CHAPTER I.

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[Illustration]

_Standard Edition_

St. Ronan's Well

By

Sir Walter Scott, Bart.

[Illustration]

With Introductory Essay and Notes

by Andrew Lang

_Illustrated_

Dana Estes and Company

Publishers ... Boston

The Standard Edition

of the Novels and Poems of Sir Walter Scott. Limited to one thousand

numbered and registered sets, of which this is

No. 835

_Copyright, 1894._

BY ESTES AND LAURIAT

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

ST. RONAN'S WELL

VOLUME I.

PAGE

Meg Dods (p. 13) _Frontispiece_

The Meeting in the Wood 137

Preparing for the Duel 198

* * * * *

VOLUME II.

Reappearance of Tyrrel 127

Clara entering Tyrrel's Room 307

EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION

TO

ST. RONAN'S WELL.

"'St. Ronan's Well' is not so much my favourite as certain of its

predecessors," Lady Louisa Stuart wrote to Scott on March 26, 1824. "Yet

still I see the author's hand in it, _et c'est tout dire_. Meg Dods, the

meeting" (vol. i. chap. ix.), "and the last scene between Clara and her

brother, are marked with the true stamp, not to be matched or mistaken.

Is the Siege of Ptolemais really on the anvil?" she goes on, speaking of

the projected Crusading Tales, and obviously anxious to part company

with "St. Ronan's Well." All judgments have not agreed with Lady

Louisa's. There is a literary legend or fable according to which a

number of distinguished men, all admirers of Scott, wrote down

separately the name of their favourite Waverley novel, and all, when the

papers were compared, had written "St. Ronan's." Sydney Smith, writing

to Constable on Dec. 28, 1823, described the new story as "far the best

that has appeared for some time. Every now and then there is some

mistaken or overcharged humour--but much excellent delineation of

character, the story very well told, and the whole very interesting.

Lady Binks, the old landlady, and Touchwood are all very good. Mrs.

Blower particularly so. So are MacTurk and Lady Penelope. I wish he

would give his people better names; Sir Bingo Binks is quite

ridiculous.... The curtain should have dropped on finding Clara's

glove. Some of the serious scenes with Clara and her brother are very

fine: the knife scene masterly. In her light and gay moments Clara is

very vulgar; but Sir Walter always fails in well-bred men and women, and

yet who has seen more of both? and who, in the ordinary intercourse of

society, is better bred? Upon the whole, I call this a very successful

exhibition."

We have seldom found Sydney Smith giving higher praise, and nobody can

deny the justice of the censure with which it is qualified. Scott

himself explains, in his Introduction, how, in his quest of novelty, he

invaded modern life, and the domain of Miss Austen. Unhappily he proved

by example the truth of his own opinion that he could do "the big

bow-wow strain" very well, but that it was not his _celebrare domestica

facta_. Unlike George Sand, Sir Walter had humour abundantly, but, as

the French writer said of herself, he was wholly destitute of _esprit_.

We need not linger over definition of these qualities; but we must

recognise, in Scott, the absence of lightness of touch, of delicacy in

the small sword-play of conversation. In fencing, all should be done,

the masters tell us, with the fingers. Scott works not even with the

wrist, but with the whole arm. The two-handed sword, the old claymore,

are his weapons, not the rapier. This was plain enough in the

word-combats of Queen Mary and her lady gaoler in Loch Leven. Much more

conspicuous is the "swashing blow" in the repartee of "St. Ronan's." The

insults lavished on Lady Binks are violent and cruel; even Clara Mowbray

taunts her. Now Lady Binks is in the same parlous case as the

postmistress who dreed penance "for ante-nup," as Meg Dods says in an

interrupted harangue, and we know that, to the author's mind, Clara

Mowbray had no right to throw stones. All these jeers are offensive to

generous feeling, and in the mouth of Clara are intolerable. Lockhart

remarked in Scott a singular bluntness of the sense of smell and of

taste. He could drink corked wine without a suspicion that there was

anything wrong with it. This curious obtuseness of a physical sense, in

one whose eyesight was so keen, who, "aye was the first to find the

hare" in coursing, seems to correspond with his want of lightness in the

invention of _badinage_. He tells us that, for a long while at least, he

had been unacquainted with the kind of society, the idle, useless

underbred society, of watering-places. Are we to believe that the

company at Gilsland, for instance, where he met and wooed Miss

Charpentier, was like the company at St. Ronan's? Lockhart vouches for

the snobbishness, "the mean admiration of mean things," the devotion to

the slimmest appearances of rank. All this is credible enough, but, if

there existed a society as dull and base as that which we meet in the

pages of "Mr. Soapy Sponge," and Surtees's other novels, assuredly it

was no theme for the great and generous spirit of Sir Walter. The worst

kind of manners always prevail among people whom moderns call "the

second-rate smart," and these are drawn in "St. Ronan's Well." But we

may believe that, even there, manners are no longer quite so hideous as

in the little Tweedside watering-place. The extinction of duelling has

destroyed, or nearly destroyed, the swaggering style of truculence;

people could not behave as Mowbray and Sir Bingo behave to Tyrrel, in

the after-dinner scene. The Man of Peace, the great MacTurk, with his

harangues translated from the language of Ossian, is no longer needed,

and no longer possible. Supposing manners to be correctly described in

"St. Ronan's," the pessimist himself must admit that manners have

improved. But it is not without regret that we see a genius born for

chivalry labouring in this unworthy and alien matter.

The English critics delighted to accuse Scott of having committed

literary suicide. He had only stepped off the path to which he presently

returned. He was unfitted to write the domestic novel, and even in "St.

Ronan's" he introduces events of romantic improbability. These enable

him to depict scenes of the most passionate tragedy, as in the meeting

of Clara and Tyrrel. They who have loved so blindly and so kindly should

never have met, or never parted. It is like a tragic rendering of the

scene where Diana Vernon and Osbaldistone encounter each other on the

moonlit moor. The wild words of Clara, "Is it so, and was it even

yourself whom I saw even now?... And, all things considered, I do carry

on the farce of life wonderfully well,"--all this passage, with the

silence of the man, is on the highest level of poetic invention, and

Clara ranks with Ophelia. To her strain of madness we may ascribe,

perhaps, what Sydney Smith calls the vulgarity of her lighter moments.

But here the genius of Shakspeare is faultless, where Scott's is most

faulty and most mistaken.

Much confusion is caused in "St. Ronan's Well" by Scott's concession to

the delicacy of James Ballantyne. What has shaken Clara's brain? Not her

sham marriage, for that was innocent, and might be legally annulled.

Lockhart writes (vii. 208): "Sir Walter had shown a remarkable degree of

good-nature in the composition of this novel. When the end came in view,

James Ballantyne suddenly took vast alarm about a particular feature in

the heroine's history. In the original conception, and in the book as

actually written and printed, Miss Mowbray's mock marriage had not

halted at the profane ceremony of the church; and the delicate printer

shrank from the idea of obtruding on the fastidious public the

possibility of any personal contamination having occurred to a high-born

damsel of the nineteenth century." Scott answered: "You would never

have quarrelled with it had the thing happened to a girl in gingham--the

silk petticoat can make little difference." "James reclaimed with double

energy, and called Constable to the rescue; and, after some pause, the

author very reluctantly consented to cancel and re-write about

twenty-four pages, which was enough to obliterate, to a certain extent,

the dreaded scandal--and, in a similar degree, as he always persisted,

to perplex and weaken the course of his narrative, and the dark effect

of its catastrophe."

From a communication printed in the "Athenæum" of Feb. 4, 1893, extracts

from the original proof-sheets, it seems that Lockhart forgot the

original plan of the novel. The mock marriage _did_ halt at the church

door, but Clara's virtue had yielded to her real lover, Tyrrel, before

the ceremony. Hannah Irwin had deliberately made opportunities for the

lovers' meeting, and at last, as she says, in a cancelled passage, "the

devil and Hannah Irwin prevailed." There followed remorse, and a

determination not to meet again before the Church made them one, and, on

the head of this, the mock marriage shook Clara's reason. This was the

original plan; it declares itself in the scene between Tyrrel and Clara

(vol. i. chap, ix.): "Wherefore should not sorrow be the end of sin and

folly?" The reviewer in the "Monthly Review" (1824) says "there is a

hint of some deeper cause of grief (see the confession to the brother),

but it is highly problematical." For all this the delicacy of James

Ballantyne is to blame--his delicacy, and Scott's concessions to a

respectable man and a bad critic.

The origin of "St. Ronan's Well" has been described by Lockhart in a

familiar passage. As Laidlaw, Scott, and Lockhart were riding along the

brow of the triple-peaked Eildon Hills, Scott mentioned "the row" that

was going on in Paris about "Quentin Durward." "I can't but think I

could make better play still with something German," he said. Laidlaw

grumbled at this: "You are always best, like Helen MacGregor, when your

foot is on your native heath; and I have often thought that if you were

to write a novel, and lay the scene _here_ in the very year you were

writing it, you would exceed yourself." "Hame's hame," quoth Scott,

smiling, "be it ever sae hamely," and Laidlaw bade him "stick to Melrose

in 1823." It was now that Scott spoke of the village tragedy, the

romance of every house, of every cottage, and told a tale of some

horrors in the hamlet that lies beyond Melrose, on the north side of

Tweed. Laidlaw and Lockhart believed that this conversation suggested

"St. Ronan's Well," the scene of which has been claimed as their own by

the people of Innerleithen. This little town is beautifully situated

where the hills of Tweed are steepest, and least resemble the _bosses

verdâtres_ of Prosper Mérimée. It is now a manufacturing town, like its

neighbours, and contributes its quota to the pollution of "the

glittering and resolute streams of Tweed." The pilgrim will scarce rival

Tyrrel's feat of catching a clean-run salmon in summer, but the scenes

are extremely pleasing, and indeed, from this point to Dryburgh, the

beautiful and fabled river is at its loveliest. It is possible that a

little inn farther up the water, "The Crook," on the border of the

moorland, and near Tala Linn, where the Covenanters held a famous

assembly, may have suggested the name of the "Cleikum." Lockhart

describes the prosperity which soon flowed into Innerleithen, and the

St. Ronan's Games, at which the Ettrick Shepherd presided gleefully.

They are still held, or were held very lately, but there will never come

again such another Shepherd, or such contests with the Flying Tailor of

Ettrick.

Apart from the tragedy of Clara, doubtless the better parts of "St.

Ronan's Well" are the Scotch characters. Even our generation remembers

many a Meg Dods, and he who writes has vividly in his recollection just

such tartness, such goodness of heart, such ungoverned eloquence and

vigour of rebuke as made Meg famous, successful on the stage, and

welcome to her countrymen. These people, Mrs. Blower and Meg, are

Shakspearean, they live with Dame Quickly and Shallow, in the hearts of

Scots, but to the English general they are possibly caviare. In the

gallant and irascible MacTurk we have the waning Highlander: he

resembles the Captain of Knockdunder in "The Heart of Mid Lothian," or

an exaggerated and ill-educated Hector of "The Antiquary." Concerning

the women of the tale, it may be said that Lady Binks has great

qualities, and appears to have been drawn "with an eye on the object,"

as Wordsworth says, and from the life. Lady Penelope seems more

exaggerated now than she probably did at the time, for the fashion of

affectation changes. The Winterblossoms and Quacklebens are accurate

enough in themselves, but are seen through a Blackwoodian atmosphere, as

it were, through a mist of the temporary and boisterous Scotch humour of

the day. The author occasionally stoops to a pun, and, like that which

Hood made in the hearing of Thackeray, the pun is not good. Indeed the

novel, in its view of the decay of the Border, the ruined Laird, the

frivolous foolish society of the Well, taking the place of sturdy

William of Deloraine, and farmers like Scott's grandfather, makes a

picture of decadence as melancholy as "Redgauntlet." "Not here, O

Apollo, are haunts meet for thee!" Strangely enough, among the features

of the time, Scott mentions reckless borrowings, "accommodation," "Banks

of Air." His own business was based on a "Bank of Air," "wind-capital,"

as Cadell, Constable's partner, calls it, and the bubble was just about

to burst, though Scott had no apprehension of financial ruin. A horrid

power is visible in Scott's second picture of _la mauvaise pauvre_, the

hag who despises and curses the givers of "handfuls of coals and of

rice;" his first he drew in the witches of "The Bride of Lammermoor." He

has himself indicated his desire to press hard on the vice of gambling,

as in "The Fortunes of Nigel." Ruinous at all times and in every shape,

gambling, in Scott's lifetime, during the Regency, had crippled or

destroyed many an historical Scottish family. With this in his mind he

drew the portrait of Mowbray of St. Ronan's. His picture of duelling is

not more seductive; he himself had lost his friend, Sir Alexander

Boswell, in a duel; on other occasions this institution had brought

discomfort into his life, and though he was ready to fight General

Gourgaud with Napoleon's pistols, he cannot have approved of the

practices of the MacTurks and Bingo Binkses. A maniac, as his

correspondence shows, challenged Sir Walter, insisting that he was

pointed at and ridiculed in the character of MacTurk. (Abbotsford MSS.)

It is interesting to have the picture of contemporary manners from

Scott's hand--Meg Dods remains among his immortal portraits; but a novel

in which the absurd will of fiction and the conventional Nabob are

necessary machinery can never be ranked so high as even "The Monastery"

and "Peveril." In Scotland, however, it was infinitely more successful

than its admirable successor "Redgauntlet."

ANDREW LANG.

_December 1893._

INTRODUCTION

TO

ST. RONAN'S WELL.

The novel which follows is upon a plan different from any other that the

author has ever written, although it is perhaps the most legitimate

which relates to this kind of light literature.

It is intended, in a word--_celebrare domestica facta_--to give an

imitation of the shifting manners of our own time, and paint scenes, the

originals of which are daily passing round us, so that a minute's

observation may compare the copies with the originals. It must be

confessed that this style of composition was adopted by the author

rather from the tempting circumstance of its offering some novelty in

his compositions, and avoiding worn-out characters and positions, than

from the hope of rivalling the many formidable competitors who have

already won deserved honours in this department. The ladies, in

particular, gifted by nature with keen powers of observation and light

satire, have been so distinguished by these works of talent, that,

reckoning from the authoress of Evelina to her of Marriage, a catalogue

might be made, including the brilliant and talented names of Edgeworth,

Austin, Charlotte Smith, and others, whose success seems to have

appropriated this province of the novel as exclusively their own. It was

therefore with a sense of temerity that the author intruded upon a

species of composition which had been of late practised with such

distinguished success. This consciousness was lost, however, under the

necessity of seeking for novelty, without which, it was much to be

apprehended, such repeated incursions on his part would nauseate the

long indulgent public at the last.

The scene chosen for the author's little drama of modern life was a

mineral spring, such as are to be found in both divisions of Britain,

and which are supplied with the usual materials for redeeming health, or

driving away care. The invalid often finds relief from his complaints,

less from the healing virtues of the Spa itself, than because his system

of ordinary life undergoes an entire change, in his being removed from

his ledger and account-books--from his legal folios and progresses of

title-deeds--from his counters and shelves,--from whatever else forms

the main source of his constant anxiety at home, destroys his appetite,

mars the custom of his exercise, deranges the digestive powers, and

clogs up the springs of life. Thither, too, comes the saunterer, anxious

to get rid of that wearisome attendant _himself_, and thither come both

males and females, who, upon a different principle, desire to make

themselves double.

The society of such places is regulated, by their very nature, upon a

scheme much more indulgent than that which rules the world of fashion,

and the narrow circles of rank in the metropolis. The titles of rank,

birth, and fortune, are received at a watering-place without any very

strict investigation, as adequate to the purpose for which they are

preferred; and as the situation infers a certain degree of intimacy and

sociability for the time, so to whatever heights it may have been

carried, it is not understood to imply any duration beyond the length of

the season. No intimacy can be supposed more close for the time, and

more transitory in its endurance, than that which is attached to a

watering-place acquaintance. The novelist, therefore, who fixes upon

such a scene for his tale, endeavours to display a species of society,

where the strongest contrast of humorous characters and manners may be

brought to bear on and illustrate each other with less violation of

probability, than could be supposed to attend the same miscellaneous

assemblage in any other situation.

In such scenes, too, are frequently mingled characters, not merely

ridiculous, but dangerous and hateful. The unprincipled gamester, the

heartless fortune-hunter, all those who eke out their means of

subsistence by pandering to the vices and follies of the rich and gay,

who drive, by their various arts, foibles into crimes, and imprudence

into acts of ruinous madness, are to be found where their victims

naturally resort, with the same certainty that eagles are gathered

together at the place of slaughter. By this the author takes a great

advantage for the management of his story, particularly in its darker

and more melancholy passages. The impostor, the gambler, all who live

loose upon the skirts of society, or, like vermin, thrive by its

corruptions, are to be found at such retreats, when they easily, and as

a matter of course, mingle with those dupes, who might otherwise have

escaped their snares. But besides those characters who are actually

dangerous to society, a well-frequented watering-place generally

exhibits for the amusement of the company, and the perplexity and

amazement of the more inexperienced, a sprinkling of persons called by

the newspapers eccentric characters--individuals, namely, who, either

from some real derangement of their understanding, or, much more

frequently, from an excess of vanity, are ambitious of distinguishing

themselves by some striking peculiarity in dress or address,

conversation or manners, and perhaps in all. These affectations are

usually adopted, like Drawcansir's extravagances, to show _they dare_;

and I must needs say, those who profess them are more frequently to be

found among the English, than among the natives of either of the other

two divisions of the united kingdoms. The reason probably is, that the

consciousness of wealth, and a sturdy feeling of independence, which

generally pervade the English nation, are, in a few individuals,

perverted into absurdity, or at least peculiarity. The witty Irishman,

on the contrary, adapts his general behaviour to that of the best

society, or that which he thinks such; nor is it any part of the shrewd

Scot's national character unnecessarily to draw upon himself public

attention. These rules, however, are not without their exceptions; for

we find men of every country playing the eccentric at these independent

resorts of the gay and the wealthy, where every one enjoys the license

of doing what is good in his own eyes.

It scarce needed these obvious remarks to justify a novelist's choice of

a watering-place as the scene of a fictitious narrative. Unquestionably,

it affords every variety of character, mixed together in a manner which

cannot, without a breach of probability, be supposed to exist elsewhere;

neither can it be denied that in the concourse which such miscellaneous

collections of persons afford, events extremely different from those of

the quiet routine of ordinary life may, and often do, take place.

It is not, however, sufficient that a mine be in itself rich and easily

accessible; it is necessary that the engineer who explores it should

himself, in mining phrase, have an accurate knowledge of the _country_,

and possess the skill necessary to work it to advantage. In this

respect, the author of Saint Ronan's Well could not be termed fortunate.

His habits of life had not led him much, of late years at least, into

its general or bustling scenes, nor had he mingled often in the society

which enables the observer to "shoot folly as it flies." The consequence

perhaps was, that the characters wanted that force and precision which

can only be given by a writer who is familiarly acquainted with his

subject. The author, however, had the satisfaction to chronicle his

testimony against the practice of gambling, a vice which the devil has

contrived to render all his own, since it is deprived of whatever pleads

an apology for other vices, and is founded entirely on the cold-blooded

calculation of the most exclusive selfishness. The character of the

traveller, meddling, self-important, and what the ladies call fussing,

but yet generous and benevolent in his purposes, was partly taken from

nature. The story, being entirely modern, cannot require much

explanation, after what has been here given, either in the shape of

notes, or a more prolix introduction.

It may be remarked, that the English critics, in many instances, though

none of great influence, pursued Saint Ronan's Well with hue and cry,

many of the fraternity giving it as their opinion that the author had

exhausted himself, or, as the technical phrase expresses it, written

himself out; and as an unusual tract of success too often provokes many

persons to mark and exaggerate a slip when it does occur, the author was

publicly accused, in prose and verse, of having committed a literary

suicide in this unhappy attempt. The voices, therefore, were, for a

time, against Saint Ronan's on the southern side of the Tweed.

In the author's own country, it was otherwise. Many of the characters

were recognised as genuine Scottish portraits, and the good fortune

which had hitherto attended the productions of the Author of Waverley,

did not desert, notwithstanding the ominous vaticinations of its

censurers, this new attempt, although out of his ordinary style.

_1st February, 1832._

ST. RONAN'S WELL.

CHAPTER I.

AN OLD-WORLD LANDLADY.

But to make up my tale,

She breweth good ale,

And thereof maketh sale.

SKELTON.

Although few, if any, of the countries of Europe, have increased so

rapidly in wealth and cultivation as Scotland during the last half

century, Sultan Mahmoud's owls might nevertheless have found in

Caledonia, at any term within that flourishing period, their dowery of

ruined villages. Accident or local advantages have, in many instances,

transferred the inhabitants of ancient hamlets, from the situations

which their predecessors chose with more respect to security than

convenience, to those in which their increasing industry and commerce

could more easily expand itself; and hence places which stand

distinguished in Scottish history, and which figure in David M'Pherson's

excellent historical map,[I-A][I-1] can now only be discerned from the wild

moor by the verdure which clothes their site, or, at best, by a few

scattered ruins, resembling pinfolds, which mark the spot of their

former existence.

The little village of St. Ronan's, though it had not yet fallen into the

state of entire oblivion we have described, was, about twenty years

since, fast verging towards it. The situation had something in it so

romantic, that it provoked the pencil of every passing tourist; and we

will endeavour, therefore, to describe it in language which can scarcely

be less intelligible than some of their sketches, avoiding, however, for

reasons which seem to us of weight, to give any more exact indication of

the site, than that it is on the southern side of the Forth, and not

above thirty miles distant from the English frontier.

A river of considerable magnitude pours its streams through a narrow

vale, varying in breadth from two miles to a fourth of that distance,

and which, being composed of rich alluvial soil, is, and has long been,

enclosed, tolerably well inhabited, and cultivated with all the skill of

Scottish agriculture. Either side of this valley is bounded by a chain

of hills, which, on the right in particular, may be almost termed

mountains. Little brooks arising in these ridges, and finding their way

to the river, offer each its own little vale to the industry of the

cultivator. Some of them bear fine large trees, which have as yet

escaped the axe, and upon the sides of most there are scattered patches

and fringes of natural copsewood, above and around which the banks of

the stream arise, somewhat desolate in the colder months, but in summer

glowing with dark purple heath, or with the golden lustre of the broom

and gorse. This is a sort of scenery peculiar to those countries, which

abound, like Scotland, in hills and in streams, and where the traveller

is ever and anon discovering in some intricate and unexpected recess, a

simple and silvan beauty, which pleases him the more, that it seems to

be peculiarly his own property as the first discoverer.

In one of these recesses, and so near its opening as to command the

prospect of the river, the broader valley, and the opposite chain of

hills, stood, and, unless neglect and desertion have completed their

work, still stands, the ancient and decayed village of St. Ronan's. The

site was singularly picturesque, as the straggling street of the village

ran up a very steep hill, on the side of which were clustered, as it

were, upon little terraces, the cottages which composed the place,

seeming, as in the Swiss towns on the Alps, to rise above each other

towards the ruins of an old castle, which continued to occupy the crest

of the eminence, and the strength of which had doubtless led the

neighbourhood to assemble under its walls for protection. It must,

indeed, have been a place of formidable defence, for, on the side

opposite to the town, its walls rose straight up from the verge of a

tremendous and rocky precipice, whose base was washed by Saint Ronan's

burn, as the brook was entitled. On the southern side, where the

declivity was less precipitous, the ground had been carefully levelled

into successive terraces, which ascended to the summit of the hill, and

were, or rather had been, connected by staircases of stone, rudely

ornamented. In peaceful periods these terraces had been occupied by the

gardens of the Castle, and in times of siege they added to its security,

for each commanded the one immediately below it, so that they could be

separately and successively defended, and all were exposed to the fire

from the place itself--a massive square tower of the largest size,

surrounded, as usual, by lower buildings, and a high embattled wall. On

the northern side arose a considerable mountain, of which the descent

that lay between the eminence on which the Castle was situated seemed a

detached portion, and which had been improved and deepened by three

successive huge trenches. Another very deep trench was drawn in front of

the main entrance from the east, where the principal gateway formed the

termination of the street, which, as we have noticed, ascended from the

village, and this last defence completed the fortifications of the

tower.

In the ancient gardens of the Castle, and upon all sides of it excepting

the western, which was precipitous, large old trees had found root,

mantling the rock and the ancient and ruinous walls with their dusky

verdure, and increasing the effect of the shattered pile which towered

up from the centre.

Seated on the threshold of this ancient pile, where the "proud porter"

had in former days "rear'd himself,"[I-2] a stranger had a complete and

commanding view of the decayed village, the houses of which, to a

fanciful imagination, might seem as if they had been suddenly arrested

in hurrying down the precipitous hill, and fixed as if by magic in the

whimsical arrangement which they now presented. It was like a sudden

pause in one of Amphion's country-dances, when the huts which were to

form the future Thebes were jigging it to his lute. But, with such an

observer, the melancholy excited by the desolate appearance of the

village soon overcame all the lighter frolics of the imagination.

Originally constructed on the humble plan used in the building of Scotch

cottages about a century ago, the greater part of them had been long

deserted; and their fallen roofs, blackened gables, and ruinous walls,

showed Desolation's triumph over Poverty. On some huts the rafters,

varnished with soot, were still standing, in whole or in part, like

skeletons, and a few, wholly or partially covered with thatch, seemed

still inhabited, though scarce habitable; for the smoke of the

peat-fires, which prepared the humble meal of the indwellers, stole

upwards, not only from the chimneys, its regular vent, but from various

other crevices in the roofs. Nature, in the meanwhile, always changing,

but renewing as she changes, was supplying, by the power of vegetation,

the fallen and decaying marks of human labour. Small pollards, which had

been formerly planted around the little gardens, had now waxed into huge

and high forest trees; the fruit-trees had extended their branches over

the verges of the little yards, and the hedges had shot up into huge and

irregular bushes; while quantities of dock, and nettles, and hemlock,

hiding the ruined walls, were busily converting the whole scene of

desolation into a picturesque forest-bank.

Two houses in St. Ronan's were still in something like decent repair;

places essential--the one to the spiritual weal of the inhabitants, the

other to the accommodation of travellers. These were the clergyman's

manse, and the village inn. Of the former we need only say, that it

formed no exception to the general rule by which the landed proprietors

of Scotland seem to proceed in lodging their clergy, not only in the

cheapest, but in the ugliest and most inconvenient house which the

genius of masonry can contrive. It had the usual number of

chimneys--two, namely--rising like asses' ears at either end, which

answered the purpose for which they were designed as ill as usual. It

had all the ordinary leaks and inlets to the fury of the elements, which

usually form the subject of the complaints of a Scottish incumbent to

his brethren of the presbytery; and, to complete the picture, the

clergyman being a bachelor, the pigs had unmolested admission to the

garden and court-yard, broken windows were repaired with brown paper,

and the disordered and squalid appearance of a low farm-house, occupied

by a bankrupt tenant, dishonoured the dwelling of one, who, besides his

clerical character, was a scholar and a gentleman, though a little of a

humourist.

Beside the manse stood the kirk of St. Ronan's, a little old mansion

with a clay floor, and an assemblage of wretched pews, originally of

carved oak, but heedfully clouted with white fir-deal. But the external

form of the church was elegant in the outline, having been built in

Catholic times, when we cannot deny to the forms of ecclesiastical

architecture that grace, which, as good Protestants, we refuse to their

doctrine. The fabric hardly raised its grey and vaulted roof among the

crumbling hills of mortality by which it was surrounded, and was indeed

so small in size, and so much lowered in height by the graves on the

outside, which ascended half way up the low Saxon windows, that it might

itself have appeared only a funeral vault, or mausoleum of larger size.

Its little square tower, with the ancient belfry, alone distinguished it

from such a monument. But when the grey-headed beadle turned the keys

with his shaking hand, the antiquary was admitted into an ancient

building, which, from the style of its architecture, and some monuments

of the Mowbrays of St. Ronan's, which the old man was accustomed to

point out, was generally conjectured to be as early as the thirteenth

century.

These Mowbrays of St. Ronan's seem to have been at one time a very

powerful family. They were allied to, and friends of the house of

Douglas, at the time when the overgrown power of that heroic race made

the Stewarts tremble on the Scottish throne. It followed that, when, as

our old _naïf_ historian expresses it, "no one dared to strive with a

Douglas, nor yet with a Douglas's man, for if he did, he was sure to

come by the waur," the family of St. Ronan's shared their prosperity,

and became lords of almost the whole of the rich valley of which their

mansion commanded the prospect. But upon the turning of the tide, in the

reign of James II., they became despoiled of the greater part of those

fair acquisitions, and succeeding events reduced their importance still

farther. Nevertheless, they were, in the middle of the seventeenth

century, still a family of considerable note; and Sir Reginald Mowbray,

after the unhappy battle of Dunbar, distinguished himself by the

obstinate defence of the Castle against the arms of Cromwell, who,

incensed at the opposition which he had unexpectedly encountered in an

obscure corner, caused the fortress to be dismantled and blown up with

gunpowder.

After this catastrophe the old Castle was abandoned to ruin; but Sir

Reginald, when, like Allan Ramsay's Sir William Worthy, he returned

after the Revolution, built himself a house in the fashion of that later

age, which he prudently suited in size to the diminished fortunes of his

family. It was situated about the middle of the village, whose vicinity

was not in those days judged any inconvenience, upon a spot of ground

more level than was presented by the rest of the acclivity, where, as we

said before, the houses were notched as it were into the side of the

steep bank, with little more level ground about them than the spot

occupied by their site. But the Laird's house had a court in front and a

small garden behind, connected with another garden, which, occupying

three terraces, descended, in emulation of the orchards of the old

Castle, almost to the banks of the stream.

The family continued to inhabit this new messuage until about fifty

years before the commencement of our history, when it was much damaged

by a casual fire; and the Laird of the day, having just succeeded to a

more pleasant and commodious dwelling at the distance of about three

miles from the village, determined to abandon the habitation of his

ancestors. As he cut down at the same time an ancient rookery, (perhaps

to defray the expenses of the migration,) it became a common remark

among the country folk, that the decay of St. Ronan's began when Laird

Lawrence and the crows flew off.

The deserted mansion, however, was not consigned to owls and birds of

the desert; on the contrary, for many years it witnessed more fun and

festivity than when it had been the sombre abode of a grave Scottish

Baron of "auld lang syne." In short, it was converted into an inn, and

marked by a huge sign, representing on the one side St. Ronan catching

hold of the devil's game leg with his Episcopal crook, as the story may

be read in his veracious legend, and on the other the Mowbray arms. It

was by far the best frequented public-house in that vicinity; and a

thousand stories were told of the revels which had been held within its

walls, and the gambols achieved under the influence of its liquors. All

this, however, had long since passed away, according to the lines in my

frontispiece,

"A merry place, 'twas said, in days of yore;

But something ail'd it now,--the place was cursed."

The worthy couple (servants and favourites of the Mowbray family) who

first kept the inn, had died reasonably wealthy, after long carrying on

a flourishing trade, leaving behind them an only daughter. They had

acquired by degrees not only the property of the inn itself, of which

they were originally tenants, but of some remarkably good meadow-land by

the side of the brook, which, when touched by a little pecuniary

necessity, the Lairds of St. Ronan's had disposed of piecemeal, as the

readiest way to portion off a daughter, procure a commission for the

younger son, and the like emergencies. So that Meg Dods, when she

succeeded to her parents, was a considerable heiress, and, as such, had

the honour of refusing three topping-farmers, two bonnet-lairds, and a

horse-couper, who successively made proposals to her.

Many bets were laid on the horse-couper's success, but the knowing ones

were taken in. Determined to ride the fore-horse herself, Meg would

admit no helpmate who might soon assert the rights of a master; and so,

in single blessedness, and with the despotism of Queen Bess herself, she

ruled all matters with a high hand, not only over her men-servants and

maid-servants, but over the stranger within her gates, who, if he

ventured to oppose Meg's sovereign will and pleasure, or desire to have

either fare or accommodation different from that which she chose to

provide for him, was instantly ejected with that answer which Erasmus

tells us silenced all complaints in the German inns of his time, _Quære

aliud hospitium_;[I-3] or, as Meg expressed it, "Troop aff wi' ye to

another public." As this amounted to a banishment in extent equal to

sixteen miles from Meg's residence, the unhappy party on whom it was

passed, had no other refuge save by deprecating the wrath of his

landlady, and resigning himself to her will. It is but justice to Meg

Dods to state, that though hers was a severe and almost despotic

government, it could not be termed a tyranny, since it was exercised,

upon the whole, for the good of the subject.

The vaults of the old Laird's cellar had not, even in his own day, been

replenished with more excellent wines; the only difficulty was to

prevail on Meg to look for the precise liquor you chose;--to which it

may be added, that she often became restiff when she thought a company

had had "as much as did them good," and refused to furnish any more

supplies. Then her kitchen was her pride and glory; she looked to the

dressing of every dish herself, and there were some with which she

suffered no one to interfere. Such were the cock-a-leeky, and the

savoury minced collops, which rivalled in their way even the veal

cutlets of our old friend Mrs. Hall, at Ferrybridge. Meg's table-linen,

bed-linen, and so forth, were always home-made, of the best quality,

and in the best order; and a weary day was that to the chambermaid in

which her lynx eye discovered any neglect of the strict cleanliness

which she constantly enforced. Indeed, considering Meg's country and

calling, we were never able to account for her extreme and scrupulous

nicety, unless by supposing that it afforded her the most apt and

frequent pretext for scolding her maids; an exercise in which she

displayed so much eloquence and energy, that we must needs believe it to

have been a favourite one.[I-4]

We have only further to commemorate, the moderation of Meg's reckonings,

which, when they closed the banquet, often relieved the apprehensions,

instead of saddening the heart, of the rising guest. A shilling for

breakfast, three shillings for dinner, including a pint of old port,

eighteenpence for a snug supper--such were the charges of the inn of St.

Ronan's, under this landlady of the olden world, even after the

nineteenth century had commenced; and they were ever tendered with the

pious recollection, that her good father never charged half so much, but

these weary times rendered it impossible for her to make the lawing

less.[I-5]

Notwithstanding all these excellent and rare properties, the inn at

Saint Ronan's shared the decay of the village to which it belonged. This

was owing to various circumstances. The high-road had been turned aside

from the place, the steepness of the street being murder (so the

postilions declared) to their post-horses. It was thought that Meg's

stern refusal to treat them with liquor, or to connive at their

exchanging for porter and whisky the corn which should feed their

cattle, had no small influence on the opinion of those respectable

gentlemen, and that a little cutting and levelling would have made the

ascent easy enough; but let that pass. This alteration of the highway

was an injury which Meg did not easily forgive to the country gentlemen,

most of whom she had recollected when children. "Their fathers," she

said, "wad not have done the like of it to a lone woman." Then the decay

of the village itself, which had formerly contained a set of feuars and

bonnet-lairds, who, under the name of the Chirupping Club, contrived to

drink twopenny, qualified with brandy or whisky, at least twice or

thrice a-week, was some small loss.

The temper and manners of the landlady scared away all customers of that

numerous class, who will not allow originality to be an excuse for the

breach of decorum, and who, little accustomed perhaps to attendance at

home, loved to play the great man at an inn, and to have a certain

number of bows, deferential speeches, and apologies, in answer to the

G--d d--n ye's which they bestow on the house, attendance, and

entertainment. Unto those who commenced this sort of barter in the

Clachan of Saint Ronan's, well could Meg Dods pay it back, in their own

coin; and glad they were to escape from the house with eyes not quite

scratched out, and ears not more deafened than if they had been within

hearing of a pitched battle.

Nature had formed honest Meg for such encounters; and as her noble soul

delighted in them, so her outward properties were in what Tony Lumpkin

calls a concatenation accordingly. She had hair of a brindled colour,

betwixt black and grey, which was apt to escape in elf-locks from under

her mutch when she was thrown into violent agitation--long skinny hands,

terminated by stout talons--grey eyes, thin lips, a robust person, a

broad, though flat chest, capital wind, and a voice that could match a

choir of fishwomen. She was accustomed to say of herself in her more

gentle moods, that her bark was worse than her bite; but what teeth

could have matched a tongue, which, when in full career, is vouched to

have been heard from the Kirk to the Castle of Saint Ronan's?

These notable gifts, however, had no charms for the travellers of these

light and giddy-paced times, and Meg's inn became less and less

frequented. What carried the evil to the uttermost was, that a fanciful

lady of rank in the neighbourhood chanced to recover of some imaginary

complaint by the use of a mineral well about a mile and a half from the

village; a fashionable doctor was found to write an analysis of the

healing waters, with a list of sundry cures; a speculative builder took

land in feu, and erected lodging-houses, shops, and even streets. At

length a tontine subscription was obtained to erect an inn, which, for

the more grace, was called a hotel; and so the desertion of Meg Dods

became general.[I-6]

She had still, however, her friends and well-wishers, many of whom

thought, that as she was a lone woman, and known to be well to pass in

the world, she would act wisely to retire from public life, and take

down a sign which had no longer fascination for guests. But Meg's spirit

scorned submission, direct or implied. "Her father's door," she said,

"should be open to the road, till her father's bairn should be streekit

and carried out at it with her feet foremost. It was not for the

profit--there was little profit at it;--profit?--there was a dead loss;

but she wad not be dung by any of them. They maun hae a hottle,[I-7] maun

they?--and an honest public canna serve them! They may hottle that

likes; but they shall see that Lucky Dods can hottle on as lang as the

best of them--ay, though they had made a Tamteen of it, and linkit aw

their breaths of lives, whilk are in their nostrils, on end of ilk other

like a string of wild-geese, and the langest liver bruick a', (whilk was

sinful presumption,) she would match ilk ane of them as lang as her ain

wind held out." Fortunate it was for Meg, since she had formed this

doughty resolution, that although her inn had decayed in custom, her

land had risen in value in a degree which more than compensated the

balance on the wrong side of her books, and, joined to her usual

providence and economy, enabled her to act up to her lofty purpose.

She prosecuted her trade too with every attention to its diminished

income; shut up the windows of one half of her house, to baffle the

tax-gatherer; retrenched her furniture; discharged her pair of

post-horses, and pensioned off the old humpbacked postilion who drove

them, retaining his services, however, as an assistant to a still more

aged hostler. To console herself for restrictions by which her pride was

secretly wounded, she agreed with the celebrated Dick Tinto to re-paint

her father's sign, which had become rather undecipherable; and Dick

accordingly gilded the Bishop's crook, and augmented the horrors of the

Devil's aspect, until it became a terror to all the younger fry of the

school-house, and a sort of visible illustration of the terrors of the

arch-enemy, with which the minister endeavoured to impress their infant

minds.

Under this renewed symbol of her profession, Meg Dods, or Meg Dorts, as

she was popularly termed, on account of her refractory humours, was

still patronised by some steady customers. Such were the members of the

Killnakelty Hunt, once famous on the turf and in the field, but now a

set of venerable grey-headed sportsmen, who had sunk from fox-hounds to

basket-beagles and coursing, and who made an easy canter on their quiet

nags a gentle induction to a dinner at Meg's. "A set of honest decent

men they were," Meg said; "had their sang and their joke--and what for

no? Their bind was just a Scots pint over-head, and a tappit-hen to the

bill, and no man ever saw them the waur o't. It was thae cockle-brained

callants of the present day that would be mair owerta'en with a puir

quart than douce folk were with a magnum."

Then there was a set of ancient brethren of the angle from Edinburgh,

who visited Saint Ronan's frequently in the spring and summer, a class

of guests peculiarly acceptable to Meg, who permitted them more latitude

in her premises than she was known to allow to any other body. "They

were," she said, "pawky auld carles, that kend whilk side their bread

was buttered upon. Ye never kend of ony o' them ganging to the spring,

as they behoved to ca' the stinking well yonder.--Na, na--they were up

in the morning--had their parritch, wi' maybe a thimblefull of brandy,

and then awa up into the hills, eat their bit cauld meat on the heather,

and came hame at e'en with the creel full of caller trouts, and had them

to their dinner, and their quiet cogue of ale, and their drap punch, and

were set singing their catches and glees, as they ca'd them, till ten

o'clock, and then to bed, wi' God bless ye--and what for no?"

Thirdly, we may commemorate some ranting blades, who also came from the

metropolis to visit Saint Ronan's, attracted by the humours of Meg, and

still more by the excellence of her liquor, and the cheapness of her

reckonings. These were members of the Helter Skelter Club, of the

Wildfire Club, and other associations formed for the express purpose of

getting rid of care and sobriety. Such dashers occasioned many a racket

in Meg's house, and many a _bourasque_ in Meg's temper. Various were the

arts of flattery and violence by which they endeavoured to get supplies

of liquor, when Meg's conscience told her they had had too much already.

Sometimes they failed, as when the croupier of the Helter Skelter got

himself scalded with the mulled wine, in an unsuccessful attempt to coax

this formidable virago by a salute; and the excellent president of the

Wildfire received a broken head from the keys of the cellar, as he

endeavoured to possess himself of these emblems of authority. But little

did these dauntless officials care for the exuberant frolics of Meg's

temper, which were to them only "pretty Fanny's way"--the _dulces

Amaryllidis iræ_. And Meg, on her part, though she often called them

"drunken ne'er-do-weels, and thoroughbred High-street blackguards,"

allowed no other person to speak ill of them in her hearing. "They were

daft callants," she said, "and that was all--when the drink was in, the

wit was out--ye could not put an auld head upon young shouthers--a young

cowt will canter, be it up-hill or down--and what for no?" was her

uniform conclusion.

Nor must we omit, among Meg's steady customers, "faithful amongst the

unfaithful found," the copper-nosed sheriff-clerk of the county, who,

when summoned by official duty to that district of the shire, warmed by

recollections of her double-brewed ale, and her generous Antigua, always

advertised that his "Prieves," or "Comptis," or whatever other business

was in hand, were to proceed on such a day and hour, "within the house

of Margaret Dods, vintner in Saint Ronan's."

We have only farther to notice Meg's mode of conducting herself towards

chance travellers, who, knowing nothing of nearer or more fashionable

accommodations, or perhaps consulting rather the state of their purse

than of their taste, stumbled upon her house of entertainment. Her

reception of these was as precarious as the hospitality of a savage

nation to sailors shipwrecked on their coast. If the guests seemed to

have made her mansion their free choice--or if she liked their

appearance (and her taste was very capricious)--above all, if they

seemed pleased with what they got, and little disposed to criticise or

give trouble, it was all very well. But if they had come to Saint

Ronan's because the house at the Well was full--or if she disliked what

the sailor calls the cut of their jib--or if, above all, they were

critical about their accommodations, none so likely as Meg to give them

what in her country is called a _sloan_. In fact, she reckoned such

persons a part of that ungenerous and ungrateful public, for whose sake

she was keeping her house open at a dead loss, and who had left her, as

it were, a victim to her patriotic zeal.

Hence arose the different reports concerning the little inn of Saint

Ronan's, which some favoured travellers praised as the neatest and most

comfortable old-fashioned house in Scotland, where you had good

attendance, and good cheer, at moderate rates; while others, less

fortunate, could only talk of the darkness of the rooms, the homeliness

of the old furniture, and the detestable bad humour of Meg Dods, the

landlady.

Reader, if you come from the more sunny side of the Tweed--or even if,

being a Scot, you have had the advantage to be born within the last

twenty-five years, you may be induced to think this portrait of Queen

Elizabeth, in Dame Quickly's piqued hat and green apron, somewhat

overcharged in the features. But I appeal to my own contemporaries, who

have known wheel-road, bridle-way, and footpath, for thirty years,

whether they do not, every one of them, remember Meg Dods--or somebody

very like her. Indeed, so much is this the case, that, about the period

I mention, I should have been afraid to have rambled from the Scottish

metropolis, in almost any direction, lest I had lighted upon some one of

the sisterhood of Dame Quickly, who might suspect me of having showed

her up to the public in the character of Meg Dods. At present, though it

is possible that some one or two of this peculiar class of wild-cats may

still exist, their talons must be much impaired by age; and I think they

can do little more than sit, like the Giant Pope, in the Pilgrim's

Progress, at the door of their unfrequented caverns, and grin at the

pilgrims over whom they used formerly to execute their despotism.

FOOTNOTES:

[I-1] See Editor's Notes at the end of the Volume. Wherever a similar

reference occurs, the reader will understand that the same direction

applies.

[I-2] See the old Ballad of King Estmere, in PERCY'S _Reliques_.

[I-3] In a colloquy of Erasmus, called _Diversaria_, there is a very

unsavoury description of a German inn of the period, where an objection

of the guest is answered in the manner expressed in the text--a great

sign of want of competition on the road.

[I-4] This circumstance shows of itself, that the Meg Dods of the tale

cannot be identified with her namesake Jenny Dods, who kept the inn at

Howgate,[I-B] on the Peebles road; for Jenny, far different from our

heroine, was unmatched as a slattern.

[I-5] This was universally the case in Scotland forty or fifty years ago;

and so little was charged for a domestic's living when the author became

first acquainted with the road, that a shilling or eighteenpence was

sufficient board wages for a man-servant, when a crown would not now

answer the purpose. It is true the cause of these reasonable charges

rested upon a principle equally unjust to the landlord, and inconvenient

to the guest. The landlord did not expect to make any thing upon the

charge for eating which his bill contained; in consideration of which,

the guest was expected to drink more wine than might be convenient or

agreeable to him, "_for the good_," as it was called, "_of the house_."

The landlord indeed was willing and ready to assist, in this duty, every

stranger who came within his gates. Other things were in proportion. A

charge for lodging, fire, and candle, was long a thing unheard of in

Scotland. A shilling to the housemaid settled all such considerations. I

see, from memorandums of 1790, that a young man, with two ponies and a

serving-lad, might travel from the house of one Meg Dods to another,

through most parts of Scotland, for about five or six shillings a-day.

[I-6] Note I.--Building-Feus in Scotland.

[I-7] This Gallic word (hôtel) was first introduced in Scotland during the

author's childhood, and was so pronounced by the lower class.

CHAPTER II.

THE GUEST.

Quis novus hic hospes?

_Dido apud Virgilium._

Ch'am-maid! The Gemman in the front parlour!

BOOTS'S _free Translation of the Æneid_.

It was on a fine summer's day that a solitary traveller rode under the

old-fashioned archway, and alighted in the court-yard of Meg Dods's inn,

and delivered the bridle of his horse to the humpbacked postilion.

"Bring my saddle-bags," he said, "into the house--or stay--I am abler, I

think, to carry them than you." He then assisted the poor meagre groom

to unbuckle the straps which secured the humble and now despised

convenience, and meantime gave strict charges that his horse should be

unbridled, and put into a clean and comfortable stall, the girths

slacked, and a cloth cast over his loins; but that the saddle should not

be removed until he himself came to see him dressed.

The companion of his travels seemed in the hostler's eye deserving of

his care, being a strong active horse, fit either for the road or field,

but rather high in bone from a long journey, though from the state of

his skin it appeared the utmost care had been bestowed to keep him in

condition. While the groom obeyed the stranger's directions, the latter,

with the saddle-bags laid over his arm, entered the kitchen of the inn.

Here he found the landlady herself in none of her most blessed humours.

The cook-maid was abroad on some errand, and Meg, in a close review of

the kitchen apparatus, was making the unpleasant discovery, that

trenchers had been broken or cracked, pots and saucepans not so

accurately scoured as her precise notions of cleanliness required,

which, joined to other detections of a more petty description, stirred

her bile in no small degree; so that while she disarranged and arranged

the _bink_, she maundered, in an under tone, complaints and menaces

against the absent delinquent.

The entrance of a guest did not induce her to suspend this agreeable

amusement--she just glanced at him as he entered, then turned her back

short on him, and continued her labour and her soliloquy of lamentation.

Truth is, she thought she recognised in the person of the stranger, one

of those useful envoys of the commercial community, called, by

themselves and the waiters, _Travellers_, par excellence--by others,

Riders and Bagmen. Now against this class of customers Meg had peculiar

prejudices; because, there being no shops in the old village of Saint

Ronan's, the said commercial emissaries, for the convenience of their

traffic, always took up their abode at the New Inn, or Hotel, in the

rising and rival village called Saint Ronan's Well, unless when some

straggler, by chance or dire necessity, was compelled to lodge himself

at the Auld Town, as the place of Meg's residence began to be generally

termed. She had, therefore, no sooner formed the hasty conclusion, that

the individual in question belonged to this obnoxious class, than she

resumed her former occupation, and continued to soliloquize and

apostrophize her absent handmaidens, without even appearing sensible of

his presence.

"The huzzy Beenie--the jaud Eppie--the deil's buckie of a

callant!--Another plate gane--they'll break me out of house and ha'!"

The traveller, who, with his saddle-bags rested on the back of a chair,

had waited in silence for some note of welcome, now saw that, ghost or

no ghost, he must speak first, if he intended to have any notice from

his landlady.

"You are my old acquaintance, Mrs. Margaret Dods?" said the stranger.

"What for no?--and wha are ye that speers?" said Meg, in the same

breath, and began to rub a brass candlestick with more vehemence than

before--the dry tone in which she spoke, indicating plainly how little

concern she took in the conversation.

"A traveller, good Mistress Dods, who comes to take up his lodgings here

for a day or two."

"I am thinking ye will be mista'en," said Meg; "there's nae room for

bags or jaugs here--ye've mista'en your road, neighbour--ye maun e'en

bundle yoursell a bit farther down hill."

"I see you have not got the letter I sent you, Mistress Dods?" said the

guest.

"How should I, man?" answered the hostess; "they have ta'en awa the

post-office from us--moved it down till the Spa-well yonder, as they

ca'd."

"Why, that is but a step off," observed the guest.

"Ye will get there the sooner," answered the hostess.

"Nay, but," said the guest, "if you had sent there for my letter, you

would have learned"----

"I'm no wanting to learn ony thing at my years," said Meg. "If folk have

ony thing to write to me about, they may gie the letter to John Hislop,

the carrier, that has used the road these forty years. As for the

letters at the post-mistress's, as they ca' her, down by yonder, they

may bide in her shop-window, wi' the snaps and bawbee rows, till

Beltane, or I loose them. I'll never file my fingers with them.

Post-mistress, indeed!--Upsetting cutty! I mind her fu' weel when she

dree'd penance for ante-nup"----

Laughing, but interrupting Meg in good time for the character of the

post-mistress, the stranger assured her he had sent his fishing-rod and

trunk to her confidential friend the carrier, and that he sincerely

hoped she would not turn an old acquaintance out of her premises,

especially as he believed he could not sleep in a bed within five miles

of Saint Ronan's, if he knew that her Blue room was unengaged.

"Fishing-rod!--Auld acquaintance!--Blue room!" echoed Meg, in some

surprise; and, facing round upon the stranger, and examining him with

some interest and curiosity,--"Ye'll be nae bagman, then, after a'?"

"No," said the traveller; "not since I have laid the saddle-bags out of

my hand."

"Weel, I canna say but I am glad of that--I canna bide their yanking way

of knapping English at every word.--I have kent decent lads amang them

too--What for no?--But that was when they stopped up here whiles, like

other douce folk; but since they gaed down, the hail flight of them,

like a string of wild-geese, to the new-fashioned hottle yonder, I am

told there are as mony hellicate tricks played in the travellers' room,

as they behove to call it, as if it were fu' of drunken young lairds."

"That is because they have not you to keep good order among them,

Mistress Margaret."

"Ay, lad?" replied Meg, "ye are a fine blaw-in-my-lug, to think to

cuittle me off sae cleverly!" And, facing about upon her guest, she

honoured him with a more close and curious investigation than she had at

first designed to bestow upon him.

All that she remarked was in her opinion rather favourable to the

stranger. He was a well-made man, rather above than under the middle

size, and apparently betwixt five-and-twenty and thirty years of

age--for, although he might, at first glance, have passed for one who

had attained the latter period, yet, on a nearer examination, it seemed

as if the burning sun of a warmer climate than Scotland, and perhaps

some fatigue, both of body and mind, had imprinted the marks of care and

of manhood upon his countenance, without abiding the course of years.

His eyes and teeth were excellent, and his other features, though they

could scarce be termed handsome, expressed sense and acuteness; he bore,

in his aspect, that ease and composure of manner, equally void of

awkwardness and affectation, which is said emphatically to mark the

gentleman; and, although neither the plainness of his dress, nor the

total want of the usual attendants, allowed Meg to suppose him a wealthy

man, she had little doubt that he was above the rank of her lodgers in

general. Amidst these observations, and while she was in the course of

making them, the good landlady was embarrassed with various obscure

recollections of having seen the object of them formerly; but when, or

on what occasion, she was quite unable to call to remembrance. She was

particularly puzzled by the cold and sarcastic expression of a

countenance, which she could not by any means reconcile with the

recollections which it awakened. At length she said, with as much

courtesy as she was capable of assuming,--"Either I have seen you

before, sir, or some ane very like ye?--Ye ken the Blue room, too, and

you a stranger in these parts?"

"Not so much a stranger as you may suppose, Meg," said the guest,

assuming a more intimate tone, "when I call myself Frank Tyrrel."

"Tirl!" exclaimed Meg, with a tone of wonder--"It's impossible! You

cannot be Francie Tirl, the wild callant that was fishing and

bird-nesting here seven or eight years syne--it canna be--Francie was

but a callant!"

"But add seven or eight years to that boy's life, Meg," said the

stranger gravely, "and you will find you have the man who is now before

you."

"Even sae!" said Meg, with a glance at the reflection of her own

countenance in the copper coffee-pot, which she had scoured so brightly

that it did the office of a mirror--"Just e'en sae--but folk maun grow

auld or die.--But, Maister Tirl, for I mauna ca' ye Francie now, I am

thinking"----

"Call me what you please, good dame," said the stranger; "it has been so

long since I heard any one call me by a name that sounded like former

kindness, that such a one is more agreeable to me than a lord's title

would be."

"Weel, then, Maister Francie--if it be no offence to you--I hope ye are

no a Nabob?"

"Not I, I can safely assure you, my old friend;--but what an I were?"

"Naething--only maybe I might bid ye gang farther, and be waur

served.--Nabobs, indeed! the country's plagued wi' them. They have

raised the price of eggs and pootry for twenty miles round--But what is

my business?--They use amaist a' of them the Well down by--they need it,

ye ken, for the clearing of their copper complexions, that need scouring

as much as my saucepans, that naebody can clean but mysell."

