weight <i>off</i> him, my friend,&rdquo; said the
      Antiquary.&mdash;&ldquo;What the devil, nephew, are you weary of me? or do you
      suppose me weary of my life, that I should get on the back of such a
      Bucephalus as that? No, no, my friend, if I am to be at Knockwinnock
      to-day, it must be by walking quietly forward on my own feet, which I will
      do with as little delay as possible. Captain M&rsquo;Intyre may ride that animal
      himself, if he pleases.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have little hope I could be of any use, uncle, but I cannot think of
      their distress without wishing to show sympathy at least&mdash;so I will
      ride on before, and announce to them that you are coming.&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
      trouble you for your spurs, my friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will scarce need them, sir,&rdquo; said the man, taking them off at the
      same time, and buckling them upon Captain Mlntyre&rsquo;s heels, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s very
      frank to the road.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck stood astonished at this last act of temerity, &ldquo;are you mad,
      Hector?&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;or have you forgotten what is said by Quintus Curtius,
      with whom, as a soldier, you must needs be familiar,&mdash;<i>Nobilis
      equus umbra quidem virgae regitur; ignavus ne calcari quidem excitari
      potest;</i> which plainly shows that spurs are useless in every case, and,
      I may add, dangerous in most.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Hector, who cared little for the opinion of either Quintus Curtius or
      of the Antiquary, upon such a topic, only answered with a heedless &ldquo;Never
      fear&mdash;never fear, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre>
              With that he gave his able horse the head,
              And, bending forward, struck his armed heels
              Against the panting sides of his poor jade,
                Up to the rowel-head; and starting so,
                He seemed in running to devour the way,
                      Staying no longer question.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There they go, well matched,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, looking after them as they
      started&mdash;&ldquo;a mad horse and a wild boy, the two most unruly creatures
      in Christendom! and all to get half an hour sooner to a place where nobody
      wants him; for I doubt Sir Arthur&rsquo;s griefs are beyond the cure of our
      light horseman. It must be the villany of Dousterswivel, for whom Sir
      Arthur has done so much; for I cannot help observing, that, with some
      natures, Tacitus&rsquo;s maxim holdeth good: <i>Beneficia eo usque laeta sunt
      dum videntur exsolvi posse; ubi multum antevenere, pro gratia odium
      redditur,</i>&mdash;from which a wise man might take a caution, not to
      oblige any man beyond the degree in which he may expect to be requited,
      lest he should make his debtor a bankrupt in gratitude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Murmuring to himself such scraps of cynical philosophy, our Antiquary
      paced the sands towards Knockwinnock; but it is necessary we should
      outstrip him, for the purpose of explaining the reasons of his being so
      anxiously summoned thither.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWENTIETH.
    </h2>
<pre>
             So, while the Goose, of whom the fable told,
                Incumbent, brooded o&rsquo;er her eggs of gold,
             With hand outstretched, impatient to destroy,
                Stole on her secret nest the cruel Boy,
             Whose gripe rapacious changed her splendid dream,
            &mdash;For wings vain fluttering, and for dying scream.
                                   The Loves of the Sea-weeds.
</pre>
    <p>
      From the time that Sir Arthur Wardour had become possessor of the treasure
      found in Misticot&rsquo;s grave, he had been in a state of mind more resembling
      ecstasy than sober sense. Indeed, at one time his daughter had become
      seriously apprehensive for his intellect; for, as he had no doubt that he
      had the secret of possessing himself of wealth to an unbounded extent, his
      language and carriage were those of a man who had acquired the
      philosopher&rsquo;s stone. He talked of buying contiguous estates, that would
      have led him from one side of the island to the other, as if he were
      determined to brook no neighbour save the sea. He corresponded with an
      architect of eminence, upon a plan of renovating the castle of his
      forefathers on a style of extended magnificence that might have rivalled
      that of Windsor, and laying out the grounds on a suitable scale. Troops of
      liveried menials were already, in fancy, marshalled in his halls, and&mdash;for
      what may not unbounded wealth authorize its possessor to aspire to?&mdash;the
      coronet of a marquis, perhaps of a duke, was glittering before his
      imagination. His daughter&mdash;to what matches might she not look
      forward? Even an alliance with the blood-royal was not beyond the sphere
      of his hopes. His son was already a general&mdash;and he himself whatever
      ambition could dream of in its wildest visions.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this mood, if any one endeavoured to bring Sir Arthur down to the
      regions of common life, his replies were in the vein of Ancient Pistol&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                   A fico for the world, and worldlings base
                   I speak of Africa and golden joys!
</pre>
    <p>
      The reader may conceive the amazement of Miss Wardour, when, instead of
      undergoing an investigation concerning the addresses of Lovel, as she had
      expected from the long conference of her father with Mr. Oldbuck, upon the
      morning of the fated day when the treasure was discovered, the
      conversation of Sir Arthur announced an imagination heated with the hopes
      of possessing the most unbounded wealth. But she was seriously alarmed
      when Dousterswivel was sent for to the Castle, and was closeted with her
      father&mdash;his mishap condoled with&mdash;his part taken, and his loss
      compensated. All the suspicions which she had long entertained respecting
      this man became strengthened, by observing his pains to keep up the golden
      dreams of her father, and to secure for himself, under various pretexts,
      as much as possible out of the windfall which had so strangely fallen to
      Sir Arthur&rsquo;s share.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other evil symptoms began to appear, following close on each other.
      Letters arrived every post, which Sir Arthur, as soon as he had looked at
      the directions, flung into the fire without taking the trouble to open
      them. Miss Wardour could not help suspecting that these epistles, the
      contents of which seemed to be known to her father by a sort of intuition,
      came from pressing creditors. In the meanwhile, the temporary aid which he
      had received from the treasure dwindled fast away. By far the greater part
      had been swallowed up by the necessity of paying the bill of six hundred
      pounds, which had threatened Sir Arthur with instant distress. Of the
      rest, some part was given to the adept, some wasted upon extravagances
      which seemed to the poor knight fully authorized by his full-blown hopes,&mdash;and
      some went to stop for a time the mouths of such claimants as, being weary
      of fair promises, had become of opinion with Harpagon, that it was
      necessary to touch something substantial. At length circumstances
      announced but too plainly, that it was all expended within two or three
      days after its discovery; and there appeared no prospect of a supply. Sir
      Arthur, naturally impatient, now taxed Dousterswivel anew with breach of
      those promises through which he had hoped to convert all his lead into
      gold. But that worthy gentleman&rsquo;s turn was now served; and as he had grace
      enough to wish to avoid witnessing the fall of the house which he had
      undermined, he was at the trouble of bestowing a few learned terms of art
      upon Sir Arthur, that at least he might not be tormented before his time.
      He took leave of him, with assurances that he would return to Knockwinnock
      the next morning, with such information as would not fail to relieve Sir
      Arthur from all his distresses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For, since I have consulted in such matters, I ave never,&rdquo; said Mr.
      Herman Dousterswivel, &ldquo;approached so near de <i>arcanum,</i> what you call
      de great mystery,&mdash;de Panchresta&mdash;de Polychresta&mdash;I do know
      as much of it as Pelaso de Taranta, or Basilius&mdash;and either I will
      bring you in two and tree days de No. III. of Mr. Mishdigoat, or you shall
      call me one knave myself, and never look me in de face again no more at
      all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The adept departed with this assurance, in the firm resolution of making
      good the latter part of the proposition, and never again appearing before
      his injured patron. Sir Arthur remained in a doubtful and anxious state of
      mind. The positive assurances of the philosopher, with the hard words
      Panchresta, Basilius, and so forth, produced some effect on his mind. But
      he had been too often deluded by such jargon, to be absolutely relieved of
      his doubt, and he retired for the evening into his library, in the fearful
      state of one who, hanging over a precipice, and without the means of
      retreat, perceives the stone on which he rests gradually parting from the
      rest of the crag, and about to give way with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The visions of hope decayed, and there increased in proportion that
      feverish agony of anticipation with which a man, educated in a sense of
      consequence, and possessed of opulence,&mdash;the supporter of an ancient
      name, and the father of two promising children,&mdash;foresaw the hour
      approaching which should deprive him of all the splendour which time had
      made familiarly necessary to him, and send him forth into the world to
      struggle with poverty, with rapacity, and with scorn. Under these dire
      forebodings, his temper, exhausted by the sickness of delayed hope, became
      peevish and fretful, and his words and actions sometimes expressed a
      reckless desperation, which alarmed Miss Wardour extremely. We have seen,
      on a former occasion, that Sir Arthur was a man of passions lively and
      quick, in proportion to the weakness of his character in other respects;
      he was unused to contradiction, and if he had been hitherto, in general,
      good-humoured and cheerful, it was probably because the course of his life
      had afforded no such frequent provocation as to render his irritability
      habitual.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the third morning after Dousterswivel&rsquo;s departure, the servant, as
      usual, laid on the breakfast table the newspaper and letters of the day.
      Miss Wardour took up the former to avoid the continued ill-humour of her
      father, who had wrought himself into a violent passion, because the toast
      was over-browned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I perceive how it is,&rdquo; was his concluding speech on this interesting
      subject,&mdash;&ldquo;my servants, who have had their share of my fortune, begin
      to think there is little to be made of me in future. But while I <i>am</i>
      the scoundrel&rsquo;s master I will be so, and permit no neglect&mdash;no, nor
      endure a hair&rsquo;s-breadth diminution of the respect I am entitled to exact
      from them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ready to leave your honour&rsquo;s service this instant,&rdquo; said the
      domestic upon whom the fault had been charged, &ldquo;as soon as you order
      payment of my wages.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur, as if stung by a serpent, thrust his hand into his pocket, and
      instantly drew out the money which it contained, but which was short of
      the man&rsquo;s claim. &ldquo;What money have you got, Miss Wardour?&rdquo; he said, in a
      tone of affected calmness, but which concealed violent agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour gave him her purse; he attempted to count the bank notes
      which it contained, but could not reckon them. After twice miscounting the
      sum, he threw the whole to his daughter, and saying, in a stern voice,
      &ldquo;Pay the rascal, and let him leave the house instantly!&rdquo; he strode out of
      the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mistress and servant stood alike astonished at the agitation and
      vehemence of his manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure, ma&rsquo;am, if I had thought I was particularly wrang, I wadna hae
      made ony answer when Sir Arthur challenged me. I hae been lang in his
      service, and he has been a kind master, and you a kind mistress, and I wad
      like ill ye should think I wad start for a hasty word. I am sure it was
      very wrang o&rsquo; me to speak about wages to his honour, when maybe he has
      something to vex him. I had nae thoughts o&rsquo; leaving the family in this
      way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go down stair, Robert,&rdquo; said his mistress&mdash;&ldquo;something has happened
      to fret my father&mdash;go down stairs, and let Alick answer the bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the man left the room, Sir Arthur re-entered, as if he had been
      watching his departure. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the meaning of this?&rdquo; he said hastily, as
      he observed the notes lying still on the table&mdash;&ldquo;Is he not gone? Am I
      neither to be obeyed as a master or a father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is gone to give up his charge to the housekeeper, sir,&mdash;I thought
      there was not such instant haste.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There <i>is</i> haste, Miss Wardour,&rdquo; answered her father, interrupting
      her;&mdash;&ldquo;What I do henceforth in the house of my forefathers, must be
      done speedily, or never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then sate down, and took up with a trembling hand the basin of tea
      prepared for him, protracting the swallowing of it, as if to delay the
      necessity of opening the post-letters which lay on the table, and which he
      eyed from time to time, as if they had been a nest of adders ready to
      start into life and spring upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be happy to hear,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, willing to withdraw her
      father&rsquo;s mind from the gloomy reflections in which he appeared to be
      plunged, &ldquo;you will be happy to hear, sir, that Lieutenant Taffril&rsquo;s
      gun-brig has got safe into Leith Roads&mdash;I observe there had been
      apprehensions for his safety&mdash;I am glad we did not hear them till
      they were contradicted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what is Taffril and his gun-brig to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir!&rdquo; said Miss Wardour in astonishment; for Sir Arthur, in his ordinary
      state of mind, took a fidgety sort of interest in all the gossip of the
      day and country.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; he repeated in a higher and still more impatient key, &ldquo;what do I
      care who is saved or lost? It&rsquo;s nothing to me, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not know you were busy, Sir Arthur; and thought, as Mr. Taffril is
      a brave man, and from our own country, you would be happy to hear&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I am happy&mdash;as happy as possible&mdash;and, to make you happy
      too, you shall have some of my good news in return.&rdquo; And he caught up a
      letter. &ldquo;It does not signify which I open first&mdash;they are all to the
      same tune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He broke the seal hastily, ran the letter over, and then threw it to his
      daughter. &ldquo;Ay&mdash;I could not have lighted more happily!&mdash;this
      places the copestone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour, in silent terror, took up the letter. &ldquo;Read it&mdash;read it
      aloud!&rdquo; said her father; &ldquo;it cannot be read too often; it will serve to
      break you in for other good news of the same kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She began to read with a faltering voice, &ldquo;Dear Sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He <i>dears</i> me too, you see, this impudent drudge of a writer&rsquo;s
      office, who, a twelvemonth since, was not fit company for my second table&mdash;I
      suppose I shall be dear Knight&rsquo; with him by and by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Sir,&rdquo; resumed Miss Wardour; but, interrupting herself, &ldquo;I see the
      contents are unpleasant, sir&mdash;it will only vex you my reading them
      aloud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you will allow me to know my own pleasure, Miss Wardour, I entreat you
      to go on&mdash;I presume, if it were unnecessary, I should not ask you to
      take the trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Having been of late taken into copartnery,&rdquo; continued Miss Wardour,
      reading the letter, &ldquo;by Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn, son of your late
      correspondent and man of business, Girnigo Greenhorn, Esq., writer to the
      signet, whose business I conducted as parliament-house clerk for many
      years, which business will in future be carried on under the firm of
      Greenhorn and Grinderson (which I memorandum for the sake of accuracy in
      addressing your future letters), and having had of late favours of yours,
      directed to my aforesaid partner, Gilbert Greenhorn, in consequence of his
      absence at the Lamberton races, have the honour to reply to your said
      favours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see my friend is methodical, and commences by explaining the causes
      which have procured me so modest and elegant a correspondent. Go on&mdash;I
      can bear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he laughed that bitter laugh which is perhaps the most fearful
      expression of mental misery. Trembling to proceed, and yet afraid to
      disobey, Miss Wardour continued to read&mdash;&ldquo;I am for myself and
      partner, sorry we cannot oblige you by looking out for the sums you
      mention, or applying for a suspension in the case of Goldiebirds&rsquo; bond,
      which would be more inconsistent, as we have been employed to act as the
      said Goldiebirds&rsquo; procurators and attorneys, in which capacity we have
      taken out a charge of horning against you, as you must be aware by the
      schedule left by the messenger, for the sum of four thousand seven hundred
      and fifty-six pounds five shillings and sixpence one-fourth of a penny
      sterling, which, with annual-rent and expenses effeiring, we presume will
      be settled during the currency of the charge, to prevent further trouble.
