He then proceeded with inquiries, which he was sometimes kind enough to

answer himself. For this good old gentleman had, from his antiquarian

researches, acquired a delight in building theories out of premises

which were often far from affording sufficient ground for them; and

being, as the reader must have remarked, sufficiently opinionative,

he did not readily brook being corrected, either in matter of fact or

judgment, even by those who were principally interested in the subjects

on which he speculated. He went on, therefore, chalking out Lovel's

literary career for him.

"And with what do you propose to commence your debut as a man of

letters?—But I guess—poetry—poetry—the soft seducer of youth. Yes! there

is an acknowledging modesty of confusion in your eye and manner. And

where lies your vein?—are you inclined to soar to the, higher regions of

Parnassus, or to flutter around the base of the hill?"

"I have hitherto attempted only a few lyrical pieces," said Lovel.

"Just as I supposed—pruning your wing, and hopping from spray to spray.

But I trust you intend a bolder flight. Observe, I would by no means

recommend your persevering in this unprofitable pursuit—but you say you

are quite independent of the public caprice?"

"Entirely so," replied Lovel.

"And that you are determined not to adopt a more active course of life?"

"For the present, such is my resolution," replied the young man.

"Why, then, it only remains for me to give you my best advice and

assistance in the object of your pursuit. I have myself published two

essays in the Antiquarian Repository,—and therefore am an author of

experience, There was my Remarks on Hearne's edition of Robert of

Gloucester, signed Scrutator; and the other signed Indagator, upon a

passage in Tacitus. I might add, what attracted considerable notice at

the time, and that is my paper in the Gentleman's Magazine, upon the

inscription of OElia Lelia, which I subscribed OEdipus.So you see I am

not an apprentice in the mysteries of author-craft, and must necessarily

understand the taste and temper of the times. And now, once more, what

do you intend to commence with?"

"I have no instant thoughts of publishing."

"Ah! that will never do; you must have the fear of the public before

your eyes in all your undertakings. Let us see now: A collection of

fugitive pieces; but no—your fugitive poetry is apt to become

stationary with the bookseller. It should be something at once solid and

attractive—none of your romances or anomalous novelties—I would have you

take high ground at once. Let me see: What think you of a real epic?—the

grand old-fashioned historical poem which moved through twelve or

twenty-four books. We'll have it so—I'll supply you with a subject—The

battle between the Caledonians and Romans—The Caledoniad; or, Invasion

Repelled;—let that be the title—it will suit the present taste, and you

may throw in a touch of the times."

"But the invasion of Agricola was not repelled."

"No; but you are a poet—free of the corporation, and as little bound

down to truth or probability as Virgil himself—You may defeat the Romans

in spite of Tacitus."

"And pitch Agricola's camp at the Kaim of—what do you call it," answered

Lovel, "in defiance of Edie Ochiltree?"

"No more of that, an thou lovest me—And yet, I dare say, ye may

unwittingly speak most correct truth in both instances, in despite of

the toga of the historian and the blue gown of the mendicant."

"Gallantly counselled!—Well, I will do my best—your kindness will assist

me with local information."

"Will I not, man?—why, I will write the critical and historical notes on

each canto, and draw out the plan of the story myself. I pretend to some

poetical genius, Mr. Lovel, only I was never able to write verses."

"It is a pity, sir, that you should have failed in a qualification

somewhat essential to the art."

"Essential?—not a whit—it is the mere mechanical department. A man may

be a poet without measuring spondees and dactyls like the ancients, or

clashing the ends of lines into rhyme like the moderns, as one may be an

architect though unable to labour like a stone-mason—Dost think Palladio

or Vitruvius ever carried a hod?"

"In that case, there should be two authors to each poem—one to think and

plan, another to execute."

"Why, it would not be amiss; at any rate, we'll make the experiment;—not

that I would wish to give my name to the public—assistance from a

learned friend might be acknowledged in the preface after what flourish

your nature will—I am a total stranger to authorial vanity."

