guttural the true Anglo-Saxon enunciation, which is now forgotten in the
southern parts of this realm.
The collection was indeed a curious one, and might well be envied by
an amateur. Yet it was not collected at the enormous prices of modern
times, which are sufficient to have appalled the most determined as well
as earliest bibliomaniac upon record, whom we take to have been none
else than the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, as, among other slight
indications of an infirm understanding, he is stated, by his veracious
historian, Cid Hamet Benengeli, to have exchanged fields and farms for
folios and quartos of chivalry. In this species of exploit, the good
knight-errant has been imitated by lords, knights, and squires of our
own day, though we have not yet heard of any that has mistaken an inn
for a castle, or laid his lance in rest against a windmill. Mr. Oldbuck
did not follow these collectors in such excess of expenditure; but,
taking a pleasure in the personal labour of forming his library, saved
his purse at the expense of his time and toil, He was no encourager of
that ingenious race of peripatetic middle-men, who, trafficking between
the obscure keeper of a stall and the eager amateur, make their profit
at once of the ignorance of the former, and the dear-bought skill and
taste of the latter. When such were mentioned in his hearing, he seldom
failed to point out how necessary it was to arrest the object of your
curiosity in its first transit, and to tell his favourite story of
Snuffy Davie and Caxton’s Game at Chess.--“Davy Wilson,” he said,
“commonly called Snuffy Davy, from his inveterate addiction to black
rappee, was the very prince of scouts for searching blind alleys,
cellars, and stalls for rare volumes. He had the scent of a slow-hound,
sir, and the snap of a bull-dog. He would detect you an old black-letter
ballad among the leaves of a law-paper, and find an editio princeps
under the mask of a school Corderius. Snuffy Davy bought the Game of
Chess, 1474, the first book ever printed in England, from a stall in
Holland, for about two groschen, or twopence of our money. He sold it
to Osborne for twenty pounds, and as many books as came to twenty pounds
more. Osborne resold this inimitable windfall to Dr. Askew for sixty
guineas. At Dr. Askew’s sale,” continued the old gentleman, kindling as
he spoke, “this inestimable treasure blazed forth in its full value,
and was purchased by Royalty itself for one hundred and seventy
pounds!--Could a copy now occur, Lord only knows,” he ejaculated, with a
deep sigh and lifted-up hands--“Lord only knows what would be its ransom;
and yet it was originally secured, by skill and research, for the
easy equivalent of two-pence sterling. * Happy, thrice happy, Snuffy
Davie!--and blessed were the times when thy industry could be so
rewarded!
* This bibliomaniacal anecdote is literally true; and David Wilson, the
author need not tell his brethren of the Roxburghe and Bannatyne Clubs,
was a real personage.
“Even I, sir,” he went on, “though far inferior in industry and
discernment and presence of mind, to that great man, can show you a
few--a very few things, which I have collected, not by force of money,
as any wealthy man might,--although, as my friend Lucian says, he might
chance to throw away his coin only to illustrate his ignorance,--but
gained in a manner that shows I know something of the matter. See this
bundle of ballads, not one of them later than 1700, and some of them
an hundred years older. I wheedled an old woman out of these, who loved
them better than her psalm-book. Tobacco, sir, snuff, and the Complete
Syren, were the equivalent! For that, mutilated copy of the Complaynt of
Scotland, I sat out the drinking of two dozen bottles of strong ale with
the late learned proprietor, who, in gratitude, bequeathed it to me by
his last will. These little Elzevirs are the memoranda and trophies of
many a walk by night and morning through the Cowgate, the Canongate, the
Bow, St. Mary’s Wynd,--wherever, in fine, there were to be found brokers
and trokers, those miscellaneous dealers in things rare and curious.
How often have I stood haggling on a halfpenny, lest, by a too ready
acquiescence in the dealer’s first price, he should be led to suspect
the value I set upon the article!--how have I trembled, lest some passing
stranger should chop in between me and the prize, and regarded each poor
student of divinity that stopped to turn over the books at the stall,
as a rival amateur, or prowling bookseller in disguise!--And then, Mr.
