THE OLD SCOTTISH SERVICE.
The soul which ne'er hath felt a genial ray
Glow to the drum's long roll or trumpet's bray;
Start to the bugle's distant blast, and hail
Its buxom greetings on the morning gale--
_Such_ the muse courts not.
LORD GRENVILLE.
On the return of Walter Fenton to the White Horse Cellar, Douglas,
who was lounging on the broad flight of steps in front of the
edifice, and chatting gaily with a buxom damsel of the establishment,
informed him that Holsterlee of the Life Guards had just been there,
saying that the Earl of Dunbarton and the Lords of the Privy Council
required his attendance at the Lower Chamber--immediate attendance.
His mind became troubled at this information: though unconscious of
having done anything new to incur displeasure, it was with
considerable anxiety he bent his steps to the precincts of that
dreaded tribunal.
The Lairds of Craigdarroch and Holsterlee, (or as the latter was
commonly called, Jack Holster,) two of Claverhouse's cavalier
troopers lounged in the antechamber smoking their Dutch pipes, while
the yeomen of the Scottish Guard in their blue bonnets and scarlet
doublets, armed with long daggers and gilt partisans, thronged the
Parliament Close and outer lobby of the house.
Their presence in some degree lessened his anxiety, as the absence of
the military police of the city, and the viler menials of the law,
announced that matters of state, and not of inquisitorial persecution
were before that powerful and extraordinary conclave. He waited long
in the well-known antechamber, whose features brought back a host of
gloomy thoughts, amid which his mind wandered continually to the
house of Bruntisfield; but he endeavoured to mingle in the gay
conversation of the two guardsmen, who talked nonsense as glibly and
laughed as loudly as if they had been in Hugh Blair's tavern on the
opposite side of the square, instead of being within earshot of those
whose names were a terror to the land. After all that was of
importance to the state had been discussed and dismissed, Walter, on
being summoned by the drawling and hated voice of Maclutchy found
himself before the same bench of haughty councillors he had
confronted a few weeks before; but now its aspect was different; the
rays of the meridian sun streamed cheerfully into their dusky place
of meeting, and hangings which appeared sable before were now seen to
be of crimson velvet, fringed and tasselled with gold, gilded chairs,
and the throne surmounted by the royal arms with the gallant Lion in
_defence_; the rich and varied dresses of the Lords, massively laced
and jewelled with precious stones, embroidered belts, and embossed
sword-hilts, were all sparkling in the several flakes of light that
gushed between the strong stanchells of the ancient windows into the
gloomy and vaulted room.
The stern basilisk eye of Clermistonlee alone was fixed on Walter as
before.
The Lord High Treasurer, the Chancellor, and the sleepy Mersington,
withdrew as our hero entered. Near the head of the table stood the
Earl of Dunbarton in his rich military dress of scarlet, with the
cuffs slashed and buttoned up to reveal the lawn sleeves below; his
gallant breast was sheathed in a corslet of polished steel,
beautifully inlaid with gold, and over it fell his lace cravat and
the sable curls of his heavy peruke. His badge as Commander-in-chief
of the Forces, an ivory baton with silver thistles twined round it
was in one hand; the other rested on his plumed head piece. The
magnificence of his attire formed a strong contrast to that of the
stern Dalyel, who wore a plain suit of black armour like that of a
curiassier of Charles I., but rusted by blood and perspiration, and
defaced by sword cuts and musquet balls, it was a panoply with which
his long silvery beard and iron, but dignified face corresponded
well. Making a half military obeisance to these Lords of Council,
Walter, felt not a little reassured by the presence of his patron the
Earl and Sir Thomas Dalyel.
"Mr. Fenton," said the former, "we have much pleasure in presenting
you with that to which your merits so much entitle you--a pair of
colours in my ancient regiment of Royal Scots, vacant by the death of
young Toweris of that ilk, who has been slain in a late camisadoe in
the north, with some broken rascals of the Clan-Donald. You will
therefore hear the king's commission read over, and thereafter sign
your oath of fealty to us without delay, as the day is wearing
apace." Taking up a small piece of parchment to which appeared the
Great Seal of Scotland, the signatures of the King and Secretary of
State, and his (Dunbarton's) own seal with the four quarters of
Douglas, the Earl read the following, which we give verbatim:--
"I George, Earl of Dunbarton, Lord of Douglas, Knight, Baronet, and
Knight of the Thistle, Lieutenant-General, and Commander-in-chief of
the Scottish forces, by virtue of the power and authority given to me
by His Most Sacred Majesty James VII., do hereby constitute you,
Walter Fenton, Gentleman, an Ensign of the Royall Regiment of Ffoote
in that companie wheroff his Honor the Laird of Drumquhazel,
Chevalier of St. Michael, is captain. You are therefore to obey such
orders as you may receive from His Majesty and your superiors, as you
expect to be obeyed by your soldiers according to the Rules and
Discipline of War.