Lovel was much entertained by a declaration not very consistent with

the eagerness wherewith his friend seemed to catch at an opportunity

of coming before the public, though in a manner which rather resembled

stepping up behind a carriage than getting into one. The Antiquary was

indeed uncommonly delighted; for, like many other men who spend their

lives in obscure literary research, he had a secret ambition to

appear in print, which was checked by cold fits of diffidence, fear of

criticism, and habits of indolence and procrastination. "But," thought

he, "I may, like a second Teucer, discharge my shafts from behind

the shield of my ally; and, admit that he should not prove to be a

first-rate poet, I am in no shape answerable for his deficiencies, and

the good notes may very probably help off an indifferent text. But he

is—he must be a good poet; he has the real Parnassian abstraction—seldom

answers a question till it is twice repeated—drinks his tea scalding,

and eats without knowing what he is putting into his mouth. This is

the real aestus, the awen of the Welsh bards, the divinus afflatus that

transports the poet beyond the limits of sublunary things. His visions,

too, are very symptomatical of poetic fury—I must recollect to send

Caxon to see he puts out his candle to-night—poets and visionaries are

apt to be negligent in that respect." Then, turning to his companion, he

expressed himself aloud in continuation—

"Yes, my dear Lovel, you shall have full notes; and, indeed, think

we may introduce the whole of the Essay on Castrametation into the

appendix—it will give great value to the work. Then we will revive the

good old forms so disgracefully neglected in modern times. You shall

invoke the Muse—and certainly she ought to be propitious to an author

who, in an apostatizing age, adheres with the faith of Abdiel to the

ancient form of adoration.—Then we must have a vision—in which the

Genius of Caledonia shall appear to Galgacus, and show him a procession

of the real Scottish monarchs:—and in the notes I will have a hit at

Boethius—No; I must not touch that topic, now that Sir Arthur is likely

to have vexation enough besides—but I'll annihilate Ossian, Macpherson,

and Mac-Cribb."

"But we must consider the expense of publication," said Lovel, willing

to try whether this hint would fall like cold water on the blazing zeal

of his self-elected coadjutor.

"Expense!" said Mr. Oldbuck, pausing, and mechanically fumbling in his

pocket—"that is true;—I would wish to do something—but you would not

like to publish by subscription?"

"By no means," answered Lovel.

"No, no!" gladly acquiesced the Antiquary—"it is not respectable. I'll

tell you what: I believe I know a bookseller who has a value for my

opinion, and will risk print and paper, and I will get as many copies

sold for you as I can."

"O, I am no mercenary author," answered Lovel, smiling; "I only wish to

be out of risk of loss."

"Hush! hush! we'll take care of that—throw it all on the publishers.

I do long to see your labours commenced. You will choose blank verse,

doubtless?—it is more grand and magnificent for an historical subject;

and, what concerneth you, my friend, it is, I have an idea, more easily

written."

This conversation brought them to Monkbarns, where the Antiquary had

to undergo a chiding from his sister, who, though no philosopher,

was waiting to deliver a lecture to him in the portico. "Guide us,

Monkbarns! are things no dear eneugh already, but ye maun be raising the

very fish on us, by giving that randy, Luckie Mucklebackit, just what

she likes to ask?"

"Why, Grizel," said the sage, somewhat abashed at this unexpected

attack, "I thought I made a very fair bargain."

"A fair bargain! when ye gied the limmer a full half o' what she

seekit!—An ye will be a wife-carle, and buy fish at your ain hands, ye

suld never bid muckle mair than a quarter. And the impudent quean had

the assurance to come up and seek a dram—But I trow, Jenny and I sorted

her!"

"Truly," said Oldbuck (with a sly look to his companion), "I think

our estate was gracious that kept us out of hearing of that

controversy.—Well, well, Grizel, I was wrong for once in my life ultra

crepidam—I fairly admit. But hang expenses!—care killed a cat—we'll eat

the fish, cost what it will.—And then, Lovel, you must know I pressed

you to stay here to-day, the rather because our cheer will be better

than usual, yesterday having been a gaude' day—I love the reversion of

a feast better than the feast itself. I delight in the analecta, the

collectanea, as I may call them, of the preceding day's dinner, which

appear on such occasions—And see, there is Jenny going to ring the

dinner-bell."

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

Be this letter delivered with haste—haste—post-haste!

Ride, villain, ride,—for thy life—for thy life—for thy life.

Ancient Indorsation of Letters of Importance.

Leaving Mr. Oldbuck and his friend to enjoy their hard bargain of

fish, we beg leave to transport the reader to the back-parlour of

the post-master's house at Fairport, where his wife, he himself being

absent, was employed in assorting for delivery the letters which had

come by the Edinburgh post. This is very often in country towns the

period of the day when gossips find it particularly agreeable to call on

the man or woman of letters, in order, from the outside of the epistles,

and, if they are not belied, occasionally from the inside also, to amuse

themselves with gleaning information, or forming conjectures about the

correspondence and affairs of their neighbours. Two females of this

description were, at the time we mention, assisting, or impeding, Mrs.

Mailsetter in her official duty.