      Same time, I am under the necessity to observe our own account, amounting
      to seven hundred and sixty-nine pounds ten shillings and sixpence, is also
      due, and settlement would be agreeable; but as we hold your rights,
      title-deeds, and documents in hypothec, shall have no objection to give
      reasonable time&mdash;say till the next money term. I am, for myself and
      partner, concerned to add, that Messrs. Goldiebirds&rsquo; instructions to us
      are to proceed <i>peremptorie</i> and <i>sine mora,</i> of which I have
      the pleasure to advise you, to prevent future mistakes, reserving to
      ourselves otherwise to age&rsquo; as accords. I am, for self and partner, dear
      sir, your obliged humble servant, Gabriel Grinderson, for Greenhorn and
      Grinderson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ungrateful villain!&rdquo; said Miss Wardour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, no&mdash;it&rsquo;s in the usual rule, I suppose; the blow could not have
      been perfect if dealt by another hand&mdash;it&rsquo;s all just as it should
      be,&rdquo; answered the poor Baronet, his affected composure sorely belied by
      his quivering lip and rolling eye&mdash;&ldquo;But here&rsquo;s a postscript I did not
      notice&mdash;come, finish the epistle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have to add (not for self but partner) that Mr. Greenhorn will
      accommodate you by taking your service of plate, or the bay horses, if
      sound in wind and limb, at a fair appreciation, in part payment of your
      accompt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;G&mdash;d confound him!&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, losing all command of himself
      at this condescending proposal: &ldquo;his grandfather shod my father&rsquo;s horses,
      and this descendant of a scoundrelly blacksmith proposes to swindle me out
      of mine! But I will write him a proper answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he sate down and began to write with great vehemence, then stopped and
      read aloud:&mdash;&ldquo;Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn,&mdash;in answer to two letters
      of a late date, I received a letter from a person calling himself
      Grinderson, and designing himself as your partner. When I address any one,
      I do not usually expect to be answered by deputy&mdash;I think I have been
      useful to your father, and friendly and civil to yourself, and therefore
      am now surprised&mdash;And yet,&rdquo; said he, stopping short, &ldquo;why should I be
      surprised at that or anything else? or why should I take up my time in
      writing to such a scoundrel?&mdash;I shan&rsquo;t be always kept in prison, I
      suppose; and to break that puppy&rsquo;s bones when I get out, shall be my first
      employment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In prison, sir?&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, in prison to be sure. Do you make any question about that? Why, Mr.
      what&rsquo;s his name&rsquo;s fine letter for self and partner seems to be thrown away
      on you, or else you have got four thousand so many hundred pounds, with
      the due proportion of shillings, pence, and half-pence, to pay that
      aforesaid demand, as he calls it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, sir? O if I had the means!&mdash;But where&rsquo;s my brother?&mdash;why
      does he not come, and so long in Scotland? He might do something to assist
      us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who, Reginald?&mdash;I suppose he&rsquo;s gone with Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn, or
      some such respectable person, to the Lamberton races&mdash;I have expected
      him this week past; but I cannot wonder that my children should neglect me
      as well as every other person. But I should beg your pardon, my love, who
      never either neglected or offended me in your life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And kissing her cheek as she threw her arms round his neck, he experienced
      that consolation which a parent feels, even in the most distressed state,
      in the assurance that he possesses the affection of a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour took the advantage of this revulsion of feeling, to endeavour
      to soothe her father&rsquo;s mind to composure. She reminded him that he had
      many friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had many once,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur; &ldquo;but of some I have exhausted their
      kindness with my frantic projects; others are unable to assist me&mdash;others
      are unwilling. It is all over with me. I only hope Reginald will take
      example by my folly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should I not send to Monkbarns, sir?&rdquo; said his daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To what purpose? He cannot lend me such a sum, and would not if he could,
      for he knows I am otherwise drowned in debt; and he would only give me
      scraps of misanthropy and quaint ends of Latin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he is shrewd and sensible, and was bred to business, and, I am sure,
      always loved this family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I believe he did. It is a fine pass we are come to, when the
      affection of an Oldbuck is of consequence to a Wardour! But when matters
      come to extremity, as I suppose they presently will&mdash;it may be as
      well to send for him. And now go take your walk, my dear&mdash;my mind is
      more composed than when I had this cursed disclosure to make. You know the
      worst, and may daily or hourly expect it. Go take your walk&mdash;I would
      willingly be alone for a little while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Miss Wardour left the apartment, her first occupation was to avail
      herself of the half permission granted by her father, by despatching to
      Monkbarns the messenger, who, as we have already seen, met the Antiquary
      and his nephew on the sea-beach.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little recking, and indeed scarce knowing, where she was wandering, chance
      directed her into the walk beneath the Briery Bank, as it was called. A
      brook, which in former days had supplied the castle-moat with water, here
      descended through a narrow dell, up which Miss Wardour&rsquo;s taste had
      directed a natural path, which was rendered neat and easy of ascent,
      without the air of being formally made and preserved. It suited well the
      character of the little glen, which was overhung with thickets and
      underwood, chiefly of larch and hazel, intermixed with the usual varieties
      of the thorn and brier. In this walk had passed that scene of explanation
      between Miss Wardour and Lovel which was overheard by old Edie Ochiltree.
      With a heart softened by the distress which approached her family, Miss
      Wardour now recalled every word and argument which Lovel had urged in
      support of his suit, and could not help confessing to herself, it was no
      small subject of pride to have inspired a young man of his talents with a
      passion so strong and disinterested. That he should have left the pursuit
      of a profession in which he was said to be rapidly rising, to bury himself
      in a disagreeable place like Fairport, and brood over an unrequited
      passion, might be ridiculed by others as romantic, but was naturally
      forgiven as an excess of affection by the person who was the object of his
      attachment. Had he possessed an independence, however moderate, or
      ascertained a clear and undisputed claim to the rank in society he was
      well qualified to adorn, she might now have had it in her power to offer
      her father, during his misfortunes, an asylum in an establishment of her
      own. These thoughts, so favourable to the absent lover, crowded in, one
      after the other, with such a minute recapitulation of his words, looks,
      and actions, as plainly intimated that his former repulse had been
      dictated rather by duty than inclination. Isabella was musing alternately
      upon this subject, and upon that of her father&rsquo;s misfortunes, when, as the
      path winded round a little hillock covered with brushwood, the old
      Blue-Gown suddenly met her.
    </p>
    <p>
      With an air as if he had something important and mysterious to
      communicate, he doffed his bonnet, and assumed the cautious step and voice
      of one who would not willingly be overheard. &ldquo;I hae been wishing muckle to
      meet wi&rsquo; your leddyship&mdash;for ye ken I darena come to the house for
      Dousterswivel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard indeed,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, dropping an alms into the bonnet&mdash;&ldquo;I
      heard that you had done a very foolish, if not a very bad thing, Edie&mdash;
      and I was sorry to hear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hout, my bonny leddy&mdash;fulish? A&rsquo; the world&rsquo;s fules&mdash;and how
      should auld Edie Ochiltree be aye wise?&mdash;And for the evil&mdash;let
      them wha deal wi&rsquo; Dousterswivel tell whether he gat a grain mair than his
      deserts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That may be true, Edie, and yet,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, &ldquo;you may have been
      very wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weel, weel, we&rsquo;se no dispute that e&rsquo;ennow&mdash;it&rsquo;s about yoursell I&rsquo;m
      gaun to speak. Div ye ken what&rsquo;s hanging ower the house of Knockwinnock?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great distress, I fear, Edie,&rdquo; answered Miss Wardour; &ldquo;but I am surprised
      it is already so public.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Public!&mdash;Sweepclean, the messenger, will be there the day wi&rsquo; a&rsquo; his
      tackle. I ken it frae ane o&rsquo; his concurrents, as they ca&rsquo; them, that&rsquo;s
      warned to meet him; and they&rsquo;ll be about their wark belyve; whare they
      clip, there needs nae kame&mdash;they shear close eneugh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure this bad hour, Edie, is so very near?&mdash;come, I know, it
      will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s e&rsquo;en as I tell you, leddy. But dinna be cast down&mdash;there&rsquo;s a
      heaven ower your head here, as weel as in that fearful night atween the
      Ballyburghness and the Halket-head. D&rsquo;ye think He, wha rebuked the waters,
      canna protect you against the wrath of men, though they be armed with
      human authority?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is indeed all we have to trust to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye dinna ken&mdash;ye dinna ken: when the night&rsquo;s darkest, the dawn&rsquo;s
      nearest. If I had a gude horse, or could ride him when I had him, I reckon
      there wad be help yet. I trusted to hae gotten a cast wi&rsquo; the Royal
      Charlotte, but she&rsquo;s coupit yonder, it&rsquo;s like, at Kittlebrig. There was a
      young gentleman on the box, and he behuved to drive; and Tam Sang, that
      suld hae mair sense, he behuved to let him, and the daft callant couldna
      tak the turn at the corner o&rsquo; the brig; and od! he took the curbstane, and
      he&rsquo;s whomled her as I wad whomle a toom bicker&mdash;it was a luck I hadna
      gotten on the tap o&rsquo; her. Sae I came down atween hope and despair, to see
      if ye wad send me on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Edie&mdash;where would ye go?&rdquo; said the young lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Tannonburgh, my leddy&rdquo; (which was the first stage from Fairport, but a
      good deal nearer to Knockwinnock), &ldquo;and that without delay&mdash;it&rsquo;s a&rsquo; 
      on your ain business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our business, Edie? Alas! I give you all credit for your good meaning;
      but&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nae <i>buts</i> about it, my leddy, for gang I maun,&rdquo; said the
      persevering Blue-Gown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what is it that you would do at Tannonburgh?&mdash;or how can your
      going there benefit my father&rsquo;s affairs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, my sweet leddy,&rdquo; said the gaberlunzie, &ldquo;ye maun just trust that
      bit secret to auld Edie&rsquo;s grey pow, and ask nae questions about it.
      Certainly if I wad hae wared my life for you yon night, I can hae nae
      reason to play an ill pliskie t&rsquo;ye in the day o&rsquo; your distress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Edie, follow me then,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, &ldquo;and I will try to get
      you sent to Tannonburgh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mak haste then, my bonny leddy&mdash;mak haste, for the love o&rsquo; 
      goodness!&rdquo;&mdash; and he continued to exhort her to expedition until they
      reached the Castle.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.
    </h2>
<pre>
               Let those go see who will&mdash;I like it not&mdash;
               For, say he was a slave to rank and pomp,
               And all the nothings he is now divorced from
                 By the hard doom of stern necessity:
                 Yet it is sad to mark his altered brow,
                 Where Vanity adjusts her flimsy veil
               O&rsquo;er the deep wrinkles of repentant anguish.
                                         Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      When Miss Wardour arrived in the court of the Castle, she was apprized by
      the first glance that the visit of the officers of the law had already
      taken place. There was confusion, and gloom and sorrow, and curiosity
      among the domestics, while the retainers of the law went from place to
      place, making an inventory of the goods and chattels falling under their
      warrant of distress, or poinding, as it is called in the law of Scotland.
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre flew to her, as, struck dumb with the melancholy
      conviction of her father&rsquo;s ruin, she paused upon the threshold of the
      gateway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Miss Wardour,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;do not make yourself uneasy; my uncle is
      coming immediately, and I am sure he will find some way to clear the house
      of these rascals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, I fear it will be too late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Edie, impatiently&mdash;&ldquo;could I but get to Tannonburgh. In
      the name of Heaven, Captain, contrive some way to get me on, and ye&rsquo;ll do
      this poor ruined family the best day&rsquo;s doing that has been done them since
      Redhand&rsquo;s days&mdash;for as sure as e&rsquo;er an auld saw came true,
      Knockwinnock house and land will be lost and won this day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what good can you do, old man?&rdquo; said Hector.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Robert, the domestic with whom Sir Arthur had been so much displeased
      in the morning, as if he had been watching for an opportunity to display
      his zeal, stepped hastily forward and said to his mistress, &ldquo;If you
      please, ma&rsquo;am, this auld man, Ochiltree, is very skeely and auld-farrant
      about mony things, as the diseases of cows and horse, and sic like, and I
      am sure be disna want to be at Tannonburgh the day for naething, since he
      insists on&rsquo;t this gate; and, if your leddyship pleases, I&rsquo;ll drive him
      there in the taxed-cart in an hour&rsquo;s time. I wad fain be of some use&mdash;I
      could bite my very tongue out when I think on this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am obliged to you, Robert,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour; &ldquo;and if you really think
      it has the least chance of being useful&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of God,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;yoke the cart, Robie, and if I am
      no o&rsquo; some use, less or mair, I&rsquo;ll gie ye leave to fling me ower
      Kittlebrig as ye come back again. But, O man, haste ye, for time&rsquo;s
      precious this day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Robert looked at his mistress as she retired into the house, and seeing he
      was not prohibited, flew to the stable-yard, which was adjacent to the
      court, in order to yoke the carriage; for, though an old beggar was the
      personage least likely to render effectual assistance in a case of
      pecuniary distress, yet there was among the common people of Edie&rsquo;s
      circle, a general idea of his prudence and sagacity, which authorized
      Robert&rsquo;s conclusion that he would not so earnestly have urged the
      necessity of this expedition had he not been convinced of its utility. But
      so soon as the servant took hold of a horse to harness him for the
      taxed-cart, an officer touched him on the shoulder&mdash;&ldquo;My friend, you
      must let that beast alone&mdash;he&rsquo;s down in the schedule.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said Robert, &ldquo;am I not to take my master&rsquo;s horse to go my young
      leddy&rsquo;s errand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must remove nothing here,&rdquo; said the man of office, &ldquo;or you will be
      liable for all consequences.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil, sir,&rdquo; said Hector, who having followed to examine
      Ochiltree more closely on the nature of his hopes and expectations,
      already began to bristle like one of the terriers of his own native
      mountains, and sought but a decent pretext for venting his displeasure,
      &ldquo;have you the impudence to prevent the young lady&rsquo;s servant from obeying
      her orders?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something in the air and tone of the young soldier, which seemed
      to argue that his interference was not likely to be confined to mere
      expostulation; and which, if it promised finally the advantages of a
      process of battery and deforcement, would certainly commence with the
      unpleasant circumstances necessary for founding such a complaint. The
      legal officer, confronted with him of the military, grasped with one
      doubtful hand the greasy bludgeon which was to enforce his authority, and
      with the other produced his short official baton, tipped with silver, and
      having a movable ring upon it&mdash;&ldquo;Captain M&rsquo;Intyre,&mdash;Sir, I have
      no quarrel with you,&mdash;but if you interrupt me in my duty, I will
      break the wand of peace, and declare myself deforced.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who the devil cares,&rdquo; said Hector, totally ignorant of the words of
      judicial action, &ldquo;whether you declare yourself divorced or married? And as
      to breaking your wand, or breaking the peace, or whatever you call it, all
      I know is, that I will break your bones if you prevent the lad from
      harnessing the horses to obey his mistress&rsquo;s orders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I take all who stand here to witness,&rdquo; said the messenger, &ldquo;that I showed
      him my blazon, and explained my character. He that will to Cupar maun to
      Cupar,&rdquo;&mdash;and he slid his enigmatical ring from one end of the baton
      to the other, being the appropriate symbol of his having been forcibly
      interrupted in the discharge of his duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Honest Hector, better accustomed to the artillery of the field than to
      that of the law, saw this mystical ceremony with great indifference; and
      with like unconcern beheld the messenger sit down to write out an
      execution of deforcement. But at this moment, to prevent the well-meaning
      hot-headed Highlander from running the risk of a severe penalty, the
      Antiquary arrived puffing and blowing, with his handkerchief crammed under
      his hat, and his wig upon the end of his stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the deuce is the matter here?&rdquo; he exclaimed, hastily adjusting his
      head-gear; &ldquo;I have been following you in fear of finding your idle
      loggerhead knocked against one rock or other, and here I find you parted
      with your Bucephalus, and quarrelling with Sweepclean. A messenger,
      Hector, is a worse foe than a <i>phoca,</i> whether it be the <i>phoca
      barbata,</i> or the <i>phoca vitulina</i> of your late conflict.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;n the <i>phoca,</i> sir,&rdquo; said Hector, &ldquo;whether it be the one or
      the other&mdash;I say d&mdash;n them both particularly! I think you would
      not have me stand quietly by and see a scoundrel like this, because he
      calls himself a king&rsquo;s messenger, forsooth&mdash;(I hope the king has many
      better for his meanest errands)&mdash;insult a young lady of family and
      fashion like Miss Wardour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rightly argued, Hector,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;but the king, like other
      people, has now and then shabby errands, and, in your ear, must have
      shabby fellows to do them. But even supposing you unacquainted with the
      statutes of William the Lion, in which <i>capite quarto versu quinto,</i>
      this crime of deforcement is termed <i>despectus Domini Regis</i>&mdash;a
      contempt, to wit, of the king himself, in whose name all legal diligence
      issues,&mdash; could you not have inferred, from the information I took so
      much pains to give you to-day, that those who interrupt officers who come
      to execute letters of caption, are <i>tanquam participes criminis
      rebellionis?</i> seeing that he who aids a rebel, is himself, <i>quodammodo,</i>
      an accessory to rebellion&mdash;But I&rsquo;ll bring you out of this scrape.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then spoke to the messenger, who, upon his arrival, had laid aside all
      thoughts of making a good by-job out of the deforcement, and accepted Mr.
