application of my ancestor’s motto. You are a candidate for public
favour, though not in the way I first suspected,--you are ambitious to
shine as a literary character, and you hope to merit favour by labour
and perseverance?”
Lovel, who was rather closely pressed by the inquisitiveness of the old
gentleman, concluded it would be best to let him remain in the error
which he had gratuitously adopted.
“I have been at times foolish enough,” he replied, “to nourish some
thoughts of the kind.”
“Ah, poor fellow! nothing can be more melancholy; unless, as young
men sometimes do, you had fancied yourself in love with some trumpery
specimen of womankind, which is indeed, as Shakspeare truly says,
pressing to death, whipping, and hanging all at once.”
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.”
[Illustration: 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.