Lovel, the sly satisfaction with which one pays the consideration, and
pockets the article, affecting a cold indifference, while the hand is
trembling with pleasure!--Then to dazzle the eyes of our wealthier and
emulous rivals by showing them such a treasure as this” (displaying a
little black smoked book about the size of a primer); “to enjoy their
surprise and envy, shrouding meanwhile, under a veil of mysterious
consciousness, our own superior knowledge and dexterity these, my young
friend, these are the white moments of life, that repay the toil, and
pains, and sedulous attention, which our profession, above all others,
so peculiarly demands!”
Lovel was not a little amused at hearing the old gentleman run on in
this manner, and, however incapable of entering into the full merits
of what he beheld, he admired, as much as could have been expected, the
various treasures which Oldbuck exhibited. Here were editions esteemed
as being the first, and there stood those scarcely less regarded as
being the last and best; here was a book valued because it had the
author’s final improvements, and there another which (strange to tell!)
was in request because it had them not. One was precious because it
was a folio, another because it was a duodecimo; some because they
were tall, some because they were short; the merit of this lay in the
title-page--of that in the arrangement of the letters in the word Finis.
There was, it seemed, no peculiar distinction, however trifling
or minute, which might not give value to a volume, providing the
indispensable quality of scarcity, or rare occurrence, was attached to
it.
Not the least fascinating was the original broadside,--the Dying Speech,
Bloody Murder, or Wonderful Wonder of Wonders,--in its primary tattered
guise, as it was hawked through the streets, and sold for the cheap and
easy price of one penny, though now worth the weight of that penny in
gold. On these the Antiquary dilated with transport, and read, with a
rapturous voice, the elaborate titles, which bore the same proportion to
the contents that the painted signs without a showman’s booth do to the
animals within. Mr. Oldbuck, for example, piqued himself especially
in possessing an unique broadside, entitled and called “Strange and
Wonderful News from Chipping-Norton, in the County of Oxon, of certain
dreadful Apparitions which were seen in the Air on the 26th of July
1610, at Half an Hour after Nine o’Clock at Noon, and continued till
Eleven, in which Time was seen Appearances of several flaming Swords,
strange Motions of the superior Orbs; with the unusual Sparkling of
the Stars, with their dreadful Continuations; With the Account of the
Opening of the Heavens, and strange Appearances therein disclosing
themselves, with several other prodigious Circumstances not heard of in
any Age, to the great Amazement of the Beholders, as it was communicated
in a Letter to one Mr. Colley, living in West Smithfield, and attested
by Thomas Brown, Elizabeth Greenaway, and Anne Gutheridge, who were
Spectators of the dreadful Apparitions: And if any one would be
further satisfied of the Truth of this Relation, let them repair to
Mr. Nightingale’s at the Bear Inn, in West Smithfield, and they may be
satisfied.” *
* Of this thrice and four times rare broadside, the author possesses an
exemplar.
“You laugh at this,” said the proprietor of the collection, “and I
forgive you. I do acknowledge that the charms on which we doat are not
so obvious to the eyes of youth as those of a fair lady; but you will
grow wiser, and see more justly, when you come to wear spectacles.--Yet
stay, I have one piece of antiquity, which you, perhaps, will prize more
highly.”
So saying, Mr. Oldbuck unlocked a drawer, and took out a bundle of keys,
then pulled aside a piece of the tapestry which concealed the door of
a small closet, into which he descended by four stone steps, and,
after some tinkling among bottles and cans, produced two long-stalked
wine-glasses with bell mouths, such as are seen in Teniers’ pieces, and
a small bottle of what he called rich racy canary, with a little bit
of diet cake, on a small silver server of exquisite old workmanship. “I
will say nothing of the server,” he remarked, “though it is said to
have been wrought by the old mad Florentine, Benvenuto Cellini. But, Mr.
Lovel, our ancestors drank sack--you, who admire the drama, know where
that’s to be found.--Here’s success to your exertions at Fairport, sir!”
“And to you, sir, and an ample increase to your treasure, with no more
trouble on your part than is just necessary to make the acquisitions
valuable.”
After a libation so suitable to the amusement in which they had been
engaged, Lovel rose to take his leave, and Mr. Oldbuck prepared to give
him his company a part of the way, and show him something worthy of his
curiosity on his return to Fairport.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The pawkie auld carle cam ower the lea,
Wi’ mony good-e’ens and good-morrows to me,
Saying, Kind Sir, for your courtesy,
Will ye lodge a silly puir man?
The Gaberlunzie Man.