"Well, my good friend," said Tyrrel, "the upshot of all this is, I hope,

that I am to stay and have dinner here?"

"What for no?" replied Mrs. Dods.

"And that I am to have the Blue room for a night or two--perhaps

longer?"

"I dinna ken that," said the dame.--"The Blue room is the best--and they

that get neist best, are no ill aff in this warld."

"Arrange it as you will," said the stranger, "I leave the whole matter

to you, mistress.--Meantime, I will go see after my horse."

"The merciful man," said Meg, when her guest had left the kitchen, "is

merciful to his beast.--He had aye something about him by ordinar, that

callant--But eh, sirs! there is a sair change on his cheek-haffit since

I saw him last!--He sall no want a good dinner for auld lang syne, that

I'se engage for."

Meg set about the necessary preparations with all the natural energy of

her disposition, which was so much exerted upon her culinary cares, that

her two maids, on their return to the house, escaped the bitter

reprimand which she had been previously conning over, in reward for

their alleged slatternly negligence. Nay, so far did she carry her

complaisance, that when Tyrrel crossed the kitchen to recover his

saddle-bags, she formally rebuked Eppie for an idle taupie, for not

carrying the gentleman's things to his room.

"I thank you, mistress," said Tyrrel; "but I have some drawings and

colours in these saddle-bags, and I always like to carry them myself."

"Ay, and are you at the painting trade yet?" said Meg; "an unco slaister

ye used to make with it lang syne."

"I cannot live without it," said Tyrrel; and taking the saddle-bags, was

formally inducted by the maid into a snug apartment, where he soon had

the satisfaction to behold a capital dish of minced collops, with

vegetables, and a jug of excellent ale, placed on the table by the

careful hand of Meg herself. He could do no less, in acknowledgment of

the honour, than ask Meg for a bottle of the yellow seal, "if there was

any of that excellent claret still left."

"Left?--ay is there, walth of it," said Meg; "I dinna gie it to every

body--Ah! Maister Tirl, ye have not got ower your auld tricks!--I am

sure, if ye are painting for your leeving, as you say, a little rum and

water would come cheaper, and do ye as much good. But ye maun hae your

ain way the day, nae doubt, if ye should never have it again."

Away trudged Meg, her keys clattering as she went, and, after much

rummaging, returned with such a bottle of claret as no fashionable

tavern could have produced, were it called for by a duke, or at a duke's

price; and she seemed not a little gratified when her guest assured her

that he had not yet forgotten its excellent flavour. She retired after

these acts of hospitality, and left the stranger to enjoy in quiet the

excellent matters which she had placed before him.

But there was that on Tyrrel's mind which defied the enlivening power of

good cheer and of wine, which only maketh man's heart glad when that

heart has no secret oppression to counteract its influence. Tyrrel found

himself on a spot which he had loved in that delightful season, when

youth and high spirits awaken all those flattering promises which are so

ill kept to manhood. He drew his chair into the embrasure of the

old-fashioned window, and throwing up the sash to enjoy the fresh air,

suffered his thoughts to return to former days, while his eyes wandered

over objects which they had not looked upon for several eventful years.

He could behold beneath his eye, the lower part of the decayed village,

as its ruins peeped from the umbrageous shelter with which they were

shrouded. Still lower down, upon the little holm which formed its

church-yard, was seen the Kirk of Saint Ronan's; and looking yet

farther, towards the junction of Saint Ronan's burn with the river which

traversed the larger dale or valley, he could see whitened, by the

western sun, the rising houses, which were either newly finished, or in

the act of being built, about the medicinal spring.

"Time changes all around us," such was the course of natural though

trite reflection, which flowed upon Tyrrel's mind; "wherefore should

loves and friendships have a longer date than our dwellings and our

monuments?" As he indulged these sombre recollections, his officious

landlady disturbed their tenor by her entrance.

"I was thinking to offer you a dish of tea, Maister Francie, just for

the sake of auld lang syne, and I'll gar the quean Beenie bring it

here, and mask it mysell.--But ye arena done with your wine yet?"

"I am indeed, Mrs. Dods," answered Tyrrel; "and I beg you will remove

the bottle."

"Remove the bottle, and the wine no half drank out!" said Meg,

displeasure lowering on her brow; "I hope there is nae fault to be found

wi' the wine, Maister Tirl?"

To this answer, which was put in a tone resembling defiance, Tyrrel

submissively replied, by declaring "the claret not only unexceptionable,

but excellent."

"And what for dinna ye drink it, then?" said Meg, sharply; "folk should

never ask for mair liquor than they can make a gude use of. Maybe ye

think we have the fashion of the table-dot, as they ca' their newfangled

ordinary down-by yonder, where a' the bits of vinegar cruets are put awa

into an awmry, as they tell me, and ilk ane wi' the bit dribbles of

syndings in it, and a paper about the neck o't, to show which of the

customers is aught it--there they stand like doctor's drogs--and no an

honest Scottish mutchkin will ane o' their viols haud, granting it were

at the fouest."

"Perhaps," said Tyrrel, willing to indulge the spleen and prejudice of

his old acquaintance, "perhaps the wine is not so good as to make full

measure desirable."

"Ye may say that, lad--and yet them that sell it might afford a gude

penniworth, for they hae it for the making--maist feck of it ne'er saw

France or Portugal. But as I was saying--this is no ane of their

newfangled places, where wine is put by for them that canna drink

it--when the cork's drawn the bottle maun be drank out--and what for

no?--unless it be corkit."

"I agree entirely, Meg," said her guest; "but my ride to-day has

somewhat heated me--and I think the dish of tea you promise me, will do

me more good than to finish my bottle."

"Na, then, the best I can do for you is to put it by, to be sauce for

the wild-duck the morn; for I think ye said ye were to bide here for a

day or twa."

"It is my very purpose, Meg, unquestionably," replied Tyrrel.

"Sae be it then," said Mrs. Dods; "and then the liquor's no lost--it has

been seldom sic claret as that has simmered in a saucepan, let me tell

you that, neighbour;--and I mind the day, when, headache or nae

headache, ye wad hae been at the hinder-end of that bottle, and maybe

anither, if ye could have gotten it wiled out of me. But then ye had

your cousin to help you--Ah! he was a blithe bairn that Valentine

Bulmer!--Ye were a canty callant too, Maister Francie, and muckle ado I

had to keep ye baith in order when ye were on the ramble. But ye were a

thought doucer than Valentine--But O! he was a bonny laddie!--wi' e'en

like diamonds, cheeks like roses, a head like a heather-tap--he was the

first I ever saw wear a crap, as they ca' it, but a' body cheats the

barber now--and he had a laugh that wad hae raised the dead!--What wi'

flyting on him, and what wi' laughing at him, there was nae minding ony

other body when that Valentine was in the house.--And how is your cousin

Valentine Bulmer, Maister Francie?"

Tyrrel looked down, and only answered with a sigh.

"Ay--and is it even sae?" said Meg; "and has the puir bairn been sae

soon removed frae this fashious warld?--Ay--ay--we maun a' gang ae

gate--crackit quart stoups and geisen'd barrels--leaky quaighs are we

a', and canna keep in the liquor of life--Ohon, sirs!--Was the puir lad

Bulmer frae Bu'mer bay, where they land the Hollands, think ye, Maister

Francie?--They whiles rin in a pickle tea there too--I hope that is good

that I have made you, Maister Francie?"

"Excellent, my good dame," said Tyrrel; but it was in a tone of voice

which intimated that she had pressed upon a subject that awakened some

unpleasant reflections.

"And when did this puir lad die?" continued Meg, who was not without her

share of Eve's qualities, and wished to know something concerning what

seemed to affect her guest so particularly; but he disappointed her

purpose, and at the same time awakened another train of sentiment in her

mind, by turning again to the window, and looking upon the distant

buildings of Saint Ronan's Well. As if he had observed for the first

time these new objects, he said to Mistress Dods in an indifferent tone,

"You have got some gay new neighbours yonder, mistress."

"Neighbours!" said Meg, her wrath beginning to arise, as it always did

upon any allusion to this sore subject--"Ye may ca' them neighbours, if

ye like--but the deil flee awa wi' the neighbourhood for Meg Dods!"

"I suppose," said Tyrrel, as if he did not observe her displeasure,

"that yonder is the Fox Hotel they told me of?"

"The Fox!" said Meg: "I am sure it is the fox that has carried off a' my

geese.--I might shut up house, Maister Francie, if it was the thing I

lived by--me, that has seen a' our gentlefolk bairns, and gien them

snaps and sugar-biscuit maist of them wi' my ain hand! They wad hae seen

my father's roof-tree fa' down and smoor me before they wad hae gien a

boddle a-piece to have propped it up--but they could a' link out their

fifty pounds ower head to bigg a hottle at the Well yonder. And muckle

they hae made o't--the bankrupt body, Sandie Lawson, hasna paid them a

bawbee of four terms' rent."

"Surely, mistress, I think if the Well became so famous for its cures,

the least the gentlemen could have done was to make you the priestess."

"Me priestess! I am nae Quaker, I wot, Maister Francie; and I never

heard of alewife that turned preacher, except Luckie Buchan in the

west.[I-8] And if I were to preach, I think I have mair the spirit of a

Scottishwoman, than to preach in the very room they hae been dancing in

ilka night in the week, Saturday itsell not excepted, and that till twal

o'clock at night. Na, na, Maister Francie; I leave the like o' that to

Mr. Simon Chatterly, as they ca' the bit prelatical sprig of divinity

from the town yonder, that plays at cards, and dances six days in the

week, and on the seventh reads the Common Prayer-book in the ball-room,

with Tam Simson, the drunken barber, for his clerk."

"I think I have heard of Mr. Chatterly," said Tyrrel.

"Ye'll be thinking o' the sermon he has printed," said the angry dame,

"where he compares their nasty puddle of a Well yonder to the pool of

Bethseda, like a foul-mouthed, fleeching, feather-headed fule as he is!

He should hae kend that the place got a' its fame in the times of black

Popery; and though they pat it in St. Ronan's name, I'll never believe

for one that the honest man had ony hand in it; for I hae been tell'd by

ane that suld ken, that he was nae Roman, but only a Cuddie, or

Culdee,[I-C] or such like.--But will ye not take anither dish of tea,

Maister Francie? and a wee bit of the diet-loaf, raised wi' my ain fresh

butter, Maister Francie? and no wi' greasy kitchen-fee, like the

seedcake down at the confectioner's yonder, that has as mony dead flees

as carvy in it. Set him up for a confectioner!--Wi' a penniworth of

rye-meal, and anither of tryacle, and twa or three carvy-seeds, I will

make better confections than ever cam out of his oven."

"I have no doubt of that, Mrs. Dods," said the guest; "and I only wish

to know how these new comers were able to establish themselves against a

house of such good reputation and old standing as yours?--It was the

virtues of the mineral, I dare say; but how came the waters to recover a

character all at once, mistress?"

"I dinna ken, sir--they used to be thought good for naething, but here

and there for a puir body's bairn, that had gotten the cruells,[I-9] and

could not afford a penniworth of salts. But my Leddy Penelope Penfeather

had fa'an ill, it's like, as nae other body ever fell ill, and sae she

was to be cured some gate naebody was ever cured, which was naething

mair than was reasonable--and my leddy, ye ken, has wit at wull, and has

a' the wise folk out from Edinburgh at her house at Windywa's yonder,

which it is her leddyship's wull and pleasure to call Air-castle--and

they have a' their different turns, and some can clink verses, wi' their

tale, as weel as Rob Burns or Allan Ramsay--and some rin up hill and

down dale, knapping the chucky stanes to pieces wi' hammers, like sae

mony road-makers run daft--they say it is to see how the warld was

made!--and some that play on all manner of ten-stringed instruments--and

a wheen sketching souls, that ye may see perched like craws on every

craig in the country, e'en working at your ain trade, Maister Francie;

forby men that had been in foreign parts, or said they had been there,

whilk is a' ane, ye ken; and maybe twa or three draggletailed misses,

that wear my Leddy Penelope's follies when she has dune wi' them, as her

queans of maids wear her second-hand claithes. So, after her leddyship's

happy recovery, as they ca'd it, down cam the hail tribe of wild-geese,

and settled by the Well, to dine thereout on the bare grund, like a

wheen tinklers; and they had sangs, and tunes, and healths, nae doubt,

in praise of the fountain, as they ca'd the Well, and of Leddy Penelope

Penfeather; and, lastly, they behoved a' to take a solemn bumper of the

spring, which, as I'm tauld, made unco havoc amang them or they wan

hame; and this they ca'd picknick, and a plague to them! And sae the jig

was begun after her leddyship's pipe, and mony a mad measure has been

danced sin' syne; for down cam masons and murgeon-makers, and preachers

and player-folk, and Episcopalians and Methodists, and fools and

fiddlers, and Papists and pie-bakers, and doctors and drugsters; by the

shop-folk, that sell trash and trumpery at three prices--and so up got

the bonny new Well, and down fell the honest auld town of Saint Ronan's,

where blithe decent folk had been heartsome eneugh for mony a day before

ony o' them were born, or ony sic vapouring fancies kittled in their

cracked brains."

"What said your landlord, the Laird of Saint Ronan's, to all this?" said

Tyrrel.

"Is't _my_ landlord ye are asking after, Maister Francie?--the Laird of

Saint Ronan's is nae landlord of mine, and I think ye might hae minded

that.--Na, na, thanks be to Praise! Meg Dods is baith land_lord_ and

land_leddy_. Ill eneugh to keep the doors open as it is, let be facing

Whitsunday and Martinmas--an auld leather pock there is, Maister

Francie, in ane of worthy Maister Bindloose the sheriff-clerk's

pigeon-holes, in his dowcot of a closet in the burgh; and therein is

baith charter and sasine, and special service to boot; and that will be

chapter and verse, speer when ye list."

"I had quite forgotten," said Tyrrel, "that the inn was your own; though

I remember you were a considerable landed proprietor."

"Maybe I am," replied Meg, "maybe I am not: and if I be, what for

no?--But as to what the Laird, whose grandfather was my father's

landlord, said to the new doings yonder--he just jumped at the ready

penny, like a cock at a grosert, and feu'd the bonny holm beside the

Well, that they ca'd the Saint-Well-holm, that was like the best land in

his aught, to be carved, and biggit, and howkit up, just at the pleasure

of Jock Ashler the stane-mason, that ca's himsell an arkiteck--there's

nae living for new words in this new warld neither, and that is another

vex to auld folk such as me.--It's a shame o' the young Laird, to let

his auld patrimony gang the gate it's like to gang, and my heart is sair

to see't, though it has but little cause to care what comes of him or

his."

"Is it the same Mr. Mowbray," said Mr. Tyrrel, "who still holds the

estate?--the old gentleman, you know, whom I had some dispute with"----

"About hunting moorfowl upon the Spring-well-head muirs?" said Meg. "Ah,

lad! honest Mr. Bindloose brought you neatly off there--Na, it's no that

honest man, but his son John Mowbray--the t'other has slept down-by in

Saint Ronan's Kirk for these six or seven years."

"Did he leave," asked Tyrrel, with something of a faltering voice, "no

other child than the present Laird?"

"No other son," said Meg; "and there's e'en eneugh, unless he could have

left a better ane."

"He died then," said Tyrrel, "excepting this son, without children?"

"By your leave, no," said Meg; "there is the lassie Miss Clara, that

keeps house for the Laird, if it can be ca'd keeping house, for he is

almost aye down at the Well yonder--so a sma' kitchen serves them at the

Shaws."

"Miss Clara will have but a dull time of it there during her brother's

absence?" said the stranger.

"Out no!--he has her aften jinketing about, and back and forward, wi' a'

the fine flichtering fools that come yonder; and clapping palms wi'

them, and linking at their dances and daffings. I wuss nae ill come o't,

but it's a shame her father's daughter should keep company wi' a' that

scauff and raff of physic-students, and writers' prentices, and bagmen,

and siclike trash as are down at the Well yonder."

"You are severe, Mrs. Dods," replied the guest. "No doubt Miss Clara's

conduct deserves all sort of freedom."

"I am saying naething against her conduct," said the dame; "and there's

nae ground to say onything that I ken of--But I wad hae like draw to

like, Maister Francie. I never quarrelled the ball that the gentry used

to hae at my bit house a gude wheen years bygane--when they came, the

auld folk in their coaches, wi' lang-tailed black horses, and a wheen

galliard gallants on their hunting horses, and mony a decent leddy

behind her ain goodman, and mony a bonny smirking lassie on her pownie,

and wha sae happy as they--And what for no? And then there was the

farmers' ball, wi' the tight lads of yeomen with the bran new blues and

the buckskins--These were decent meetings--but then they were a' ae

man's bairns that were at them, ilk ane kend ilk other--they danced

farmers wi' farmers' daughters, at the tane, and gentles wi' gentle

blood, at the t'other, unless maybe when some of the gentlemen of the

Killnakelty Club would gie me a round of the floor mysell, in the way of

daffing and fun, and me no able to flyte on them for laughing--I am sure

I never grudged these innocent pleasures, although it has cost me maybe

a week's redding up, before I got the better of the confusion."

"But, dame," said Tyrrel, "this ceremonial would be a little hard upon

strangers like myself, for how were we to find partners in these family

parties of yours?"

"Never you fash your thumb about that, Maister Francie," returned the

landlady, with a knowing wink.--"Every Jack will find a Jill, gang the

world as it may--and, at the warst o't, better hae some fashery in

finding a partner for the night, than get yoked with ane that you may

not be able to shake off the morn."

"And does that sometimes happen?" asked the stranger.

"Happen!--and is't amang the Well folk that ye mean?" exclaimed the

hostess. "Was it not the last season, as they ca't, no farther gane,

that young Sir Bingo Binks, the English lad wi' the red coat, that keeps

a mail-coach, and drives it himsell, gat cleekit with Miss Rachel

Bonnyrigg, the auld Leddy Loupengirth's lang-legged daughter--and they

danced sae lang thegither, that there was mair said than suld hae been

said about it--and the lad would fain hae louped back, but the auld

leddy held him to his tackle, and the Commissary Court and somebody else

made her Leddy Binks in spite of Sir Bingo's heart--and he has never

daured take her to his friends in England, but they have just wintered

and summered it at the Well ever since--and that is what the Well is

good for!"

"And does Clara,--I mean does Miss Mowbray, keep company with such women

as these?" said Tyrrel, with a tone of interest which he checked as he

proceeded with the question.

"What can she do, puir thing?" said the dame. "She maun keep the company

that her brother keeps, for she is clearly dependent.--But, speaking of

that, I ken what I have to do, and that is no little, before it darkens.

I have sat clavering with you ower lang, Maister Francie."

And away she marched with a resolved step, and soon the clear octaves of

her voice were heard in shrill admonition to her handmaidens.

Tyrrel paused a moment in deep thought, then took his hat, paid a visit

to the stable, where his horse saluted him with feathering ears, and

that low amicable neigh, with which that animal acknowledges the

approach of a loving and beloved friend. Having seen that the faithful

creature was in every respect attended to, Tyrrel availed himself of the

continued and lingering twilight, to visit the old Castle, which, upon

former occasions, had been his favourite evening walk. He remained while

the light permitted, admiring the prospect we attempted to describe in

the first chapter, and comparing, as in his former reverie, the faded

hues of the glimmering landscape to those of human life, when early

youth and hope have ceased to gild them.

A brisk walk to the inn, and a light supper on a Welsh rabbit and the

dame's home-brewed, were stimulants of livelier, at least more resigned

thoughts--and the Blue bedroom, to the honours of which he had been

promoted, received him a contented, if not a cheerful tenant.

FOOTNOTES:

[I-8] The foundress of a sect called Buchanites; a species of Joanna

Southcote, who long after death was expected to return and head her

disciples on the road to Jerusalem.

[I-9] _Escrouelles_, King's Evil.

CHAPTER III.

ADMINISTRATION.

There must be government in all society--

Bees have their Queen, and stag-herds have their leader;

Rome had her Consuls, Athens had her Archons,

And we, sir, have our Managing Committee.

_The Album of St. Ronan's._

Francis Tyrrel was, in the course of the next day, formally settled in

his old quarters, where he announced his purpose of remaining for

several days. The old-established carrier of the place brought his

fishing-rod and travelling-trunk, with a letter to Meg, dated a week

previously, desiring her to prepare to receive an old acquaintance. This

annunciation, though something of the latest, Meg received with great

complacency, observing it was a civil attention in Maister Tirl; and

that John Hislop, though he was not just sae fast, was far surer than

ony post of them a', or express either. She also observed with

satisfaction, that there was no gun-case along with her guest's baggage;

"for that weary gunning had brought him and her into trouble--the lairds

had cried out upon't, as if she made her house a howff for common

fowlers and poachers; and yet how could she hinder twa daft hempie

callants from taking a start and an ower-loup?[I-10] They had been ower

the neighbour's ground they had leave on up to the march, and they

werena just to ken meiths when the moorfowl got up."

In a day or two, her guest fell into such quiet and solitary habits,

that Meg, herself the most restless and bustling of human creatures,

began to be vexed, for want of the trouble which she expected to have

had with him, experiencing, perhaps, the same sort of feeling from his

extreme and passive indifference on all points, that a good horseman has

for the over-patient steed, which he can scarce feel under him. His

walks were devoted to the most solitary recesses among the neighbouring

woods and hills--his fishing-rod was often left behind him, or carried

merely as an apology for sauntering slowly by the banks of some little

brooklet--and his success so indifferent, that Meg said the piper of

Peebles[I-11] would have caught a creelfu' before Maister Francie made out

the half-dozen; so that he was obliged, for peace's sake, to vindicate

his character, by killing a handsome salmon.

Tyrrel's painting, as Meg called it, went on equally slowly: He often,

indeed, showed her the sketches which he brought from his walks, and

used to finish at home; but Meg held them very cheap. What signified,

she said, a wheen bits of paper, wi' black and white scarts upon them,

that he ca'd bushes, and trees, and craigs?--Couldna he paint them wi'

green, and blue, and yellow, like the other folk? "Ye will never mak

your bread that way, Maister Francie. Ye suld munt up a muckle square of

canvass, like Dick Tinto, and paint folks ainsells, that they like

muckle better to see than ony craig in the haill water; and I wadna

muckle objeck even to some of the Wallers coming up and sitting to ye.

They waste their time waur, I wis--and, I warrant, ye might make a

guinea a-head of them. Dick made twa, but he was an auld used hand, and

folk maun creep before they gang."

In answer to these remonstrances, Tyrrel assured her, that the sketches

with which he busied himself were held of such considerable value, that

very often an artist in that line received much higher remuneration for

these, than for portraits or coloured drawings. He added, that they were

often taken for the purpose of illustrating popular poems, and hinted as

if he himself were engaged in some labour of that nature.

Eagerly did Meg long to pour forth to Nelly Trotter, the

fishwoman,--whose cart formed the only neutral channel of communication

between the Auld Town and the Well, and who was in favour with Meg,

because, as Nelly passed her door in her way to the Well, she always had

the first choice of her fish,--the merits of her lodger as an artist.

Luckie Dods had, in truth, been so much annoyed and bullied, as it were,

with the report of clever persons, accomplished in all sorts of

excellence, arriving day after day at the Hotel, that she was overjoyed

in this fortunate opportunity to triumph over them in their own way; and

it may be believed, that the excellences of her lodger lost nothing by

being trumpeted through her mouth.

"I maun hae the best of the cart, Nelly--if you and me can gree--for it

is for ane of the best of painters. Your fine folk down yonder would gie

their lugs to look at what he has been doing--he gets gowd in goupins,

for three downright skarts and three cross anes--And he is no an

ungrateful loon, like Dick Tinto, that had nae sooner my good

five-and-twenty shillings in his pocket, than he gaed down to birl it

awa at their bonny hottle yonder, but a decent quiet lad, that kens when

he is weel aff, and bides still at the auld howff--And what for

no?--Tell them all this, and hear what they will say till't."

"Indeed, mistress, I can tell ye that already, without stirring my

shanks for the matter," answered Nelly Trotter; "they will e'en say that

ye are ae auld fule, and me anither, that may hae some judgment in

cock-bree or in scate-rumples, but mauna fash our beards about ony thing

else."

"Wad they say sae, the frontless villains! and me been a housekeeper

this thirty year!" exclaimed Meg; "I wadna hae them say it to my face!

But I am no speaking without warrant--for what an I had spoken to the

minister, lass, and shown him ane of the loose skarts of paper that

Maister Tirl leaves fleeing about his room?--and what an he had said he

had kend Lord Bidmore gie five guineas for the waur on't? and a' the

warld kens he was lang tutor in the Bidmore family."

"Troth," answered her gossip, "I doubt if I was to tell a' this they

would hardly believe me, mistress; for there are sae mony judges amang

them, and they think sae muckle of themsells, and sae little of other

folk, that unless ye were to send down the bit picture, I am no thinking

they will believe a word that I can tell them."

"No believe what an honest woman says--let abee to say twa o' them?"

exclaimed Meg; "O the unbelieving generation!--Weel, Nelly, since my

back is up, ye sall tak down the picture, or sketching, or whatever it

is, (though I thought sketchers[I-12] were aye made of airn,) and shame

wi' it the conceited crew that they are.--But see and bring't back wi'

ye again, Nelly, for it's a thing of value; and trustna it out o' your

hand, _that_ I charge you, for I lippen no muckle to their

honesty.--And, Nelly, ye may tell them he has an illustrated

poem--_illustrated_--mind the word, Nelly--that is to be stuck as fou o'

the like o' that, as ever turkey was larded wi' dabs o' bacon."

Thus furnished with her credentials, and acting the part of a herald

betwixt two hostile countries, honest Nelly switched her little

fish-cart downwards to St. Ronan's Well.

In watering-places, as in other congregated assemblies of the human

species, various kinds of government have been dictated, by chance,

caprice, or convenience; but in almost all of them, some sort of

direction has been adopted, to prevent the consequences of anarchy.

Sometimes the sole power has been vested in a Master of Ceremonies; but

this, like other despotisms, has been of late unfashionable, and the

powers of this great officer have been much limited even at Bath, where

Nash once ruled with undisputed supremacy. Committees of management,

chosen from among the most steady guests, have been in general resorted

to, as a more liberal mode of sway, and to such was confided the

administration of the infant republic of St. Ronan's Well. This little

senate, it must be observed, had the more difficult task in discharging

their high duties, that, like those of other republics, their subjects

were divided into two jarring and contending factions, who every day

eat, drank, danced, and made merry together, hating each other all the

while with all the animosity of political party, endeavouring by every

art to secure the adherence of each guest who arrived, and ridiculing

the absurdities and follies of each other, with all the wit and

bitterness of which they were masters.

At the head of one of these parties was no less a personage than Lady

Penelope Penfeather, to whom the establishment owed its fame, nay, its

existence; and whose influence could only have been balanced by that of

the Lord of the Manor, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's, or, as he was called

usually by the company who affected what Meg called knapping English,

The Squire, who was leader of the opposite faction.

The rank and fortune of the lady, her pretensions to beauty as well as

talent, (though the former was something faded,) and the consequence

which she arrogated to herself as a woman of fashion, drew round her

painters and poets, and philosophers, and men of science, and lecturers,

and foreign adventurers, _et hoc genus omne_.

On the contrary, the Squire's influence, as a man of family and property

in the immediate neighbourhood, who actually kept greyhounds and

pointers, and at least talked of hunters and of racers, ascertained him

the support of the whole class of bucks, half and whole bred, from the

three next counties; and if more inducements were wanting, he could

grant his favourites the privilege of shooting over his moors, which is

enough to turn the head of a young Scottishman at any time. Mr. Mowbray

was of late especially supported in his pre-eminence, by a close

alliance with Sir Bingo Binks, a sapient English Baronet, who, ashamed,

as many thought, to return to his own country, had set him down at the

Well of St. Ronan's, to enjoy the blessing which the Caledonian Hymen

had so kindly forced on him in the person of Miss Rachel Bonnyrigg. As

this gentleman actually drove a regular-built mail-coach, not in any

respect differing from that of his Majesty, only that it was more

frequently overturned, his influence with a certain set was

irresistible, and the Squire of St. Ronan's, having the better sense of

the two, contrived to reap the full benefit of the consequence attached

to his friendship.

These two contending parties were so equally balanced, that the

predominance of the influence of either was often determined by the

course of the sun. Thus, in the morning and forenoon, when Lady Penelope

led forth her herd to lawn and shady bower, whether to visit some ruined

monument of ancient times, or eat their pic-nic luncheon, to spoil good

paper with bad drawings, and good verses with repetition--in a word,

"To rave, recite, and madden round the land,"

her ladyship's empire over the loungers seemed uncontrolled and

absolute, and all things were engaged in the _tourbillon_, of which she

formed the pivot and centre. Even the hunters, and shooters, and hard

drinkers, were sometimes fain reluctantly to follow in her train,

sulking, and quizzing, and flouting at her solemn festivals, besides

encouraging the younger nymphs to giggle when they should have looked

sentimental. But after dinner the scene was changed, and her ladyship's

sweetest smiles, and softest invitations, were often insufficient to

draw the neutral part of the company to the tea-room; so that her

society was reduced to those whose constitution or finances rendered

early retirement from the dining-parlour a matter of convenience,

together with the more devoted and zealous of her own immediate

dependents and adherents. Even the faith of the latter was apt to be

debauched. Her ladyship's poet-laureate, in whose behalf she was teazing

each new-comer for subscriptions, got sufficiently independent to sing

in her ladyship's presence, at supper, a song of rather equivocal

meaning; and her chief painter, who was employed upon an illustrated

copy of the Loves of the Plants, was, at another time, seduced into such

a state of pot-valour, that, upon her ladyship's administering her usual

dose of criticism upon his works, he not only bluntly disputed her

judgment, but talked something of his right to be treated like a

gentleman.

These feuds were taken up by the Managing Committee, who interceded for

the penitent offenders on the following morning, and obtained their

re-establishment in Lady Penelope's good graces, upon moderate terms.

Many other acts of moderating authority they performed, much to the

assuaging of faction, and the quiet of the Wellers; and so essential was

their government to the prosperity of the place, that, without them, St.

Ronan's spring would probably have been speedily deserted. We must,

therefore, give a brief sketch of that potential Committee, which both

factions, acting as if on a self-denying ordinance, had combined to

invest with the reins of government.

Each of its members appeared to be selected, as Fortunio, in the

fairy-tale,[I-D] chose his followers, for his peculiar gifts. First on the

list stood the MAN OF MEDICINE, Dr. Quentin Quackleben, who claimed

right to regulate medical matters at the spring, upon the principle

which, of old, assigned the property of a newly discovered country to

the bucanier who committed the earliest piracy on its shores. The

acknowledgment of the Doctor's merit as having been first to proclaim

and vindicate the merits of these healing fountains, had occasioned his

being universally installed First Physician and Man of Science, which

last qualification he could apply to all purposes, from the boiling of

an egg to the giving a lecture. He was, indeed, qualified, like many of

his profession, to spread both the bane and antidote before a dyspeptic

patient, being as knowing a gastronome as Dr. Redgill himself, or any

other worthy physician who has written for the benefit of the _cuisine_,

from Dr. Moncrieff of Tippermalloch, to the late Dr. Hunter of York, and

the present Dr. Kitchiner of London. But pluralities are always

invidious, and therefore the Doctor prudently relinquished the office of

caterer and head-carver to the Man of Taste, who occupied regularly, and

_ex officio_, the head of the table, reserving to himself the occasional

privilege of criticising, and a principal share in consuming, the good

things which the common entertainment afforded. We have only to sum up

this brief account of the learned Doctor, by informing the reader that

he was a tall, lean, beetle-browed man, with an ill-made black

scratch-wig, that stared out on either side from his lantern jaws. He

resided nine months out of the twelve at St. Ronan's, and was supposed

to make an indifferent good thing of it,--especially as he played whist

to admiration.

First in place, though perhaps second to the Doctor in real authority,

was Mr. Winterblossom; a civil sort of person, who was nicely precise in

his address, wore his hair cued, and dressed with powder, had

knee-buckles set with Bristol stones, and a seal-ring as large as Sir

John Falstaff's. In his heyday he had a small estate, which he had spent

like a gentleman, by mixing with the gay world. He was, in short, one of

those respectable links that connect the coxcombs of the present day

with those of the last age, and could compare, in his own experience,

the follies of both. In latter days, he had sense enough to extricate

himself from his course of dissipation, though with impaired health and

impoverished fortune.

Mr. Winterblossom now lived upon a moderate annuity, and had discovered

a way of reconciling his economy with much company and made dishes, by

acting as perpetual president of the table-d'hote at the Well. Here he

used to amuse the society by telling stories about Garrick, Foote,

Bonnel Thornton, and Lord Kelly, and delivering his opinions in matters

of taste and vertu. An excellent carver, he knew how to help each guest

to what was precisely his due; and never failed to reserve a proper

slice as the reward of his own labours. To conclude, he was possessed of

some taste in the fine arts, at least in painting and music, although it

was rather of the technical kind, than that which warms the heart and

elevates the feelings. There was, indeed, about Winterblossom, nothing

that was either warm or elevated. He was shrewd, selfish, and sensual;

the last two of which qualities he screened from observation, under a

specious varnish of exterior complaisance. Therefore, in his professed

and apparent anxiety to do the honours of the table, to the most

punctilious point of good breeding, he never permitted the attendants

upon the public taste to supply the wants of others, until all his own

private comforts had been fully arranged and provided for.

Mr. Winterblossom was also distinguished for possessing a few curious

engravings, and other specimens of art, with the exhibition of which he

occasionally beguiled a wet morning at the public room. They were

collected, "_viis et modis_," said the Man of Law, another distinguished

member of the Committee, with a knowing cock of his eye to his next

neighbour.

Of this person little need be said. He was a large-boned, loud-voiced,

red-faced man, named Meiklewham; a country writer, or attorney, who

managed the matters of the Squire much to the profit of one or

other,--if not of both. His nose projected from the front of his broad

vulgar face, like the stile of an old sun-dial, twisted all of one side.

He was as great a bully in his profession, as if it had been military

instead of civil: conducted the whole technicalities concerning the

cutting up the Saint's-Well-haugh, so much lamented by Dame Dods, into

building-stances, and was on excellent terms with Doctor Quackleben, who

always recommended him to make the wills of his patients.

After the Man of Law comes Captain Mungo MacTurk, a Highland lieutenant

on half-pay, and that of ancient standing; one who preferred toddy of

the strongest to wine, and in that fashion and cold drams finished about

a bottle of whisky _per diem_, whenever he could come by it. He was

called the Man of Peace, on the same principle which assigns to

constables, Bow-street runners, and such like, who carry bludgeons to

break folk's heads, and are perpetually and officially employed in

scenes of riot, the title of peace-officers--that is, because by his

valour he compelled others to act with discretion. The Captain was the

general referee in all those abortive quarrels, which, at a place of

this kind, are so apt to occur at night, and to be quietly settled in

the morning; and occasionally adopted a quarrel himself, by way of

taking down any guest who was unusually pugnacious. This occupation

procured Captain MacTurk a good deal of respect at the Well; for he was

precisely that sort of person who is ready to fight with any one,--whom

no one can find an apology for declining to fight with,--in fighting

with whom considerable danger was incurred, for he was ever and anon

showing that he could snuff a candle with a pistol ball,--and lastly,

through fighting with whom no eclat or credit could redound to the

antagonist. He always wore a blue coat and red collar, had a

supercilious taciturnity of manner, ate sliced leeks with his cheese,

and resembled in complexion a Dutch red-herring.

Still remains to be mentioned the Man of Religion--the gentle Mr. Simon

Chatterly, who had strayed to St. Ronan's Well from the banks of Cam or

Isis, and who piqued himself, first on his Greek, and secondly, on his

politeness to the ladies. During all the week days, as Dame Dods has

already hinted, this reverend gentleman was the partner at the

whist-table, or in the ball-room, to what maid or matron soever lacked a

partner at either; and on the Sundays, he read prayers in the public

room to all who chose to attend. He was also a deviser of charades, and

an unriddler of riddles; he played a little on the flute, and was Mr.

Winterblossom's principal assistant in contriving those ingenious and

romantic paths, by which, as by the zig-zags which connect military

parallels, you were enabled to ascend to the top of the hill behind the

hotel, which commands so beautiful a prospect, at exactly that precise

angle of ascent, which entitles a gentleman to offer his arm, and a lady

to accept it, with perfect propriety.

There was yet another member of this Select Committee, Mr. Michael

Meredith, who might be termed the Man of Mirth, or, if you please, the

Jack Pudding to the company, whose business it was to crack the best

joke, and sing the best song,--he could. Unluckily, however, this

functionary was for the present obliged to absent himself from St.

Ronan's; for, not recollecting that he did not actually wear the

privileged motley of his profession, he had passed some jest upon

Captain MacTurk, which cut so much to the quick, that Mr. Meredith was

fain to go to goat-whey quarters, at some ten miles' distance, and

remain there in a sort of concealment, until the affair should be made

up through the mediation of his brethren of the Committee.

Such were the honest gentlemen who managed the affairs of this rising

settlement, with as much impartiality as could be expected. They were

not indeed without their own secret predilections; for the lawyer and

the soldier privately inclined to the party of the Squire, while the

parson, Mr. Meredith, and Mr. Winterblossom, were more devoted to the

interests of Lady Penelope; so that Doctor Quackleben alone, who

probably recollected that the gentlemen were as liable to stomach

complaints, as the ladies to nervous disorders, seemed the only person

who preserved in word and deed the most rigid neutrality. Nevertheless,

the interests of the establishment being very much at the heart of this

honourable council, and each feeling his own profit, pleasure, or

comfort, in some degree involved, they suffered not their private

affections to interfere with their public duties, but acted, every one

in his own sphere, for the public benefit of the whole community.

FOOTNOTES:

[I-10] The usual expression for a slight encroachment on a neighbour's

property.

[I-11] The said piper was famous at the mystery.

[I-12] Skates are called sketchers in Scotland.

CHAPTER IV.

THE INVITATION.

Thus painters write their names at Co.

PRIOR.

The clamour which attends the removal of dinner from a public room had

subsided; the clatter of plates, and knives and forks--the bustling

tread of awkward boobies of country servants, kicking each other's

shins, and wrangling, as they endeavour to rush out of the door three

abreast--the clash of glasses and tumblers, borne to earth in the

tumult--the shrieks of the landlady--the curses, not loud, but deep, of

the landlord--had all passed away; and those of the company who had

servants, had been accommodated by their respective Ganymedes with such

remnants of their respective bottles of wine, spirits, &c., as the said

Ganymedes had not previously consumed, while the rest, broken in to such

observance by Mr. Winterblossom, waited patiently until the worthy

president's own special and multifarious commissions had been executed

by a tidy young woman and a lumpish lad, the regular attendants

belonging to the house, but whom he permitted to wait on no one, till,

as the hymn says,

"All his wants were well supplied."

"And, Dinah--my bottle of pale sherry, Dinah--place it on this

side--there's a good girl;--and, Toby--get my jug with the hot

water--and let it be boiling--and don't spill it on Lady Penelope, if

you can help it, Toby."

"No--for her ladyship has been in hot water to-day already," said the

Squire; a sarcasm to which Lady Penelope only replied with a look of

contempt.

"And, Dinah, bring the sugar--the soft East India sugar, Dinah--and a

lemon, Dinah, one of those which came fresh to-day--Go fetch it from the

bar, Toby--and don't tumble down stairs, if you can help it.--And,

Dinah--stay, Dinah--the nutmeg, Dinah, and the ginger, my good

girl--And, Dinah--put the cushion up behind my back--and the footstool

to my foot, for my toe is something the worse of my walk with your

ladyship this morning to the top of Belvidere."

"Her ladyship may call it what she pleases in common parlance," said the

writer; "but it must stand Munt-grunzie in the stamped paper, being so

nominated in the ancient writs and evidents thereof."

"And, Dinah," continued the president, "lift up my handkerchief--and--a

bit of biscuit, Dinah--and--and I do not think I want any thing

else--Look to the company, my good girl.--I have the honour to drink the

company's very good health--Will your ladyship honour me by accepting a

glass of negus?--I learned to make negus from old Dartineuf's son.--He

always used East India sugar and added a tamarind--it improves the

flavour infinitely.--Dinah, see your father sends for some

tamarinds--Dartineuf knew a good thing almost as well as his father--I

met him at Bath in the year--let me see--Garrick was just taking leave,

and that was in," &c. &c. &c.--"And what is this now, Dinah?" he said,

as she put into his hand a roll of paper.

"Something that Nelly Trotter" (Trotting Nelly, as the company called

her) "brought from a sketching gentleman that lives at the woman's"

(thus bluntly did the upstart minx describe the reverend Mrs. Margaret

Dods) "at the Cleikum of Aultoun yonder"--A name, by the way, which the

inn had acquired from the use which the saint upon the sign-post was

making of his pastoral crook.

"Indeed, Dinah?" said Mr. Winterblossom, gravely taking out his

spectacles, and wiping them before he opened the roll of paper; "some

boy's daubing, I suppose, whose pa and ma wish to get him into the

Trustees' School, and so are beating about for a little interest.--But I

am drained dry--I put three lads in last season; and if it had not been

my particular interest with the secretary, who asks my opinion now and

then, I could not have managed it. But giff-gaff, say I.--Eh! What, in

the devil's name, is this?--Here is both force and keeping--Who can this

be, my lady?--Do but see the sky-line--why, this is really a little

bit--an exquisite little bit--Who the devil can it be? and how can he

have stumbled upon the dog-hole in the Old Town, and the snarling b----I

beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons--that kennels there?"

"I dare say, my lady," said a little miss of fourteen, her eyes growing

rounder and rounder, and her cheeks redder and redder, as she found

herself speaking, and so many folks listening--"O la! I dare say it is

the same gentleman we met one day in the Low-wood walk, that looked like

a gentleman, and yet was none of the company, and that you said was a

handsome man."

"I did not say handsome, Maria," replied her ladyship; "ladies never say

men are handsome--I only said he looked genteel and interesting."

"And that, my lady," said the young parson, bowing and smiling, "is, I

will be judged by the company, the more flattering compliment of the

two--We shall be jealous of this Unknown presently."

"Nay, but," continued the sweetly communicative Maria, with some real

and some assumed simplicity, "your ladyship forgets--for you said

presently after, you were sure he was no gentleman, for he did not run

after you with your glove which you had dropped--and so I went back

myself to find your ladyship's glove, and he never offered to help me,

and I saw him closer than your ladyship did, and I am sure he is

handsome, though he is not very civil."

"You speak a little too much and too loud, miss," said Lady Penelope, a

natural blush reinforcing the _nuance_ of rouge by which it was usually

superseded.

"What say you to that, Squire Mowbray?" said the elegant Sir Bingo

Binks.

"A fair challenge to the field, Sir Bingo," answered the squire; "when a

lady throws down the gauntlet, a gentleman may throw the handkerchief."

"I have always the benefit of _your_ best construction, Mr. Mowbray,"

said the lady, with dignity. "I suppose Miss Maria has contrived this

pretty story for your amusement. I can hardly answer to Mr. Digges, for

bringing her into company where she receives encouragement to behave

so."

"Nay, nay, my lady," said the president, "you must let the jest pass by;

and since this is really such an admirable sketch, you must honour us

with your opinion, whether the company can consistently with propriety

make any advances to this man."

"In my opinion," said her ladyship, the angry spot still glowing on her

brow, "there are enough of _men_ among us already--I wish I could say

gentlemen--As matters stand, I see little business _ladies_ can have at

St. Ronan's."

This was an intimation which always brought the Squire back to

good-breeding, which he could make use of when he pleased. He deprecated

her ladyship's displeasure, until she told him, in returning good

humour, that she really would not trust him unless he brought his sister

to be security for his future politeness.

"Clara, my lady," said Mowbray, "is a little wilful; and I believe your

ladyship must take the task of unharbouring her into your own hands.

What say you to a gipsy party up to my old shop?--It is a bachelor's

house--you must not expect things in much order; but Clara would be

honoured"----

The Lady Penelope eagerly accepted the proposal of something like a

party, and, quite reconciled with Mowbray, began to enquire whether she

might bring the stranger artist with her; "that is," said her ladyship,

looking to Dinah, "if he be a gentleman."

Here Dinah interposed her assurance, "that the gentleman at Meg Dods's

was quite and clean a gentleman, and an illustrated poet besides."

"An illustrated poet, Dinah?" said Lady Penelope; "you must mean an

illustrious poet."

"I dare to say your ladyship is right," said Dinah, dropping a curtsy.

A joyous flutter of impatient anxiety was instantly excited through all

the blue-stocking faction of the company, nor were the news totally

indifferent to the rest of the community. The former belonged to that

class, who, like the young Ascanius, are ever beating about in quest of

a tawny lion, though they are much more successful in now and then

starting a great bore;[I-13] and the others, having left all their own

ordinary affairs and subjects of interest at home, were glad to make a

matter of importance of the most trivial occurrence. A mighty poet, said

the former class--who could it possibly be?--All names were recited--all

Britain scrutinized, from Highland hills to the Lakes of

Cumberland--from Sydenham Common to St. James's Place--even the Banks of

the Bosphorus were explored for some name which might rank under this

distinguished epithet.--And then, besides his illustrious poesy, to

sketch so inimitably!--who _could_ it be? And all the gapers, who had

nothing of their own to suggest, answered with the antistrophe, "Who

could it be?"

The Claret-Club, which comprised the choicest and firmest adherents of

Squire Mowbray and the Baronet--men who scorned that the reversion of

one bottle of wine should furnish forth the feast of to-morrow, though

caring nought about either of the fine arts in question, found out an

interest of their own, which centred in the same individual.

"I say, little Sir Bingo," said the Squire, "this is the very fellow

that we saw down at the Willow-slack on Saturday--he was tog'd

gnostically enough, and cast twelve yards of line with one hand--the fly

fell like a thistledown on the water."

"Uich!" answered the party he addressed, in the accents of a dog choking

in the collar.

"We saw him pull out the salmon yonder," said Mowbray; "you

remember--clean fish--the tide-ticks on his gills--weighed, I dare say,

a matter of eighteen pounds."

"Sixteen!" replied Sir Bingo, in the same tone of strangulation.

"None of your rigs, Bing!" said his companion, "--nearer eighteen than

sixteen!"

"Nearer sixteen, by ----!"

"Will you go a dozen of blue on it to the company?" said the Squire.

"No, d---- me!" croaked the Baronet--"to our own set I will."

"Then, I say done!" quoth the Squire.

And "Done!" responded the Knight; and out came their red pocketbooks.

"But who shall decide the bet?" said the Squire, "The genius himself, I

suppose; they talk of asking him here, but I suppose he will scarce mind

quizzes like them."

"Write myself--John Mowbray," said the Baronet.

"You, Baronet!--you write!" answered the Squire, "d---- me, that cock

won't fight--you won't."

"I will," growled Sir Bingo, more articulately than usual.

"Why, you can't!" said Mowbray. "You never wrote a line in your life,

save those you were whipped for at school."

"I can write--I will write!" said Sir Bingo. "Two to one I will."

And there the affair rested, for the council of the company were in high

consultation concerning the most proper manner of opening a

communication with the mysterious stranger; and the voice of Mr.

Winterblossom, whose tones, originally fine, age had reduced to

falsetto, was calling upon the whole party for "Order, order!" So that

the bucks were obliged to lounge in silence, with both arms reclined on

the table, and testifying, by coughs and yawns, their indifference to

the matters in question, while the rest of the company debated upon

them, as if they were matters of life and death.

"A visit from one of the gentlemen--Mr. Winterblossom, if he would take

the trouble--in name of the company at large--would, Lady Penelope

Penfeather presumed to think, be a necessary preliminary to an

invitation."

Mr. Winterblossom was "quite of her ladyship's opinion, and would gladly

have been the personal representative of the company at St. Ronan's

Well--but it was up hill--her ladyship knew his tyrant, the gout, was

hovering upon the frontiers--there were other gentlemen, younger and

more worthy to fly at the lady's command than an ancient Vulcan like

him--there was the valiant Mars and the eloquent Mercury."

Thus speaking, he bowed to Captain MacTurk and the Rev. Mr. Simon

Chatterly, and reclined on his chair, sipping his negus with the

self-satisfied smile of one, who, by a pretty speech, has rid himself

of a troublesome commission. At the same time, by an act probably of

mental absence, he put in his pocket the drawing, which, after

circulating around the table, had returned back to the chair of the

president, being the point from which it had set out.

"By Cot, madam," said Captain MacTurk, "I should be proud to obey your

leddyship's commands--but, by Cot, I never call first on any man that

never called upon me at all, unless it were to carry him a friend's

message, or such like."

"Twig the old connoisseur," said the Squire to the Knight.--"He is

condiddling the drawing."

"Go it, Johnnie Mowbray--pour it into him," whispered Sir Bingo.

"Thank ye for nothing, Sir Bingo," said the Squire, in the same tone.

"Winterblossom is one of us--_was_ one of us at least--and won't stand

the ironing. He has his Wogdens still, that were right things in his

day, and can hit the hay-stack with the best of us--but stay, they are

hallooing on the parson."

They were indeed busied on all hands, to obtain Mr. Chatterly's consent

to wait on the Genius unknown; but though he smiled and simpered, and

was absolutely incapable of saying No, he begged leave, in all humility,

to decline that commission. "The truth was," he pleaded in his excuse,

"that having one day walked to visit the old Castle of St. Ronan's, and

returning through the Auld Town, as it was popularly called, he had

stopped at the door of the _Cleikum_," (pronounced _Anglicé_, with the

open diphthong,) "in hopes to get a glass of syrup of capillaire, or a

draught of something cooling; and had in fact expressed his wishes, and

was knocking pretty loudly, when a sash-window was thrown suddenly up,

and ere he was aware what was about to happen, he was soused with a

deluge of water," (as he said,) "while the voice of an old hag from

within assured him, that if that did not cool him there was another

biding him,--an intimation which induced him to retreat in all haste

from the repetition of the shower-bath."

All laughed at the account of the chaplain's misfortune, the history of

which seemed to be wrung from him reluctantly, by the necessity of

assigning some weighty cause for declining to execute the ladies'

commands. But the Squire and Baronet continued their mirth far longer

than decorum allowed, flinging themselves back in their chairs, with

their hands thrust into their side-pockets, and their mouths expanded

with unrestrained enjoyment, until the sufferer, angry, disconcerted,

and endeavouring to look scornful, incurred another general burst of

laughter on all hands.

When Mr. Winterblossom had succeeded in restoring some degree of order,

he found the mishaps of the young divine proved as intimidating as

ludicrous. Not one of the company chose to go Envoy Extraordinary to the

dominions of Queen Meg, who might be suspected of paying little respect

to the sanctity of an ambassador's person. And what was worse, when it

was resolved that a civil card from Mr. Winterblossom, in the name of

the company, should be sent to the stranger, instead of a personal

visit, Dinah informed them that she was sure no one about the house

could be bribed to carry up a letter of the kind; for, when such an

event had taken place two summers since, Meg, who construed it into an

attempt to seduce from her tenement the invited guest, had so handled a

ploughboy who carried the letter, that he fled the country-side

altogether, and never thought himself safe till he was at a village ten

miles off, where it was afterwards learned he enlisted with a recruiting

party, choosing rather to face the French than to return within the

sphere of Meg's displeasure.

Just while they were agitating this new difficulty, a prodigious clamour

was heard without, which, to the first apprehensions of the company,

seemed to be Meg, in all her terrors, come to anticipate the proposed

invasion. Upon enquiry, however, it proved to be her gossip, Trotting

Nelly, or Nelly Trotter, in the act of forcing her way up stairs,

against the united strength of the whole household of the hotel, to

reclaim Luckie Dods's picture, as she called it. This made the

connoisseur's treasure tremble in his pocket, who, thrusting a

half-crown into Toby's hand, exhorted him to give it her, and try his

influence in keeping her back. Toby, who knew Nelly's nature, put the

half-crown into his own pocket, and snatched up a gill-stoup of whisky

from the sideboard. Thus armed, he boldly confronted the virago, and

interposing a _remora_, which was able to check poor Nelly's course in

her most determined moods, not only succeeded in averting the immediate

storm which approached the company in general, and Mr. Winterblossom in

particular, but brought the guests the satisfactory information, that

Trotting Nelly had agreed, after she had slept out her nap in the barn,

to convey their commands to the Unknown of Cleikum of Aultoun.

Mr. Winterblossom, therefore, having authenticated his proceedings, by

inserting in the Minutes of the Committee, the authority which he had

received, wrote his card in the best style of diplomacy, and sealed it

with the seal of the Spa, which bore something like a nymph, seated

beside what was designed to represent an urn.

The rival factions, however, did not trust entirely to this official

invitation. Lady Penelope was of opinion that they should find some way

of letting the stranger--a man of talent unquestionably--understand that

there were in the society to which he was invited, spirits of a more

select sort, who felt worthy to intrude themselves on his solitude.

Accordingly, her ladyship imposed upon the elegant Mr. Chatterly the

task of expressing the desire of the company to see the unknown artist,

in a neat occasional copy of verses. The poor gentleman's muse, however,

proved unpropitious; for he was able to proceed no farther than two

lines in half an hour, which, coupled with its variations, we insert

from the blotted manuscript, as Dr. Johnson has printed the alterations

in Pope's version of the Iliad:

1. _Maids._ 2. _Dames._ unity joining.

The [nymphs] of St. Ronan's [in purpose combining]

1. _Swain._ 2. _Man._

To the [youth] who is great both in verse and designing,

......... dining.

The eloquence of a prose billet was necessarily resorted to in the

absence of the heavenly muse, and the said billet was secretly intrusted

to the care of Trotting Nelly. The same trusty emissary, when refreshed

by her nap among the pease-straw, and about to harness her cart for her

return to the seacoast, (in the course of which she was to pass the

Aultoun,) received another card, written, as he had threatened, by Sir

Bingo Binks himself, who had given himself this trouble to secure the

settlement of the bet; conjecturing that a man with a fashionable

exterior, who could throw twelve yards of line at a cast with such

precision, might consider the invitation of Winterblossom as that of an

old twaddler, and care as little for the good graces of an affected

blue-stocking and her _côterie_, whose conversation, in Sir Bingo's

mind, relished of nothing but of weak tea and bread and butter. Thus the

happy Mr. Francis Tyrrel received, considerably to his surprise, no less

than three invitations at once from the Well of St. Ronan's.

