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The Antiquary — Volume 02

by Walter Scott · English · Gutenberg #7004 · 510,279 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Antiquary — Volume 02

Author: Walter Scott


        
Release date: August 17, 2004 [eBook #7004]
                Most recently updated: December 30, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7004

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANTIQUARY — VOLUME 02 ***




Produced by David Widger




Bookcover

Spines


THE ANTIQUARY

By Sir Walter Scott


VOLUME TWO.


Titlepage, Second Volume Frontispiece, Second Volume




CONTENTS

CHAPTER FIRST.

CHAPTER SECOND.

CHAPTER THIRD.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

CHAPTER NINTH

CHAPTER TENTH.

CHAPTER ELEVENTH

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH.

NOTES TO THE ANTIQUARY.




ILLUSTRATIONS

Bookcover

Spines

Titlepage

Frontispiece-2

The Funeral of the Countess

Lord Glenallen and Elspeth

The Antiquary Visits Edie in Prison

My Good Friends, 'favete Linguis'

The Antiquary Arming





CHAPTER FIRST.

                 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.*

* The author cannot remember where these lines are to be found: perhaps
in Bishop Hall's Satires. [They occur in Book iv. Satire iii.]

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.

"This confounded hot-brained boy!" he said to himself; "now that he
begins to get out of danger, I can tolerate this life no longer. All
goes to sixes and sevens—an universal saturnalia seems to be proclaimed
in my peaceful and orderly family. I ask for my sister—no answer. I
call, I shout—I invoke my inmates by more names than the Romans gave
to their deities—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. "—Here he again began to
hollow aloud—"Jenny, where's Miss Oldbuck?"

"Miss Grizzy's in the captain's room."

"Umph!—I thought so—and where's my niece?"

"Miss Mary's making the captain's tea."

"Umph! I supposed as much again—and where's Caxon?"

"Awa to the town about the captain's fowling-gun, and his setting-dog."

"And who the devil's to dress my periwig, you silly jade?—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's errand?"

"Me! what could I hinder him?—your honour wadna hae us contradict the
captain e'en now, and him maybe deeing?"

"Dying!" said the alarmed Antiquary,—"eh! what? has he been worse?"

"Na, he's no nae waur that I ken of."*

* 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 "Nae waur."

"Then he must be better—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."

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.

"Dear brother," said the old lady, "ye'll cry yoursell as hoarse as
a corbie—is that the way to skreigh when there's a sick person in the
house?"

"Upon my word, the sick person's like to have all the house to himself,—
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—I think any of the ferae naturae are safe from
him for one while."

Miss M'Intyre now entered, and began to her usual morning's task of
arranging her uncle'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. "Take care, you silly womankind—that mum's
too near the fire—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—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."

"Dear uncle, don't be angry about the poor spaniel; she's been tied up
at my brother's lodgings at Fairport, and she'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?—it moans as if it had some sense
of poor Hector's misfortune, and will hardly stir from the door of his
room."

"Why," said his uncle, "they said Caxon had gone to Fairport after his
dog and gun."

"O dear sir, no," answered Miss M'Intyre, "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."

"Well, then, it is not altogether so foolish a business, considering
what a mess of womankind have been about it—Dressings, quotha?—and who
is to dress my wig?—But I suppose Jenny will undertake"—continued the
old bachelor, looking at himself in the glass—"to make it somewhat
decent. And now let us set to breakfast—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—Diamond, Diamond, thou little knowest the mischief
thou hast done!"

"I assure you, sir," replied his niece, "my brother is quite sensible
of the rashness of his own behaviour, and allows that Mr. Lovel behaved
very handsomely."

"And much good that will do, when he has frightened the lad out of the
country! I tell thee, Mary, Hector'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—aureum quidem opus—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—Heaven's will be
done!"

Thus continued the Antiquary to maunder, 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. "Monkbarns's bark," said Miss Griselda Oldbuck, in
confidential intercourse with Miss Rebecca Blattergowl, "is muckle waur
than his bite."

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.

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.

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'Intyre's health.

"Better than he deserves," was the answer—"better than he deserves, for
disturbing us with his vixen brawls, and breaking God's peace and the
King's."

"The young gentleman," Sir Arthur said, "had been imprudent; but he
understood they were indebted to him for the detection of a suspicious
character in the young man Lovel."

"No more suspicious than his own," answered the Antiquary, eager in
his favourites defence;—"the young gentleman was a little foolish and
headstrong, and refused to answer Hector's impertinent interrogatories—
that is all. Lovel, Sir Arthur, knows how to choose his confidants
better—Ay, Miss Wardour, you may look at me—but it is very true;—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."

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,—and such she naturally supposed must have
been the subject of communication,—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'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 e'claircissement 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.

"Mr. Oldbuck," said Sir Arthur, when they had, after a due exchange of
ceremonies, fairly seated themselves in the sanctum sanctorum of the
Antiquary,—"you, who know so much of my family matters, may probably be
surprised at the question I am about to put to you."

"Why, Sir Arthur, if it relates to money, I am very sorry, but"—

"It does relate to money matters, Mr. Oldbuck."

"Really, then, Sir Arthur," continued the Antiquary, "in the present
state of the money-market—and stocks being so low"—

"You mistake my meaning, Mr. Oldbuck," said the Baronet; "I wished to
ask your advice about laying out a large sum of money to advantage."

"The devil!" 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. "And as for the mode
of employing it," said he, pausing, "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?—There is the
sum in the personal bond—and the three notes of hand," 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—"with the interest
thereon, amounting altogether to—let me see"—

"To about a thousand pounds," said Sir Arthur, hastily; "you told me the
amount the other day."

"But there's another term'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—But look
over the summation yourself."

"I daresay you are quite right, my dear sir," 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—
"perfectly right, I dare say; and in the course of three days or less
you shall have the full value—that is, if you choose to accept it in
bullion."

"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' worth,
and upwards, of lead? The former abbots of Trotcosey might have roofed
their church and monastery with it indeed—but for me"—

"By bullion," said the Baronet, "I mean the precious metals,—gold and
silver."

"Ay! indeed?—and from what Eldorado is this treasure to be imported?"

"Not far from hence," said Sir Arthur, significantly. "And naow I think
of it, you shall see the whole process, on one small condition."

"And what is that?" craved the Antiquary.

"Why, it will be necessary for you to give me your friendly assistance,
by advancing one hundred pounds or thereabouts."

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, "Advance one hundred pounds!"

"Yes, my good sir," continued Sir Arthur; "but upon the best possible
security of being repaid in the course of two or three days."

There was a pause—either Oldbuck's nether jaw had not recovered its
position, so as to enable him to utter a negative, or his curiosity kept
him silent.

"I would not propose to you," continued Sir Arthur, "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."

Mr. Oldbuck professed his sense of obligation, but carefully avoided
committing himself by any promise of farther assistance.

"Mr. Dousterswivel," said Sir Arthur, "having discovered"—

Here Oldbuck broke in, his eyes sparkling with indignation. "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."

"But listen—listen," interrupted Sir Arthur in his turn, "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—and what do you think we
found?"

"Another spring of water, I suppose, of which the rogue had beforehand
taken care to ascertain the situation and source."

"No, indeed—a casket of gold and silver coins—here they are."

With that, Sir Arthur drew from his pocket a large ram's horn, with
a copper cover, containing a considerable quantity of coins, chiefly
silver, but with a few gold pieces intermixed. The Antiquary's eyes
glistened as he eagerly spread them out on the table.

"Upon my word—Scotch, English, and foreign coins, of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries, and some of them rari—et rariores—etiam rarissimi!
Here is the bonnet-piece of James V., the unicorn of James II.,—ay, and
the gold festoon of Queen Mary, with her head and the Dauphin's. And
these were really found in the ruins of St. Ruth?"

"Most assuredly—my own eyes witnessed it."

"Well," replied Oldbuck; "but you must tell me the when—the where-the
how."

"The when," answered Sir Arthur, "was at midnight the last full moon—the
where, as I have told you, in the ruins of St. Ruth's priory—the how,
was by a nocturnal experiment of Dousterswivel, accompanied only by
myself."

"Indeed!" said Oldbuck; "and what means of discovery did you employ?"

"Only a simple suffumigation," said the Baronet, "accompanied by
availing ourselves of the suitable planetary hour."

"Simple suffumigation? simple nonsensification—planetary hour? planetary
fiddlestick! Sapiens dominabitur astris. 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's turnpike yonder at Halket-head—to be sure the
transformation would have been then peculiarly apropos."

"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 say I saw."

"Certainly, Sir Arthur," said the Antiquary,—"to this extent at least,
that I know Sir Arthur Wardour will not say he saw anything but what he
thought he saw."

"Well, then," replied the Baronet, "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."

"Ay! indeed?" said Oldbuck, in the tone used when one wishes to hear the
end of a story before making any comment.

"Yes truly," continued Sir Arthur—"I assure you I was upon my guard—we
did hear some very uncommon sounds, that is certain, proceeding from
among the ruins."

"Oh, you did?" said Oldbuck; "an accomplice hid among them, I suppose?"

"Not a jot," said the Baronet;—"the sounds, though of a hideous and
preternatural character, rather resembled those of a man who sneezes
violently than any other—one deep groan I certainly heard besides; and
Dousterswivel assures me that he beheld the spirit Peolphan, the Great
Hunter of the North—(look for him in your Nicolaus Remigius, or Petrus
Thyracus, Mr. Oldbuck)—who mimicked the motion of snuff-taking and its
effects."

"These indications, however singular as proceeding from such a
personage, seem to have been apropos to the matter," said the Antiquary;
"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?"

"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;—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."

"Why, Sir Arthur, since you are so good, and on condition you will
permit me to mark the value according to Pinkerton's catalogue and
appreciation, against your account in my red book, I will with pleasure
select"—

"Nay," said Sir Arthur Wardour, "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."

"Ay, ay," rejoined Oldbuck, "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."

"Why then, Mr. Oldbuck," said Sir Arthur, "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?"

"Pardon me, Sir Arthur," rejoined the Antiquary; "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's lawyer—

                       —Money placed for show,
                   Like nest-eggs, to make clients lay,
                   And for his false opinions pay.—

It is the trick of all professions, my dear Sir Arthur. Pray, may I ask
you how much this discovery cost you?"

"About ten guineas."

"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?"

"An hundred and fifty pounds;—I have given him one-third part of the
money, and I thought it likely you might assist me with the balance."

"I should think that this cannot be meant as a parting blow—is not of
weight and importance sufficient; he will probably let us win this hand
also, as sharpers manage a raw gamester.—Sir Arthur, I hope you believe
I would serve you?"

