"It leads to an uncivil and positive mode of disputing; and nothing

seems more unreasonable than to hear him impugn even Bellenden's rare

translation of Hector Boece, which I have the satisfaction to possess,

and which is a black-letter folio of great value, upon the authority of

some old scrap of parchment which he has saved from its deserved destiny

of being cut up into tailor's measures. And besides, that habit of

minute and troublesome accuracy leads to a mercantile manner of doing

business, which ought to be beneath a landed proprietor whose family has

stood two or three generations. I question if there's a dealer's clerk

in Fairport that can sum an account of interest better than Monkbarns."

"But you'll accept his invitation, sir?"

"Why, ye—yes; we have no other engagement on hand, I think. Who can the

young man be he talks of?—he seldom picks up new acquaintance; and he

has no relation that I ever heard of."

"Probably some relation of his brother-in-law Captain M'Intyre."

"Very possibly—yes, we will accept—the M'Intyres are of a very ancient

Highland family. You may answer his card in the affirmative, Isabella; I

believe I have, no leisure to be Dear Sirring myself."

So this important matter being adjusted, Miss Wardour intimated "her

own and Sir Arthur's compliments, and that they would have the honour of

waiting upon Mr. Oldbuck. Miss Wardour takes this opportunity to renew

her hostility with Mr. Oldbuck, on account of his late long absence from

Knockwinnock, where his visits give so much pleasure." With this placebo

she concluded her note, with which old Caxon, now refreshed in limbs and

wind, set out on his return to the Antiquary's mansion.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

Moth. By Woden, God of Saxons,

From whence comes Wensday, that is, Wodnesday,

Truth is a thing that I will ever keep

Unto thylke day in which I creep into

My sepulcre—

Cartwright's Ordinary.

Our young friend Lovel, who had received a corresponding invitation,

punctual to the hour of appointment, arrived at Monkbarns about five

minutes before four o'clock on the 17th of July. The day had been

remarkably sultry, and large drops of rain had occasionally fallen,

though the threatened showers had as yet passed away.

Mr. Oldbuck received him at the Palmer's-port in his complete brown

suit, grey silk stockings, and wig powdered with all the skill of the

veteran Caxon, who having smelt out the dinner, had taken care not to

finish his job till the hour of eating approached.

"You are welcome to my symposion, Mr. Lovel. And now let me introduce

you to my Clogdogdo's, as Tom Otter calls them—my unlucky and

good-for-nothing womankind—malae bestiae, Mr. Lovel."

"I shall be disappointed, sir, if I do not find the ladies very

undeserving of your satire."

"Tilley-valley, Mr. Lovel,—which, by the way, one commentator derives

from tittivillitium, and another from talley-ho—but tilley-valley, I

say—a truce with your politeness. You will find them but samples of

womankind—But here they be, Mr. Lovel. I present to you in due order, my

most discreet sister Griselda, who disdains the simplicity, as well as

patience annexed to the poor old name of Grizzel; and my most exquisite

niece Maria, whose mother was called Mary, and sometimes Molly."

The elderly lady rustled in silks and satins, and bore upon her head a

structure resembling the fashion in the ladies' memorandum-book for the

year 1770—a superb piece of architecture, not much less than a modern

Gothic castle, of which the curls might represent the turrets, the black

pins the chevaux de frise, and the lappets the banners.

The face, which, like that of the ancient statues of Vesta, was thus

crowned with towers, was large and long, and peaked at nose and chin,

and bore, in other respects, such a ludicrous resemblance to the

physiognomy of Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck, that Lovel, had they not appeared

at once, like Sebastian and Viola in the last scene of the "Twelfth

Night," might have supposed that the figure before him was his old

friend masquerading in female attire. An antique flowered silk gown

graced the extraordinary person to whom belonged this unparalleled tete,

which her brother was wont to say was fitter for a turban for Mahound

or Termagant, than a head-gear for a reasonable creature, or Christian

gentlewoman. Two long and bony arms were terminated at the elbows by

triple blond ruffles, and being, folded saltire-ways in front of her

person, and decorated with long gloves of a bright vermilion colour,

presented no bad resemblance to a pair of gigantic lobsters. High-heeled

shoes, and a short silk cloak, thrown in easy negligence over her

shoulders, completed the exterior of Miss Griselda Oldbuck.

Her niece, the same whom Lovel had seen transiently during his first

visit, was a pretty young woman, genteelly dressed according to the

fashion of the day, with an air of espieglerie which became her very

well, and which was perhaps derived from the caustic humour peculiar to

her uncle's family, though softened by transmission.