FOOTNOTE:

[I-13] The one or the other was equally _in votis_ to Ascanius,--

"Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem."

Modern Trojans make a great distinction betwixt these two objects of

chase.

CHAPTER V.

EPISTOLARY ELOQUENCE.

But how can I answer, since first I must read thee?

PRIOR.

Desirous of authenticating our more important facts, by as many original

documents as possible, we have, after much research, enabled ourselves

to present the reader with the following accurate transcripts of the

notes intrusted to the care of Trotting Nelly. The first ran thus:

"Mr. Winterblossom [of Silverhed] has the commands of Lady Penelope

Penfeather, Sir Bingo and Lady Binks, Mr. and Miss Mowbray [of St.

Ronan's], and the rest of the company at the Hotel and Tontine Inn

of St. Ronan's Well, to express their hope that the gentleman lodged

at the Cleikum Inn, Old Town of St. Ronan's, will favour them with

his company at the Ordinary, as early and as often as may suit his

convenience. The COMPANY think it necessary to send this intimation,

because, according to the RULES of the place, the Ordinary can only

be attended by such gentlemen and ladies as lodge at St. Ronan's

Well; but they are happy to make a distinction in favour of a

gentleman so distinguished for success in the fine arts as Mr. ----

----, residing at Cleikum. If Mr. ---- ---- should be inclined, upon

becoming further acquainted with the COMPANY and RULES of the

Place, to remove his residence to the Well, Mr. Winterblossom,

though he would not be understood to commit himself by a positive

assurance to that effect, is inclined to hope that an arrangement

might be made, notwithstanding the extreme crowd of the season, to

accommodate Mr. ---- ---- at the lodging-house, called

Lilliput-Hall. It will much conduce to facilitate this negotiation,

if Mr. ---- ---- would have the goodness to send an exact note of

his stature, as Captain Rannletree seems disposed to resign the

folding-bed at Lilliput-Hall, on account of his finding it rather

deficient in length. Mr. Winterblossom begs farther to assure Mr.

---- ---- of the esteem in which he holds his genius, and of his

high personal consideration.

"For ---- ----, Esquire,

Cleikum Inn, Old Town of St. Ronan's.

"_The Public Rooms,_

_Hotel and Tontine, St. Ronan's Well,_

_&c. &c. &c._"

The above card was written (we love to be precise in matters concerning

orthography) in a neat, round, clerk-like hand, which, like Mr.

Winterblossom's character, in many particulars was most accurate and

commonplace, though betraying an affectation both of flourish and of

facility.

The next billet was a contrast to the diplomatic gravity and accuracy of

Mr. Winterblossom's official communication, and ran thus, the young

divine's academic jests and classical flowers of eloquence being mingled

with some wild flowers from the teeming fancy of Lady Penelope.

"A choir of Dryads and Naiads, assembled at the healing spring of

St. Ronan's, have learned with surprise that a youth, gifted by

Apollo, when the Deity was prodigal, with two of his most esteemed

endowments, wanders at will among their domains, frequenting grove

and river, without once dreaming of paying homage to its tutelary

deities. He is, therefore, summoned to their presence, and prompt

obedience will insure him forgiveness; but in case of contumacy, let

him beware how he again essays either the lyre or the pallet.

"_Postscript._ The adorable Penelope, long enrolled among the

Goddesses for her beauty and virtues, gives Nectar and Ambrosia,

which mortals call tea and cake, at the Public Rooms, near the

Sacred Spring, on Thursday evening, at eight o'clock, when the Muses

never fail to attend. The stranger's presence is requested to

participate in the delights of the evening.

"_Second Postscript._ A shepherd, ambitiously aiming at more

accommodation than his narrow cot affords, leaves it in a day or

two.

'Assuredly the thing is to be hired.'

_As You Like It._

"_Postscript third._ Our Iris, whom mortals know as Trotting Nelly

in her tartan cloak, will bring us the stranger's answer to our

celestial summons."

This letter was written in a delicate Italian hand, garnished with fine

hair-strokes and dashes, which were sometimes so dexterously thrown off

as to represent lyres, pallets, vases, and other appropriate

decorations, suited to the tenor of the contents.

The third epistle was a complete contrast to the other two. It was

written in a coarse, irregular, schoolboy half-text, which, however,

seemed to have cost the writer as much pains as if it had been a

specimen of the most exquisite caligraphy. And these were the

contents:--

"SUR--Jack Moobray has betted with me that the samon you killed on

Saturday last weyd ni to eiteen pounds,--I say nyer sixteen.--So you

being a spurtsman, 'tis refer'd.--So hope you will come or send

me't; do not doubt you will be on honour. The bet is a dozen of

claret, to be drank at the hotel by our own sett, on Monday next;

and we beg you will make one; and Moobray hopes you will come

down.--Being, sir, your most humbel servant,--Bingo Binks Baronet,

and of Block-hall.

"_Postscript._ Have sent some loops of Indian gout, also some black

hakkels of my groom's dressing; hope they will prove killing, as

suiting river and season."

No answer was received to any of these invitations for more than three

days; which, while it secretly rather added to than diminished the

curiosity of the Wellers concerning the Unknown, occasioned much railing

in public against him, as ill-mannered and rude.

Meantime, Francis Tyrrel, to his great surprise, began to find, like the

philosophers, that he was never less alone than when alone. In the most

silent and sequestered walks, to which the present state of his mind

induced him to betake himself, he was sure to find some strollers from

the Well, to whom he had become the object of so much solicitous

interest. Quite innocent of the knowledge that he himself possessed the

attraction which occasioned his meeting them so frequently, he began to

doubt whether the Lady Penelope and her maidens--Mr. Winterblossom and

his grey pony--the parson and his short black coat and raven-grey

pantaloons--were not either actually polygraphic copies of the same

individuals, or possessed of a celerity of motion resembling

omnipresence and ubiquity; for nowhere could he go without meeting

them, and that oftener than once a-day, in the course of his walks.

Sometimes the presence of the sweet Lycoris was intimated by the sweet

prattle in an adjacent shade; sometimes, when Tyrrel thought himself

most solitary, the parson's flute was heard snoring forth Gramachree

Molly; and if he betook himself to the river, he was pretty sure to find

his sport watched by Sir Bingo or some of his friends.

The efforts which Tyrrel made to escape from this persecution, and the

impatience of it which his manner indicated, procured him, among the

Wellers, the name of the _Misanthrope_; and, once distinguished as an

object of curiosity, he was the person most attended to, who could at

the ordinary of the day give the most accurate account of where the

Misanthrope had been, and how occupied in the course of the morning. And

so far was Tyrrel's shyness from diminishing the desire of the Wellers

for his society, that the latter feeling increased with the difficulty

of gratification,--as the angler feels the most peculiar interest when

throwing his fly for the most cunning and considerate trout in the pool.

In short, such was the interest which the excited imaginations of the

company took in the Misanthrope, that, notwithstanding the unamiable

qualities which the word expresses, there was only one of the society

who did not desire to see the specimen at their rooms, for the purpose

of examining him closely and at leisure; and the ladies were

particularly desirous to enquire whether he was actually a Misanthrope?

Whether he had been always a Misanthrope? What had induced him to become

a Misanthrope? And whether there were no means of inducing him to cease

to be a Misanthrope?

One individual only, as we have said, neither desired to see nor hear

more of the supposed Timon of Cleikum, and that was Mr. Mowbray of St.

Ronan's. Through the medium of that venerable character John Pirner,

professed weaver and practical black-fisher in the Aultoun of St.

Ronan's, who usually attended Tyrrel, to show him the casts of the

river, carry his bag, and so forth, the Squire had ascertained that the

judgment of Sir Bingo regarding the disputed weight of the fish was more

correct than his own. This inferred an immediate loss of honour, besides

the payment of a heavy bill. And the consequences might be yet more

serious; nothing short of the emancipation of Sir Bingo, who had

hitherto been Mowbray's convenient shadow and adherent, but who, if

triumphant, confiding in his superiority of judgment upon so important a

point, might either cut him altogether, or expect that, in future, the

Squire, who had long seemed the planet of their set, should be content

to roll around himself, Sir Bingo, in the capacity of a satellite.

The Squire, therefore, devoutly hoped that Tyrrel's restive disposition

might continue, to prevent the decision of the bet, while, at the same

time, he nourished a very reasonable degree of dislike to that stranger,

who had been the indirect occasion of the unpleasant predicament in

which he found himself, by not catching a salmon weighing a pound

heavier. He, therefore, openly censured the meanness of those who

proposed taking further notice of Tyrrel, and referred to the unanswered

letters, as a piece of impertinence which announced him to be no

gentleman.

But though appearances were against him, and though he was in truth

naturally inclined to solitude, and averse to the affectation and

bustle of such a society, that part of Tyrrel's behaviour which

indicated ill-breeding was easily accounted for, by his never having

received the letters which required an answer. Trotting Nelly, whether

unwilling to face her gossip, Meg Dods, without bringing back the

drawing, or whether oblivious through the influence of the double dram

with which she had been indulged at the Well, jumbled off with her cart

to her beloved village of Scate-raw, from which she transmitted the

letters by the first bare-legged gillie who travelled towards Aultoun of

St. Ronan's; so that at last, but after a long delay, they reached the

Cleikum Inn and the hands of Mr. Tyrrel.

The arrival of these documents explained some part of the oddity of

behaviour which had surprised him in his neighbours of the Well; and as

he saw they had got somehow an idea of his being a lion extraordinary,

and was sensible that such is a character equally ridiculous, and

difficult to support, he hastened to write to Mr. Winterblossom a card

in the style of ordinary mortals. In this he stated the delay occasioned

by miscarriage of the letter, and his regret on that account; expressed

his intention of dining with the company at the Well on the succeeding

day, while he regretted that other circumstances, as well as the state

of his health and spirits, would permit him this honour very

infrequently during his stay in the country, and begged no trouble might

be taken about his accommodation at the Well, as he was perfectly

satisfied with his present residence. A separate note to Sir Bingo, said

he was happy he could verify the weight of the fish, which he had noted

in his diary; ("D--n the fellow, does he keep a diary?" said the

Baronet,) and though the result could only be particularly agreeable to

one party, he should wish both winner and loser mirth with their

wine;--he was sorry he was unable to promise himself the pleasure of

participating in either. Enclosed was a signed note of the weight of the

fish. Armed with this, Sir Bingo claimed his wine--triumphed in his

judgment--swore louder and more articulately than ever he was known to

utter any previous sounds, that this Tyrrel was a devilish honest

fellow, and he trusted to be better acquainted with him; while the

crestfallen Squire, privately cursing the stranger by all his gods, had

no mode of silencing his companion but by allowing his loss, and fixing

a day for discussing the bet.

In the public rooms the company examined even microscopically the

response of the stranger to Mr. Winterblossom, straining their ingenuity

to discover, in the most ordinary expressions, a deeper and esoteric

meaning, expressive of something mysterious, and not meant to meet the

eye. Mr. Meiklewham, the writer, dwelt on the word _circumstances_,

which he read with peculiar emphasis.

"Ah, poor lad!" he concluded, "I doubt he sits cheaper at Meg Dorts's

chimney-corner than he could do with the present company."

Doctor Quackleben, in the manner of a clergyman selecting a word from

his text, as that which is to be particularly insisted upon, repeated in

an under tone, the words, "_State of health?_--umph--state of

health?--Nothing acute--no one has been sent for--must be

chronic--tending to gout, perhaps.--Or his shyness to society--light

wild eye--irregular step--starting when met suddenly by a stranger, and

turning abruptly and angrily away--Pray, Mr. Winterblossom, let me have

an order to look over the file of newspapers--it's very troublesome that

restriction about consulting them."

"You know it is a necessary one, Doctor," said the president; "because

so few of the good company read any thing else, that the old newspapers

would have been worn to pieces long since."

"Well, well, let me have the order," said the Doctor; "I remember

something of a gentleman run away from his friends--I must look at the

description.--I believe I have a strait-jacket somewhere about the

Dispensary."

While this suggestion appalled the male part of the company, who did not

much relish the approaching dinner in company with a gentleman whose

situation seemed so precarious, some of the younger Misses whispered to

each other--"Ah, poor fellow!--and if it be as the Doctor supposes, my

lady, who knows what the cause of his illness may have been?--His

_spirits_ he complains of--ah, poor man!"

And thus, by the ingenious commentaries of the company at the Well, on

as plain a note as ever covered the eighth part of a sheet of foolscap,

the writer was deprived of his property, his reason, and his heart, "all

or either, or one or other of them," as is briefly and distinctly

expressed in the law phrase.

In short, so much was said _pro_ and _con_, so many ideas started and

theories maintained, concerning the disposition and character of the

Misanthrope, that, when the company assembled at the usual time, before

proceeding to dinner, they doubted, as it seemed, whether the expected

addition to their society was to enter the room on his hands or his

feet; and when "Mr. Tyrrel" was announced by Toby, at the top of his

voice, the gentleman who entered the room had so very little to

distinguish him from others, that there was a momentary disappointment.

The ladies, in particular, began to doubt whether the compound of

talent, misanthropy, madness, and mental sensibility, which they had

pictured to themselves, actually was the same with the genteel, and even

fashionable-looking man whom they saw before them; who, though in a

morning-dress, which the distance of his residence, and the freedom of

the place, made excusable, had, even in the minute points of his

exterior, none of the negligence, or wildness, which might be supposed

to attach to the vestments of a misanthropic recluse, whether sane or

insane. As he paid his compliments round the circle, the scales seemed

to fall from the eyes of those he spoke to; and they saw with surprise,

that the exaggerations had existed entirely in their own preconceptions,

and that whatever the fortunes, or rank in life, of Mr. Tyrrel might be,

his manners, without being showy, were gentlemanlike and pleasing. He

returned his thanks to Mr. Winterblossom in a manner which made that

gentleman recall his best breeding to answer the stranger's address in

kind. He then escaped from the awkwardness of remaining the sole object

of attention, by gliding gradually among the company,--not like an owl,

which seeks to hide itself in a thicket, or an awkward and retired man,

shrinking from the society into which he is compelled, but with the air

of one who could maintain with ease his part in a higher circle. His

address to Lady Penelope was adapted to the romantic tone of Mr.

Chatterly's epistle, to which it was necessary to allude. He was afraid,

he said, he must complain to Juno of the neglect of Iris, for her

irregularity in delivery of a certain ethereal command, which he had not

dared to answer otherwise than by mute obedience--unless, indeed, as the

import of the letter seemed to infer, the invitation was designed for

some more gifted individual than he to whom chance had assigned it.

Lady Penelope by her lips, and many of the young ladies with their eyes,

assured him there was no mistake in the matter; that he was really the

gifted person whom the nymphs had summoned to their presence, and that

they were well acquainted with his talents as a poet and a painter.

Tyrrel disclaimed, with earnestness and gravity, the charge of poetry,

and professed, that, far from attempting the art itself, he "read with

reluctance all but the productions of the very first-rate poets, and

some of these--he was almost afraid to say--he should have liked better

in humble prose."

"You have now only to disown your skill as an artist," said Lady

Penelope, "and we must consider Mr. Tyrrel as the falsest and most

deceitful of his sex, who has a mind to deprive us of the opportunity of

benefiting by the productions of his unparalleled endowments. I assure

you I shall put my young friends on their guard. Such dissimulation

cannot be without its object."

"And I," said Mr. Winterblossom, "can produce a piece of real evidence

against the culprit."

So saying, he unrolled the sketch which he had filched from Trotting

Nelly, and which he had pared and pasted, (arts in which he was

eminent,) so as to take out its creases, repair its breaches, and vamp

it as well as my old friend Mrs. Weir could have repaired the damages of

time on a folio Shakspeare.

"The vara _corpus delicti_," said the writer, grinning and rubbing his

hands.

"If you are so good as to call such scratches drawings," said Tyrrel, "I

must stand so far confessed. I used to do them for my own amusement; but

since my landlady, Mrs. Dods, has of late discovered that I gain my

livelihood by them, why should I disown it?"

This avowal, made without the least appearance either of shame or

_retenue_, seemed to have a striking effect on the whole society. The

president's trembling hand stole the sketch back to the portfolio,

afraid doubtless it might be claimed in form, or else compensation

expected by the artist. Lady Penelope was disconcerted, like an awkward

horse when it changes the leading foot in galloping. She had to recede

from the respectful and easy footing on which he had contrived to place

himself, to one which might express patronage on her own part, and

dependence on Tyrrel's; and this could not be done in a moment.

The Man of Law murmured, "Circumstances--circumstances--I thought so!"

Sir Bingo whispered to his friend the Squire, "Run out--blown up--off

the course--pity--d----d pretty fellow he has been!"

"A raff from the beginning!" whispered Mowbray.--"I never thought him

any thing else."

"I'll hold ye a poney of that, my dear, and I'll ask him."

"Done, for a poney, provided you ask him in ten minutes," said the

Squire; "but you dare not, Bingie--he has a d----d cross game look,

with all that civil chaff of his."

"Done," said Sir Bingo, but in a less confident tone than before, and

with a determination to proceed with some caution in the matter.--"I

have got a rouleau above, and Winterblossom shall hold stakes."

"I have no rouleau," said the Squire; "but I'll fly a cheque on

Meiklewham."

"See it be better than your last," said Sir Bingo, "for I won't be

skylarked again. Jack, my boy, you are had."

"Not till the bet's won; and I shall see yon walking dandy break your

head, Bingie, before that," answered Mowbray. "Best speak to the Captain

before hand--it is a hellish scrape you are running into--I'll let you

off yet, Bingie, for a guinea forfeit.--See, I am just going to start

the tattler."

"Start, and be d----d!" said Sir Bingo. "You are gotten, I assure you o'

that, Jack." And with a bow and a shuffle, he went up and introduced

himself to the stranger as Sir Bingo Binks.

"Had--honour--write--sir," were the only sounds which his throat, or

rather his cravat, seemed to send forth.

"Confound the booby!" thought Mowbray; "he will get out of leading

strings, if he goes on at this rate; and doubly confounded be this

cursed tramper, who, the Lord knows why, has come hither from the Lord

knows where, to drive the pigs through my game."

In the meantime, while his friend stood with his stop-watch in his hand,

with a visage lengthened under the influence of these reflections, Sir

Bingo, with an instinctive tact, which self-preservation seemed to

dictate to a brain neither the most delicate nor subtle in the world,

premised his enquiry by some general remark on fishing and field-sports.

With all these, he found Tyrrel more than passably acquainted. Of

fishing and shooting, particularly, he spoke with something like

enthusiasm; so that Sir Bingo began to hold him in considerable respect,

and to assure himself that he could not be, or at least could not

originally have been bred, the itinerant artist which he now gave

himself out--and this, with the fast lapse of the time, induced him thus

to address Tyrrel.--"I say, Mr. Tyrrel--why, you have been one of us--I

say"----

"If you mean a sportsman, Sir Bingo--I have been, and am a pretty keen

one still," replied Tyrrel.

"Why, then, you did not always do them sort of things?"

"What sort of things do you mean, Sir Bingo?" said Tyrrel. "I have not

the pleasure of understanding you."

"Why, I mean them sketches," said Sir Bingo. "I'll give you a handsome

order for them, if you will tell me. I will, on my honour."

"Does it concern you particularly, Sir Bingo, to know any thing of my

affairs?" said Tyrrel.

"No--certainly--not immediately," answered Sir Bingo, with some

hesitation, for he liked not the dry tone in which Tyrrel's answers were

returned, half so well as a bumper of dry sherry; "only I said you were

a d----d gnostic fellow, and I laid a bet you have not been always

professional--that's all."

Mr. Tyrrel replied, "A bet with Mr. Mowbray, I suppose?"

"Yes, with Jack," replied the Baronet--"you have hit it--I hope I have

done him?"

Tyrrel bent his brows, and looked first at Mr. Mowbray, then at the

Baronet, and, after a moment's thought, addressed the latter.--"Sir

Bingo Binks, you are a gentleman of elegant enquiry and acute

judgment.--You are perfectly right--I was _not_ bred to the profession

of an artist, nor did I practise it formerly, whatever I may do now; and

so that question is answered."

"And Jack is diddled," said the Baronet, smiting his thigh in triumph,

and turning towards the Squire and the stake-holder, with a smile of

exultation.

"Stop a single moment, Sir Bingo," said Tyrrel; "take one word with you.

I have a great respect for bets,--it is part of an Englishman's

character to bet on what he thinks fit, and to prosecute his enquiries

over hedge and ditch, as if he were steeple-hunting. But as I have

satisfied you on the subject of two bets, that is sufficient compliance

with the custom of the country; and therefore I request, Sir Bingo, you

will not make me or my affairs the subject of any more wagers."

"I'll be d----d if I do," was the internal resolution of Sir Bingo.

Aloud he muttered some apologies, and was heartily glad that the

dinner-bell, sounding at the moment, afforded him an apology for

shuffling off in a different direction.

CHAPTER VI.

TABLE-TALK.

And, sir, if these accounts be true,

The Dutch have mighty things in view;

The Austrians--I admire French beans,

Dear ma'am, above all other greens.

* * * * *

And all as lively and as brisk

As--Ma'am, d'ye choose a game at whisk?

_Table-Talk._

When they were about to leave the room, Lady Penelope assumed Tyrrel's

arm with a sweet smile of condescension, meant to make the honoured

party understand in its full extent the favour conferred. But the

unreasonable artist, far from intimating the least confusion at an

attention so little to be expected, seemed to consider the distinction

as one which was naturally paid to the greatest stranger present; and

when he placed Lady Penelope at the head of the table, by Mr.

Winterblossom the president, and took a chair for himself betwixt her

ladyship and Lady Binks, the provoking wretch appeared no more sensible

of being exalted above his proper rank in society, than if he had been

sitting at the bottom of the table by honest Mrs. Blower from the

Bow-head, who had come to the Well to carry off the dregs of the

_Inflienzie_, which she scorned to term a surfeit.

Now this indifference puzzled Lady Penelope's game extremely, and

irritated her desire to get at the bottom of Tyrrel's mystery, if there

was one, and secure him to her own party. If you were ever at a

watering-place, reader, you know that while the guests do not always pay

the most polite attention to unmarked individuals, the appearance of a

stray lion makes an interest as strong as it is reasonable, and the

Amazonian chiefs of each coterie, like the hunters of Buenos-Ayres,

prepare their _lasso_, and manoeuvre to the best advantage they can,

each hoping to noose the unsuspicious monster, and lead him captive to

her own menagerie. A few words concerning Lady Penelope Penfeather will

explain why she practised this sport with even more than common zeal.

She was the daughter of an earl, possessed a showy person, and features

which might be called handsome in youth, though now rather too much

_prononcés_ to render the term proper. The nose was become sharper; the

cheeks had lost the roundness of youth; and as, during fifteen years

that she had reigned a beauty and a ruling toast, the right man had not

spoken, or, at least, had not spoken at the right time, her ladyship,

now rendered sufficiently independent by the inheritance of an old

relation, spoke in praise of friendship, began to dislike the town in

summer, and to "babble of green fields."

About the time Lady Penelope thus changed the tenor of her life, she was

fortunate enough, with Dr. Quackleben's assistance, to find out the

virtues of St Ronan's spring; and having contributed her share to

establish the _urbs in rure_, which had risen around it, she sat herself

down as leader of the fashions in the little province which she had in a

great measure both discovered and colonized. She was, therefore, justly

desirous to compel homage and tribute from all who should approach the

territory.

In other respects, Lady Penelope pretty much resembled the numerous

class she belonged to. She was at bottom a well-principled woman, but

too thoughtless to let her principles control her humour, therefore not

scrupulously nice in her society. She was good-natured, but capricious

and whimsical, and willing enough to be kind or generous, if it neither

thwarted her humour, nor cost her much trouble; would have chaperoned a

young friend any where, and moved the world for subscription tickets;

but never troubled herself how much her giddy charge flirted, or with

whom; so that, with a numerous class of Misses, her ladyship was the

most delightful creature in the world. Then Lady Penelope had lived so

much in society, knew so exactly when to speak, and how to escape from

an embarrassing discussion by professing ignorance, while she looked

intelligence, that she was not generally discovered to be a fool, unless

when she set up for being remarkably clever. This happened more

frequently of late, when, perhaps, as she could not but observe that the

repairs of the toilet became more necessary, she might suppose that new

lights, according to the poet, were streaming on her mind through the

chinks that Time was making. Many of her friends, however, thought that

Lady Penelope would have better consulted her genius by remaining in

mediocrity, as a fashionable and well-bred woman, than by parading her

new-founded pretensions to taste and patronage; but such was not her own

opinion, and doubtless, her ladyship was the best judge.

On the other side of Tyrrel sat Lady Binks, lately the beautiful Miss

Bonnyrigg, who, during the last season, had made the company at the Well

alternately admire, smile, and stare, by dancing the highest Highland

fling, riding the wildest pony, laughing the loudest laugh at the

broadest joke, and wearing the briefest petticoat of any nymph of St.

Ronan's. Few knew that this wild, hoydenish, half-mad humour, was only

superinduced over her real character, for the purpose of--getting well

married. She had fixed her eyes on Sir Bingo, and was aware of his

maxim, that to catch him, "a girl must be," in his own phrase, "bang up

to every thing;" and that he would choose a wife for the neck-or-nothing

qualities which recommend a good hunter. She made out her catch-match,

and she was miserable. Her wild good-humour was entirely an assumed part

of her character, which was passionate, ambitious, and thoughtful.

Delicacy she had none--she knew Sir Bingo was a brute and a fool, even

while she was hunting him down; but she had so far mistaken her own

feelings, as not to have expected that when she became bone of his bone,

she should feel so much shame and anger when she saw his folly expose

him to be laughed at and plundered, or so disgusted when his brutality

became intimately connected with herself. It is true, he was on the

whole rather an innocent monster; and between bitting and bridling,

coaxing and humouring, might have been made to pad on well enough. But

an unhappy boggling which had taken place previous to the declaration of

their private marriage, had so exasperated her spirits against her

helpmate, that modes of conciliation were the last she was likely to

adopt. Not only had the assistance of the Scottish Themis, so

propitiously indulgent to the foibles of the fair, been resorted to on

the occasion, but even Mars seemed ready to enter upon the tapis, if

Hymen had not intervened. There was, _de par le monde_, a certain

brother of the lady--an officer--and, as it happened, on leave of

absence,--who alighted from a hack-chaise at the Fox Hotel, at eleven

o'clock at night, holding in his hand a slip of well-dried oak,

accompanied by another gentleman, who, like himself, wore a military

travelling-cap and a black stock; out of the said chaise, as was

reported by the trusty Toby, was handed a small reise-sac, an Andrew

Ferrara, and a neat mahogany box, eighteen inches long, three deep, and

some six broad. Next morning a solemn _palaver_ (as the natives of

Madagascar call their national convention) was held at an unusual hour,

at which Captain MacTurk and Mr. Mowbray assisted; and the upshot was,

that at breakfast the company were made happy by the information, that

Sir Bingo had been for some weeks the happy bridegroom of their general

favourite; which union, concealed for family reasons, he was now at

liberty to acknowledge, and to fly with the wings of love to bring his

sorrowing turtle from the shades to which she had retired, till the

obstacles to their mutual happiness could be removed. Now, though all

this sounded very smoothly, that gall-less turtle, Lady Binks, could

never think of the tenor of the proceedings without the deepest feelings

of resentment and contempt for the principal actor, Sir Bingo.

Besides all these unpleasant circumstances, Sir Bingo's family had

refused to countenance her wish that he should bring her to his own

seat; and hence a new shock to her pride, and new matter of contempt

against poor Sir Bingo, for being ashamed and afraid to face down the

opposition of his kins-folk, for whose displeasure, though never

attending to any good advice from them, he retained a childish awe.

The manners of the young lady were no less changed than was her temper;

and, from being much too careless and free, were become reserved,

sullen, and haughty. A consciousness that many scrupled to hold

intercourse with her in society, rendered her disagreeably tenacious of

her rank, and jealous of every thing that appeared like neglect. She had

constituted herself mistress of Sir Bingo's purse; and, unrestrained in

the expenses of dress and equipage, chose, contrary to her maiden

practice, to be rather rich and splendid than gay, and to command that

attention by magnificence, which she no longer deigned to solicit by

rendering herself either agreeable or entertaining. One secret source of

her misery was, the necessity of showing deference to Lady Penelope

Penfeather, whose understanding she despised, and whose pretensions to

consequence, to patronage, and to literature, she had acuteness enough

to see through, and to contemn; and this dislike was the more grievous,

that she felt she depended a good deal on Lady Penelope's countenance

for the situation she was able to maintain even among the not very

select society of St. Ronan's Well; and that, neglected by her, she must

have dropped lower in the scale even there. Neither was Lady Penelope's

kindness to Lady Binks extremely cordial. She partook in the ancient and

ordinary dislike of single nymphs of a certain age, to those who made

splendid alliances under their very eye--and she more than suspected the

secret disaffection of the lady. But the name sounded well; and the

style in which Lady Binks lived was a credit to the place. So they

satisfied their mutual dislike with saying a few sharp things to each

other occasionally, but all under the mask of civility.

Such was Lady Binks; and yet, being such, her dress, and her equipage,

and carriages, were the envy of half the Misses at the Well, who, while

she sat disfiguring with sullenness her very lovely face, (for it was as

beautiful as her shape was exquisite,) only thought she was proud of

having carried her point, and felt herself, with her large fortune and

diamond bandeau, no fit company for the rest of the party. They gave

way, therefore, with meekness to her domineering temper, though it was

not the less tyrannical, that in her maiden state of hoyden-hood, she

had been to some of them an object of slight and of censure; and Lady

Binks had not forgotten the offences offered to Miss Bonnyrigg. But the

fair sisterhood submitted to her retaliations, as lieutenants endure the

bullying of a rude and boisterous captain of the sea, with the secret

determination to pay it home to their underlings, when they shall become

captains themselves.

In this state of importance, yet of penance, Lady Binks occupied her

place at the dinner-table, alternately disconcerted by some stupid

speech of her lord and master, and by some slight sarcasm from Lady

Penelope, to which she longed to reply, but dared not.

She looked from time to time at her neighbour Frank Tyrrel, but without

addressing him, and accepted in silence the usual civilities which he

proffered to her. She had remarked keenly his interview with Sir Bingo,

and knowing by experience the manner in which her honoured lord was wont

to retreat from a dispute in which he was unsuccessful, as well as his

genius for getting into such perplexities, she had little doubt that he

had sustained from the stranger some new indignity; whom, therefore, she

regarded with a mixture of feeling, scarce knowing whether to be pleased

with him for having given pain to him whom she hated, or angry with him

for having affronted one in whose degradation her own was necessarily

involved. There might be other thoughts--on the whole, she regarded him

with much though with mute attention. He paid her but little in return,

being almost entirely occupied in replying to the questions of the

engrossing Lady Penelope Penfeather.

Receiving polite though rather evasive answers to her enquiries

concerning his late avocations, her ladyship could only learn that

Tyrrel had been travelling in several remote parts of Europe, and even

of Asia. Baffled, but not repulsed, the lady continued her courtesy, by

pointing out to him, as a stranger, several individuals of the company

to whom she proposed introducing him, as persons from whose society he

might derive either profit or amusement. In the midst of this sort of

conversation, however, she suddenly stopped short.

"Will you forgive me, Mr. Tyrrel," she said, "if I say I have been

watching your thoughts for some moments, and that I have detected you?

All the while that I have been talking of these good folks, and that you

have been making such civil replies, that they might be with great

propriety and utility inserted in the 'Familiar Dialogues, teaching

foreigners how to express themselves in English upon ordinary

occasions'--your mind has been entirely fixed upon that empty chair,

which hath remained there opposite betwixt our worthy president and Sir

Bingo Binks."

"I own, madam," he answered, "I was a little surprised at seeing such a

distinguished seat unoccupied, while the table is rather crowded."

"O, confess more, sir!--Confess that to a poet a seat unoccupied--the

chair of Banquo--has more charms than if it were filled even as an

alderman would fill it.--What if 'the Dark Ladye'[I-14] should glide in

and occupy it?--would you have courage to stand the vision, Mr.

Tyrrel?--I assure you the thing is not impossible."

"_What_ is not impossible, Lady Penelope?" said Tyrrel, somewhat

surprised.

"Startled already?--Nay, then, I despair of your enduring the awful

interview."

"What interview? who is expected?" said Tyrrel, unable with the utmost

exertion to suppress some signs of curiosity, though he suspected the

whole to be merely some mystification of her ladyship.

"How delighted I am," she said, "that I have found out where you are

vulnerable!--Expected--did I say expected?--no, not expected.

'She glides, like Night, from land to land,

She hath strange power of speech.'

--But come, I have you at my mercy, and I will be generous and

explain.--We call--that is, among ourselves, you understand--Miss Clara

Mowbray, the sister of that gentleman that sits next to Miss Parker, the

Dark Ladye, and that seat is left for her.--For she was expected--no,

not expected--I forget again!--but it was thought _possible_ she might

honour us to-day, when our feast was so full and piquant.--Her brother

is our Lord of the Manor--and so they pay her that sort of civility to

regard her as a visitor--and neither Lady Binks nor I think of

objecting--She is a singular young person, Clara Mowbray--she amuses me

very much--I am always rather glad to see her."

"She is not to come hither to-day," said Tyrrel; "am I so to understand

your ladyship?"

"Why, it is past her time--even _her_ time," said Lady Penelope--"dinner

was kept back half an hour, and our poor invalids were famishing, as you

may see by the deeds they have done since.--But Clara is an odd

creature, and if she took it into her head to come hither at this

moment, hither she would come--she is very whimsical.--Many people think

her handsome--but she looks so like something from another world, that

she makes me always think of Mat Lewis's Spectre Lady."

And she repeated with much cadence,

"There is a thing--there is a thing,

I fain would have from thee;

I fain would have that gay gold ring,

O warrior, give it me!"

"And then you remember his answer:

'This ring Lord Brooke from his daughter took,

And a solemn oath he swore,

That that ladye my bride should be

When this crusade was o'er.'

You do figures as well as landscapes, I suppose, Mr. Tyrrel?--You shall

make a sketch for me--a slight thing--for sketches, I think, show the

freedom of art better than finished pieces--I dote on the first

coruscations of genius--flashing like lightning from the cloud!--You

shall make a sketch for my boudoir--my dear sulky den at Air Castle, and

Clara Mowbray shall sit for the Ghost Ladye."

"That would be but a poor compliment to your ladyship's friend," replied

Tyrrel.

"Friend? We don't get quite that length, though I like Clara very

well.--Quite sentimental cast of face--I think I saw an antique in the

Louvre very like her--(I was there in 1800)--quite an antique

countenance--eyes something hollowed--care has dug caves for them, but

they are caves of the most beautiful marble, arched with jet--a straight

nose, and absolutely the Grecian mouth and chin--a profusion of long

straight black hair, with the whitest skin you ever saw--as white as the

whitest parchment--and not a shade of colour in her cheek--none

whatever--If she would be naughty, and borrow a prudent touch of

complexion, she might be called beautiful. Even as it is, many think her

so, although surely, Mr. Tyrrel, three colours are necessary to the

female face. However, we used to call her the Melpomene of the Spring

last season, as we called Lady Binks--who was not then Lady Binks--our

Euphrosyne--did we not, my dear?"

"Did we not what, madam?" said Lady Binks, in a tone something sharper

than ought to have belonged to so beautiful a countenance.

"I am sorry I have started you out of your reverie, my love," answered

Lady Penelope. "I was only assuring Mr. Tyrrel that you were once

Euphrosyne, though now so much under the banners of Il Penseroso."

"I do not know that I have been either one or the other," answered Lady

Binks; "one thing I certainly am not--I am not capable of understanding

your ladyship's wit and learning."

"Poor soul," whispered Lady Penelope to Tyrrel; "we know what we are, we

know not what we may be.--And now, Mr. Tyrrel, I have been your sibyl to

guide you through this Elysium of ours, I think, in reward, I deserve a

little confidence in return."

"If I had any to bestow, which could be in the slightest degree

interesting to your ladyship," answered Tyrrel.

"Oh! cruel man--he will not understand me!" exclaimed the lady--"In

plain words, then, a peep into your portfolio--just to see what objects

you have rescued from natural decay, and rendered immortal by the

pencil. You do not know--indeed, Mr. Tyrrel, you do not know how I dote

upon your 'serenely silent art,' second to poetry alone--equal--superior

perhaps--to music."

"I really have little that could possibly be worth the attention of such

a judge as your ladyship," answered Tyrrel; "such trifles as your

ladyship has seen, I sometimes leave at the foot of the tree I have been

sketching."

"As Orlando left his verses in the Forest of Ardennes?--Oh, the

thoughtless prodigality!--Mr. Winterblossom, do you hear this?--We must

follow Mr. Tyrrel in his walks, and glean what he leaves behind him."

Her ladyship was here disconcerted by some laughter on Sir Bingo's side

of the table, which she chastised by an angry glance, and then proceeded

emphatically.

"Mr. Tyrrel--this must _not_ be--this is not the way of the world, my

good sir, to which even genius must stoop its flight. We must consult

the engraver--though perhaps you etch as well as you draw?"

"I should suppose so," said Mr. Winterblossom, edging in a word with

difficulty, "from the freedom of Mr. Tyrrel's touch."

"I will not deny my having spoiled a little copper now and then," said

Tyrrel, "since I am charged with the crime by such good judges; but it

has only been by way of experiment."

"Say no more," said the lady; "my darling wish is accomplished!--We have

long desired to have the remarkable and most romantic spots of our

little Arcadia here--spots consecrated to friendship, the fine arts, the

loves and the graces, immortalized by the graver's art, faithful to its

charge of fame--you shall labour on this task, Mr. Tyrrel; we will all

assist with notes and illustrations--we will all contribute--only some

of us must be permitted to remain anonymous--Fairy favours, you know,

Mr. Tyrrel, must be kept secret--And you shall be allowed the pillage of

the Album--some sweet things there of Mr. Chatterly's--and Mr. Edgeit, a

gentleman of your own profession, I am sure will lend his aid--Dr.

Quackleben will contribute some scientific notices.--And for

subscription"----

"Financial--financial--your leddyship, I speak to order!" said the

writer, interrupting Lady Penelope with a tone of impudent familiarity,

which was meant doubtless for jocular ease.

"How am I out of order, Mr. Meiklewham?" said her ladyship, drawing

herself up.

"I speak to order!--No warrants for money can be extracted before

intimation to the Committee of Management."

"Pray, who mentioned money, Mr. Meiklewham?" said her ladyship.--"That

wretched old pettifogger," she added in a whisper to Tyrrel, "thinks of

nothing else but the filthy pelf."

"Ye spake of subscription, my leddy, whilk is the same thing as money,

differing only in respect of time--the subscription being a contract _de

futuro_, and having a _tractus temporis in gremio_--And I have kend mony

honest folks in the company at the Well, complain of the subscriptions

as a great abuse, as obliging them either to look unlike other folk, or

to gie good lawful coin for ballants and picture-books, and things they

caredna a pinch of snuff for."

Several of the company, at the lower end of the table, assented both by

nods and murmurs of approbation; and the orator was about to proceed,

when Tyrrel with difficulty procured a hearing before the debate went

farther, and assured the company that her ladyship's goodness had led

her into an error; that he had no work in hand worthy of their

patronage, and, with the deepest gratitude for Lady Penelope's goodness,

had it not in his power to comply with her request. There was some

tittering at her ladyship's expense, who, as the writer slyly observed,

had been something _ultronious_ in her patronage. Without attempting for

the moment any rally, (as indeed the time which had passed since the

removal of the dinner scarce permitted an opportunity,) Lady Penelope

gave the signal for the ladies' retreat, and left the gentlemen to the

circulation of the bottle.

FOOTNOTE:

[I-14] Note II.--The Dark Ladye.

CHAPTER VII.

THE TEA-TABLE.

----While the cups,

Which cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each.

COWPER.

It was common at the Well, for the fair guests occasionally to give tea

to the company,--such at least as from their rank and leading in the

little society, might be esteemed fit to constitute themselves

patronesses of an evening; and the same lady generally carried the

authority she had acquired into the ball-room, where two fiddles and a

bass, at a guinea a night, with a _quantum sufficit_ of tallow candles,

(against the use of which Lady Penelope often mutinied,) enabled the

company--to use the appropriate phrase--"to close the evening on the

light fantastic toe."

On the present occasion, the lion of the hour, Mr. Francis Tyrrel, had

so little answered the high-wrought expectations of Lady Penelope, that

she rather regretted having ever given herself any trouble about him,

and particularly that of having manoeuvred herself into the patronage

of the tea-table for the evening, to the great expenditure of souchong

and congo. Accordingly, her ladyship had no sooner summoned her own

woman, and her _fille de chambre_, to make tea, with her page, footman,

and postilion, to hand it about, (in which duty they were assisted by

two richly-laced and thickly-powdered footmen of Lady Binks's, whose

liveries put to shame the more modest garb of Lady Penelope's, and even

dimmed the glory of the suppressed coronet upon the buttons,) than she

began to vilipend and depreciate what had been so long the object of her

curiosity.

"This Mr. Tyrrel," she said, in a tone of authoritative decision, "seems

after all a very ordinary sort of person, quite a commonplace man, who,

she dared say, had considered his condition, in going to the old

alehouse, much better than they had done for him, when they asked him to

the Public Rooms. He had known his own place better than they did--there

was nothing uncommon in his appearance or conversation--nothing at all

_frappant_--she scarce believed he could even draw that sketch. Mr.

Winterblossom, indeed, made a great deal of it; but then all the world

knew that every scrap of engraving or drawing, which Mr. Winterblossom

contrived to make his own, was, the instant it came into his collection,

the finest thing that ever was seen--that was the way with

collectors--their geese were all swans."

"And your ladyship's swan has proved but a goose, my dearest Lady Pen,"

said Lady Binks.

"_My_ swan, dearest Lady Binks! I really do not know how I have deserved

the appropriation."

"Do not be angry, my dear Lady Penelope; I only mean, that for a

fortnight and more you have spoke constantly _of_ this Mr. Tyrrel, and

all dinner-time you spoke _to_ him."

The fair company began to collect around, at hearing the word _dear_ so

often repeated in the same brief dialogue, which induced them to expect

sport, and, like the vulgar on a similar occasion, to form a ring for

the expected combatants.

"He sat betwixt us, Lady Binks," answered Lady Penelope, with dignity.

"You had your usual headache, you know, and, for the credit of the

company, I spoke for one."

"For _two_, if your ladyship pleases," replied Lady Binks. "I mean," she

added, softening the expression, "for yourself and me."

"I am sorry," said Lady Penelope, "I should have spoken for one who can

speak so smartly for herself, as my dear Lady Binks--I did not, by any

means, desire to engross the conversation--I repeat it, there is a

mistake about this man."

"I think there is," said Lady Binks, in a tone which implied something

more than mere assent to Lady Penelope's proposition.

"I doubt if he is an artist at all," said the Lady Penelope; "or if he

is, he must be doing things for some Magazine, or Encyclopedia, or some

such matter."

"_I_ doubt, too, if he be a professional artist," said Lady Binks. "If

so, he is of the very highest class, for I have seldom seen a

better-bred man."

"There are very well-bred artists," said Lady Penelope. "It is the

profession of a gentleman."

"Certainly," answered Lady Binks; "but the poorer class have often to

struggle with poverty and dependence. In general society, they are like

commercial people in presence of their customers; and that is a

difficult part to sustain. And so you see them of all sorts--shy and

reserved, when they are conscious of merit--petulant and whimsical, by

way of showing their independence--intrusive, in order to appear

easy--and sometimes obsequious and fawning, when they chance to be of a

mean spirit. But you seldom see them quite at their ease, and therefore

I hold this Mr. Tyrrel to be either an artist of the first class, raised

completely above the necessity and degradation of patronage, or else to

be no professional artist at all."

Lady Penelope looked at Lady Binks with much such a regard as Balaam may

have cast upon his ass, when he discovered the animal's capacity for

holding an argument with him. She muttered to herself--

_"Mon ane parle, et même il parle bien!"_

But, declining the altercation which Lady Binks seemed disposed to enter

into, she replied, with good-humour, "Well, dearest Rachel, we will not

pull caps about this man--nay, I think your good opinion of him gives

him new value in my eyes. That is always the way with us, my good

friend! We may confess it, when there are none of these conceited male

wretches among us. We will know what he really is--he shall not wear

fern-seed, and walk among us invisible thus--what say you, Maria?"

"Indeed, I say, dear Lady Penelope," answered Miss Digges, whose ready

chatter we have already introduced to the reader, "he is a very handsome

man, though his nose is too big, and his mouth too wide--but his teeth

are like pearl--and he has such eyes!--especially when your ladyship

spoke to him. I don't think you looked at his eyes--they are quite deep

and dark, and full of glow, like what you read to us in the letter from

that lady, about Robert Burns."

"Upon my word, miss, you come on finely!" said Lady Penelope.--"One had

need take care what they read or talk about before you, I see--Come,

Jones, have mercy upon us--put an end to that symphony of tinkling cups

and saucers, and let the first act of the tea-table begin, if you

please."

"Does her leddyship mean the grace?" said honest Mrs. Blower, for the

first time admitted into this worshipful society, and busily employed in

arranging an Indian handkerchief, that might have made a mainsail for

one of her husband's smuggling luggers, which she spread carefully on

her knee, to prevent damage to a flowered black silk gown from the

repast of tea and cake, to which she proposed to do due honour--"Does

her leddyship mean the grace? I see the minister is just coming in.--Her

leddyship waits till ye say a blessing, an ye please, sir."

Mr. Winterblossom, who _toddled_ after the chaplain, his toe having

given him an alert hint to quit the dining-table, though he saw every

feature in the poor woman's face swoln with desire to procure

information concerning the ways and customs of the place, passed on the

other side of the way, regardless of her agony of curiosity.

A moment after, she was relieved by the entrance of Dr. Quackleben,

whose maxim being, that one patient was as well worth attention as

another, and who knew by experience, that the _honoraria_ of a godly

wife of the Bow-head were as apt to be forthcoming, (if not more so,) as

my Lady Penelope's, he e'en sat himself quietly down by Mrs. Blower, and

proceeded with the utmost kindness to enquire after her health, and to

hope she had not forgotten taking a table-spoonful of spirits burnt to a

_residuum_, in order to qualify the crudities.

"Indeed, Doctor," said the honest woman, "I loot the brandy burn as lang

as I dought look at the gude creature wasting itsell that gate--and

then, when I was fain to put it out for very thrift, I did take a

thimbleful of it, (although it is not the thing I am used to, Dr.

Quackleben,) and I winna say but that it did me good."

"Unquestionably, madam," said the Doctor, "I am no friend to the use of

alcohol in general, but there are particular cases--there are particular

cases, Mrs. Blower--My venerated instructor, one of the greatest men in

our profession that ever lived, took a wine-glassful of old rum, mixed

with sugar, every day after his dinner."

"Ay? dear heart, he would be a comfortable doctor that," said Mrs.

Blower. "He wad maybe ken something of my case. Is he leevin' think ye,

sir?"

"Dead for many years, madam," said Dr. Quackleben; "and there are but

few of his pupils that can fill his place, I assure ye. If I could be

thought an exception, it is only because I was a favourite. Ah!

blessings on the old red cloak of him!--It covered more of the healing

science than the gowns of a whole modern university."

"There is ane, sir," said Mrs. Blower, "that has been muckle recommended

about Edinburgh--Macgregor, I think they ca' him--folk come far and near

to see him."[I-15]

"I know whom you mean, ma'am--a clever man--no denying it--a clever

man--but there are certain cases--yours, for example--and I think that

of many that come to drink this water--which I cannot say I think he

perfectly understands--hasty--very hasty and rapid. Now I--I give the

disease its own way at first--then watch it, Mrs. Blower--watch the turn

of the tide."

"Ay, troth, that's true," responded the widow; "John Blower was aye

watching turn of tide, puir man."

"Then he is a starving doctor, Mrs. Blower--reduces diseases as soldiers

do towns--by famine, not considering that the friendly inhabitants

suffer as much as the hostile garrison--ahem!"

Here he gave an important and emphatic cough, and then proceeded.

"I am no friend either to excess or to violent stimulus, Mrs.

Blower--but nature must be supported--a generous diet--cordials

judiciously thrown in--not without the advice of a medical man--that is

my opinion, Mrs. Blower, to speak as a friend--others may starve their

patients if they have a mind."

"It wadna do for me, the starving, Dr. Keekerben," said the alarmed

relict,--"it wadna do for me at a'--Just a' I can do to wear through the

day with the sma' supports that nature requires--not a soul to look

after me, Doctor, since John Blower was ta'en awa.--Thank ye kindly,

sir," (to the servant who handed the tea,)--"thank ye, my bonny man,"

(to the page who served the cake)--"Now, dinna ye think, Doctor," (in a

low and confidential voice,) "that her leddyship's tea is rather of the

weakliest--water bewitched, I think--and Mrs. Jones, as they ca' her,

has cut the seedcake very thin?"

"It is the fashion, Mrs. Blower," answered Dr. Quackleben; "and her

ladyship's tea is excellent. But your taste is a little chilled, which

is not uncommon at the first use of the waters, so that you are not

sensible of the flavour--we must support the system--reinforce the

digestive powers--give me leave--you are a stranger, Mrs. Blower, and we

must take care of you--I have an elixir which will put that matter to

rights in a moment."

So saying, Dr. Quackleben pulled from his pocket a small portable case

of medicines--"Catch me without my tools,"--he said; "here I have the

real useful pharmacopoeia--the rest is all humbug and hard names--this

little case, with a fortnight or month, spring and fall, at St. Ronan's

Well, and no one will die till his day come."

Thus boasting, the Doctor drew from his case a large vial or small

flask, full of a high-coloured liquid, of which he mixed three

tea-spoonfuls in Mrs. Blower's cup, who, immediately afterwards, allowed

that the flavour was improved beyond all belief, and that it was "vera

comfortable and restorative indeed."

"Will it not do good to my complaints, Doctor?" said Mr. Winterblossom,

who had strolled towards them, and held out his cup to the physician.

"I by no means recommend it, Mr. Winterblossom," said Dr. Quackleben,

shutting up his case with great coolness; "your case is oedematous,

and you treat it your own way--you are as good a physician as I am, and

I never interfere with another practitioner's patient."

"Well, Doctor," said Winterblossom, "I must wait till Sir Bingo comes

in--he has a hunting-flask usually about him, which contains as good

medicine as yours to the full."

"You will wait for Sir Bingo some time," said the Doctor; "he is a

gentleman of sedentary habits--he has ordered another magnum."

"Sir Bingo is an unco name for a man o' quality, dinna ye think sae, Dr.

Cocklehen?" said Mrs. Blower. "John Blower, when he was a wee bit in the

wind's eye, as he ca'd it, puir fallow--used to sing a sang about a dog

they ca'd Bingo, that suld hae belanged to a farmer."

"Our Bingo is but a puppy yet, madam--or if a dog, he is a sad dog,"

said Mr. Winterblossom, applauding his own wit, by one of his own

inimitable smiles.

"Or a mad dog, rather," said Mr. Chatterly, "for he drinks no water;"

and he also smiled gracefully at the thoughts of having trumped, as it

were, the president's pun.

"Twa pleasant men, Doctor," said the widow, "and so is Sir Bungy too,

for that matter; but O! is nae it a pity he should bide sae lang by the

bottle? It was puir John Blower's faut too, that weary tippling; when he

wan to the lee-side of a bowl of punch, there was nae raising him.--But

they are taking awa the things, and, Doctor, is it not an awfu' thing

that the creature-comforts should hae been used without grace or

thanksgiving?--that Mr. Chitterling, if he really be a minister, has

muckle to answer for, that he neglects his Master's service."

"Why, madam," said the Doctor, "Mr. Chatterly is scarce arrived at the

rank of a minister plenipotentiary."

"A minister potentiary--ah, Doctor, I doubt that is some jest of yours,"

said the widow; "that's sae like puir John Blower. When I wad hae had

him gie up the lovely Peggy, ship and cargo, (the vessel was named after

me, Doctor Kittleben,) to be remembered in the prayers o' the

congregation, he wad say to me, 'they may pray that stand the risk,

Peggy Bryce, for I've made insurance.' He was a merry man, Doctor; but

he had the root of the matter in him, for a' his light way of speaking,

as deep as ony skipper that ever loosed anchor from Leith Roads. I hae

been a forsaken creature since his death--O the weary days and nights

that I have had!--and the weight on the spirits--the spirits,

Doctor!--though I canna say I hae been easier since I hae been at the

Wall than even now--if I kend what I was awing ye for elickstir, Doctor,

for it's done me muckle heart's good, forby the opening of my mind to

you."

"Fie, fie, ma'am," said the Doctor, as the widow pulled out a seal-skin

pouch, such as sailors carry tobacco in, but apparently well stuffed

with bank-notes,--"Fie, fie, madam--I am no apothecary--I have my

diploma from Leyden--a regular physician, madam,--the elixir is heartily

at your service; and should you want any advice, no man will be prouder

to assist you than your humble servant."

"I am sure I am muckle obliged to your kindness, Dr. Kickalpin," said

the widow, folding up her pouch; "this was puir John Blower's

_spleuchan_,[I-16] as they ca' it--I e'en wear it for his sake. He was a

kind man, and left me comfortable in warld's gudes; but comforts hae

their cumbers,--to be a lone woman is a sair weird, Dr. Kittlepin."

Dr. Quackleben drew his chair a little nearer that of the widow, and

entered into a closer communication with her, in a tone doubtless of

more delicate consolation than was fit for the ears of the company at

large.

One of the chief delights of a watering-place is, that every one's

affairs seem to be put under the special surveillance of the whole

company, so that, in all probability, the various flirtations,

_liaisons_, and so forth, which naturally take place in the society, are

not only the subject of amusement to the parties engaged, but also to

the lookers on; that is to say, generally speaking, to the whole

community, of which for the time the said parties are members. Lady

Penelope, the presiding goddess of the region, watchful over all her

circle, was not long of observing that the Doctor seemed to be suddenly

engaged in close communication with the widow, and that he had even

ventured to take hold of her fair plump hand, with a manner which

partook at once of the gallant suitor, and of the medical adviser.