      Oldbuck&rsquo;s assurances that the horse and taxed-cart should be safely
      returned in the course of two or three hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, sir,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;since you are disposed to be so
      civil, you shall have another job in your own best way&mdash;a little cast
      of state politics&mdash;a crime punishable <i>per Legem Juliam,</i> Mr.
      Sweepclean&mdash; Hark thee hither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And after a whisper of five minutes, he gave him a slip of paper, on
      receiving which, the messenger mounted his horse, and, with one of his
      assistants, rode away pretty sharply. The fellow who remained seemed to
      delay his operations purposely, proceeded in the rest of his duty very
      slowly, and with the caution and precision of one who feels himself
      overlooked by a skilful and severe inspector.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime, Oldbuck, taking his nephew by the arm, led him into the
      house, and they were ushered into the presence of Sir Arthur Wardour, who,
      in a flutter between wounded pride, agonized apprehension, and vain
      attempts to disguise both under a show of indifference, exhibited a
      spectacle of painful interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Happy to see you, Mr. Oldbuck&mdash;always happy to see my friends in
      fair weather or foul,&rdquo; said the poor Baronet, struggling not for
      composure, but for gaiety&mdash;an affectation which was strongly
      contrasted by the nervous and protracted grasp of his hand, and the
      agitation of his whole demeanour&mdash;&ldquo;I am happy to see you. You are
      riding, I see&mdash;I hope in this confusion your horses are taken good
      care of&mdash;I always like to have my friend&rsquo;s horses looked after&mdash;Egad!
      they will have all my care now, for you see they are like to leave me none
      of my own&mdash;he! he! he! eh, Mr. Oldbuck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This attempt at a jest was attended by a hysterical giggle, which poor Sir
      Arthur intended should sound as an indifferent laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know I never ride, Sir Arthur,&rdquo; said the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon; but sure I saw your nephew arrive on horseback a short
      time since. We must look after officers&rsquo; horses, and his was as handsome a
      grey charger as I have seen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur was about to ring the bell, when Mr. Oldbuck said, &ldquo;My nephew
      came on your own grey horse, Sir Arthur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine!&rdquo; said the poor Baronet; &ldquo;mine was it? then the sun had been in my
      eyes. Well, I&rsquo;m not worthy having a horse any longer, since I don&rsquo;t know
      my own when I see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Heaven!&rdquo; thought Oldbuck, &ldquo;how is this man altered from the formal
      stolidity of his usual manner!&mdash;he grows wanton under adversity&mdash;<i>Sed
      pereunti mille figurae.</i>&rdquo;&mdash;He then proceeded aloud&mdash;&ldquo;Sir
      Arthur, we must necessarily speak a little on business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur; &ldquo;but it was so good that I should not know
      the horse I have ridden these five years&mdash;ha! ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir Arthur,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t let us waste time which is
      precious; we shall have, I hope, many better seasons for jesting&mdash; <i>desipere
      in loco</i> is the maxim of Horace. I more than suspect this has been
      brought on by the villany of Dousterswivel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t mention his name, sir!&rdquo; said Sir Arthur; and his manner entirely
      changed from a fluttered affectation of gaiety to all the agitation of
      fury; his eyes sparkled, his mouth foamed, his hands were clenched&mdash;
      &ldquo;don&rsquo;t mention his name, sir,&rdquo; he vociferated, &ldquo;unless you would see me go
      mad in your presence! That I should have been such a miserable dolt&mdash;
      such an infatuated idiot&mdash;such a beast endowed with thrice a beast&rsquo;s
      stupidity, to be led and driven and spur-galled by such a rascal, and
      under such ridiculous pretences!&mdash;Mr. Oldbuck, I could tear myself
      when I think of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only meant to say,&rdquo; answered the Antiquary, &ldquo;that this fellow is like
      to meet his reward; and I cannot but think we shall frighten something out
      of him that may be of service to you. He has certainly had some unlawful
      correspondence on the other side of the water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he?&mdash;has he?&mdash;has he indeed?&mdash;then d&mdash;n the
      house-hold goods, horses, and so forth&mdash;I will go to prison a happy
      man, Mr. Oldbuck. I hope in heaven there&rsquo;s a reasonable chance of his
      being hanged?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, pretty fair,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, willing to encourage this diversion, in
      hopes it might mitigate the feelings which seemed like to overset the poor
      man&rsquo;s understanding; &ldquo;honester men have stretched a rope, or the law has
      been sadly cheated&mdash;But this unhappy business of yours&mdash;can
      nothing be done? Let me see the charge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took the papers; and, as he read them, his countenance grew hopelessly
      dark and disconsolate. Miss Wardour had by this time entered the
      apartment, and fixing her eyes on Mr. Oldbuck, as if she meant to read her
      fate in his looks, easily perceived, from the change in his eye, and the
      dropping of his nether-jaw, how little was to be hoped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are then irremediably ruined, Mr. Oldbuck?&rdquo; said the young lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Irremediably?&mdash;I hope not&mdash;but the instant demand is very
      large, and others will, doubtless, pour in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, never doubt that, Monkbarns,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur; &ldquo;where the slaughter
      is, the eagles will be gathered together. I am like a sheep which I have
      seen fall down a precipice, or drop down from sickness&mdash;if you had
      not seen a single raven or hooded crow for a fortnight before, he will not
      lie on the heather ten minutes before half-a-dozen will be picking out his
      eyes (and he drew his hand over his own), and tearing at his heartstrings
      before the poor devil has time to die. But that d&mdash;d long-scented
      vulture that dogged me so long&mdash;you have got him fast, I hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fast enough,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;the gentleman wished to take the wings
      of the morning, and bolt in the what d&rsquo;ye call it,&mdash;the coach and
      four there. But he would have found twigs limed for him at Edinburgh. As
      it is, he never got so far, for the coach being overturned&mdash;as how
      could it go safe with such a Jonah?&mdash;he has had an infernal tumble,
      is carried into a cottage near Kittlebrig, and to prevent all possibility
      of escape, I have sent your friend Sweepclean to bring him back to
      Fairport <i>in nomine regis,</i> or to act as his sick-nurse at
      Kittlebrig, as is most fitting. And now, Sir Arthur, permit me to have
      some conversation with you on the present unpleasant state of your
      affairs, that we may see what can be done for their extrication;&rdquo; and the
      Antiquary led the way into the library, followed by the unfortunate
      gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had been shut up together for about two hours, when Miss Wardour
      interrupted them with her cloak on as if prepared for a journey. Her
      countenance was very pale, yet expressive of the composure which
      characterized her disposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The messenger is returned, Mr. Oldbuck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Returned?&mdash;What the devil! he has not let the fellow go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;I understand he has carried him to confinement; and now he is
      returned to attend my father, and says he can wait no longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A loud wrangling was now heard on the staircase, in which the voice of
      Hector predominated. &ldquo;You an officer, sir, and these ragamuffins a party!
      a parcel of beggarly tailor fellows&mdash;tell yourselves off by nine, and
      we shall know your effective strength.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The grumbling voice of the man of law was then heard indistinctly
      muttering a reply, to which Hector retorted&mdash;&ldquo;Come, come, sir, this
      won&rsquo;t do;&mdash;march your party, as you call them, out of this house
      directly, or I&rsquo;ll send you and them to the right about presently.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil take Hector,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, hastening to the scene of
      action; &ldquo;his Highland blood is up again, and we shall have him fighting a
      duel with the bailiff. Come, Mr. Sweepclean, you must give us a little
      time&mdash;I know you would not wish to hurry Sir Arthur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By no means, sir,&rdquo; said the messenger, putting his hat off, which he had
      thrown on to testify defiance of Captain M&rsquo;Intyre&rsquo;s threats; &ldquo;but your
      nephew, sir, holds very uncivil language, and I have borne too much of it
      already; and I am not justified in leaving my prisoner any longer after
      the instructions I received, unless I am to get payment of the sums
      contained in my diligence.&rdquo; And he held out the caption, pointing with the
      awful truncheon, which he held in his right hand, to the formidable line
      of figures jotted upon the back thereof.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hector, on the other hand, though silent from respect to his uncle,
      answered this gesture by shaking his clenched fist at the messenger with a
      frown of Highland wrath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foolish boy, be quiet,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;and come with me into the room&mdash;
      the man is doing his miserable duty, and you will only make matters worse
      by opposing him.&mdash;I fear, Sir Arthur, you must accompany this man to
      Fairport; there is no help for it in the first instance&mdash;I will
      accompany you, to consult what further can be done&mdash;My nephew will
      escort Miss Wardour to Monkbarns, which I hope she will make her residence
      until these unpleasant matters are settled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I go with my father, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour firmly&mdash;&ldquo;I have
      prepared his clothes and my own&mdash;I suppose we shall have the use of
      the carriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything in reason, madam,&rdquo; said the messenger; &ldquo;I have ordered it out,
      and it&rsquo;s at the door&mdash;I will go on the box with the coachman&mdash;I
      have no desire to intrude&mdash;but two of the concurrents must attend on
      horseback.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will attend too,&rdquo; said Hector, and he ran down to secure a horse for
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must go then,&rdquo; said the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To jail,&rdquo; said the Baronet, sighing involuntarily. &ldquo;And what of that?&rdquo; he
      resumed, in a tone affectedly cheerful&mdash;&ldquo;it is only a house we can&rsquo;t
      get out of, after all&mdash;Suppose a fit of the gout, and Knockwinnock
      would be the same&mdash;Ay, ay, Monkbarns&mdash;we&rsquo;ll call it a fit of the
      gout without the d&mdash;d pain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his eyes swelled with tears as he spoke, and his faltering accent
      marked how much this assumed gaiety cost him. The Antiquary wrung his
      hand, and, like the Indian Banians, who drive the real terms of an
      important bargain by signs, while they are apparently talking of
      indifferent matters, the hand of Sir Arthur, by its convulsive return of
      the grasp, expressed his sense of gratitude to his friend, and the real
      state of his internal agony.&mdash;They stepped slowly down the
      magnificent staircase&mdash;every well-known object seeming to the
      unfortunate father and daughter to assume a more prominent and distinct
      appearance than usual, as if to press themselves on their notice for the
      last time.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the first landing-place, Sir Arthur made an agonized pause; and as he
      observed the Antiquary look at him anxiously, he said with assumed dignity&mdash;&ldquo;Yes,
      Mr. Oldbuck, the descendant of an ancient line&mdash;the representative of
      Richard Redhand and Gamelyn de Guardover, may be pardoned a sigh when he
      leaves the castle of his fathers thus poorly escorted. When I was sent to
      the Tower with my late father, in the year 1745, it was upon a charge
      becoming our birth&mdash;upon an accusation of high treason, Mr. Oldbuck;&mdash;we
      were escorted from Highgate by a troop of life-guards, and committed upon
      a secretary of state&rsquo;s warrant; and now, here I am, in my old age, dragged
      from my household by a miserable creature like that&rdquo; (pointing to the
      messenger), &ldquo;and for a paltry concern of pounds, shillings, and pence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;you have now the company of a dutiful daughter,
      and a sincere friend, if you will permit me to say so, and that may be
      some consolation, even without the certainty that there can be no hanging,
      drawing, or quartering, on the present occasion. But I hear that choleric
      boy as loud as ever. I hope to God he has got into no new broil!&mdash;it
      was an accursed chance that brought him here at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In fact, a sudden clamour, in which the loud voice and somewhat northern
      accent of Hector was again preeminently distinguished, broke off this
      conversation. The cause we must refer to the next CHAPTER.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.
    </h2>
<pre>
           Fortune, you say, flies from us&mdash;She but circles,
           Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler&rsquo;s skiff,&mdash;
               Lost in the mist one moment, and the next
               Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing,
               As if to court the aim.&mdash;Experience watches,
                                And has her on the wheel&mdash;
                                               Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      The shout of triumph in Hector&rsquo;s warlike tones was not easily
      distinguished from that of battle. But as he rushed up stairs with a
      packet in his hand, exclaiming, &ldquo;Long life to an old soldier! here comes
      Edie with a whole budget of good news!&rdquo; it became obvious that his present
      cause of clamour was of an agreeable nature. He delivered the letter to
      Oldbuck, shook Sir Arthur heartily by the hand, and wished Miss Wardour
      joy, with all the frankness of Highland congratulation. The messenger, who
      had a kind of instinctive terror for Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, drew towards his
      prisoner, keeping an eye of caution on the soldier&rsquo;s motions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t suppose I shall trouble myself about you, you dirty fellow,&rdquo; said
      the soldier; &ldquo;there&rsquo;s a guinea for the fright I have given you; and here
      comes an old <i>forty-two</i> man, who is a fitter match for you than I
      am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The messenger (one of those dogs who are not too scornful to eat dirty
      puddings) caught in his hand the guinea which Hector chucked at his face;
      and abode warily and carefully the turn which matters were now to take.