"Eh, preserve us, sirs!" said the butcher's wife, "there's ten—

eleven—twall letters to Tennant and Co.—thae folk do mair business than

a' the rest o' the burgh."

"Ay; but see, lass," answered the baker's lady, "there's twa o' them

faulded unco square, and sealed at the tae side—I doubt there will be

protested bills in them."

"Is there ony letters come yet for Jenny Caxon?" inquired the woman of

joints and giblets; "the lieutenant's been awa three weeks."

"Just ane on Tuesday was a week," answered the dame of letters.

"Wast a ship-letter?" asked the Fornerina.

"In troth wast."

"It wad be frae the lieutenant then," replied the mistress of the

rolls, somewhat disappointed—"I never thought he wad hae lookit ower his

shouther after her."

"Od, here's another," quoth Mrs. Mailsetter. "A ship-letter—post-mark,

Sunderland." All rushed to seize it.—"Na, na, leddies," said Mrs.

Mailsetter, interfering; "I hae had eneugh o' that wark—Ken ye that Mr.

Mailsetter got an unco rebuke frae the secretary at Edinburgh, for

a complaint that was made about the letter of Aily Bisset's that ye

opened, Mrs. Shortcake?"

"Me opened!" answered the spouse of the chief baker of Fairport; "ye ken

yoursell, madam, it just cam open o' free will in my hand—what could I

help it?—folk suld seal wi' better wax."

"Weel I wot that's true, too," said Mrs. Mailsetter, who kept a shop of

small wares, "and we have got some that I can honestly recommend, if ye

ken onybody wanting it. But the short and the lang o't is, that we'll

lose the place gin there's ony mair complaints o' the kind."

"Hout, lass—the provost will take care o' that."

"Na, na, I'll neither trust to provost nor bailier" said the

postmistress,—"but I wad aye be obliging and neighbourly, and I'm no

again your looking at the outside of a letter neither—See, the seal has

an anchor on't—he's done't wi' ane o' his buttons, I'm thinking."

"Show me! show me!" quoth the wives of the chief butcher and chief

baker; and threw themselves on the supposed love-letter, like the weird

sisters in Macbeth upon the pilot's thumb, with curiosity as eager and

scarcely less malignant. Mrs. Heukbane was a tall woman—she held the

precious epistle up between her eyes and the window. Mrs. Shortcake, a

little squat personage, strained and stood on tiptoe to have her share

of the investigation.

"Ay, it's frae him, sure eneugh," said the butcher's lady;—"I can read

Richard Taffril on the corner, and it's written, like John Thomson's

wallet, frae end to end."

"Haud it lower down, madam," exclaimed Mrs. Shortcake, in a tone above

the prudential whisper which their occupation required—"haud it lower

down—Div ye think naebody can read hand o' writ but yoursell?"

"Whist, whist, sirs, for God's sake!" said Mrs. Mailsetter, "there's

somebody in the shop,"—then aloud—"Look to the customers, Baby!"—Baby

answered from without in a shrill tone—"It's naebody but Jenny Caxon,

ma'am, to see if there's ony letters to her."

"Tell her," said the faithful postmistress, winking to her compeers, "to

come back the morn at ten o'clock, and I'll let her ken—we havena had

time to sort the mail letters yet—she's aye in sic a hurry, as if her

letters were o' mair consequence than the best merchant's o' the town."

Poor Jenny, a girl of uncommon beauty and modesty, could only draw her

cloak about her to hide the sigh of disappointment and return meekly

home to endure for another night the sickness of the heart occasioned by

hope delayed.

"There's something about a needle and a pole," said Mrs. Shortcake, to

whom her taller rival in gossiping had at length yielded a peep at the

subject of their curiosity.

"Now, that's downright shamefu'," said Mrs. Heukbane, "to scorn the poor

silly gait of a lassie after he's keepit company wi' her sae lang, and

had his will o' her, as I make nae doubt he has."

"It's but ower muckle to be doubted," echoed Mrs. Shortcake;—"to cast up

to her that her father's a barber and has a pole at his door, and that

she's but a manty-maker hersell! Hout fy for shame!"

"Hout tout, leddies," cried Mrs. Mailsetter, "ye're clean wrang—It's a

line out o' ane o' his sailors' sangs that I have heard him sing, about

being true like the needle to the pole."

"Weel, weel, I wish it may be sae," said the charitable Dame

Heukbane,—"but it disna look weel for a lassie like her to keep up a

correspondence wi' ane o' the king's officers."