"For the love of Heaven," said her ladyship, "who can that comely dame

be, on whom our excellent and learned Doctor looks with such uncommon

regard?"

"Fat, fair, and forty," said Mr. Winterblossom; "that is all I know of

her--a mercantile person."

"A carrack, Sir President," said the chaplain, "richly laden with

colonial produce, by name the Lovely Peggy Bryce--no master--the late

John Blower of North Leith having pushed off his boat for the Stygian

Creek, and left the vessel without a hand on board."

"The Doctor," said Lady Penelope, turning her glass towards them, "seems

willing to play the part of pilot."

"I dare say he will be willing to change her name and register," said

Mr. Chatterly.

"He can be no less in common requital," said Winterblossom. "She has

changed _his_ name six times in the five minutes that I stood within

hearing of them."

"What do you think of the matter, my dear Lady Binks?" said Lady

Penelope.

"Madam?" said Lady Binks, starting from a reverie, and answering as one

who either had not heard, or did not understand the question.

"I mean, what think you of what is going on yonder?"

Lady Binks turned her glass in the direction of Lady Penelope's glance,

fixed the widow and the Doctor with one bold fashionable stare, and then

dropping her hand slowly, said with indifference, "I really see nothing

there worth thinking about."

"I dare say it is a fine thing to be married," said Lady Penelope;

"one's thoughts, I suppose, are so much engrossed with one's own perfect

happiness, that they have neither time nor inclination to laugh like

other folks. Miss Rachel Bonnyrigg would have laughed till her eyes ran

over, had she seen what Lady Binks cares so little about--I dare say it

must be an all-sufficient happiness to be married."

"He would be a happy man that could convince your ladyship of that in

good earnest," said Mr. Winterblossom.

"Oh, who knows--the whim may strike me," replied the lady; "but

no--no--no;--and that is three times."

"Say it sixteen times more," said the gallant president, "and let

nineteen nay-says be a grant."

"If I should say a thousand Noes, there exists not the alchymy in living

man that could extract one Yes out of the whole mass," said her

ladyship. "Blessed be the memory of Queen Bess!--She set us all an

example to keep power when we have it--What noise is that?"

"Only the usual after-dinner quarrel," said the divine. "I hear the

Captain's voice, else most silent, commanding them to keep peace, in the

devil's name and that of the ladies."

"Upon my word, dearest Lady Binks, this is too bad of that lord and

master of yours, and of Mowbray, who might have more sense, and of the

rest of that claret-drinking set, to be quarrelling and alarming our

nerves every evening with presenting their pistols perpetually at each

other, like sportsmen confined to the house upon a rainy 12th of August.

I am tired of the Peace-maker--he but skins the business over in one

case to have it break out elsewhere.--What think you, love, if we were

to give out in orders, that the next quarrel which may arise, shall be

_bona fide_ fought to an end?--We will all go out and see it, and wear

the colours on each side; and if there should a funeral come of it, we

will attend it in a body.--Weeds are so becoming!--Are they not, my dear

Lady Binks? Look at Widow Blower in her deep black--don't you envy her,

my love?"

Lady Binks seemed about to make a sharp and hasty answer, but checked

herself, perhaps under the recollection that she could not prudently

come to an open breach with Lady Penelope.--At the same moment the door

opened, and a lady dressed in a riding-habit, and wearing a black veil

over her hat, appeared at the entry of the apartment.

"Angels and ministers of grace!" exclaimed Lady Penelope, with her very

best tragic start--"my dearest Clara, why so late? and why thus? Will

you step to my dressing-room--Jones will get you one of my gowns--we are

just of a size, you know--do, pray--let me be vain of something of my

own for once, by seeing you wear it."

This was spoken in the tone of the fondest female friendship, and at the

same time the fair hostess bestowed on Miss Mowbray one of those tender

caresses, which ladies--God bless them!--sometimes bestow on each other

with unnecessary prodigality, to the great discontent and envy of the

male spectators.

"You are fluttered, my dearest Clara--you are feverish--I am sure you

are," continued the sweetly anxious Lady Penelope; "let me persuade you

to lie down."

"Indeed you are mistaken, Lady Penelope," said Miss Mowbray, who seemed

to receive much as a matter of course her ladyship's profusion of

affectionate politeness:--"I am heated, and my pony trotted hard, that

is the whole mystery.--Let me have a cup of tea, Mrs. Jones, and the

matter is ended."

"Fresh tea, Jones, directly," said Lady Penelope, and led her passive

friend to her own corner, as she was pleased to call the recess, in

which she held her little court--ladies and gentlemen curtsying and

bowing as she passed; to which civilities the new guest made no more

return, than the most ordinary politeness rendered unavoidable.

Lady Binks did not rise to receive her, but sat upright in her chair,

and bent her head very stiffly; a courtesy which Miss Mowbray returned

in the same stately manner, without farther greeting on either side.

"Now, wha can that be, Doctor?" said the Widow Blower--"mind ye have

promised to tell me all about the grand folk--wha can that be that Leddy

Penelope hauds such a racket wi'?--and what for does she come wi' a

habit and a beaver-hat, when we are a' (a glance at her own gown) in our

silks and satins?"

"To tell you who she is, my dear Mrs. Blower, is very easy," said the

officious Doctor. "She is Miss Clara Mowbray, sister to the Lord of the

Manor--the gentleman who wears the green coat, with an arrow on the

cape. To tell why she wears that habit, or does any thing else, would be

rather beyond doctor's skill. Truth is, I have always thought she was a

little--a very little--touched--call it nerves--hypochondria--or what

you will."

"Lord help us, puir thing!" said the compassionate widow.--"And troth it

looks like it. But it's a shame to let her go loose, Doctor--she might

hurt hersell, or somebody. See, she has ta'en the knife!--O, it's only

to cut a shave of the diet-loaf. She winna let the powder-monkey of a

boy help her. There's judgment in that though, Doctor, for she can cut

thick or thin as she likes.--Dear me! she has not taken mair than a

crumb, than ane would pit between the wires of a canary-bird's cage,

after all.--I wish she would lift up that lang veil, or put off that

riding-skirt, Doctor. She should really be showed the regulations,

Doctor Kickelshin."

"She cares about no rules we can make, Mrs. Blower," said the Doctor;

"and her brother's will and pleasure, and Lady Penelope's whim of

indulging her, carry her through in every thing. They should take

advice on her case."

"Ay, truly, it's time to take advice, when young creatures like her

caper in amang dressed leddies, just as if they were come from

scampering on Leith sands.--Such a wark as my leddy makes wi' her,

Doctor! Ye would think they were baith fools of a feather."

"They might have flown on one wing, for what I know," said Dr.

Quackleben; "but there was early and sound advice taken in Lady

Penelope's case. My friend, the late Earl of Featherhead, was a man of

judgment--did little in his family but by rule of medicine--so that,

what with the waters, and what with my own care, Lady Penelope is only

freakish--fanciful--that's all--and her quality bears it out--the

peccant principle might have broken out under other treatment."

"Ay--she has been weel-friended," said the widow; "but this bairn

Mowbray, puir thing! how came she to be sae left to hersell?"

"Her mother was dead--her father thought of nothing but his sports,"

said the Doctor. "Her brother was educated in England, and cared for

nobody but himself, if he had been here. What education she got was at

her own hand--what reading she read was in a library full of old

romances--what friends or company she had was what chance sent her--then

no family-physician, not even a good surgeon, within ten miles! And so

you cannot wonder if the poor thing became unsettled."

"Puir thing!--no doctor!--nor even a surgeon!--But, Doctor," said the

widow, "maybe the puir thing had the enjoyment of her health, ye ken,

and, then"----

"Ah! ha, ha!--why _then_, madam, she needed a physician far more than if

she had been delicate. A skilful physician, Mrs. Blower, knows how to

bring down that robust health, which is a very alarming state of the

frame when it is considered _secundum artem_. Most sudden deaths happen

when people are in a robust state of health. Ah! that state of perfect

health is what the doctor dreads most on behalf of his patient."

"Ay, ay, Doctor?--I am quite sensible, nae doubt," said the widow, "of

the great advantage of having a skeelfu' person about ane."

Here the Doctor's voice, in his earnestness to convince Mrs. Blower of

the danger of supposing herself capable of living and breathing without

a medical man's permission, sunk into a soft pleading tone, of which our

reporter could not catch the sound. He was, as great orators will

sometimes be, "inaudible in the gallery."

Meanwhile, Lady Penelope overwhelmed Clara Mowbray with her caresses. In

what degree her ladyship, at her heart, loved this young person, might

be difficult to ascertain,--probably in the degree in which a child

loves a favourite toy. But Clara was a toy not always to be come by--as

whimsical in her way as her ladyship in her own, only that poor Clara's

singularities were real, and her ladyship's chiefly affected. Without

adopting the harshness of the Doctor's conclusions concerning the

former, she was certainly unequal in her spirits; and her occasional

fits of levity were chequered by very long intervals of sadness. Her

levity also appeared, in the world's eye, greater than it really was;

for she had never been under the restraint of society which was really

good, and entertained an undue contempt for that which she sometimes

mingled with; having unhappily none to teach her the important truth,

that some forms and restraints are to be observed, less in respect to

others than to ourselves. Her dress, her manners, and her ideas, were

therefore very much her own; and though they became her wonderfully,

yet, like Ophelia's garlands, and wild snatches of melody, they were

calculated to excite compassion and melancholy, even while they amused

the observer.

"And why came you not to dinner?--We expected you--your throne was

prepared."

"I had scarce come to tea," said Miss Mowbray, "of my own freewill. But

my brother says your ladyship proposes to come to Shaws-Castle, and he

insisted it was quite right and necessary, to confirm you in so

flattering a purpose, that I should come and say, Pray do, Lady

Penelope; and so now here am I to say, Pray, do come."

"Is an invitation so flattering limited to me alone, my dear

Clara?--Lady Binks will be jealous."

"Bring Lady Binks, if she has the condescension to honour us"--[a bow

was very stiffly exchanged between the ladies]--"bring Mr.

Springblossom--Winterblossom--and all the lions and lionesses--we have

room for the whole collection. My brother, I suppose, will bring his own

particular regiment of bears, which, with the usual assortment of

monkeys seen in all caravans, will complete the menagerie. How you are

to be entertained at Shaws-Castle, is, I thank Heaven, not my business,

but John's."

"We shall want no formal entertainment, my love," said Lady Penelope; "a

_déjeûner à la fourchette_--we know, Clara, you would die of doing the

honours of a formal dinner."

"Not a bit; I should live long enough to make my will, and bequeath all

large parties to old Nick, who invented them."

"Miss Mowbray," said Lady Binks, who had been thwarted by this

free-spoken young lady, both in her former character of a coquette and

romp, and in that of a prude which she at present wore--"Miss Mowbray

declares for

'Champagne and a chicken at last.'"

"The chicken without the champagne, if you please," said Miss Mowbray;

"I have known ladies pay dear to have champagne on the board.--By the

by, Lady Penelope, you have not your collection in the same order and

discipline as Pidcock and Polito. There was much growling and snarling

in the lower den when I passed it."

"It was feeding-time, my love," said Lady Penelope; "and the lower

animals of every class become pugnacious at that hour--you see all our

safer and well-conditioned animals are loose, and in good order."

"Oh, yes--in the keeper's presence, you know--Well, I must venture to

cross the hall again among all that growling and grumbling--I would I

had the fairy prince's quarters of mutton to toss among them if they

should break out--He, I mean, who fetched water from the Fountain of

Lions. However, on second thoughts, I will take the back way, and avoid

them.--What says honest Bottom?--

'For if they should as lions come in strife

Into such place, 'twere pity of their life.'"

"Shall I go with you, my dear?" said Lady Penelope.

"No--I have too great a soul for that--I think some of them are lions

only as far as the hide is concerned."

"But why would you go so soon, Clara?"

"Because my errand is finished--have I not invited you and yours? and

would not Lord Chesterfield himself allow I have done the polite thing?"

"But you have spoke to none of the company--how can you be so odd, my

love?" said her ladyship.

"Why, I spoke to them all when I spoke to you and Lady Binks--but I am a

good girl, and will do as I am bid."

So saying, she looked round the company, and addressed each of them with

an affectation of interest and politeness, which thinly concealed scorn

and contempt.

"Mr. Winterblossom, I hope the gout is better--Mr. Robert Rymar--(I have

escaped calling him Thomas for once)--I hope the public give

encouragement to the muses--Mr. Keelavine, I trust your pencil is

busy--Mr. Chatterly, I have no doubt your flock improves--Dr.

Quackleben, I am sure your patients recover--These are all the especials

of the worthy company I know--for the rest, health to the sick, and

pleasure to the healthy!"

"You are not going in reality, my love?" said Lady Penelope; "these

hasty rides agitate your nerves--they do, indeed--you should be

cautious--Shall I speak to Quackleben?"

"To neither Quack nor quackle, on my account, my dear lady. It is not as

you would seem to say, by your winking at Lady Binks--it is not,

indeed--I shall be no Lady Clementina, to be the wonder and pity of the

spring of St. Ronan's--No Ophelia neither--though I will say with her,

Good-night, ladies--Good night, sweet ladies!--and now--not my coach, my

coach--but my horse, my horse!"

So saying, she tripped out of the room by a side passage, leaving the

ladies looking at each other significantly, and shaking their heads with

an expression of much import.

"Something has ruffled the poor unhappy girl," said Lady Penelope; "I

never saw her so very odd before."

"Were I to speak my mind," said Lady Binks, "I think, as Mrs. Highmore

says in the farce, her madness is but a poor excuse for her

impertinence."

"Oh fie! my sweet Lady Binks," said Lady Penelope, "spare my poor

favourite! You, surely, of all others, should forgive the excesses of an

amiable eccentricity of temper.--Forgive me, my love, but I must defend

an absent friend--My Lady Binks, I am very sure, is too generous and

candid to

'Hate for arts which caused herself to rise.'"

"Not being conscious of any high elevation, my lady," answered Lady

Binks, "I do not know any arts I have been under the necessity of

practising to attain it. I suppose a Scotch lady of an ancient family

may become the wife of an English baronet, and no very extraordinary

great cause to wonder at it."

"No, surely--but people in this world will, you know, wonder at

nothing," answered Lady Penelope.

"If you envy me my poor quiz, Sir Bingo, I'll get you a better, Lady

Pen."

"I don't doubt your talents, my dear, but when I want one, I will get

one for myself.--But here comes the whole party of quizzes.--Joliffe,

offer the gentlemen tea--then get the floor ready for the dancers, and

set the card-tables in the next room."

FOOTNOTES:

[I-15] The late Dr. Gregory is probably intimated, as one of the

celebrated Dr. Cullen's personal habits is previously mentioned. Dr.

Gregory was distinguished for putting his patients on a severe regimen.

[I-16] A fur pouch for keeping tobacco.

CHAPTER VIII.

AFTER DINNER.

They draw the cork, they broach the barrel,

And first they kiss, and then they quarrel.

PRIOR.

If the reader has attended much to the manners of the canine race, he

may have remarked the very different manner in which the individuals of

the different sexes carry on their quarrels among each other. The

females are testy, petulant, and very apt to indulge their impatient

dislike of each other's presence, or the spirit of rivalry which it

produces, in a sudden bark and snap, which last is generally made as

much at advantage as possible. But these ebullitions of peevishness lead

to no very serious or prosecuted conflict; the affair begins and ends in

a moment. Not so the ire of the male dogs, which, once produced and

excited by growls of mutual offence and defiance, leads generally to a

fierce and obstinate contest; in which, if the parties be dogs of game,

and well-matched, they grapple, throttle, tear, roll each other in the

kennel, and can only be separated by choking them with their own

collars, till they lose wind and hold at the same time, or by surprising

them out of their wrath by sousing them with cold water.

The simile, though a currish one, will hold good in its application to

the human race. While the ladies in the tea-room of the Fox Hotel were

engaged in the light snappish velitation, or skirmish, which we have

described, the gentlemen who remained in the parlour were more than once

like to have quarrelled more seriously.

We have mentioned the weighty reasons which induced Mr. Mowbray to look

upon the stranger whom a general invitation had brought into their

society, with unfavourable prepossessions; and these were far from being

abated by the demeanour of Tyrrel, which, though perfectly well-bred,

indicated a sense of equality, which the young Laird of St. Ronan's

considered as extremely presumptuous.

As for Sir Bingo, he already began to nourish the genuine hatred always

entertained by a mean spirit against an antagonist, before whom it is

conscious of having made a dishonourable retreat. He forgot not the

manner, look, and tone, with which Tyrrel had checked his unauthorized

intrusion; and though he had sunk beneath it at the moment, the

recollection rankled in his heart as an affront to be avenged. As he

drank his wine, courage, the want of which was, in his more sober

moments, a check upon his bad temper, began to inflame his malignity,

and he ventured upon several occasions to show his spleen, by

contradicting Tyrrel more flatly than good manners permitted upon so

short an acquaintance, and without any provocation. Tyrrel saw his ill

humour and despised it, as that of an overgrown schoolboy, whom it was

not worth his while to answer according to his folly.

One of the apparent causes of the Baronet's rudeness was indeed childish

enough. The company were talking of shooting, the most animating topic

of conversation among Scottish country gentlemen of the younger class,

and Tyrrel had mentioned something of a favourite setter, an uncommonly

handsome dog, from which he had been for some time separated, but which

he expected would rejoin him in the course of next week.

"A setter!" retorted Sir Bingo, with a sneer; "a pointer I suppose you

mean?"

"No, sir," said Tyrrel; "I am perfectly aware of the difference betwixt

a setter and a pointer, and I know the old-fashioned setter is become

unfashionable among modern sportsmen. But I love my dog as a companion,

as well as for his merits in the field; and a setter is more sagacious,

more attached, and fitter for his place on the hearth-rug, than a

pointer--not," he added, "from any deficiency of intellects on the

pointer's part, but he is generally so abused while in the management of

brutal breakers and grooms, that he loses all excepting his professional

accomplishments, of finding and standing steady to game."

"And who the d----l desires he should have more?" said Sir Bingo.

"Many people, Sir Bingo," replied Tyrrel, "have been of opinion, that

both dogs and men may follow sport indifferently well, though they do

happen, at the same time, to be fit for mixing in friendly intercourse

in society."

"That is for licking trenchers, and scratching copper, I suppose," said

the Baronet, _sotto voce_; and added, in a louder and more distinct

tone,--"He never before heard that a setter was fit to follow any man's

heels but a poacher's."

"You know it now then, Sir Bingo," answered Tyrrel; "and I hope you will

not fall into so great a mistake again."

The Peace-maker here seemed to think his interference necessary, and,

surmounting his tactiturnity, made the following pithy speech:--"By Cot!

and do you see, as you are looking for my opinion, I think there is no

dispute in the matter--because, by Cot! it occurs to me, d'ye see, that

ye are both right, by Cot! It may do fery well for my excellent friend

Sir Bingo, who hath stables, and kennels, and what not, to maintain the

six filthy prutes that are yelping and yowling all the tay, and all the

neight too, under my window, by Cot!--And if they are yelping and

yowling there, may I never die but I wish they were yelping and yowling

somewhere else. But then there is many a man who may be as cood a

gentleman at the bottom as my worthy friend Sir Bingo, though it may be

that he is poor; and if he is poor--and as if it might be my own case,

or that of this honest gentleman, Mr. Tirl--is that a reason or a law,

that he is not to keep a prute of a tog, to help him to take his sports

and his pleasures? and if he has not a stable or a kennel to put the

crature into, must he not keep it in his pit of ped-room, or upon his

parlour hearth, seeing that Luckie Dods would make the kitchen too hot

for the paist--and so, if Mr. Tirl finds a setter more fitter for his

purpose than a pointer, by Cot, I know no law against it, else may I

never die the black death."

If this oration appear rather long for the occasion, the reader must

recollect that Captain MacTurk had in all probability the trouble of

translating it from the periphrastic language of Ossian, in which it was

originally conceived in his own mind.

The Man of Law replied to the Man of Peace, "Ye are mistaken for ance in

your life, Captain, for there is a law against setters; and I will

undertake to prove them to be the 'lying dogs,' which are mentioned in

the auld Scots statute, and which all and sundry are discharged to keep,

under a penalty of"----

Here the Captain broke in, with a very solemn mien and dignified

manner--"By Cot! Master Meiklewham, and I shall be asking what you mean

by talking to me of peing mistaken, and apout lying togs, sir--because I

would have you to know, and to pelieve, and to very well consider, that

I never was mistaken in my life, sir, unless it was when I took you for

a gentleman."

"No offence, Captain," said Mr. Meiklewham; "dinna break the wand of

peace, man, you that should be the first to keep it.--He is as

cankered," continued the Man of Law, apart to his patron, "as an auld

Hieland terrier, that snaps at whatever comes near it--but I tell you ae

thing, St. Ronan's, and that is on saul and conscience, that I believe

this is the very lad Tirl, that I raised a summons against before the

justices--him and another hempie--in your father's time, for shooting on

the Spring-well-head muirs."

"The devil you did, Mick!" replied the Lord of the Manor, also

aside;--"Well, I am obliged to you for giving me some reason for the ill

thoughts I had of him--I knew he was some trumpery scamp--I'll blow him,

by"----

"Whisht--stop--hush--haud your tongue, St. Ronan's,--keep a calm

sough--ye see, I intended the process, by your worthy father's desire,

before the Quarter Sessions--but I ken na--The auld sheriff-clerk stood

the lad's friend--and some of the justices thought it was but a mistake

of the marches, and sae we couldna get a judgment--and your father was

very ill of the gout, and I was feared to vex him, and so I was fain to

let the process sleep, for fear they had been assoilzied.--Sae ye had

better gang cautiously to wark, St. Ronan's, for though they were

summoned, they were not convict."

"Could you not take up the action again?" said Mr. Mowbray.

"Whew! it's been prescribed sax or seeven year syne. It is a great

shame, St. Ronan's, that the game laws, whilk are the very best

protection that is left to country gentlemen against the encroachment of

their inferiors, rin sae short a course of prescription--a poacher may

just jink ye back and forward like a flea in a blanket, (wi'

pardon)--hap ye out of ae county and into anither at their pleasure,

like pyots--and unless ye get your thum-nail on them in the very nick o'

time, ye may dine on a dish of prescription, and sup upon an

absolvitor."

"It is a shame indeed," said Mowbray, turning from his confident and

agent, and addressing himself to the company in general, yet not without

a peculiar look directed to Tyrrel.

"What is a shame, sir?" said Tyrrel, conceiving that the observation was

particularly addressed to him.

"That we should have so many poachers upon our muirs, sir," answered St.

Ronan's. "I sometimes regret having countenanced the Well here, when I

think how many guns it has brought on my property every season."

"Hout fie! hout awa, St. Ronan's!" said his Man of Law; "no countenance

the Waal? What would the country-side be without it, I would be glad to

ken? It's the greatest improvement that has been made on this country

since the year forty-five. Na, na, it's no the Waal that's to blame for

the poaching and delinquencies on the game. We maun to the Aultoun for

the howf of that kind of cattle. Our rules at the Waal are clear and

express against trespassers on the game."

"I can't think," said the Squire, "what made my father sell the property

of the old change-house yonder, to the hag that keeps it open out of

spite, I think, and to harbour poachers and vagabonds!--I cannot

conceive what made him do so foolish a thing!"

"Probably because your father wanted money, sir," said Tyrrel, dryly;

"and my worthy landlady, Mrs. Dods, had got some.--You know, I presume,

sir, that I lodge there?"

"Oh, sir," replied Mowbray, in a tone betwixt scorn and civility, "you

cannot suppose the present company is alluded to; I only presumed to

mention as a fact, that we have been annoyed with unqualified people

shooting on our grounds, without either liberty or license. And I hope

to have her sign taken down for it--that is all.--There was the same

plague in my father's days, I think, Mick?"

But Mr. Meiklewham, who did not like Tyrrel's looks so well as to induce

him to become approver on the occasion, replied with an inarticulate

grunt, addressed to the company, and a private admonition to his

patron's own ear, "to let sleeping dogs lie."

"I can scarce forbear the fellow," said St. Ronan's; "and yet I cannot

well tell where my dislike to him lies--but it would be d----d folly to

turn out with him for nothing; and so, honest Mick, I will be as quiet

as I can."

"And that you may be so," said Meiklewham, "I think you had best take no

more wine."

"I think so too," said the Squire; "for each glass I drink in his

company gives me the heartburn--yet the man is not different from other

raffs either--but there is a something about him intolerable to me."

So saying, he pushed back his chair from the table, and--_regis ad

exemplar_--after the pattern of the Laird, all the company arose.

Sir Bingo got up with reluctance, which he testified by two or three

deep growls, as he followed the rest of the company into the outer

apartment, which served as an entrance-hall, and divided the

dining-parlour from the tea-room, as it was called. Here, while the

party were assuming their hats, for the purpose of joining the ladies'

society, (which old-fashioned folk used only to take up for that of

going into the open air,) Tyrrel asked a smart footman, who stood near,

to hand him the hat which lay on the table beyond.

"Call your own servant, sir," answered the fellow, with the true

insolence of a pampered menial.

"Your master," answered Tyrrel, "ought to have taught you good manners,

my friend, before bringing you here."

"Sir Bingo Binks is my master," said the fellow, in the same insolent

tone as before.

"Now for it, Bingie," said Mowbray, who was aware that the Baronet's

pot-courage had arrived at fighting pitch.

"Yes!" said Sir Bingo aloud, and more articulately than usual--"The

fellow is my servant--what has any one to say to it?"

"I at least have my mouth stopped," answered Tyrrel, with perfect

composure. "I should have been surprised to have found Sir Bingo's

servant better bred than himself."

"What d'ye mean by that, sir?" said Sir Bingo, coming up in an offensive

attitude, for he was no mean pupil of the Fives-Court--"What d'ye mean

by that? D----n you, sir! I'll serve you out before you can say

dumpling."

"And I, Sir Bingo, unless you presently lay aside that look and manner,

will knock you down before you can cry help."

The visitor held in his hand a slip of oak, with which he gave a

flourish, that, however slight, intimated some acquaintance with the

noble art of single-stick. From this demonstration Sir Bingo thought it

prudent somewhat to recoil, though backed by a party of friends, who, in

their zeal for his honour, would rather have seen his bones broken in

conflict bold, than his honour injured by a discreditable retreat; and

Tyrrel seemed to have some inclination to indulge them. But, at the very

instant when his hand was raised with a motion of no doubtful import, a

whispering voice, close to his ear, pronounced the emphatic words--"Are

you a man?"

Not the thrilling tone with which our inimitable Siddons used to

electrify the scene, when she uttered the same whisper, ever had a more

powerful effect upon an auditor, than had these unexpected sounds on

him, to whom they were now addressed. Tyrrel forgot every thing--his

quarrel--the circumstances in which he was placed--the company. The

crowd was to him at once annihilated, and life seemed to have no other

object than to follow the person who had spoken. But suddenly as he

turned, the disappearance of the monitor was at least equally so, for,

amid the group of commonplace countenances by which he was surrounded,

there was none which assorted to the tone and words, which possessed

such a power over him. "Make way," he said, to those who surrounded him;

and it was in the tone of one who was prepared, if necessary, to make

way for himself.

Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's stepped forward. "Come, sir," said he, "this

will not do--you have come here, a stranger among us, to assume airs and

dignities, which, by G--d, would become a duke, or a prince! We must

know who or what you are, before we permit you to carry your high tone

any farther."

This address seemed at once to arrest Tyrrel's anger, and his impatience

to leave the company. He turned to Mowbray, collected his thoughts for

an instant, and then answered him thus:--"Mr. Mowbray, I seek no quarrel

with any one here--with you, in particular, I am most unwilling to have

any disagreement. I came here by invitation, not certainly expecting

much pleasure, but, at the same time, supposing myself secure from

incivility. In the last point, I find myself mistaken, and therefore

wish the company good-night. I must also make my adieus to the ladies."

So saying, he walked several steps, yet, as it seemed, rather

irresolutely, towards the door of the card-room--and then, to the

increased surprise of the company, stopped suddenly, and muttering

something about the "unfitness of the time," turned on his heel, and

bowing haughtily, as there was way made for him, walked in the opposite

direction towards the door which led to the outer hall.

"D----me, Sir Bingo, will you let him off?" said Mowbray, who seemed to

delight in pushing his friend into new scrapes--"To him, man--to him--he

shows the white feather."

Sir Bingo, thus encouraged, planted himself with a look of defiance

exactly between Tyrrel and the door; upon which the retreating guest,

bestowing on him most emphatically the epithet Fool, seized him by the

collar, and flung him out of his way with some violence.

"I am to be found at the Old Town of St. Ronan's by whomsoever has any

concern with me."--Without waiting the issue of this aggression farther

than to utter these words, Tyrrel left the hotel. He stopped in the

court-yard, however, with the air of one uncertain whither he intended

to go, and who was desirous to ask some question, which seemed to die

upon his tongue. At length his eye fell upon a groom, who stood not far

from the door of the inn, holding in his hand a handsome pony, with a

side-saddle.

"Whose"----said Tyrrel--but the rest of the question he seemed unable to

utter.

The man, however, replied, as if he had heard the whole

interrogation.--"Miss Mowbray's, sir, of St. Ronan's--she leaves

directly--and so I am walking the pony--a clever thing, sir, for a

lady."

"She returns to Shaws-Castle by the Buck-stane road?"

"I suppose so, sir," said the groom. "It is the nighest, and Miss Clara

cares little for rough roads. Zounds! She can spank it over wet and

dry."

Tyrrel turned away from the man, and hastily left the hotel--not,

however, by the road which led to the Aultoun, but by a footpath among

the natural copsewood, which, following the course of the brook,

intersected the usual horse-road to Shaws-Castle, the seat of Mr.

Mowbray, at a romantic spot called the Buck-stane.

In a small peninsula, formed by a winding of the brook, was situated, on

a rising hillock, a large rough-hewn pillar of stone, said by tradition

to commemorate the fall of a stag of unusual speed, size, and strength,

whose flight, after having lasted through a whole summer's day, had

there terminated in death, to the honour and glory of some ancient baron

of St. Ronan's, and of his stanch hounds. During the periodical cuttings

of the copse, which the necessities of the family of St. Ronan's brought

round more frequently than Ponty would have recommended, some oaks had

been spared in the neighbourhood of this massive obelisk, old enough

perhaps to have heard the whoop and halloo which followed the fall of

the stag, and to have witnessed the raising of the rude monument by

which that great event was commemorated. These trees, with their broad

spreading boughs, made a twilight even of noon-day; and, now that the

sun was approaching its setting point, their shade already anticipated

night. This was especially the case where three or four of them

stretched their arms over a deep gully, through which winded the

horse-path to Shaws-Castle, at a point about a pistol-shot distant from

the Buck-stane. As the principal access to Mr. Mowbray's mansion was by

a carriage-way, which passed in a different direction, the present path

was left almost in a state of nature, full of large stones, and broken

by gullies, delightful, from the varied character of its banks, to the

picturesque traveller, and most inconvenient, nay dangerous, to him who

had a stumbling horse.

The footpath to the Buck-stane, which here joined the bridle-road, had

been constructed, at the expense of a subscription, under the direction

of Mr. Winterblossom, who had taste enough to see the beauties of this

secluded spot, which was exactly such as in earlier times might have

harboured the ambush of some marauding chief. This recollection had not

escaped Tyrrel, to whom the whole scenery was familiar, who now hastened

to the spot, as one which peculiarly suited his present purpose. He sat

down by one of the larger projecting trees, and, screened by its

enormous branches from observation, was enabled to watch the road from

the Hotel for a great part of its extent, while he was himself invisible

to any who might travel upon it.

Meanwhile his sudden departure excited a considerable sensation among

the party whom he had just left, and who were induced to form

conclusions not very favourable to his character. Sir Bingo, in

particular, blustered loudly and more loudly, in proportion to the

increasing distance betwixt himself and his antagonist, declaring his

resolution to be revenged on the scoundrel for his insolence--to drive

him from the neighbourhood--and I know not what other menaces of

formidable import. The devil, in the old stories of _diàblerie_, was

always sure to start up at the elbow of any one who nursed diabolical

purposes, and only wanted a little backing from the foul fiend to carry

his imaginations into action. The noble Captain MacTurk had so far this

property of his infernal majesty, that the least hint of an approaching

quarrel drew him always to the vicinity of the party concerned. He was

now at Sir Bingo's side, and was taking his own view of the matter, in

his character of peace-maker.

"By Cot! and it's very exceedingly true, my goot friend, Sir Binco--and

as you say, it concerns your honour, and the honour of the place, and

credit and character of the whole company, by Cot! that this matter be

properly looked after; for, as I think, he laid hands on your body, my

excellent goot friend."

"Hands, Captain MacTurk!" exclaimed Sir Bingo, in some confusion; "no,

blast him--not so bad as that neither--if he had, I should have handed

_him_ over the window--but, by ----, the fellow had the impudence to

offer to collar me--I had just stepped back to square at him, when,

curse me, the blackguard ran away."

"Right, vara right, Sir Bingo," said the Man of Law, "a vara perfect

blackguard, a poaching sorning sort of fallow, that I will have scoured

out of the country before he be three days aulder. Fash you your beard

nae farther about the matter, Sir Bingo."

"By Cot! but I can tell you, Mr. Meiklewham," said the Man of Peace,

with great solemnity of visage, "that you are scalding your lips in

other folk's kale, and that it is necessary for the credit, and honour,

and respect of this company, at the Well of St. Ronan's, that Sir Bingo

goes by more competent advice than yours upon the present occasion, Mr.

Meiklewham; for though your counsel may do very well in a small debt

court, here, you see, Mr. Meiklewham, is a question of honour, which is

not a thing in your line, as I take it."

"No, before George! it is not," answered Meiklewham; "e'en take it all

to yoursell, Captain, and meikle ye are likely to make on't."

"Then," said the Captain, "Sir Binco, I will beg the favour of your

company to the smoking room, where we may have a cigar and a glass of

gin-twist; and we will consider how the honour of the company must be

supported and upholden upon the present conjuncture."

The Baronet complied with this invitation, as much, perhaps, in

consequence of the medium through which the Captain intended to convey

his warlike counsels, as for the pleasure with which he anticipated the

result of these counsels themselves. He followed the military step of

his leader, whose stride was more stiff, and his form more

perpendicular, when exalted by the consciousness of an approaching

quarrel, to the smoking-room, where, sighing as he lighted his cigar,

Sir Bingo prepared to listen to the words of wisdom and valour, as they

should flow in mingled stream from the lips of Captain MacTurk.

Meanwhile the rest of the company joined the ladies. "Here has been

Clara," said Lady Penelope to Mr. Mowbray; "here has been Miss Mowbray

among us, like the ray of a sun which does but dazzle and die."

"Ah, poor Clara," said Mowbray; "I thought I saw her thread her way

through the crowd a little while since, but I was not sure."

"Well," said Lady Penelope, "she has asked us all up to Shaws-Castle on

Thursday, to a _déjeûner à la fourchette_--I trust you confirm your

sister's invitation, Mr. Mowbray?"

"Certainly, Lady Penelope," replied Mowbray; "and I am truly glad Clara

has had the grace to think of it--How we shall acquit ourselves is a

different question, for neither she nor I are much accustomed to play

host or hostess."

"Oh! it will be delightful, I am sure," said Lady Penelope; "Clara has a

grace in every thing she does; and you, Mr. Mowbray, can be a perfectly

well-bred gentleman--when you please."

"That qualification is severe--Well--good manners be my speed--I will

certainly please to do my best, when I see your ladyship at

Shaws-Castle, which has received no company this many a day.--Clara and

I have lived a wild life of it, each in their own way."

"Indeed, Mr. Mowbray," said Lady Binks, "if I might presume to speak--I

think you do suffer your sister to ride about a little too much without

an attendant. I know Miss Mowbray rides as woman never rode before, but

still an accident may happen."

"An accident?" replied Mowbray--"Ah, Lady Binks! accidents happen as

frequently when ladies _have_ attendants as when they are without them."

Lady Binks, who, in her maiden state, had cantered a good deal about

these woods under Sir Bingo's escort, coloured, looked spiteful, and was

silent.

"Besides," said John Mowbray, more lightly, "where is the risk, after

all? There are no wolves in our woods to eat up our pretty Red-Riding

Hoods; and no lions either--except those of Lady Penelope's train."

"Who draw the car of Cybele," said Mr. Chatterly.

Lady Penelope luckily did not understand the allusion, which was indeed

better intended than imagined.

"Apropos!" she said; "what have you done with the great lion of the day?

I see Mr. Tyrrel nowhere--Is he finishing an additional bottle with Sir

Bingo?"

"Mr. Tyrrel, madam," said Mowbray, "has acted successively the lion

rampant, and the lion passant: he has been quarrelsome, and he has run

away--fled from the ire of your doughty knight, Lady Binks."

"I am sure I hope not," said Lady Binks; "my Chevalier's unsuccessful

campaigns have been unable to overcome his taste for quarrels--a victory

would make a fighting-man of him for life."

"That inconvenience might bring its own consolations," said

Winterblossom, apart to Mowbray; "quarrellers do not usually live long."

"No, no," replied Mowbray, "the lady's despair, which broke out just

now, even in her own despite, is quite natural--absolutely legitimate.

Sir Bingo will give her no chance that way."

Mowbray then made his bow to Lady Penelope, and in answer to her request

that he would join the ball or the card-table, observed, that he had no

time to lose; that the heads of the old domestics at Shaws-Castle would

be by this time absolutely turned, by the apprehensions of what Thursday

was to bring forth; and that as Clara would certainly give no directions

for the proper arrangements, it was necessary that he should take that

trouble himself.

"If you ride smartly," said Lady Penelope, "you may save even a

temporary alarm, by overtaking Clara, dear creature, ere she gets

home--She sometimes suffers her pony to go at will along the lane, as

slow as Betty Foy's."

"Ah, but then," said little Miss Digges, "Miss Mowbray sometimes gallops

as if the lark was a snail to her pony--and it quite frights one to see

her."

The Doctor touched Mrs. Blower, who had approached so as to be on the

verge of the genteel circle, though she did not venture within it--they

exchanged sagacious looks, and a most pitiful shake of the head.

Mowbray's eye happened at that moment to glance on them; and doubtless,

notwithstanding their hasting to compose their countenances to a

different expression, he comprehended what was passing through their

minds;--and perhaps it awoke a corresponding note in his own. He took

his hat, and with a cast of thought upon his countenance which it seldom

wore, left the apartment. A moment afterwards his horse's feet were

heard spurning the pavement, as he started off at a sharp pace.

"There is something singular about these Mowbrays to-night," said Lady

Penelope.--"Clara, poor dear angel, is always particular; but I should

have thought Mowbray had too much worldly wisdom to be fanciful.--What

are you consulting your _souvenir_ for with such attention, my dear Lady

Binks?"

"Only for the age of the moon," said her ladyship, putting the little

tortoise-shell-bound calendar into her reticule; and having done so, she

proceeded to assist Lady Penelope in the arrangements for the evening.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

THE MEETING.

We meet as shadows in the land of dreams,

Which speak not but in signs.

_Anonymous._

Behind one of the old oaks which we have described in the preceding

chapter, shrouding himself from observation like a hunter watching for

his game, or an Indian for his enemy, but with different, very different

purpose, Tyrrel lay on his breast near the Buck-stane, his eye on the

horse-road which winded down the valley, and his ear alertly awake to

every sound which mingled with the passing breeze, or with the ripple of

the brook.

"To have met her in yonder congregated assembly of brutes and

fools"--such was a part of his internal reflections,--"had been little

less than an act of madness--madness almost equal in its degree to that

cowardice which has hitherto prevented my approaching her, when our

eventful meeting might have taken place unobserved.--But now--now--my

resolution is as fixed as the place is itself favourable. I will not

wait till some chance again shall throw us together, with an hundred

malignant eyes to watch, and wonder, and stare, and try in vain to

account for the expression of feelings which I might find it impossible

to suppress.--Hark--hark!--I hear the tread of a horse--No--it was the

changeful sound of the water rushing over the pebbles. Surely she cannot

have taken the other road to Shaws-Castle!--No--the sounds become

distinct--her figure is visible on the path, coming swiftly

forward.--Have I the courage to show myself?--I have--the hour is come,

and what must be shall be."

Yet this resolution was scarcely formed ere it began to fluctuate, when

he reflected upon the fittest manner of carrying it into execution. To

show himself at a distance, might give the lady an opportunity of

turning back and avoiding the interview which he had determined upon--to

hide himself till the moment when her horse, in rapid motion, should

pass his lurking-place, might be attended with danger to the rider--and

while he hesitated which course to pursue, there was some chance of his

missing the opportunity of presenting himself to Miss Mowbray at all. He

was himself sensible of this, formed a hasty and desperate resolution

not to suffer the present moment to escape, and, just as the ascent

induced the pony to slacken its pace, Tyrrel stood in the middle of the

defile, about six yards distant from the young lady.

She pulled up the reins, and stopped as if arrested by a

thunderbolt.--"Clara!"--"Tyrrel!" These were the only words which were

exchanged between them, until Tyrrel, moving his feet as slowly as if

they had been of lead, began gradually to diminish the distance which

lay betwixt them. It was then that, observing his closer approach, Miss

Mowbray called out with great eagerness,--"No nearer--no nearer!--So

long have I endured your presence, but if you approach me more closely,

I shall be mad indeed!"

"What do you fear?" said Tyrrel, in a hollow voice--"What can you fear?"

and he continued to draw nearer, until they were within a pace of each

other.

Clara, meanwhile, dropping her bridle, clasped her hands together, and

held them up towards Heaven, muttering, in a voice scarcely audible,

"Great God!--If this apparition be formed by my heated fancy, let it

pass away; if it be real, enable me to bear its presence!--Tell me, I

conjure you, are you Francis Tyrrel in blood and body, or is this but

one of those wandering visions, that have crossed my path and glared on

me, but without daring to abide my steadfast glance?"

"I am Francis Tyrrel," answered he, "in blood and body, as much as she

to whom I speak is Clara Mowbray."

"Then God have mercy on us both!" said Clara, in a tone of deep feeling.

"Amen!" said Tyrrel.--"But what avails this excess of agitation?--You

saw me but now, Miss Mowbray--Your voice still rings in my ears--You saw

me but now--you spoke to me--and that when I was among strangers--Why

not preserve your composure, when we are where no human eye can see--no

human ear can hear?"

"Is it so?" said Clara; "and was it indeed yourself whom I saw even

now?--I thought so, and something I said at the time--but my brain has

been but ill settled since we last met--But I am well now--quite well--I

have invited all the people yonder to come to Shaws-Castle--my brother

desired me to do it--I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Mr.

Tyrrel there--though I think there is some old grudge between my brother

and you."

"Alas! Clara, you mistake. Your brother I have scarcely seen," replied

Tyrrel, much distressed, and apparently uncertain in what tone to

address her, which might soothe, and not irritate her mental malady, of

which he could now entertain no doubt.

"True--true," she said, after a moment's reflection, "my brother was

then at college. It was my father, my poor father, whom you had some

quarrel with.--But you will come to Shaws-Castle on Thursday, at two

o'clock?--John will be glad to see you--he can be kind when he

pleases--and then we will talk of old times--I must get on, to have

things ready--Good evening."

She would have passed him, but he took gently hold of the rein of her

bridle.--"I will walk with you, Clara," he said; "the road is rough and

dangerous--you ought not to ride fast.--I will walk along with you, and

we will talk of former times now, more conveniently than in company."

"True--true--very true, Mr. Tyrrel--it shall be as you say. My brother

obliges me sometimes to go into company at that hateful place down

yonder; and I do so because he likes it, and because the folks let me

have my own way, and come and go as I list. Do you know, Tyrrel, that

very often when I am there, and John has his eye on me, I can carry it

on as gaily as if you and I had never met?"

"I would to God we never had," said Tyrrel, in a trembling voice, "since

this is to be the end of all!"

"And wherefore should not sorrow be the end of sin and of folly? And

when did happiness come of disobedience?--And when did sound sleep visit

a bloody pillow? That is what I say to myself, Tyrrel, and that is what

you must learn to say too, and then you will bear your burden as

cheerfully as I endure mine. If we have no more than our deserts, why

should we complain?--You are shedding tears, I think--Is not that

childish?--They say it is a relief--if so, weep on, and I will look

another way."

Tyrrel walked on by the pony's side, in vain endeavouring to compose

himself so as to reply.

"Poor Tyrrel," said Clara, after she had remained silent for some

time--"Poor Frank Tyrrel!--Perhaps you will say in your turn, Poor

Clara--but I am not so poor in spirit as you--the blast may bend, but it

shall never break me."

There was another long pause; for Tyrrel was unable to determine with

himself in what strain he could address the unfortunate young lady,

without awakening recollections equally painful to her feelings, and

dangerous, when her precarious state of health was considered. At length

she herself proceeded:--

"What needs all this, Tyrrel?--and indeed, why came you here?--Why did I

find you but now brawling and quarrelling among the loudest of the

brawlers and quarrellers of yonder idle and dissipated debauchees?--You

were used to have more temper--more sense. Another person--ay, another

that you and I once knew--he might have committed such a folly, and he

would have acted perhaps in character.--But you, who pretend to

wisdom--for shame, for shame!--And indeed, when we talk of that, what

wisdom was there in coming hither at all?--or what good purpose can your

remaining here serve?--Surely you need not come, either to renew your

own unhappiness or to augment mine?"

"To augment yours--God forbid!" answered Tyrrel. "No--I came hither only

because, after so many years of wandering, I longed to revisit the spot

where all my hopes lay buried."

"Ay--buried is the word," she replied, "crushed down and buried when

they budded fairest. I often think of it, Tyrrel; and there are times

when, Heaven help me! I can think of little else.--Look at me--you

remember what I was--see what grief and solitude have made me."

She flung back the veil which surrounded her riding-hat, and which had

hitherto hid her face. It was the same countenance which he had formerly

known in all the bloom of early beauty; but though the beauty remained,

the bloom was fled for ever. Not the agitation of exercise--not that

which arose from the pain and confusion of this unexpected interview,

had called to poor Clara's cheek even the momentary semblance of colour.

Her complexion was marble-white, like that of the finest piece of

statuary.

"Is it possible?" said Tyrrel; "can grief have made such ravages?"

"Grief," replied Clara, "is the sickness of the mind, and its sister is

the sickness of the body--they are twin-sisters, Tyrrel, and are seldom

long separate. Sometimes the body's disease comes first, and dims our

eyes and palsies our hands, before the fire of our mind and of our

intellect is quenched. But mark me--soon after comes her cruel sister

with her urn, and sprinkles cold dew on our hopes and on our loves, our

memory, our recollections, and our feelings, and shows us that they

cannot survive the decay of our bodily powers."

"Alas!" said Tyrrel, "is it come to this?"

"To this," she replied, speaking from the rapid and irregular train of

her own ideas, rather than comprehending the purport of his sorrowful

exclamation,--"to this it must ever come, while immortal souls are

wedded to the perishable substance of which our bodies are composed.

There is another state, Tyrrel, in which it will be otherwise--God grant

our time of enjoying it were come!"

She fell into a melancholy pause, which Tyrrel was afraid to disturb.

The quickness with which she spoke, marked but too plainly the irregular

succession of thought, and he was obliged to restrain the agony of his

own feelings, rendered more acute by a thousand painful recollections,

lest, by giving way to his expressions of grief, he should throw her

into a still more disturbed state of mind.

"I did not think," she proceeded, "that after so horrible a separation,

and so many years, I could have met you thus calmly and reasonably. But

although what we were formerly to each other can never be forgotten, it

is now all over, and we are only friends--Is it not so?"

Tyrrel was unable to reply.

"But I must not remain here," she said, "till the evening grows darker

on me.--We shall meet again, Tyrrel--meet as friends--nothing more--You

will come up to Shaws-Castle and see me?--no need of secrecy now--my

poor father is in his grave, and his prejudices sleep with him--my

brother John is kind, though he is stern and severe sometimes--Indeed,

Tyrrel, I believe he loves me, though he has taught me to tremble at his

frown when I am in spirits, and talk too much--But he loves me, at least

I think so, for I am sure I love him; and I try to go down amongst them

yonder, and to endure their folly, and, all things considered, I do

carry on the farce of life wonderfully well--We are but actors, you

know, and the world but a stage."

"And ours has been a sad and tragic scene," said Tyrrel, in the

bitterness of his heart, unable any longer to refrain from speech.

"It has indeed--but, Tyrrel, when was it otherwise with engagements

formed in youth and in folly? You and I would, you know, become men and

women, while we were yet scarcely more than children--We have run, while

yet in our nonage, through the passions and adventures of youth, and

therefore we are now old before our day, and the winter of our life has

come on ere its summer was well begun.--O Tyrrel! often and often have I

thought of this!--Thought of it often? Alas, when will the time come

that I shall be able to think of any thing else!"

The poor young woman sobbed bitterly, and her tears began to flow with a

freedom which they had not probably enjoyed for a length of time. Tyrrel

walked on by the side of her horse, which now prosecuted its road

homewards, unable to devise a proper mode of addressing the unfortunate

young lady, and fearing alike to awaken her passions and his own.

Whatever he might have proposed to say, was disconcerted by the plain

indications that her mind was clouded, more or less slightly, with a

shade of insanity, which deranged, though it had not destroyed, her

powers of judgment.

At length he asked her, with as much calmness as he could assume--if she

was contented--if aught could be done to render her situation more

easy--if there was aught of which she could complain which he might be

able to remedy? She answered gently, that she was calm and resigned,

when her brother would permit her to stay at home; but that when she was

brought into society, she experienced such a change as that which the

water of the brook that slumbers in a crystalline pool of the rock may

be supposed to feel, when, gliding from its quiet bed, it becomes

involved in the hurry of the cataract.

"But my brother Mowbray," she said, "thinks he is right,--and perhaps he

is so. There are things on which we may ponder too long;--and were he

mistaken, why should I not constrain myself in order to please

him--there are so few left to whom I can now give either pleasure or

pain?--I am a gay girl, too, in conversation, Tyrrel--still as gay for a

moment, as when you used to chide me for my folly. So, now I have told

you all,--I have one question to ask on my part--one question--if I had

but breath to ask it--Is _he_ still alive?"

"He lives," answered Tyrrel, but in a tone so low, that nought but the

eager attention which Miss Mowbray paid could possibly have caught such

feeble sounds.

"Lives!" she exclaimed,--"lives!--he lives, and the blood on your hand

is not then indelibly imprinted--O Tyrrel, did you but know the joy

which this assurance gives to me!"

"Joy!" replied Tyrrel--"joy, that the wretch lives who has poisoned our

happiness for ever?--lives, perhaps, to claim you for his own?"

"Never, never shall he--dare he do so," replied Clara, wildly, "while

water can drown, while cords can strangle, steel pierce--while there is

a precipice on the hill, a pool in the river--never--never!"

"Be not thus agitated, my dearest Clara," said Tyrrel; "I spoke I know

not what--he lives indeed--but far distant, and, I trust, never again to

revisit Scotland."

He would have said more, but that, agitated with fear or passion, she

struck her horse impatiently with her riding-whip. The spirited animal,

thus stimulated and at the same time restrained, became intractable, and

reared so much, that Tyrrel, fearful of the consequences, and trusting

to Clara's skill as a horsewoman, thought he best consulted her safety

in letting go the rein. The animal instantly sprung forward on the

broken and hilly path at a very rapid pace, and was soon lost to

Tyrrel's anxious eyes.

As he stood pondering whether he ought not to follow Miss Mowbray

towards Shaws-Castle, in order to be satisfied that no accident had

befallen her on the road, he heard the tread of a horse's feet advancing

hastily in the same direction, leading from the hotel. Unwilling to be

observed at this moment, he stepped aside under shelter of the

underwood, and presently afterwards saw Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's,

followed by a groom, ride hastily past his lurking-place, and pursue the

same road which had been just taken by his sister. The presence of her

brother seemed to assure Miss Mowbray's safety, and so removed Tyrrel's

chief reason for following her. Involved in deep and melancholy

reflection upon what had passed, nearly satisfied that his longer

residence in Clara's vicinity could only add to her unhappiness and his

own, yet unable to tear himself from that neighbourhood, or to

relinquish feelings which had become entwined with his heart-strings, he

returned to his lodgings in the Aultoun, in a state of mind very little

to be envied.

Tyrrel, on entering his apartment, found that it was not lighted, nor

were the Abigails of Mrs. Dods quite so alert as a waiter at Long's

might have been, to supply him with candles. Unapt at any time to exact

much personal attendance, and desirous to shun at that moment the

necessity of speaking to any person whatever, even on the most trifling

subject, he walked down into the kitchen to supply himself with what he

wanted. He did not at first observe that Mrs. Dods herself was present

in this the very centre of her empire, far less that a lofty air of

indignation was seated on the worthy matron's brow. At first it only

vented itself in broken soliloquy and interjections; as, for example,

"Vera bonny wark this!--vera creditable wark, indeed!--a decent house to

be disturbed at these hours--Keep a public--as weel keep a bedlam!"

Finding these murmurs attracted no attention, the dame placed herself

betwixt her guest and the door, to which he was now retiring with his

lighted candle, and demanded of him what was the meaning of such

behaviour.

"Of what behaviour, madam?" said her guest, repeating her question in a

tone of sternness and impatience so unusual with him, that perhaps she

was sorry at the moment that she had provoked him out of his usual

patient indifference; nay, she might even feel intimidated at the

altercation she had provoked, for the resentment of a quiet and patient

person has always in it something formidable to the professed and

habitual grumbler. But her pride was too great to think of a retreat,

after having sounded the signal for contest, and so she continued,

though in a tone somewhat lowered.

"Maister Tirl, I wad but just ask you, that are a man of sense, whether

I hae ony right to take your behaviour weel? Here have you been these

ten days and mair, eating the best, and drinking the best, and taking up

the best room in my house; and now to think of your gaun doun and taking

up with yon idle harebrained cattle at the Waal--I maun e'en be plain

wi' ye--I like nane of the fair-fashioned folk that can say My Jo and

think it no; and therefore"----

"Mrs. Dods," said Tyrrel, interrupting her, "I have no time at present

for trifles. I am obliged to you for your attention while I have been in

your house; but the disposal of my time, here or elsewhere, must be

according to my own ideas of pleasure or business--If you are tired of

me as a guest, send in your bill to-morrow."