"Given under my hand and seal at the Bristo Port.
"DUNBARTON."
Though astonished at all this unusual formality, Walter bowed in
pleased and grateful silence, and then he heard the stern voice of
Major-General Dalyel.
"Maister Fenton, you will please to repeat after me, and sign your
oath of Fealty to this Council and the three estates of the realm."
"Oath of Fealty, Sir Thomas?" reiterated Walter, equally surprised
and offended at this new proposal, which accompanied the
long-wished-for gift. "My Lords, though deeply grateful for this
mark of your favour, I deplore that you should suspect me----"
"Sir," interrupted Lord Clermistonlee, hastily and haughtily, "at
_present_ we suspect you of nothing; but the corruption of these
times, when the very air seems infected with treason and disloyalty,
have made an oath of fealty necessary from this time forth."
"To the King?"
"No--to the Officers of State and the Parliament of Scotland--and woe
unto those who shall break it! An Act of Council previous to one of
the House, made it law an hour ago. Art satisfied, sirrah?"
"My Lords, I like it not, for it implies a suspicion a man of spirit
cannot thole," replied Walter, in an under tone, as he advanced to
the table; and Clermistonlee, seized by a sudden fit of passion, was
about to pour forth some of his furious and abusive ebullitions, when
Dunbarton said mildly:
"Walter, an edict of council hath (as his Lordship said) made this
law, which will be more fully confirmed by the three estates. Mr.
Secretary, read aloud the oath of fealty, and the young gentleman
will sign it."
"By my beard, he had better, or prepare for his auld quarters again,"
added Dalyel, sharply, striking his heavy toledo on the floor.
Thus urged, Walter heard the oath of allegiance, which the
approaching crisis in the affairs of those factions that then rent
both Scotland and England, rendered necessary for the security of the
Government--promising "faithfully to demean himself to the estates of
Scotland presently met;" and affixed his name thereto, little
foreseeing how dear that oath was yet to cost him, and how
unfortunate in its influence it was, at a future time to prove to his
fortunes. As if he foresaw it, a dark smile lit the sinister eyes of
Clermistonlee; it was a peculiar scowl of deep and hidden meaning;
and though Walter soon forgot it at the time, he remembered it in
after years when the cold hand of misfortune was crushing him to the
dust.
"I trust, young birkie," said the fierce Dalyel with a keen glance,
"that you will never again waver in the execution of your duty or
military devoir; but be stanch as a red Cossack, and ever ready to do
his Majesty gude and leal service (_whatever be his creed_) against
all false rebels and damned psalm-singers, whilk are the same."
"I will gage my honour for him," said Dunbarton.
"How readily my Lord defends his loon," whispered Clermistonlee to
Dalyel, but not so low as to be unheard; and the Earl's cheek
flushed--his brows knit; but he made no reply, save waving his hand
to Walter, who withdrew.
The warm noonday sun streamed brightly down the High-street; the
musical bells of Saint Giles jangled merrily in the pure breeze that
swept through the stone-arched spire; and Walter Fenton never felt so
happy and light of heart as when he issued from the sombre
Parliament-close into the bustle of that grand thoroughfare; and
giving full reins to his fancy, allowed it to career into regions
fraught with the most brilliant visions of the future: fame, fortune,
happiness, all were there in glowing colours, but were--never to be
realized.
Poor Walter! That hour laid the foundation of the airy palace of
love, glory, and renown, which every ardent young man builds unto
himself, and which indeed is the only fabric that costs nothing but
the bitter achings of a seared and disappointed heart. To Walter it
was the dawn of joy; his foot, he thought, was now firmly planted on
the first step of the dangerous ladder of honour; and with his
thoughts divided between war, ambition, and Lilian Napier, and with
his heart glowing with exultation, he pulled forth the little scrap
of parchment to re-examine it again and again, as he skipped down the
crowded street, and a severe concussion against a tower of the
Netherbow first roused him from his dreams. He was in excellent
humour with himself, pleased with everybody, and enraptured with the
Lords of Council, whose orders he was ready to obey in everything,
whether they were to storm a tower or fire a clachan, march to
England, or duck an "auld wife" in the North Loch.
"My stars are propitious to me to-day," said he aloud, as he
half-danced down the street towards the White Horse Cellar. "O, may
Heaven give me but opportunities to win a name; and if the most
unflinching perseverance--the most spotless loyalty--and a headlong
valour, such as not even Claver'se can surpass, will bring me honour
and renown, I feel that I _shall_ win _them_. O Bravo for the roll
of the drum! the rush of the charging horse! and the ranks of pikemen
shoulder to shoulder! I am one of the Guards of St. Louis--King
James's Scottish Musqueteers--the old _Diehards_ of Dunbarton."
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY HARRISON AND SON,
ST. MARTIN'S LANE.