Horseman and horse confess’d the bitter pang,
And arms and warrior fell with heavy clang.
Pleasures of Hope.
When the military evolutions had been gone through tolerably well,
allowing for the awkwardness of men and of horses, a loud shout announced
that the competitors were about to step forth for the game of the
popinjay already described. The mast, or pole, having a yard extended
across it, from which the mark was displayed, was raised amid the
acclamations of the assembly; and even those who had eyed the evolutions
of the feudal militia with a sort of malignant and sarcastic sneer, from
disinclination to the royal cause in which they were professedly
embodied, could not refrain from taking considerable interest in the
strife which was now approaching. They crowded towards the goal, and
criticized the appearance of each competitor, as they advanced in
succession, discharged their pieces at the mark, and had their good or
bad address rewarded by the laughter or applause of the spectators. But
when a slender young man, dressed with great simplicity, yet not without
a certain air of pretension to elegance and gentility, approached the
station with his fusee in his hand, his dark-green cloak thrown back over
his shoulder, his laced ruff and feathered cap indicating a superior rank
to the vulgar, there was a murmur of interest among the spectators,
whether altogether favourable to the young adventurer, it was difficult
to discover.
“Ewhow, sirs, to see his father’s son at the like o’ thae fearless
follies!” was the ejaculation of the elder and more rigid puritans, whose
curiosity had so far overcome their bigotry as to bring them to the
play-ground. But the generality viewed the strife less morosely, and were
contented to wish success to the son of a deceased presbyterian leader,
without strictly examining the propriety of his being a competitor for
the prize.
Their wishes were gratified. At the first discharge of his piece the
green adventurer struck the popinjay, being the first palpable hit of the
day, though several balls had passed very near the mark. A loud shout of
applause ensued. But the success was not decisive, it being necessary
that each who followed should have his chance, and that those who
succeeded in hitting the mark, should renew the strife among themselves,
till one displayed a decided superiority over the others. Two only of
those who followed in order succeeded in hitting the popinjay. The first
was a young man of low rank, heavily built, and who kept his face muffled
in his grey cloak; the second a gallant young cavalier, remarkable for a
handsome exterior, sedulously decorated for the day. He had been since
the muster in close attendance on Lady Margaret and Miss Bellenden, and
had left them with an air of indifference, when Lady Margaret had asked
whether there was no young man of family and loyal principles who would
dispute the prize with the two lads who had been successful. In half a
minute, young Lord Evandale threw himself from his horse, borrowed a gun
from a servant, and, as we have already noticed, hit the mark. Great was
the interest excited by the renewal of the contest between the three
candidates who had been hitherto successful. The state equipage of the
Duke was, with some difficulty, put in motion, and approached more near
to the scene of action. The riders, both male and female, turned their
horses’ heads in the same direction, and all eyes were bent upon the
issue of the trial of skill.
It was the etiquette in the second contest, that the competitors should
take their turn of firing after drawing lots. The first fell upon the
young plebeian, who, as he took his stand, half-uncloaked his rustic
countenance, and said to the gallant in green, “Ye see, Mr Henry, if it
were ony other day, I could hae wished to miss for your sake; but Jenny
Dennison is looking at us, sae I maun do my best.”
He took his aim, and his bullet whistled past the mark so nearly, that
the pendulous object at which it was directed was seen to shiver. Still,
however, he had not hit it, and, with a downcast look, he withdrew
himself from further competition, and hastened to disappear from the
assembly, as if fearful of being recognised. The green chasseur next
advanced, and his ball a second time struck the popinjay. All shouted;
and from the outskirts of the assembly arose a cry of, “The good old
cause for ever!”
While the dignitaries bent their brows at these exulting shouts of the
disaffected, the young Lord Evandale advanced again to the hazard, and
again was successful. The shouts and congratulations of the well-affected
and aristocratical part of the audience attended his success, but still a
subsequent trial of skill remained.
The green marksman, as if determined to bring the affair to a decision,
took his horse from a person who held him, having previously looked
carefully to the security of his girths and the fitting of his saddle,
vaulted on his back, and motioning with his hand for the bystanders to
make way, set spurs, passed the place from which he was to fire at a
gallop, and, as he passed, threw up the reins, turned sideways upon his
saddle, discharged his carabine, and brought down the popinjay. Lord
Evandale imitated his example, although many around him said it was an
innovation on the established practice, which he was not obliged to
follow. But his skill was not so perfect, or his horse was not so well
trained. The animal swerved at the moment his master fired, and the ball
missed the popinjay. Those who had been surprised by the address of the
green marksman were now equally pleased by his courtesy. He disclaimed
all merit from the last shot, and proposed to his antagonist that it
should not be counted as a hit, and that they should renew the contest on
foot.
“I would prefer horseback, if I had a horse as well bitted, and,
probably, as well broken to the exercise, as yours,” said the young Lord,
addressing his antagonist.
“Will you do me the honour to use him for the next trial, on condition
you will lend me yours?” said the young gentleman.