Our two friends moved through a little orchard, where the aged
apple-trees, well loaded with fruit, showed, as is usual in the
neighbourhood of monastic buildings, that the days of the monks had not
always been spent in indolence, but often dedicated to horticulture
and gardening. Mr. Oldbuck failed not to make Lovel remark, that the
planters of those days were possessed of the modern secret of preventing
the roots of the fruit-trees from penetrating the till, and compelling
them to spread in a lateral direction, by placing paving-stones beneath
the trees when first planted, so as to interpose between their fibres
and the subsoil. “This old fellow,” he said, “which was blown down last
summer, and still, though half reclined on the ground, is covered
with fruit, has been, as you may see, accommodated with such a
barrier between his roots and the unkindly till. That other tree has a
story:--the fruit is called the Abbot’s Apple; the lady of a neighbouring
baron was so fond of it, that she would often pay a visit to Monkbarns,
to have the pleasure of gathering it from the tree. The husband, a
jealous man, belike, suspected that a taste so nearly resembling that
of Mother Eve prognosticated a similar fall. As the honour of a noble
family is concerned, I will say no more on the subject, only that the
lands of Lochard and Cringlecut still pay a fine of six bolls of barley
annually, to atone the guilt of their audacious owner, who intruded
himself and his worldly suspicions upon the seclusion of the Abbot and
his penitent.--Admire the little belfry rising above the ivy-mantled
porch--there was here a hospitium, hospitale, or hospitamentum (for it
is written all these various ways in the old writings and evidents), in
which the monks received pilgrims. I know our minister has said, in the
Statistical Account, that the hospitium was situated either in the lands
of Haltweary or upon those of Half-starvet; but he is incorrect, Mr.
Lovel--that is the gate called still the Palmer’s Port, and my gardener
found many hewn stones, when he was trenching the ground for winter
celery, several of which I have sent as specimens to my learned friends,
and to the various antiquarian societies of which I am an unworthy
member. But I will say no more at present; I reserve something for
another visit, and we have an object of real curiosity before us.”
While he was thus speaking, he led the way briskly through one or two
rich pasture-meadows, to an open heath or common, and so to the top of
a gentle eminence. “Here,” he said, “Mr. Lovel, is a truly remarkable
spot.”
“It commands a fine view,” said his companion, looking around him.
“True: but it is not for the prospect I brought you hither; do you see
nothing else remarkable?--nothing on the surface of the ground?”
“Why, yes; I do see something like a ditch, indistinctly marked.”
“Indistinctly!--pardon me, sir, but the indistinctness must be in your
powers of vision. Nothing can be more plainly traced--a proper agger or
vallum, with its corresponding ditch or fossa. Indistinctly! why, Heaven
help you, the lassie, my niece, as light-headed a goose as womankind
affords, saw the traces of the ditch at once. Indistinct!--why, the great
station at Ardoch, or that at Burnswark in Annandale, may be clearer,
doubtless, because they are stative forts, whereas this was only an
occasional encampment. Indistinct!--why, you must suppose that fools,
boors, and idiots, have ploughed up the land, and, like beasts and
ignorant savages, have thereby obliterated two sides of the square, and
greatly injured the third; but you see, yourself, the fourth side is
quite entire!”
Lovel endeavoured to apologize, and to explain away his ill-timed
phrase, and pleaded his inexperience. But he was not at once quite
successful. His first expression had come too frankly and naturally not
to alarm the Antiquary, and he could not easily get over the shock it
had given him.
“My dear sir,” continued the senior, “your eyes are not inexperienced:
you know a ditch from level ground, I presume, when you see them?
Indistinct! why, the very common people, the very least boy that can
herd a cow, calls it the Kaim of Kinprunes; and if that does not imply
an ancient camp, I am ignorant what does.”