"Certainly, Mr. Oldbuck; I think my confidence in you on these occasions
leaves no room to doubt that."

"Well, then, allow me to speak to Dousterswivel. If the money can
be advanced usefully and advantageously for you, why, for old
neighbourhood'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!"

"Unquestionably, I can have none whatsoever."

"Then where is Dousterswivel?" continued the Antiquary.

"To tell you the truth, he is in my carriage below; but knowing your
prejudice against him"—

"I thank Heaven, I am not prejudiced against any man, Sir Arthur: it is
systems, not individuals, that incur my reprobation." He rang the bell.
"Jenny, Sir Arthur and I offer our compliments to Mr. Dousterswivel,
the gentleman in Sir Arthur's carriage, and beg to have the pleasure of
speaking with him here."

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'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.




CHAPTER SECOND.

                          —And this Doctor,
             Your sooty smoky-bearded compeer, he
             Will close you so much gold in a bolt's head,
             And, on a turn, convey in the stead another
             With sublimed mercury, that shall burst i' the heat,
                      And all fly out in fumo.—
                                        The Alchemist.

"How do you do, goot Mr. Oldenbuck? and I do hope your young gentleman,
Captain M'Intyre, is getting better again? Ach! it is a bat business
when young gentlemens will put lead balls into each other's body."

"Lead adventures of all kinds are very precarious, Mr. Dousterswivel;
but I am happy to learn," continued the Antiquary, "from my friend Sir
Arthur, that you have taken up a better trade, and become a discoverer
of gold."

"Ach, Mr. Oldenbuck, mine goot and honoured patron should not have told
a word about dat little matter; for, though I have all reliance—yes,
indeed, on goot Mr. Oldenbuck's prudence and discretion, and his great
friendship for Sir Arthur Wardour—yet, my heavens! it is an great
ponderous secret."

"More ponderous than any of the metal we shall make by it, I fear,"
answered Oldbuck.

"Dat is just as you shall have de faith and de patience for de grand
experiment—If you join wid Sir Arthur, as he is put one hundred and
fifty—see, here is one fifty in your dirty Fairport bank-note—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."

"Nor any one for you, I believe," said the Antiquary. "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—the ruins belong to
Sir Arthur himself, so there can be no objection—do you think we shall
succeed in this way of managing the matter?"

"Bah!—you will not find one copper thimble—But Sir Arthur will do his
pleasure. I have showed him how it is possible—very possible—to have
de great sum of money for his occasions—I have showed him de real
experiment. If he likes not to believe, goot Mr. Oldenbuck, it is
nothing to Herman Dousterswivel—he only loses de money and de gold and
de silvers—dat is all."

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—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.

"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;—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—you who know all de curiosity so well—and
dere it is de horn full of coins;—if it had been a box or case, I would
have said nothing."

"Being a horn," said Oldbuck, "does indeed strengthen your argument. It
was an implement of nature'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," he continued, rubbing it upon his sleeve, "is a curious and
venerable relic, and no doubt was intended to prove a cornucopia, or
horn of plenty, to some one or other; but whether to the adept or his
patron, may be justly doubted."

"Well, Mr. Oldenbuck, I find you still hard of belief—but let me assure
you, de monksh understood de magisterium."

"Let us leave talking of the magisterium, 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?"

"Mine heaven! and what is dat to de purpose when I am doing you all de
goot I can?"

"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."

"And is dat de laws?" asked Dousterswivel, with some agitation.

"Thyself shall see the act," replied the Antiquary.

"Den, gentlemens, I shall take my leave of you, dat is all; I do not
like to stand on your what you call pillory—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."

"If such be your taste, Mr. Dousterswivel," said the Antiquary, "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."

"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?"

"I will try the experiment, however, and you shall be dealt with
according to its success,—always with Sir Arthur's permission."

Sir Arthur, during this investigation, had looked extremely embarrassed,
and, to use a vulgar but expressive phrase, chop-fallen. Oldbuck's
obstinate disbelief led him strongly to suspect the imposture of
Dousterswivel, and the adept's mode of keeping his ground was less
resolute than he had expected. Yet he did not entirely give him up.

 "Mr. Oldbuck," said the Baronet, "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."

"I did not say that exactly—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."

"Well, gentlemens," said Dousterswivel, sullenly, "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."

"We will put that to a fair trial," said the Antiquary; and the
Baronet'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.

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.

"The Lord bless your honour," began the Blue-Gown, with the genuine
mendicant whine, "and long life to you!—weel pleased am I to hear that
young Captain M'Intyre is like to be on his legs again sune—Think on
your poor bedesman the day."

"Aha, old true-penny!" replied the Antiquary. "Why, thou hast never come
to Monkbarns since thy perils by rock and flood—here's something for
thee to buy snuff,"—and, fumbling for his purse, he pulled out at the
same time the horn which enclosed the coins.

"Ay, and there's something to pit it in," said the mendicant, eyeing the
ram's horn—"that loom's an auld acquaintance o' mine. I could take my
aith to that sneeshing-mull amang a thousand—I carried it for mony a
year, till I niffered it for this tin ane wi' auld George Glen, the
dammer and sinker, when he took a fancy till't doun at Glen-Withershins
yonder."

"Ay! indeed?" said Oldbuck;—"so you exchanged it with a miner? but
I presume you never saw it so well filled before"—and opening it, he
showed the coins.

"Troth, ye may swear that, Monkbarns: when it was mine it neer had abune
the like o' saxpenny worth o' black rappee in't at ance. But I reckon
ye'll be gaun to mak an antic o't, as ye hae dune wi' mony an orra thing
besides. Od, I wish anybody wad mak an antic o' me; but mony ane will
find worth in rousted bits o' capper and horn and airn, that care unco
little about an auld carle o' their ain country and kind."

"You may now guess," said Oldbuck, turning to Sir Arthur, "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—I hope we
shall be as successful this morning, without paying for it."

"And whare is your honours gaun the day," said the mendicant, "wi' a'
your picks and shules?—Od, this will be some o' your tricks, Monkbarns:
ye'll be for whirling some o' the auld monks down by yonder out o' their
graves afore they hear the last call—but, wi' your leave, I'se follow ye
at ony rate, and see what ye mak o't."

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.

"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?—or will you assist us with your triangular vial of
May-dew, or with your divining-rod of witches-hazel?—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?"

"Mr. Oldenbuck," said Dousterswivel, doggedly, "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—yes, indeed."

"If your honours are thinking of tirling the floor," said old Edie, "and
wad but take a puir body's advice, I would begin below that muckle stane
that has the man there streekit out upon his back in the midst o't."

"I have some reason for thinking favourably of that plan myself," said
the Baronet.

"And I have nothing to say against it," said Oldbuck: "it was not
unusual to hide treasure in the tombs of the deceased—many instances
might be quoted of that from Bartholinus and others."

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.

"It's travell'd earth that," said Edie, "it howks gae eithly—I ken it
weel, for ance I wrought a simmer wi' 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—for ye ken a green Yule makes a fat kirkyard; and I never
dowed to bide a hard turn o' wark in my life—sae aff I gaed, and left
Will to delve his last dwellings by himsell for Edie."

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.

"It is worth while proceeding in our labours," said the Antiquary to Sir
Arthur, "were it but for curiosity's sake. I wonder on whose sepulchre
they have bestowed such uncommon pains."

"The arms on the shield," said Sir Arthur, and sighed as he spoke it,
"are the same with those on Misticot'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."

"I wot," said the beggar, "I have often heard that when I was a bairn—

              If Malcolm the Misticot's grave were fun',
              The lands of Knockwinnock were lost and won."

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. "It is
the Knockwinnock arms, sure enough," he exclaimed, "quarterly with the
coat of Wardour."

"Richard, called the red-handed Wardour, married Sybil Knockwinnock,
the heiress of the Saxon family, and by that alliance," said Sir Arthur,
"brought the castle and estate into the name of Wardour, in the year of
God 1150."

"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?"

"Na, whare was the through-stane, that it didna come before our een till
e'enow?" said Ochiltree; "for I hae ken'd this auld kirk, man and bairn,
for saxty lang years, and I neer noticed it afore; and it's nae sic mote
neither, but what ane might see it in their parritch."

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.

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.

"We're down to the till now," said one of them, "and the neer a coffin
or onything else is here—some cunninger chiel's been afore us, I
reckon;"— and the labourer scrambled out of the grave.

"Hout, lad," said Edie, getting down in his room—"let me try my hand for
an auld bedral;—ye're gude seekers, but ill finders."

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, "Nae halvers
and quarters— hale o' mine ain and 'nane o' my neighbour's."

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.

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.

"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?"

"Why, Mr. Dousterswivel, do you pretend to have had any hand in our good
success?—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,

           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?—

Ah! rare Ben Jonson! long peace to thy ashes for a scourge of the quacks
of thy day!—who expected to see them revive in our own?"

The answer of the adept to the Antiquary's tirade we must defer to our
next CHAPTER.




CHAPTER THIRD.

   Clause.—You now shall know the king o' the beggars' treasure:—
            Yes—ere to-morrow you shall find your harbour
            Here,—fail me not, for if I live I'll fit you.
                                       The Beggar's Bush.

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.

"Maister Oldenbuck, all dis may be very witty and comedy, but I have
nothing to say—nothing at all—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."

Sir Arthur obeyed his direction, and pulled out the small plate of
silver which he had used under the adept's auspices upon the former
occasion. "It is very true," said Sir Arthur, looking gravely at the
Antiquary; "this is the graduated and calculated sigil by which Mr.
Dousterswivel and I regulated our first discovery."

"Pshaw! pshaw! my dear friend," said Oldbuck, "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."

"In troth, please your honour," said Edie, who put in his word on all
occasions, "I think, since Mr. Dunkerswivel has had sae muckle merit
in discovering a' the gear, the least ye can do is to gie him that o't
that's left behind for his labour; for doubtless he that kend where to
find sae muckle will hae nae difficulty to find mair."

Dousterswivel's brow grew very dark at this proposal of leaving him to
his "ain purchase," 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,

Meanwhile Sir Arthur, his heart warm with his good fortune, said aloud,
"Never mind our friend Monkbarns, Mr. Dousterswivel, but come to the
Castle to-morrow, and I'll convince you that I am not ungrateful for the
hints you have given me about this matter—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."

But the cover had in the confusion fallen aside among the rubbish, or
the loose earth which had been removed from the grave—in short, it was
not to be seen.

"Never mind, my good lads, tie the tarpaulin over it, and get it away to
the carriage.—Monkbarns, will you walk? I must go back your way to take
up Miss Wardour."