"I'm no denying that," said Mrs. Mailsetter; "but it's a great advantage

to the revenue of the post-office thae love-letters. See, here's five or

six letters to Sir Arthur Wardour—maist o' them sealed wi' wafers, and

no wi' wax. There will be a downcome, there, believe me."

"Ay; they will be business letters, and no frae ony o' his grand

friends, that seals wi' their coats of arms, as they ca' them," said

Mrs. Heukbane;—"pride will hae a fa'—he hasna settled his account wi' my

gudeman, the deacon, for this twalmonth—he's but slink, I doubt."

"Nor wi' huz for sax months," echoed Mrs. Shortcake—"He's but a brunt

crust."

"There's a letter," interrupted the trusty postmistress, "from his

son, the captain, I'm thinking—the seal has the same things wi' the

Knockwinnock carriage. He'll be coming hame to see what he can save out

o' the fire."

The baronet thus dismissed, they took up the esquire—"Twa letters for

Monkbarns—they're frae some o' his learned friends now; see sae close as

they're written, down to the very seal—and a' to save sending a double

letter—that's just like Monkbarns himsell. When he gets a frank he fills

it up exact to the weight of an unce, that a carvy-seed would sink the

scale—but he's neer a grain abune it. Weel I wot I wad be broken if

I were to gie sic weight to the folk that come to buy our pepper and

brimstone, and suchlike sweetmeats."

"He's a shabby body the laird o' Monkbarns," said Mrs. Heukbane; "he'll

make as muckle about buying a forequarter o' lamb in August as about a

back sey o' beef. Let's taste another drop of the sinning" (perhaps she

meant cinnamon) "waters, Mrs. Mailsetter, my dear. Ah, lasses! an ye

had kend his brother as I did—mony a time he wad slip in to see me wi' a

brace o' wild deukes in his pouch, when my first gudeman was awa at the

Falkirk tryst—weel, weel—we'se no speak o' that e'enow."

"I winna say ony ill o'this Monkbarns," said Mrs. Shortcake; "his

brother neer brought me ony wild-deukes, and this is a douce honest man;

we serve the family wi' bread, and he settles wi' huz ilka week—only

he was in an unco kippage when we sent him a book instead o' the

nick-sticks,* whilk, he said, were the true ancient way o' counting

between tradesmen and customers; and sae they are, nae doubt."

* Note E. Nick-sticks.

"But look here, lasses," interrupted Mrs. Mailsetter, "here's a sight

for sair e'en! What wad ye gie to ken what's in the inside o' this

letter? This is new corn—I haena seen the like o' this—For William

Lovel, Esquire, at Mrs. Hadoway's, High Street, Fairport, by Edinburgh,

N. B. This is just the second letter he has had since he was here."

"Lord's sake, let's see, lass!—Lord's sake, let's see!—that's him that

the hale town kens naething about—and a weel-fa'ard lad he is; let's

see, let's see!" Thus ejaculated the two worthy representatives of

mother Eve.

"Na, na, sirs," exclaimed Mrs. Mailsetter; "haud awa—bide aff, I tell

you; this is nane o' your fourpenny cuts that we might make up the

value to the post-office amang ourselves if ony mischance befell it;—the

postage is five-and-twenty shillings—and here's an order frae the

Secretary to forward it to the young gentleman by express, if he's no at

hame. Na, na, sirs, bide aff;—this maunna be roughly guided."

"But just let's look at the outside o't, woman."

Nothing could be gathered from the outside, except remarks on the

various properties which philosophers ascribe to matter,—length,

breadth, depth, and weight, The packet was composed of strong thick

paper, imperviable by the curious eyes of the gossips, though they

stared as if they would burst from their sockets. The seal was a deep

and well-cut impression of arms, which defied all tampering.

"Od, lass," said Mrs. Shortcake, weighing it in her hand, and wishing,

doubtless, that the too, too solid wax would melt and dissolve itself,

"I wad like to ken what's in the inside o' this, for that Lovel dings a'

that ever set foot on the plainstanes o' Fairport—naebody kens what to

make o' him." Mrs. Heukbane and Mrs. Shortcake

"Weel, weel, leddies," said the postmistress, "we'se sit down and crack

about it.—Baby, bring ben the tea-water—Muckle obliged to ye for your

cookies, Mrs. Shortcake—and we'll steek the shop, and cry ben Baby, and

take a hand at the cartes till the gudeman comes hame—and then we'll

try your braw veal sweetbread that ye were so kind as send me, Mrs.

Heukbane."

"But winna ye first send awa Mr. Lovel's letter?" said Mrs. Heukbane.