"My bill!" said Mrs. Dods; "my bill to-morrow! And what for no wait till

Saturday, when it may be cleared atween us, plack and bawbee, as it was

on Saturday last?"

"Well--we will talk of it to-morrow, Mrs. Dods--Good-night." And he

withdrew accordingly.

Luckie Dods stood ruminating for a moment. "The deil's in him," she

said, "for he winna bide being thrawn. And I think the deil's in me too

for thrawing him, sic a canny lad, and sae gude a customer;--and I am

judging he has something on his mind--want of siller it canna be--I am

sure if I thought that, I wadna care about my small thing.--But want o'

siller it canna be--he pays ower the shillings as if they were sclate

stanes, and that's no the way that folk part with their siller when

there's but little on't--I ken weel eneugh how a customer looks that's

near the grund of the purse.--Weel! I hope he winna mind ony thing of

this nonsense the morn, and I'll try to guide my tongue something

better.--Hegh, sirs! but, as the minister says, it's an unruly

member--troth, I am whiles ashamed o't mysell."

CHAPTER X.

RESOURCES.

Come, let me have thy counsel, for I need it;

Thou art of those, who better help their friends

With sage advice, than usurers with gold,

Or brawlers with their swords--I'll trust to thee,

For I ask only from thee words, not deeds.

_The Devil hath met his Match._

The day of which we last gave the events chanced to be Monday, and two

days therefore intervened betwixt it and that for which the

entertainment was fixed, that was to assemble in the halls of the Lord

of the Manor the flower of the company now at St. Ronan's Well. The

interval was but brief for the preparations necessary on an occasion so

unusual; since the house, though delightfully situated, was in very

indifferent repair, and for years had never received any visitors,

except when some blithe bachelor or fox-hunter shared the hospitality of

Mr. Mowbray; an event which became daily more and more uncommon; for, as

he himself almost lived at the Well, he generally contrived to receive

his companions where it could be done without expense to himself.

Besides, the health of his sister afforded an irresistible apology to

any of those old-fashioned Scottish gentlemen, who might be too apt (in

the rudeness of more primitive days) to consider a friend's house as

their own. Mr. Mowbray was now, however, to the great delight of all

his companions, nailed down, by invitation given and accepted, and they

looked forward to the accomplishment of his promise, with the eagerness

which the prospect of some entertaining novelty never fails to produce

among idlers.

A good deal of trouble devolved on Mr. Mowbray, and his trusty agent Mr.

Meiklewham, before any thing like decent preparation could be made for

the ensuing entertainment; and they were left to their unassisted

endeavours by Clara, who, during both the Tuesday and Wednesday,

obstinately kept herself secluded; nor could her brother, either by

threats or flattery, extort from her any light concerning her purpose on

the approaching and important Thursday. To do John Mowbray justice, he

loved his sister as much as he was capable of loving any thing but

himself; and when, in several arguments, he had the mortification to

find that she was not to be prevailed on to afford her assistance, he,

without complaint, quietly set himself to do the best he could by his

own unassisted judgment or opinion with regard to the necessary

preparations.

This was not, at present, so easy a task as might be supposed: for

Mowbray was ambitious of that character of _ton_ and elegance, which

masculine faculties alone are seldom capable of attaining on such

momentous occasions. The more solid materials of a collation were indeed

to be obtained for money from the next market-town, and were purchased

accordingly; but he felt it was likely to present the vulgar plenty of a

farmer's feast, instead of the elegant entertainment, which might be

announced in a corner of the county paper, as given by John Mowbray,

Esq. of St. Ronan's, to the gay and fashionable company assembled at

that celebrated spring. There was likely to be all sorts of error and

irregularity in dishing, and in sending up; for Shaws-Castle boasted

neither an accomplished housekeeper, nor a kitchenmaid with a hundred

pair of hands to execute her mandates. All the domestic arrangements

were on the minutest system of economy consistent with ordinary decency,

except in the stables, which were excellent and well kept. But can a

groom of the stables perform the labours of a groom of the chambers? or

can the gamekeeper arrange in tempting order the carcasses of the birds

he has shot, strew them with flowers, and garnish them with piquant

sauces? It would be as reasonable to expect a gallant soldier to act as

undertaker, and conduct the funeral of the enemy he has slain.

In a word, Mowbray talked, and consulted, and advised, and squabbled,

with the deaf cook, and a little old man whom he called the butler,

until he at length perceived so little chance of bringing order out of

confusion, or making the least advantageous impression on such obdurate

understandings as he had to deal with, that he fairly committed the

whole matter of the collation, with two or three hearty curses, to the

charge of the officials principally concerned, and proceeded to take the

state of the furniture and apartments under his consideration.

Here he found himself almost equally helpless; for what male wit is

adequate to the thousand little coquetries practised in such

arrangements? how can masculine eyes judge of the degree of _demi-jour_

which is to be admitted into a decorated apartment, or discriminate

where the broad light should be suffered to fall on a tolerable picture,

where it should be excluded, lest the stiff daub of a periwigged

grandsire should become too rigidly prominent? And if men are unfit for

weaving such a fairy web of light and darkness as may best suit

furniture, ornaments, and complexions, how shall they be adequate to the

yet more mysterious office of arranging, while they disarrange, the

various movables in the apartment? so that while all has the air of

negligence and chance, the seats are placed as if they had been

transported by a wish to the spot most suitable for accommodation;

stiffness and confusion are at once avoided, the company are neither

limited to a formal circle of chairs, nor exposed to break their noses

over wandering stools; but the arrangements seem to correspond to what

ought to be the tone of the conversation, easy, without being confused,

and regulated, without being constrained or stiffened.

Then how can a clumsy male wit attempt the arrangement of all the

_chiffonerie_, by which old snuff-boxes, heads of canes, pomander boxes,

lamer beads, and all the trash usually found in the pigeon-holes of the

bureaus of old-fashioned ladies, may be now brought into play, by

throwing them, carelessly grouped with other unconsidered trifles, such

as are to be seen in the windows of a pawnbroker's shop, upon a marble

_encognure_, or a mosaic work-table, thereby turning to advantage the

trash and trinketry, which all the old maids or magpies, who have

inhabited the mansion for a century, have contrived to accumulate. With

what admiration of the ingenuity of the fair artist have I sometimes

pried into these miscellaneous groups of _pseudo-bijouterie_, and seen

the great grandsire's thumb-ring couchant with the coral and bells of

the first-born--and the boatswain's whistle of some old naval uncle, or

his silver tobacco-box, redolent of Oroonoko, happily grouped with the

mother's ivory comb-case, still odorous of musk, and with some virgin

aunt's tortoise-shell spectacle-case, and the eagle's talon of ebony,

with which, in the days of long and stiff stays, our grandmothers were

wont to alleviate any little irritation in their back or shoulders! Then

there was the silver strainer, on which, in more economical times than

ours, the lady of the house placed the tea-leaves, after the very last

drop had been exhausted, that they might afterwards be hospitably

divided among the company, to be eaten with sugar, and with bread and

butter. Blessings upon a fashion which has rescued from the claws of

abigails, and the melting-pot of the silversmith, those neglected

_cimelia_, for the benefit of antiquaries and the decoration of

side-tables! But who shall presume to place them there, unless under the

direction of female taste? and of that Mr. Mowbray, though possessed of

a large stock of such treasures, was for the present entirely deprived.

This digression upon his difficulties is already too long, or I might

mention the Laird's inexperience in the art of making the worse appear

the better garnishment, of hiding a darned carpet with a new

floor-cloth, and flinging an Indian shawl over a faded and threadbare

sofa. But I have said enough, and more than enough, to explain his

dilemma to an unassisted bachelor, who, without mother, sister, or

cousin, without skilful housekeeper, or experienced clerk of the

kitchen, or valet of parts and figure, adventures to give an

entertainment, and aspires to make it elegant and _comme il faut_.

The sense of his insufficiency was the more vexatious to Mowbray, as he

was aware he would find sharp critics in the ladies, and particularly in

his constant rival, Lady Penelope Penfeather. He was, therefore,

incessant in his exertions; and for two whole days ordered and

disordered, demanded, commanded, countermanded, and reprimanded, without

pause or cessation. The companion, for he could not be termed an

assistant, of his labours, was his trusty agent, who trotted from room

to room after him, affording him exactly the same degree of sympathy

which a dog doth to his master when distressed in mind, by looking in

his face from time to time with a piteous gaze, as if to assure him that

he partakes of his trouble, though he neither comprehends the cause or

the extent of it, nor has in the slightest degree the power to remove

it.

At length when Mowbray had got some matters arranged to his mind, and

abandoned a great many which he would willingly have put in better

order, he sat down to dinner upon the Wednesday preceding the appointed

day, with his worthy aide-de-camp, Mr. Meiklewham; and after bestowing a

few muttered curses upon the whole concern, and the fantastic old maid

who had brought him into the scrape, by begging an invitation, declared

that all things might now go to the devil their own way, for so sure as

his name was John Mowbray, he would trouble himself no more about them.

Keeping this doughty resolution, he sat down to dinner with his counsel

learned in the law; and speedily they dispatched the dish of chops which

was set before them, and the better part of the bottle of old port,

which served for its menstruum.

"We are well enough now," said Mowbray, "though we have had none of

their d----d kickshaws."

"A wamefou' is a wamefou'," said the writer, swabbing his greasy chops,

"whether it be of the barleymeal or the bran."

"A cart-horse thinks so," said Mowbray; "but we must do as others do,

and gentlemen and ladies are of a different opinion."

"The waur for themselves and the country baith, St. Ronan's--it's the

jinketing and the jirbling wi' tea and wi' trumpery that brings our

nobles to nine-pence, and mony a het ha'-house to a hired lodging in the

Abbey."

The young gentleman paused for a few minutes--filled a bumper, and

pushed the bottle to the senior--then said abruptly, "Do you believe in

luck, Mick?"

"In luck?" answered the attorney; "what do you mean by the question?"

"Why, because I believe in luck myself--in a good or bad run of luck at

cards."

"You wad have mair luck the day, if you had never touched them," replied

his confident.

"That is not the question now," said Mowbray; "but what I wonder at is

the wretched chance that has attended us miserable Lairds of St. Ronan's

for more than a hundred years, that we have always been getting worse in

the world, and never better. Never has there been such a backsliding

generation, as the parson would say--half the country once belonged to

my ancestors, and now the last furrows of it seem to be flying."

"Fleeing!" said the writer, "they are barking and fleeing baith.--This

Shaws-Castle here, I'se warrant it flee up the chimney after the rest,

were it not weel fastened down with your grandfather's tailzie."

"Damn the tailzie!" said Mowbray; "if they had meant to keep up their

estate, they should have entailed it when it was worth keeping: to tie a

man down to such an insignificant thing as St. Ronan's, is like

tethering a horse on six roods of a Highland moor."

"Ye have broke weel in on the mailing by your feus down at the Well,"

said Meiklewham, "and raxed ower the tether maybe a wee bit farther than

ye had ony right to do."

"It was by your advice, was it not?" said the Laird.

"I'se ne'er deny it, St. Ronan's," answered the writer; "but I am such a

gude-natured guse, that I just set about pleasing you as an auld wife

pleases a bairn."

"Ay," said the man of pleasure, "when she reaches it a knife to cut its

own fingers with.--These acres would have been safe enough, if it had

not been for your d----d advice."

"And yet you were grumbling e'en now," said the man of business, "that

you have not the power to gar the whole estate flee like a wild-duck

across a bog? Troth, you need care little about it; for if you have

incurred an irritancy--and sae thinks Mr. Wisebehind, the advocate, upon

an A. B. memorial that I laid before him--your sister, or your sister's

goodman, if she should take the fancy to marry, might bring a

declarator, and evict St. Ronan's frae ye in the course of twa or three

sessions."

"My sister will never marry," said John Mowbray.

"That's easily said," replied the writer; "but as broken a ship's come

to land. If ony body kend o' the chance she has o' the estate, there's

mony a weel-doing man would think little of the bee in her bonnet."

"Harkye, Mr. Meiklewham," said the Laird, "I will be obliged to you if

you will speak of Miss Mowbray with the respect due to her father's

daughter, and my sister."

"Nae offence, St. Ronan's, nae offence," answered the man of law; "but

ilka man maun speak sae as to be understood,--that is, when he speaks

about business. Ye ken yoursell, that Miss Clara is no just like other

folk; and were I you--it's my duty to speak plain--I wad e'en gie in a

bit scroll of a petition to the Lords, to be appointed Curator Bonis, in

respect of her incapacity to manage her own affairs."

"Meiklewham," said Mowbray, "you are a"----and then stopped short.

"What am I, Mr. Mowbray?" said Meiklewham, somewhat sternly--"What am I?

I wad be glad to ken what I am."

"A very good lawyer, I dare say," replied St. Ronan's, who was too much

in the power of his agent to give way to his first impulse. "But I must

tell you, that rather than take such a measure against poor Clara, as

you recommend, I would give her up the estate, and become an ostler or a

postilion for the rest of my life."

"Ah, St. Ronan's," said the man of law, "if you had wished to keep up

the auld house, you should have taken another trade, than to become an

ostler or a postilion. What ailed you, man, but to have been a lawyer as

weel as other folk? My auld Maister had a wee bit Latin about _rerum

dominos gentemque togatam_, whilk signified, he said, that all lairds

should be lawyers."

"All lawyers are likely to become lairds, I think," replied Mowbray;

"they purchase our acres by the thousand, and pay us, according to the

old story, with a multiplepoinding, as your learned friends call it, Mr.

Meiklewham."

"Weel--and mightna you have purchased as weel as other folk?"

"Not I," replied the Laird; "I have no turn for that service, I should

only have wasted bombazine on my shoulders, and flour upon my

three-tailed wig--should but have lounged away my mornings in the

Outer-House, and my evenings at the play-house, and acquired no more law

than what would have made me a wise justice at a Small-debt Court."

"If you gained little, you would have lost as little," said Meiklewham;

"and albeit ye were nae great gun at the bar, ye might aye have gotten a

Sheriffdom, or a Commissaryship, amang the lave, to keep the banes

green; and sae ye might have saved your estate from deteriorating, if ye

didna mend it muckle."

"Yes, but I could not have had the chance of doubling it, as I might

have done," answered Mowbray, "had that inconstant jade, Fortune, but

stood a moment faithful to me. I tell you, Mick, that I have been,

within this twelvemonth, worth a hundred thousand--worth fifty

thousand--worth nothing, but the remnant of this wretched estate, which

is too little to do one good while it is mine, though, were it sold, I

could start again, and mend my hand a little."

"Ay, ay, just fling the helve after the hatchet," said his legal

adviser--"that's a' you think of. What signifies winning a hundred

thousand pounds, if you win them to lose them a' again?"

"What signifies it?" replied Mowbray. "Why, it signifies as much to a

man of spirit, as having won a battle signifies to a general--no matter

that he is beaten afterwards in his turn, he knows there is luck for him

as well as others, and so he has spirit to try it again. Here is the

young Earl of Etherington will be amongst us in a day or two--they say

he is up to every thing--if I had but five hundred to begin with, I

should be soon up to him."

"Mr. Mowbray," said Meiklewham, "I am sorry for ye. I have been your

house's man-of-business--I may say, in some measure, your house's

servant--and now I am to see an end of it all, and just by the lad that

I thought maist likely to set it up again better than ever; for, to do

ye justice, you have aye had an ee to your ain interest, sae far as your

lights gaed. It brings tears into my auld een."

"Never weep for the matter, Mick," answered Mowbray; "some of it will

stick, my old boy, in your pockets, if not in mine--your service will

not be altogether gratuitous, my old friend--the labourer is worthy of

his hire."

"Weel I wot is he," said the writer; "but double fees would hardly carry

folk through some wark. But if ye will have siller, ye maun have

siller--but, I warrant, it goes just where the rest gaed."

"No, by twenty devils!" exclaimed Mowbray, "to fail this time is

impossible--Jack Wolverine was too strong for Etherington at any thing

he could name; and I can beat Wolverine from the Land's-End to Johnnie

Groat's--but there must be something to go upon--the blunt must be had,

Mick."

"Very likely--nae doubt--that is always provided it _can_ be had,"

answered the legal adviser.

"That's your business, my old cock," said Mowbray. "This youngster will

be here perhaps to-morrow, with money in both pockets--he takes up his

rents as he comes down, Mick--think of that, my old friend."

"Weel for them that have rents to take up," said Meiklewham; "ours are

lying rather ower low to be lifted at present.--But are you sure this

Earl is a man to mell with?--are you sure ye can win of him, and that if

you do, he can pay his losings, Mr. Mowbray?--because I have kend mony

are come for wool, and gang hame shorn; and though ye are a clever young

gentleman, and I am bound to suppose ye ken as much about life as most

folk, and all that; yet some gate or other ye have aye come off at the

losing hand, as ye have ower much reason to ken this day--howbeit"----

"O, the devil take your gossip, my dear Mick! If you can give no help,

spare drowning me with your pother.--Why, man, I was a fresh hand--had

my apprentice-fees to pay--and these are no trifles, Mick.--But what of

that?--I am free of the company now, and can trade on my own bottom."

"Aweel, aweel, I wish it may be sae," said Meiklewham.

"It will be so, and it shall be so, my trusty friend," replied Mowbray,

cheerily, "so you will but help me to the stock to trade with."

"The stock?--what d'ye ca' the stock? I ken nae stock that ye have

left."

"But _you_ have plenty, my old boy--Come, sell out a few of your three

per cents; I will pay difference--interest--exchange--every thing."

"Ay, ay--every thing or naething," answered Meiklewham; "but as you are

sae very pressing, I hae been thinking--Whan is the siller wanted?"

"This instant--this day--to-morrow at farthest!" exclaimed the proposed

borrower.

"Wh--ew!" whistled the lawyer, with a long prolongation of the note;

"the thing is impossible."

"It must be, Mick, for all that," answered Mr. Mowbray, who knew by

experience that _impossible_, when uttered by his accommodating friend

in this tone, meant only, when interpreted, extremely difficult, and

very expensive.

"Then it must be by Miss Clara selling her stock, now that ye speak of

stock," said Meiklewham; "I wonder ye didna think of this before."

"I wish you had been dumb rather than that you had mentioned it now,"

said Mowbray, starting, as if stung by an adder--"What, Clara's

pittance!--the trifle my aunt left her for her own fanciful

expenses--her own little private store, that she puts to so many good

purposes--Poor Clara, that has so little!--And why not rather your own,

Master Meiklewham, who call yourself the friend and servant of our

family?"

"Ay, St. Ronan's," answered Meiklewham, "that is a' very true--but

service is nae inheritance; and as for friendship, it begins at hame, as

wise folk have said lang before our time. And for that matter, I think

they that are nearest sib should take maist risk. You are nearer and

dearer to your sister, St. Ronan's, than you are to poor Saunders

Meiklewham, that hasna sae muckle gentle blood as would supper up an

hungry flea."

"I will not do this," said St. Ronan's, walking up and down with much

agitation; for, selfish as he was, he loved his sister, and loved her

the more on account of those peculiarities which rendered his protection

indispensable to her comfortable existence--"I will not," he said,

"pillage her, come on't what will. I will rather go a volunteer to the

continent, and die like a gentleman."

He continued to pace the room in a moody silence, which began to disturb

his companion, who had not been hitherto accustomed to see his patron

take matters so deeply. At length he made an attempt to attract the

attention of the silent and sullen ponderer.

"Mr. Mowbray"--no answer--"I was saying, St. Ronan's"--still no reply.

"I have been thinking about this matter--and"----

"And _what_, sir?" said St. Ronan's, stopping short, and speaking in a

stern tone of voice.

"And, to speak truth, I see little feasibility in the matter ony way;

for if ye had the siller in your pocket to-day, it would be a' in the

Earl of Etherington's the morn."

"Pshaw! you are a fool," answered Mowbray.

"That is not unlikely," said Meiklewham; "but so is Sir Bingo Binks, and

yet he's had the better of you, St. Ronan's, this twa or three times."

"It is false!--he has not," answered St. Ronan's, fiercely.

"Weel I wot," resumed Meiklewham, "he took you in about the saumon fish,

and some other wager ye lost to him this very day."

"I tell you once more, Meiklewham, you are a fool, and no more up to my

trim than you are to the longitude.--Bingo is got shy--I must give him

a little line, that is all--then I shall strike him to purpose--I am as

sure of him as I am of the other--I know the fly they will both rise

to--this cursed want of five hundred will do me out of ten thousand!"

"If you are so certain of being the bangster--so very certain, I mean,

of sweeping stakes,--what harm will Miss Clara come to by your having

the use of her siller? You can make it up to her for the risk ten times

told."

"And so I can, by Heaven!" said St. Ronan's. "Mick, you are right, and I

am a scrupulous, chicken-hearted fool. Clara shall have a thousand for

her poor five hundred--she shall, by ----. And I will carry her to

Edinburgh for a season, or perhaps to London, and we will have the best

advice for her case, and the best company to divert her. And if they

think her a little odd--why, d---- me, I am her brother, and will bear

her through it. Yes--yes--you're right; there can be no hurt in

borrowing five hundred of her for a few days, when such profit may be

made on't, both for her and me.--Here, fill the glasses, my old boy, and

drink success to it, for you are right."

"Here is success to it, with all my heart," answered Meiklewham,

heartily glad to see his patron's sanguine temper arrive at this

desirable conclusion, and yet willing to hedge in his own credit; "but

it is _you_ are right, and not _me_, for I advise nothing except on your

assurances, that you can make your ain of this English earl, and of this

Sir Bingo--and if you can but do that, I am sure it would be unwise and

unkind in ony ane of your friends to stand in your light."

"True, Mick, true," answered Mowbray.--"And yet dice and cards are but

bones and pasteboard, and the best horse ever started may slip a

shoulder before he get to the winning-post--and so I wish Clara's

venture had not been in such a bottom.--But, hang it, care killed a

cat--I can hedge as well as any one, if the odds turn up against me--so

let us have the cash, Mick."

"Aha! but there go two words to that bargain--the stock stands in my

name, and Tam Turnpenny the banker's, as trustees for Miss Clara--Now,

get you her letter to us, desiring us to sell out and to pay you the

proceeds, and Tam Turnpenny will let you have five hundred pounds

_instanter_, on the faith of the transaction; for I fancy you would

desire a' the stock to be sold out, and it will produce more than six

hundred, or seven hundred pounds either--and I reckon you will be

selling out the whole--it's needless making twa bites of a cherry."

"True," answered Mowbray; "since we must be rogues, or something like

it, let us make it worth our while at least; so give me a form of the

letter, and Clara shall copy it--that is, if she consents; for you know

she can keep her own opinion as well as any other woman in the world."

"And that," said Meiklewham, "is as the wind will keep its way, preach

to it as ye like. But if I might advise about Miss Clara--I wad say

naething mair than that I was stressed for the penny money; for I

mistake her muckle if she would like to see you ganging to pitch and

toss wi' this lord and tither baronet for her aunt's three per cents--I

ken she has some queer notions--she gies away the feck of the dividends

on that very stock in downright charity."

"And I am in hazard to rob the poor as well as my sister!" said Mowbray,

filling once more his own glass and his friend's. "Come, Mick, no

sky-lights--here is Clara's health--she is an angel--and I am--what I

will not call myself, and suffer no other man to call me.--But I shall

win this time--I am sure I shall, since Clara's fortune depends upon

it."

"Now, I think, on the other hand," said Meiklewham, "that if any thing

should chance wrang, (and Heaven kens that the best-laid schemes will

gang ajee,) it will be a great comfort to think that the ultimate losers

will only be the poor folk, that have the parish between them and

absolute starvation--if your sister spent her ain siller, it would be a

very different story."

"Hush, Mick--for God's sake, hush, mine honest friend," said Mowbray;

"it is quite true; thou art a rare counsellor in time of need, and hast

as happy a manner of reconciling a man's conscience with his

necessities, as might set up a score of casuists; but beware, my most

zealous counsellor and confessor, how you drive the nail too far--I

promise you some of the chaffing you are at just now rather abates my

pluck.--Well--give me your scroll--I will to Clara with it--though I

would rather meet the best shot in Britain, with ten paces of green sod

betwixt us." So saying, he left the apartment.

CHAPTER XI.

FRATERNAL LOVE.

Nearest of blood should still be next in love;

And when I see these happy children playing,

While William gathers flowers for Ellen's ringlets,

And Ellen dresses flies for William's angle,

I scarce can think, that in advancing life,

Coldness, unkindness, interest, or suspicion,

Will e'er divide that unity so sacred,

Which Nature bound at birth.

_Anonymous._

When Mowbray had left his dangerous adviser, in order to steer the

course which his agent had indicated, without offering to recommend it,

he went to the little parlour which his sister was wont to term her own,

and in which she spent great part of her time. It was fitted up with a

sort of fanciful neatness; and in its perfect arrangement and good

order, formed a strong contrast to the other apartments of the old and

neglected mansion-house. A number of little articles lay on the

work-table, indicating the elegant, and, at the same time, the unsettled

turn of the inhabitant's mind. There were unfinished drawings, blotted

music, needlework of various kinds, and many other little female tasks;

all undertaken with zeal, and so far prosecuted with art and elegance,

but all flung aside before any one of them was completed.

Clara herself sat upon a little low couch by the window, reading, or at

least turning over the leaves of a book, in which she seemed to read.

But instantly starting up when she saw her brother, she ran towards him

with the most cordial cheerfulness.

"Welcome, welcome, my dear John; this is very kind of you to come to

visit your recluse sister. I have been trying to nail my eyes and my

understanding to a stupid book here, because they say too much thought

is not quite good for me. But, either the man's dulness, or my want of

the power of attending, makes my eyes pass over the page, just as one

seems to read in a dream, without being able to comprehend one word of

the matter. You shall talk to me, and that will do better. What can I

give you to show that you are welcome? I am afraid tea is all I have to

offer, and that you set too little store by."

"I shall be glad of a cup at present," said Mowbray, "for I wish to

speak with you."

"Then Jessy shall make it ready instantly," said Miss Mowbray, ringing,

and giving orders to her waiting-maid--"but you must not be ungrateful,

John, and plague me with any of the ceremonial for your

fête--'sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.' I will attend, and

play my part as prettily as you can desire; but to think of it

beforehand, would make both my head and my heart ache; and so I beg you

will spare me on the subject."

"Why, you wild kitten," said Mowbray, "you turn every day more shy of

human communication--we shall have you take the woods one day, and

become as savage as the Princess Caraboo. But I will plague you about

nothing if I can help it. If matters go not smooth on the great day,

they must e'en blame the dull thick head that had no fair lady to help

him in his need. But, Clara, I had something more material to say to

you--something indeed of the last importance."

"What is it?" said Clara, in a tone of voice approaching to a

scream--"in the name of God, what is it? You know not how you terrify

me!"

"Nay, you start at a shadow, Clara," answered her brother. "It is no

such uncommon matter neither--good faith, it is the most common distress

in the world, so far as I know the world--I am sorely pinched for

money."

"Is that all?" replied Clara, in a tone which seemed to her brother as

much to underrate the difficulty, when it was explained, as her fears

had exaggerated it before she heard its nature.

"Is that all? Indeed it is all, and comprehends a great deal of

vexation. I shall be hard run unless I can get a certain sum of

money--and I must e'en ask you if you can help me?"

"Help you?" replied Clara; "Yes, with all my heart--but you know my

purse is a light one--more than half of my last dividend is in it,

however, and I am sure, John, I shall be happy if it can serve

you--especially as that will at least show that your wants are but small

ones."

"Alas, Clara, if you would help me," said her brother, half repentant of

his purpose, "you must draw the neck of the goose which lays the golden

eggs--you must lend me the whole stock."

"And why not, John," said the simple-hearted girl, "if it will do you a

kindness? Are you not my natural guardian? Are you not a kind one? And

is not my little fortune entirely at your disposal? You will, I am

sure, do all for the best."

"I fear I may not," said Mowbray, starting from her, and more distressed

by her sudden and unsuspicious compliance, than he would have been by

difficulties, or remonstrance. In the latter case, he would have stifled

the pangs of conscience amid the manoeuvres which he must have

resorted to for obtaining her acquiescence; as matters stood, there was

all the difference that there is between slaughtering a tame and

unresisting animal, and pursuing wild game, until the animation of the

sportsman's exertions overcomes the internal sense of his own

cruelty.[I-E] The same idea occurred to Mowbray himself.

"By G--," he said, "this is like shooting the bird sitting.--Clara," he

added, "I fear this money will scarce be employed as you would wish."

"Employ it as you yourself please, my dearest brother," she replied,

"and I will believe it is all for the best."

"Nay, I am doing for the best," he replied; "at least, I am doing what

must be done, for I see no other way through it--so all you have to do

is to copy this paper, and bid adieu to bank dividends--for a little

while at least. I trust soon to double this little matter for you, if

Fortune will but stand my friend."

"Do not trust to Fortune, John," said Clara, smiling, though with an

expression of deep melancholy. "Alas! she has never been a friend to our

family--not at least for many a day."

"She favours the bold, say my old grammatical exercises," answered her

brother; "and I must trust her, were she as changeable as a

weathercock.--And yet--if she should jilt me!--What will you do--what

will you say, Clara, if I am unable, contrary to my hope, trust, and

expectation, to repay you this money within a short time?"

"Do?" replied Clara; "I must do without it, you know; and for saying, I

will not say a word."

"True," replied Mowbray, "but your little expenses--your charities--your

halt and blind--your round of paupers?"

"Well, I can manage all that too. Look you here, John, how many

half-worked trifles there are. The needle or the pencil is the resource

of all distressed heroines, you know; and I promise you, though I have

been a little idle and unsettled of late, yet, when I do set about it,

no Emmeline or Ethelinde of them all ever sent such loads of trumpery to

market as I shall, or made such wealth as I will do. I dare say Lady

Penelope, and all the gentry at the Well, will purchase, and will

raffle, and do all sort of things to encourage the pensive performer. I

will send them such lots of landscapes with sap-green trees, and

mazareen-blue rivers, and portraits that will terrify the originals

themselves--and handkerchiefs and turbans, with needlework scallopped

exactly like the walks on the Belvidere--Why, I shall become a little

fortune in the first season."

"No, Clara," said John, gravely, for a virtuous resolution had gained

the upperhand in his bosom, while his sister ran on in this manner,--"We

will do something better than all this. If this kind help of yours does

not fetch me through, I am determined I will cut the whole concern. It

is but standing a laugh or two, and hearing a gay fellow say, D---- me,

Jack, are you turned clodhopper at last?--that is the worst. Dogs,

horses, and all, shall go to the hammer; we will keep nothing but your

pony, and I will trust to a pair of excellent legs. There is enough left

of the old acres to keep us in the way you like best, and that I will

learn to like. I will work in the garden, and work in the forest, mark

my own trees, and cut them myself, keep my own accounts, and send

Saunders Meiklewham to the devil."

"That last is the best resolution of all, John," said Clara; "and if

such a day should come round, I should be the happiest of living

creatures--I should not have a grief left in the world--if I had, you

should never see or hear of it--it should lie here," she said, pressing

her hand on her bosom, "buried as deep as a funereal urn in a cold

sepulchre. Oh! could we not begin such a life to-morrow? If it is

absolutely necessary that this trifle of money should be got rid of

first, throw it into the river, and think you have lost it amongst

gamblers and horse-jockeys."

Clara's eyes, which she fondly fixed on her brother's face, glowed

through the tears which her enthusiasm called into them, while she thus

addressed him. Mowbray, on his part, kept his looks fixed on the ground,

with a flush on his cheek, that expressed at once false pride and real

shame.

At length he looked up:--"My dear girl," he said, "how foolishly you

talk, and how foolishly I, that have twenty things to do, stand here

listening to you! All will go smooth on _my_ plan--if it should not, we

have yours in reserve, and I swear to you I will adopt it. The trifle

which this letter of yours enables me to command, may have luck in it,

and we must not throw up the cards while we have a chance of the

game.--Were I to cut from this moment, these few hundreds would make us

little better or little worse--so you see we have two strings to our

bow. Luck is sometimes against me, that is true--but upon true

principle, and playing on the square, I can manage the best of them, or

my name is not Mowbray. Adieu, my dearest Clara." So saying, he kissed

her cheek with a more than usual degree of affection.

Ere he could raise himself from his stooping posture, she threw her arm

kindly over his neck, and said with a tone of the deepest interest, "My

dearest brother, your slightest wish has been, and ever shall be, a law

to me--Oh! if you would but grant me one request in return!"

"What is it, you silly girl?" said Mowbray, gently disengaging himself

from her hold.--"What is it you can have to ask that needs such a solemn

preface?--Remember, I hate prefaces; and when I happen to open a book,

always skip them."

"Without preface, then, my dearest brother, will you, for my sake, avoid

those quarrels in which the people yonder are eternally engaged? I never

go down there but I hear of some new brawl; and I never lay my head down

to sleep, but I dream that you are the victim of it. Even last

night"----

"Nay, Clara, if you begin to tell your dreams, we shall never have done.

Sleeping, to be sure, is the most serious employment of your life--for

as to eating, you hardly match a sparrow; but I entreat you to sleep

without dreaming, or to keep your visions to yourself.--Why do you keep

such fast hold of me?--What on earth can you be afraid of?--Surely you

do not think the blockhead Binks, or any other of the good folks below

yonder, dared to turn on me? Egad, I wish they would pluck up a little

mettle, that I might have an excuse for drilling them. Gad, I would soon

teach them to follow at heel."

"No, John," replied his sister; "it is not of such men as these that I

have any fear--and yet, cowards are sometimes driven to desperation, and

become more dangerous than better men--but it is not such as these that

I fear. But there are men in the world whose qualities are beyond their

seeming--whose spirit and courage lie hidden, like metals in the mine,

under an unmarked or a plain exterior.--You may meet with such--you are

rash and headlong, and apt to exercise your wit without always weighing

consequences, and thus"----

"On my word, Clara," answered Mowbray, "you are in a most sermonizing

humour this morning! the parson himself could not have been more logical

or profound. You have only to divide your discourse into heads, and

garnish it with conclusions for use, and conclusions for doctrine, and

it might be preached before a whole presbytery, with every chance of

instruction and edification. But I am a man of the world, my little

Clara; and though I wish to go in death's way as little as possible, I

must not fear the raw-head and bloody-bones neither.--And who the devil

is to put the question to me?--I must know that, Clara, for you have

some especial person in your eye when you bid me take care of

quarrelling."

Clara could not become paler than was her usual complexion; but her

voice faltered as she eagerly assured her brother, that she had no

particular person in her thoughts.

"Clara," said her brother, "do you remember, when there was a report of

a bogle[I-17] in the upper orchard, when we were both children?--Do you

remember how you were perpetually telling me to take care of the bogle,

and keep away from its haunts?--And do you remember my going on purpose

to detect the bogle, finding the cow-boy, with a shirt about him, busied

in pulling pears, and treating him to a handsome drubbing?--I am the

same Jack Mowbray still, as ready to face danger, and unmask imposition;

and your fears, Clara, will only make me watch more closely, till I find

out the real object of them. If you warn me of quarrelling with some

one, it must be because you know some one who is not unlikely to quarrel

with me. You are a flighty and fanciful girl, but you have sense enough

not to trouble either yourself or me on a point of honour, save when

there is some good reason for it."

Clara once more protested, and it was with the deepest anxiety to be

believed, that what she had said arose only out of the general

consequences which she apprehended from the line of conduct her brother

had adopted, and which, in her apprehension, was so likely to engage him

in the broils that divided the good company at the Spring. Mowbray

listened to her explanation with an air of doubt, or rather incredulity,

sipped a cup of tea which had for some time been placed before him, and

at length replied, "Well, Clara, whether I am right or wrong in my

guess, it would be cruel to torment you any more, remembering what you

have just done for me. But do justice to your brother, and believe, that

when you have any thing to ask of him, an explicit declaration of your

wishes will answer your purpose much better than any ingenious oblique

attempts to influence me. Give up all thoughts of such, my dear

Clara--you are but a poor manoeuvrer, but were you the very Machiavel

of your sex, you should not turn the flank of John Mowbray."

He left the room as he spoke, and did not return, though his sister

twice called upon him. It is true that she uttered the word brother so

faintly, that perhaps the sound did not reach his ears.--"He is gone,"

she said, "and I have had no power to speak out! I am like the wretched

creatures, who, it is said, lie under a potent charm, that prevents them

alike from shedding tears and from confessing their crimes--Yes, there

is a spell on this unhappy heart, and either that must be dissolved, or

this must break."

FOOTNOTE:

[I-17] Bogle--in English, Goblin.

CHAPTER XII.

THE CHALLENGE.

A slight note I have about me, for the delivery of which you must

excuse me. It is an office which friendship calls upon me to do, and

no way offensive to you, as I desire nothing but right on both

sides.

_King and No King._

The intelligent reader may recollect, that Tyrrel departed from the Fox

Hotel on terms not altogether so friendly towards the company as those

under which he entered it. Indeed, it occurred to him, that he might

probably have heard something farther on the subject, though, amidst

matters of deeper and more anxious consideration, the idea only passed

hastily through his mind; and two days having gone over without any

message from Sir Bingo Binks, the whole affair glided entirely out of

his memory.

The truth was, that although never old woman took more trouble to

collect and blow up with her bellows the embers of her decayed fire,

than Captain MacTurk kindly underwent for the purpose of puffing into a

flame the dying sparkles of the Baronet's courage; yet two days were

spent in fruitless conferences before he could attain the desired point.

He found Sir Bingo on these different occasions in all sorts of

different moods of mind, and disposed to view the thing in all shades of

light, except what the Captain thought was the true one.--He was in a

drunken humour--in a sullen humour--in a thoughtless and vilipending

humour--in every humour but a fighting one. And when Captain MacTurk

talked of the reputation of the company at the Well, Sir Bingo pretended

to take offence, said the company might go to the devil, and hinted that

he "did them sufficient honour by gracing them with his countenance, but

did not mean to constitute them any judges of his affairs. The fellow

was a raff, and he would have nothing to do with him."

Captain MacTurk would willingly have taken measures against the Baronet

himself, as in a state of contumacy, but was opposed by Winterblossom

and other members of the committee, who considered Sir Bingo as too

important and illustrious a member of their society to be rashly

expelled from a place not honoured by the residence of many persons of

rank; and finally insisted that nothing should be done in the matter

without the advice of Mowbray, whose preparations for his solemn

festival on the following Thursday had so much occupied him, that he had

not lately appeared at the Well.

In the meanwhile, the gallant Captain seemed to experience as much

distress of mind, as if some stain had lain on his own most unblemished

of reputations. He went up and down upon the points of his toes, rising

up on his instep with a jerk which at once expressed vexation and

defiance--He carried his nose turned up in the air, like that of a pig

when he snuffs the approaching storm--He spoke in monosyllables when he

spoke at all; and--what perhaps illustrated in the strongest manner the

depth of his feelings--he refused, in face of the whole company, to

pledge Sir Bingo in a glass of the Baronet's peculiar cogniac.

At length, the whole Well was alarmed by the report brought by a smart

outrider, that the young Earl of Etherington, reported to be rising on

the horizon of fashion as a star of the first magnitude, intended to

pass an hour, or a day, or a week, as it might happen, (for his lordship

could not be supposed to know his own mind,) at St. Ronan's Well.

This suddenly put all in motion. Almanacks were opened to ascertain his

lordship's age, enquiries were made concerning the extent of his

fortune, his habits were quoted, his tastes were guessed at; and all

that the ingenuity of the Managing Committee could devise was resorted

to, in order to recommend their Spa to this favourite of fortune. An

express was dispatched to Shaws-Castle with the agreeable intelligence,

which fired the train of hope that led to Mowbray's appropriation of his

sister's capital. He did not, however, think proper to obey the summons

to the Spring; for, not being aware in what light the Earl might regard

the worthies there assembled, he did not desire to be found by his

lordship in any strict connexion with them.

Sir Bingo Binks was in a different situation. The bravery with which he

had endured the censure of the place began to give way, when he

considered that a person of such distinction as that which public

opinion attached to Lord Etherington, should find him bodily indeed at

St. Ronan's, but, so far as society was concerned, on the road towards

the ancient city of Coventry; and his banishment thither, incurred by

that most unpardonable offence in modern morality, a solecism in the

code of honour. Though sluggish and inert when called to action, the

Baronet was by no means an absolute coward; or, if so, he was of that

class which fights when reduced to extremity. He manfully sent for

Captain MacTurk, who waited upon him with a grave solemnity of aspect,

which instantly was exchanged for a radiant joy, when Sir Bingo, in a

few words, empowered him to carry a message to that d----d strolling

artist, by whom he had been insulted three days since.

"By Cot," said the Captain, "my exceedingly goot and excellent friend,

and I am happy to do such a favour for you! And it's well you have

thought of it yourself; because, if it had not been for some of our very

goot and excellent friends, that would be putting their spoon into other

folk's dish, I should have been asking you a civil question myself, how

you came to dine with us, with all that mud and mire which Mr. Tyrrel's

grasp has left upon the collar of your coat--you understand me.--But it

is much better as it is, and I will go to the man with all the speed of

light; and though, to be sure, it should have been sooner thought of,

yet let me alone to make an excuse for that, just in my own civil

way--better late thrive than never do well, you know, Sir Bingo; and if

you have made him wait a little while for his morning, you must give him

the better measure, my darling."

So saying, he awaited no reply, lest peradventure the commission with

which he was so hastily and unexpectedly charged, should have been

clogged with some condition of compromise. No such proposal, however,

was made on the part of the doughty Sir Bingo, who eyed his friend as he

hastily snatched up his rattan to depart, with a dogged look of

obstinacy, expressive, to use his own phrase, of a determined resolution

to come up to the scratch; and when he heard the Captain's parting

footsteps, and saw the door shut behind him, he valiantly whistled a few

bars of Jenny Sutton, in token he cared not a farthing how the matter

was to end.

With a swifter pace than his half-pay leisure usually encouraged, or

than his habitual dignity permitted, Captain MacTurk cleared the ground

betwixt the Spring and its gay vicinity, and the ruins of the Aultoun,

where reigned our friend Meg Dods, the sole assertor of its ancient

dignities. To the door of the Cleikum Inn the Captain addressed himself,

as one too much accustomed to war to fear a rough reception; although at

the very first aspect of Meg, who presented her person at the half

opened door, his military experience taught him that his entrance into

the place would, in all probability, be disputed.

"Is Mr. Tyrrel at home?" was the question; and the answer was conveyed,

by the counter-interrogation, "Wha may ye be that speers?"

As the most polite reply to this question, and an indulgence, at the

same time, of his own taciturn disposition, the Captain presented to

Luckie Dods the fifth part of an ordinary playing card, much grimed with

snuff, which bore on its blank side his name and quality. But Luckie

Dods rejected the information thus tendered, with contemptuous scorn.

"Nane of your deil's play-books for me," said she; "it's an ill world

since sic prick-my-dainty doings came in fashion--It's a poor tongue

that canna tell its ain name, and I'll hae nane of your scarts upon

pasteboard."

"I am Captain MacTurk, of the ---- regiment," said the Captain,

disdaining further answer.

"MacTurk?" repeated Meg, with an emphasis, which induced the owner of

the name to reply, "Yes, honest woman--MacTurk--Hector MacTurk--have you

any objections to my name, goodwife?"

"Nae objections have I," answered Meg; "it's e'en an excellent name for

a heathen.--But, Captain MacTurk, since sae it be that ye are a captain,

ye may e'en face about and march your ways hame again, to the tune of

Dumbarton drums; for ye are ganging to have nae speech of Maister Tirl,

or ony lodger of mine."

"And wherefore not?" demanded the veteran; "and is this of your own

foolish head, honest woman, or has your lodger left such orders?"

"Maybe he has and maybe no," answered Meg, sturdily; "and I ken nae mair

right that ye suld ca' me honest woman, than I have to ca' you honest

man, whilk is as far frae my thoughts as it wad be from heaven's truth."

"The woman is deleerit!" said Captain MacTurk; "but coom, coom--a

gentleman is not to be misused in this way when he comes on a

gentleman's business; so make you a bit room on the door-stane, that I

may pass by you, or I will make room for myself, by Cot! to your small

pleasure."

And so saying he assumed the air of a man who was about to make good his

passage. But Meg, without deigning farther reply, flourished around her

head the hearth-broom, which she had been employing to its more

legitimate purpose, when disturbed in her housewifery by Captain

MacTurk.

"I ken your errand weel eneugh, Captain--and I ken yoursell. Ye are ane

of the folk that gang about yonder setting folk by the lugs, as callants

set their collies to fight. But ye sall come to nae lodger o' mine, let

a-be Maister Tirl, wi' ony sic ungodly errand; for I am ane that will

keep God's peace and the King's within my dwelling."

So saying, and in explicit token of her peaceable intentions, she again

flourished her broom.

The veteran instinctively threw himself under Saint George's guard, and

drew two paces back, exclaiming, "That the woman was either mad, or as

drunk as whisky could make her;" an alternative which afforded Meg so

little satisfaction, that she fairly rushed on her retiring adversary,

and began to use her weapon to fell purpose.

"Me drunk, ye scandalous blackguard!" (a blow with the broom interposed

as parenthesis,) "me, that am fasting from all but sin and bohea!"

(another whack.)

The Captain, swearing, exclaiming, and parrying, caught the blows as

they fell, showing much dexterity in single-stick. The people began to

gather; and how long his gallantry might have maintained itself against

the spirit of self-defence and revenge, must be left uncertain, for the

arrival of Tyrrel, returned from a short walk, put a period to the

contest.

Meg, who had a great respect for her guest, began to feel ashamed of her

own violence, and slunk into the house; observing, however, that she

trewed she had made her hearth-broom and the auld heathen's pow right

weel acquainted. The tranquillity which ensued upon her departure, gave

Tyrrel an opportunity to ask the Captain, whom he at length recognised,

the meaning of this singular affray, and whether the visit was intended

for him; to which the veteran replied very discomposedly, that "he

should have known that long enough ago, if he had had decent people to

open his door, and answer a civil question, instead of a flyting

madwoman, who was worse than an eagle," he said, "or a mastiff-bitch, or

a she-bear, or any other female beast in the creation."

Half suspecting his errand, and desirous to avoid unnecessary notoriety,

Tyrrel, as he showed the Captain to the parlour, which he called his

own, entreated him to excuse the rudeness of his landlady, and to pass

from the topic to that which had procured him the honour of this visit.

"And you are right, my good Master Tyrrel," said the Captain, pulling

down the sleeves of his coat, adjusting his handkerchief and

breast-ruffle, and endeavouring to recover the composure of manner

becoming his mission, but still adverting indignantly to the usage he

had received--"By Cot! if she had but been a man, if it were the King

himself--However, Mr. Tyrrel, I am come on a civil errand--and very

civilly I have been treated--the auld bitch should be set in the stocks,

and be tamned!--My friend, Sir Bingo--By Cot! I shall never forget that

woman's insolence--if there be a constable or a cat-o'-nine-tails within

ten miles"----

"I perceive, Captain," said Tyrrel, "that you are too much disturbed at

this moment to enter upon the business which has brought you here--if

you will step into my bedroom, and make use of some cold water and a

towel, it will give you the time to compose yourself a little."

"I shall do no such thing, Mr. Tyrrel," answered the Captain,

snappishly; "I do not want to be composed at all, and I do not want to

stay in this house a minute longer than to do my errand to you on my

friend's behalf--And as for this tamned woman Dods"----

"You will in that case forgive my interrupting you, Captain MacTurk, as

I presume your errand to me can have no reference to this strange

quarrel with my landlady, with which I have nothing to"----

"And if I thought that it had, sir," said the Captain, interrupting

Tyrrel in his turn, "you should have given me satisfaction before you

was a quarter of an hour older--Oh, I would give five pounds to the

pretty fellow that would say, Captain MacTurk, the woman did right!"

"I certainly will not be that person you wish for, Captain," replied

Tyrrel, "because I really do not know who was in the right or wrong; but

I am certainly sorry that you should have met with ill usage, when your

purpose was to visit me."

"Well, sir, if you are concerned," said the man of peace, snappishly,

"so am I, and there is an end of it.--And touching my errand to you--you

cannot have forgotten that you treated my friend, Sir Bingo Binks, with

singular incivility?"

"I recollect nothing of the kind, Captain," replied Tyrrel. "I remember

that the gentleman, so called, took some uncivil liberties in laying

foolish bets concerning me, and that I treated him, from respect to the

rest of the company, and the ladies in particular, with a great degree

of moderation and forbearance."

"And you must have very fine ideas of forbearance," replied the Captain,

"when you took my good friend by the collar of the coat, and lifted him

out of your way as if he had been a puppy dog! My good Mr. Tyrrel, I can

assure you he does not think that you have forborne him at all, and he

has no purpose to forbear you; and I must either carry back a sufficient

apology, or you must meet in a quiet way, with a good friend on each

side.--And this was the errand I came on, when this tamned woman, with

the hearth-broom, who is an enemy to all quiet and peaceable

proceedings"----

"We will forget Mrs. Dods for the present, if you please, Captain

MacTurk," said Tyrrel--"and, to speak to the present subject, you will

permit me to say, that I think this summons comes a little of the

latest. You know best as a military man, but I have always understood

that such differences are usually settled immediately after they

occur--not that I intend to baulk Sir Bingo's inclinations upon the

score of delay, or any other account."

"I dare say you will not--I dare say you will not, Mr. Tyrrel," answered

the Captain--"I am free to think that you know better what belongs to a

gentleman.--And as to time--look you, my good sir, there are different

sorts of people in this world, as there are different sorts of

fire-arms. There are your hair-trigger'd rifles, that go off just at the

right moment, and in the twinkling of an eye, and that, Mr. Tyrrel, is

your true man of honour;--and there is a sort of person that takes a

thing up too soon, and sometimes backs out of it, like your rubbishy

Birmingham pieces, that will at one time go off at half-cock, and at

another time burn priming without going off at all;--then again pieces

that hang fire--or I should rather say, that are like the matchlocks

which the black fellows use in the East Indies--there must be some

blowing of the match, and so forth, which occasions delay, but the piece

carries true enough after all."

"And your friend Sir Bingo's valour is of this last kind, Captain--I

presume that is the inference. I should have thought it more like a

boy's cannon, which is fired by means of a train, and is but a pop-gun

after all."

"I cannot allow of such comparisons, sir," said the Captain; "you will

understand that I come here as Sir Bingo's friend, and a reflection on

him will be an affront to me."

"I disclaim all intended offence to you, Captain--I have no wish to

extend the number of my adversaries, or to add to them the name of a

gallant officer like yourself," replied Tyrrel.

"You are too obliging, sir," said the Captain, drawing himself up with

dignity. "By Cot! and that was said very handsomely!--Well, sir, and

shall I not have the pleasure of carrying back any explanation from you

to Sir Bingo?--I assure you it would give me pleasure to make this

matter handsomely up."

"To Sir Bingo, Captain MacTurk, I have no apology to offer--I think I

treated him more gently than his impertinence deserved."

"Och, Och!" sighed the Captain, with a strong Highland intonation; "then

there is no more to be said, but just to settle time and place; for

pistols I suppose must be the weapons."

"All these matters are quite the same to me," said Tyrrel; "only, in

respect of time, I should wish it to be as speedy as possible.--What say

you to one, afternoon, this very day?--You may name the place."

"At one, afternoon," replied the Captain deliberately, "Sir Bingo will

attend you--the place may be the Buck-stane; for as the whole company go

to the water-side to-day to eat a kettle of fish,[I-18] there will be no

risk of interruption.--And who shall I speak to, my good friend, on your

side of the quarrel?"

"Really, Captain," replied Tyrrel, "that is a puzzling question--I have

no friend here--I suppose you could hardly act for both?"

"It would be totally, absolutely, and altogether out of the question, my

good friend," replied MacTurk. "But if you will trust to me, I will

bring up a friend on your part from the Well, who, though you have

hardly seen him before, will settle matters for you as well as if you

had been intimate for twenty years--and I will bring up the Doctor too,

if I can get him unloosed from the petticoat of that fat widow Blower,

that he has strung himself upon."

"I have no doubt you will do every thing with perfect accuracy, Captain.

At one o'clock, then, we meet at the Buck-stane--Stay, permit me to see

you to the door."

"By Cot! and it is not altogether so unnecessary," said the Captain;

"for the tamned woman with the besom might have some advantage in that

long dark passage, knowing the ground better than I do--tamn her, I will

have amends on her, if there be whipping-post, or ducking-stool, or a

pair of stocks in the parish!" And so saying, the Captain trudged off,

his spirits ever and anon agitated by recollection of the causeless

aggression of Meg Dods, and again composed to a state of happy serenity

by the recollection of the agreeable arrangement which he had made

between Mr. Tyrrel, and his friend Sir Bingo Binks.

We have heard of men of undoubted benevolence of character and

disposition, whose principal delight was to see a miserable criminal,

degraded alike by his previous crimes, and the sentence which he had

incurred, conclude a vicious and wretched life, by an ignominious and

painful death. It was some such inconsistency of character which induced

honest Captain MacTurk, who had really been a meritorious officer, and

was a good-natured, honourable, and well-intentioned man, to place his

chief delight in setting his friends by the ears, and then acting as

umpire in the dangerous rencontres, which, according to his code of

honour, were absolutely necessary to restore peace and cordiality. We

leave the explanation of such anomalies to the labours of craniologists,

for they seem to defy all the researches of the Ethic philosopher.

FOOTNOTE:

[I-18] A kettle of fish is a _fête-champêtre_ of a particular kind, which

is to other _fêtes-champêtres_ what the piscatory eclogues of Brown or

Sannazario are to pastoral poetry. A large caldron is boiled by the side

of a salmon river, containing a quantity of water, thickened with salt

to the consistence of brine. In this the fish is plunged when taken, and

eaten by the company _fronde super viridi_. This is accounted the best

way of eating salmon, by those who desire to taste the fish in a state

of extreme freshness. Others prefer it after being kept a day or two,

when the curd melts into oil, and the fish becomes richer and more

luscious. The more judicious gastronomes eat no other sauce than a

spoonful of the water in which the salmon is boiled, together with a

little pepper and vinegar.