"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."

"And I particularly recommend silence to all who are present," said Sir
Arthur, looking round. All bowed and professed themselves dumb.

"Why, as to that," said Monkbarns, "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—we will state the true one to
the Barons, and that is all that is necessary."

"I incline to send off an express to-night," said the Baronet.

"I can recommend your honour to a sure hand," said Ochiltree; "little
Davie Mailsetter, and the butcher's reisting powny."

"We will talk over the matter as we go to Monkbarns," said Sir Arthur.
"My lads" (to the work-people), "come with me to the Four Horse-shoes,
that I may take down all your names.—Dousterswivel, I won'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."

Dousterswivel growled out an answer, in which the words, "duty,"—"mine
honoured patron,"—and "wait upon Sir Arthurs,"—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.

"Who was it as could have thought this?" he ejaculated unconsciously.
"Mine heiligkeit! I have heard of such things, and often spoken of such
things—but, sapperment! I never, thought to see them! And if I had gone
but two or dree feet deeper down in the earth—mein himmel! it had been
all mine own—so much more as I have been muddling about to get from this
fool's man."

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'claircissement, and, rallying
his spirits, instantly began to sound the mendicant on the occurrences
of the day. "Goot Maister Edies Ochiltrees"—

"Edie Ochiltree, nae maister—your puir bedesman and the king's,"
answered the Blue-Gown.

"Awell den, goot Edie, what do you think of all dis?"

"I was just thinking it was very kind (for I darena say very simple) o'
your honour to gie thae twa rich gentles, wha hae lands and lairdships,
and siller without end, this grand pose o' 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."

"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."

"What! was it not by your honours advice and counsel that Monkbarns and
the Knight of Knockwinnock came here then?"

"Aha—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."

"And do you really believe the like o' that, Mr. Dusterdeevil!—a
skeelfu' man like you—hout fie!"

"Mein friend," answered the adept, foreed by circumstances to speak
something nearer the truth than he generally used to do, "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—and what
would you ave nae think den?"

"And what wad ye gie to ony ane," said Edie, "that wad help ye to sic
another kistfu' o' silver!"

"Give?—mein himmel!—one great big quarter of it."

"Now if the secret were mine," said the mendicant, "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' being taen up, yet I could find
mony folk would pass it awa for me at unco muckle easier profit than
ye're thinking on."

"Ach, himmel!—Mein goot friend, what was it I said?—I did mean to say
you should have de tree quarter for your half, and de one quarter to be
my fair half."

"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' the way, while Monkbarns was glowering ower a' the
silver yonder. He's a sharp chiel Monkbarns—I was glad to keep the like
o' this out o' his sight. Ye'll maybe can read the character better than
me—I am nae that book learned, at least I'm no that muckle in practice."

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.

"Can ye mak ought o't?" said Edie to the adept.

"S," said the philosopher, like a child getting his lesson in the
primer—"S, T, A, R, C, H,—Starch!—dat is what de woman-washers put into
de neckerchers, and de shirt collar."

"Search!" echoed Ochiltree; "na, na, Mr. Dusterdeevil, ye are mair of a
conjuror than a clerk—it's search, man, search—See, there's the Ye clear
and distinct."

"Aha! I see it now—it is search—number one. Mein himmel! then there must
be a number two, mein goot friend: for search is what you call to seek
and dig, and this is but number one! Mine wort, there is one great big
prize in de wheel for us, goot Maister Ochiltree."

"Aweel, it may be sae; but we canna howk fort enow—we hae nae shules,
for they hae taen them a' awa—and it's like some o' them will be sent
back to fling the earth into the hole, and mak a' things trig again. But
an ye'll sit down wi' me a while in the wood, I'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—But first we'll rub
out the letters on this board, for fear it tell tales."

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.

Dousterswivel stared at him in ambiguous silence. There was an
intelligence and alacrity about all the old man'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.—"Let me, however, hear this
story to an end," thought Dousterswivel, "and it will be hard if I do
not make mine account in it better as Maister Edie Ochiltrees makes
proposes."

The adept, thus transformed into a pupil from a teacher of the mystic
art, followed Ochiltree in passive acquiescence to the Prior's Oak—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's
communication.

"Maister Dustandsnivel," said the narrator, "it's an unco while since
I heard this business treated anent;—for the lairds of Knockwinnock,
neither Sir Arthur, nor his father, nor his grandfather—and I mind a wee
bit about them a'—liked to hear it spoken about; nor they dinna like
it yet—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'—and sae I hae heard the circumstance rehearsed by auld
servants in the family; and in thir present days, when things o' that
auld-warld sort arena keepit in mind round winter fire-sides as they
used to be, I question if there's onybody in the country can tell the
tale but mysell— aye out-taken the laird though, for there's a parchment
book about it, as I have heard, in the charter-room at Knockwinnock
Castle."

"Well, all dat is vary well—but get you on with your stories, mine goot
friend," said Dousterswivel.

"Aweel, ye see," continued the mendicant, "this was a job in the auld
times o' rugging and riving through the hale country, when it was ilka
ane for himsell, and God for us a'—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' through the east country here, and nae doubt through the rest o'
Scotland in the self and same manner.

"Sae in these days Sir Richard Wardour came into the land, and that was
the first o' the name ever was in this country. There's been mony o'
them sin' syne; and the maist, like him they ca'd Hell-in-Harness, and
the rest o' them, are sleeping down in yon ruins. They were a proud
dour set o' men, but unco brave, and aye stood up for the weel o' the
country, God sain them a'—there's no muckle popery in that wish. They
ca'd them the Norman Wardours, though they cam frae the south to this
country. So this Sir Richard, that they ca'd Red-hand, drew up wi' the
auld Knockwinnock o' that day—for then they were Knockwinnocks of that
Ilk—and wad fain marry his only daughter, that was to have the castle
and the land. Laith, laith was the lass—(Sybil Knockwinnock they ca'd
her that tauld me the tale)—laith, laith was she to gie into the match,
for she had fa'en a wee ower thick wi' a cousin o' 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—for marry him she maun, it's
like—ye'll no hinder her gieing them a present o' a bonny knave bairn.
Then there was siccan a ca'-thro', as the like was never seen; and she's
be burnt, and he's be slain, was the best words o' their mouths. But it
was a' 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' the wrang side o' the blanket; and Sir Richard wi' the
Red-hand, he had a fair offspring o'his ain, and a was lound and
quiet till his head was laid in the ground. But then down came Malcolm
Misticot—(Sir Arthur says it should be Misbegot, but they aye ca'd
him Misticot that spoke o't lang syne)—down cam this Malcolm, the
love-begot, frae Glen-isla, wi' a string o' lang-legged Highlanders at
his heels, that's aye ready for onybody's mischief, and he threeps the
castle and lands are his ain as his mother's eldest son, and turns
a' 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' Misticot's tower to this day."

"Mine goot friend, old Mr. Edie Ochiltree." interrupted the German,
"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."

"Why, ye see," continued the mendicant, "this Malcolm was weel helped
by an uncle, a brother o' his father's, that was Prior o' 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—at ony rate, they were
very rich. At last it came to this, that the young Wardour, that was
Red-hand's son, challenged Misticot to fight with him in the lists
as they ca'd them—that's no lists or tailor's runds and selvedges
o' claith, but a palin'-thing they set up for them to fight in like
game-cocks. Aweel, Misticot was beaten, and at his brother's mercy—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'd
whare his uncle the prior earded him, or what he did wi' his gowd and
silver, for he stood on the right o' halie kirk, and wad gie nae account
to onybody. But the prophecy gat abroad in the country, that whenever
Misticot's grave was fund out, the estate of Knockwinnock should be lost
and won."

"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.—And so you do tink dat dis golds and silvers belonged to goot
Mr. Malcolm Mishdigoat?"

"Troth do I, Mr. Dousterdeevil."

"And you do believe dat dere is more of dat sorts behind?"

"By my certie do I—How can it be otherwise?—Search—No. I—that is as
muckle as to say, search and ye'll find number twa. Besides, yon kist
is only silver, and I aye heard that' Misticot's pose had muckle yellow
gowd in't."

"Den, mine goot friends," said the adept, jumping up hastily, "why do we
not set about our little job directly?"

"For twa gude reasons," answered the beggar, who quietly kept his
sitting posture;—"first, because, as I said before, we have naething
to dig wi', 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—and ony way we wad be catched. But if you will meet me on this place
at twal o'clock wi' a dark lantern, I'll hae tools ready, and we'll gang
quietly about our job our twa sells, and naebody the wiser for't."

"Be—be—but, mine goot friend," said Dousterswivel, from whose
recollection his former nocturnal adventure was not to be altogether
erased, even by the splendid hopes which Edie's narrative held forth,
"it is not so goot or so safe, to be about goot Maister Mishdigoat's
grabe at dat time of night—you have forgot how I told you de spirits did
hone and mone dere. I do assure you, dere is disturbance dere."

"If ye're afraid of ghaists," answered the mendicant, coolly, "I'll do
the job mysell, and bring your share o' the siller to ony place you like
to appoint."

"No—no—mine excellent old Mr. Edie,—too much trouble for you—I will not
have dat—I will come myself—and it will be bettermost; for, mine old
friend, it was I, Herman Dousterswivel, discovered Maister Mishdigoat'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's own monumentsh— It's like dat he
meant I should be his heirs—so it would not be civility in me not to
come mineself for mine inheritance."

"At twal o'clock, then," said the mendicant, "we meet under this tree.
I'll watch for a while, and see that naebody meddles wi' the grave—it's
only saying the laird's forbade it—then get my bit supper frae Ringan
the poinder up by, and leave to sleep in his barn; and I'll slip out at
night, and neer be mist."

"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."

So saying he shook hands with the old man, and with this mutual pledge
of fidelity to their appointment, they separated for the present.




CHAPTER FOURTH.

                          —See thou shake the bags
                 Of hoarding abbots; angels imprisoned
                         Set thou at liberty—
                Bell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back,
                        If gold and silver beckon to come on.
                                              King John.

The night set in stormy, with wind and occasional showers of rain. "Eh,
sirs," said the old mendicant, as he took his place on the sheltered
side of the large oak-tree to wait for his associate—"Eh, sirs, but
human nature's a wilful and wilyard thing!—Is it not an unco lucre o'
gain wad bring this Dousterdivel out in a blast o' wind like this, at
twal o'clock at night, to thir wild gousty wa's?—and amna I a bigger
fule than himsell to bide here waiting for him?"

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's composition. His mind wandered back to the scenes
of his youth.

