Turning to Sir Walter, "I am sure you had our laird in your e'e
when you drew the character of Monkbarns."
"No," replied Sir Walter, "but I had in my eye a very old and
respected friend of my own, and one with whom, I daresay you,
Mrs. Arbuthnott, were acquainted--the late Mr. George Constable
of Wallace, near Dundee."
"I kenned him weel," said Mrs. Arbuthnott, "and his twa sisters
that lived wi' him, Jean and Christian, and I've been in the
blue-chamber of his _Hospitium_; but I think," she continued,
"our laird is the likest to Monkbarns o' the twa. He's at the
Antiquarian Society the night, presenting a great curiosity that
was found in a quarry of mica slate in the hill at the back of
Balwylie. He's sair taken up about it, and puzzled to think what
substance it may be; but James Dalgetty, wha's never at a loss
either for the name or the nature of onything under the sun,
says it's just Noah's auld wig that blew aff yon time he put his
head out of the window of the ark to look after his corbie
messenger."
James Dalgetty and his opinion gave subject of much merriment to
the company, but Doctor Coventry thought there was nothing so
very ludicrous in the remark, for in that kind of slate there
are frequently substances found resembling hairs.
Lord Gillies presented Doctor Coventry to Mrs. Arbuthnott, as
the well-known professor of agriculture, and they entered on a
conversation respecting soils. She described those of Balwylie,
and the particular properties of the _Surroch Park_, which James
Dalgetty curses every time it's spoken about, and says, "it
greets a' winter, and girns a' simmer."
The doctor rubbed his hands with delight, and said that was the
most perfect description of cold wet land he had ever heard of;
and Sir Walter expressed a wish to cultivate the acquaintance of
James Dalgetty, and extorted a promise from Mrs. Arbuthnott that
she would visit Abbotsford, and bring James with her. "I have a
James Dalgetty of my own," continued Sir Walter, "that governs
me just as yours does you."
Lady Ann and Mr. Wharton Duff and their daughter were announced,
and introduced to Mrs. Arbuthnott.
At ten, Sir Walter and Miss Scott took leave, with a promise
that they should visit each other, and bending down to the ear
of Mrs. Arbuthnott, Sir Walter addressed her in these words:
"Awa! awa! the deil's ower grit wi' you."
* * * * *
And now are we not all the better for this pleasantry? so womanly, so
genial, so rich, and so without a sting,--such a true diversion, with
none of the sin of effort or of mere cleverness; and how it takes us
into the midst of the strong-brained and strong-hearted men and women of
that time! what an atmosphere of sense and good-breeding and kindliness!
And then the Scotch! cropping out everywhere as blithe, and expressive,
and unexpected as a gowan or sweet-briar rose, with an occasional
thistle, sturdy, erect, and bristling with _Nemo me_. Besides the deeper
and general interest of these _Mystifications_, in their giving, as far
as I know, a unique specimen of true personation--distinct from
acting--I think it a national good to let our youngsters read, and, as
it were, hear the language which our gentry and judges and men of
letters spoke not long ago, and into which such books as Dean Ramsay's
and this are breathing the breath of its old life. Was there ever
anything better or so good, said of a stiff clay, than that it "girns
(grins) a' simmer, and greets (weeps) a' winter?"
"_OH, I'M WAT, WAT!_"
_The father of the Rev. Mr. Steven of Largs, was the son of a
farmer, who lived next farm to Mossgiel. When a boy of eight, he
found "Robbie" who was a great friend of his, and of all the
children, engaged digging a large trench in a field, Gilbert,
his brother, with him. The boy pausing on the edge of the
trench, and looking down upon Burns, said, "Robbie, what's that
ye're doin'?" "Howkin' a muckle hole, Tammie." "What for?" "To
bury the Deil in, Tammie!" (one can fancy how those eyes would
glow.) "A'but, Robbie," said the logical Tammie, "hoo're ye to
get him in?" "Ay" said Burns, "that's it, hoo are we to get Him
in!" and went off into shouts of laughter; and every now and
then during that summer day shouts would come from that hole, as
the idea came over him. If one could only have daguerreotyped
his day's fancies!_
"What is love, Mary?" said Seventeen to Thirteen, who was busy with her
English lessons.
"Love! what do you mean, John?"
"I mean, what's love?"
"Love's just love, I suppose."
(Yes, Mary, you are right to keep by the concrete; analysis kills love
as well as other things. I once asked a useful-information young lady
what her mother was. 'Oh, mamma's a _biped_!' I turned in dismay to her
younger sister, and said, What do you say? 'Oh, my mother's just my
mother.')
"But what part of speech is it?"