"Troth I kenna wha to send wi't till the gudeman comes hame, for auld

Caxon tell'd me that Mr. Lovel stays a' the day at Monkbarns—he's in a

high fever, wi' pu'ing the laird and Sir Arthur out o' the sea."

"Silly auld doited carles!" said Mrs. Shortcake; "what gar'd them gang

to the douking in a night like yestreen!"

"I was gi'en to understand it was auld Edie that saved them," said Mrs.

Heukbane—"Edie Ochiltree, the Blue-Gown, ye ken; and that he pu'd the

hale three out of the auld fish-pound, for Monkbarns had threepit on

them to gang in till't to see the wark o' the monks lang syne."

"Hout, lass, nonsense!" answered the postmistress; "I'll tell ye, a'

about it, as Caxon tell'd it to me. Ye see, Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour,

and Mr. Lovel, suld hae dined at Monkbarns"—

"But, Mrs. Mailsetter," again interrupted Mrs. Heukbane, "will ye no

be for sending awa this letter by express?—there's our powny and our

callant hae gane express for the office or now, and the powny hasna gane

abune thirty mile the day;—Jock was sorting him up as I came ower by."

"Why, Mrs. Heukbane," said the woman of letters, pursing up her mouth,

"ye ken my gudeman likes to ride the expresses himsell—we maun gie our

ain fish-guts to our ain sea-maws—it's a red half-guinea to him every

time he munts his mear; and I dare say he'll be in sune—or I dare to

say, it's the same thing whether the gentleman gets the express this

night or early next morning."

"Only that Mr. Lovel will be in town before the express gaes aff," said

Mrs. Heukbane; "and where are ye then, lass? But ye ken yere ain ways

best."

"Weel, weel, Mrs. Heukbane," answered Mrs. Mailsetter, a little out of

humour, and even out of countenance, "I am sure I am never against being

neighbour-like, and living and letting live, as they say; and since I

hae been sic a fule as to show you the post-office order—ou, nae doubt,

it maun be obeyed. But I'll no need your callant, mony thanks to

ye—I'll send little Davie on your powny, and that will be just five-and-

threepence to ilka ane o' us, ye ken."

"Davie! the Lord help ye, the bairn's no ten year auld; and, to be plain

wi' ye, our powny reists a bit, and it's dooms sweer to the road, and

naebody can manage him but our Jock."

"I'm sorry for that," answered the postmistress, gravely; "it's like we

maun wait then till the gudeman comes hame, after a'—for I wadna like to

be responsible in trusting the letter to sic a callant as Jock—our Davie

belangs in a manner to the office."

"Aweel, aweel, Mrs. Mailsetter, I see what ye wad be at—but an ye like

to risk the bairn, I'll risk the beast."

Orders were accordingly given. The unwilling pony was brought out of his

bed of straw, and again equipped for service—Davie (a leathern post-bag

strapped across his shoulders) was perched upon the saddle, with a tear

in his eye, and a switch in his hand. Jock good-naturedly led the animal

out of town, and, by the crack of his whip, and the whoop and halloo

of his too well-known voice, compelled it to take the road towards

Monkbarns.

Meanwhile the gossips, like the sibyls after consulting their leaves,

arranged and combined the information of the evening, which flew next

morning through a hundred channels, and in a hundred varieties, through

the world of Fairport. Many, strange, and inconsistent, were the rumours

to which their communications and conjectures gave rise. Some said

Tennant and Co. were broken, and that all their bills had come back

protested—others that they had got a great contract from Government, and

letters from the principal merchants at Glasgow, desiring to have

shares upon a premium. One report stated, that Lieutenant Taffril had

acknowledged a private marriage with Jenny Caxon—another, that he had

sent her a letter upbraiding her with the lowness of her birth and

education, and bidding her an eternal adieu. It was generally rumoured

that Sir Arthur Wardour's affairs had fallen into irretrievable

confusion, and this report was only doubted by the wise, because it

was traced to Mrs. Mailsetter's shop,—a source more famous for the

circulation of news than for their accuracy. But all agreed that a

packet from the Secretary of State's office, had arrived, directed

for Mr. Lovel, and that it had been forwarded by an orderly dragoon,

despatched from the head-quarters at Edinburgh, who had galloped through

Fairport without stopping, except just to inquire the way to Monkbarns.

The reason of such an extraordinary mission to a very peaceful and

retired individual, was variously explained. Some said Lovel was an

emigrant noble, summoned to head an insurrection that had broken out

in La Vende'e—others that he was a spy—others that he was a general

officer, who was visiting the coast privately—others that he was a

prince of the blood, who was travelling incognito.