"I have kept guard on the outposts baith in Germany and America," he
said to himself, "in mony a waur night than this, and when I ken'd there
was maybe a dozen o' their riflemen in the thicket before me. But I was
aye gleg at my duty—naebody ever catched Edie sleeping."

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—"Stand! who goes there?"

"De devil, goot Edie," answered Dousterswivel, "why does you speak
so loud as a baarenhauter, or what you call a factionary—I mean a
sentinel?"

"Just because I thought I was a sentinel at that moment," answered the
mendicant. "Here's an awsome night! Hae ye brought the lantern and a
pock for the siller?"

"Ay-ay, mine goot friend," said the German, "here it is—my pair of what
you call saddlebag; one side will be for you, one side for me;—I will
put dem on my horse to save you de trouble, as you are old man."

"Have you a horse here, then?" asked Edie Ochiltree.

"O yes, mine friend—tied yonder by de stile," responded the adept.

"Weel, I hae just ae word to the bargain—there sall nane o' my gear gang
on your beast's back."

"What was it as you would be afraid of?" said the foreigner.

"Only of losing sight of horse, man, and money," again replied the
gaberlunzie.

"Does you know dat you make one gentlemans out to be one great rogue?"

"Mony gentlemen," replied Ochiltree, "can make that out for themselves—
But what's the sense of quarrelling?—If ye want to gang on, gang on—if
no—I'll gae back to the gude ait-straw in Ringan Aikwood's barn that I
left wi' right ill-will e'now, and I'll pit back the pick and shule whar
I got them."

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's grave, satisfied him the attempt would be
hazardous. Endeavouring, therefore, to assume his usual cajoling tone,
though internally incensed, he begged "his goot friend Maister Edie
Ochiltrees would lead the way, and assured him of his acquiescence in
all such an excellent friend could propose."

"Aweel, aweel, then," said Edie, "tak gude care o' your feet amang the
lang grass and the loose stones. I wish we may get the light keepit
in neist, wi' this fearsome wind—but there's a blink o' moonlight at
times."

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.

"Ye're a learned man, Mr. Dousterdeevil, and ken muckle o' the
marvellous works o' nature—Now, will ye tell me ae thing?—D'ye believe
in ghaists and spirits that walk the earth?—d'ye believe in them, ay or
no?"

"Now, goot Mr. Edie," whispered Dousterswivel, in an expostulatory tone
of voice, "is this a times or a places for such a questions?"

"Indeed is it, baith the tane and the t'other, Mr. Dustanshovel; for I
maun fairly tell ye, there'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' our purpose of visiting his pose?"

"Alle guten Geister"—muttered the adept, the rest of the conjuration
being lost in a tremulous warble of his voice,—"I do desires you not to
speak so, Mr. Edie; for, from all I heard dat one other night, I do much
believes"—

"Now I," said Ochiltree, entering the chancel, and flinging abroad his
arm with an air of defiance, "I wadna gie the crack o' my thumb for him
were he to appear at this moment: he's but a disembodied spirit, as we
are embodied anes."

"For the lofe of heavens," said Dousterswivel, "say nothing at all
neither about somebodies or nobodies!"

"Aweel," said the beggar (expanding the shade of the lantern), "here's
the stane, and, spirit or no spirit, I'se be a wee bit deeper in the
grave;" 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, "I'm auld and failed now,
and canna keep at it—time about's fair play, neighbour; ye maun get in
and tak the shule a bit, and shule out the loose earth, and then I'll
tak turn about wi' you."

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.

Edie, standing much at his ease by the side of the hole, contented
himself with exhorting his associate to labour hard. "My certie! few
ever wrought for siccan a day's wage; an it be but—say the tenth part o'
the size o' the kist, No. I., it will double its value, being filled wi'
gowd instead of silver. Od, ye work as if ye had been bred to pick and
shule— ye could win your round half-crown ilka day. Tak care o' your
taes wi' that stane!" 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's shins.

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.

"O dinna swear! dinna swear! Wha kens whals listening!—Eh! gude guide
us, what's yon!—Hout, it's just a branch of ivy flightering awa frae the
wa'; when the moon was in, it lookit unco like a dead man's arm wi' a
taper in't—I thought it was Misticot himsell. But never mind, work you
away—fling the earth weel up by out o' the gate—Od, if ye're no as clean
a worker at a grave as Win Winnet himsell! What gars ye stop now?— ye're
just at the very bit for a chance."

"Stop!" said the German, in a tone of anger and disappointment, "why,
I am down at de rocks dat de cursed ruins (God forgife me!) is founded
upon."

"Weel," said the beggar, "that's the likeliest bit of ony. It will be
but a muckle through-stane laid doun to kiver the gowd—tak the pick
till't, and pit mair strength, man—ae gude down-right devvel will split
it, I'se warrant ye—Ay, that will do Od, he comes on wi' Wallace's
straiks!"

In fact, the adept, moved by Edie'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.

"Hurra, boys!—there goes Ringan's pick-axe!" cried Edie "it's a shame o'
the Fairport folk to sell siccan frail gear. Try the shule—at it again,
Mr. Dusterdeevil."

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. "Does you know, Mr. Edies Ochiltrees, who it is you put off your
gibes and your jests upon?"

"Brawly, Mr. Dusterdeevil—brawly do I ken ye, and has done mony a day;
but there's nae jesting in the case, for I am wearying to see ae our
treasures; we should hae had baith ends o' the pockmanky filled by this
time—I hope it's bowk eneugh to haud a' the gear?"

"Look you, you base old person," said the incensed philosopher, "if you
do put another jest upon me, I will cleave your skull-piece with this
shovels!"

"And whare wad my hands and my pike-staff be a' the time?" replied
Edie, in a tone that indicated no apprehension. "Hout, tout, Maister
Dusterdeevil, I haena lived sae lang in the warld neither, to be shuled
out o't that gate. What ails ye to be cankered, man, wi' your friends?
I'll wager I'll find out the treasure in a minute;" and he jumped into
the pit, and took up the spade.

"I do swear to you," said the adept, whose suspicions were now fully
awake, "that if you have played me one big trick, I will give you one
big beating, Mr. Edies."

"Hear till him now!" said Ochiltree, "he kens how to gar folk find out
the gear—Od, I'm thinking he's been drilled that way himsell some day."

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'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, "Shame to ye, man!—do ye
think Heaven or earth will suffer ye to murder an auld man that might be
your father?—Look behind ye, man!"

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 voie de fait, took measure of the
adept'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'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—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.

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'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. "But bah!" quoth he valiantly to himself, "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!"

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 sough 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.

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. The Funeral of the Countess

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—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—a priest, dressed in his cope and
stole, held open the service book—another churchman in his vestments
bore a holy-water sprinkler, and two boys in white surplices held
censers with incense—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—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—loud,
clear, and sonorous—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'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.

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, "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?—My lord couldna tak it weel your coming blinking and
jinking in, in that fashion."

"In de name of all dat is gootness, tell me what you are?" interrupted
the German in his turn.

"What I am? why, wha should I be but Ringan Aikwood, the Knockwinnock
poinder?—and what are ye doing here at this time o' night, unless ye
were come to attend the leddy's burial?"

"I do declare to you, mine goot Poinder Aikwood," said the German,
raising himself up, "that I have been this vary nights murdered, robbed,
and put in fears of my life."

"Robbed! wha wad do sic a deed here?—Murdered! od ye speak pretty
blithe for a murdered man—Put in fear! what put you in fear, Mr.
Dousterswivel?"

"I will tell you, Maister Poinder Aikwood Ringan, just dat old miscreant
dog villain blue-gown, as you call Edie Ochiltrees."

"I'll neer believe that," answered Ringan;—"Edie was ken'd to me, and
my father before me, for a true, loyal, and sooth-fast man; and, mair
by token, he's sleeping up yonder in our barn, and has been since ten
at e'en—Sae touch ye wha liket, Mr. Dousterswivel, and whether onybody
touched ye or no, I'm sure Edie's sackless."

"Maister Ringan Aikwood Poinders, I do not know what you call sackless,—
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."

"Weel, sir, if ye will gae up wi' me, as the burial company has
dispersed, we'se mak ye down a bed at the lodge, and we'se see if Edie's
at the barn. There was twa wild-looking chaps left the auld kirk when we
were coming up wi' the corpse, that's certain; and the priest, wha likes
ill that ony heretics should look on at our church ceremonies, sent twa
o' the riding saulies after them; sae we'll hear a' about it frae them."

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.

"I will apply to the magistrates to-morrow," said the adept; "oder, I
will have de law put in force against all the peoples."

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.

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 ignis fatuus, 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.

"We aye put out the torches at the Halie-cross Well on sic occasions,"
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' hoofs in the
direction towards which the mourners had bent their course.




CHAPTER FIFTH.

                       O weel may the boatie row
                       And better may she speed,
                      And weel may the boatie row
                    That earns the bairnies' bread!
                   The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
                       The boatie rows fu' weel,
                 And lightsome be their life that bear
                       The merlin and the creel!
                                        Old Ballad.

We must now introduce our reader to the interior of the fisher'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,—
there was dilapidation,—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, "The clartier the cosier." 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 "Get out o' the gate,
ye little sorrow!" was strongly contrasted with the passive and
half-stupified look and manner of her husband'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—now muttering to herself, now smiling vacantly to the
children as they pulled the strings of her toy 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.

While they were thus employed, a slight tap at the door, accompanied
with the question, "Are ye up yet, sirs?" announced a visitor. The
answer, "Ay, ay,—come your ways ben, hinny," occasioned the lifting of
the latch, and Jenny Rintherout, the female domestic of our Antiquary,
made her appearance.

"Ay, ay," exclaimed the mistress of the family—"Hegh, sirs! can this be
you, Jenny?—a sight o' you's gude for sair een, lass."

"O woman, we've been sae ta'en up wi' Captain Hector's wound up by, that
I havena had my fit out ower the door this fortnight; but he'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'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."

"Ay, ay," answered Luckie Mucklebackit, "I see you hae gotten a' your
braws on; ye're looking about for Steenie now—but he's no at hame the
night; and ye'll no do for Steenie, lass—a feckless thing like you's no
fit to mainteen a man."

"Steenie will no do for me," retorted Jenny, with a toss of her head
that might have become a higher-born damsel; "I maun hae a man that can
mainteen his wife."

"Ou ay, hinny—thae's your landward and burrows-town notions. My
certie!—fisherwives ken better—they keep the man, and keep the house,
and keep the siller too, lass."