Mr. Lovel paid his respects to both ladies, and was answered by the

elder with the prolonged courtesy of 1760, drawn from the righteous

period,

When folks conceived a grace

Of half an hour's space,

And rejoiced in a Friday's capon,

and by the younger with a modern reverence, which, like the festive

benediction of a modern divine, was of much shorter duration.

While this salutation was exchanging, Sir Arthur, with his fair daughter

hanging upon his arm, having dismissed his chariot, appeared at the

garden door, and in all due form paid his respects to the ladies.

"Sir Arthur," said the Antiquary, "and you, my fair foe, let me make

known to you my young friend Mr. Lovel, a gentleman who, during the

scarlet-fever which is epidemic at present in this our island, has the

virtue and decency to appear in a coat of a civil complexion. You see,

however, that the fashionable colour has mustered in his cheeks which

appears not in his garments. Sir Arthur, let me present to you a young

gentleman, whom your farther knowledge will find grave, wise, courtly,

and scholar-like, well seen, deeply read, and thoroughly grounded in all

the hidden mysteries of the green-room and stage, from the days of Davie

Lindsay down to those of Dibdin—he blushes again, which is a sign of

grace."

"My brother," said Miss Griselda, addressing Lovel, "has a humorous way

of expressing himself, sir; nobody thinks anything of what Monkbarns

says—so I beg you will not be so confused for the matter of his

nonsense; but you must have had a warm walk beneath this broiling

sun—would you take anything?—a glass of balm-wine?"

Ere Lovel could answer, the Antiquary interposed. "Aroint thee, witch!

wouldst thou poison my guests with thy infernal decoctions? Dost thou

not remember how it fared with the clergyman whom you seduced to partake

of that deceitful beverage?"

"O fy, fy, brother!—Sir Arthur, did you ever hear the like?—he must have

everything his ain way, or he will invent such stories—But there goes

Jenny to ring the old bell to tell us that the dinner is ready."

Rigid in his economy, Mr. Oldbuck kept no male servant. This he

disguised under the pretext that the masculine sex was too noble to

be employed in those acts of personal servitude, which, in all early

periods of society, were uniformly imposed on the female. "Why,"

would he say, "did the boy, Tam Rintherout, whom, at my wise sister's

instigation, I, with equal wisdom, took upon trial—why did he pilfer

apples, take birds' nests, break glasses, and ultimately steal my

spectacles, except that he felt that noble emulation which swells in the

bosom of the masculine sex, which has conducted him to Flanders with

a musket on his shoulder, and doubtless will promote him to a glorious

halbert, or even to the gallows? And why does this girl, his full

sister, Jenny Rintherout, move in the same vocation with safe and

noiseless step—shod, or unshod—soft as the pace of a cat, and docile as

a spaniel—Why? but because she is in her vocation. Let them minister to

us, Sir Arthur,—let them minister, I say,—it's the only thing they are

fit for. All ancient legislators, from Lycurgus to Mahommed, corruptly

called Mahomet, agree in putting them in their proper and subordinate

rank, and it is only the crazy heads of our old chivalrous ancestors

that erected their Dulcineas into despotic princesses."

Miss Wardour protested loudly against this ungallant doctrine; but the

bell now rung for dinner.

"Let me do all the offices of fair courtesy to so fair an antagonist,"

said the old gentleman, offering his arm. "I remember, Miss Wardour,

Mahommed (vulgarly Mahomet) had some hesitation about the mode

of summoning his Moslemah to prayer. He rejected bells as used by

Christians, trumpets as the summons of the Guebres, and finally adopted

the human voice. I have had equal doubt concerning my dinner-call.

Gongs, now in present use, seemed a newfangled and heathenish invention,

and the voice of the female womankind I rejected as equally shrill and

dissonant; wherefore, contrary to the said Mahommed, or Mahomet, I have

resumed the bell. It has a local propriety, since it was the conventual

signal for spreading the repast in their refectory, and it has the

advantage over the tongue of my sister's prime minister, Jenny, that,

though not quite so loud and shrill, it ceases ringing the instant you

drop the bell-rope: whereas we know, by sad experience, that any attempt

to silence Jenny, only wakes the sympathetic chime of Miss Oldbuck and

Mary M'Intyre to join in chorus."

With this discourse he led the way to his dining-parlour, which Lovel

had not yet seen;—it was wainscotted, and contained some curious

paintings. The dining-table was attended by Jenny; but an old

superintendent, a sort of female butler, stood by the sideboard, and

underwent the burden of bearing several reproofs from Mr. Oldbuck, and

inuendos, not so much marked, but not less cutting, from his sister.