"It's a substantive or a verb." (Young Horne Tooke didn't ask her if it
was an active or passive, an irregular or defective verb; an inceptive,
as _calesco_, I grow warm, or _dulcesco_, I grow sweet; a frequentative
or a desiderative, as _nupturio_, I desire to marry.)
"I think it is a verb," said John, who was deep in other diversions,
besides those of Purley; "and I think it must have been originally _the
Perfect of Live_, like thrive throve, strive strove."
"Capital, John!" suddenly growled Uncle Oldbuck, who was supposed to be
asleep in his arm-chair by the fireside, and who snubbed and supported
the entire household. "It was that originally, and it will be our own
faults, children, if it is not that at last, as well as, ay, and more
than at first. What does Richardson say, John? read him out." John
reads--
LOVE, _v. s._ To prefer, to desire, as an
-LESS. object of possession or enjoyment
-LY, _ad. av._ to delight in, to be
-LILY. pleased or gratified with, to
-LINESS. take pleasure or gratification
-ER. in, delight in.
-ING. _Love_, the _s_ is app. emph. to
-INGLY. the passion between the sexes.
-INGNESS. _Lover_ is, by old writers, app. as
-ABLE.[A] _friend_--by male to male.
-SOME.[B] _Love_ is much used--pref.
ERED.[C] [A] _Wiclif._ [B] _Chaucer._ [C] _Shak._
_Love-locks_,--locks (of hair) to set off the beauty; the
loveliness.
A. S. _Luf-ian_; D. _Lie-ven_; Ger. _-ben_, amare, diligere.
Wach. derives from _lieb_, bonum, because every one desires that
which is good: _lieb_, it is more probable, is from _lieb-en_,
grateful, and therefore _good_. It may at least admit a
conjecture that A. S. _Lufian_, to _love_, has a reason for its
application similar to that of L. _Di-ligere_ (_legere_, to
gather), to take up or out (of a number), to choose, sc. one in
preference to another, to prefer; and that it is formed upon A.
S. _Hlif-ian_, to lift or take up, to pick up, to select, to
prefer, Be- Over- Un-
_Uncle impatiently._--"Stuff; 'grateful!' 'pick up! stuff! These
word-mongers know nothing about it. Live, love; that is it, the perfect
of live."[34]
[34] They are strange beings, these lexicographers. Richardson,
for instance, under the word SNAIL, gives this
quotation from Beaumont and Fletcher's _Wit at Several
Weapons_,--
"Oh, Master Pompey! how is 't, man?
_Clown_--SNAILS, I'm almost starved with love
and cold, and one thing or other."
Any one else knows of course that it is "'s nails"--the
contraction of the old oath or interjection--_God's nails_.
After this, Uncle sent the cousins to their beds.
Mary's mother was in hers, never to rise from it again. She was a widow,
and Mary was her husband's niece. The house quiet, Uncle sat down in his
chair, put his feet on the fender, and watched the dying fire; it had a
rich central glow, but no flame, and no smoke, it was flashing up
fitfully, and bit by bit falling in. He fell asleep watching it, and
when he slept, he dreamed. He was young; he was seventeen; he was
prowling about the head of North St. David Street, keeping his eye on a
certain door,--we call them common stairs in Scotland. He was waiting
for Mr. White's famous English class for girls coming out. Presently out
rushed four or five girls, wild and laughing; then came one, bounding
like a roe:
"Such eyes were in her head,
And so much grace and power!"
She was surrounded by the rest, and away they went laughing, she making
them always laugh the more. Seventeen followed at a safe distance,
studying her small, firm, downright heel. The girls dropped off one by
one, and she was away home by herself, swift and reserved. He, imposter
as he was, disappeared through Jamaica Street, to reappear and meet her,
walking as if on urgent business, and getting a cordial and careless
nod. This beautiful girl of thirteen was afterwards the mother of our
Mary, and died in giving her birth. She was Uncle Oldbuck's first and
only sweetheart; and here was he, the only help our young Horne Tooke,
and his mother and Mary had. Uncle awoke, the fire dead, and the room
cold. He found himself repeating Lady John Scott's lines--
"When thou art near me,
Sorrow seems to fly,
And then I think, as well I may,
That on this earth there is no one
More blest than I.
But when thou leav'st me,
Doubts and fears arise,
And darkness reigns,
Where all before was light.
The sunshine of my soul
Is in those eyes,
And when they leave me
All the world is night.
But when thou art near me,
Sorrow seems to fly,
And then I feel, as well I may,
That on this earth there dwells not one
So blest as I."[35]
[35] Can the gifted author of these lines and of their music not
be prevailed on to give them and others to the world, as
well as to her friends?