      All voices meanwhile were loud in inquiries, which no one was in a hurry
      to answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter, Captain M&rsquo;Intyre?&rdquo; said Sir Arthur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask old Edie,&rdquo; said Hector;&mdash;&ldquo;I only know all&rsquo;s safe and well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is all this, Edie?&rdquo; said Miss Wardour to the mendicant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your leddyship maun ask Monkbarns, for he has gotten the yepistolary
      correspondensh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God save the king!&rdquo; exclaimed the Antiquary at the first glance at the
      contents of his packet, and, surprised at once out of decorum, philosophy,
      and phlegm, he skimmed his cocked hat in the air, from which it descended
      not again, being caught in its fall by a branch of the chandelier. He
      next, looking joyously round, laid a grasp on his wig, which he perhaps
      would have sent after the beaver, had not Edie stopped his hand,
      exclaiming &ldquo;Lordsake! he&rsquo;s gaun gyte!&mdash;mind Caxon&rsquo;s no here to repair
      the damage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Every person now assailed the Antiquary, clamouring to know the cause of
      so sudden a transport, when, somewhat ashamed of his rapture, he fairly
      turned tail, like a fox at the cry of a pack of hounds, and ascending the
      stair by two steps at a time, gained the upper landing-place, where,
      turning round, he addressed the astonished audience as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Aimage-0008">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pb271.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="My Good Friends, &lsquo;favete Linguis&rsquo;  "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      &ldquo;My good friends, <i>favete linguis</i>&mdash;To give you information, I
      must first, according to logicians, be possessed of it myself; and,
      therefore, with your leaves, I will retire into the library to examine
      these papers&mdash;Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour will have the goodness to
      step into the parlour&mdash;Mr. Sweepclean, <i>secede paulisper,</i> or,
      in your own language, grant us a supersedere of diligence for five minutes&mdash;Hector,
      draw off your forces, and make your bear-garden flourish elsewhere&mdash;and,
      finally, be all of good cheer till my return, which will be <i>instanter.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The contents of the packet were indeed so little expected, that the
      Antiquary might be pardoned, first his ecstasy, and next his desire of
      delaying to communicate the intelligence they conveyed, until it was
      arranged and digested in his own mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within the envelope was a letter addressed to Jonathan Oldbuck, Esq. of
      Monkbarns, of the following purport:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Sir,&mdash;To you, as my father&rsquo;s proved and valued friend, I
      venture to address myself, being detained here by military duty of a very
      pressing nature. You must by this time be acquainted with the entangled
      state of our affairs; and I know it will give you great pleasure to learn,
      that I am as fortunately as unexpectedly placed in a situation to give
      effectual assistance for extricating them. I understand Sir Arthur is
      threatened with severe measures by persons who acted formerly as his
      agents; and, by advice of a creditable man of business here, I have
      procured the enclosed writing, which I understand will stop their
      proceedings until their claim shall be legally discussed, and brought down
      to its proper amount. I also enclose bills to the amount of one thousand
      pounds to pay any other pressing demands, and request of your friendship
      to apply them according to your discretion. You will be surprised I give
      you this trouble, when it would seem more natural to address my father
      directly in his own affairs. But I have yet had no assurance that his eyes
      are opened to the character of a person against whom you have often, I
      know, warned him, and whose baneful influence has been the occasion of
      these distresses. And as I owe the means of relieving Sir Arthur to the
      generosity of a matchless friend, it is my duty to take the most certain
      measures for the supplies being devoted to the purpose for which they were
      destined,&mdash;and I know your wisdom and kindness will see that it is
      done. My friend, as he claims an interest in your regard, will explain
      some views of his own in the enclosed letter. The state of the post-office
      at Fairport being rather notorious, I must send this letter to
      Tannonburgh; but the old man Ochiltree, whom particular circumstances have
      recommended as trustworthy, has information when the packet is likely to
      reach that place, and will take care to forward it. I expect to have soon
      an opportunity to apologize in person for the trouble I now give, and have
      the honour to be your very faithful servant,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reginald Gamelyn Wardour.&rdquo; &ldquo;Edinburgh, 6th August, 179-.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary hastily broke the seal of the enclosure, the contents of
      which gave him equal surprise and pleasure. When he had in some measure
      composed himself after such unexpected tidings, he inspected the other
      papers carefully, which all related to business&mdash;put the bills into
      his pocket-book, and wrote a short acknowledgment to be despatched by that
      day&rsquo;s post, for he was extremely methodical in money matters&mdash;and
      lastly, fraught with all the importance of disclosure, he descended to the
      parlour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sweepclean,&rdquo; said he, as he entered, to the officer who stood
      respectfully at the door, &ldquo;you must sweep yourself clean out of
      Knockwinnock Castle, with all your followers, tag-rag and bob-tail. Seest
      thou this paper, man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A sist on a bill o&rsquo; suspension,&rdquo; said the messenger, with a disappointed
      look;&mdash;&ldquo;I thought it would be a queer thing if ultimate diligence was
      to be done against sic a gentleman as Sir Arthur&mdash;Weel, sir, I&rsquo;se go
      my ways with my party&mdash;And who&rsquo;s to pay my charges?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They who employed thee,&rdquo; replied Oldbuck, &ldquo;as thou full well dost know.&mdash;But
      here comes another express: this is a day of news, I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was Mr. Mailsetter on his mare from Fairport, with a letter for Sir
      Arthur, another to the messenger, both of which, he said, he was directed
      to forward instantly. The messenger opened his, observing that Greenhorn
      and Grinderson were good enough men for his expenses, and here was a
      letter from them desiring him to stop the diligence. Accordingly, he
      immediately left the apartment, and staying no longer than to gather his
      posse together, he did then, in the phrase of Hector, who watched his
      departure as a jealous mastiff eyes the retreat of a repulsed beggar,
      evacuate Flanders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur&rsquo;s letter was from Mr. Greenhorn, and a curiosity in its way. We
      give it, with the worthy Baronet&rsquo;s comments.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir&mdash;[Oh! I am <i>dear</i> sir no longer; folks are only dear to
      Messrs. Greenhorn and Grinderson when they are in adversity]&mdash;Sir, I
      am much concerned to learn, on my return from the country, where I was
      called on particular business [a bet on the sweepstakes, I suppose], that
      my partner had the impropriety, in my absence, to undertake the concerns
      of Messrs. Goldiebirds in preference to yours, and had written to you in
      an unbecoming manner. I beg to make my most humble apology, as well as Mr.
      Grindersons&mdash;[come, I see he can write for himself and partner too]&mdash;and
      trust it is impossible you can think me forgetful of, or ungrateful for,
      the constant patronage which my family [<i>his</i> family! curse him for a
      puppy!] have uniformly experienced from that of Knockwinnock. I am sorry
      to find, from an interview I had this day with Mr. Wardour, that he is
      much irritated, and, I must own, with apparent reason. But in order to
      remedy as much as in me lies the mistake of which he complains [pretty
      mistake, indeed! to clap his patron into jail], I have sent this express
      to discharge all proceedings against your person or property; and at the
      same time to transmit my respectful apology. I have only to add, that Mr.
      Grinderson is of opinion, that if restored to your confidence, he could
      point out circumstances connected with Messrs. Goldiebirds&rsquo; present claim
      which would greatly reduce its amount [so, so, willing to play the rogue
      on either side]; and that there is not the slightest hurry in settling the
      balance of your accompt with us; and that I am, for Mr. G. as well as
      myself, Dear Sir [O ay, he has written himself into an approach to
      familiarity], your much obliged and most humble servant,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert Greenhorn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well said, Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn,&rdquo; said Monkbarns; &ldquo;I see now there is
      some use in having two attorneys in one firm. Their movements resemble
      those of the man and woman in a Dutch baby-house. When it is fair weather
      with the client, out comes the gentleman partner to fawn like a spaniel;
      when it is foul, forth bolts the operative brother to pin like a bull-dog.
      Well, I thank God that my man of business still wears an equilateral
      cocked hat, has a house in the Old Town, is as much afraid of a horse as I
      am myself, plays at golf of a Saturday, goes to the kirk of a Sunday, and,
      in respect he has no partner, hath only his own folly to apologize for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are some writers very honest fellows,&rdquo; said Hector; &ldquo;I should like
      to hear any one say that my cousin, Donald M&rsquo;Intyre, Strathtudlem&rsquo;s
      seventh son (the other six are in the army), is not as honest a fellow&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt, no doubt, Hector, all the M&rsquo;Intyres are so; they have it by
      patent, man&mdash;But I was going to say, that in a profession where
      unbounded trust is necessarily reposed, there is nothing surprising that
      fools should neglect it in their idleness, and tricksters abuse it in
      their knavery. But it is the more to the honour of those (and I will vouch
      for many) who unite integrity with skill and attention, and walk
      honourably upright where there are so many pitfalls and stumbling-blocks
      for those of a different character. To such men their fellow citizens may
      safely entrust the care of protecting their patrimonial rights, and their
      country the more sacred charge of her laws and privileges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are best aff, however, that hae least to do with them,&rdquo; said
      Ochiltree, who had stretched his neck into the parlour door; for the
      general confusion of the family not having yet subsided, the domestics,
      like waves after the fall of a hurricane, had not yet exactly regained
      their due limits, but were roaming wildly through the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha, old Truepenny, art thou there?&rdquo; said the Antiquary. &ldquo;Sir Arthur, let
      me bring in the messenger of good luck, though he is but a lame one. You
      talked of the raven that scented out the slaughter from afar; but here&rsquo;s a
      blue pigeon (somewhat of the oldest and toughest, I grant) who smelled the
      good news six or seven miles off, flew thither in the taxed-cart, and
      returned with the olive branch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye owe it o&rsquo; to puir Robie that drave me;&mdash;puir fallow,&rdquo; said the
      beggar, &ldquo;he doubts he&rsquo;s in disgrace wi&rsquo; my leddy and Sir Arthur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Robert&rsquo;s repentant and bashful face was seen over the mendicant&rsquo;s
      shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In disgrace with me?&rdquo; said Sir Arthur&mdash;&ldquo;how so?&rdquo;&mdash;for the
      irritation into which he had worked himself on occasion of the toast had
      been long forgotten. &ldquo;O, I recollect&mdash;Robert, I was angry, and you
      were wrong;&mdash;go about your work, and never answer a master that
      speaks to you in a passion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor any one else,&rdquo; said the Antiquary; &ldquo;for a soft answer turneth away
      wrath.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And tell your mother, who is so ill with the rheumatism, to come down to
      the housekeeper to-morrow,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, &ldquo;and we will see what can
      be of service to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless your leddyship,&rdquo; said poor Robert, &ldquo;and his honour Sir Arthur,
      and the young laird, and the house of Knockwinnock in a&rsquo; its branches, far
      and near!&mdash;it&rsquo;s been a kind and gude house to the puir this mony
      hundred years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rdquo;&mdash;said the Antiquary to Sir Arthur&mdash;&ldquo;we won&rsquo;t dispute&mdash;but
      there you see the gratitude of the poor people naturally turns to the
      civil virtues of your family. You don&rsquo;t hear them talk of Redhand, or
      Hell-in-Harness. For me, I must say, <i>Odi accipitrem qui semper vivit in
      armis</i>&mdash;so let us eat and drink in peace, and be joyful, Sir
      Knight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A table was quickly covered in the parlour, where the party sat joyously
      down to some refreshment. At the request of Oldbuck, Edie Ochiltree was
      permitted to sit by the sideboard in a great leathern chair, which was
      placed in some measure behind a screen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I accede to this the more readily,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, &ldquo;because I remember
      in my fathers days that chair was occupied by Ailshie Gourlay, who, for
      aught I know, was the last privileged fool, or jester, maintained by any
      family of distinction in Scotland.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel, Sir Arthur,&rdquo; replied the beggar, who never hesitated an instant
      between his friend and his jest, &ldquo;mony a wise man sits in a fule&rsquo;s seat,
      and mony a fule in a wise man&rsquo;s, especially in families o&rsquo; distinction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour, fearing the effect of this speech (however worthy of Ailsbie
      Gourlay, or any other privileged jester) upon the nerves of her father,
      hastened to inquire whether ale and beef should not be distributed to the
      servants and people whom the news had assembled round the Castle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely, my love,&rdquo; said her father; &ldquo;when was it ever otherwise in our
      families when a siege had been raised?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, a siege laid by Saunders Sweepclean the bailiff, and raised by Edie
      Ochiltree the gaberlunzie, <i>par nobile fratrum,</i>&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;and
      well pitted against each other in respectability. But never mind, Sir
      Arthur&mdash; these are such sieges and such reliefs as our time of day
      admits of&mdash;and our escape is not less worth commemorating in a glass
      of this excellent wine&mdash;Upon my credit, it is Burgundy, I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were there anything better in the cellar,&rdquo; said Miss Wardour, &ldquo;it would
      be all too little to regale you after your friendly exertions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say you so?&rdquo; said the Antiquary: &ldquo;why, then, a cup of thanks to you, my
      fair enemy, and soon may you be besieged as ladies love best to be, and
      sign terms of capitulation in the chapel of Saint Winnox!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Wardour blushed&mdash;Hector coloured, and then grew pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur answered, &ldquo;My daughter is much obliged to you, Monkbarns; but
      unless you&rsquo;ll accept of her yourself, I really do not know where a poor
      knight&rsquo;s daughter is to seek for an alliance in these mercenary times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me, mean ye, Sir Arthur? No, not I! I will claim privilege of the duello,
      and, as being unable to encounter my fair enemy myself, I will appear by
      my champion&mdash;But of this matter hereafter. What do you find in the
      papers there, Hector, that you hold your head down over them as if your
      nose were bleeding?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing particular, sir; but only that, as my arm is now almost quite
      well, I think I shall relieve you of my company in a day or two, and go to
      Edinburgh. I see Major Neville is arrived there. I should like to see
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Major whom?&rdquo; said his uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Major Neville, sir,&rdquo; answered the young soldier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who the devil is Major Neville?&rdquo; demanded the Antiquary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Mr. Oldbuck,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur, &ldquo;you must remember his name frequently
      in the newspapers&mdash;a very distinguished young officer indeed. But I
      am happy to say that Mr. M&rsquo;Intyre need not leave Monkbarns to see him, for
      my son writes that the Major is to come with him to Knockwinnock, and I
      need not say how happy I shall be to make the young gentlemen acquainted,&mdash;unless,
      indeed, they are known to each other already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not personally,&rdquo; answered Hector, &ldquo;but I have had occasion to hear a
      good deal of him, and we have several mutual friends&mdash;your son being
      one of them. But I must go to Edinburgh; for I see my uncle is beginning
      to grow tired of me, and I am afraid&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you will grow tired of him?&rdquo; interrupted Oldbuck,&mdash;&ldquo;I fear
      that&rsquo;s past praying for. But you have forgotten that the ecstatic twelfth
      of August approaches, and that you are engaged to meet one of Lord
      Glenallan&rsquo;s gamekeepers, God knows where, to persecute the peaceful
      feathered creation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, true, uncle&mdash;I had forgot that,&rdquo; exclaimed the volatile
      Hector; &ldquo;but you said something just now that put everything out of my
      head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An it like your honours,&rdquo; said old Edie, thrusting his white head from
      behind the screen, where he had been plentifully regaling himself with ale
      and cold meat&mdash;&ldquo;an it like your honours, I can tell ye something that
      will keep the Captain wi&rsquo; us amaist as weel as the pouting&mdash;Hear ye
      na the French are coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The French, you blockhead?&rdquo; answered Oldbuck&mdash;&ldquo;Bah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not had time,&rdquo; said Sir Arthur Wardour, &ldquo;to look over my
      lieutenancy correspondence for the week&mdash;indeed, I generally make a
      rule to read it only on Wednesdays, except in pressing cases,&mdash;for I
      do everything by method; but from the glance I took of my letters, I
      observed some alarm was entertained.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alarm?&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;troth there&rsquo;s alarm, for the provost&rsquo;s gar&rsquo;d the
      beacon light on the Halket-head be sorted up (that suld hae been sorted
      half a year syne) in an unco hurry, and the council hae named nae less a
      man than auld Caxon himsell to watch the light. Some say it was out o&rsquo; 
      compliment to Lieutenant Taffril,&mdash;for it&rsquo;s neist to certain that
      he&rsquo;ll marry Jenny Caxon,&mdash;some say it&rsquo;s to please your honour and
      Monkbarns that wear wigs&mdash;and some say there&rsquo;s some auld story about
      a periwig that ane o&rsquo; the bailies got and neer paid for&mdash;Onyway,
      there he is, sitting cockit up like a skart upon the tap o&rsquo; the craig, to
      skirl when foul weather comes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On mine honour, a pretty warder,&rdquo; said Monkbarns; &ldquo;and what&rsquo;s my wig to
      do all the while?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I asked Caxon that very question,&rdquo; answered Ochiltree, &ldquo;and he said he
      could look in ilka morning, and gie&rsquo;t a touch afore he gaed to his bed,
      for there&rsquo;s another man to watch in the day-time, and Caxon says he&rsquo;ll
      friz your honour&rsquo;s wig as weel sleeping as wauking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This news gave a different turn to the conversation, which ran upon
      national defence, and the duty of fighting for the land we live in, until
      it was time to part. The Antiquary and his nephew resumed their walk
      homeward, after parting from Knockwinnock with the warmest expressions of
      mutual regard, and an agreement to meet again as soon as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.