The dinner was such as suited a professed antiquary, comprehending many

savoury specimens of Scottish viands, now disused at the tables of those

who affect elegance. There was the relishing Solan goose, whose smell is

so powerful that he is never cooked within doors. Blood-raw he proved to

be on this occasion, so that Oldbuck half threatened to throw the

greasy sea-fowl at the head of the negligent housekeeper, who acted as

priestess in presenting this odoriferous offering. But, by good-hap,

she had been most fortunate in the hotch-potch, which was unanimously

pronounced to be inimitable. "I knew we should succeed here," said

Oldbuck exultingly, "for Davie Dibble, the gardener (an old bachelor

like myself), takes care the rascally women do not dishonour our

vegetables. And here is fish and sauce, and crappit-heads—I acknowledge

our womankind excel in that dish—it procures them the pleasure of

scolding, for half an hour at least, twice a-week, with auld Maggy

Mucklebackit, our fish-wife. The chicken-pie, Mr. Lovel, is made after

a recipe bequeathed to me by my departed grandmother of happy memory—And

if you will venture on a glass of wine, you will find it worthy of

one who professes the maxim of King Alphonso of Castile,—Old wood to

burn—old books to read—old wine to drink—and old friends, Sir Arthur—ay,

Mr. Lovel, and young friends too, to converse with."

"And what news do you bring us from Edinburgh, Monkbarns?" said Sir

Arthur; "how wags the world in Auld Reekie?"

"Mad, Sir Arthur, mad—irretrievably frantic—far beyond dipping in the

sea, shaving the crown, or drinking hellebore. The worst sort of frenzy,

a military frenzy, hath possessed man, woman, and child."

"And high time, I think," said Miss Wardour, "when we are threatened

with invasion from abroad and insurrection at home."

"O, I did not doubt you would join the scarlet host against me—women,

like turkeys, are always subdued by a red rag—But what says Sir Arthur,

whose dreams are of standing armies and German oppression?"

"Why, I say, Mr. Oldbuck," replied the knight, "that so far as I am

capable of judging, we ought to resist cum toto corpore regni—as the

phrase is, unless I have altogether forgotten my Latin—an enemy who

comes to propose to us a Whiggish sort of government, a republican

system, and who is aided and abetted by a sort of fanatics of the worst

kind in our own bowels. I have taken some measures, I assure you, such

as become my rank in the community; for I have directed the constables

to take up that old scoundrelly beggar, Edie Ochiltree, for spreading

disaffection against church and state through the whole parish. He said

plainly to old Caxon, that Willie Howie's Kilmarnock cowl covered more

sense than all the three wigs in the parish—I think it is easy to make

out that inuendo—But the rogue shall be taught better manners."

"O no, my dear sir," exclaimed Miss Wardour, "not old Edie, that we have

known so long;—I assure you no constable shall have my good graces that

executes such a warrant."

"Ay, there it goes," said the Antiquary; "you, to be a staunch Tory, Sir

Arthur, have nourished a fine sprig of Whiggery in your bosom—Why,

Miss Wardour is alone sufficient to control a whole quarter-session—a

quarter-session? ay, a general assembly or convocation to boot—a

Boadicea she—an Amazon, a Zenobia."

"And yet, with all my courage, Mr. Oldbuck, I am glad to hear our people

are getting under arms."

"Under arms, Lord love thee! didst thou ever read the history of Sister

Margaret, which flowed from a head, that, though now old and somedele

grey, has more sense and political intelligence than you find now-a-days

in the whole synod? Dost thou remember the Nurse's dream in that

exquisite work, which she recounts in such agony to Hubble Bubble?—When

she would have taken up a piece of broad-cloth in her vision, lo! it

exploded like a great iron cannon; when she put out her hand to save a

pirn, it perked up in her face in the form of a pistol. My own vision in

Edinburgh has been something similar. I called to consult my lawyer; he

was clothed in a dragoon's dress, belted and casqued, and about to mount

a charger, which his writing-clerk (habited as a sharp-shooter) walked

to and fro before his door. I went to scold my agent for having sent me

to advise with a madman; he had stuck into his head the plume, which

in more sober days he wielded between his fingers, and figured as an

artillery officer. My mercer had his spontoon in his hand, as if he

measured his cloth by that implement, instead of a legitimate yard. The,

banker's clerk, who was directed to sum my cash-account, blundered

it three times, being disordered by the recollection of his military

tellings-off at the morning-drill. I was ill, and sent for a surgeon—

He came—but valour so had fired his eye,

And such a falchion glittered on his thigh,

That, by the gods, with such a load of steel,

I thought he came to murder,—not to heal.