"A wheen poor drudges ye are," answered the nymph of the land to the
nymph of the sea. "As sune as the keel o' 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' his pipe
and his gill-stoup ahint the ingle, like ony auld houdie, and neer a
turn will he do till the coble's afloat again! And the wife she maun get
the scull on her back, and awa wi' the fish to the next burrows-town,
and scauld and ban wi'ilka wife that will scauld and ban wi'her till
it's sauld—and that's the gait fisher-wives live, puir slaving bodies."

"Slaves?—gae wa', lass!—ca' the head o' 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' the weans. He has mair sense than to ca'
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' tight, thack and rape, when his coble is jowing awa in the
Firth, puir fallow. Na, na, lass!—them that sell the goods guide the
purse—them that guide the purse rule the house. Show me ane o' yer bits
o' farmer-bodies that wad let their wife drive the stock to the market,
and ca' in the debts. Na, na."

"Aweel, aweel, Maggie, ilka land has its ain lauch—But where's Steenie
the night, when a's come and gane? And where's the gudeman?"*

* Note G. Gynecocracy.

"I hae putten the gudeman to his bed, for he was e'en sair forfain; and
Steenie's awa out about some barns-breaking wi' the auld gaberlunzie,
Edie Ochiltree: they'll be in sune, and ye can sit doun."

"Troth, gudewife" (taking a seat), "I haena that muckle time to stop—but
I maun tell ye about the news. Yell hae heard o' the muckle kist o' gowd
that Sir Arthur has fund down by at St. Ruth?—He'll be grander than ever
now—he'll no can haud down his head to sneeze, for fear o' seeing his
shoon."

"Ou ay—a' the country's heard o' that; but auld Edie says that they ca'
it ten times mair than ever was o't, and he saw them howk it up. Od, it
would be lang or a puir body that needed it got sic a windfa'."

"Na, that's sure eneugh.—And yell hae heard o' the Countess o' Glenallan
being dead and lying in state, and how she's to be buried at St. Ruth's
as this night fa's, wi' torch-light; and a' the popist servants, and
Ringan Aikwood, that's a papist too, are to be there, and it will be the
grandest show ever was seen."

"Troth, hinny," answered the Nereid, "if they let naebody but papists
come there, it'll no be muckle o' a show in this country, for the auld
harlot, as honest Mr. Blattergowl ca's her, has few that drink o' her
cup o' enchantments in this corner o' our chosen lands.—But what can ail
them to bury the auld carlin (a rudas wife she was) in the night-time?—I
dare say our gudemither will ken."

Here she exalted her voice, and exclaimed twice or thrice, "Gudemither!
gudemither!" 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.

"Speak to your grandmither, Jenny—Od, I wad rather hail the coble half a
mile aff, and the nor-wast wind whistling again in my teeth."

"Grannie," said the little mermaid, in a voice to which the old woman
was better accustomed, "minnie wants to ken what for the Glenallan folk
aye bury by candle-light in the ruing of St. Ruth!"

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, "What gars the Glenallan family inter their dead by
torchlight, said the lassie?—Is there a Glenallan dead e'en now?"

"We might be a' dead and buried too," said Maggie, "for onything ye
wad ken about it;"—and then, raising her voice to the stretch of her
mother-in-law's comprehension, she added,

"It's the auld Countess, gudemither."

"And is she ca'd hame then at last?" 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—"is she then called to her last account after her lang race o'
pride and power?— O God, forgie her!"

"But minnie was asking ye," resumed the lesser querist, "what for the
Glenallan family aye bury their dead by torch-light?"

"They hae aye dune sae," said the grandmother, "since the time the Great
Earl fell in the sair battle o' 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'en fighting against Donald of the Isles.
But the Great Earl's mither was living—they were a doughty and a dour
race, the women o' the house o' Glenallan—and she wad hae nae coronach
cried for her son, but had him laid in the silence o' midnight in his
place o' 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' 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'
dry eyes, and without a groan or a wail. And it was thought a proud word
o' the family, and they aye stickit by it—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—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—they may be
owerlooked now, as I have heard: the warlds changed—I whiles hardly ken
whether I am standing or sitting, or dead or living."

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.

"Eh, sirs!" said Jenny Rintherout, under her breath to her gossip, "it's
awsome to hear your gudemither break out in that gait—it's like the dead
speaking to the living."

"Ye're no that far wrang, lass; she minds naething o' what passes the
day—but set her on auld tales, and she can speak like a prent buke.
She kens mair about the Glenallan family than maist folk—the gudeman's
father was their fisher mony a day. Ye maun ken the papists make a great
point o' eating fish—it's nae bad part o' their religion that, whatever
the rest is—I could aye sell the best o' fish at the best o' prices for
the Countess's ain table, grace be wi' her! especially on a Friday—But
see as our gudemither's hands and lips are ganging—now it's working in
her head like barm—she'll speak eneugh the night. Whiles she'll no speak
a word in a week, unless it be to the bits o' bairns."

"Hegh, Mrs. Mucklebackit, she's an awsome wife!" said Jenny in reply.
"D'ye think she's a'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's been dead, naebody kens what she is. D'ye think yoursell
that she's no uncanny?"

"Canny, ye silly tawpie! think ye ae auld wife's less canny than
anither? unless it be Alison Breck—I really couldna in conscience swear
for her; I have kent the boxes she set fill'd wi' partans, when"—

"Whisht, whisht, Maggie," whispered Jenny—"your gudemither's gaun to
speak again."

"Wasna there some ane o' ye said," asked the old sibyl, "or did I dream,
or was it revealed to me, that Joscelind, Lady Glenallan, is dead, an'
buried this night?"

"Yes, gudemither," screamed the daughter-in-law, "it's e'en sae."

"And e'en sae let it be," said old Elspeth; "she's made mony a sair
heart in her day—ay, e'en her ain son's—is he living yet?"

"Ay, he's living yet; but how lang he'll live—however, dinna ye mind his
coming and asking after you in the spring, and leaving siller?"

"It may be sae, Magge—I dinna mind it—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—ower and
out-ower wi' her son, and garr'd him trow the thing he never suld hae
trowed, and do the thing he has repented a' his life, and will repent
still, were his life as lang as this lang and wearisome ane o' mine."

"O what was it, grannie?"—and "What was it, gudemither?"—and "What was
it, Luckie Elspeth?" asked the children, the mother, and the visitor, in
one breath.

"Never ask what it was," answered the old sibyl, "but pray to God that
ye arena left to the pride and wilfu'ness o' your ain hearts: they may
be as powerful in a cabin as in a castle—I can bear a sad witness to
that. O that weary and fearfu' night! will it never gang out o' my auld
head!— Eh! to see her lying on the floor wi' her lang hair dreeping wi'
the salt water!—Heaven will avenge on a' that had to do wi't. Sirs! is
my son out wi' the coble this windy e'en?"

"Na, na, mither—nae coble can keep the sea this wind; he's sleeping in
his bed out-ower yonder ahint the hallan."

"Is Steenie out at sea then?"

"Na, grannie—Steenie's awa out wi' auld Edie Ochiltree, the gaberlunzie;
maybe they'll be gaun to see the burial."

"That canna be," said the mother of the family; "we kent naething o't
till Jock Rand cam in, and tauld us the Aikwoods had warning to attend—
they keep thae things unco private—and they were to bring the corpse a'
the way frae the Castle, ten miles off, under cloud o' night. She has
lain in state this ten days at Glenallan House, in a grand chamber a'
hung wi' black, and lighted wi' wax cannle."

"God assoilzie her!" ejaculated old Elspeth, her head apparently still
occupied by the event of the Countess's death; "she was a hard-hearted
woman, but she's gaen to account for it a', and His mercy is infinite—
God grant she may find it sae!" And she relapsed into silence, which she
did not break again during the rest of the evening.

"I wonder what that auld daft beggar carle and our son Steenie can be
doing out in sic a nicht as this," said Maggie Mucklebackit; and her
expression of surprise was echoed by her visitor. "Gang awa, ane o' ye,
hinnies, up to the heugh head, and gie them a cry in case they're within
hearing; the car-cakes will be burnt to a cinder."

The little emissary departed, but in a few minutes came running back
with the loud exclamation, "Eh, Minnie! eh, grannie! there's a white
bogle chasing twa black anes down the heugh."

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;
"for what use," she said, "had the like o' them for bars?"

"There's naebody chasing us," said the beggar, after he had taken his
breath: "we're e'en like the wicked, that flee when no one pursueth."

"Troth, but we were chased," said Steenie, "by a spirit or something
little better."

"It was a man in white on horseback," said Edie, "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."*

* [This refers to the flight of the government forces at the battle of
Prestonpans, 1745.]

"Hout, ye daft gowks!" said Luckie Mucklebackit, "it will hae been some
o' the riders at the Countess's burial."

"What!" said Edie, "is the auld Countess buried the night at St. Ruth's?
Ou, that wad be the lights and the noise that scarr'd us awa; I wish I
had ken'd—I wad hae stude them, and no left the man yonder—but they'll
take care o' him. Ye strike ower hard, Steenie I doubt ye foundered the
chield."

"Neer a bit," said Steenie, laughing; "he has braw broad shouthers, and
I just took measure o' them wi' the stang. Od, if I hadna been something
short wi' him, he wad hae knockit your auld hams out, lad."

"Weel, an I win clear o' this scrape," said Edie, "I'se tempt Providence
nae mair. But I canna think it an unlawfu' thing to pit a bit trick on
sic a landlouping scoundrel, that just lives by tricking honester folk."

"But what are we to do with this?" said Steenie, producing a
pocket-book.

"Od guide us, man," said Edie in great alarm, "what garr'd ye touch the
gear? a very leaf o' that pocket-book wad be eneugh to hang us baith."

"I dinna ken," said Steenie; "the book had fa'en out o' 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,' and I had nae
mair thought o' the book."

"We maun get it back to the loon some gait or other; ye had better take
it yoursell, I think, wi' peep o' light, up to Ringan Aikwood's. I wadna
for a hundred pounds it was fund in our hands."

Steenie undertook to do as he was directed.

"A bonny night ye hae made o't, Mr. Steenie," said Jenny Rintherout,
who, impatient of remaining so long unnoticed, now presented herself to
the young fisherman—"A bonny night ye hae made o't, tramping about wi'
gaberlunzies, and getting yoursell hunted wi' worricows, when ye suld be
sleeping in your bed, like your father, honest man."

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,—the children had one
by one crept into their nests,—the old grandmother was deposited in
her flock-bed,—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,—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.




CHAPTER SIXTH.

                           —Many great ones
          Would part with half their states, to have the plan
                 And credit to beg in the first style.
                                            Beggar's Bush.

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.

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.