    </h2>
<pre>
              Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her:
              Shall I look pale because the maiden blooms
              Or sigh because she smiles, and smiles on others
              Not I, by Heaven!&mdash;I hold my peace too dear,
                    To let it, like the plume upon her cap,
             Shake at each nod that her caprice shall dictate.
                                          Old Play.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hector,&rdquo; said his uncle to Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, in the course of their walk
      homeward, &ldquo;I am sometimes inclined to suspect that, in one respect, you
      are a fool.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you only think me so in <i>one</i> respect, sir, I am sure you do me
      more grace than I expected or deserve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean in one particular <i>par excellence,</i>&rdquo; answered the Antiquary.
      &ldquo;I have sometimes thought that you have cast your eyes upon Miss Wardour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said M&rsquo;Intyre, with much composure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; echoed his uncle&mdash;&ldquo;Deuce take the fellow! he answers me
      as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, that he, a captain
      in the army, and nothing at all besides, should marry the daughter of a
      baronet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I presume to think, sir,&rdquo; said the young Highlander, &ldquo;there would be no
      degradation on Miss Wardour&rsquo;s part in point of family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Heaven forbid we should come on that topic!&mdash;No, no, equal both&mdash;both
      on the table-land of gentility, and qualified to look down on every <i>roturier</i>
      in Scotland.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And in point of fortune we are pretty even, since neither of us have got
      any,&rdquo; continued Hector. &ldquo;There may be an error, but I cannot plead guilty
      to presumption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But here lies the error, then, if you call it so,&rdquo; replied his uncle:
      &ldquo;she won&rsquo;t have you, Hector.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very sure, Hector; and to make it double sure, I must inform you
      that she likes another man. She misunderstood some words I once said to
      her, and I have since been able to guess at the interpretation she put on
      them. At the time I was unable to account for her hesitation and blushing;
      but, my poor Hector, I now understand them as a death-signal to your hopes
      and pretensions. So I advise you to beat your retreat and draw off your
      forces as well as you can, for the fort is too well garrisoned for you to
      storm it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no occasion to beat any retreat, uncle,&rdquo; said Hector, holding
      himself very upright, and marching with a sort of dogged and offended
      solemnity; &ldquo;no man needs to retreat that has never advanced. There are
      women in Scotland besides Miss Wardour, of as good family&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And better taste,&rdquo; said his uncle; &ldquo;doubtless there are, Hector; and
      though I cannot say but that she is one of the most accomplished as well
      as sensible girls I have seen, yet I doubt, much of her merit would be
      cast away on you. A showy figure, now, with two cross feathers above her
      noddle&mdash;one green, one blue; who would wear a riding-habit of the
      regimental complexion, drive a gig one day, and the next review the
      regiment on the grey trotting pony which dragged that vehicle, <i>hoc erat
      in votis;</i>&mdash;these are the qualities that would subdue you,
      especially if she had a taste for natural history, and loved a specimen of
      a <i>phoca.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a little hard, sir,&rdquo; said Hector, &ldquo;I must have that cursed seal
      thrown into my face on all occasions&mdash;but I care little about it&mdash;and
      I shall not break my heart for Miss Wardour. She is free to choose for
      herself, and I wish her all happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Magnanimously resolved, thou prop of Troy! Why, Hector, I was afraid of a
      scene. Your sister told me you were desperately in love with Miss
      Wardour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; answered the young man, &ldquo;you would not have me desperately in love
      with a woman that does not care about me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, nephew,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, more seriously, &ldquo;there is doubtless
      much sense in what you say; yet I would have given a great deal, some
      twenty or twenty-five years since, to have been able to think as you do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anybody, I suppose, may think as they please on such subjects,&rdquo; said
      Hector.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not according to the old school,&rdquo; said Oldbuck; &ldquo;but, as I said before,
      the practice of the modern seems in this case the most prudential, though,
      I think, scarcely the most interesting. But tell me your ideas now on this
      prevailing subject of an invasion. The cry is still, They come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hector, swallowing his mortification, which he was peculiarly anxious to
      conceal from his uncle&rsquo;s satirical observation, readily entered into a
      conversation which was to turn the Antiquary&rsquo;s thoughts from Miss Wardour
      and the seal. When they reached Monkbarns, the communicating to the ladies
      the events which had taken place at the castle, with the
      counter-information of how long dinner had waited before the womankind had
      ventured to eat it in the Antiquary&rsquo;s absence, averted these delicate
      topics of discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning the Antiquary arose early, and, as Caxon had not yet made
      his appearance, he began mentally to feel the absence of the petty news
      and small talk of which the ex-peruquier was a faithful reporter, and
      which habit had made as necessary to the Antiquary as his occasional pinch
      of snuff, although he held, or affected to hold, both to be of the same
      intrinsic value. The feeling of vacuity peculiar to such a deprivation,
      was alleviated by the appearance of old Ochiltree, sauntering beside the
      clipped yew and holly hedges, with the air of a person quite at home.
      Indeed, so familiar had he been of late, that even Juno did not bark at
      him, but contented herself with watching him with a close and vigilant
      eye. Our Antiquary stepped out in his night-gown, and instantly received
      and returned his greeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are coming now, in good earnest, Monkbarns. I just cam frae Fairport
      to bring ye the news, and then I&rsquo;ll step away back again. The Search has
      just come into the bay, and they say she&rsquo;s been chased by a French fleet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Search?&rdquo; said Oldbuck, reflecting a moment. &ldquo;Oho!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, Captain Taffril&rsquo;s gun-brig, the Search.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? any relation to <i>Search, No. II.?</i>&rdquo; said Oldbuck, catching at
      the light which the name of the vessel seemed to throw on the mysterious
      chest of treasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mendicant, like a man detected in a frolic, put his bonnet before his
      face, yet could not help laughing heartily.&mdash;&ldquo;The deil&rsquo;s in you,
      Monkbarns, for garring odds and evens meet. Wha thought ye wad hae laid
      that and that thegither? Od, I am clean catch&rsquo;d now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see it all,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;as plain as the legend on a medal of high
      preservation&mdash;the box in which the&rsquo; bullion was found belonged to the
      gun-brig, and the treasure to my phoenix?&rdquo;&mdash;(Edie nodded assent),&mdash;&ldquo;and
      was buried there that Sir Arthur might receive relief in his
      difficulties?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By me,&rdquo; said Edie, &ldquo;and twa o&rsquo; the brig&rsquo;s men&mdash;but they didna ken
      its contents, and thought it some bit smuggling concern o&rsquo; the Captain&rsquo;s.
      I watched day and night till I saw it in the right hand; and then, when
      that German deevil was glowering at the lid o&rsquo; the kist (they liked mutton
      weel that licked where the yowe lay), I think some Scottish deevil put it
      into my head to play him yon ither cantrip. Now, ye see, if I had said
      mair or less to Bailie Littlejohn, I behoved till hae come out wi&rsquo; a&rsquo; this
      story; and vexed would Mr. Lovel hae been to have it brought to light&mdash;sae
      I thought I would stand to onything rather than that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must say he has chosen his confidant well,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;though
      somewhat strangely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll say this for mysell, Monkbarns,&rdquo; answered the mendicant, &ldquo;that I am
      the fittest man in the haill country to trust wi&rsquo; siller, for I neither
      want it, nor wish for it, nor could use it if I had it. But the lad hadna
      muckle choice in the matter, for he thought he was leaving the country for
      ever (I trust he&rsquo;s mistaen in that though); and the night was set in when
      we learned, by a strange chance, Sir Arthur&rsquo;s sair distress, and Lovel was
      obliged to be on board as the day dawned. But five nights afterwards the
      brig stood into the bay, and I met the boat by appointment, and we buried
      the treasure where ye fand it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This was a very romantic, foolish exploit,&rdquo; said Oldbuck: &ldquo;why not trust
      me, or any other friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The blood o&rsquo; your sister&rsquo;s son,&rdquo; replied Edie, &ldquo;was on his hands, and him
      maybe dead outright&mdash;what time had he to take counsel?&mdash;or how
      could he ask it of you, by onybody?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right. But what if Dousterswivel had come before you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was little fear o&rsquo; his coming there without Sir Arthur: he had
      gotten a sair gliff the night afore, and never intended to look near the
      place again, unless he had been brought there sting and ling. He ken&rsquo;d
      weel the first pose was o&rsquo; his ain hiding, and how could he expect a
      second? He just havered on about it to make the mair o&rsquo; Sir Arthur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then how,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;should Sir Arthur have come there unless the
      German had brought him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Umph!&rdquo; answered Edie drily. &ldquo;I had a story about Misticot wad hae brought
      him forty miles, or you either. Besides, it was to be thought he would be
      for visiting the place he fand the first siller in&mdash;he ken&rsquo;d na the
      secret o&rsquo; that job. In short, the siller being in this shape, Sir Arthur
      in utter difficulties, and Lovel determined he should never ken the hand
      that helped him,&mdash;for that was what he insisted maist upon,&mdash;we
      couldna think o&rsquo; a better way to fling the gear in his gate, though we
      simmered it and wintered it e&rsquo;er sae lang. And if by ony queer mischance
      Doustercivil had got his claws on&rsquo;t, I was instantly to hae informed you
      or the Sheriff o&rsquo; the haill story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, notwithstanding all these wise precautions, I think your
      contrivance succeeded better than such a clumsy one deserved, Edie. But
      how the deuce came Lovel by such a mass of silver ingots?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what I canna tell ye&mdash;But they were put on board wi&rsquo; his
      things at Fairport, it&rsquo;s like, and we stowed them into ane o&rsquo; the
      ammunition-boxes o&rsquo; the brig, baith for concealment and convenience of
      carriage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord!&rdquo; said Oldbuck, his recollection recurring to the earlier part of
      his acquaintance with Lovel; &ldquo;and this young fellow, who was putting
      hundreds on so strange a hazard, I must be recommending a subscription to
      him, and paying his bill at the Ferry! I never will pay any person&rsquo;s bill
      again, that&rsquo;s certain.&mdash;And you kept up a constant correspondence
      with Lovel, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I just gat ae bit scrape o&rsquo; a pen frae him, to say there wad, as
      yesterday fell, be a packet at Tannonburgh, wi&rsquo; letters o&rsquo; great
      consequence to the Knockwinnock folk; for they jaloused the opening of our
      letters at Fairport&mdash;And that&rsquo;s a&rsquo;s true; I hear Mrs. Mailsetter is
      to lose her office for looking after other folk&rsquo;s business and neglecting
      her ain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what do you expect now, Edie, for being the adviser, and messenger,
      and guard, and confidential person in all these matters?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deil haet do I expect&mdash;excepting that a&rsquo; the gentles will come to
      the gaberlunzie&rsquo;s burial; and maybe ye&rsquo;ll carry the head yoursell, as ye
      did puir Steenie Mucklebackit&rsquo;s.&mdash;What trouble was&rsquo;t to me? I was
      ganging about at ony rate&mdash;Oh, but I was blythe when I got out of
      Prison, though; for I thought, what if that weary letter should come when
      I am closed up here like an oyster, and a&rsquo; should gang wrang for want o&rsquo;t?
      and whiles I thought I maun mak a clean breast and tell you a&rsquo; about it;
      but then I couldna weel do that without contravening Mr. Lovel&rsquo;s positive
      orders; and I reckon he had to see somebody at Edinburgh afore he could do
      what he wussed to do for Sir Arthur and his family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and to your public news, Edie&mdash;So they are still coming are
      they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth they say sae, sir; and there&rsquo;s come down strict orders for the
      forces and volunteers to be alert; and there&rsquo;s a clever young officer to
      come here forthwith, to look at our means o&rsquo; defence&mdash;I saw the
      Bailies lass cleaning his belts and white breeks&mdash;I gae her a hand,
      for ye maun think she wasna ower clever at it, and sae I gat a&rsquo; the news
      for my pains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what think you, as an old soldier?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth I kenna&mdash;an they come so mony as they speak o&rsquo;, they&rsquo;ll be
      odds against us. But there&rsquo;s mony yauld chields amang thae volunteers; and
      I mauna say muckle about them that&rsquo;s no weel and no very able, because I
      am something that gate mysell&mdash;But we&rsquo;se do our best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! so your martial spirit is rising again, Edie?