I had recourse to a physician, but he also was practising a more

wholesale mode of slaughter than that which his profession had been

supposed at all times to open to him. And now, since I have returned

here, even our wise neighbours of Fairport have caught the same valiant

humour. I hate a gun like a hurt wild duck—I detest a drum like a

quaker;—and they thunder and rattle out yonder upon the town's common,

so that every volley and roll goes to my very heart."

"Dear brother, dinna speak that gate o' the gentlemen volunteers—I am

sure they have a most becoming uniform—Weel I wot they have been wet to

the very skin twice last week—I met them marching in terribly doukit, an

mony a sair hoast was amang them—And the trouble they take, I am sure it

claims our gratitude."

"And I am sure," said Miss M'Intyre, "that my uncle sent twenty guineas

to help out their equipments."

"It was to buy liquorice and sugar-candy," said the cynic, "to encourage

the trade of the place, and to refresh the throats of the officers who

had bawled themselves hoarse in the service of their country."

"Take care, Monkbarns! we shall set you down among the black-nebs by and

by."

"No Sir Arthur—a tame grumbler I. I only claim the privilege of croaking

in my own corner here, without uniting my throat to the grand chorus of

the marsh—Ni quito Rey, ni pongo Rey—I neither make king nor mar king,

as Sancho says, but pray heartily for our own sovereign, pay scot and

lot, and grumble at the exciseman—But here comes the ewe-milk cheese in

good time; it is a better digestive than politics."

When dinner was over, and the decanters placed on the table, Mr. Oldbuck

proposed the King's health in a bumper, which was readily acceded to

both by Lovel and the Baronet, the Jacobitism of the latter being now a

sort of speculative opinion merely,—the shadow of a shade.

After the ladies had left the apartment, the landlord and Sir Arthur

entered into several exquisite discussions, in which the younger guest,

either on account of the abstruse erudition which they involved, or

for some other reason, took but a slender share, till at length he was

suddenly started out of a profound reverie by an unexpected appeal to

his judgment.

"I will stand by what Mr. Lovel says; he was born in the north of

England, and may know the very spot."

Sir Arthur thought it unlikely that so young a gentleman should have

paid much attention to matters of that sort.

"I am avised of the contrary," said Oldbuck.

"How say you, Mr. Lovel?—speak up for your own credit, man."

Lovel was obliged to confess himself in the ridiculous situation of one

alike ignorant of the subject of conversation and controversy which had

engaged the company for an hour.

"Lord help the lad, his head has been wool-gathering!—I thought how it

would be when the womankind were admitted—no getting a word of sense out

of a young fellow for six hours after.—Why, man, there was once a people

called the Piks"—

"More properly Picts," interrupted the Baronet.

"I say the Pikar, Pihar, Piochtar, Piaghter, or Peughtar," vociferated

Oldbuck; "they spoke a Gothic dialect"—

"Genuine Celtic," again asseverated the knight.

"Gothic! Gothic! I'll go to death upon it!" counter-asseverated the

squire.

"Why, gentlemen," sad Lovel, "I conceive that is a dispute which may

be easily settled by philologists, if there are any remains of the

language."

"There is but one word," said the Baronet, "but, in spite of Mr.

Oldbuck's pertinacity, it is decisive of the question."

"Yes, in my favour," said Oldbuck: "Mr. Lovel, you shall be judge—I have

the learned Pinkerton on my side."

"I, on mine, the indefatigable and erudite Chalmers."

"Gordon comes into my opinion."

"Sir Robert Sibbald holds mine."

"Innes is with me!" vociferated Oldbuck.

"Riston has no doubt!" shouted the Baronet.

"Truly, gentlemen," said Lovel, "before you muster your forces and

overwhelm me with authorities, I should like to know the word in

dispute."

"Benval" said both the disputants at once.

"Which signifies caput valli," said Sir Arthur.

"The head of the wall," echoed Oldbuck.

There was a deep pause.—"It is rather a narrow foundation to build a

hypothesis upon," observed the arbiter.

"Not a whit, not a whit," said Oldbuck; "men fight best in a narrow

ring—an inch is as good as a mile for a home-thrust."

"It is decidedly Celtic," said the Baronet; "every hill in the Highlands

begins with Ben."

"But what say you to Val, Sir Arthur; is it not decidedly the Saxon

wall?"

"It is the Roman vallum," said Sir Arthur;—"the Picts borrowed that part

of the word."