CHAPTER XIII.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

_Evans._ I pray you now, good Master Slender's serving-man, and

friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master

Caius?

_Slender._ Marry, sir, the City-ward, the Park-ward, every way; Old

Windsor way, and every way.

_Merry Wives of Windsor._

Sir Bingo Binks received the Captain's communication with the same

dogged sullenness he had displayed at sending the challenge; a most

ungracious _humph_, ascending, as it were, from the very bottom of his

stomach, through the folds of a Belcher handkerchief, intimating his

acquiescence, in a tone nearly as gracious as that with which the drowsy

traveller acknowledges the intimation of the slipshod ostler, that it is

on the stroke of five, and the horn will sound in a minute. Captain

MacTurk by no means considered this ejaculation as expressing a proper

estimate of his own trouble and services. "Humph?" he replied; "and what

does that mean, Sir Bingo? Have not I here had the trouble to put you

just into the neat road; and would you have been able to make a handsome

affair out of it at all, after you had let it hang so long in the wind,

if I had not taken on myself to make it agreeable to the gentleman, and

cooked as neat a mess out of it as I have seen a Frenchman do out of a

stale sprat?"

Sir Bingo saw it was necessary to mutter some intimation of acquiescence

and acknowledgment, which, however inarticulate, was sufficient to

satisfy the veteran, to whom the adjustment of a personal affair of this

kind was a labour of love, and who now, kindly mindful of his promise to

Tyrrel, hurried away as if he had been about the most charitable action

upon earth, to secure the attendance of some one as a witness on the

stranger's part.

Mr. Winterblossom was the person whom MacTurk had in his own mind

pitched upon as the fittest person to perform this act of benevolence,

and he lost no time in communicating his wish to that worthy gentleman.

But Mr. Winterblossom, though a man of the world, and well enough

acquainted with such matters, was by no means so passionately addicted

to them as was the man of peace, Captain Hector MacTurk. As a _bon

vivant_, he hated trouble of any kind, and the shrewd selfishness of his

disposition enabled him to foresee, that a good deal might accrue to all

concerned in the course of this business. He, therefore, coolly replied,

that he knew nothing of Mr. Tyrrel--not even whether he was a gentleman

or not; and besides, he had received no regular application in his

behalf--he did not, therefore, feel himself at all inclined to go to the

field as his second. This refusal drove the poor Captain to despair. He

conjured his friend to be more public-spirited, and entreated him to

consider the reputation of the Well, which was to them as a common

country, and the honour of the company to which they both belonged, and

of which Mr. Winterblossom was in a manner the proper representative, as

being, with consent of all, the perpetual president. He reminded him

how many quarrels had been nightly undertaken and departed from on the

ensuing morning, without any suitable consequences--said, "that people

began to talk of the place oddly; and that, for his own part, he found

his own honour so nearly touched, that he had begun to think he himself

would be obliged to bring somebody or other to account, for the general

credit of the Well; and now, just when the most beautiful occasion had

arisen to put every thing on a handsome footing, it was hard--it was

cruel--it was most unjustifiable--in Mr. Winterblossom, to decline so

simple a matter as was requested of him."

Dry and taciturn as the Captain was on all ordinary occasions, he

proved, on the present, eloquent and almost pathetic; for the tears came

into his eyes when he recounted the various quarrels which had become

addled, notwithstanding his best endeavours to hatch them into an

honourable meeting; and here was one, at length, just chipping the

shell, like to be smothered, for want of the most ordinary concession on

the part of Winterblossom. In short, that gentleman could not hold out

any longer. "It was," he said, "a very foolish business, he thought; but

to oblige Sir Bingo and Captain MacTurk, he had no objection to walk

with them about noon as far as the Buck-stane, although he must observe

the day was hazy, and he had felt a prophetic twinge or two, which

looked like a visit of his old acquaintance podagra."

"Never mind that, my excellent friend," said the Captain, "a sup out of

Sir Bingo's flask is like enough to put that to rights; and by my soul,

it is not the thing he is like to leave behind him on this sort of

occasion, unless I be far mistaken in my man."

"But," said Winterblossom, "although I comply with your wishes thus far,

Captain MacTurk, I by no means undertake for certain to back this same

Master Tyrrel, of whom I know nothing at all, but only agree to go to

the place in hopes of preventing mischief."

"Never fash your beard about that, Mr. Winterblossom," replied the

Captain; "for a little mischief, as you call it, is become a thing

absolutely necessary to the credit of the place; and I am sure, whatever

be the consequences, they cannot in the present instance be very fatal

to any body; for here is a young fellow that, if he should have a

misfortune, nobody will miss, for nobody knows him; then there is Sir

Bingo, whom every body knows so well, that they will miss him all the

less."

"And there will be Lady Bingo, a wealthy and handsome young widow," said

Winterblossom, throwing his hat upon his head with the grace and

pretension of former days, and sighing to see, as he looked in the

mirror, how much time, that had whitened his hair, rounded his stomach,

wrinkled his brow, and bent down his shoulders, had disqualified him, as

he expressed it, "for entering for such a plate."

Secure of Winterblossom, the Captain's next anxiety was to obtain the

presence of Dr. Quackleben, who, although he wrote himself M.D., did not

by any means decline practice as a surgeon, when any job offered for

which he was likely to be well paid, as was warranted in the present

instance, the wealthy baronet being a party principally concerned. The

Doctor, therefore, like the eagle scenting the carnage, seized, at the

first word, the huge volume of morocco leather which formed his case of

portable instruments, and uncoiled before the Captain, with ostentatious

display, its formidable and glittering contents, upon which he began to

lecture as upon a copious and interesting text, until the man of war

thought it necessary to give him a word of caution.

"Och," says he, "I do pray you, Doctor, to carry that packet of yours

under the breast of your coat, or in your pocket, or somewhere out of

sight, and by no means to produce or open it before the parties. For

although scalpels, and tourniquets, and pincers, and the like, are very

ingenious implements, and pretty to behold, and are also useful when

time and occasion call for them, yet I have known the sight of them take

away a man's fighting stomach, and so lose their owner a job, Dr.

Quackleben."

"By my faith, Captain MacTurk," said the Doctor, "you speak as if you

were graduated!--I have known these treacherous articles play their

master many a cursed trick. The very sight of my forceps, without the

least effort on my part, once cured an inveterate toothache of three

days' duration, prevented the extraction of a carious molendinar, which

it was the very end of their formation to achieve, and sent me home

minus a guinea.--But hand me that great-coat, Captain, and we will place

the instruments in ambuscade, until they are called into action in due

time. I should think something will happen--Sir Bingo is a sure shot at

a moorcock."

"Cannot say," replied MacTurk; "I have known the pistol shake many a

hand that held the fowlingpiece fast enough. Yonder Tyrrel looks like a

teevilish cool customer--I watched him the whole time I was delivering

my errand, and I can promise you he is mettle to the backbone."

"Well--I will have my bandages ready _secundum artem_," replied the man

of medicine. "We must guard against hæmorrhage--Sir Bingo is a plethoric

subject.--One o'clock, you say--at the Buck-stane--I will be punctual."

"Will you not walk with us?" said Captain MacTurk, who seemed willing to

keep his whole convoy together on this occasion, lest, peradventure, any

of them had fled from under his patronage.

"No," replied the Doctor, "I must first make an apology to worthy Mrs.

Blower, for I had promised her my arm down to the river-side, where they

are all to eat a kettle of fish."

"By Cot! and I hope we shall make them a prettier kettle of fish than

was ever seen at St. Ronan's," said the Captain, rubbing his hands.

"Don't say _we_, Captain," replied the cautious Doctor; "I for one have

nothing to do with the meeting--wash my hands of it. No, no, I cannot

afford to be clapt up as accessory.--You ask me to meet you at the

Buck-stane--no purpose assigned--I am willing to oblige my worthy

friend, Captain MacTurk--walk that way, thinking of nothing

particular--hear the report of pistols--hasten to the spot--fortunately

just in time to prevent the most fatal consequences--chance most

opportunely to have my case of instruments with me--indeed, generally

walk with them about me--_nunquam non paratus_--then give my

professional definition of the wound and state of the patient. That is

the way to give evidence, Captain, before sheriffs, coroners, and such

sort of folk--never commit one's self--it is a rule of our profession."

"Well, well, Doctor," answered the Captain, "you know your own ways

best; and so you are but there to give a chance of help in case of

accident, all the laws of honour will be fully complied with. But it

would be a foul reflection upon me, as a man of honour, if I did not

take care that there should be somebody to come in thirdsman between

Death and my principal."

At the awful hour of one afternoon, there arrived upon the appointed

spot Captain MacTurk, leading to the field the valorous Sir Bingo, not

exactly straining like a greyhound in the slips, but rather looking

moody like a butcher's bull-dog, which knows he must fight since his

master bids him. Yet the Baronet showed no outward flinching or

abatement of courage, excepting, that the tune of Jenny Sutton, which he

had whistled without intermission since he left the Hotel, had, during

the last half mile of their walk, sunk into silence; although, to look

at the muscles of the mouth, projection of the lip, and vacancy of the

eye, it seemed as if the notes were still passing through his mind, and

that he whistled Jenny Sutton in his imagination. Mr. Winterblossom came

two minutes after this happy pair, and the Doctor was equally punctual.

"Upon my soul," said the former, "this is a mighty silly affair, Sir

Bingo, and might, I think, be easily taken up, at less risk to all

parties than a meeting of this kind. You should recollect, Sir Bingo,

that you have much depending upon your life--you are a married man, Sir

Bingo."

Sir Bingo turned the quid in his mouth, and squirted out the juice in a

most coachman-like manner.

"Mr. Winterblossom," said the Captain, "Sir Bingo has in this matter put

himself in my hands, and unless you think yourself more able to direct

his course than I am, I must frankly tell you, that I will be disobliged

by your interference. You may speak to your own friend as much as you

please; and if you find yourself authorized to make any proposal, I

shall be desirous to lend an ear to it on the part of my worthy

principal, Sir Bingo. But I will be plain with you, that I do not

greatly approve of settlements upon the field, though I hope I am a

quiet and peaceable man. But here is our honour to be looked after in

the first place; and moreover, I must insist that every proposal for

accommodation shall originate with your party or yourself."

"_My_ party?" answered Winterblossom; "why really, though I came hither

at your request, Captain MacTurk, yet I must see more of the matter, ere

I can fairly pronounce myself second to a man I never saw but once."

"And, perhaps, may never see again," said the Doctor, looking at his

watch; "for it is ten minutes past the hour, and here is no Mr. Tyrrel."

"Hey! what's that you say, Doctor?" said the Baronet, awakened from his

apathy.

"He speaks tamned nonsense," said the Captain, pulling out a huge,

old-fashioned, turnip-shaped implement, with a blackened silver

dial-plate. "It is not above three minutes after one by the true time,

and I will uphold Mr. Tyrrel to be a man of his word--never saw a man

take a thing more coolly."

"Not more coolly than he takes his walk this way," said the Doctor; "for

the hour is as I tell you--remember, I am professional--have pulses to

count by the second and half-second--my timepiece must go as true as the

sun."

"And I have mounted guard a thousand times by my watch," said the

Captain; "and I defy the devil to say that Hector MacTurk did not always

discharge his duty to the twentieth part of the fraction of a second--it

was my great grandmother, Lady Killbracklin's, and I will maintain its

reputation against any timepiece that ever went upon wheels."

"Well, then, look at your own watch, Captain," said Winterblossom, "for

time stands still with no man, and while we speak the hour advances. On

my word, I think this Mr. Tyrrel intends to humbug us."

"Hey! what's that you say?" said Sir Bingo, once more starting from his

sullen reverie.

"I shall not look at my watch upon no such matter," said the Captain;

"nor will I any way be disposed to doubt your friend's honour, Mr.

Winterblossom."

"_My_ friend?" said Mr. Winterblossom; "I must tell you once more,

Captain, that this Mr. Tyrrel is no friend of mine--none in the world.

He is your friend, Captain MacTurk; and I own, if he keeps us waiting

much longer on this occasion, I will be apt to consider his friendship

as of very little value."

"And how dare you, then, say that the man is my friend?" said the

Captain, knitting his brows in a most formidable manner.

"Pooh! pooh! Captain," answered Winterblossom, coolly, if not

contemptuously--"keep all that for silly boys; I have lived in the world

too long either to provoke quarrels, or to care about them. So, reserve

your fire; it is all thrown away on such an old cock as I am. But I

really wish we knew whether this fellow means to come--twenty minutes

past the hour--I think it is odds that you are bilked, Sir Bingo?"

"Bilked! hey!" cried Sir Bingo; "by Gad, I always thought so--I wagered

with Mowbray he was a raff--I am had, by Gad. I'll wait no longer than

the half hour, by Gad, were he a field-marshal."

"You will be directed in that matter by your friend, if you please, Sir

Bingo," said the Captain.

"D---- me if I will," returned the Baronet--"Friend? a pretty friend, to

bring me out here on such a fool's errand! I knew the fellow was a

raff--but I never thought you, with all your chaff about honour, such a

d----d spoon as to bring a message from a fellow who has fled the pit!"

"If you regret so much having come here to no purpose," said the

Captain, in a very lofty tone, "and if you think I have used you like a

spoon, as you say, I will have no objection in life to take Mr. Tyrrel's

place, and serve your occasion, my boy!"

"By ----! and if you like it, you may fire away, and welcome," said Sir

Bingo; "and I'll spin a crown for first shot, for I do not understand

being brought here for nothing, d---- me!"

"And there was never man alive so ready as I am to give you something to

stay your stomach," said the irritable Highlander.

[Illustration]

"Oh fie, gentlemen! fie, fie, fie!" exclaimed the pacific Mr.

Winterblossom--"For shame, Captain--Out upon you, Sir Bingo, are you

mad?--what, principal and second!--the like was never heard of--never."

The parties were in some degree recalled to their more cool

recollections by this expostulation, yet continued a short quarter-deck

walk to and fro, upon parallel lines, looking at each other sullenly as

they passed, and bristling like two dogs who have a mind to quarrel, yet

hesitate to commence hostilities. During this promenade, also, the

perpendicular and erect carriage of the veteran, rising on his toes at

every step, formed a whimsical contrast with the heavy loutish shuffle

of the bulky Baronet, who had, by dint of practice, very nearly attained

that most enviable of all carriages, the gait of a shambling Yorkshire

ostler. His coarse spirit was now thoroughly kindled, and like iron, or

any other baser metal, which is slow in receiving heat, it retained long

the smouldering and angry spirit of resentment that had originally

brought him to the place, and now rendered him willing to wreak his

uncomfortable feelings upon the nearest object which occurred, since the

first purpose of his coming thither was frustrated. In his own phrase,

his pluck was up, and finding himself in a fighting humour, he thought

it a pity, like Bob Acres, that so much good courage should be thrown

away. As, however, that courage after all consisted chiefly in ill

humour; and as, in the demeanour of the Captain, he read nothing

deferential or deprecatory of his wrath, he began to listen with more

attention to the arguments of Mr. Winterblossom, who entreated them not

to sully, by private quarrel, the honour they had that day so happily

acquired without either blood or risk.

"It was now," he said, "three quarters of an hour past the time

appointed for this person, who calls himself Tyrrel, to meet Sir Bingo

Binks. Now, instead of standing squabbling here, which serves no

purpose, I propose we should reduce to writing the circumstances which

attend this affair, for the satisfaction of the company at the Well, and

that the memorandum shall be regularly attested by our subscriptions;

after which, I shall farther humbly propose that it be subjected to the

revision of the Committee of Management."

"I object to any revision of a statement to which my name shall be

appended," said the Captain.

"Right--very true, Captain," said the complaisant Mr. Winterblossom;

"undoubtedly you know best, and your signature is completely sufficient

to authenticate this transaction--however, as it is the most important

which has occurred since the Spring was established, I propose we shall

all sign the _procès-verbal_, as I may term it."

"Leave me out, if you please," said the Doctor, not much satisfied that

both the original quarrel and the by-battle had passed over without any

occasion for the offices of a Machaon; "leave me out, if you please; for

it does not become me to be ostensibly concerned in any proceedings,

which have had for their object a breach of the peace. And for the

importance of waiting here for an hour, in a fine afternoon, it is my

opinion there was a more important service done to the Well of St.

Ronan's, when I, Quentin Quackleben, M.D., cured Lady Penelope

Penfeather of her seventh attack upon the nerves, attended with febrile

symptoms."

"No disparagement to your skill at all, Doctor," said Mr. Winterblossom;

"but I conceive the lesson which this fellow has received will be a

great means to prevent improper persons from appearing at the Spring

hereafter; and, for my part, I shall move that no one be invited to dine

at the table in future, till his name is regularly entered as a member

of the company, in the lists at the public room. And I hope both Sir

Bingo and the Captain will receive the thanks of the company, for their

spirited conduct in expelling the intruder.--Sir Bingo, will you allow

me to apply to your flask--a little twinge I feel, owing to the dampness

of the grass."

Sir Bingo, soothed by the consequence he had acquired, readily imparted

to the invalid a thimbleful of his cordial, which, we believe, had been

prepared by some cunning chemist in the wilds of Glenlivat. He then

filled a bumper, and extended it towards the veteran, as an unequivocal

symptom of reconciliation. The real turbinacious flavour no sooner

reached the nose of the Captain, than the beverage was turned down his

throat with symptoms of most unequivocal applause.

"I shall have some hope of the young fellows of this day," he said, "now

that they begin to give up their Dutch and French distilled waters, and

stick to genuine Highland ware. By Cot, it is the only liquor fit for a

gentleman to drink in a morning, if he can have the good fortune to come

by it, you see."

"Or after dinner either, Captain," said the Doctor, to whom the glass

had passed in rotation; "it is worth all the wines in France for

flavour, and more cordial to the system besides."

"And now," said the Captain, "that we may not go off the ground with any

thing on our stomachs worse than the whisky, I can afford to say, (as

Captain Hector MacTurk's character is tolerably well established,) that

I am sorry for the little difference that has occurred betwixt me and my

worthy friend, Sir Bingo, here."

"And since you are so civil, Captain," said Sir Bingo, "why, I am sorry

too--only it would put the devil out of temper to lose so fine a fishing

day--wind south--fine air on the pool--water settled from the

flood--just in trim--and I dare say three pairs of hooks have passed

over my cast before this time!"

He closed this elaborate lamentation with a libation of the same cordial

which he had imparted to his companions; and they returned in a body to

the Hotel, where the transactions of the morning were soon afterwards

announced to the company, by the following program:--

STATEMENT.

"Sir Bingo Binks, baronet, having found himself aggrieved by the

uncivil behaviour of an individual calling himself Francis Tyrrel,

now or lately a resident at the Cleikum Inn, Aultoun of St. Ronan's;

and having empowered Captain Hector MacTurk to wait upon the said

Mr. Tyrrel to demand an apology, under the alternative of personal

satisfaction, according to the laws of honour and the practice of

gentlemen, the said Tyrrel voluntarily engaged to meet the said Sir

Bingo Binks, baronet, at the Buck-stane, near St. Ronan's Burn, upon

this present day, being Wednesday ---- August. In consequence of

which appointment, we, the undersigned, did attend at the place

named, from one o'clock till two, without seeing or hearing any

thing whatever of the said Francis Tyrrel, or any one in his

behalf--which fact we make thus publicly known, that all men, and

particularly the distinguished company assembled at the Fox Hotel,

may be duly apprized of the character and behaviour of the said

Francis Tyrrel, in case of his again presuming to intrude himself

into the society of persons of honour.

"The Fox Inn and Hotel, St. Ronan's Well--August 18--.

(Signed)

"BINGO BINKS,

HECTOR MACTURK,

PHILIP WINTERBLOSSOM."

A little lower followed this separate attestation:

"I, Quentin Quackleben, M.D., F.R.S., D.E., B.L., X.Z., &c. &c.,

being called upon to attest what I know in the said matter, do

hereby verify, that being by accident at the Buck-stane, near St.

Ronan's Burn, on this present day, at the hour of one afternoon, and

chancing to remain there for the space of nearly an hour, conversing

with Sir Bingo Binks, Captain MacTurk, and Mr. Winterblossom, we did

not, during that time, see or hear any thing of or from the person

calling himself Francis Tyrrel, whose presence at that place seemed

to be expected by the gentlemen I have just named."

This affiche was dated like the former, and certified under the august

hand of Quentin Quackleben, M.D., &c. &c. &c.

Again, and prefaced by the averment that an improper person had been

lately introduced into the company of St. Ronan's Well, there came forth

a legislative enactment, on the part of the Committee, declaring, "that

no one shall in future be invited to the dinners, or balls, or other

entertainments of the Well, until their names shall be regularly entered

in the books kept for the purpose at the rooms." Lastly, there was a

vote of thanks to Sir Bingo Binks and Captain MacTurk for their

spirited conduct, and the pains which they had taken to exclude an

improper person from the company at St. Ronan's Well.

These annunciations speedily became the magnet of the day. All idlers

crowded to peruse them; and it would be endless to notice the "God bless

me's"--the "Lord have a care of us"--the "Saw you ever the like's" of

gossips, any more than the "Dear me's" and "Oh, laa's" of the titupping

misses, and the oaths of the pantalooned or buck-skin'd beaux. The

character of Sir Bingo rose like the stocks at the news of a dispatch

from the Duke of Wellington, and, what was extraordinary, attained some

consequence even in the estimation of his lady. All shook their heads at

the recollection of the unlucky Tyrrel, and found out much in his manner

and address which convinced them that he was but an adventurer and

swindler. A few, however, less partial to the Committee of Management,

(for whenever there is an administration, there will soon arise an

opposition,) whispered among themselves, that, to give the fellow his

due, the man, be he what he would, had only come among them, like the

devil, when he was called for; and honest Dame Blower blessed herself

when she heard of such bloodthirsty doings as had been intended, and

"thanked God that honest Doctor Kickherben had come to nae harm amang a'

their nonsense."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE CONSULTATION.

_Clown._ I hope here be proofs.--

_Measure for Measure._

The borough of ---- lies, as all the world knows, about fourteen miles

distant from St. Ronan's, being the county town of that shire, which, as

described in the Tourist's Guide, numbers among its objects of interest

that gay and popular watering-place, whose fame, no doubt, will be

greatly enhanced by the present annals of its earlier history. As it is

at present unnecessary to be more particular concerning the scene of our

story, we will fill up the blank left in the first name with the

fictitious appellation of Marchthorn, having often found ourselves

embarrassed in the course of a story, by the occurrence of an ugly

hiatus, which we cannot always at first sight fill up, with the proper

reference to the rest of the narrative.

Marchthorn, then, was an old-fashioned Scottish town, the street of

which, on market-day, showed a reasonable number of stout great-coated

yeomen, bartering or dealing for the various commodities of their farms;

and on other days of the week, only a few forlorn burghers, crawling

about like half-awakened flies, and watching the town steeple till the

happy sound of twelve strokes from Time's oracle should tell them it

was time to take their meridian dram. The narrow windows of the shops

intimated very imperfectly the miscellaneous contents of the interior,

where every merchant, as the shopkeepers of Marchthorn were termed,

_more Scotico_, sold every thing that could be thought of. As for

manufactures, there were none, except that of the careful Town-Council,

who were mightily busied in preparing the warp and woof, which, at the

end of every five or six years, the town of Marchthorn contributed, for

the purpose of weaving the fourth or fifth part of a member of

Parliament.

In such a town, it usually happens, that the Sheriff-clerk, especially

supposing him agent for several lairds of the higher order, is possessed

of one of the best-looking houses; and such was that of Mr. Bindloose.

None of the smartness of the brick-built and brass-hammered mansion of a

southern attorney appeared indeed in this mansion, which was a tall,

thin, grim-looking building, in the centre of the town, with narrow

windows and projecting gables, notched into that sort of descent, called

crow-steps, and having the lower casements defended by stancheons of

iron; for Mr. Bindloose, as frequently happens, kept a branch of one of

the two national banks, which had been lately established in the town of

Marchthorn.

Towards the door of this tenement, there advanced slowly up the ancient,

but empty streets of this famous borough, a vehicle, which, had it

appeared in Piccadilly, would have furnished unremitted laughter for a

week, and conversation for a twelvemonth. It was a two-wheeled vehicle,

which claimed none of the modern appellations of tilbury, tandem,

dennet, or the like; but aspired only to the humble name of that almost

forgotten accommodation, a whiskey; or, according to some authorities, a

tim-whiskey. Green was, or had been, its original colour, and it was

placed sturdily and safely low upon its little old-fashioned wheels,

which bore much less than the usual proportion to the size of the

carriage which they sustained. It had a calash head, which had been

pulled up, in consideration either to the dampness of the morning air,

or to the retiring delicacy of the fair form which, shrouded by leathern

curtains, tenanted this venerable specimen of antediluvian

coach-building.

But, as this fair and modest dame noway aspired to the skill of a

charioteer, the management of a horse, which seemed as old as the

carriage he drew, was in the exclusive charge of an old fellow in a

postilion's jacket, whose grey hairs escaped on each side of an

old-fashioned velvet jockey-cap, and whose left shoulder was so

considerably elevated above his head, that it seemed, as if, with little

effort, his neck might have been tucked under his arm, like that of a

roasted grouse-cock. This gallant equerry was mounted on a steed as old

as that which toiled betwixt the shafts of the carriage, and which he

guided by a leading rein. Goading one animal with his single spur, and

stimulating the other with his whip, he effected a reasonable trot upon

the causeway, which only terminated when the whiskey stopped at Mr.

Bindloose's door--an event of importance enough to excite the curiosity

of the inhabitants of that and the neighbouring houses. Wheels were laid

aside, needles left sticking in the half-finished seams, and many a

nose, spectacled and unspectacled, was popped out of the adjoining

windows, which had the good fortune to command a view of Mr. Bindloose's

front door. The faces of two or three giggling clerks were visible at

the barred casements of which we have spoken, much amused at the descent

of an old lady from this respectable carriage, whose dress and

appearance might possibly have been fashionable at the time when her

equipage was new. A satin cardinal, lined with grey squirrels' skin, and

a black silk bonnet, trimmed with crape, were garments which did not now

excite the respect, which in their fresher days they had doubtless

commanded. But there was that in the features of the wearer, which would

have commanded Mr. Bindloose's best regard, though it had appeared in

far worse attire; for he beheld the face of an ancient customer, who had

always paid her law expenses with the ready penny, and whose accompt

with the bank was balanced by a very respectable sum at her credit. It

was, indeed, no other than our respected friend, Mrs. Dods of the

Cleikum Inn, St. Ronan's, Aultoun.

Now her arrival intimated matter of deep import. Meg was a person of all

others most averse to leave her home, where, in her own opinion at

least, nothing went on well without her immediate superintendence.

Limited, therefore, as was her sphere, she remained fixed in the centre

thereof; and few as were her satellites, they were under the necessity

of performing their revolutions around her, while she herself continued

stationary. Saturn, in fact, would be scarce more surprised at a passing

call from the Sun, than Mr. Bindloose at this unexpected visit of his

old client. In one breath he rebuked the inquisitive impertinence of his

clerks, in another stimulated his housekeeper, old Hannah--for Mr.

Bindloose was a bluff bachelor--to get tea ready in the green parlour;

and while yet speaking, was at the side of the whiskey, unclasping the

curtains, rolling down the apron, and assisting his old friend to

dismount.

"The japanned tea-caddie, Hannah--the best bohea--bid Tib kindle a spark

of fire--the morning's damp--Draw in the giggling faces of ye, ye d----d

idle scoundrels, or laugh at your ain toom pouches--it will be lang or

your weeldoing fill them." This was spoken, as the honest lawyer himself

might have said, _in transitu_, the rest by the side of the carriage.

"My stars, Mrs. Dods, and is this really your ain sell, _in propria

persona_?--Wha lookit for you at such a time of day?--Anthony, how's a'

wi' ye, Anthony?--so ye hae taen the road again, Anthony--help us down

wi' the apron, Anthony--that will do.--Lean on me, Mrs. Dods--help your

mistress, Anthony--put the horses in my stable--the lads will give you

the key.--Come away, Mrs. Dods--I am blithe to see you straight your

legs on the causeway of our auld borough again--come in by, and we'll

see to get you some breakfast, for ye hae been asteer early this

morning."

"I am a sair trouble to you, Mr. Bindloose," said the old lady,

accepting the offer of his arm, and accompanying him into the house; "I

am e'en a sair trouble to you, but I could not rest till I had your

advice on something of moment."

"Happy will I be to serve you, my gude auld acquaintance," said the

Clerk; "but sit you down--sit you down--sit you down, Mrs. Dods--meat

and mess never hindered wark. Ye are something overcome wi' your

travel--the spirit canna aye bear through the flesh, Mrs. Dods; ye

should remember that your life is a precious one, and ye should take

care of your health, Mrs. Dods."

"My life precious!" exclaimed Meg Dods; "nane o' your whullywhaing, Mr.

Bindloose--Deil ane wad miss the auld girning alewife, Mr. Bindloose,

unless it were here and there a puir body, and maybe the auld

house-tyke, that wadna be sae weel guided, puir fallow."

"Fie, fie! Mrs. Dods," said the Clerk, in a tone of friendly rebuke; "it

vexes an auld friend to hear ye speak of yourself in that respectless

sort of a way; and, as for quitting us, I bless God I have not seen you

look better this half score of years. But maybe you will be thinking of

setting your house in order, which is the act of a carefu' and of a

Christian woman--O! it's an awfu' thing to die intestate, if we had

grace to consider it."

"Aweel, I daur say I'll consider that some day soon, Mr. Bindloose; but

that's no my present errand."

"Be it what it like, Mrs. Dods, ye are right heartily welcome here, and

we have a' the day to speak of the business in hand--_festina lente_,

that is the true law language--hooly and fairly, as one may say--ill

treating of business with an empty stomach--and here comes your tea, and

I hope Hannah has made it to your taste."

Meg sipped her tea--confessed Hannah's skill in the mysteries of the

Chinese herb--sipped again, then tried to eat a bit of bread and butter,

with very indifferent success; and notwithstanding the lawyer's

compliments to her good looks, seemed in reality, on the point of

becoming ill.

"In the deil's name, what is the matter!" said the lawyer, too well

read in a profession where sharp observation is peculiarly necessary, to

suffer these symptoms of agitation to escape him. "Ay, dame? ye are

taking this business of yours deeper to heart than ever I kend you take

ony thing. Ony o' your banded debtors failed, or like to fail? What

then! cheer ye up--you can afford a little loss, and it canna be ony

great matter, or I would doubtless have heard of it."

"In troth, but it _is_ a loss, Mr. Bindloose; and what say ye to the

loss of a friend?"

This was a possibility which had never entered the lawyer's long list of

calamities, and he was at some loss to conceive what the old lady could

possibly mean by so sentimental a prolusion. But just as he began to

come out with his "Ay, ay, we are all mortal, _Vita incerta, mors

certissima!_" and two or three more pithy reflections, which he was in

the habit of uttering after funerals, when the will of the deceased was

about to be opened,--just then Mrs. Dods was pleased to become the

expounder of her own oracle.

"I see how it is, Mr. Bindloose," she said; "I maun tell my ain ailment,

for you are no likely to guess it; and so, if ye will shut the door, and

see that nane of your giggling callants are listening in the passage, I

will e'en tell you how things stand with me."

Mr. Bindloose hastily arose to obey her commands, gave a cautionary

glance into the Bank-office, and saw that his idle apprentices were fast

at their desks--turned the key upon them, as if it were in a fit of

absence, and then returned, not a little curious to know what could be

the matter with his old friend; and leaving off all further attempts to

put cases, quietly drew his chair near hers, and awaited her own time to

make her communication.

"Mr. Bindloose," said she, "I am no sure that you may mind, about six or

seven years ago, that there were twa daft English callants, lodgers of

mine, that had some trouble from auld St. Ronan's about shooting on the

Springwell-head muirs."

"I mind it as weel as yesterday, Mistress," said the Clerk; "by the same

token you gave me a note for my trouble, (which wasna worth speaking

about,) and bade me no bring in a bill against the puir bairns--ye had

aye a kind heart, Mrs. Dods."

"Maybe, and maybe no, Mr. Bindloose--that is just as I find folk.--But

concerning these lads, they baith left the country, and, as I think, in

some ill blude wi' ane another, and now the auldest and the doucest of

the twa came back again about a fortnight sin' syne, and has been my

guest ever since."

"Aweel, and I trust he is not at his auld tricks again, goodwife?"

answered the Clerk. "I havena sae muckle to say either wi' the new

Sheriff or the Bench of Justices as I used to hae, Mrs. Dods--and the

Procurator-fiscal is very severe on poaching, being borne out by the new

Association--few of our auld friends of the Killnakelty are able to come

to the sessions now, Mrs. Dods."

"The waur for the country, Mr. Bindloose," replied the old lady--"they

were decent, considerate men, that didna plague a puir herd callant

muckle about a moorfowl or a mawkin, unless he turned common fowler--Sir

Robert Ringhorse used to say, the herd lads shot as mony gleds and pyots

as they did game.--But new lords new laws--naething but fine and

imprisonment, and the game no a feather the plentier. If I wad hae a

brace or twa of birds in the house, as every body looks for them after

the twelfth--I ken what they are like to cost me--And what for no?--risk

maun be paid for.--There is John Pirner himsell, that has keepit the

muir-side thirty year in spite of a' the lairds in the country, shoots,

he tells me, now-a-days, as if he felt a rape about his neck."

"It wasna about ony game business, then, that you wanted advice?" said

Bindloose, who, though somewhat of a digresser himself, made little

allowance for the excursions of others from the subject in hand.

"Indeed is it no, Mr. Bindloose," said Meg; "but it is e'en about this

unhappy callant that I spoke to you about.--Ye maun ken I have cleiket a

particular fancy to this lad, Francis Tirl--a fancy that whiles

surprises my very sell, Mr. Bindloose, only that there is nae sin in

it."

"None--none in the world, Mrs. Dods," said the lawyer, thinking at the

same time within his own mind, "Oho! the mist begins to clear up--the

young poacher has hit the mark, I see--winged the old barren grey

hen!--ay, ay,--a marriage-contract, no doubt--but I maun gie her

line.--Ye are a wise woman, Mrs. Dods," he continued aloud, "and can

doubtless consider the chances and the changes of human affairs."

"But I could never have considered what has befallen this puir lad, Mr.

Bindloose," said Mrs. Dods, "through the malice of wicked men.--He

lived, then, at the Cleikum, as I tell you, for mair than a fortnight,

as quiet as a lamb on a lea-rig--a decenter lad never came within my

door--ate and drank eneugh for the gude of the house, and nae mair than

was for his ain gude, whether of body or soul--cleared his bills ilka

Saturday at e'en, as regularly as Saturday came round."

"An admirable customer, no doubt, Mrs. Dods," said the lawyer.

"Never was the like of him for that matter," answered the honest dame.

"But to see the malice of men!--some of thae landloupers and gill-flirts

down at the filthy puddle yonder, that they ca' the Waal, had heard of

this puir lad, and the bits of pictures that he made fashion of drawing,

and they maun cuitle him awa doun to the bottle, where mony a bonny

story they had clecked, Mr. Bindloose, baith of Mr. Tirl and of mysell."

"A Commissary Court business," said the writer, going off again upon a

false scent. "I shall trim their jackets for them, Mrs. Dods, if you can

but bring tight evidence of the facts--I will soon bring them to fine

and palinode--I will make them repent meddling with your good name."

"My gude name! What the sorrow is the matter wi' my name, Mr.

Bindloose?" said the irritable client. "I think ye hae been at the wee

cappie this morning, for as early as it is--My gude name!--if ony body

touched my gude name, I would neither fash counsel nor commissary--I wad

be down amang them, like a jer-falcon amang a wheen wild-geese, and the

best amang them that dared to say ony thing of Meg Dods by what was

honest and civil, I wad sune see if her cockernonnie was made of her ain

hair or other folk's. _My_ gude name, indeed!"

"Weel, weel, Mrs. Dods, I was mista'en, that's a'," said the writer, "I

was mista'en; and I dare to say you would haud your ain wi' your

neighbours as weel as ony woman in the land--But let us hear now what

the grief is, in one word."

"In one word, then, Clerk Bindloose, it is little short of--murder,"

said Meg, in a low tone, as if the very utterance of the word startled

her.

"Murder! murder, Mrs. Dods?--it cannot be--there is not a word of it in

the Sheriff-office--the Procurator-fiscal kens nothing of it--there

could not be murder in the country, and me not hear of it--for God's

sake, take heed what you say, woman, and dinna get yourself into

trouble."

"Mr. Bindloose, I can but speak according to my lights," said Mrs. Dods;

"you are in a sense a judge in Israel, at least you are one of the

scribes having authority--and I tell you, with a wae and bitter heart,

that this puir callant of mine that was lodging in my house has been

murdered or kidnapped awa amang thae banditti folk down at the New Waal;

and I'll have the law put in force against them, if it should cost me a

hundred pounds."

The Clerk stood much astonished at the nature of Meg's accusation, and

the pertinacity with which she seemed disposed to insist upon it.

"I have this comfort," she continued, "that whatever has happened, it

has been by no fault of mine, Mr. Bindloose; for weel I wot, before that

bloodthirsty auld half-pay Philistine, MacTurk, got to speech of him, I

clawed his cantle to some purpose with my hearth-besom.--But the poor

simple bairn himsell, that had nae mair knowledge of the wickedness of

human nature than a calf has of a flesher's gully, he threepit to see

the auld hardened bloodshedder, and trysted wi' him to meet wi' some of

the gang at an hour certain that same day, and awa he gaed to keep

tryst, but since that hour naebody ever has set een on him.--And the

mansworn villains now want to put a disgrace on him, and say that he

fled the country rather than face them!--a likely story--fled the

country for them!--and leave his bill unsettled--him that was sae

regular--and his portmantle and his fishing-rod and the pencils and

pictures he held sic a wark about!--It's my faithful belief, Mr.

Bindloose--and ye may trust me or no as ye like--that he had some foul

play between the Cleikum and the Buck-stane. I have thought it, and I

have dreamed it, and I will be at the bottom of it, or my name is not

Meg Dods, and that I wad have them a' to reckon on.--Ay, ay, that's

right, Mr. Bindloose, tak out your pen and inkhorn, and let us set about

it to purpose."

With considerable difficulty, and at the expense of much

cross-examination, Mr. Bindloose extracted from his client a detailed

account of the proceedings of the company at the Well towards Tyrrel, so

far as they were known to, or suspected by Meg, making notes, as the

examination proceeded, of what appeared to be matter of consequence.

After a moment's consideration, he asked the dame the very natural

question, how she came to be acquainted with the material fact, that a

hostile appointment was made between Captain MacTurk and her lodger,

when, according to her own account, it was made _intra parietes_, and

_remotis testibus_?

"Ay, but we victuallers ken weel eneugh what goes on in our ain houses,"

said Meg--"And what for no?--If ye _maun_ ken a' about it, I e'en

listened through the keyhole of the door."

"And do you say you heard them settle an appointment for a duel?" said

the Clerk; "and did you no take ony measures to hinder mischief, Mrs.

Dods, having such a respect for this lad as you say you have, Mrs.

Dods?--I really wadna have looked for the like o' this at your hands."

"In truth, Mr. Bindloose," said Meg, putting her apron to her eyes, "and

that's what vexes me mair than a' the rest, and ye needna say muckle to

ane whose heart is e'en the sairer that she has been a thought to blame.

But there has been mony a challenge, as they ca' it, passed in my house,

when thae daft lads of the Wildfire Club and the Helter-skelter were

upon their rambles; and they had aye sense eneugh to make it up without

fighting, sae that I really did not apprehend ony thing like

mischief.--And ye maun think, moreover, Mr. Bindloose, that it would

have been an unco thing if a guest, in a decent and creditable public

like mine, was to have cried coward before ony of thae landlouping

blackguards that live down at the hottle yonder."

"That is to say, Mrs. Dods, you were desirous your guest should fight

for the honour of your house," said Bindloose.

"What for no, Mr. Bindloose?--Isna that kind of fray aye about honour?

and what for should the honour of a substantial, four-nooked, sclated

house of three stories, no be foughten for, as weel as the credit of ony

of these feckless callants that make such a fray about their

reputation?--I promise you my house, the Cleikum, stood in the Auld Town

of St. Ronan's before they were born, and it will stand there after they

are hanged, as I trust some of them are like to be."

"Well, but perhaps your lodger had less zeal for the honour of the

house, and has quietly taken himself out of harm's way," said Mr.

Bindloose; "for if I understand your story, this meeting never took

place."

"Have less zeal!" said Meg, determined to be pleased with no supposition

of her lawyer, "Mr. Bindloose, ye little ken him--I wish ye had seen him

when he was angry!--I dared hardly face him mysell, and there are no

mony folk that I am feared for--Meeting! there was nae meeting, I

trow--they never dared to meet him fairly--but I am sure waur came of it

than ever would have come of a meeting; for Anthony heard twa shots gang

off as he was watering the auld naig down at the burn, and that is not

far frae the footpath that leads to the Buck-stane. I was angry at him

for no making on to see what the matter was, but he thought it was auld

Pirner out wi' the double barrel, and he wasna keen of making himself a

witness, in case he suld have been caa'd on in the Poaching Court."

"Well," said the Sheriff-clerk, "and I dare say he did hear a poacher

fire a couple of shots--nothing more likely. Believe me, Mrs. Dods, your

guest had no fancy for the party Captain MacTurk invited him to--and

being a quiet sort of man, he has just walked away to his own home, if

he has one--I am really sorry you have given yourself the trouble of

this long journey about so simple a matter."

Mrs. Dods remained with her eyes fixed on the ground in a very sullen

and discontented posture, and when she spoke, it was in a tone of

corresponding displeasure.

"Aweel--aweel--live and learn, they say--I thought I had a friend in

you, Mr. Bindloose--I am sure I aye took your part when folk miscaa'd

ye, and said ye were this, that, and the other thing, and little better

than an auld sneck-drawing loon, Mr. Bindloose.--And ye have aye keepit

my penny of money, though, nae doubt, Tam Turnpenny lives nearer me, and

they say he allows half a per cent mair than ye do if the siller lies,

and mine is but seldom steered."

"But ye have not the Bank's security, madam," said Mr. Bindloose,

reddening. "I say harm of nae man's credit--ill would it beseem me--but

there is a difference between Tam Turnpenny and the Bank, I trow."

"Weel, weel, Bank here Bank there, I thought I had a friend in you, Mr.

Bindloose; and here am I, come from my ain house all the way to yours

for sma' comfort, I think."

"My stars, madam," said the perplexed scribe, "what would you have me to

do in such a blind story as yours, Mrs. Dods?--Be a thought

reasonable--consider that there is no _Corpus delicti_."

_"Corpus delicti?_ and what's that?" said Meg; "something to be paid

for, nae doubt, for your hard words a' end in that.--And what for suld I

no have a Corpus delicti, or a Habeas Corpus, or ony other Corpus that I

like, sae lang as I am willing to lick and lay down the ready siller?"

"Lord help and pardon us, Mrs. Dods," said the distressed agent, "ye

mistake the matter a'thegether! When I say there is no Corpus delicti, I

mean to say there is no proof that a crime has been committed."[I-19]

"And does the man say that murder is not a crime, than?" answered Meg,

who had taken her own view of the subject far too strongly to be

converted to any other--"Weel I wot it's a crime, baith by the law of

God and man, and mony a pretty man has been strapped for it."

"I ken all that very weel," answered the writer; "but, my stars, Mrs.

Dods, there is nae evidence of murder in this case--nae proof that a man

has been slain--nae production of his dead body--and that is what we

call the Corpus delicti."

"Weel, than, the deil lick it out of ye," said Meg, rising in wrath,

"for I will awa hame again; and as for the puir lad's body, I'll hae it

fund, if it cost me turning the earth for three miles round wi' pick and

shool--if it were but to give the puir bairn Christian burial, and to

bring punishment on MacTurk and the murdering crew at the Waal, and to

shame an auld doited fule like yoursell, John Bindloose."

She rose in wrath to call her vehicle; but it was neither the interest

nor the intention of the writer that his customer and he should part on

such indifferent terms. He implored her patience, and reminded her that

the horses, poor things, had just come off their stage--an argument

which sounded irresistible in the ears of the old she-publican, in whose

early education due care of the post-cattle mingled with the most sacred

duties. She therefore resumed her seat again in a sullen mood, and Mr.

Bindloose was cudgelling his brains for some argument which might bring

the old lady to reason, when his attention was drawn by a noise in the

passage.

FOOTNOTE:

[I-19] For example, a man cannot be tried for murder merely in the case of

the non-appearance of an individual; there must be proof that the party

has been murdered.

CHAPTER XV.

A PRAISER OF PAST TIMES.

----Now your traveller,

He and his toothpick at my worship's mess.

_King John._

The noise stated at the conclusion of last chapter to have disturbed Mr.

Bindloose, was the rapping of one, as in haste and impatience, at the

Bank-office door, which office was an apartment of the Banker's house,

on the left hand of his passage, as the parlour in which he had received

Mrs. Dods was upon the right.

In general, this office was patent to all having business there; but at

present, whatever might be the hurry of the party who knocked, the

clerks within the office could not admit him, being themselves made

prisoners by the prudent jealousy of Mr. Bindloose, to prevent them from

listening to his consultation with Mrs. Dods. They therefore answered

the angry and impatient knocking of the stranger only with stifled

giggling from within, finding it no doubt an excellent joke, that their

master's precaution was thus interfering with their own discharge of

duty.

With one or two hearty curses upon them, as the regular plagues of his

life, Mr. Bindloose darted into the passage, and admitted the stranger

into his official apartment. The doors both of the parlour and office

remaining open, the ears of Luckie Dods (experienced, as the reader

knows, in collecting intelligence) could partly overhear what passed.

The conversation seemed to regard a cash transaction of some importance,

as Meg became aware when the stranger raised a voice which was naturally

sharp and high, as he did when uttering the following words, towards the

close of a conversation which had lasted about five minutes--"Premium?--Not

a pice, sir--not a courie--not a farthing--premium for a Bank of England

bill?--d'ye take me for a fool, sir?--do not I know that you call forty

days par when you give remittances to London?"

Mr. Bindloose was here heard to mutter something indistinctly about the

custom of the trade.

"Custom!" retorted the stranger, "no such thing--damn'd bad custom, if

it is one--don't tell me of customs--'Sbodikins, man, I know the rate of

exchange all over the world, and have drawn bills from Timbuctoo--My

friends in the Strand filed it along with Bruce's from Gondar--talk to

me of premium on a Bank of England post-bill!--What d'ye look at the

bill for?--D'ye think it doubtful--I can change it."

"By no means necessary," answered Bindloose, "the bill is quite right;

but it is usual to indorse, sir."

"Certainly--reach me a pen--d'ye think I can write with my rattan?--What

sort of ink is this?--yellow as curry sauce--never mind--there is my

name--Peregrine Touchwood--I got it from the Willoughbies, my Christian

name--Have I my full change here?"

"Your full change, sir," answered Bindloose.

"Why, you should give _me_ a premium, friend, instead of me giving you

one."

"It is out of our way, I assure you, sir," said the Banker, "quite out

of our way--but if you would step into the parlour and take a cup of

tea"----

"Why, ay," said the stranger, his voice sounding more distinctly as

(talking all the while, and ushered along by Mr. Bindloose) he left the

office and moved towards the parlour, "a cup of tea were no such bad

thing, if one could come by it genuine--but as for your premium"----So

saying, he entered the parlour and made his bow to Mrs. Dods, who,

seeing what she called a decent, purpose-like body, and aware that his

pocket was replenished with English and Scottish paper currency,

returned the compliment with her best curtsy.

Mr. Touchwood, when surveyed more at leisure, was a short, stout, active

man, who, though sixty years of age and upwards, retained in his sinews

and frame the elasticity of an earlier period. His countenance expressed

self-confidence, and something like a contempt for those who had neither

seen nor endured so much as he had himself. His short black hair was

mingled with grey, but not entirely whitened by it. His eyes were

jet-black, deep-set, small, and sparkling, and contributed, with a short

turned-up nose, to express an irritable and choleric habit. His

complexion was burnt to a brick-colour by the vicissitudes of climate,

to which it had been subjected; and his face, which at the distance of a

yard or two seemed hale and smooth, appeared, when closely examined, to

be seamed with a million of wrinkles, crossing each other in every

direction possible, but as fine as if drawn by the point of a very

small needle.[I-20] His dress was a blue coat and buff waistcoat, half

boots remarkably well blacked, and a silk handkerchief tied with

military precision. The only antiquated part of his dress was a cocked

hat of equilateral dimensions, in the button-hole of which he wore a

very small cockade. Mrs. Dods, accustomed to judge of persons by their

first appearance, said, that in the three steps which he made from the

door to the tea-table, she recognised, without the possibility of

mistake, the gait of a person who was well to pass in the world; "and

that," she added with a wink, "is what we victuallers are seldom

deceived in. If a gold-laced waistcoat has an empty pouch, the plain

swan's-down will be the brawer of the twa."

"A drizzling morning, good madam," said Mr. Touchwood, as with a view of

sounding what sort of company he had got into.

"A fine saft morning for the crap, sir," answered Mrs. Dods, with equal

solemnity.

"Right, my good madam; _soft_ is the very word, though it has been some

time since I heard it. I have cast a double hank about the round world

since I last heard of a soft[I-21] morning."

"You will be from these parts, then?" said the writer, ingeniously

putting a case, which, he hoped, would induce the stranger to explain

himself. "And yet, sir," he added, after a pause, "I was thinking that

Touchwood is not a Scottish name, at least that I ken of."

"Scottish name?--no," replied the traveller; "but a man may have been in

these parts before, without being a native--or, being a native, he may

have had some reason to change his name--there are many reasons why men

change their names."

"Certainly, and some of them very good ones," said the lawyer; "as in

the common case of an heir of entail, where deed of provision and

tailzie is maist ordinarily implemented by taking up name and arms."

"Ay, or in the case of a man having made the country too hot for him

under his own proper appellative," said Mr. Touchwood.

"That is a supposition, sir," replied the lawyer, "which it would ill

become me to put.--But at any rate, if you knew this country formerly,

ye cannot but be marvellously pleased with the change we have been

making since the American war--hill-sides bearing clover instead of

heather--rents doubled, trebled, quadrupled--the auld reekie dungeons

pulled down, and gentlemen living in as good houses as you will see any

where in England."

"Much good may it do them, for a pack of fools!" replied Mr. Touchwood,

hastily.

"You do not seem much delighted with our improvements, sir?" said the

banker, astonished to hear a dissentient voice where he conceived all

men were unanimous.

"Pleased!" answered the stranger--"Yes, as much pleased as I am with the

devil, who I believe set many of them agoing. Ye have got an idea that

every thing must be changed--Unstable as water, ye shall not excel--I

tell ye, there have been more changes in this poor nook of yours within

the last forty years, than in the great empires of the East for the

space of four thousand, for what I know."

"And why not," replied Bindloose, "if they be changes for the better?"

"But they are _not_ for the better," replied Mr. Touchwood, eagerly. "I

left your peasantry as poor as rats indeed, but honest and industrious,

enduring their lot in this world with firmness, and looking forward to

the next with hope--Now they are mere eye-servants--looking at their

watches, forsooth, every ten minutes, lest they should work for their

master half an instant after loosing-time--And then, instead of studying

the Bible on the work days, to kittle the clergymen with doubtful points

of controversy on the Sabbath, they glean all their theology from Tom

Paine and Voltaire."

"Weel I wot the gentleman speaks truth," said Mrs. Dods. "I fand a

bundle of their bawbee blasphemies in my ain kitchen--But I trow I made

a clean house of the packman loon that brought them!--No content wi'

turning the tawpies' heads wi' ballants, and driving them daft wi'

ribands, to cheat them out of their precious souls, and gie them the

deevil's ware, that I suld say sae, in exchange for the siller that suld

support their puir father that's aff wark and bedridden!"

"Father! madam," said the stranger; "they think no more of their father

than Regan or Goneril."

"In gude troth, ye have skeel of our sect, sir," replied the dame; "they

are gomerils, every one of them--I tell them sae every hour of the day,

but catch them profiting by the doctrine."

"And then the brutes are turned mercenary, madam," said Mr. Touchwood,

"I remember when a Scottishman would have scorned to touch a shilling

that he had not earned, and yet was as ready to help a stranger as an

Arab of the desert. And now, I did but drop my cane the other day as I

was riding--a fellow who was working at the hedge made three steps to

lift it--I thanked him, and my friend threw his hat on his head, and

'damned my thanks, if that were all'--Saint Giles could not have

excelled him."

"Weel, weel," said the banker, "that may be a' as you say, sir, and nae

doubt wealth makes wit waver; but the country's wealthy, that cannot be

denied, and wealth, sir, ye ken"----

"I know wealth makes itself wings," answered the cynical stranger; "but

I am not quite sure we have it even now. You make a great show, indeed,

with building and cultivation; but stock is not capital, any more than

the fat of a corpulent man is health or strength."

"Surely, Mr. Touchwood," said Bindloose, who felt his own account in the

modern improvements, "a set of landlords, living like lairds in good

earnest, and tenants with better housekeeping than the lairds used to

have, and facing Whitsunday and Martinmas as I would face my

breakfast--if these are not signs of wealth, I do not know where to seek

for them."

"They are signs of folly, sir," replied Touchwood; "folly that is poor,

and renders itself poorer by desiring to be thought rich; and how they

come by the means they are so ostentatious of, you, who are a banker,

perhaps can tell me better than I can guess."

"There is maybe an accommodation bill discounted now and then, Mr.

Touchwood; but men must have accommodation, or the world would stand

still--accommodation is the grease that makes the wheels go."

"Ay, makes them go down hill to the devil," answered Touchwood. "I left

you bothered about one Ayr bank, but the whole country is an Air bank

now, I think--And who is to pay the piper?--But it's all one--I will see

little more of it--it is a perfect Babel, and would turn the head of a

man who has spent his life with people who love sitting better than

running, silence better than speaking, who never eat but when they are

hungry, never drink but when thirsty, never laugh without a jest, and

never speak but when they have something to say. But here, it is all

run, ride, and drive--froth, foam, and flippancy--no steadiness--no

character."