Lovel having again acquiesced, and at length lulled to sleep the
irritated and suspicious vanity of the Antiquary, he proceeded in his
task of cicerone. “You must know,” he said, “our Scottish antiquaries
have been greatly divided about the local situation of the final
conflict between Agricola and the Caledonians; some contend for Ardoch
in Strathallan, some for Innerpeffry, some for the Raedykes in the
Mearns, and some are for carrying the scene of action as far north as
Blair in Athole. Now, after all this discussion,” continued the old
gentleman, with one of his slyest and most complacent looks, “what would
you think, Mr. Lovel,--I say, what would you think,--if the memorable
scene of conflict should happen to be on the very spot called the Kaim
of Kinprunes, the property of the obscure and humble individual who now
speaks to you?” Then, having paused a little, to suffer his guest to
digest a communication so important, he resumed his disquisition in a
higher tone. “Yes, my good friend, I am indeed greatly deceived if this
place does not correspond with all the marks of that celebrated place
of action. It was near to the Grampian mountains--lo! yonder they are,
mixing and contending with the sky on the skirts of the horizon! It was
in conspectu classis--in sight of the Roman fleet; and would any admiral,
Roman or British, wish a fairer bay to ride in than that on your right
hand? It is astonishing how blind we professed antiquaries sometimes
are! Sir Robert Sibbald, Saunders Gordon, General Roy, Dr. Stokely,--why,
it escaped all of them. I was unwilling to say a word about it till
I had secured the ground, for it belonged to auld Johnnie Howie, a
bonnet-laird* hard by, and many a communing we had before he and I could
agree.
* A bonnet-laird signifies a petty proprietor, wearing the dress, along
with the habits of a yeoman.
At length--I am almost ashamed to say it--but I even brought my mind to
give acre for acre of my good corn-land for this barren spot. But then
it was a national concern; and when the scene of so celebrated an event
became my own, I was overpaid.--Whose patriotism would not grow warmer,
as old Johnson says, on the plains of Marathon? I began to trench the
ground, to see what might be discovered; and the third day, sir, we
found a stone, which I have transported to Monkbarns, in order to have
the sculpture taken off with plaster of Paris; it bears a sacrificing
vessel, and the letters A. D. L. L. which may stand, without much
violence, for Agricola Dicavit Libens Lubens.”
“Certainly, sir; for the Dutch Antiquaries claim Caligula as the founder
of a light-house, on the sole authority of the letters C. C. P. F.,
which they interpret Caius Caligula Pharum Fecit.”
“True, and it has ever been recorded as a sound exposition. I see
we shall make something of you even before you wear spectacles,
notwithstanding you thought the traces of this beautiful camp indistinct
when you first observed them.”
“In time, sir, and by good instruction”--
“--You will become more apt--I doubt it not. You shall peruse, upon your
next visit to Monkbarns, my trivial Essay upon Castrametation, with some
particular Remarks upon the Vestiges of Ancient Fortifications lately
discovered by the Author at the Kaim of Kinprunes. I think I have
pointed out the infallible touchstone of supposed antiquity. I premise a
few general rules on that point, on the nature, namely, of the evidence
to be received in such cases. Meanwhile be pleased to observe, for
example, that I could press into my service Claudian’s famous line,
Ille Caledoniis posuit qui castra pruinis.
For pruinis, though interpreted to mean hoar frosts, to which I own we
are somewhat subject in this north-eastern sea-coast, may also signify
a locality, namely, Prunes; the Castra Pruinis posita would therefore be
the Kaim of Kinprunes. But I waive this, for I am sensible it might
be laid hold of by cavillers as carrying down my Castra to the time of
Theodosius, sent by Valentinian into Britain as late as the year 367, or
thereabout. No, my good friend, I appeal to people’s eye-sight. Is
not here the Decuman gate? and there, but for the ravage of the horrid
plough, as a learned friend calls it, would be the Praetorian gate. On
the left hand you may see some slight vestiges of the porta sinistra,
and on the right, one side of the porta dextra wellnigh entire. Here,
then, let us take our stand, on this tumulus, exhibiting the foundation
of ruined buildings,--the central point--the praetorium, doubtless, of the
camp. From this place, now scarce to be distinguished but by its slight
elevation and its greener turf from the rest of the fortification,
we may suppose Agricola to have looked forth on the immense army
of Caledonians, occupying the declivities of yon opposite hill,--the
infantry rising rank over rank, as the form of ground displayed their
array to its utmost advantage,--the cavalry and covinarii, by which I
understand the charioteers--another guise of folks from your Bond-street
four-in-hand men, I trow--scouring the more level space below--
--See, then, Lovel--See--
See that huge battle moving from the mountains!