"No such thing; if they borrowed anything, it must have been your Ben,

which they might have from the neighbouring Britons of Strath Cluyd."

"The Piks, or Picts," said Lovel, "must have been singularly poor in

dialect, since, in the only remaining word of their vocabulary, and that

consisting only of two syllables, they have been confessedly obliged to

borrow one of them from another language; and, methinks, gentlemen, with

submission, the controversy is not unlike that which the two knights

fought, concerning the shield that had one side white and the other

black. Each of you claim one-half of the word, and seem to resign the

other. But what strikes me most, is the poverty of the language which

has left such slight vestiges behind it."

"You are in an error," said Sir Arthur; "it was a copious language,

and they were a great and powerful people; built two steeples—one at

Brechin, one at Abernethy. The Pictish maidens of the blood-royal were

kept in Edinburgh Castle, thence called Castrum Puellarum."

"A childish legend," said Oldbuck, "invented to give consequence to

trumpery womankind. It was called the Maiden Castle, quasi lucus a non

lucendo, because it resisted every attack, and women never do."

"There is a list of the Pictish kings," persisted Sir Arthur, "well

authenticated from Crentheminachcryme (the, date of whose reign is

somewhat uncertain) down to Drusterstone, whose death concluded their

dynasty. Half of them have the Celtic patronymic Mac prefixed—Mac,

id est filius;—what do you say to that, Mr. Oldbuck? There is Drust

Macmorachin, Trynel Maclachlin (first of that ancient clan, as it may

be judged), and Gormach Macdonald, Alpin Macmetegus, Drust Mactallargam"

(here he was interrupted by a fit of coughing)—"ugh, ugh, ugh—Golarge

Macchan—ugh, ugh—Macchanan—ugh—Macchananail, Kenneth—ugh—ugh—

Macferedith, Eachan Macfungus—and twenty more, decidedly Celtic names,

which I could repeat, if this damned cough would let me."

"Take a glass of wine, Sir Arthur, and drink down that bead-roll of

unbaptized jargon, that would choke the devil—why, that last fellow has

the only intelligible name you have repeated—they are all of the tribe

of Macfungus—mushroom monarchs every one of them; sprung up from the

fumes of conceit, folly, and falsehood, fermenting in the brains of some

mad Highland seannachie."

"I am surprised to hear you, Mr. Oldbuck: you know, or ought to know,

that the list of these potentates was copied by Henry Maule of Melguin,

from the Chronicles of Loch Leven and St. Andrews, and put forth by him

in his short but satisfactory history of the Picts, printed by Robert

Freebairn of Edinburgh, and sold by him at his shop in the Parliament

Close, in the, year of God seventeen hundred and five, or six, I am not

precisely certain which—but I have a copy at home that stands next to my

twelvemo copy of the Scots Acts, and ranges on the shelf with them very

well. What say you to that, Mr. Oldbuck?"

"Say?—why, I laugh at Harry Maule and his history," answered Oldbuck,

"and thereby comply with his request, of giving it entertainment

according to its merits."

"Do not laugh at a better man than yourself," said Sir Arthur, somewhat

scornfully.

"I do not conceive I do, Sir Arthur, in laughing either at him or his

history,"

"Henry Maule of Melgum was a gentleman, Mr. Oldbuck."

"I presume he had no advantage of me in that particular," replied the

Antiquary, somewhat tartly.

"Permit me, Mr. Oldbuck—he was a gentleman of high family, and ancient

descent, and therefore"—

"The descendant of a Westphalian printer should speak of him with

deference? Such may be your opinion, Sir Arthur—it is not mine. I

conceive that my descent from that painful and industrious typographer,

Wolfbrand Oldenbuck, who, in the month of December 1493, under the

patronage, as the colophon tells us, of Sebaldus Scheyter and Sebastian

Kammermaister, accomplished the printing of the great Chronicle of

Nuremberg—I conceive, I say, that my descent from that great restorer

of learning is more creditable to me as a man of letters, than if I had

numbered in my genealogy all the brawling, bullet-headed, iron-fisted,

old Gothic barons since the days of Crentheminachcryme—not one of whom,

I suppose, could write his own name."

"If you mean the observation as a sneer at my ancestry," said the

knight, with an assumption of dignified superiority and composure, "I

have the pleasure to inform you, that the name of my ancestor, Gamelyn

de Guardover, Miles, is written fairly with his own hand in the earliest

copy of the Ragman-roll."

"Which only serves to show that he was one of the earliest who set the

mean example of submitting to Edward I. What have, you to say for the

stainless loyalty of your family, Sir Arthur, after such a backsliding

as that?"