"Gude day to ye, cummer, and mony ane o' them. I will be back about the
fore-end o'har'st, and I trust to find ye baith haill and fere."

"Pray that ye may find me in my quiet grave," said the old woman, in
a hollow and sepulchral voice, but without the agitation of a single
feature.

"Ye're auld, cummer, and sae am I mysell; but we maun abide His will—
we'll no be forgotten in His good time."

"Nor our deeds neither," said the crone: "what's dune in the body maun
be answered in the spirit."

"I wot that'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're a'
frail—but ye canna hae sae muckle to bow ye down."

"Less than I might have had—but mair, O far mair, than wad sink the
stoutest brig e'er sailed out o' Fairport harbour!—Didna somebody say
yestreen—at least sae it is borne in on my mind, but auld folk hae weak
fancies—did not somebody say that Joscelind, Countess of Glenallan, was
departed frae life?"

"They said the truth whaever said it," answered old Edie; "she was
buried yestreen by torch-light at St. Ruth's, and I, like a fule, gat a
gliff wi' seeing the lights and the riders."

"It was their fashion since the days of the Great Earl that was killed
at Harlaw;—they did it to show scorn that they should die and be buried
like other mortals; the wives o' the house of Glenallan wailed nae wail
for the husband, nor the sister for the brother.—But is she e'en ca'd to
the lang account?"

"As sure," answered Edie, "as we maun a' abide it."

"Then I'll unlade my mind, come o't what will."

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.

"Gudeman," she said to Ochiltree, "as ye wad e'er deserve mercy, ye maun
gang my errand to the house of Glenallan, and ask for the Earl."

"The Earl of Glenallan, cummer! ou, he winna see ony o' the gentles o'
the country, and what likelihood is there that he wad see the like o' an
auld gaberlunzie?"

"Gang your ways and try;—and tell him that Elspeth o' the
Craigburnfoot—he'll mind me best by that name—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'."

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.

"Weel, gudewife," he said, "I'se do your bidding, or it'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."

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.

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'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.

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'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'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 "great Glenallan cause."

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.

* [Supposed to represent Glammis Castle, in Forfarshire, with which the
Author was well acquainted.]

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,
Forr his hounor the Yerl of Glenllan—These. 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'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,—that there was about to be a general dole or
distribution of charity.

"A good turn," said Edie to himself, "never goes unrewarded—I'll maybe
get a good awmous that I wad hae missed but for trotting on this auld
wife's errand."

Accordingly, he ranked up with the rest of this ragged regiment,
assuming a station as near the front as possible,—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.

"Are ye a triple man, friend, that ye press forward sae bauldly?—I'm
thinking no, for there's nae Catholics wear that badge."

"Na, na, I am no a Roman," said Edie.

"Then shank yoursell awa to the double folk, or single folk, that's the
Episcopals or Presbyterians yonder: it's a shame to see a heretic hae
sic a lang white beard, that would do credit to a hermit."

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.

"See to him wi' his badge!" they said;—"he hears ane o' the king's
Presbyterian chaplains sough out a sermon on the morning of every
birth-day, and now he would pass himsell for ane o' the Episcopal
church! Na, na!—we'll take care o' that."

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.

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.

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,
"Fat is the auld feel-body deeing, that he canna gang avay, now that
he's gotten baith meat and siller?"

"Francis Macraw," answered Edie Ochiltree, "d'ye no mind Fontenoy, and
keep thegither front and rear?'"

"Ohon! ohon!" cried Francie, with a true north-country yell of
recognition, "naebody could hae said that word but my auld front-rank
man, Edie Ochiltree! But I'm sorry to see ye in sic a peer state, man."

"No sae ill aff as ye may think, Francis. But I'm laith to leave this
place without a crack wi' you, and I kenna when I may see you again, for
your folk dinna mak Protestants welcome, and that's ae reason that I hae
never been here before."

"Fusht, fusht," said Francie, "let that flee stick i' the wa'—when the
dirt's dry it will rub out;—and come you awa wi' me, and I'll gie ye
something better thau that beef bane, man."

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,—the Countess'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' 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'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.

"He had a petition to present to the Earl," he said;—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.

* A single soldier means, in Scotch, a private soldier.

"Hout, tout, man," said Francie, "the Earl will look at nae petitions—
but I can gie't to the almoner."

"But it relates to some secret, that maybe my lord wad like best to
see't himsell."

"I'm jeedging that's the very reason that the almoner will be for seeing
it the first and foremost."

"But I hae come a' this way on purpose to deliver it, Francis, and ye
really maun help me at a pinch."

"Neer speed then if I dinna," answered the Aberdeenshire man: "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."

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.

"I am nae seer gin ye be Edie Ochiltree o' Carrick's company in the
Forty-twa, or gin ye be the deil in his likeness!"

"And what makes ye speak in that gait?" demanded the astonished
mendicant.

"Because my lord has been in sic a distress and surpreese as I neer saw
a man in my life. But he'll see you—I got that job cookit. He was like a
man awa frae himsell for mony minutes, and I thought he wad hae swarv't
a'thegither,—and fan he cam to himsell, he asked fae brought the
packet—and fat trow ye I said?"

"An auld soger," says Edie—"that does likeliest at a gentle's door; at
a farmer's it's best to say ye're an auld tinkler, if ye need ony
quarters, for maybe the gudewife will hae something to souther."

"But I said neer ane o' the twa," answered Francis; "my lord cares
as little about the tane as the tother—for he's best to them that can
souther up our sins. Sae I e'en said the bit paper was brought by an
auld man wi' a long fite beard—he might be a capeechin freer for fat I
ken'd, for he was dressed like an auld palmer. Sae ye'll be sent up for
fanever he can find mettle to face ye."

"I wish I was weel through this business," thought Edie to himself;
"mony folk surmise that the Earl's no very right in the judgment, and
wha can say how far he may be offended wi' me for taking upon me sae
muckle?"

But there was now no room for retreat—a bell sounded from a distant part
of the mansion, and Macraw said, with a smothered accent, as if already
in his master's presence, "That's my lord's bell!—follow me, and step
lightly and cannily, Edie."

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,—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.

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, "How
dare you approach the Earl's apartment without knocking? and who is this
stranger, or what has he to do here?—Retire to the gallery, and wait for
me there."

"It's impossible just now to attend your reverence," 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,—"the Earl's bell has rung."

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.

"I tell'd ye sae," said the Aberdeen man in a whisper to Edie, and then
proceeded to open the door near which they had observed the chaplain
stationed.




CHAPTER SEVENTH.

                             —This ring.—
               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.

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.

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.

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.

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, "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?"

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. "Tell me," continued the Earl, in a
tone of increasing trepidation and agony—"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?—I will not blench from it,
father—let me suffer the pains of my crime here in the body, rather than
hereafter in the spirit!"

Edie had now recollection enough to perceive, that if he did not
interrupt the frankness of Lord Glenallan'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—"Your lordship's
honour is mistaken—I am not of your persuasion, nor a clergyman, but,
with all reverence, only puir Edie Ochiltree, the king's bedesman and
your honour's."

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.

"And you are not then," said Lord Glenallan, after a pause of surprise—
"You are not then a Catholic priest?"

"God forbid!" said Edie, forgetting in his confusion to whom he was
speaking; "I am only the king's bedesman and your honour's, as I said
before."

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, "From one who was better known to the Earl than to
him."

"Better known to me, fellow?" said Lord Glenallan: "what is your
meaning?—explain yourself instantly, or you shall experience the
consequence of breaking in upon the hours of family distress."

"It was auld Elspeth Mucklebackit that sent me here," said the beggar,
"in order to say"—

"You dote, old man!" said the Earl; "I never heard the name—but this
dreadful token reminds me"—

"I mind now, my lord," said Ochiltree, "she tauld me your lordship would
be mair familiar wi' her, if I ca'd her Elspeth o' the Craigburnfoot—she
had that name when she lived on your honour's land, that is, your
honour's worshipful mother's that was then—Grace be wi' her!"

"Ay," said the appalled nobleman, as his countenance sunk, and his cheek
assumed a hue yet more cadaverous; "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?"

"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."

"Not until she sees me!—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."

"If your honour wad permit me," said Edie, to whom the length of the
conference restored a part of his professional audacity and native
talkativeness—"if your honour wad but permit me, I wad say, under
correction of your lordship's better judgment, that auld Elspeth'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's parts that look the steever, and
the stronger, and the grander, because they are rising just like to
fragments amaong the ruins o' the rest. She's an awful woman."

"She always was so," said the Earl, almost unconsciously echoing the
observation of the mendicant; "she always was different from other
women—likest perhaps to her who is now no more, in her temper and turn
of mind.—She wishes to see me, then?"

"Before she dies," said Edie, "she earnestly entreats that pleasure."

"It will be a pleasure to neither of us," said the Earl, sternly, "yet
she shall be gratified. She lives, I think, on the sea-shore to the
southward of Fairport?"

"Just between Monkbarns and Knockwinnock Castle, but nearer to
Monkbarns. Your lordship's honour will ken the laird and Sir Arthur,
doubtless?"

A stare, as if he did not comprehend the question, was Lord Glenallan's
answer. Edie saw his mind was elsewhere, and did not venture to repeat a
query which was so little germain to the matter.

"Are you a Catholic, old man?" demanded the Earl.

"No, my lord," said Ochiltree stoutly; for the remembrance of the
unequal division of the dole rose in his mind at the moment; "I thank
Heaven I am a good Protestant."

"He who can conscientiously call himself good, has indeed reason to
thank Heaven, be his form of Christianity what it will—But who is he
that shall dare to do so!"

"Not I," said Edie; "I trust to beware of the sin of presumption."

"What was your trade in your youth?" continued the Earl.

"A soldier, my lord; and mony a sair day's kemping I've seen. I was to
have been made a sergeant, but"—

"A soldier! then you have slain and burnt, and sacked and spoiled?"

"I winna say," replied Edie, "that I have been better than my
neighbours;—it's a rough trade—war's sweet to them that never tried it."

"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?"

"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—Sae I live as I
can, and am contented to die when I am ca'd upon."

"And thus, then, with little to look back upon that is pleasant or
praiseworthy in your past life—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—Here is something for thee."

The Earl put into the old man'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—"See
this old man safe from the castle—let no one ask him any questions—and
you, friend, begone, and forget the road that leads to my house."

"That would be difficult for me," said Edie, looking at the gold which
he still held in his hand, "that would be e'en difficult, since your
honour has gien me such gade cause to remember it."

Lord Glenallan stared, as hardly comprehending the old man's boldness
in daring to bandy words with him, and, with his hand, made him another
signal of departure, which the mendicant instantly obeyed.