Their gilt coats shine like dragon scales;--their march
Like a rough tumbling storm.--See them, and view them,
And then see Rome no more!--
Yes, my dear friend, from this stance it is probable--nay, it is nearly
certain, that Julius Agricola beheld what our Beaumont has so admirably
described!--From this very Praetorium”--
A voice from behind interrupted his ecstatic description--“Praetorian
here, Praetorian there, I mind the bigging o’t.”
Both at once turned round, Lovel with surprise, and Oldbuck with mingled
surprise and indignation, at so uncivil an interruption. An auditor had
stolen upon them, unseen and unheard, amid the energy of the Antiquary’s
enthusiastic declamation, and the attentive civility of Lovel. He
had the exterior appearance of a mendicant. A slouched hat of huge
dimensions; a long white beard which mingled with his grizzled hair;
an aged but strongly marked and expressive countenance, hardened, by
climate and exposure, to a right brick-dust complexion; a long blue
gown, with a pewter badge on the right arm; two or three wallets, or
bags, slung across his shoulder, for holding the different kinds of
meal, when he received his charity in kind from those who were but
a degree richer than himself:--all these marked at once a beggar by
profession, and one of that privileged class which are called in
Scotland the King’s Bedesmen, or, vulgarly, Blue-Gowns.
“What is that you say, Edie?” said Oldbuck, hoping, perhaps, that his
ears had betrayed their duty--“what were you speaking about!”
“About this bit bourock, your honour,” answered the undaunted Edie; “I
mind the bigging o’t.”
“The devil you do! Why, you old fool, it was here before you were born,
and will be after you are hanged, man!”
“Hanged or drowned, here or awa, dead or alive, I mind the bigging o’t.”
“You--you--you--,” said the Antiquary, stammering between confusion and
anger, “you strolling old vagabond, what the devil do you know about
it?”
“Ou, I ken this about it, Monkbarns--and what profit have I for telling
ye a lie?--l just ken this about it, that about twenty years syne, I,
and a wheen hallenshakers like mysell, and the mason-lads that built the
lang dike that gaes down the loaning, and twa or three herds maybe,
just set to wark, and built this bit thing here that ye ca’
the--the--Praetorian, and a’ just for a bield at auld Aiken Drum’s bridal,
and a bit blithe gae-down wi’ had in’t, some sair rainy weather. Mair by
token, Monkbarns, if ye howk up the bourock, as ye seem to have began,
yell find, if ye hae not fund it already, a stane that ane o’ the
mason-callants cut a ladle on to have a bourd at the bridegroom, and he
put four letters on’t, that’s A. D. L. L.--Aiken Drum’s Lang Ladle--for
Aiken was ane o’ the kale-suppers o’ Fife.”
“This,” thought Lovel to himself, “is a famous counterpart to the
story of Keip on this syde.” He then ventured to steal a glance at our
Antiquary, but quickly withdrew it in sheer compassion. For, gentle
reader, if thou hast ever beheld the visage of a damsel of sixteen,
whose romance of true love has been blown up by an untimely discovery,
or of a child of ten years, whose castle of cards has been blown down by
a malicious companion, I can safely aver to you, that Jonathan Oldbuck
of Monkbarns looked neither more wise nor less disconcerted.
“There is some mistake about this,” he said, abruptly turning away from
the mendicant.
“Deil a bit on my side o’ the wa’,” answered the sturdy beggar; “I never
deal in mistakes, they aye bring mischances.--Now, Monkbarns, that young
gentleman, that’s wi’ your honour, thinks little of a carle like me; and
yet, I’ll wager I’ll tell him whar he was yestreen at the gloamin, only
he maybe wadna like to hae’t spoken o’ in company.”
Lovel’s soul rushed to his cheeks, with the vivid blush of
two-and-twenty.
“Never mind the old rogue,” said Mr. Oldbuck; “don’t suppose I think
the worse of you for your profession; they are only prejudiced fools and
coxcombs that do so. You remember what old Tully says in his oration,
pro Archia poeta, concerning one of your confraternity--quis nostrum
tam anino agresti ac duro fuit--ut--ut--I forget the Latin--the meaning is,
which of us was so rude and barbarous as to remain unmoved at the death
of the great Roscius, whose advanced age was so far from preparing us
for his death, that we rather hoped one so graceful, so excellent in
his art, ought to be exempted from the common lot of mortality? So the
Prince of Orators spoke of the stage and its professor.”