"I'll lay the burden of my life," said Dame Dods, looking towards her

friend Bindloose, "that the gentleman has been at the new Spaw-waal

yonder!"

"Spaw do you call it, madam?--If you mean the new establishment that has

been spawned down yonder at St. Ronan's, it is the very fountain-head of

folly and coxcombry--a Babel for noise, and a Vanity-fair for

nonsense--no well in your swamps tenanted by such a conceited colony of

clamorous frogs."

"Sir, sir!" exclaimed Dame Dods, delighted with the unqualified sentence

passed upon her fashionable rivals, and eager to testify her respect for

the judicious stranger who had pronounced it,--"will you let me have the

pleasure of pouring you out a dish of tea?" And so saying, she took

bustling possession of the administration which had hitherto remained in

the hands of Mr. Bindloose himself.

"I hope it is to your taste, sir," she continued, when the traveller

had accepted her courtesy with the grateful acknowledgment, which men

addicted to speak a great deal usually show to a willing auditor.

"It is as good as we have any right to expect, ma'am," answered Mr.

Touchwood; "not quite like what I have drunk at Canton with old Fong

Qua--but the Celestial Empire does not send its best tea to Leadenhall

Street, nor does Leadenhall Street send its best to Marchthorn."

"That may be very true, sir," replied the dame; "but I will venture to

say that Mr. Bindloose's tea is muckle better than you had at the

Spaw-waal yonder."

"Tea, madam!--I saw none--Ash leaves and black-thorn leaves were brought

in in painted canisters, and handed about by powder-monkeys in livery,

and consumed by those who liked it, amidst the chattering of parrots and

the squalling of kittens. I longed for the days of the Spectator, when I

might have laid my penny on the bar, and retired without ceremony--But

no--this blessed decoction was circulated under the auspices of some

half-crazed blue-stocking or other, and we were saddled with all the

formality of an entertainment, for this miserable allowance of a

cockle-shell full of cat-lap per head."

"Weel, sir," answered Dame Dods, "all I can say is, that if it had been

my luck to have served you at the Cleikum Inn, which our folk have kept

for these twa generations, I canna pretend to say ye should have had

such tea as ye have been used to in foreign parts where it grows, but

the best I had I wad have gi'en it to a gentleman of your appearance,

and I never charged mair than six-pence in all my time, and my father's

before me."

"I wish I had known the Old Inn was still standing, madam," said the

traveller; "I should certainly have been your guest, and sent down for

the water every morning--the doctors insist I must use Cheltenham, or

some substitute, for the bile--though, d--n them, I believe it's only

to hide their own ignorance. And I thought this Spaw would have been the

least evil of the two; but I have been fairly overreached--one might as

well live in the inside of a bell. I think young St. Ronan's must be

mad, to have established such a Vanity-fair upon his father's old

property."

"Do you ken this St. Ronan's that now is?" enquired the dame.

"By report only," said Mr. Touchwood; "but I have heard of the family,

and I think I have read of them, too, in Scottish history. I am sorry to

understand they are lower in the world than they have been. This young

man does not seem to take the best way to mend matters, spending his

time among gamblers and black-legs."

"I should be sorry if it were so," said honest Meg Dods, whose

hereditary respect for the family always kept her from joining in any

scandal affecting the character of the young Laird--"My forbears, sir,

have had kindness frae his; and although maybe he may have forgotten all

about it, it wad ill become me to say ony thing of him that should not

be said of his father's son."

Mr. Bindloose had not the same motive for forbearance; he declaimed

against Mowbray as a thoughtless dissipater of his own fortune, and that

of others. "I have some reason to speak," he said, "having two of his

notes for L.100 each, which I discounted out of mere kindness and

respect for his ancient family, and which he thinks nae mair of

retiring, than he does of paying the national debt--And here has he been

raking every shop in Marchthorn, to fit out an entertainment for all the

fine folk at the Well yonder; and tradesfolk are obliged to take his

acceptances for their furnishings. But they may cash his bills that

will; I ken ane that will never advance a bawbee on ony paper that has

John Mowbray either on the back or front of it. He had mair need to be

paying the debts which he has made already, than making new anes, that

he may feed fules and flatterers."

"I believe he is likely to lose his preparations, too," said Mr.

Touchwood, "for the entertainment has been put off, as I heard, in

consequence of Miss Mowbray's illness."

"Ay, ay, puir thing!" said Dame Margaret Dods: "her health has been

unsettled for this mony a day."

"Something wrong here, they tell me," said the traveller, pointing to

his own forehead significantly.

"God only kens," replied Mrs. Dods; "but I rather suspect the heart than

the head--the puir thing is hurried here and there, and down to the

Waal, and up again, and nae society or quiet at hame; and a' thing

ganging this unthrifty gait--nae wonder she is no that weel settled."

"Well," replied Touchwood, "she is worse they say than she has been, and

that has occasioned the party at Shaws-Castle having been put off.

Besides, now this fine young lord has come down to the Well, undoubtedly

they will wait her recovery."

"A lord!" ejaculated the astonished Mrs. Dods; "a lord come down to the

Waal--they will be neither to haud nor to bind now--ance wud and aye

waur--a lord!--set them up and shute them forward--a lord!--the Lord

have a care o' us!--a lord at the hottle!--Maister Touchwood, it's my

mind he will only prove to be a Lord o' Session."

"Nay, not so, my good lady," replied the traveller "he is an English

lord, and, as they say, a Lord of Parliament--but some folk pretend to

say there is a flaw in the title."

"I'll warrant is there--a dozen of them!" said Meg, with alacrity--for

she could by no means endure to think on the accumulation of dignity

likely to accrue to the rival establishment, from its becoming the

residence of an actual nobleman. "I'll warrant he'll prove a landlouping

lord on their hand, and they will be e'en cheap o' the loss--And he has

come down out of order it's like, and nae doubt he'll no be lang there

before he will recover his health, for the credit of the Spaw."

"Faith, madam, his present disorder is one which the Spaw will hardly

cure--he is shot in the shoulder with a pistol-bullet--a robbery

attempted, it seems--that is one of your new accomplishments--no such

thing happened in Scotland in my time--men would have sooner expected to

meet with the phoenix than with a highwayman."

"And where did this happen, if you please, sir?" asked the man of bills.

"Somewhere near the old village," replied the stranger; "and, if I am

rightly informed, on Wednesday last."

"This explains your twa shots, I am thinking, Mrs. Dods," said Mr.

Bindloose; "your groom heard them on the Wednesday--it must have been

this attack on the stranger nobleman."

"Maybe it was, and maybe it was not," said Mrs. Dods; "but I'll see gude

reason before I give up my ain judgment in that case.--I wad like to

ken if this gentleman," she added, returning to the subject from which

Mr. Touchwood's interesting conversation had for a few minutes diverted

her thoughts, "has heard aught of Mr. Tirl?"

"If you mean the person to whom this paper relates," said the stranger,

taking a printed handbill from his pocket, "I heard of little else--the

whole place rang of him, till I was almost as sick of Tyrrel as William

Rufus was. Some idiotical quarrel which he had engaged in, and which he

had not fought out, as their wisdom thought he should have done, was the

principal cause of censure. That is another folly now, which has gained

ground among you. Formerly, two old proud lairds, or cadets of good

family, perhaps, quarrelled, and had a rencontre, or fought a duel after

the fashion of their old Gothic ancestors; but men who had no

grandfathers never dreamt of such folly--And here the folk denounce a

trumpery dauber of canvass, for such I understand to be this hero's

occupation, as if he were a field-officer, who made valour his

profession; and who, if you deprived him of his honour, was like to be

deprived of his bread at the same time.--Ha, ha, ha! it reminds one of

Don Quixote, who took his neighbour, Samson Carrasco, for a

knight-errant."

The perusal of this paper, which contained the notes formerly laid

before the reader, containing the statement of Sir Bingo, and the

censure which the company at the Well had thought fit to pass upon his

affair with Mr. Tyrrel, induced Mr. Bindloose to say to Mrs. Dods, with

as little exultation on the superiority of his own judgment as human

nature would permit,--

"Ye see now that I was right, Mrs. Dods, and that there was nae earthly

use in your fashing yoursell wi' this lang journey--The lad had just

ta'en the bent rather than face Sir Bingo; and troth, I think him the

wiser of the twa for sae doing--There ye hae print for it."

Meg answered somewhat sullenly, "Ye may be mista'en, for a' that, your

ainsell, for as wise as ye are, Mr. Bindloose; I shall hae that matter

mair strictly enquired into."

This led to a renewal of the altercation concerning the probable fate of

Tyrrel, in the course of which the stranger was induced to take some

interest in the subject.

At length Mrs. Dods, receiving no countenance from the experienced

lawyer for the hypothesis she had formed, rose, in something like

displeasure, to order her whiskey to be prepared. But hostess as she was

herself, when in her own dominions, she reckoned without her host in the

present instance; for the humpbacked postilion, as absolute in his

department as Mrs. Dods herself, declared that the cattle would not be

fit for the road these two hours yet. The good lady was therefore

obliged to wait his pleasure, bitterly lamenting all the while the loss

which a house of public entertainment was sure to sustain by the absence

of the landlord or landlady, and anticipating a long list of broken

dishes, miscalculated reckonings, unarranged chambers, and other

disasters, which she was to expect at her return. Mr. Bindloose, zealous

to recover the regard of his good friend and client, which he had in

some degree forfeited by contradicting her on a favourite subject, did

not choose to offer the unpleasing, though obvious topic of consolation,

that an unfrequented inn is little exposed to the accidents she

apprehended. On the contrary, he condoled with her very cordially, and

went so far as to hint, that if Mr. Touchwood had come to Marchthorn

with post-horses, as he supposed from his dress, she could have the

advantage of them to return with more despatch to St. Ronan's.

"I am not sure," said Mr. Touchwood, suddenly, "but I may return there

myself. In that case I will be glad to set this good lady down, and to

stay a few days at her house if she will receive me.--I respect a woman

like you, ma'am, who pursue the occupation of your father--I have been

in countries, ma'am, where people have followed the same trade, from

father to son, for thousands of years--And I like the fashion--it shows

a steadiness and sobriety of character."

Mrs. Dods put on a joyous countenance at this proposal, protesting that

all should be done in her power to make things agreeable; and while her

good friend, Mr. Bindloose, expatiated upon the comfort her new guest

would experience at the Cleikum, she silently contemplated with delight

the prospect of a speedy and dazzling triumph, by carrying off a

creditable customer from her showy and successful rival at the Well.

"I shall be easily accommodated, ma'am," said the stranger; "I have

travelled too much and too far to be troublesome. A Spanish venta, a

Persian khan, or a Turkish caravanserail, is all the same to me--only,

as I have no servant--indeed, never can be plagued with one of these

idle loiterers,--I must beg you will send to the Well for a bottle of

the water on such mornings as I cannot walk there myself--I find it is

really of some service to me."

Mrs. Dods readily promised compliance with this reasonable request;

graciously conceding, that there "could be nae ill in the water itsell,

but maybe some gude--it was only the New Inn, and the daft haverils that

they caa'd the Company, that she misliked. Folk had a jest that St.

Ronan dookit the Deevil in the Waal, which garr'd it taste aye since of

brimstane--but she dared to say that was a' papist nonsense, for she was

tell't by him that kend weel, and that was the minister himsell, that

St. Ronan was nane of your idolatrous Roman saunts, but a Chaldee,"

(meaning probably a Culdee,) "whilk was doubtless a very different

story."

Matters being thus arranged to the satisfaction of both parties, the

post-chaise was ordered, and speedily appeared at the door of Mr.

Bindloose's mansion. It was not without a private feeling of reluctance,

that honest Meg mounted the step of a vehicle, on the door of which was

painted, "FOX INN AND HOTEL, ST. RONAN'S WELL;" but it was too late to

start such scruples.

"I never thought to have entered ane o' their hurley-hackets," she said,

as she seated herself; "and sic a like thing as it is--scarce room for

twa folk!--Weel I wot, Mr. Touchwood, when I was in the hiring line, our

twa chaises wad hae carried, ilk ane o' them, four grown folk and as

mony bairns. I trust that doited creature Anthony will come awa back wi'

my whiskey and the cattle, as soon as they have had their feed.--Are ye

sure ye hae room eneugh, sir?--I wad fain hotch mysell farther yont."

"O, ma'am," answered the Oriental, "I am accustomed to all sorts of

conveyances--a dooly, a litter, a cart, a palanquin, or a post-chaise,

are all alike to me--I think I could be an inside with Queen Mab in a

nutshell, rather than not get forward.--Begging you many pardons, if you

have no particular objections, I will light my sheroot," &c. &c. &c.

FOOTNOTES:

[I-20] This was a peculiarity in the countenance of the celebrated Cossack

leader, Platoff.

[I-21] An epithet which expresses, in Scotland, what the barometer calls

rainy.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE CLERGYMAN.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a-year.

GOLDSMITH'S _Deserted Village_.

Mrs. Dods's conviction, that her friend Tyrrel had been murdered by the

sanguinary Captain MacTurk remained firm and unshaken; but some

researches for the supposed body having been found fruitless, as well as

expensive, she began to give up the matter in despair. "She had done her

duty"--"she left the matter to them that had a charge anent such

things"--and "Providence would bring the mystery to light in his own

fitting time"--such were the moralities with which the good dame

consoled herself; and, with less obstinacy than Mr. Bindloose had

expected, she retained her opinion without changing her banker and man

of business.

Perhaps Meg's acquiescent inactivity in a matter which she had

threatened to probe so deeply, was partly owing to the place of poor

Tyrrel being supplied in her blue chamber, and in her daily thoughts and

cares, by her new guest, Mr. Touchwood; in possessing whom, a deserter

as he was from the Well, she obtained, according to her view of the

matter, a decided triumph over her rivals. It sometimes required,

however, the full force of this reflection, to induce Meg, old and

crabbed as she was, to submit to the various caprices and exactions of

attention which were displayed by her new lodger. Never any man talked

so much as Touchwood, of his habitual indifference to food, and

accommodation in travelling; and probably there never was any traveller

who gave more trouble in a house of entertainment. He had his own whims

about cookery; and when these were contradicted, especially if he felt

at the same time a twinge of incipient gout, one would have thought he

had taken his lessons in the pastry-shop of Bedreddin Hassan, and was

ready to renew the scene of the unhappy cream-tart, which was compounded

without pepper. Every now and then he started some new doctrine in

culinary matters, which Mrs. Dods deemed a heresy; and then the very

house rang with their disputes. Again, his bed must necessarily be made

at a certain angle from the pillow to the footposts; and the slightest

deviation from this disturbed, he said, his nocturnal rest, and did

certainly ruffle his temper. He was equally whimsical about the brushing

of his clothes, the arrangement of the furniture in his apartment, and a

thousand minutiæ, which, in conversation, he seemed totally to contemn.

It may seem singular, but such is the inconsistency of human nature,

that a guest of this fanciful and capricious disposition gave much more

satisfaction to Mrs. Dods, than her quiet and indifferent friend, Mr.

Tyrrel. If her present lodger could blame, he could also applaud; and no

artist, conscious of such skill as Mrs. Dods possessed, is indifferent

to the praises of such a connoisseur as Mr. Touchwood. The pride of art

comforted her for the additional labour; nor was it a matter unworthy

of this most honest publican's consideration, that the guests who give

most trouble, are usually those who incur the largest bills, and pay

them with the best grace. On this point Touchwood was a jewel of a

customer. He never denied himself the gratification of the slightest

whim, whatever expense he might himself incur, or whatever trouble he

might give to those about him; and all was done under protestation, that

the matter in question was the most indifferent thing to him in the

world. "What the devil did he care for Burgess's sauces, he that had eat

his kouscousou, spiced with nothing but the sand of the desert? only it

was a shame for Mrs. Dods to be without what every decent house, above

the rank of an alehouse, ought to be largely provided with."

In short, he fussed, fretted, commanded, and was obeyed; kept the house

in hot water, and yet was so truly good-natured when essential matters

were in discussion, that it was impossible to bear him the least

ill-will; so that Mrs. Dods, though in a moment of spleen she sometimes

wished him at the top of Tintock,[I-F] always ended by singing forth his

praises. She could not, indeed, help suspecting that he was a Nabob, as

well from his conversation about foreign parts, as from his freaks of

indulgence to himself, and generosity to others,--attributes which she

understood to be proper to most "Men of Ind." But although the reader

has heard her testify a general dislike to this species of Fortune's

favourites, Mrs. Dods had sense enough to know, that a Nabob living in

the neighbourhood, who raises the price of eggs and poultry upon the

good housewives around, was very different from a Nabob residing within

her own gates, drawing all his supplies from her own larder, and

paying, without hesitation or question, whatever bills her conscience

permitted her to send in. In short, to come back to the point at which

we perhaps might have stopped some time since, landlady and guest were

very much pleased with each other.

But Ennui finds entrance into every scene, when the gloss of novelty is

over; and the fiend began to seize upon Mr. Touchwood just when he had

got all matters to his mind in the Cleikum Inn--had instructed Dame Dods

in the mysteries of curry and mullegatawny--drilled the chambermaid into

the habit of making his bed at the angle recommended by Sir John

Sinclair--and made some progress in instructing the humpbacked postilion

in the Arabian mode of grooming. Pamphlets and newspapers, sent from

London and from Edinburgh by loads, proved inadequate to rout this

invader of Mr. Touchwood's comfort; and, at last, he bethought himself

of company. The natural resource would have been the Well--but the

traveller had a holy shivering of awe, which crossed him at the very

recollection of Lady Penelope, who had worked him rather hard during his

former brief residence; and although Lady Binks's beauty might have

charmed an Asiatic, by the plump graces of its contour, our senior was

past the thoughts of a Sultana and a haram. At length a bright idea

crossed his mind, and he suddenly demanded of Mrs. Dods, who was pouring

out his tea for breakfast, into a large cup of a very particular species

of china, of which he had presented her with a service on condition of

her rendering him this personal good office,--"Pray, Mrs. Dods, what

sort of a man is your minister?"

"He's just a man like other men, Maister Touchwood," replied Meg; "what

sort of a man should he be?"

"A man like other men?--ay--that is to say, he has the usual complement

of legs and arms, eyes and ears--But is he a sensible man?"

"No muckle o' that, sir," answered Dame Dods; "for if he was drinking

this very tea that ye gat doun from London wi' the mail, he wad mistake

it for common bohea."

"Then he has not all his organs--wants a nose, or the use of one at

least," said Mr. Touchwood; "the tea is right gunpowder--a perfect

nosegay."

"Aweel, that may be," said the landlady; "but I have gi'en the minister

a dram frae my ain best bottle of real Coniac brandy, and may I never

stir frae the bit, if he didna commend my whisky when he set down the

glass! There is no ane o' them in the Presbytery but himsell--ay, or in

the Synod either--but wad hae kend whisky frae brandy."

"But what _sort_ of man is he?--Has he learning?" demanded Touchwood.

"Learning?--eneugh o' that," answered Meg; "just dung donnart wi'

learning--lets a' things about the Manse gang whilk gate they will, sae

they dinna plague him upon the score. An awfu' thing it is to see sic an

ill-red-up house!--If I had the twa tawpies that sorn upon the honest

man ae week under my drilling, I think I wad show them how to sort a

lodging!"

"Does he preach well?" asked the guest.

"Oh, weel eneugh, weel eneugh--sometimes he will fling in a lang word or

a bit of learning that our farmers and bannet lairds canna sae weel

follow--But what of that, as I am aye telling them?--them that pay

stipend get aye the mair for their siller."

"Does he attend to his parish?--Is he kind to the poor?"

"Ower muckle o' that, Maister Touchwood--I am sure he makes the Word

gude, and turns not away from those that ask o' him--his very pocket is

picked by a wheen ne'er-do-weel blackguards, that gae sorning through

the country."

"Sorning through the country, Mrs. Dods?--what would you think if you

had seen the Fakirs, the Dervises, the Bonzes, the Imaums, the monks,

and the mendicants, that I have seen?--But go on, never mind--Does this

minister of yours come much into company?"

"Company?--gae wa'," replied Meg, "he keeps nae company at a', neither

in his ain house or ony gate else. He comes down in the morning in a

lang ragged nightgown, like a potato bogle, and down he sits amang his

books; and if they dinna bring him something to eat, the puir demented

body has never the heart to cry for aught, and he has been kend to sit

for ten hours thegither, black fasting, whilk is a' mere papistrie,

though he does it just out o' forget."

"Why, landlady, in that case, your parson is any thing but the ordinary

kind of man you described him--Forget his dinner!--the man must be

mad--he shall dine with me to-day--he shall have such a dinner as I'll

be bound he won't forget in a hurry."

"Ye'll maybe find that easier said than dune," said Mrs. Dods; "the

honest man hasna, in a sense, the taste of his mouth--forby, he never

dines out of his ain house--that is, when he dines at a'--A drink of

milk and a bit of bread serves his turn, or maybe a cauld potato.--It's

a heathenish fashion of him, for as good a man as he is, for surely

there is nae Christian man but loves his own bowels."

"Why, that may be," answered Touchwood; "but I have known many who took

so much care of their own bowels, my good dame, as to have none for any

one else.--But come--bustle to the work--get us as good a dinner for two

as you can set out--have it ready at three to an instant--get the old

hock I had sent me from Cockburn--a bottle of the particular Indian

Sherry--and another of your own old claret--fourth bin, you know,

Meg.--And stay, he is a priest, and must have port--have all ready, but

don't bring the wine into the sun, as that silly fool Beck did the other

day.--I can't go down to the larder myself, but let us have no

blunders."

"Nae fear, nae fear," said Meg, with a toss of the head, "I need naebody

to look into my larder but mysell, I trow--but it's an unco order of

wine for twa folk, and ane o' them a minister."

"Why, you foolish person, is there not the woman up the village that has

just brought another fool into the world, and will she not need sack and

caudle, if we leave some of our wine?"

"A gude ale-posset wad set her better," said Meg; "however, if it's your

will, it shall be my pleasure.--But the like of sic a gentleman as

yoursell never entered my doors!"

The traveller was gone before she had completed the sentence; and,

leaving Meg to bustle and maunder at her leisure, away he marched, with

the haste that characterised all his motions when he had any new project

in his head, to form an acquaintance with the minister of St. Ronan's,

whom, while he walks down the street to the Manse, we will endeavour to

introduce to the reader.

The Rev. Josiah Cargill was the son of a small farmer in the south of

Scotland; and a weak constitution, joined to the disposition for study

which frequently accompanies infirm health, induced his parents, though

at the expense of some sacrifices, to educate him for the ministry. They

were the rather led to submit to the privations which were necessary to

support this expense, because they conceived, from their family

traditions, that he had in his veins some portion of the blood of that

celebrated Boanerges of the Covenant, Donald Cargill,[I-G] who was slain

by the persecutors at the town of Queensferry, in the melancholy days of

Charles II., merely because, in the plenitude of his sacerdotal power,

he had cast out of the church, and delivered over to Satan by a formal

excommunication, the King and Royal Family, with all the ministers and

courtiers thereunto belonging. But if Josiah was really derived from

this uncompromising champion, the heat of the family spirit which he

might have inherited was qualified by the sweetness of his own

disposition, and the quiet temper of the times in which he had the good

fortune to live. He was characterised by all who knew him as a mild,

gentle, and studious lover of learning, who, in the quiet prosecution of

his own sole object, the acquisition of knowledge, and especially of

that connected with his profession, had the utmost indulgence for all

whose pursuits were different from his own. His sole relaxations were

those of a retiring, mild, and pensive temper, and were limited to a

ramble, almost always solitary, among the woods and hills, in praise of

which, he was sometimes guilty of a sonnet, but rather because he could

not help the attempt, than as proposing to himself the fame or the

rewards which attend the successful poet. Indeed, far from seeking to

insinuate his fugitive pieces into magazines and newspapers, he blushed

at his poetical attempts even while alone, and, in fact, was rarely so

indulgent to his vein as to commit them to paper.

From the same maid-like modesty of disposition, our student suppressed a

strong natural turn towards drawing, although he was repeatedly

complimented upon the few sketches which he made, by some whose judgment

was generally admitted. It was, however, this neglected talent, which,

like the swift feet of the stag in the fable, was fated to render him a

service which he might in vain have expected from his worth and

learning.

My Lord Bidmore, a distinguished connoisseur, chanced to be in search of

a private tutor for his son and heir, the Honourable Augustus Bidmore,

and for this purpose had consulted the Professor of Theology, who passed

before him in review several favourite students, any of whom he

conceived well suited for the situation; but still his answer to the

important and unlooked-for question, "Did the candidate understand

drawing?" was answered in the negative. The Professor, indeed, added his

opinion, that such an accomplishment was neither to be desired nor

expected in a student of theology; but, pressed hard with this condition

as a _sine qua non_, he at length did remember a dreaming lad about the

Hall, who seldom could be got to speak above his breath, even when

delivering his essays, but was said to have a strong turn for drawing.

This was enough for my Lord Bidmore, who contrived to obtain a sight of

some of young Cargill's sketches, and was satisfied that, under such a

tutor, his son could not fail to maintain that character for hereditary

taste which his father and grandfather had acquired at the expense of a

considerable estate, the representative value of which was now the

painted canvass in the great gallery at Bidmore-House.

Upon following up the enquiry concerning the young man's character, he

was found to possess all the other necessary qualifications of learning

and morals, in a greater degree than perhaps Lord Bidmore might have

required; and, to the astonishment of his fellow-students, but more

especially to his own, Josiah Cargill was promoted to the desired and

desirable situation of private tutor to the Honourable Mr. Bidmore.

Mr. Cargill did his duty ably and conscientiously, by a spoiled though

good-humoured lad, of weak health and very ordinary parts. He could not,

indeed, inspire into him any portion of the deep and noble enthusiasm

which characterises the youth of genius; but his pupil made such

progress in each branch of his studies as his capacity enabled him to

attain. He understood the learned languages, and could be very profound

on the subject of various readings--he pursued science, and could class

shells, pack mosses, and arrange minerals--he drew without taste, but

with much accuracy; and although he attained no commanding height in any

pursuit, he knew enough of many studies, literary and scientific, to

fill up his time, and divert from temptation a head, which was none of

the strongest in point of resistance.

Miss Augusta Bidmore, his lordship's only other child, received also the

instructions of Cargill in such branches of science as her father chose

she should acquire, and her tutor was capable to teach. But her progress

was as different from that of her brother, as the fire of heaven differs

from that grosser element which the peasant piles upon his smouldering

hearth. Her acquirements in Italian and Spanish literature, in history,

in drawing, and in all elegant learning, were such as to enchant her

teacher, while at the same time it kept him on the stretch, lest, in her

successful career, the scholar should outstrip the master.

Alas! such intercourse, fraught as it is with dangers arising out of the

best and kindest, as well as the most natural feelings on either side,

proved in the present, as in many other instances, fatal to the peace of

the preceptor. Every feeling heart will excuse a weakness, which we

shall presently find carried with it its own severe punishment. Cadenus,

indeed, believe him who will, has assured us, that, in such a perilous

intercourse, he himself preserved the limits which were unhappily

transgressed by the unfortunate Vanessa, his more impassioned pupil:--

"The innocent delight he took

To see the virgin mind her book,

Was but the master's secret joy,

In school to hear the finest boy."

But Josiah Cargill was less fortunate, or less cautious. He suffered his

fair pupil to become inexpressibly dear to him, before he discovered the

precipice towards which he was moving under the direction of a blind and

misplaced passion. He was indeed utterly incapable of availing himself

of the opportunities afforded by his situation, to involve his pupil in

the toils of a mutual passion. Honour and gratitude alike forbade such a

line of conduct, even had it been consistent with the natural

bashfulness, simplicity, and innocence of his disposition. To sigh and

suffer in secret, to form resolutions of separating himself from a

situation so fraught with danger, and to postpone from day to day the

accomplishment of a resolution so prudent, was all to which the tutor

found himself equal; and it is not improbable, that the veneration with

which he regarded his patron's daughter, with the utter hopelessness of

the passion which he nourished, tended to render his love yet more pure

and disinterested.

At length, the line of conduct which reason had long since recommended,

could no longer be the subject of procrastination. Mr. Bidmore was

destined to foreign travel for a twelvemonth, and Mr. Cargill received

from his patron the alternative of accompanying his pupil, or retiring

upon a suitable provision, the reward of his past instructions. It can

hardly be doubted which he preferred; for while he was with young

Bidmore, he did not seem entirely separated from his sister. He was sure

to hear of Augusta frequently, and to see some part, at least, of the

letters which she was to write to her brother; he might also hope to be

remembered in these letters as her "good friend and tutor;" and to these

consolations his quiet, contemplative, and yet enthusiastic disposition,

clung as to a secret source of pleasure, the only one which life seemed

to open to him.

But fate had a blow in store, which he had not anticipated. The chance

of Augusta's changing her maiden condition for that of a wife, probable

as her rank, beauty, and fortune rendered such an event, had never once

occurred to him; and although he had imposed upon himself the unwavering

belief that she could never be his, he was inexpressibly affected by the

intelligence that she had become the property of another.

The Honourable Mr. Bidmore's letters to his father soon after announced

that poor Mr. Cargill had been seized with a nervous fever, and again,

that his reconvalescence was attended with so much debility, it seemed

both of mind and body, as entirely to destroy his utility as a

travelling companion. Shortly after this the travellers separated, and

Cargill returned to his native country alone, indulging upon the road in

a melancholy abstraction of mind, which he had suffered to grow upon him

since the mental shock which he had sustained, and which in time became

the most characteristical feature of his demeanour. His meditations were

not even disturbed by any anxiety about his future subsistence, although

the cessation of his employment seemed to render that precarious. For

this, however, Lord Bidmore had made provision; for, though a coxcomb

where the fine arts were concerned, he was in other particulars a just

and honourable man, who felt a sincere pride in having drawn the talents

of Cargill from obscurity, and entertained due gratitude for the manner

in which he had achieved the important task intrusted to him in his

family.

His lordship had privately purchased from the Mowbray family the

patronage or advowson of the living of St. Ronan's, then held by a very

old incumbent, who died shortly afterwards; so that upon arriving in

England Cargill found himself named to the vacant living. So

indifferent, however, did he feel himself towards this preferment, that

he might possibly not have taken the trouble to go through the necessary

steps previous to his ordination, had it not been on account of his

mother, now a widow, and unprovided for, unless by the support which he

afforded her. He visited her in her small retreat in the suburbs of

Marchthorn, heard her pour out her gratitude to Heaven, that she should

have been granted life long enough to witness her son's promotion to a

charge, which in her eyes was more honourable and desirable than an

Episcopal see--heard her chalk out the life which they were to lead

together in the humble independence which had thus fallen on him--he

heard all this, and had no power to crush her hopes and her triumph by

the indulgence of his own romantic feelings. He passed almost

mechanically through the usual forms, and was inducted into the living

of St. Ronan's.

Although fanciful and romantic, it was not in Josiah Cargill's nature to

yield to unavailing melancholy; yet he sought relief, not in society,

but in solitary study. His seclusion was the more complete, that his

mother, whose education had been as much confined as her fortunes, felt

awkward under her new dignities, and willingly acquiesced in her son's

secession from society, and spent her whole time in superintending the

little household, and in her way providing for all emergencies, the

occurrence of which might call Josiah out of his favourite book-room. As

old age rendered her inactive, she began to regret the incapacity of her

son to superintend his own household, and talked something of matrimony,

and the mysteries of the muckle wheel. To these admonitions Mr. Cargill

returned only slight and evasive answers; and when the old lady slept in

the village churchyard, at a reverend old age, there was no one to

perform the office of superintendent in the minister's family. Neither

did Josiah Cargill seek for any, but patiently submitted to all the

evils with which a bachelor estate is attended, and which were at least

equal to those which beset the renowned Mago-Pico during his state of

celibacy.[I-22] His butter was ill churned, and declared by all but

himself and the quean who made it, altogether uneatable; his milk was

burnt in the pan, his fruit and vegetables were stolen, and his black

stockings mended with blue and white thread.

For all these things the minister cared not, his mind ever bent upon far

different matters. Do not let my fair readers do Josiah more than

justice, or suppose that, like Beltenebros in the desert, he remained

for years the victim of an unfortunate and misplaced passion. No--to the

shame of the male sex be it spoken, that no degree of hopeless love,

however desperate and sincere, can ever continue for years to embitter

life. There must be hope--there must be uncertainty--there must be

reciprocity, to enable the tyrant of the soul to secure a dominion of

very long duration over a manly and well-constituted mind, which is

itself desirous to _will_ its freedom. The memory of Augusta had long

faded from Josiah's thoughts, or was remembered only as a pleasing, but

melancholy and unsubstantial dream, while he was straining forward in

pursuit of a yet nobler and coyer mistress, in a word, of Knowledge

herself.

Every hour that he could spare from his parochial duties, which he

discharged with zeal honourable to his heart and head, was devoted to

his studies, and spent among his books. But this chase of wisdom, though

in itself interesting and dignified, was indulged to an excess which

diminished the respectability, nay, the utility, of the deceived

student; and he forgot, amid the luxury of deep and dark investigations,

that society has its claims, and that the knowledge which is unimparted,

is necessarily a barren talent, and is lost to society, like the miser's

concealed hoard, by the death of the proprietor. His studies were also

under the additional disadvantage, that, being pursued for the

gratification of a desultory longing after knowledge, and directed to no

determined object, they turned on points rather curious than useful, and

while they served for the amusement of the student himself, promised

little utility to mankind at large.

Bewildered amid abstruse researches, metaphysical and historical, Mr.

Cargill, living only for himself and his books, acquired many ludicrous

habits, which exposed the secluded student to the ridicule of the world,

and which tinged, though they did not altogether obscure, the natural

civility of an amiable disposition, as well as the acquired habits of

politeness which he had learned in the good society that frequented Lord

Bidmore's mansion. He not only indulged in neglect of dress and

appearance, and all those ungainly tricks which men are apt to acquire

by living very much alone, but besides, and especially, he became

probably the most abstracted and absent man of a profession peculiarly

liable to cherish such habits. No man fell so regularly into the painful

dilemma of mistaking, or, in Scottish phrase, _miskenning_, the person

he spoke to, or more frequently enquired of an old maid for her

husband, of a childless wife about her young people, of the distressed

widower for the spouse at whose funeral he himself had assisted but a

fortnight before; and none was ever more familiar with strangers whom he

had never seen, or seemed more estranged from those who had a title to

think themselves well known to him. The worthy man perpetually

confounded sex, age, and calling; and when a blind beggar extended his

hand for charity, he has been known to return the civility by taking off

his hat, making a low bow, and hoping his worship was well.

Among his brethren, Mr. Cargill alternately commanded respect by the

depth of his erudition, and gave occasion to laughter from his odd

peculiarities. On the latter occasions he used abruptly to withdraw from

the ridicule he had provoked; for notwithstanding the general mildness

of his character, his solitary habits had engendered a testy impatience

of contradiction, and a keener sense of pain arising from the satire of

others, than was natural to his unassuming disposition. As for his

parishioners, they enjoyed, as may reasonably be supposed, many a hearty

laugh at their pastor's expense, and were sometimes, as Mrs. Dods

hinted, more astonished than edified by his learning; for in pursuing a

point of biblical criticism, he did not altogether remember that he was

addressing a popular and unlearned assembly, not delivering a _concio ad

clerum_--a mistake, not arising from any conceit of his learning, or

wish to display it, but from the same absence of mind which induced an

excellent divine, when preaching before a party of criminals condemned

to death, to break off by promising the wretches, who were to suffer

next morning, "the rest of the discourse at the first proper

opportunity." But all the neighbourhood acknowledged Mr. Cargill's

serious and devout discharge of his ministerial duties; and the poorer

parishioners forgave his innocent peculiarities, in consideration of his

unbounded charity; while the heritors, if they ridiculed the

abstractions of Mr. Cargill on some subjects, had the grace to recollect

that they had prevented him from suing an augmentation of stipend,

according to the fashion of the clergy around him, or from demanding at

their hands a new manse, or the repair of the old one. He once, indeed,

wished that they would amend the roof of his book-room, which "rained

in"[I-23] in a very pluvious manner; but receiving no direct answer from

our friend Meiklewham, who neither relished the proposal nor saw means

of eluding it, the minister quietly made the necessary repairs at his

own expense, and gave the heritors no farther trouble on the subject.

Such was the worthy divine whom our _bon vivant_ at the Cleikum Inn

hoped to conciliate by a good dinner and Cockburn's particular; an

excellent menstruum in most cases, but not likely to be very efficacious

on the present occasion.

FOOTNOTES:

[I-22] Note III.--Mago-Pico.

[I-23] _Scotticé_, for "admitted the rain."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE ACQUAINTANCE.

'Twixt us thus the difference trims:--

Using head instead of limbs,

You have read what I have seen;

Using limbs instead of head,

I have seen what you have read--

Which way does the balance lean?

BUTLER.

Our traveller, rapid in all his resolutions and motions, strode stoutly

down the street, and arrived at the Manse, which was, as we have already

described it, all but absolutely ruinous. The total desolation and want

of order about the door, would have argued the place uninhabited, had it

not been for two or three miserable tubs with suds, or such like

sluttish contents, which were left there, that those who broke their

shins among them might receive a sensible proof, that "here the hand of

woman had been." The door being half off its hinges, the entrance was

for the time protected by a broken harrow, which must necessarily be

removed before entry could be obtained. The little garden, which might

have given an air of comfort to the old house had it been kept in any

order, was abandoned to a desolation, of which that of the sluggard was

only a type; and the minister's man, an attendant always proverbial for

doing half work, and who seemed in the present instance to do none, was

seen among docks and nettles, solacing himself with the few gooseberries

which remained on some moss-grown bushes. To him Mr. Touchwood called

loudly, enquiring after his master; but the clown, conscious of being

taken in flagrant delict, as the law says, fled from him like a guilty

thing, instead of obeying his summons, and was soon heard _hupping_ and

_geeing_ to the cart, which he had left on the other side of the broken

wall.

Disappointed in his application to the man-servant, Mr. Touchwood

knocked with his cane, at first gently, then harder, holloaed, bellowed,

and shouted, in the hope of calling the attention of some one within

doors, but received not a word in reply. At length, thinking that no

trespass could be committed upon so forlorn and deserted an

establishment, he removed the obstacles to entrance with such a noise as

he thought must necessarily have alarmed some one, if there was any live

person about the house at all. All was still silent; and, entering a

passage where the damp walls and broken flags corresponded to the

appearance of things out of doors, he opened a door to the left, which,

wonderful to say, still had a latch remaining, and found himself in the

parlour, and in the presence of the person whom he came to visit.

Amid a heap of books and other literary lumber, which had accumulated

around him, sat, in his well-worn leathern elbow chair, the learned

minister of St. Ronan's; a thin, spare man, beyond the middle age, of a

dark complexion, but with eyes which, though now obscured and vacant,

had been once bright, soft, and expressive, and whose features seemed

interesting, the rather that, notwithstanding the carelessness of his

dress, he was in the habit of performing his ablutions with Eastern

precision; for he had forgot neatness, but not cleanliness. His hair

might have appeared much more disorderly, had it not been thinned by

time, and disposed chiefly around the sides of his countenance and the

back part of his head; black stockings, ungartered, marked his

professional dress, and his feet were thrust into the old slipshod

shoes, which served him instead of slippers. The rest of his garments,

as far as visible, consisted in a plaid nightgown wrapt in long folds

round his stooping and emaciated length of body, and reaching down to

the slippers aforesaid. He was so intently engaged in studying the book

before him, a folio of no ordinary bulk, that he totally disregarded the

noise which Mr. Touchwood made in entering the room, as well as the

coughs and hems with which he thought it proper to announce his

presence.

No notice being taken of these inarticulate signals, Mr. Touchwood,

however great an enemy he was to ceremony, saw the necessity of

introducing his business, as an apology for his intrusion.

"Hem! sir--Ha, hem!--You see before you a person in some distress for

want of society, who has taken the liberty to call on you as a good

pastor, who may be, in Christian charity, willing to afford him a little

of your company, since he is tired of his own."

Of this speech Mr. Cargill only understood the words "distress" and

"charity," sounds with which he was well acquainted, and which never

failed to produce some effect on him. He looked at his visitor with

lack-lustre eye, and, without correcting the first opinion which he had

formed, although the stranger's plump and sturdy frame, as well as his

nicely-brushed coat, glancing cane, and, above all, his upright and

self-satisfied manner, resembled in no respect the dress, form, or

bearing of a mendicant, he quietly thrust a shilling into his hand, and

relapsed into the studious contemplation which the entrance of Touchwood

had interrupted.

"Upon my word, my good sir," said his visitor, surprised at a degree of

absence of mind which he could hardly have conceived possible, "you have

entirely mistaken my object."

"I am sorry my mite is insufficient, my friend," said the clergyman,

without again raising his eyes, "it is all I have at present to bestow."

"If you will have the kindness to look up for a moment, my good sir,"

said the traveller, "you may possibly perceive that you labour under a

considerable mistake."

Mr. Cargill raised his head, recalled his attention, and, seeing that he

had a well-dressed, respectable-looking person before him, he exclaimed

in much confusion, "Ha!--yes--on my word, I was so immersed in my

book--I believe--I think I have the pleasure to see my worthy friend,

Mr. Lavender?"

"No such thing, Mr. Cargill," replied Mr Touchwood. "I will save you the

trouble of trying to recollect me--you never saw me before.--But do not

let me disturb your studies--I am in no hurry, and my business can wait

your leisure."

"I am much obliged," said Mr. Cargill; "have the goodness to take a

chair, if you can find one--I have a train of thought to recover--a

slight calculation to finish--and then I am at your command."

The visitor found among the broken furniture, not without difficulty, a

seat strong enough to support his weight, and sat down, resting upon

his cane, and looking attentively at his host, who very soon became

totally insensible of his presence. A long pause of total silence

ensued, only disturbed by the rustling leaves of the folio from which

Mr. Cargill seemed to be making extracts, and now and then by a little

exclamation of surprise and impatience, when he dipped his pen, as

happened once or twice, into his snuff-box, instead of the inkstandish

which stood beside it. At length, just as Mr. Touchwood began to think

the scene as tedious as it was singular, the abstracted student raised

his head, and spoke as if in soliloquy, "From Acon, Accor, or St. John

d'Acre, to Jerusalem, how far?"

"Twenty-three miles north north-west," answered his visitor, without

hesitation.

Mr. Cargill expressed no more surprise at a question which he had put to

himself being answered by the voice of another, than if he had found the

distance on the map, and indeed, was not probably aware of the medium

through which his question had been solved; and it was the tenor of the

answer alone which he attended to in his reply.--"Twenty-three

miles--Ingulphus," laying his hand on the volume, "and Jeffrey Winesauf,

do not agree in this."

"They may both be d----d, then, for lying block-heads," answered the

traveller.

"You might have contradicted their authority, sir, without using such an

expression," said the divine, gravely.

"I cry you mercy, Doctor," said Mr. Touchwood; "but would you compare

these parchment fellows with me, that have made my legs my compasses

over great part of the inhabited world?"

"You have been in Palestine, then?" said Mr. Cargill, drawing himself

upright in his chair, and speaking with eagerness and with interest.

"You may swear that, Doctor, and at Acre too. Why, I was there the month

after Boney had found it too hard a nut to crack.--I dined with Sir

Sydney's chum, old Djezzar Pacha, and an excellent dinner we had, but

for a dessert of noses and ears brought on after the last remove, which

spoiled my digestion. Old Djezzar thought it so good a joke, that you

hardly saw a man in Acre whose face was not as flat as the palm of my

hand--Gad, I respect my olfactory organ, and set off the next morning as

fast as the most cursed hard-trotting dromedary that ever fell to poor

pilgrim's lot could contrive to tramp."

"If you have really been in the Holy Land, sir," said Mr. Cargill, whom

the reckless gaiety of Touchwood's manner rendered somewhat suspicious

of a trick, "you will be able materially to enlighten me on the subject

of the Crusades."

"They happened before my time, Doctor," replied the traveller.

"You are to understand that my curiosity refers to the geography of the

countries where these events took place," answered Mr. Cargill.

"O! as to that matter, you are lighted on your feet," said Mr.

Touchwood; "for the time present I can fit you. Turk, Arab, Copt, and

Druse, I know every one of them, and can make you as well acquainted

with them as myself. Without stirring a step beyond your threshold, you

shall know Syria as well as I do.--But one good turn deserves

another--in that case, you must have the goodness to dine with me."

"I go seldom abroad, sir," said the minister, with a good deal of

hesitation, for his habits of solitude and seclusion could not be

entirely overcome, even by the expectation raised by the traveller's

discourse; "yet I cannot deny myself the pleasure of waiting on a

gentleman possessed of so much experience."

"Well then," said Mr. Touchwood, "three be the hour--I never dine later,

and always to a minute--and the place, the Cleikum Inn, up the way;

where Mrs. Dods is at this moment busy in making ready such a dinner as

your learning has seldom seen, Doctor, for I brought the receipts from

the four different quarters of the globe."

Upon this treaty they parted; and Mr. Cargill, after musing for a short

while upon the singular chance which had sent a living man to answer

those doubts for which he was in vain consulting ancient authorities, at

length resumed, by degrees, the train of reflection and investigation

which Mr. Touchwood's visit had interrupted, and in a short time lost

all recollection of his episodical visitor, and of the engagement which

he had formed.

Not so Mr. Touchwood, who, when not occupied with business of real

importance, had the art, as the reader may have observed, to make a

prodigious fuss about nothing at all. Upon the present occasion, he

bustled in and out of the kitchen, till Mrs. Dods lost patience, and

threatened to pin the dish-clout to his tail; a menace which he

pardoned, in consideration, that in all the countries which he had

visited, which are sufficiently civilized to boast of cooks, these

artists, toiling in their fiery element, have a privilege to be testy

and impatient. He therefore retreated from the torrid region of Mrs.

Dods's microcosm, and employed his time in the usual devices of

loiterers, partly by walking for an appetite, partly by observing the

progress of his watch towards three o'clock, when he had happily

succeeded in getting an employment more serious. His table, in the blue

parlour, was displayed with two covers, after the fairest fashion of the

Cleikum Inn; yet the landlady, with a look "civil but sly," contrived to

insinuate a doubt whether the clergyman would come, "when a' was dune."

Mr. Touchwood scorned to listen to such an insinuation until the fated

hour arrived, and brought with it no Mr. Cargill. The impatient

entertainer allowed five minutes for difference of clocks, and variation

of time, and other five for the procrastination of one who went little

into society. But no sooner were the last five minutes expended, than he

darted off for the Manse, not, indeed, much like a greyhound or a deer,

but with the momentum of a corpulent and well-appetized elderly

gentleman, who is in haste to secure his dinner. He bounced without

ceremony into the parlour, where he found the worthy divine clothed in

the same plaid nightgown, and seated in the very elbow-chair, in which

he had left him five hours before. His sudden entrance recalled to Mr.

Cargill, not an accurate, but something of a general, recollection, of

what had passed in the morning, and he hastened to apologize with

"Ha!--indeed--already?--upon my word, Mr. A--a--, I mean my dear

friend--I am afraid I have used you ill--I forgot to order any

dinner--but we will do our best.--Eppie--Eppie!"

Not at the first, second, nor third call, but _ex intervallo_, as the

lawyers express it, Eppie, a bare-legged, shock-headed, thick-ankled,

red-armed wench, entered, and announced her presence by an emphatic

"What's your wull?"

"Have you got any thing in the house for dinner, Eppie?"

"Naething but bread and milk, plenty o't--what should I have?"

"You see, sir," said Mr. Cargill, "you are like to have a Pythagorean

entertainment; but you are a traveller, and have doubtless been in your

time thankful for bread and milk."

"But never when there was any thing better to be had," said Mr.

Touchwood. "Come, Doctor, I beg your pardon, but your wits are fairly

gone a wool-gathering; it was _I_ invited _you_ to dinner, up at the inn

yonder, and not you me."

"On my word, and so it was," said Mr. Cargill; "I knew I was quite

right--I knew there was a dinner engagement betwixt us, I was sure of

that, and that is the main point.--Come, sir, I wait upon you."

"Will you not first change your dress?" said the visitor, seeing with

astonishment that the divine proposed to attend him in his plaid

nightgown; "why, we shall have all the boys in the village after us--you

will look like an owl in sunshine, and they will flock round you like so

many hedge-sparrows."

"I will get my clothes instantly," said the worthy clergyman; "I will

get ready directly--I am really ashamed to keep you waiting, my dear

Mr.--eh--eh--your name has this instant escaped me."

"It is Touchwood, sir, at your service; I do not believe you ever heard

it before," answered the traveller.

"True--right--no more I have--well, my good Mr. Touchstone, will you sit

down an instant until we see what we can do?--strange slaves we make

ourselves to these bodies of ours, Mr. Touchstone--the clothing and the

sustaining of them costs us much thought and leisure, which might be

better employed in catering for the wants of our immortal spirits."

Mr. Touchwood thought in his heart that never had Bramin or Gymnosophist

less reason to reproach himself with excess in the indulgence of the

table, or of the toilet, than the sage before him; but he assented to

the doctrine, as he would have done to any minor heresy, rather than

protract matters by farther discussing the point at present. In a short

time the minister was dressed in his Sunday's suit, without any farther

mistake than turning one of his black stockings inside out; and Mr.

Touchwood, happy as was Boswell when he carried off Dr. Johnson in

triumph to dine with Strahan and John Wilkes, had the pleasure of

escorting him to the Cleikum Inn.

In the course of the afternoon they became more familiar, and the

familiarity led to their forming a considerable estimate of each other's

powers and acquirements. It is true, the traveller thought the student

too pedantic, too much attached to systems, which, formed in solitude,

he was unwilling to renounce, even when contradicted by the voice and

testimony of experience; and, moreover, considered his utter inattention

to the quality of what he eat and drank, as unworthy of a rational, that

is, of a cooking creature, or of a being who, as defined by Johnson,

holds his dinner as the most important business of the day. Cargill did

not act up to this definition, and was, therefore, in the eyes of his

new acquaintance, so far ignorant and uncivilized. What then? He was

still a sensible, intelligent man, however abstemious and bookish.

On the other hand, the divine could not help regarding his new friend as

something of an epicure or belly-god, nor could he observe in him either

the perfect education, or the polished bearing, which mark the gentleman

of rank, and of which, while he mingled with the world, he had become a

competent judge. Neither did it escape him, that in the catalogue of Mr.

Touchwood's defects, occurred that of many travellers, a slight

disposition to exaggerate his own personal adventures, and to prose

concerning his own exploits. But then, his acquaintance with Eastern

manners, existing now in the same state in which they were found during

the time of the Crusades, formed a living commentary on the works of

William of Tyre, Raymund of Saint Giles, the Moslem annals of

Abulfaragi, and other historians of the dark period, with which his

studies were at present occupied.

A friendship, a companionship at least, was therefore struck up hastily

betwixt these two originals; and to the astonishment of the whole parish

of St. Ronan's, the minister thereof was seen once more leagued and

united with an individual of his species, generally called among them

the Cleikum Nabob. Their intercourse sometimes consisted in long walks,

which they took in company, traversing, however, as limited a space of

ground, as if it had been actually roped in for their pedestrian

exercise. Their parade was, according to circumstances, a low haugh at

the nether end of the ruinous hamlet, or the esplanade in the front of

the old castle; and, in either case, the direct longitude of their

promenade never exceeded a hundred yards. Sometimes, but rarely, the

divine took share of Mr. Touchwood's meal, though less splendidly set

forth than when he was first invited to partake of it; for, like the

owner of the gold cup in Parnell's Hermit, when cured of his

ostentation,

----"Still he welcomed, but with less of cost."

On these occasions, the conversation was not of the regular and

compacted nature, which passes betwixt men, as they are ordinarily

termed, of this world. On the contrary, the one party was often thinking

of Saladin and Coeur de Lion, when the other was haranguing on Hyder

Ali and Sir Eyre Coote. Still, however, the one spoke, and the other

seemed to listen; and, perhaps, the lighter intercourse of society,

where amusement is the sole object, can scarcely rest on a safer and

more secure basis.

It was on one of the evenings when the learned divine had taken his

place at Mr. Touchwood's social board, or rather at Mrs. Dods's,--for a

cup of excellent tea, the only luxury which Mr. Cargill continued to

partake of with some complacence, was the regale before them,--that a

card was delivered to the Nabob.

"Mr. and Miss Mowbray see company at Shaws-Castle on the twentieth

current, at two o'clock--a _déjeûner_--dresses in character

admitted--A dramatic picture."

"See company? the more fools they," he continued by way of comment. "See

company?--choice phrases are ever commendable--and this piece of

pasteboard is to intimate that one may go and meet all the fools of the

parish, if they have a mind--in my time they asked the honour, or the

pleasure, of a stranger's company. I suppose, by and by, we shall have

in this country the ceremonial of a Bedouin's tent, where every ragged

Hadgi, with his green turban, comes in slap without leave asked, and has

his black paw among the rice, with no other apology than Salam

Alicum.--'Dresses in character--Dramatic picture'--what new tomfoolery

can that be?--but it does not signify.--Doctor! I say Doctor!--but he is

in the seventh heaven--I say, Mother Dods, you who know all the news--Is

this the feast that was put off until Miss Mowbray should be better?"

"Troth is it, Maister Touchwood--they are no in the way of giving twa

entertainments in one season--no very wise to gie ane maybe--but they

ken best."

"I say, Doctor, Doctor!--Bless his five wits, he is charging the

Moslemah with stout King Richard--I say, Doctor, do you know any thing

of these Mowbrays?"

"Nothing extremely particular," answered Mr. Cargill, after a pause; "it

is an ordinary tale of greatness, which blazes in one century, and is

extinguished in the next. I think Camden says, that Thomas Mowbray, who

was Grand-Marshal of England, succeeded to that high office, as well as

to the Dukedom of Norfolk, as grandson of Roger Bigot, in 1301."

"Pshaw, man, you are back into the 14th century--I mean these Mowbrays

of St. Ronan's--now, don't fall asleep again until you have answered my

question--and don't look so like a startled hare--I am speaking no

treason."

The clergyman floundered a moment, as is usual with an absent man who is

recovering the train of his ideas, or a somnambulist when he is suddenly

awakened, and then answered, still with hesitation,--

"Mowbray of St. Ronan's?--ha--eh--I know--that is--I did know the

family."