CHAPTER EIGHTH.

                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's Village.

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'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. "The secrets of grit folk," said
Ochiltree within himself, "are just like the wild beasts that are shut
up in cages. Keep them hard and fast sneaked up, and it's a' very weel
or better—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's
leddy and Captain Bandilier."

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.

"Sae ye uphauld ye had nae particulars to say to my lord but about yer
ain matters?"

"Ay, and about the wee bits o' things I had brought frae abroad," said
Edie. "I ken'd you popist folk are unco set on the relics that are
fetched frae far-kirks and sae forth."

"Troth, my Lord maun be turned feel outright," said the domestic, "an
he puts himsell into sic a carfuffle, for onything ye could bring him,
Edie."

"I doubtna ye may say true in the main, neighbour," replied the beggar;
"but maybe he's had some hard play in his younger days, Francis, and
that whiles unsettles folk sair."

"Troth, Edie, and ye may say that—and since it's like yell neer come
back to the estate, or, if ye dee, that ye'll no find me there, I'se
e'en tell you he had a heart in his young time sae wrecked and rent,
that it's a wonder it hasna broken outright lang afore this day."

"Ay, say ye sae?" said Ochiltree; "that maun hae been about a woman, I
reckon?"

"Troth, and ye hae guessed it," said Francie—"jeest a cusin o' his
nain—Miss Eveline Neville, as they suld hae ca'd her;—there was a sough
in the country about it, but it was hushed up, as the grandees
were concerned;—it's mair than twenty years syne—ay, it will be
three-and-twenty."

"Ay, I was in America then," said the mendicant, "and no in the way to
hear the country clashes."

"There was little clash about it, man," replied Macraw; "he liked this
young leddy, ana suld hae married her, but his mother fand it out, and
then the deil gaed o'er Jock Webster. At last, the peer lass clodded
hersell o'er the scaur at the Craigburnfoot into the sea, and there was
an end o't."

"An end ot wi' the puir leddy," said the mendicant, "but, as I reckon,
nae end o't wi' the yerl."

"Nae end o't till his life makes an end," answered the Aberdonian.

"But what for did the auld Countess forbid the marriage?" continued the
persevering querist.

"Fat for!—she maybe didna weel ken for fat hersell, for she gar'd a'
bow to her bidding, right or wrang—But it was ken'd the young leddy was
inclined to some o' the heresies of the country—mair by token, she was
sib to him nearer than our Church'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."

"Weel away!" replied Ochiltree:—"it's e'en queer I neer heard this tale
afore."

"It's e'en queer that ye heard it now, for deil ane o' the servants
durst hae spoken o't had the auld Countess been living. Eh, man, Edie!
but she was a trimmer—it wad hae taen a skeely man to hae squared wi'
her!—But she's in her grave, and we may loose our tongues a bit fan
we meet a friend.—But fare ye weel, Edie—I maun be back to the
evening-service. An' ye come to Inverurie maybe sax months awa, dinna
forget to ask after Francie Macraw."

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.

It was a fine summer evening, and the world—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'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'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 "gudemen and gudewives," 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.

"I dinna ken how it is," said the old man, "but I am nicer about my
quarters this night than ever I mind having been in my life. I think,
having seen a' the braws yonder, and finding out ane may be happier
without them, has made me proud o' my ain lot—But I wuss it bode me
gude, for pride goeth before destruction. At ony rate, the warst barn
e'er man lay in wad be a pleasanter abode than Glenallan House, wi' a'
the pictures and black velvet, and silver bonny-wawlies belonging to it—
Sae I'll e'en settle at ance, and put in for Ailie Sims."

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. "At that time of day," was
his natural reflection, "I would have thought as little about ony auld
palmering body that was coming down the edge of Kinblythemont, as ony o'
thae stalwart young chiels does e'enow about auld Edie Ochiltree."

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, "Ah! here comes auld Edie, that kens the rules of
a' country games better than ony man that ever drave a bowl, or threw
an axle-tree, or putted a stane either;—let's hae nae quarrelling,
callants—we'll stand by auld Edie's judgment."

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 "in the haill country-side." 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'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.

On the outside of the group of players began to arise sounds of a
description very different from those of sport—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 "Eh, sirs! sae young and sae suddenly summoned!"—It then
extended itself among the men, and silenced the sounds of sportive
mirth.

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'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.

Misfortunes never come alone. While Ochiltree, pensively leaning upon
his staff, added his regrets to those of the hamlet which bewailed
the young man's sudden death, and internally blamed himself for the
transaction in which he had so lately engaged him, the old man's collar
was seized by a peace-officer, who displayed his baton in his right
hand, and exclaimed, "In the king's name."

The gauger and schoolmaster united their rhetoric, to prove to the
constable and his assistant that he had no right to arrest the king'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.

"But his blue gown," answered the officer, "is nae protection for
assault, robbery, and murder; and my warrant is against him for these
crimes."

"Murder!" said Edie, "murder! wha did I e'er murder?"

"Mr. German Doustercivil, the agent at Glen-Withershins mining-works."

"Murder Doustersnivel?—hout, he's living, and life-like, man."

"Nae thanks to you if he be; he had a sair struggle for his life, if a'
be true he tells, and ye maun answer for't at the bidding of the law."

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.

"Thanks to ye! God bless ye a', bairns!—I've gotten out o' mony a snare
when I was waur deserving o' deliverance—I shall escape like a bird from
the fowler. Play out your play, and never mind me—I am mair grieved for
the puir lad that's gane, than for aught they can do to me."

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.

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.




CHAPTER NINTH

               Who is he?—One that for the lack of land
              Shall fight upon the water—he hath challenged
              Formerly the grand whale; and by his titles
                 Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth.
                 He tilted with a sword-fish—Marry, sir,
                 Th' aquatic had the best—the argument
                      Still galls our champion's breech.
                                               Old Play.

"And the poor young fellow, Steenie Mucklebackit, is to be buried this
morning," 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, "and, I presume, it is expected that
I should attend the funeral?"

"Ou, ay," answered the faithful Caxon, officiously brushing the white
threads and specks from his patron's habit. "The body, God help us! was
sae broken against the rocks that they're fain to hurry the burial. The
sea'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"—

"As the calling of an old periwig-maker, that'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.Quid mihi cum faemina?
What have I to do with thy womankind, who have enough and to spare of
mine own?—I pray of you again, am I expected by these poor people to
attend the funeral of their son?"

"Ou, doubtless, your honour is expected," answered Caxon; "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—it's no expected your honour suld leave the land; it's
just a Kelso convoy, a step and a half ower the doorstane."

"A Kelso convoy!" echoed the inquisitive Antiquary; "and why a Kelso
convoy more than any other?"

"Dear sir," answered Caxon, "how should I ken? it's just a by-word."

"Caxon," answered Oldbuck, "thou art a mere periwig-maker—Had I asked
Ochiltree the question, he would have had a legend ready made to my
hand."

"My business," replied Caxon, with more animation than he commonly
displayed, "is with the outside of your honour's head, as ye are
accustomed to say."

"True, Caxon, true; and it is no reproach to a thatcher that he is not
an upholsterer."

He then took out his memorandum-book and wrote down "Kelso convoy—said
to be a step and a half over the threshold. Authority—Caxon.—Quaere—
Whence derived? Mem. To write to Dr. Graysteel upon the subject."

Having made this entry, he resumed—"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—(as also in its courtesy towards
womankind, in which it exceeded)—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—yet I dare be
sworn that John of the Girnel—ye have heard of him, Caxon?"

"Ay, ay, sir," answered Caxon; "naebody can hae been lang in your
honour's company without hearing of that gentleman."

"Well," continued the Antiquary, "I would bet a trifle there was not
a kolb kerl, or bondsman, or peasant, ascriptus glebae, died upon the
monks' territories down here, but John of the Girnel saw them fairly and
decently interred."

"Ay, but if it like your honour, they say he had mair to do wi' the
births than the burials. Ha! ha! ha!" with a gleeful chuckle.

"Good, Caxon, very good!—why, you shine this morning."

"And besides," added Caxon, slyly, encouraged by his patron's
approbation, "they say, too, that the Catholic priests in thae times gat
something for ganging about to burials."

"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—
right, I say, as my glove, Caxon—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,

                  —The daughter of that woman blind,
                    Abessa, daughter of Corecca slow—

But why talk I of these things to thee?—my poor Lovel has spoiled me,
and taught me to speak aloud when it is much the same as speaking to
myself. Where's my nephew, Hector M'Intyre?"

"He's in the parlour, sir, wi' the leddies."

"Very well," said the Antiquary, "I will betake me thither."

"Now, Monkbarns," said his sister, on his entering the parlour, "ye
maunna be angry."

"My dear uncle!" began Miss M'Intyre.

"What's the meaning of all this?" 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—"what's all this?—what do you
bespeak my patience for?"

"No particular matter, I should hope, sir," said Hector, who, with his
arm in a sling, was seated at the breakfast table;—"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."

"No, no! heartily welcome, heartily welcome—only let it be a warning to
you," said the Antiquary, "against your fits of anger, which is a short
madness—Ira furor brevis—but what is this new disaster?"

"My dog, sir, has unfortunately thrown down"—

"If it please Heaven, not the lachrymatory from Clochnaben!" interjected
Oldbuck.

"Indeed, uncle," said the young lady, "I am afraid—it was that which
stood upon the sideboard—the poor thing only meant to eat the pat of
fresh butter."

"In which she has fully succeeded, I presume, for I see that on the
table is salted. But that is nothing—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—annihilated— reduced to such fragments as might be the shreds of a
broken-flowerpot!

                            —Hector, I love thee,
                  But never more be officer of mine."

"Why, really, sir, I am afraid I should make a bad figure in a regiment
of your raising."

"At least, Hector, I would have you despatch your camp train, and
travel expeditus, or relictis impedimentis. You cannot conceive how I am
annoyed by this beast—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. "—(Our readers, if they chance to
remember Jenny Rintherout's precaution of leaving the door open when
she went down to the fisher's cottage, will probably acquit poor Juno of
that aggravation of guilt which the lawyers call a claustrum fregit, and
which makes the distinction between burglary and privately stealing. )

"I am truly sorry, sir," said Hector, "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"—

"Then, Hector, I wish the bitch would travel herself out of my grounds."

"We will both of us retreat to-morrow, or to-day, but I would not
willingly part from my mother's brother in unkindness about a paltry
pipkin."

"O brother! brother!" ejaculated Miss M'Intyre, in utter despair at this
vituperative epithet.