    </p>
<pre>
                Even in our ashes glow their wonted fires!
</pre>
    <p>
      I would not have thought you, Edie, had so much to fight for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Me</i> no muckle to fight for, sir?&mdash;isna there the country to
      fight for, and the burnsides that I gang daundering beside, and the
      hearths o&rsquo;the gudewives that gie me my bit bread, and the bits o&rsquo; weans
      that come toddling to play wi&rsquo; me when I come about a landward town?&mdash;Deil!&rdquo;
       he continued, grasping his pike-staff with great emphasis, &ldquo;an I had as
      gude pith as I hae gude-will, and a gude cause, I should gie some o&rsquo; them
      a day&rsquo;s kemping.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo, bravo, Edie! The country&rsquo;s in little ultimate danger, when the
      beggar&rsquo;s as ready to fight for his dish as the laird for his land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their further conversation reverted to the particulars of the night passed
      by the mendicant and Lovel in the ruins of St. Ruth; by the details of
      which the Antiquary was highly amused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would have given a guinea,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to have seen the scoundrelly
      German under the agonies of those terrors, which it is part of his own
      quackery to inspire into others; and trembling alternately for the fury of
      his patron, and the apparition of some hobgoblin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troth,&rdquo; said the beggar, &ldquo;there was time for him to be cowed; for ye wad
      hae thought the very spirit of Hell-in-Harness had taken possession o&rsquo; the
      body o&rsquo; Sir Arthur. But what will come o&rsquo; the land-louper?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have had a letter this morning, from which I understand he has
      acquitted you of the charge he brought against you, and offers to make
      such discoveries as will render the settlement of Sir Arthur&rsquo;s affairs a
      more easy task than we apprehended&mdash;So writes the Sheriff; and adds,
      that he has given some private information of importance to Government, in
      consideration of which, I understand he will be sent back to play the
      knave in his own country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a&rsquo; the bonny engines, and wheels, and the coves, and sheughs, doun at
      Glenwithershins yonder, what&rsquo;s to come o&rsquo; them?&rdquo; said Edie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope the men, before they are dispersed, will make a bonfire of their
      gimcracks, as an army destroy their artillery when forced to raise a
      siege. And as for the holes, Edie, I abandon them as rat-traps, for the
      benefit of the next wise men who may choose to drop the substance to
      snatch at a shadow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hech, sirs! guide us a&rsquo;! to burn the engines? that&rsquo;s a great waste&mdash;Had
      ye na better try to get back part o&rsquo; your hundred pounds wi&rsquo; the sale o&rsquo; 
      the materials?&rdquo; he continued, with a tone of affected condolence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a farthing,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, peevishly, taking a turn from him,
      and making a step or two away. Then returning, half-smiling at his own
      pettishness, he said, &ldquo;Get thee into the house, Edie, and remember my
      counsel, never speak to me about a mine, nor to my nephew Hector about a
      <i>phoca,</i> that is a sealgh, as you call it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I maun be ganging my ways back to Fairport,&rdquo; said the wanderer; &ldquo;I want
      to see what they&rsquo;re saying there about the invasion;&mdash;but I&rsquo;ll mind
      what your honour says, no to speak to you about a sealgh, or to the
      Captain about the hundred pounds that you gied to Douster&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound thee!&mdash;I desired thee not to mention that to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me!&rdquo; said Edie, with affected surprise; &ldquo;weel, I thought there was
      naething but what your honour could hae studden in the way o&rsquo; agreeable
      conversation, unless it was about the Praetorian yonder, or the bodle that
      the packman sauld to ye for an auld coin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw! pshaw!&rdquo; said the Antiquary, turning from him hastily, and
      retreating into the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mendicant looked after him a moment, and with a chuckling laugh, such
      as that with which a magpie or parrot applauds a successful exploit of
      mischief, he resumed once more the road to Fairport. His habits had given
      him a sort of restlessness, much increased by the pleasure he took in
      gathering news; and in a short time he had regained the town which he left
      in the morning, for no reason that he knew himself, unless just to &ldquo;hae a
      bit crack wi&rsquo; Monkbarns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Alink2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH.
    </h2>
<pre>
                    Red glared the beacon on Pownell
                        On Skiddaw there were three;
                    The bugle horn on moor and fell
                        Was heard continually.
                                     James Hogg.
</pre>
    <p>
      The watch who kept his watch on the hill, and looked towards Birnam,
      probably conceived himself dreaming when he first beheld the fated grove
      put itself into motion for its march to Dunsinane. Even so old Caxon, as
      perched in his hut, he qualified his thoughts upon the approaching
      marriage of his daughter, and the dignity of being father-in-law to
      Lieutenant Taffril, with an occasional peep towards the signal-post with
      which his own corresponded, was not a little surprised by observing a
      light in that direction. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, adjusting his
      observation by a cross-staff which had been placed so as to bear upon the
      point. And behold, the light increased, like a comet to the eye of the
      astronomer, &ldquo;with fear of change perplexing nations.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lord preserve us!&rdquo; said Caxon, &ldquo;what&rsquo;s to be done now? But there will
      be wiser heads than mine to look to that, sae I&rsquo;se e&rsquo;en fire the beacon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he lighted the beacon accordingly, which threw up to the sky a long
      wavering train of light, startling the sea-fowl from their nests, and
      reflected far beneath by the reddening billows of the sea. The brother
      warders of Caxon being equally diligent, caught, and repeated his signal.
      The lights glanced on headlands and capes and inland hills, and the whole
      district was alarmed by the signal of invasion. *
    </p>
    <p>
      * Note J. Alarms of Invasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our Antiquary, his head wrapped warm in two double night-caps, was quietly
      enjoying his repose, when it was suddenly broken by the screams of his
      sister, his niece, and two maid-servants.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil is the matter?&rdquo; said he, starting up in his bed&mdash;
      &ldquo;womankind in my room at this hour of night!&mdash;are ye all mad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The beacon, uncle!&rdquo; said Miss M&rsquo;Intyre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The French coming to murder us!&rdquo; screamed Miss Griselda.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The beacon! the beacon!&mdash;the French! the French!&mdash;murder!
      murder! and waur than murder!&rdquo;&mdash;cried the two handmaidens, like the
      chorus of an opera.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="Aimage-0009">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/pb294.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="The Antiquary Arming "><br >
    </div>
    <!-- IMAGE END -->
    <p>
      &ldquo;The French?&rdquo; said Oldbuck, starting up&mdash;&ldquo;get out of the room,
      womankind that you are, till I get my things on&mdash;And hark ye, bring
      me my sword.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whilk o&rsquo; them, Monkbarns?&rdquo; cried his sister, offering a Roman falchion of
      brass with the one hand, and with the other an Andrea Ferrara without a
      handle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The langest, the langest,&rdquo; cried Jenny Rintherout, dragging in a
      two-handed sword of the twelfth century.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Womankind,&rdquo; said Oldbuck in great agitation, &ldquo;be composed, and do not
      give way to vain terror&mdash;Are you sure they are come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, sure!&rdquo; exclaimed Jenny&mdash;&ldquo;ower sure!&mdash;a&rsquo; the sea
      fencibles, and the land fencibles, and the volunteers and yeomanry, are on
      fit, and driving to Fairport as hard as horse and man can gang&mdash;and
      auld Mucklebackit&rsquo;s gane wi&rsquo; the lave&mdash;muckle gude he&rsquo;ll do!&mdash;Hech,
      sirs!&mdash;<i>he&rsquo;ll</i> be missed the morn wha wad hae served king and
      country weel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me,&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;the sword which my father wore in the year
      forty-five&mdash;it hath no belt or baldrick&mdash;but we&rsquo;ll make shift.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying he thrust the weapon through the cover of his breeches pocket.
      At this moment Hector entered, who had been to a neighbouring height to
      ascertain whether the alarm was actual.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are your arms, nephew?&rdquo; exclaimed Oldbuck&mdash;&ldquo;where is your
      double-barrelled gun, that was never out of your hand when there was no
      occasion for such vanities?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh! pooh! sir,&rdquo; said Hector, &ldquo;who ever took a fowling-piece on action?
      I have got my uniform on, you see&mdash;I hope I shall be of more use if
      they will give me a command than I could be with ten double-barrels. And
      you, sir, must get to Fairport, to give directions for quartering and
      maintaining the men and horses, and preventing confusion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, Hector,&mdash;l believe I shall do as much with my head as
      my hand too. But here comes Sir Arthur Wardour, who, between ourselves, is
      not fit to accomplish much either one way or the other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Arthur was probably of a different opinion; for, dressed in his
      lieutenancy uniform, he was also on the road to Fairport, and called in
      his way to take Mr. Oldbuck with him, having had his original opinion of
      his sagacity much confirmed by late events. And in spite of all the
      entreaties of the womankind that the Antiquary would stay to garrison
      Monkbarns, Mr. Oldbuck, with his nephew, instantly accepted Sir Arthur&rsquo;s
      offer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Those who have witnessed such a scene can alone conceive the state of
      bustle in Fairport. The windows were glancing with a hundred lights,
      which, appearing and disappearing rapidly, indicated the confusion within
      doors. The women of lower rank assembled and clamoured in the
      market-place. The yeomanry, pouring from their different glens, galloped
      through the streets, some individually, some in parties of five or six, as
      they had met on the road. The drums and fifes of the volunteers beating to
      arms, were blended with the voice of the officers, the sound of the
      bugles, and the tolling of the bells from the steeple. The ships in the
      harbour were lit up, and boats from the armed vessels added to the bustle,
      by landing men and guns destined to assist in the defence of the place.
      This part of the preparations was superintended by Taffril with much
      activity. Two or three light vessels had already slipped their cables and
      stood out to sea, in order to discover the supposed enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the scene of general confusion, when Sir Arthur Wardour, Oldbuck,
      and Hector, made their way with difficulty into the principal square,
      where the town-house is situated. It was lighted up, and the magistracy,
      with many of the neighbouring gentlemen, were assembled. And here, as upon
      other occasions of the like kind in Scotland, it was remarkable how the
      good sense and firmness of the people supplied almost all the deficiencies
      of inexperience.
    </p>
    <p>
      The magistrates were beset by the quarter-masters of the different corps
      for billets for men and horses. &ldquo;Let us,&rdquo; said Bailie Littlejohn, &ldquo;take
      the horses into our warehouses, and the men into our parlours&mdash;share
      our supper with the one, and our forage with the other. We have made
      ourselves wealthy under a free and paternal government, and now is the
      time to show we know its value.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A loud and cheerful acquiescence was given by all present, and the
      substance of the wealthy, with the persons of those of all ranks, were
      unanimously devoted to the defence of the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain M&rsquo;Intyre acted on this occasion as military adviser and
      aide-de-camp to the principal magistrate, and displayed a degree of
      presence of mind, and knowledge of his profession, totally unexpected by
      his uncle, who, recollecting his usual <i>insouciance</i> and impetuosity,
      gazed at him with astonishment from time to time, as he remarked the calm
      and steady manner in which he explained the various measures of precaution
      that his experience suggested, and gave directions for executing them. He
      found the different corps in good order, considering the irregular
      materials of which they were composed, in great force of numbers and high
      confidence and spirits. And so much did military experience at that moment
      overbalance all other claims to consequence, that even old Edie, instead
      of being left, like Diogenes at Sinope, to roll his tub when all around
      were preparing for defence, had the duty assigned him of superintending
      the serving out of the ammunition, which he executed with much discretion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two things were still anxiously expected&mdash;the presence of the
      Glenallan volunteers, who, in consideration of the importance of that
      family, had been formed into a separate corps, and the arrival of the
      officer before announced, to whom the measures of defence on that coast
      had been committed by the commander-in-chief, and whose commission would
      entitle him to take upon himself the full disposal of the military force.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the bugles of the Glenallan yeomanry were heard, and the Earl
      himself, to the surprise of all who knew his habits and state of health,
      appeared at their head in uniform. They formed a very handsome and
      well-mounted squadron, formed entirely out of the Earl&rsquo;s Lowland tenants,
      and were followed by a regiment of five hundred men, completely equipped
      in the Highland dress, whom he had brought down from the upland glens,
      with their pipes playing in the van. The clean and serviceable appearance
      of this band of feudal dependants called forth the admiration of Captain
      M&rsquo;Intyre; but his uncle was still more struck by the manner in which, upon
      this crisis, the ancient military spirit of his house seemed to animate
      and invigorate the decayed frame of the Earl, their leader. He claimed,
      and obtained for himself and his followers, the post most likely to be
      that of danger, displayed great alacrity in making the necessary
      dispositions, and showed equal acuteness in discussing their propriety.