"Here they are going to give a masquerade, a _bal paré_, private

theatricals, I think, and what not," handing him the card.

"I saw something of this a fortnight ago," said Mr. Cargill; "indeed, I

either had a ticket myself, or I saw such a one as that."

"Are you sure you did not attend the party, Doctor?" said the Nabob.

"Who attend? I? you are jesting, Mr. Touchwood."

"But are you quite positive?" demanded Mr. Touchwood, who had observed,

to his infinite amusement, that the learned and abstracted scholar was

so conscious of his own peculiarities, as never to be very sure on any

such subject.

"Positive!" he repeated with embarrassment; "my memory is so wretched

that I never like to be positive--but had I done any thing so far out of

my usual way, I must have remembered it, one would think--and--I _am_

positive I was not there."

"Neither could you, Doctor," said the Nabob, laughing at the process by

which his friend reasoned himself into confidence, "for it did not take

place--it was adjourned, and this is the second invitation--there will

be one for you, as you had a card to the former.--Come, Doctor, you must

go--you and I will go together--I as an Imaum--I can say my Bismillah

with any Hadgi of them all--You as a cardinal, or what you like best."

"Who, I?--it is unbecoming my station, Mr. Touchwood," said the

clergyman--"a folly altogether inconsistent with my habits."

"All the better--you shall change your habits."

"You had better gang up and see them, Mr. Cargill," said Mrs. Dods; "for

it's maybe the last sight ye may see of Miss Mowbray--they say she is to

be married and off to England ane of thae odd-come-shortlies, wi' some

of the gowks about the Waal down-by."

"Married!" said the clergyman; "it is impossible!"

"But where's the impossibility, Mr. Cargill, when ye see folk marry

every day, and buckle them yoursell into the bargain?--Maybe ye think

the puir lassie has a bee in her bannet; but ye ken yoursell if naebody

but wise folk were to marry, the warld wad be ill peopled. I think it's

the wise folk that keep single, like yoursell and me, Mr. Cargill.--Gude

guide us!--are ye weel?--will ye taste a drap o' something?"

"Sniff at my ottar of roses," said Mr. Touchwood; "the scent would

revive the dead--why, what in the devil's name is the meaning of

this?--you were quite well just now."

"A sudden qualm," said Mr. Cargill, recovering himself.

"Oh! Mr. Cargill," said Dame Dods, "this comes of your lang fasts."

"Right, dame," subjoined Mr. Touchwood; "and of breaking them with sour

milk and pease bannock--the least morsel of Christian food is rejected

by stomach, just as a small gentleman refuses the visit of a creditable

neighbour, lest he see the nakedness of the land--ha! ha!"

"And there is really a talk of Miss Mowbray of St Ronan's being

married?" said the clergyman.

"Troth is there," said the dame; "it's Trotting Nelly's news; and though

she likes a drappie, I dinna think she would invent a lee or carry

ane--at least to me, that am a gude customer."

"This must be looked to," said Mr. Cargill, as if speaking to himself.

"In troth, and so it should," said Dame Dods; "it's a sin and a shame if

they should employ the tinkling cymbal they ca' Chatterly, and sic a

Presbyterian trumpet as yoursell in the land, Mr. Cargill; and if ye

will take a fule's advice, ye winna let the multure be ta'en by your ain

mill, Mr. Cargill."

"True, true, good Mother Dods," said the Nabob; "gloves and hatbands are

things to be looked after, and Mr. Cargill had better go down to this

cursed festivity with me, in order to see after his own interest."

"I must speak with the young lady," said the clergyman, still in a brown

study.

"Right, right, my boy of black-letter," said the Nabob; "with me you

shall go, and we'll bring them to submission to mother-church, I warrant

you--Why, the idea of being cheated in such a way, would scare a Santon

out of his trance.--What dress will you wear?"

"My own, to be sure," said the divine, starting from his reverie.

"True, thou art right again--they may want to knit the knot on the spot,

and who would be married by a parson in masquerade?--We go to the

entertainment though--it is a done thing."

The clergyman assented, provided he should receive an invitation; and as

that was found at the Manse, he had no excuse for retracting, even if he

had seemed to desire one.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FORTUNE'S FROLICS.

_Count Basset._ We gentlemen, whose carriages run on the four aces,

are apt to have a wheel out of order.

_The Provoked Husband._

Our history must now look a little backwards; and although it is rather

foreign to our natural style of composition, it must speak more in

narrative, and less in dialogue, rather telling what happened, than its

effects upon the actors. Our purpose, however, is only conditional, for

we foresee temptations which may render it difficult for us exactly to

keep it.

The arrival of the young Earl of Etherington at the salutiferous

fountain of St. Ronan's had produced the strongest sensation;

especially, as it was joined with the singular accident of the attempt

upon his lordship's person, as he took a short cut through the woods on

foot, at a distance from his equipage and servants. The gallantry with

which he beat off the highwayman, was only equal to his generosity; for

he declined making any researches after the poor devil, although his

lordship had received a severe wound in the scuffle.

Of the "three black Graces," as they have been termed by one of the most

pleasant companions of our time, Law and Physic hastened to do homage

to Lord Etherington, represented by Mr. Meiklewham and Dr. Quackleben;

while Divinity, as favourable, though more coy, in the person of the

Reverend Mr. Simon Chatterly, stood on tiptoe to offer any service in

her power.

For the honourable reason already assigned, his lordship, after thanking

Mr. Meiklewham, and hinting, that he might have different occasion for

his services, declined his offer to search out the delinquent by whom he

had been wounded; while to the care of the Doctor he subjected the cure

of a smart flesh-wound in the arm, together with a slight scratch on the

temple; and so very genteel was his behaviour on the occasion, that the

Doctor, in his anxiety for his safety, enjoined him a month's course of

the waters, if he would enjoy the comfort of a complete and perfect

recovery. Nothing so frequent, he could assure his lordship, as the

opening of cicatrized wounds; and the waters of St. Ronan's spring

being, according to Dr. Quackleben, a remedy for all the troubles which

flesh is heir to, could not fail to equal those of Barege, in

facilitating the discharge of all splinters or extraneous matter, which

a bullet may chance to incorporate with the human frame, to its great

annoyance. For he was wont to say, that although he could not declare

the waters which he patronised to be an absolute _panpharmacon_, yet he

would with word and pen maintain, that they possessed the principal

virtues of the most celebrated medicinal springs in the known world. In

short, the love of Alpheus for Arethusa was a mere jest, compared to

that which the Doctor entertained for his favourite fountain.

The new and noble guest, whose arrival so much illustrated these scenes

of convalescence and of gaiety, was not at first seen so much at the

ordinary, and other places of public resort, as had been the hope of the

worthy company assembled. His health and his wound proved an excuse for

making his visits to the society few and far between.

But when he did appear, his manners and person were infinitely

captivating; and even the carnation-coloured silk handkerchief, which

suspended his wounded arm, together with the paleness and languor which

loss of blood had left on his handsome and open countenance, gave a

grace to the whole person which many of the ladies declared

irresistible. All contended for his notice, attracted at once by his

affability, and piqued by the calm and easy nonchalance with which it

seemed to be blended. The scheming and selfish Mowbray, the

coarse-minded and brutal Sir Bingo, accustomed to consider themselves,

and to be considered, as the first men of the party, sunk into

comparative insignificance. But chiefly Lady Penelope threw out the

captivations of her wit and her literature; while Lady Binks, trusting

to her natural charms, endeavoured equally to attract his notice. The

other nymphs of the Spa held a little back, upon the principle of that

politeness, which, at continental hunting parties, affords the first

shot at a fine piece of game, to the person of the highest rank present;

but the thought throbbed in many a fair bosom, that their ladyships

might miss their aim, in spite of the advantages thus allowed them, and

that there might then be room for less exalted, but perhaps not less

skilful, markswomen, to try their chance.

But while the Earl thus withdrew from public society, it was necessary,

at least natural, that he should choose some one with whom to share the

solitude of his own apartment; and Mowbray, superior in rank to the

half-pay whisky-drinking Captain MacTurk; in dash to Winterblossom, who

was broken down, and turned twaddler; and in tact and sense to Sir Bingo

Binks, easily manoeuvred himself into his lordship's more intimate

society; and internally thanking the honest footpad, whose bullet had

been the indirect means of secluding his intended victim from all

society but his own, he gradually began to feel the way, and prove the

strength of his antagonist, at the various games of skill and hazard

which he introduced, apparently with the sole purpose of relieving the

tedium of a sick-chamber.

Meiklewham, who felt, or affected, the greatest possible interest in his

patron's success, and who watched every opportunity to enquire how his

schemes advanced, received at first such favourable accounts as made him

grin from ear to ear, rub his hands, and chuckle forth such bursts of

glee as only the success of triumphant roguery could have extorted from

him. Mowbray looked grave, however, and checked his mirth.

"There was something in it after all," he said, "that he could not

perfectly understand. Etherington, an used hand--d----d sharp--up to

every thing, and yet he lost his money like a baby."

"And what the matter how he loses it, so you win it like a man?" said

his legal friend and adviser.

"Why, hang it, I cannot tell," replied Mowbray--"were it not that I

think he has scarce the impudence to propose such a thing to succeed,

curse me but I should think he was coming the old soldier over me, and

keeping up his game.--But no--he can scarce have the impudence to think

of that.--I find, however, that he has done Wolverine--cleaned out poor

Tom--though Tom wrote to me the precise contrary, yet the truth has

since come out--Well, I shall avenge him, for I see his lordship is to

be had as well as other folk."

"Weel, Mr. Mowbray," said the lawyer, in a tone of affected sympathy,

"ye ken your own ways best--but the heavens will bless a moderate mind.

I would not like to see you ruin this poor lad, _funditus_, that is to

say, out and out. To lose some of the ready will do him no great harm,

and maybe give him a lesson he may be the better of as long as he

lives--but I wad not, as an honest man, wish you to go deeper--you

should spare the lad, Mr. Mowbray."

"Who spared _me_, Meiklewham?" said Mowbray, with a look and tone of

deep emphasis--"No, no--he must go through the mill--money and money's

worth.--His seat is called Oakendale--think of that, Mick--Oakendale!

Oh, name of thrice happy augury!--Speak not of mercy, Mick--the

squirrels of Oakendale must be dismounted, and learn to go a-foot.--What

mercy can the wandering lord of Troy expect among the Greeks?--The

Greeks!--I am a very Suliote--the bravest of Greeks.

'I think not of pity, I think not of fear,

He neither must know who would serve the Vizier.'

And necessity, Mick," he concluded, with a tone something altered,

"necessity is as unrelenting a leader as any Vizier or Pacha, whom

Scanderbeg ever fought with, or Byron has sung."

Meiklewham echoed his patron's ejaculation with a sound betwixt a

whine, a chuckle, and a groan; the first being designed to express his

pretended pity for the destined victim; the second his sympathy with his

patron's prospects of success; and the third being a whistle admonitory

of the dangerous courses through which his object was to be pursued.

Suliote as he boasted himself, Mowbray had, soon after this

conversation, some reason to admit that,

"When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war."

The light skirmishing betwixt the parties was ended, and the serious

battle commenced with some caution on either side; each perhaps,

desirous of being master of his opponent's system of tactics, before

exposing his own. Piquet, the most beautiful game at which a man can

make sacrifice of his fortune, was one with which Mowbray had, for his

misfortune perhaps, been accounted, from an early age, a great

proficient, and in which the Earl of Etherington, with less experience,

proved no novice. They now played for such stakes as Mowbray's state of

fortune rendered considerable to him, though his antagonist appeared not

to regard the amount. And they played with various success; for, though

Mowbray at times returned with a smile of confidence the enquiring looks

of his friend Meiklewham, there were other occasions on which he seemed

to evade them, as if his own had a sad confession to make in reply.

These alternations, though frequent, did not occupy, after all, many

days; for Mowbray, a friend of all hours, spent much of his time in Lord

Etherington's apartment, and these few days were days of battle. In the

meantime, as his lordship was now sufficiently recovered to join the

Party at Shaws-Castle, and Miss Mowbray's health being announced as

restored, that proposal was renewed, with the addition of a dramatic

entertainment, the nature of which we shall afterwards have occasion to

explain. Cards were anew issued to all those who had been formerly

included in the invitation, and of course to Mr. Touchwood, as formerly

a resident at the Well, and now in the neighbourhood; it being

previously agreed among the ladies, that a Nabob, though sometimes a

dingy or damaged commodity, was not to be rashly or unnecessarily

neglected. As to the parson, he had been asked, of course, as an old

acquaintance of the Mowbray house, not to be left out when the friends

of the family were invited on a great scale; but his habits were well

known, and it was no more expected that he would leave his manse on such

an occasion, than that the kirk should loosen itself from its

foundations.

It was after these arrangements had been made, that the Laird of St.

Ronan's suddenly entered Meiklewham's private apartment with looks of

exultation. The worthy scribe turned his spectacled nose towards his

patron, and holding in one hand the bunch of papers which he had been

just perusing, and in the other the tape with which he was about to tie

them up again, suspended that operation to await with open eyes and ears

the communication of Mowbray.

"I have done him!" he said, exultingly, yet in a tone of voice lowered

almost to a whisper; "capotted his lordship for this bout--doubled my

capital, Mick, and something more.--Hush, don't interrupt me--we must

think of Clara now--she must share the sunshine, should it prove but a

blink before a storm.--You know, Mick, these two d----d women, Lady

Penelope and the Binks, have settled that they will have something like

a _bal paré_ on this occasion, a sort of theatrical exhibition, and that

those who like it shall be dressed in character.--I know their

meaning--they think Clara has no dress fit for such foolery, and so they

hope to eclipse her; Lady Pen, with her old-fashioned, ill-set diamonds,

and my Lady Binks, with the new-fashioned finery which she swopt her

character for. But Clara shan't borne down so, by ----! I got that

affected slut, Lady Binks's maid, to tell me what her mistress had set

her mind on, and she is to wear a Grecian habit, forsooth, like one of

Will Allan's Eastern subjects.--But here's the rub--there is only one

shawl for sale in Edinburgh that is worth showing off in, and that is at

the Gallery of Fashion.--Now, Mick, my friend, that shawl must be had

for Clara, with the other trankums of muslin and lace, and so forth,

which you will find marked in the paper there.--Send instantly and

secure it, for, as Lady Binks writes by to-morrow's post, your order can

go by to-night's mail--There is a note for L.100."

From a mechanical habit of never refusing any thing, Meiklewham readily

took the note, but having looked at it through his spectacles, he

continued to hold it in his hand as he remonstrated with his

patron.--"This is a' very kindly meant, St. Ronan's--very kindly meant;

and I wad be the last to say that Miss Clara does not merit respect and

kindness at your hand; but I doubt mickle if she wad care a bodle for

thae braw things. Ye ken yoursell, she seldom alters her fashions. Od,

she thinks her riding-habit dress eneugh for ony company; and if you

were ganging by good looks, so it is--if she had a thought mair colour,

poor dear."

"Well, well," said Mowbray, impatiently, "let me alone to reconcile a

woman and a fine dress."

"To be sure, ye ken best," said the writer; "but, after a', now, wad it

no be better to lay by this hundred pound in Tam Turnpenny's, in case

the young lady should want it afterhend, just for a sair foot?"

"You are a fool, Mick; what signifies healing a sore foot, when there

will be a broken heart in the case?--No, no--get the things as I desire

you--we will blaze them down for one day at least; perhaps it will be

the beginning of a proper dash."

"Weel, weel, I wish it may be so," answered Meiklewham; "but this young

Earl--hae ye found the weak point?--Can ye get a decerniture against

him, with expenses?--that is the question."

"I wish I could answer it," said Mowbray, thoughtfully.--"Confound the

fellow--he is a cut above me in rank and in society too--belongs to the

great clubs, and is in with the Superlatives and Inaccessibles, and all

that sort of folk.--My training has been a peg lower--but, hang it,

there are better dogs bred in the kennel than in the parlour. I am up to

him, I think--at least I will soon know, Mick, whether I am or no, and

that is always one comfort. Never mind--do you execute my commission,

and take care you name no names--I must save my little Abigail's

reputation."

They parted, Meiklewham to execute his patron's commission--his patron

to bring to the test those hopes, the uncertainty of which he could not

disguise from his own sagacity.

Trusting to the continuance of his run of luck, Mowbray resolved to

bring affairs to a crisis that same evening. Every thing seemed in the

outset to favour his purpose. They had dined together in Lord

Etherington's apartments--his state of health interfered with the

circulation of the bottle, and a drizzly autumnal evening rendered

walking disagreeable, even had they gone no farther than the private

stable where Lord Etherington's horses were kept, under the care of a

groom of superior skill. Cards were naturally, almost necessarily,

resorted to, as the only alternative for helping away the evening, and

piquet was, as formerly, chosen for the game.

Lord Etherington seemed at first indolently careless and indifferent

about his play, suffering advantages to escape him, of which, in a more

attentive state of mind, he could not have failed to avail himself.

Mowbray upbraided him with his inattention, and proposed a deeper stake,

in order to interest him in the game. The young nobleman complied; and

in the course of a few hands, the gamesters became both deeply engaged

in watching and profiting by the changes of fortune. These were so many,

so varied, and so unexpected, that the very souls of the players seemed

at length centred in the event of the struggle; and, by dint of doubling

stakes, the accumulated sum of a thousand pounds and upwards, upon each

side, came to be staked in the issue of the game.--So large a risk

included all those funds which Mowbray commanded by his sister's

kindness, and nearly all his previous winnings, so to him the

alternative was victory or ruin. He could not hide his agitation,

however desirous to do so. He drank wine to supply himself with

courage--he drank water to cool his agitation; and at length bent

himself to play with as much care and attention as he felt himself

enabled to command.

In the first part of the game their luck appeared tolerably equal, and

the play of both befitting gamesters who had dared to place such a sum

on the cast. But, as it drew towards a conclusion, fortune altogether

deserted him who stood most in need of her favour, and Mowbray, with

silent despair, saw his fate depend on a single trick, and that with

every odds against him, for Lord Etherington was elder hand. But how can

fortune's favour secure any one who is not true to himself?--By an

infraction of the laws of the game, which could only have been expected

from the veriest bungler that ever touched a card, Lord Etherington

called a point without showing it, and, by the ordinary rule, Mowbray

was entitled to count his own--and in the course of that and the next

hand, gained the game and swept the stakes. Lord Etherington showed

chagrin and displeasure, and seemed to think that the rigour of the game

had been more insisted upon than in courtesy it ought to have been, when

men were playing for so small a stake. Mowbray did not understand this

logic. A thousand pounds, he said, were in his eyes no nutshells; the

rules of piquet were insisted on by all but boys and women; and for his

part, he had rather not play at all than not play the game.

"So it would seem, my dear Mowbray," said the Earl; "for on my soul, I

never saw so disconsolate a visage as thine during that unlucky

game--it withdrew all my attention from my hand; and I may safely say,

your rueful countenance has stood me in a thousand pounds. If I could

transfer thy long visage to canvass, I should have both my revenge and

my money; for a correct resemblance would be worth not a penny less than

the original has cost me."

"You are welcome to your jest, my lord," said Mowbray, "it has been well

paid for; and I will serve you in ten thousand at the same rate. What

say you?" he proceeded, taking up and shuffling the cards, "will you do

yourself more justice in another game?--Revenge, they say, is sweet."

"I have no appetite for it this evening," said the Earl, gravely; "if I

had, Mowbray, you might come by the worse. I do not _always_ call a

point without showing it."

"Your lordship is out of humour with yourself for a blunder that might

happen to any man--it was as much my good luck as a good hand would have

been, and so fortune be praised."

"But what if with this Fortune had nought to do?" replied Lord

Etherington.--"What if, sitting down with an honest fellow and a friend

like yourself, Mowbray, a man should rather choose to lose his own

money, which he could afford, than to win what it might distress his

friend to part with?"

"Supposing a case so far out of supposition, my lord," answered Mowbray,

who felt the question ticklish--"for, with submission, the allegation is

easily made, and is totally incapable of proof--I should say, no one had

a right to think for me in such a particular, or to suppose that I

played for a higher stake than was convenient."

"And thus your friend, poor devil," replied Lord Etherington, "would

lose his money, and run the risk of a quarrel into the boot!--We will

try it another way--Suppose this good-humoured and simple-minded

gamester had a favour of the deepest import to ask of his friend, and

judged it better to prefer his request to a winner than to a loser?"

"If this applies to me, my lord," replied Mowbray, "it is necessary I

should learn how I can oblige your lordship."

"That is a word soon spoken, but so difficult to be recalled, that I am

almost tempted to pause--but yet it must be said.--Mowbray, you have a

sister."

Mowbray started.--"I have indeed a sister, my lord; but I can conceive

no case in which her name can enter with propriety into our present

discussion."

"Again in the menacing mood!" said Lord Etherington, in his former tone;

"now, here is a pretty fellow--he would first cut my throat for having

won a thousand pounds from me, and then for offering to make his sister

a countess!"

"A countess, my lord?" said Mowbray; "you are but jesting--you have

never even seen Clara Mowbray."

"Perhaps not--but what then?--I may have seen her picture, as Puff says

in the Critic, or fallen in love with her from rumour--or, to save

farther suppositions, as I see they render you impatient, I may be

satisfied with knowing that she is a beautiful and accomplished young

lady, with a large fortune."

"What fortune do you mean, my lord?" said Mowbray, recollecting with

alarm some claims, which, according to Meiklewham's view of the

subject, his sister might form upon his property.--"What estate?--there

is nothing belongs to our family, save these lands of St. Ronan's, or

what is left of them; and of these I am, my lord, an undoubted heir of

entail in possession."

"Be it so," said the Earl, "for I have no claim on your mountain realms

here, which are, doubtless,

----'renown'd of old

For knights, and squires, and barons bold;'

my views respect a much richer, though less romantic domain--a large

manor, hight Nettlewood. House old, but standing in the midst of such

glorious oaks--three thousand acres of land, arable, pasture, and

woodland, exclusive of the two closes, occupied by Widow Hodge and

Goodman Trampclod--manorial rights--mines and minerals--and the devil

knows how many good things besides, all lying in the vale of Bever."

"And what has my sister to do with all this?" asked Mowbray, in great

surprise.

"Nothing; but that it belongs to her when she becomes Countess of

Etherington."

"It is, then, your lordship's property already?"

"No, by Jove! nor can it, unless your sister honours me with her

approbation of my suit," replied the Earl.

"This is a sorer puzzle than one of Lady Penelope's charades, my lord,"

said Mr. Mowbray; "I must call in the assistance of the Reverend Mr.

Chatterly."

"You shall not need," said Lord Etherington; "I will give you the key,

but listen to me with patience.--You know that we nobles of England,

less jealous of our sixteen quarters than those on the continent, do

not take scorn to line our decayed ermines with the little cloth of gold

from the city; and my grandfather was lucky enough to get a wealthy

wife, with a halting pedigree,--rather a singular circumstance,

considering that her father was a countryman of yours. She had a

brother, however, still more wealthy than herself, and who increased his

fortune by continuing to carry on the trade which had first enriched his

family. At length he summed up his books, washed his hands of commerce,

and retired to Nettlewood, to become a gentleman; and here my much

respected grand-uncle was seized with the rage of making himself a man

of consequence. He tried what marrying a woman of family would do; but

he soon found that whatever advantage his family might derive from his

doing so, his own condition was but little illustrated. He next resolved

to become a man of family himself. His father had left Scotland when

very young, and bore, I blush to say, the vulgar name of Scrogie. This

hapless dissyllable my uncle carried in person to the herald office in

Scotland; but neither Lyon, nor Marchmont, nor Islay, nor Snadoun,

neither herald nor pursuivant, would patronise Scrogie.--Scrogie!--there

could nothing be made out of it--so that my worthy relative had recourse

to the surer side of the house, and began to found his dignity on his

mother's name of Mowbray. In this he was much more successful, and I

believe some sly fellow stole for him a slip from your own family tree,

Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's, which, I daresay, you have never missed. At

any rate, for his _argent_ and _or_, he got a handsome piece of

parchment, blazoned with a white lion for Mowbray, to be borne

quarterly, with three stunted or scrog-bushes for Scrogie, and became

thenceforth Mr. Scrogie Mowbray, or rather, as he subscribed himself,

Reginald (his former Christian name was Ronald) S. Mowbray. He had a son

who most undutifully laughed at all this, refused the honours of the

high name of Mowbray, and insisted on retaining his father's original

appellative of Scrogie, to the great annoyance of his said father's

ears, and damage of his temper."

"Why, faith, betwixt the two," said Mowbray, "I own I should have

preferred my own name, and I think the old gentleman's taste rather

better than the young one's."

"True; but both were wilful, absurd originals, with a happy obstinacy of

temper, whether derived from Mowbray or Scrogie I know not, but which

led them so often into opposition, that the offended father, Reginald S.

Mowbray, turned his recusant son Scrogie fairly out of doors; and the

fellow would have paid for his plebeian spirit with a vengeance, had he

not found refuge with a surviving partner of the original Scrogie of

all, who still carried on the lucrative branch of traffic by which the

family had been first enriched. I mention these particulars to account,

in so far as I can, for the singular predicament in which I now find

myself placed."

"Proceed, my lord," said Mr. Mowbray; "there is no denying the

singularity of your story, and I presume you are quite serious in giving

me such an extraordinary detail."

"Entirely so, upon my honour--and a most serious matter it is, you will

presently find. When my worthy uncle, Mr. S. Mowbray, (for I will not

call him Scrogie even in the grave,) paid his debt to nature, every

body concluded he would be found to have disinherited his son, the

unfilial Scrogie, and so far every body was right--But it was also

generally believed that he would settle the estate on my father, Lord

Etherington, the son of his sister, and therein every one was wrong. For

my excellent grand-uncle had pondered with himself, that the favoured

name of Mowbray would take no advantage, and attain no additional

elevation, if his estate of Nettlewood (otherwise called Mowbray-Park)

should descend to our family without any condition; and with the

assistance of a sharp attorney, he settled it on me, then a schoolboy,

_on condition_ that I should, before attaining the age of twenty-five

complete, take unto myself in holy wedlock a young lady of good fame, of

the name of Mowbray, and, by preference, of the house of St. Ronan's,

should a damsel of that house exist.--Now my riddle is read."

"And a very extraordinary one it is," replied Mowbray, thoughtfully.

"Confess the truth," said Lord Etherington, laying his hand on his

shoulder; "you think the story will bear a grain of a scruple of doubt,

if not a whole scruple itself?"

"At least, my lord," answered Mowbray, "your lordship will allow, that,

being Miss Mowbray's only near relation, and sole guardian, I may,

without offence, pause upon a suit for her hand, made under such odd

circumstances."

"If you have the least doubt either respecting my rank or fortune, I can

give, of course, the most satisfactory references," said the Earl of

Etherington.

"That I can easily believe, my lord," said Mowbray; "nor do I in the

least fear deception, where detection would be so easy. Your lordship's

proceedings towards me, too," (with a conscious glance at the bills he

still held in his hand,) "have, I admit, been such as to intimate some

such deep cause of interest as you have been pleased to state. But it

seems strange that your lordship should have permitted years to glide

away, without so much as enquiring after the young lady, who, I believe,

is the only person qualified as your grand-uncle's will requires, with

whom you can form an alliance. It appears to me, that long before now,

this matter ought to have been investigated; and that, even now, it

would have been more natural and more decorous to have at least seen my

sister before proposing for her hand."

"On the first point, my dear Mowbray," said Lord Etherington, "I am free

to own to you, that, without meaning your sister the least affront, I

would have got rid of this clause if I could; for every man would fain

choose a wife for himself, and I feel no hurry to marry at all. But the

rogue-lawyers, after taking fees, and keeping me in hand for years, have

at length roundly told me the clause must be complied with, or

Nettlewood must have another master. So I thought it best to come down

here in person, in order to address the fair lady; but as accident has

hitherto prevented my seeing her, and as I found in her brother a man

who understands the world, I hope you will not think the worse of me,

that I have endeavoured in the outset to make you my friend. Truth is, I

shall be twenty-five in the course of a month; and without your favour,

and the opportunities which only you can afford me, that seems a short

time to woo and win a lady of Miss Mowbray's merit."

"And what is the alternative if you do not form this proposed alliance,

my lord?" said Mowbray.

"The bequest of my grand-uncle lapses," said the Earl, "and fair

Nettlewood, with its old house, and older oaks, manorial rights, Hodge

Trampclod, and all, devolves on a certain cousin-german of mine, whom

Heaven of his mercy confound!"

"You have left yourself little time to prevent such an event, my lord,"

said Mowbray; "but things being as I now see them, you shall have what

interest I can give you in the affair.--We must stand, however, on more

equal terms, my lord--I will condescend so far as to allow it would have

been inconvenient for me at this moment to have lost that game, but I

cannot in the circumstances think of acting as if I had fairly won it.

We must draw stakes, my lord."

"Not a word of that, if you really mean me kindly, my dear Mowbray. The

blunder was a real one, for I was indeed thinking, as you may suppose,

on other things than the showing my point--All was fairly lost and

won.--I hope I shall have opportunities of offering real services, which

may perhaps give me some right to your partial regard--at present we are

on equal footing on all sides--perfectly so."

"If your lordship thinks so," said Mowbray,--and then passing rapidly to

what he felt he could say with more confidence,--"Indeed, at any rate,

no personal obligation to myself could prevent my doing my full duty as

guardian to my sister."

"Unquestionably, I desire nothing else," replied the Earl of

Etherington.

"I must therefore understand that your lordship is quite serious in your

proposal; and that it is not to be withdrawn, even if upon acquaintance

with Miss Mowbray, you should not perhaps think her so deserving of your

lordship's attentions, as report may have spoken her."

"Mr. Mowbray," replied the Earl, "the treaty between you and me shall be

as definite as if I were a sovereign prince, demanding in marriage the

sister of a neighbouring monarch, whom, according to royal etiquette, he

neither has seen nor could see. I have been quite frank with you, and I

have stated to you that my present motives for entering upon negotiation

are not personal, but territorial; when I know Miss Mowbray, I have no

doubt they will be otherwise. I have heard she is beautiful."

"Something of the palest, my lord," answered Mowbray.

"A fine complexion is the first attraction which is lost in the world of

fashion, and that which it is easiest to replace."

"Dispositions, my lord, may differ," said Mowbray, "without faults on

either side. I presume your lordship has enquired into my sister's. She

is amiable, accomplished, sensible, and high-spirited; but yet"----

"I understand you, Mr. Mowbray, and will spare you the pain of speaking

out. I have heard Miss Mowbray is in some respects--particular; to use a

broader word--a little whimsical.--No matter. She will have the less to

learn when she becomes a countess, and a woman of fashion."

"Are you serious, my lord?" said Mowbray.

"I am--and I will speak my mind still more plainly. I have good temper,

and excellent spirits, and can endure a good deal of singularity in

those I live with. I have no doubt your sister and I will live happily

together--But in case it should prove otherwise, arrangements may be

made previously, which will enable us in certain circumstances to live

happily apart. My own estate is large, and Nettlewood will bear

dividing."

"Nay, then," said Mowbray, "I have little more to say--nothing indeed

remains for enquiry, so far as your lordship is concerned. But my sister

must have free liberty of choice--so far as I am concerned, your

lordship's suit has my interest."

"And I trust we may consider it as a done thing?"

"With Clara's approbation--certainly," answered Mowbray.

"I trust there is no chance of personal repugnance on the young lady's

part?" said the young peer.

"I anticipate nothing of the kind, my lord," answered Mowbray, "as I

presume there is no reason for any; but young ladies will be capricious,

and if Clara, after I have done and said all that a brother ought to do,

should remain repugnant, there is a point in the exertion of my

influence which it would be cruelty to pass."

The Earl of Etherington walked a turn through the apartment, then

paused, and said, in a grave and doubtful tone, "In the meanwhile, I am

bound, and the young lady is free, Mowbray. Is this quite fair?"

"It is what happens in every case, my lord, where a gentleman proposes

for a lady," answered Mowbray; "he must remain, of course, bound by his

offer, until, within a reasonable time, it is accepted or rejected. It

is not my fault that your lordship has declared your wishes to me,

before ascertaining Clara's inclination. But while as yet the matter is

between ourselves--I make you welcome to draw back if you think proper.

Clara Mowbray needs not push for a catch-match."

"Nor do I desire," said the young nobleman, "any time to reconsider the

resolution which I have confided to you. I am not in the least fearful

that I shall change my mind on seeing your sister, and I am ready to

stand by the proposal which I have made to you.--If, however, you feel

so extremely delicately on my account," he continued, "I can see and

even converse with Miss Mowbray at this fête of yours, without the

necessity of being at all presented to her--The character which I have

assumed in a manner obliges me to wear a mask."

"Certainly," said the Laird of St. Ronan's, "and I am glad, for both our

sakes, your lordship thinks of taking a little law upon this occasion."

"I shall profit nothing by it," said the Earl; "my doom is fixed before

I start--but if this mode of managing the matter will save your

conscience, I have no objection to it--it cannot consume much time,

which is what I have to look to."

They then shook hands and parted, without any farther discourse which

could interest the reader.

Mowbray was glad to find himself alone, in order to think over what had

happened, and to ascertain the state of his own mind, which at present

was puzzling even to himself. He could not but feel that much greater

advantages of every kind might accrue to himself and his family from the

alliance of the wealthy young Earl, than could have been derived from

any share of his spoils which he had proposed to gain by superior

address in play, or greater skill on the turf. But his pride was hurt

when he recollected that he had placed himself entirely in Lord

Etherington's power; and the escape from absolute ruin which he had

made, solely by the sufferance of his opponent, had nothing in it

consolatory to his wounded feelings. He was lowered in his own eyes,

when he recollected how completely the proposed victim of his ingenuity

had seen through his schemes, and only abstained from baffling them

entirely, because to do so suited best with his own. There was a shade

of suspicion, too, which he could not entirely eradicate from his

mind.--What occasion had this young nobleman to preface, by the

voluntary loss of a brace of thousands, a proposal which must have been

acceptable in itself, without any such sacrifice? And why should he,

after all, have been so eager to secure his accession to the proposed

alliance, before he had even seen the lady who was the object of it?

However hurried for time, he might have waited the event at least of the

entertainment at Shaws-Castle, at which Clara was necessarily obliged to

make her appearance.--Yet such conduct, however unusual, was equally

inconsistent with any sinister intentions; since the sacrifice of a

large sum of money, and the declaration of his views upon a portionless

young lady of family, could scarcely be the preface to any unfair

practice. So that, upon the whole, Mowbray settled, that what was

uncommon in the Earl's conduct arose from the hasty and eager

disposition of a rich young Englishman, to whom money is of little

consequence, and who is too headlong in pursuit of the favourite plan of

the moment, to proceed in the most rational or most ordinary manner. If,

however, there should prove any thing farther in the matter than he

could at present discover, Mowbray promised himself that the utmost

circumspection on his part could not fail to discover it, and that in

full time to prevent any ill consequences to his sister or himself.

Immersed in such cogitations, he avoided the inquisitive presence of Mr.

Meiklewham, who, as usual, had been watching for him to learn how

matters were going on; and although it was now late, he mounted his

horse, and rode hastily to Shaws-Castle. On the way, he deliberated with

himself whether to mention to his sister the application which had been

made to him, in order to prepare her to receive the young Earl as a

suitor, favoured with her brother's approbation. "But no, no, no;" such

was the result of his contemplation. "She might take it into her head

that his thoughts were bent less upon having her for a countess, than on

obtaining possession of his grand-uncle's estate.--We must keep quiet,"

concluded he, "until her personal appearance and accomplishments may

appear at least to have some influence upon his choice.--We must say

nothing till this blessed entertainment has been given and received."

CHAPTER XIX.

A LETTER.

"Has he so long held out with me untired,

And stops he now for breath?--Well--Be it so."

_Richard III._

Mowbray had no sooner left the Earl's apartment, than the latter

commenced an epistle to a friend and associate, which we lay before the

reader, as best calculated to illustrate the views and motives of the

writer. It was addressed to Captain Jekyl, of the ---- regiment of

Guards, at the Green Dragon, Harrowgate, and was of the following

tenor:--

"Dear Harry,

"I have expected you here these ten days past, anxiously as ever man

was looked for; and have now to charge your absence as high treason

to your sworn allegiance. Surely you do not presume, like one of

Napoleon's new-made monarchs, to grumble for independence, as if

your greatness were of your own making, or as if I had picked you

out of the whole of St. James's coffee-house to hold my back-hand,

for your sake, forsooth, not for my own? Wherefore, lay aside all

your own proper business, be it the pursuit of dowagers, or the

plucking of pigeons, and instantly repair to this place, where I may

speedily want your assistance.--_May_ want it, said I? Why, most

negligent of friends and allies, I _have_ wanted it already, and

that when it might have done me yeoman's service. Know that I have

had an affair since I came hither--have got hurt myself, and have

nearly shot my friend; and if I had, I might have been hanged for

it, for want of Harry Jekyl to bear witness in my favour. I was so

far on my road to this place, when, not choosing, for certain

reasons, to pass through the old village, I struck by a footpath

into the woods which separate it from the new Spa, leaving my

carriage and people to go the carriage-way. I had not walked half a

mile when I heard the footsteps of some one behind, and, looking

round, what should I behold but the face in the world which I most

cordially hate and abhor--I mean that which stands on the shoulders

of my right trusty and well-beloved cousin and counsellor, Saint

Francis. He seemed as much confounded as I was at our unexpected

meeting; and it was a minute ere he found breath to demand what I

did in Scotland, contrary to my promise, as he was pleased to

express it.--I retaliated, and charged him with being here, in

contradiction to his.--He justified, and said he had only come down

upon the express information that I was upon my road to St.

Ronan's.--Now, Harry, how the devil should he have known this hadst

thou been quite faithful? for I am sure, to no ear but thine own did

I breathe a whisper of my purpose.--Next, with the insolent

assumption of superiority, which he founds on what he calls the

rectitude of his purpose, he proposed we should both withdraw from a

neighbourhood into which we could bring nothing but wretchedness.--I

have told you how difficult it is to cope with the calm and resolute

manner that the devil gifts him with on such occasions; but I was

determined he should not carry the day this time. I saw no chance

for it, however, but to put myself into a towering passion, which,

thank Heaven, I can always do on short notice.--I charged him with

having imposed formerly on my youth, and made himself judge of my

rights; and I accompanied my defiance with the strongest terms of

irony and contempt, as well as with demand of instant satisfaction.

I had my travelling pistols with me, (_et pour cause_,) and, to my

surprise, my gentleman was equally provided.--For fair play's sake,

I made him take one of my pistols--right Kuchenritters--a brace of

balls in each, but that circumstance I forgot.--I would fain have

argued the matter a little longer; but I thought at the time, and

think still, that the best arguments which he and I can exchange,

must come from the point of the sword, or the muzzle of the

pistol.--We fired nearly together, and I think both dropped--I am

sure I did, but recovered in a minute, with a damaged arm and a

scratch on the temple--it was the last which stunned me--so much for

double-loaded pistols.--My friend was invisible, and I had nothing

for it but to walk to the Spa, bleeding all the way like a calf, and

tell a raw-head-and-bloody-bone story about a footpad, which, but

for my earldom, and my gory locks, no living soul would have

believed.

"Shortly after, when I had been installed in a sick room, I had the

mortification to learn, that my own impatience had brought all this

mischief upon me, at a moment when I had every chance of getting rid

of my friend without trouble, had I but let him go on his own

errand; for it seems he had an appointment that morning with a booby

Baronet, who is said to be a bullet-slitter, and would perhaps have

rid me of Saint Francis without any trouble or risk on my part.

Meantime, his non-appearance at this rendezvous has placed Master

Francis Tyrrel, as he chooses to call himself, in the worst odour

possible with the gentry at the Spring, who have denounced him as a

coward and no gentleman.--What to think of the business myself, I

know not; and I much want your assistance to see what can have

become of this fellow, who, like a spectre of ill omen, has so often

thwarted and baffled my best plans. My own confinement renders me

inactive, though my wound is fast healing. Dead he cannot be; for,

had he been mortally wounded, we should have heard of him somewhere

or other--he could not have vanished from the earth like a bubble of

the elements. Well and sound he cannot be; for, besides that I am

sure I saw him stagger and drop, firing his pistol as he fell, I

know him well enough to swear, that, had he not been severely

wounded, he would have first pestered me with his accursed presence

and assistance, and then walked forward with his usual composure to

settle matters with Sir Bingo Binks. No--no--Saint Francis is none

of those who leave such jobs half finished--it is but doing him

justice to say, he has the devil's courage to back his own

deliberate impertinence. But then, if wounded severely, he must be

still in this neighbourhood, and probably in concealment--this is

what I must discover, and I want your assistance in my enquiries

among the natives.--Haste hither, Harry, as ever you look for good

at my hand.

"A good player, Harry, always studies to make the best of bad

cards--and so I have endeavoured to turn my wound to some account;

and it has given me the opportunity to secure Monsieur le Frere in

my interests. You say very truly, that it is of consequence to me to

know the character of this new actor on the disordered scene of my

adventures.--Know, then, he is that most incongruous of all

monsters--a Scotch Buck--how far from being buck of the season you

may easily judge. Every point of national character is opposed to

the pretensions of this luckless race, when they attempt to take on

them a personage which is assumed with so much facility by their

brethren of the Isle of Saints. They are a shrewd people, indeed,

but so destitute of ease, grace, pliability of manners, and

insinuation of address, that they eternally seem to suffer actual

misery in their attempts to look gay and careless. Then their pride

heads them back at one turn, their poverty at another, their

pedantry at a third, their _mauvaise honte_ at a fourth; and with

so many obstacles to make them bolt off the course, it is positively

impossible they should win the plate. No, Harry, it is the grave

folk in Old England who have to fear a Caledonian invasion--they

will make no conquests in the world of fashion. Excellent bankers

the Scots may be, for they are eternally calculating how to add

interest to principal;--good soldiers, for they are, if not such

heroes as they would be thought, as brave, I suppose, as their

neighbours, and much more amenable to discipline;--lawyers they are

born; indeed every country gentleman is bred one, and their patient

and crafty disposition enables them, in other lines, to submit to

hardships which other natives could not bear, and avail themselves

of advantages which others would let pass under their noses

unavailingly. But assuredly Heaven did not form the Caledonian for

the gay world; and his efforts at ease, grace, and gaiety, resemble

only the clumsy gambols of the ass in the fable. Yet the Scot has

his sphere too, (in his own country only,) where the character which

he assumes is allowed to pass current. This Mowbray, now--this

brother-in-law of mine--might do pretty well at a Northern Meeting,

or the Leith races, where he could give five minutes to the sport of

the day, and the next half hour to county politics, or to farming;

but it is scarce necessary to tell you, Harry, that this half

fellowship will not pass on the better side of the Tweed.

"Yet, for all I have told you, this trout was not easily tickled;

nor should I have made much of him, had he not, in the plenitude of

his northern conceit, entertained that notion of my being a good

subject of plunder, which you had contrived (blessings on your

contriving brain!) to insinuate into him by means of Wolverine. He

commenced this hopeful experiment, and, as you must have

anticipated, caught a Tartar with a vengeance. Of course, I used my

victory only so far as to secure his interest in accomplishing my

principal object; and yet, I could see my gentleman's pride was so

much injured in the course of the negotiation, that not all the

advantages which the match offered to his damned family, were able

entirely to subdue the chagrin arising from his defeat. He did gulp

it down, though, and we are friends and allies, for the present at

least--not so cordially so, however, as to induce me to trust him

with the whole of the strangely complicated tale. The circumstance

of the will it was necessary to communicate, as affording a

sufficiently strong reason for urging my suit; and this partial

disclosure enabled me for the present to dispense with farther

confidence.

"You will observe, that I stand by no means secure; and besides the

chance of my cousin's reappearance--a certain event, unless he is

worse than I dare hope for--I have perhaps to expect the fantastic

repugnance of Clara herself, or some sulky freak on her brother's

part.--In a word--and let it be such a one as conjurers raise the

devil with--Harry Jekyl, I _want_ you.

"As well knowing the nature of my friend, I can assure you that his

own interest, as well as mine, may be advanced by his coming hither

on duty. Here is a blockhead, whom I already mentioned, Sir Bingo

Binks, with whom something may be done worth _your_ while, though

scarce worth _mine_. The Baronet is a perfect buzzard, and when I

came here he was under Mowbray's training. But the awkward Scot had

plucked half-a-dozen penfeathers from his wing with so little

precaution, that the Baronet has become frightened and shy, and is

now in the act of rebelling against Mowbray, whom he both hates and

fears--the least backing from a knowing hand like you, and the bird

becomes your own, feathers and all.--Moreover,

----'by my life,

This Bingo hath a mighty pretty wife.'

A lovely woman, Harry--rather plump, and above the middle

size--quite your taste--A Juno in beauty, looking with such scorn on

her husband, whom she despises and hates, and seeming, as if she

_could_ look so differently on any one whom she might like better,

that, on my faith, 'twere sin not to give her occasion. If you

please to venture your luck, either with the knight or the lady, you

shall have fair play, and no interference--that is, provided you

appear upon this summons; for, otherwise, I may be so placed, that

the affairs of the knight and the lady may fall under my own

immediate cognizance. And so, Harry, if you wish to profit by these

hints, you had best make haste, as well for your own concerns, as to

assist me in mine.--Yours, Harry, as you behave yourself,

"ETHERINGTON."

Having finished this eloquent and instructive epistle, the young Earl

demanded the attendance of his own valet Solmes, whom he charged to put

it into the post-office without delay, and with his own hand.

AUTHOR'S NOTES.

Note I., p. 14.--BUILDING-FEUS IN SCOTLAND.

In Scotland a village is erected upon a species of landright, very

different from the copyhold so frequent in England. Every alienation or

sale of landed property must be made in the shape of a feudal

conveyance, and the party who acquires it holds thereby an absolute and

perfect right of property in the fief, while he discharges the

stipulations of the vassal, and, above all, pays the feu-duties. The

vassal or tenant of the site of the smallest cottage holds his

possession as absolutely as the proprietor, of whose large estate it is

perhaps scarce a perceptible portion. By dint of excellent laws, the

sasines, or deeds of delivery of such fiefs, are placed on record in

such order, that every burden affecting the property can be seen for

payment of a very moderate fee; so that a person proposing to lend money

upon it, knows exactly the nature and extent of his security.

From the nature of these landrights being so explicit and secure, the

Scottish people have been led to entertain a jealousy of

building-leases, of however long duration. Not long ago, a great landed

proprietor took the latter mode of disposing of some ground near a

thriving town in the west country. The number of years in the lease was

settled at nine hundred and ninety-nine. All was agreed to, and the

deeds were ordered to be drawn. But the tenant, as he walked down the

avenue, began to reflect that the lease, though so very long as to be

almost perpetual, nevertheless had a termination; and that after the

lapse of a thousand years, lacking one, the connexion of his family and

representatives with the estate would cease. He took a qualm at the

thought of the loss to be sustained by his posterity a thousand years

hence; and going back to the house of the gentleman who feued the

ground, he demanded, and readily obtained, the additional term of fifty

years to be added to the lease.

Note II., p. 90.--DARK LADYE.

The Dark Ladye is one of those tantalizing fragments, in which Mr.

Coleridge has shown us what exquisite powers of poetry he has suffered

to remain uncultivated. Let us be thankful for what we have received,

however. The unfashioned ore, drawn from so rich a mine, is worth all to

which art can add its highest decorations, when drawn from less abundant

sources. The verses beginning the poem which are published separately,

are said to have soothed the last hours of Mr. Fox. They are the stanzas

entitled LOVE.

Note III., p. 252.--MAGO-PICO.

This satire, very popular even in Scotland, at least with one party, was

composed at the expense of a reverend presbyterian divine, of whom many

stories are preserved, being Mr. Pyet, the Mago-Pico of the Tale,

minister of Dunbar. The work is now little known in Scotland, and not at

all in England, though written with much strong and coarse humour,

resembling the style of Arbuthnot. It was composed by Mr. Haliburton, a

military chaplain. The distresses attending Mago-Pico's bachelor life,

are thus stated:--

"At the same time I desire you will only figure out to yourself his

situation during his celibacy in the ministerial charge--a house

lying all heaps upon heaps; his bed ill-made, swarming with fleas,

and very cold on the winter nights; his sheep's-head not to be eaten

for wool and hair, his broth singed, his bread mouldy, his lamb and

pig all scouthered, his house neither washed nor plastered; his

black stockings darned with white worsted above the shoes; his

butter made into cat's harns; his cheese one heap of mites and

maggots, and full of large avenues for rats and mice to play at

hide-and-seek and make their nests in. Frequent were the admonitions

he had given his maid-servants on this score, and every now and then

he was turning them off; but still the last was the worst, and in

the meanwhile the poor man was the sufferer. At any rate, therefore,

matrimony must turn to his account, though his wife should prove to

be nothing but a creature of the feminine gender, with a tongue in

her head, and ten fingers on her hands, to clear out the papers of

the housemaid, not to mention the convenience of a man's having it

in his power lawfully to beget sons and daughters in his own

house."--_Memoirs of Mago-Pico. Second edition. Edinburgh_, 1761, p.

19.

EDITOR'S NOTES.

[I-A] p. 1. "David M'Pherson's map." In his "Geographical History,"

London, 4to, 1796.

[I-B] p. 11. "Jenny Dods ... at Howgate." Scott admitted to Erskine that

the name of "Dods" was borrowed from this slatternly heroine.

[I-C] p. 33. "He was nae Roman, but only a Cuddie, or Culdee." Some

Scottish Protestants took pride in believing that their Kirk descended

from Culdees, who were not of the Roman Communion. The Culdees have

given rise to a world of dispute, and he would be a bold man who

pretended to understand their exact position. The name seems to be _Cele

De_, "servant [gillie] of God." They were not Columban monks, but fill a

gap between the expulsion of the Columbans by the Picts, and the

Anglicising and Romanising of the Scottish Church by St. Margaret and

her sons. Originally solitary ascetics, they clustered into groups, and,

if we are to believe their supplanters at St. Andrews, the Canons

Regular, they were married men, and used church property for family

profit. Their mass they celebrated with a rite of their own, in their

little church. They were gradually merged in, and overpowered at St.

Andrews, for example, by the Canons Regular, and are last heard of in

prosecuting a claim to elect the Bishop, at the time of Edward the

First's interference with Scottish affairs. The points on which they

differed from Roman practice would probably have seemed very

insignificant to such a theologian as Meg Dods.

[I-D] p. 47. "Fortunio, in the fairy-tale." The gifted companions of

Fortunio, Keen-eye, Keen-ear, and so forth, are very old stock

characters in Märchen: their first known appearance is in the saga of

Jason and the Fleece of Gold.

[I-E] p. 169. "The sportsman's sense of his own cruelty." In the

reminiscences of Captain Basil Hall, published by Lockhart, he mentions

that Scott himself had a dislike of shooting, from a sentiment as to the

cruelty of the sport. "I was never quite at ease when I had knocked down

my blackcock, and going to pick him up he cast back his dying eye with a

look of reproach. I don't affect to be more squeamish than my

neighbours, but I am not ashamed to say that no practice ever reconciled

me fully to the cruelty of the affair. At all events, now that I can do

as I like without fear of ridicule, I take more pleasure in seeing the

birds fly past me unharmed." (Lockhart, vii. 331.)

[I-F] p. 240. "Tintock." A hill on the Upper Tweed, celebrated in local

rhyme as--

On Tintock tap there is a mist,

And in the mist there is a kist,

And in the kist there is a cap,

And in the cap there is a drap.

Tak' up the cap, drink out the drap,

And set it down on Tintock tap.

[I-G] p. 245. "Donald Cargill." See Editor's Notes to "Redgauntlet." Howie

of Lochgoin says Cargill was executed in Edinburgh, not at Queensferry,

as stated here.

ANDREW LANG

_December 1893._

GLOSSARY.

A', all

"A. B. Memorial," a legal statement which does not give the names of the

parties concerned.

Abee, alone.

Ae, one.

Aff, off.

Afterhend, afterwards.

Ain, own.

Airn, iron.

Ajee, awry.

Amaist, almost.

Andrew Ferrara, a sword.

Ane, one.

Assoilzie, to acquit.

Asteer, astir.

Atween, between.

Aught, possession; to own, to possess.

Auld, old. "Auld lang syne," the days of long ago.

Aw, all.

Awa, away.

Awing, owing, or bill.

Awmry, a cupboard.

Bairn, a child.

Baith, both.

Ballant, a ballad.

Bane, a bone.

Bangster, a victor

Bawbee, a halfpenny.

Bee--"to hae a bee in one's bonnet," to be harebrained.

Beltane, a festival on the first of May, hence Whitsuntide.

"Bent, to take the," to provide for one's safety, to flee country.

Bide, to stay, to remain; to bear, to endure.

Bigg, to build.

Bind, one's ability or power.

Bink, a plate-rack.

Birl, to turn, to toss.

"Blaw in my lug," a flatterer.

Blude, bluid, blood.

Bodle, a small copper coin.

Bogle, a scarecrow.

Bombazine, the silk and worsted stuff of which a lawyer's gown was made.

Bonnet-laird, a small proprietor or freeholder who farms his own land.

"Bow Street runners," London detectives.

Braw, brave, fine.

Bruick, possessed.

"By ordinar," out of the common run.

Ca', to call. Ca'd, called.

Callant, a lad.

Caller, fresh.

Canna, cannot.

Cantle, the crown of the head.

Canty, lively, cheerful.

Capillaire, a syrup made from maidenhair fern.

Cappie, a kind of beer.

Carle, a fellow.

Carline, a witch.

Carvy, carraway.

Cauld, cold.

Cheek-haffit, side of the cheek.

Chucky, a pebble.

Claithes, clothes.

Claver, gossip.

Claw, to beat.

Cleck, clack or hatch.

Cleeket, cleiket, caught, ensnared, taken.

Clink, to chime, to rhyme.

Clouted, patched, and so strengthened.

Cock-a-leeky, cockie-leekie, soup made of a cock boiled with leeks.

Cock-bree, cock-broth.

Cockernonnie, a top-knot.

Cogue, a wooden measure.

Condiddling, appropriating.

Courie, cowry, a shell used as money in parts of Southern Asia and