"Why, what would you have me call it?" continued Hector; "it was just
such a thing as they use in Egypt to cool wine, or sherbet, or water;—I
brought home a pair of them—I might have brought home twenty."

"What!" said Oldbuck, "shaped such as that your dog threw down?"

"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—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."

"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."

"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?"

"O, my dear boy, you are only thoughtless and foolish."

"But Juno—she is only thoughtless too, I assure you—the breaker tells me
she has no vice or stubbornness."

"Well, I grant Juno also a free pardon—conditioned, that you will
imitate her in avoiding vice and stubbornness, and that henceforward she
banish herself forth of Monkbarns parlour."

"Then, uncle," said the soldier, "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 worth 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."

The captain put a small ring-case into the Antiquary'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.

"It's a bonny thing," she said, "Monkbarns, and, I dare say, a valuable;
but it's out o'my way—ye ken I am nae judge o' sic matters."

"There spoke all Fairport in one voice!" exclaimed Oldbuck "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 remora, in the
north-east—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:

                   Weave the warp and weave the woof,
                   The winding-sheet of wit and sense,
                   Dull garment of defensive proof,
                  'Gainst all that doth not gather pence."

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's toast, as, looking
first at one then at another of his audience, he repeated, with
self-complacency,

                  "Weave the warp and weave the woof,—

"You remember the passage in the Fatal Sisters, which, by the way, is
not so fine as in the original—But, hey-day! my toast has vanished!—I
see which way—Ah, thou type of womankind! no wonder they take offence
at thy generic appellation!"—(So saying, he shook his fist at Juno, who
scoured out of the parlour.)—"However, as Jupiter, according to Homer,
could not rule Juno in heaven, and as Jack Muirhead, according to Hector
M'Intyre, has been equally unsuccessful on earth, I suppose she must
have her own way." And this mild censure the brother and sister justly
accounted a full pardon for Juno's offences, and sate down well pleased
to the morning meal.

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.

"O, that does not signify—your presence is all that is requisite. I
assure you, you will see something that will entertain—no, that's an
improper phrase—but that will interest you, from the resemblances which
I will point out betwixt popular customs on such occasions and those of
the ancients."

"Heaven forgive me!" thought M'Intyre;—"I shall certainly misbehave, and
lose all the credit I have so lately and accidentally gained."

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,—to leave nothing unexplained, had commenced with the funeral
rites of the ancient Scandinavians, when his nephew interrupted him, in
a discussion upon the "age of hills," 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.

"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' ends the history and
antiquities of that ancient country, the officina gentium, the mother of
modern Europe, the nursery of those heroes,

               Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure,
                         Who smiled in death?—

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!"

"I am afraid, sir, our mess would be better supplied if it chanced to be
in the neighbourhood of a good poultry-yard."

"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."

"By no means, sir—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' 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."

"And did you believe," asked the aroused Antiquary, "did you absolutely
believe that stuff of Macpherson's to be really ancient, you simple
boy?"

"Believe it, sir?—how could I but believe it, when I have heard the
songs sung from my infancy?"

"But not the same as Macpherson's English Ossian—you're not absurd
enough to say that, I hope?" said the Antiquary, his brow darkening with
wrath.

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;—and it was only upon
cross-examination that he explained an assertion so general, by adding
"At least, if he was allowed whisky enough, he could repeat as long as
anybody would hearken to him."

"Ay, ay," said the Antiquary; "and that, I suppose, was not very long."

"Why, we had our duty, sir, to attend to, and could not sit listening
all night to a piper."

"But do you recollect, now," said Oldbuck, setting his teeth firmly
together, and speaking without opening them, which was his custom when
contradicted—"Do you recollect, now, any of these verses you thought
so beautiful and interesting—being a capital judge, no doubt, of such
things?"

"I don't pretend to much skill, uncle; but it'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."

"Why, these, sir—these mighty and unconquered Goths—were 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!"

Hector's brow now grew red in his turn. "Sir," he said, "I don'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'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"—

"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."

"I am sorry I expressed myself so hastily, uncle, especially to you, who
have been so generous and good. But my ancestors"—

"No more about it, lad; I meant them no affront—none."

"I'm glad of it, sir; for the house of M'Intyre"—

"Peace be with them all, every man of them," said the Antiquary. "But to
return to our subject—Do you recollect, I say, any of those poems which
afforded you such amusement?"

"Very hard this," thought M'Intyre, "that he will speak with such glee
of everything which is ancient, excepting my family. "—Then, after
some efforts at recollection, he added aloud, "Yes, sir,—I think I do
remember some lines; but you do not understand the Gaelic language."

"And will readily excuse hearing it. But you can give me some idea of
the sense in our own vernacular idiom?"

"I shall prove a wretched interpreter," said M'Intyre, running over
the original, well garnished with aghes, aughs, and oughs, 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:

                      "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"—

"Good! good!" exclaimed the Antiquary; "but go on. Why, this is, after
all, the most admirable fooling—I dare say the poet was very right. What
says the Saint?"

"He replies in character," said M'Intyre; "but you should hear MAlpin
sing the original. The speeches of Ossian come in upon a strong deep
bass—those of Patrick are upon a tenor key."

"Like MAlpin's drone and small pipes, I suppose," said Oldbuck. "Well?
Pray go on."

"Well then, Patrick replies to Ossian:

                     Upon my word, son of Fingal,
                     While I am warbling the psalms,
                     The clamour of your old women's tales
                     Disturbs my devotional exercises."

"Excellent!—why, this is better and better. I hope Saint Patrick sung
better than Blattergowl's precentor, or it would be hang—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's translation."

"If you are sure of that," said M'Intyre, gravely, "he must have taken
very unwarrantable liberties with his original."

"It will go near to be thought so shortly—but pray proceed."

"Then," said M'Intyre, "this is the answer of Ossian:

                     Dare you compare your psalms,
                            You son of a—"

"Son of a what?" exclaimed Oldbuck.

"It means, I think," said the young soldier, with some reluctance, "son
of a female dog:

                           Do you compare your psalms,
                To the tales of the bare-arm'd Fenians"

"Are you sure you are translating that last epithet correctly, Hector?"

"Quite sure, sir," answered Hector, doggedly.

"Because I should have thought the nudity might have been quoted as
existing in a different part of the body."

Disdaining to reply to this insinuation, Hector proceeded in his
recitation:

                        "I shall think it no great harm
             To wring your bald head from your shoulders—

But what is that yonder?" exclaimed Hector, interrupting himself.

"One of the herd of Proteus," said the Antiquary—"a phoca, or seal,
lying asleep on the beach."

Upon which M'Intyre, with the eagerness of a young sportsman, totally
forgot both Ossian, Patrick, his uncle, and his wound, and exclaiming—"I
shall have her! I shall have her!" 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.

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.

"Is the devil in him," was his first exclamation, "to go to disturb
the brute that was never thinking of him!"—Then elevating his voice,
"Hector—nephew—fool—let alone the Phoca—let alone the Phoca!— they bite,
I tell you, like furies. He minds me no more than a post. There—there
they are at it—Gad, the Phoca has the best of it! I am glad to see it,"
said he, in the bitterness of his heart, though really alarmed for his
nephew's safety—"I am glad to see it, with all my heart and spirit."

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's hand, overturned
him on the sands, and scuttled away into the sea, without doing him any
farther injury. Captain M'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, "since," said the Antiquary, "your
magnanimous opponent has fled, though not upon eagle's wings, from the
foe that was low—Egad, she walloped away with all the grace of triumph,
and has carried my stick off also, by way of spolia opima."

M'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.

"I cut it," he said, "in the classic woods of Hawthornden, when I did
not expect always to have been a bachelor—I would not have given it for
an ocean of seals—O Hector! Hector!—thy namesake was born to be the prop
of Troy, and thou to be the plague of Monkbarns!"




CHAPTER TENTH.

             Tell me not of it, friend—when the young weep,
         Their tears are luke-warm brine;—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—
          Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless—ours recoil,
             Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before us.
                               Old Play.

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's cottage, waiting till
"the body was lifted." 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.

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,

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'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. "Yell be a bra' fallow, an ye be spared,
Patie,—but ye'll never—never can be—what he was to me!—He has sailed the
coble wi' me since he was ten years auld, and there wasna the like
o' him drew a net betwixt this and Buchan-ness.—They say folks maun
submit—I will try."

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.

In another corner of the cottage, her face covered by her apron, which
was flung over it, sat the mother—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.

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's death
was almost already lost in admiration of the splendour of his funeral.

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—neither had she shed a tear—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—a being in whom the light of
existence was already obscured by the encroaching shadows of death.

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, "Wishing a' your healths,
sirs, and often may we hae such merry meetings!"

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, "What's this?—this is wine—how should
there be wine in my son's house?—Ay," she continued with a suppressed
groan, "I mind the sorrowful cause now," 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.

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,—
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 hounded
out, 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.

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's
hand in acknowledgment of his good intentions, but was either unable or
unwilling to make any verbal reply.

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—"Yes, sir, yes!—Ye're very gude—ye're very gude!—Nae doubt, nae
doubt!—It's our duty to submit!—But, oh dear! my poor Steenie! the pride
o' my very heart, that was sae handsome and comely, and a help to his
family, and a comfort to us a', and a pleasure to a' that lookit on
him!—Oh, my bairn! my bairn! my bairn! what for is thou lying there!—and
eh! what for am I left to greet for ye!"

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.

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,—"Ha! ha! I hae tasted
wine twice in ae day—Whan did I that before, think ye, cummers?—Never
since"—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.

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.

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, "would carry his head to the grave." 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, "His honour
Monkbarns should never want sax warp of oysters in the season" (of
which fish he was understood to be fond), "if she should gang to sea and
dredge for them hersell, in the foulest wind that ever blew." 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.

The sad procession now moved slowly forward, preceded by the beadles, or
saulies, with their batons,—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.

The procession to the churchyard, at about half-a-mile's distance, was
made with the mournful solemnity usual on these occasions,—the body was
consigned to its parent earth,—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.

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.




CHAPTER ELEVENTH

              What is this secret sin, this untold tale,
              That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?
                    —Her muscles hold their place;
              Nor discomposed, nor formed to steadiness,
               No sudden flushing, and no faltering lip.—
                                     Mysterious Mother.

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's
affliction—affliction still more fearful as agitating a man of hardened
manners and a robust frame— 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's sorrow.

"O, what a day is this! what a day is this!" 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—"O, what an
hour is this! and naebody to help a poor lone woman—O, gudemither, could
ye but speak a word to him!—wad ye but bid him be comforted!"

To her astonishment, and even to the in

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