      Morning broke in upon the military councils of Fairport, while all
      concerned were still eagerly engaged in taking precautions for their
      defence.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length a cry among the people announced, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s the brave Major
      Neville come at last, with another officer;&rdquo; and their post-chaise and
      four drove into the square, amidst the huzzas of the volunteers and
      inhabitants. The magistrates, with their assessors of the lieutenancy,
      hastened to the door of their town-house to receive him; but what was the
      surprise of all present, but most especially that of the Antiquary, when
      they became aware, that the handsome uniform and military cap disclosed
      the person and features of the pacific Lovel! A warm embrace, and a hearty
      shake of the hand, were necessary to assure him that his eyes were doing
      him justice. Sir Arthur was no less surprised to recognise his son,
      Captain Wardour, in Lovel&rsquo;s, or rather Major Neville&rsquo;s company. The first
      words of the young officers were a positive assurance to all present, that
      the courage and zeal which they had displayed were entirely thrown away,
      unless in so far as they afforded an acceptable proof of their spirit and
      promptitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The watchman at Halket-head,&rdquo; said Major Neville, &ldquo;as we discovered by an
      investigation which we made in our route hither, was most naturally misled
      by a bonfire which some idle people had made on the hill above
      Glenwithershins, just in the line of the beacon with which his
      corresponded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oldbuck gave a conscious look to Sir Arthur, who returned it with one
      equally sheepish, and a shrug of the shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must have been the machinery which we condemned to the flames in our
      wrath,&rdquo; said the Antiquary, plucking up heart, though not a little ashamed
      of having been the cause of so much disturbance&mdash;&ldquo;The devil take
      Dousterswivel with all my heart!&mdash;I think he has bequeathed us a
      legacy of blunders and mischief, as if he had lighted some train of
      fireworks at his departure. I wonder what cracker will go off next among
      our shins. But yonder comes the prudent Caxon.&mdash;Hold up your head,
      you ass&mdash;your betters must bear the blame for you&mdash;And here,
      take this what-d&rsquo;ye-call it&rdquo;&mdash;(giving him his sword)&mdash;&ldquo;I wonder
      what I would have said yesterday to any man that would have told me I was
      to stick such an appendage to my tail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here he found his arm gently pressed by Lord Glenallan, who dragged him
      into a separate apartment. &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, who is that young gentleman
      who is so strikingly like&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like the unfortunate Eveline,&rdquo; interrupted Oldbuck. &ldquo;I felt my heart warm
      to him from the first, and your lordship has suggested the very cause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But who&mdash;who is he?&rdquo; continued Lord Glenallan, holding the Antiquary
      with a convulsive grasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Formerly I would have called him Lovel, but now he turns out to be Major
      Neville.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom my brother brought up as his natural son&mdash;whom he made his heir&mdash;
      Gracious Heaven! the child of my Eveline!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold, my lord&mdash;hold!&rdquo; said Oldbuck, &ldquo;do not give too hasty way to
      such a presumption;&mdash;what probability is there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Probability? none! There is certainty! absolute certainty! The agent I
      mentioned to you wrote me the whole story&mdash;I received it yesterday,
      not sooner. Bring him, for God&rsquo;s sake, that a father&rsquo;s eyes may bless him
      before he departs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will; but for your own sake and his, give him a few moments for
      preparation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, determined to make still farther investigation before yielding his
      entire conviction to so strange a tale, he sought out Major Neville, and
      found him expediting the necessary measures for dispersing the force which
      had been assembled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray, Major Neville, leave this business for a moment to Captain Wardour
      and to Hector, with whom, I hope, you are thoroughly reconciled&rdquo; (Neville
      laughed, and shook hands with Hector across the table), &ldquo;and grant me a
      moment&rsquo;s audience.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a claim on me, Mr. Oldbuck, were my business more urgent,&rdquo; said
      Neville, &ldquo;for having passed myself upon you under a false name, and
      rewarding your hospitality by injuring your nephew.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You served him as he deserved,&rdquo; said Oldbuck&mdash;&ldquo;though, by the way,
      he showed as much good sense as spirit to-day&mdash;Egad! if he would rub
      up his learning, and read Caesar and Polybus, and the <i>Stratagemata
      Polyaeni,</i> I think he would rise in the army&mdash;and I will certainly
      lend him a lift.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is heartily deserving of it,&rdquo; said Neville; &ldquo;and I am glad you excuse
      me, which you may do the more frankly, when you know that I am so
      unfortunate as to have no better right to the name of Neville, by which I
      have been generally distinguished, than to that of Lovel, under which you
      knew me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! then, I trust, we shall find out one for you to which you shall
      have a firm and legal title.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir!&mdash;I trust you do not think the misfortune of my birth a fit
      subject&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By no means, young man,&rdquo; answered the Antiquary, interrupting him;&mdash;&ldquo;I
      believe I know more of your birth than you do yourself&mdash;and, to
      convince you of it, you were educated and known as a natural son of
      Geraldin Neville of Neville&rsquo;s-Burgh, in Yorkshire, and I presume, as his
      destined heir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me&mdash;no such views were held out to me. I was liberally
      educated, and pushed forward in the army by money and interest; but I
      believe my supposed father long entertained some ideas of marriage, though
      he never carried them into effect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say your <i>supposed</i> father?&mdash;What leads you to suppose Mr.
      Geraldin Neville was not your real father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, Mr. Oldbuck, that you would not ask these questions on a point of
      such delicacy for the gratification of idle curiosity. I will therefore
      tell you candidly, that last year, while we occupied a small town in
      French Flanders, I found in a convent, near which I was quartered, a woman
      who spoke remarkably good English&mdash;She was a Spaniard&mdash;her name
      Teresa D&rsquo;Acunha. In the process of our acquaintance, she discovered who I
      was, and made herself known to me as the person who had charge of my
      infancy. She dropped more than one hint of rank to which I was entitled,
      and of injustice done to me, promising a more full disclosure in case of
      the death of a lady in Scotland, during whose lifetime she was determined
      to keep the secret. She also intimated that Mr. Geraldin Neville was not
      my father. We were attacked by the enemy, and driven from the town, which
      was pillaged with savage ferocity by the republicans. The religious orders
      were the particular objects of their hate and cruelty. The convent was
      burned, and several nuns perished&mdash; among others Teresa; and with her
      all chance of knowing the story of my birth: tragic by all accounts it
      must have been.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Raro antecedentem scelestum,</i> or, as I may here say, <i>scelestam,</i>&rdquo;
       said Oldbuck, &ldquo;<i>deseruit poena</i>&mdash;even Epicureans admitted that.
      And what did you do upon this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remonstrated with Mr. Neville by letter, and to no purpose. I then
      obtained leave of absence, and threw myself at his feet, conjuring him to
      complete the disclosure which Teresa had begun. He refused, and, on my
      importunity, indignantly upbraided me with the favours he had already
      conferred. I thought he abused the power of a benefactor, as he was
      compelled to admit he had no title to that of a father, and we parted in
      mutual displeasure. I renounced the name of Neville, and assumed that
      under which you knew me. It was at this time, when residing with a friend
      in the north of England who favoured my disguise, that I became acquainted
      with Miss Wardour, and was romantic enough to follow her to Scotland. My
      mind wavered on various plans of life, when I resolved to apply once more
      to Mr. Neville for an explanation of the mystery of my birth. It was long
      ere I received an answer; you were present when it was put into my hands.
      He informed me of his bad state of health, and conjured me, for my own
      sake, to inquire no farther into the nature of his connection with me, but
      to rest satisfied with his declaring it to be such and so intimate, that
      he designed to constitute me his heir. When I was preparing to leave
      Fairport to join him, a second express brought me word that he was no
      more. The possession of great wealth was unable to suppress the remorseful
      feelings with which I now regarded my conduct to my benefactor, and some
      hints in his letter appearing to intimate there was on my birth a deeper
      stain than that of ordinary illegitimacy, I remembered certain prejudices
      of Sir Arthur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you brooded over these melancholy ideas until you were ill, instead
      of coming to me for advice, and telling me the whole story?&rdquo; said Oldbuck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly; then came my quarrel with Captain M&rsquo;Intyre, and my compelled
      departure from Fairport and its vicinity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From love and from poetry&mdash;Miss Wardour and the Caledoniad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And since that time you have been occupied, I suppose, with plans for Sir
      Arthur&rsquo;s relief?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; with the assistance of Captain Wardour at Edinburgh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Edie Ochiltree here&mdash;you see I know the whole story. But how
      came you by the treasure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a quantity of plate which had belonged to my uncle, and was left
      in the custody of a person at Fairport. Some time before his death he had
      sent orders that it should be melted down. He perhaps did not wish me to
      see the Glenallan arms upon it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Major Neville&mdash;or let me say, Lovel, being the name in which I
      rather delight&mdash;you must, I believe, exchange both of your <i>alias&rsquo;s</i>
      for the style and title of the Honourable William Geraldin, commonly
      called Lord Geraldin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary then went through the strange and melancholy circumstances
      concerning his mother&rsquo;s death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no doubt,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that your uncle wished the report to be
      believed, that the child of this unhappy marriage was no more&mdash;perhaps
      he might himself have an eye to the inheritance of his brother&mdash;he
      was then a gay wild young man&mdash;But of all intentions against your
      person, however much the evil conscience of Elspeth might lead her to
      inspect him from the agitation in which he appeared, Teresa&rsquo;s story and
      your own fully acquit him. And now, my dear sir, let me have the pleasure
      of introducing a son to a father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We will not attempt to describe such a meeting. The proofs on all sides
      were found to be complete, for Mr. Neville had left a distinct account of
      the whole transaction with his confidential steward in a sealed packet,
      which was not to be opened until the death of the old Countess; his motive
      for preserving secrecy so long appearing to have been an apprehension of
      the effect which the discovery, fraught with so much disgrace, must
      necessarily produce upon her haughty and violent temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evening of that day, the yeomanry and volunteers of Glenallan drank
      prosperity to their young master. In a month afterwards Lord Geraldin was
      married to Miss Wardour, the Antiquary making the lady a present of the
      wedding ring&mdash;a massy circle of antique chasing, bearing the motto of
      Aldobrand Oldenbuck, <i>Kunst macht gunst.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Edie, the most important man that ever wore a blue gown, bowls away
      easily from one friend&rsquo;s house to another, and boasts that he never
      travels unless on a sunny day. Latterly, indeed, he has given some
      symptoms of becoming stationary, being frequently found in the corner of a
      snug cottage between Monkbarns and Knockwinnock, to which Caxon retreated
      upon his daughter&rsquo;s marriage, in order to be in the neighbourhood of the
      three parochial wigs, which he continues to keep in repair, though only
      for amusement. Edie has been heard to say, &ldquo;This is a gey bein place, and
      it&rsquo;s a comfort to hae sic a corner to sit in in a bad day.&rdquo; It is thought,
      as he grows stiffer in the joints, he will finally settle there.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bounty of such wealthy patrons as Lord and Lady Geraldin flowed
      copiously upon Mrs. Hadoway and upon the Mucklebackits. By the former it
      was well employed, by the latter wasted. They continue, however, to
      receive it, but under the administration of Edie Ochiltree; and they do
      not accept it without grumbling at the channel through which it is
      conveyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hector is rising rapidly in the army, and has been more than once
      mentioned in the Gazette, and rises proportionally high in his uncle&rsquo;s
      favour; and what scarcely pleases the young soldier less, he has also shot
      two seals, and thus put an end to the Antiquary&rsquo;s perpetual harping upon
      the story of the <i>phoca.</i>People talk of a marriage between Miss
      M&rsquo;Intyre and Captain Wardour; but this wants confirmation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Antiquary is a frequent visitor at Knockwinnock and Glenallan House,
      ostensibly for the sake of completing two essays, one on the mail-shirt of
      the Great Earl, and the other on the left-hand gauntlet of
      Hell-in-Harness. He regularly inquires whether Lord Geraldin has commenced
      the Caledoniad, and shakes his head at the answers he receives. <i>En
      attendant,</i> however, he has completed his notes, which, we believe,
      will be at the service of any one who chooses to make them public without
      risk or expense to THE ANTIQUARY.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_NOTE">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      NOTES TO THE ANTIQUARY.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Note A, p. #.&mdash;Mottoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      [&ldquo;It was in correcting the proof-sheets of this novel that Scott first
      took to equipping his chapters with mottoes of his own fabrication. On one
      occasion he happened to ask John Ballantyne, who was sitting by him, to
      hunt for a particular passage in Beaumont and Fletcher. John did as he was
      bid, but did not succeed in discovering the lines. &lsquo;Hang it, Johnnie,&rsquo; 
      cried Scott, &lsquo;I believe I can make a motto sooner than you will find one.&rsquo; 
      He did so accordingly; and from that hour, whenever memory failed to
      suggest an appropriate epigraph, he had recourse to the inexhaustible
      mines of &ldquo;old play&rdquo; or &ldquo;old ballad,&rdquo; to which we owe some of the most
      exquisite verses that ever flowed from his pen.&rdquo;&mdash;<i>J. G. Lockhart.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      See also the Introduction to &ldquo;Chronicles of the Canongate,&rdquo; vol. xix.]
    </p>
    <p>
      Note B, p. #.&mdash;Sandy Gordon&rsquo;s Itinerarium.
    </p>
    <p>
      [This well-known work, the &ldquo;Itinerarium Septentrionale, or a Journey thro&rsquo; 
      most of the Counties of Scotland, and those in the North of England,&rdquo; was
      published at London in 1727, folio. The author states, that in prosecuting
      his work he &ldquo;made a pretty laborious progress through almost every part of
      Scotland for three years successively.&rdquo; Gordon was a native of
      Aberdeenshire, and had previously spent some years in travelling abroad,
      probably as a tutor. He became Secretary to the London Society of
      Antiquaries in 1736. This office he resigned in 1741, and soon after went
      out to South Carolina with Governor Glen, where he obtained a considerable
      grant of land. On his death, about the year 1753, he is said to have left
      &ldquo;a handsome estate to his family.&rdquo;&mdash;See <i>Literary Anecdotes of
      Bowyer,</i> by John Nichols, vol. v., p. 329, etc.]
    </p>
    <p>
      Note C, p. #.&mdash;Praetorium.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be worth while to mention that the incident of the supposed
      Praetorium actually happened to an antiquary of great learning and
      acuteness, Sir John Clerk of Penicuik, one of the Barons of the Scottish
      Court of Exchequer, and a parliamentary commissioner for arrangement of
      the Union between England and Scotland. As many of his writings show, Sir
      John was much attached to the study of Scottish antiquities. He had a
      small property in Dumfriesshire, near the Roman station on the hill called
      Burrenswark. Here he received the distinguished English antiquarian Roger
      Gale, and of course conducted him to see this remarkable spot, where the
      lords of the world have left such decisive marks of their martial labours.
    </p>
    <p>
      An aged shepherd whom they had used as a guide, or who had approached them
      from curiosity, listened with mouth agape to the dissertations on foss and
      vellum, ports <i>dextra, sinistra,</i> and <i>decumana,</i> which Sir John
      Clerk delivered <i>ex cathedra,</i> and his learned visitor listened with
      the deference to the dignity of a connoisseur on his own ground. But when
      the cicerone proceeded to point out a small hillock near the centre of the
      enclosure as the Praetorium, Corydon&rsquo;s patience could hold no longer, and,
      like Edie Ochiltree, he forgot all reverence, and broke in with nearly the
      same words&mdash;&ldquo;Praetorium here, Praetorium there, I made the bourock
      mysell with a flaughter-spade.&rdquo; The effect of this undeniable evidence on
      the two lettered sages may be left to the reader&rsquo;s imagination.
    </p>
    <p>
      The late excellent and venerable John Clerk of Eldin, the celebrated
      author of <i>Naval Tactics,</i> used to tell this story with glee, and
      being a younger son of Sir John&rsquo;s was perhaps present on the occasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Note D, p. #.&mdash;Mr. Rutherfurd&rsquo;s Dream
    </p>
    <p>
      The legend of Mrs. Grizel Oldbuck was partly taken from an extraordinary
      story which happened about seventy years since, in the South of Scotland,
      so peculiar in its circumstances that it merits being mentioned in this
      place. Mr. Rutherfurd of Bowland, a gentleman of landed property in the
      vale of Gala, was prosecuted for a very considerable sum, the accumulated
      arrears of teind (or tithe) for which he was said to be indebted to a
      noble family, the titulars (lay impropriators of the tithes). Mr.
      Rutherfurd was strongly impressed with the belief that his father had, by
      a form of process peculiar to the law of Scotland, purchased these lands
      from the titular, and therefore that the present prosecution was
      groundless. But, after an industrious search among his father&rsquo;s papers, an
      investigation of the public records, and a careful inquiry among all
      persons who had transacted law business for his father, no evidence could
      be recovered to support his defence. The period was now near at hand when
      he conceived the loss of his lawsuit to be inevitable, and he had formed
      his determination to ride to Edinburgh next day, and make the best bargain
      he could in the way of compromise. He went to bed with this resolution
      and, with all the circumstances of the case floating upon his mind, had a
      dream to the following purpose:&mdash;His father, who had been many years
      dead, appeared to him, he thought, and asked him why he was disturbed in
      his mind. In dreams men are not surprised at such apparitions. Mr.
      Rutherfurd thought that he informed his father of the cause of his
      distress, adding that the payment of a considerable sum of money was the
      more unpleasant to him, because he had a strong consciousness that it was
      not due, though he was unable to recover any evidence in support of his
      belief, &ldquo;You are right, my son,&rdquo; replied the paternal shade; &ldquo;I did
      acquire right to these teinds, for payment of which you are now
      prosecuted. The papers relating to the transaction are in the hands of Mr.&mdash;,
      a writer (or attorney), who is now retired from professional business, and
      resides at Inveresk, near Edinburgh. He was a person whom I employed on
      that occasion for a particular reason, but who never on any other occasion
      transacted business on my account. It is very possible,&rdquo; pursued the
      vision, &ldquo;that Mr.&mdash;may have forgotten a matter which is now of a very
      old date; but you may call it to his recollection by this token, that when
      I came to pay his account, there was difficulty in getting change for a
      Portugal piece of gold, and that we were forced to drink out the balance
      at a tavern.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Rutherfurd awakened in the morning with all the words of the vision
      imprinted on his mind, and thought it worth while to ride across the
      country to Inveresk, instead of going straight to Edinburgh. When he came
      there he waited on the gentleman mentioned in the dream, a very old man;
      without saying anything of the vision, he inquired whether he remembered
      having conducted such a matter for his deceased father. The old gentleman
      could not at first bring the circumstance to his recollection, but on
      mention of the Portugal piece of gold, the whole returned upon his memory;
      he made an immediate search for the papers, and recovered them,&mdash;so
      that Mr. Rutherfurd carried to Edinburgh the documents necessary to gain
      the cause which he was on the verge of losing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The author has often heard this story told by persons who had the best
      access to know the facts, who were not likely themselves to be deceived,
      and were certainly incapable of deception. He cannot therefore refuse to
      give it credit, however extraordinary the circumstances may appear. The
      circumstantial character of the information given in the dream, takes it
      out of the general class of impressions of the kind which are occasioned
      by the fortuitous coincidence of actual events with our sleeping thoughts.
      On the other hand, few will suppose that the laws of nature were
      suspended, and a special communication from the dead to the living
      permitted, for the purpose of saving Mr. Rutherfurd a certain number of
      hundred pounds. The author&rsquo;s theory is, that the dream was only the
      recapitulation of information which Mr. Rutherfurd had really received
      from his father while in life, but which at first he merely recalled as a
      general impression that the claim was settled. It is not uncommon for
      persons to recover, during sleep, the thread of ideas which they have lost
      during their waking hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be added, that this remarkable circumstance was attended with bad
      consequences to Mr. Rutherfurd; whose health and spirits were afterwards
      impaired by the attention which he thought himself obliged to pay to the
      visions of the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Note E, p. #.&mdash;Nick-sticks.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sort of tally generally used by bakers of the olden time in settling
      with their customers. Each family had its own nick-stick, and for each
      loaf as delivered a notch was made on the stick. Accounts in Exchequer,
      kept by the same kind of check, may have occasioned the Antiquary&rsquo;s
      partiality. In Prior&rsquo;s time the English bakers had the same sort of
      reckoning.
    </p>
<pre>
                   Have you not seen a baker&rsquo;s maid,
                   Between two equal panniers sway&rsquo;d?
                   Her tallies useless lie and idle,
                     If placed exactly in the middle.
</pre>
    <p>
      Note F, p. #.&mdash;Witchcraft.
    </p>
    <p>
      A great deal of stuff to the same purpose with that placed in the mouth of
      the German adept, may be found in Reginald Scott&rsquo;s <i>Discovery of
      Witchcraft,</i> Third Edition, folio, London, 1665. The Appendix is
      entitled, &ldquo;An Excellent Discourse of the Nature and Substances of Devils
      and Spirits, in two Books; the first by the aforesaid author (Reginald
      Scott), the Second now added in this Third Edition as succedaneous to the
      former, and conducing to the completing of the whole work.&rdquo; This Second
      Book, though stated as succedaneous to the first, is, in fact, entirely at
      variance with it; for the work of Reginald Scott is a compilation of the
      absurd and superstitious ideas concerning witches so generally entertained
      at the time, and the pretended conclusion is a serious treatise on the
      various means of conjuring astral spirits.
    </p>
    <p>
      [Scott&rsquo;s <i>Discovery of Witchcraft</i> was first published in the reign
      of Queen Elizabeth, London, 1584.]
    </p>
    <p>
      Note G, p. #.&mdash;Gynecocracy.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the fishing villages on the Firths of Forth and Tay, as well as
      elsewhere in Scotland, the government is gynecocracy, as described in the
      text. In the course of the late war, and during the alarm of invasion, a
      fleet of transports entered the Firth of Forth under the convoy of some
      ships of war, which would reply to no signals. A general alarm was
      excited, in consequence of which, all the fishers, who were enrolled as
      sea-fencibles, got on board the gun-boats which they were to man as
      occasion should require, and sailed to oppose the supposed enemy. The
      foreigners proved to be Russians, with whom we were then at peace. The
      county gentlemen of Mid-Lothian, pleased with the zeal displayed by the
      sea-fencibles at a critical moment, passed a vote for presenting the
      community of fishers with a silver punch-bowl, to be used on occasions of
      festivity. But the fisher-women, on hearing what was intended, put in
      their claim to have some separate share in the intended honorary reward.
      The men, they said, were their husbands; it was they who would have been
      sufferers if their husbands had been killed, and it was by their
      permission and injunctions that they embarked on board the gun-boats for
      the public service. They therefore claimed to share the reward in some
      manner which should distinguish the female patriotism which they had shown
      on the occasion. The gentlemen of the county willingly admitted the claim;
      and without diminishing the value of their compliment to the men, they
      made the females a present of a valuable broach, to fasten the plaid of
      the queen of the fisher-women for the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be further remarked, that these Nereids are punctilious among
      themselves, and observe different ranks according to the commodities they
      deal in. One experienced dame was heard to characterise a younger damsel
      as &ldquo;a puir silly thing, who had no ambition, and would never,&rdquo; she
      prophesied, &ldquo;rise above the <i>mussel-line</i> of business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Note H, p. #.&mdash;Battle of Harlaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great battle of Harlaw, here and formerly referred to, might be said
      to determine whether the Gaelic or the Saxon race should be predominant in
      Scotland. Donald, Lord of the Isles, who had at that period the power of
      an independent sovereign, laid claim to the Earldom of Ross during the
      Regency of Robert, Duke of Albany. To enforce his supposed right, he
      ravaged the north with a large army of Highlanders and Islesmen. He was
      encountered at Harlaw, in the Garioch, by Alexander, Earl of Mar, at the
      head of the northern nobility and gentry of Saxon and Norman descent. The
      battle was bloody and indecisive; but the invader was obliged to retire in
      consequence of the loss he sustained, and afterwards was compelled to make
      submission to the Regent, and renounce his pretensions to Ross; so that
      all the advantages of the field were gained by the Saxons. The battle of
      Harlaw was fought 24th July 1411.
    </p>
    <p>
      Note I, p. #.&mdash;Elspeth&rsquo;s death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The concluding circumstance of Elspeth&rsquo;s death is taken from an incident
      said to have happened at the funeral of John, Duke of Roxburghe. All who
      were acquainted with that accomplished nobleman must remember that he was
      not more remarkable for creating and possessing a most curious and
      splendid library, than for his acquaintance with the literary treasures it
      contained. In arranging his books, fetching and replacing the volumes
      which he wanted, and carrying on all the necessary intercourse which a man
      of letters holds with his library, it was the Duke&rsquo;s custom to employ, not
      a secretary or librarian, but a livery servant, called Archie, whom habit
      had made so perfectly acquainted with the library, that he knew every
      book, as a shepherd does the individuals of his flock, by what is called
      head-mark, and could bring his master whatever volume he wanted, and
      afford all the mechanical aid the Duke required in his literary
      researches. To secure the attendance of Archie, there was a bell hung in
      his room, which was used on no occasion except to call him individually to
      the Duke&rsquo;s study.
    </p>
    <p>
      His Grace died in Saint James&rsquo;s Square, London, in the year 1804; the body
      was to be conveyed to Scotland, to lie in state at his mansion of Fleurs,
      and to be removed from thence to the family burial-place at Bowden.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this time, Archie, who had been long attacked by a liver-complaint, was
      in the very last stage of that disease. Yet he prepared himself to
      accompany the body of the master whom he had so long and so faithfully
      waited upon. The medical persons assured him he could not survive the
      journey. It signified nothing, he said, whether he died in England or
      Scotland; he was resolved to assist in rendering the last honours to the
      kind master from whom he had been inseparable for so many years, even if
      he should expire in the attempt. The poor invalid was permitted to attend
      the Duke&rsquo;s body to Scotland; but when they reached Fleurs he was totally
      exhausted, and obliged to keep his bed, in a sort of stupor which
      announced speedy dissolution. On the morning of the day fixed for removing
      the dead body of the Duke to the place of burial, the private bell by
      which he was wont to summon his attendant to his study was rung violently.
      This might easily happen in the confusion of such a scene, although the
      people of the neighbourhood prefer believing that the bell sounded of its
      own accord. Ring, however, it did; and Archie, roused by the well-known
      summons, rose up in his bed, and faltered, in broken accents, &ldquo;Yes, my
      Lord Duke&mdash;yes&mdash;I will wait on your Grace instantly;&rdquo; and with
      these words on his lips he is said to have fallen back and expired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Note J, p. #.&mdash;Alarm of invasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story of the false alarm at Fairport, and the consequences, are taken
      from a real incident. Those who witnessed the state of Britain, and of
      Scotland in particular, from the period that succeeded the war which
      commenced in 1803 to the battle of Trafalgar, must recollect those times
      with feelings which we can hardly hope to make the rising generation
      comprehend. Almost every individual was enrolled either in a military or
      civil capacity, for the purpose of contributing to resist the
      long-suspended threats of invasion, which were echoed from every quarter.
      Beacons were erected along the coast, and all through the country, to give
      the signal for every one to repair to the post where his peculiar duty
      called him, and men of every description fit to serve held themselves in
      readiness on the shortest summons. During this agitating period, and on
      the evening of the 2d February 1804, the person who kept watch on the
      commanding station of Home Castle, being deceived by some accidental fire
      in the county of Northumberland, which he took for the corresponding
      signal-light in that county with which his orders were to communicate,
      lighted up his own beacon. The signal was immediately repeated through all
      the valleys on the English Border. If the beacon at Saint Abb&rsquo;s Head had
      been fired, the alarm would have run northward, and roused all Scotland.
      But the watch at this important point judiciously considered, that if
      there had been an actual or threatened descent on our eastern sea-coast,
      the alarm would have come along the coast and not from the interior of the
      country.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through the Border counties the alarm spread with rapidity, and on no
      occasion when that country was the scene of perpetual and unceasing war,
      was the summons to arms more readily obeyed. In Berwickshire,
      Roxburghshire, and Selkirkshire, the volunteers and militia got under arms
      with a degree of rapidity and alacrity which, considering the distance
      individuals lived from each other, had something in it very surprising&mdash;they
      poured to the alarm-posts on the sea-coast in a state so well armed and so
      completely appointed, with baggage, provisions, etc., as was accounted by
      the best military judges to render them fit for instant and effectual
      service.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were some particulars in the general alarm which are curious and
      interesting. The men of Liddesdale, the most remote point to the westward
      which the alarm reached, were so much afraid of being late in the field,
      that they put in requisition all the horses they could find, and when they
      had thus made a forced march out of their own country, they turned their
      borrowed steeds loose to find their way back through the hills, and they
      all got back safe to their own stables. Another remarkable circumstance
      was, the general cry of the inhabitants of the smaller towns for arms,
      that they might go along with their companions. The Selkirkshire Yeomanry
      made a remarkable march, for although some of the individuals lived at
      twenty and thirty miles&rsquo; distance from the place where they mustered, they
      were nevertheless embodied and in order in so short a period, that they
      were at Dalkeith, which was their alarm-post, about one o&rsquo;clock on the day
      succeeding the first signal, with men and horses in good order, though the
      roads were in a bad state, and many of the troopers must have ridden forty
      or fifty miles without drawing bridle. Two members of the corps chanced to
      be absent from their homes, and in Edinburgh on private business. The
      lately married wife of one of these gentlemen, and the widowed mother of
      the other, sent the arms, uniforms, and chargers of the two troopers, that
      they might join their companions at Dalkeith. The author was very much
      struck by the answer made to him by the last-mentioned lady, when he paid
      her some compliment on the readiness which she showed in equipping her son
      with the means of meeting danger, when she might have left him a fair
      excuse for remaining absent. &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; she replied, with the spirit of a
      Roman matron, &ldquo;none can know better than you that my son is the only prop
      by which, since his father&rsquo;s death, our family is supported. But I would
      rather see him dead on that hearth, than hear that he had been a horse&rsquo;s
      length behind his companions in the defence of his king and country.&rdquo; The
      author mentions what was immediately under his own eye, and within his own
      knowledge; but the spirit was universal, wherever the alarm reached, both
      in Scotland and England.
    </p>
    <p>
      The account of the ready patriotism displayed by the country on this
      occasion, warmed the hearts of Scottishmen in every corner of the world.
      It reached the ears of the well-known Dr. Leyden, whose enthusiastic love
      of Scotland, and of his own district of Teviotdale, formed a distinguished
      part of his character. The account which was read to him when on a
      sick-bed, stated (very truly) that the different corps, on arriving at
      their alarm-posts, announced themselves by their music playing the tunes
      peculiar to their own districts, many of which have been gathering-signals
      for centuries. It was particularly remembered, that the Liddesdale men,
      before mentioned, entered Kelso playing the lively tune&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                       O wha dare meddle wi&rsquo; me,
                       And wha dare meddle wi&rsquo; me!
                       My name it is little Jock Elliot,
                       And wha dare meddle wi&rsquo; me!
</pre>
    <p>
      The patient was so delighted with this display of ancient Border spirit,
      that he sprung up in his bed, and began to sing the old song with such
      vehemence of action and voice, that his attendants, ignorant of the cause
      of excitation, concluded that the fever had taken possession of his brain;
      and it was only the entry of another Borderer, Sir John Malcolm, and the
      explanation which he was well qualified to give, that prevented them from
      resorting to means of medical coercion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The circumstances of this false alarm and its consequences may be now held
      of too little importance even for a note upon a work of fiction; but, at
      the period when it happened, it was hailed by the country as a propitious
      omen, that the national force, to which much must naturally have been
      trusted, had the spirit to look in the face the danger which they had
      taken arms to repel; and every one was convinced, that on whichever side
      God might bestow the victory, the invaders would meet with the most
      determined opposition from the children of the soil.
    </p>
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    </div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 7005 ***</div>
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