Lord Evandale was ashamed to accept this courtesy, as conscious how much
it would diminish the value of victory; and yet, unable to suppress his
wish to redeem his reputation as a marksman, he added, “that although he
renounced all pretensions to the honour of the day,” (which he said
some-what scornfully,) “yet, if the victor had no particular objection,
he would willingly embrace his obliging offer, and change horses with
him, for the purpose of trying a shot for love.”
As he said so, he looked boldly towards Miss Bellenden, and tradition
says, that the eyes of the young tirailleur travelled, though more
covertly, in the same direction. The young Lord’s last trial was as
unsuccessful as the former, and it was with difficulty that he preserved
the tone of scornful indifference which he had hitherto assumed. But,
conscious of the ridicule which attaches itself to the resentment of a
losing party, he returned to his antagonist the horse on which he had
made his last unsuccessful attempt, and received back his own; giving, at
the same time, thanks to his competitor, who, he said, had re-established
his favourite horse in his good opinion, for he had been in great danger
of transferring to the poor nag the blame of an inferiority, which every
one, as well as himself, must now be satisfied remained with the rider.
Having made this speech in a tone in which mortification assumed the veil
of indifference, he mounted his horse and rode off the ground.
As is the usual way of the world, the applause and attention even of
those whose wishes had favoured Lord Evandale, were, upon his decisive
discomfiture, transferred to his triumphant rival.
“Who is he? what is his name?” ran from mouth to mouth among the gentry
who were present, to few of whom he was personally known. His style and
title having soon transpired, and being within that class whom a great
man might notice without derogation, four of the Duke’s friends, with the
obedient start which poor Malvolio ascribes to his imaginary retinue,
made out to lead the victor to his presence. As they conducted him in
triumph through the crowd of spectators, and stunned him at the same time
with their compliments on his success, he chanced to pass, or rather to
be led, immediately in front of Lady Margaret and her grand-daughter. The
Captain of the popinjay and Miss Bellenden coloured like crimson, as the
latter returned, with embarrassed courtesy, the low inclination which the
victor made, even to the saddle-bow, in passing her.
“Do you know that young person?” said Lady Margaret.
“I--I--have seen him, madam, at my uncle’s, and--and elsewhere
occasionally,” stammered Miss Edith Bellenden.
“I hear them say around me,” said Lady Margaret, “that the young spark is
the nephew of old Milnwood.”
“The son of the late Colonel Morton of Milnwood, who commanded a regiment
of horse with great courage at Dunbar and Inverkeithing,” said a
gentleman who sate on horseback beside Lady Margaret.
“Ay, and who, before that, fought for the Covenanters both at
Marston-Moor and Philiphaugh,” said Lady Margaret, sighing as she
pronounced the last fatal words, which her husband’s death gave her such
sad reason to remember.
“Your ladyship’s memory is just,” said the gentleman, smiling, “but it
were well all that were forgot now.”
“He ought to remember it, Gilbertscleugh,” returned Lady Margaret, “and
dispense with intruding himself into the company of those to whom his
name must bring unpleasing recollections.”
“You forget, my dear lady,” said her nomenclator, “that the young
gentleman comes here to discharge suit and service in name of his uncle.
I would every estate in the country sent out as pretty a fellow.”
“His uncle, as well as his umquhile father, is a roundhead, I presume,”
said Lady Margaret.
“He is an old miser,” said Gilbertscleugh, “with whom a broad piece would
at any time weigh down political opinions, and, therefore, although
probably somewhat against the grain, he sends the young gentleman to
attend the muster to save pecuniary pains and penalties. As for the rest,
I suppose the youngster is happy enough to escape here for a day from the
dulness of the old house at Milnwood, where he sees nobody but his
hypochondriac uncle and the favourite housekeeper.”
“Do you know how many men and horse the lands of Milnwood are rated at?”
said the old lady, continuing her enquiry.
“Two horsemen with complete harness,” answered Gilbertscleugh.
“Our land,” said Lady Margaret, drawing herself up with dignity, “has
always furnished to the muster eight men, cousin Gilbertscleugh, and
often a voluntary aid of thrice the number. I remember his sacred Majesty
King Charles, when he took his disjune at Tillietudlem, was particular in
enquiring”--“I see the Duke’s carriage in motion,” said Gilbertscleugh,
partaking at the moment an alarm common to all Lady Margaret’s friends,
when she touched upon the topic of the royal visit at the family
mansion,--“I see the Duke’s carriage in motion; I presume your ladyship
will take your right of rank in leaving the field. May I be permitted to
convoy your ladyship and Miss Bellenden home?--Parties of the wild whigs
have been abroad, and are said to insult and disarm the well-affected who
travel in small numbers.”
“We thank you, cousin Gilbertscleugh,” said Lady Margaret; “but as we
shall have the escort of my own people, I trust we have less need than
others to be troublesome to our friends. Will you have the goodness to
order Harrison to bring up our people somewhat more briskly; he rides
them towards us as if he were leading a funeral procession.”
The gentleman in attendance communicated his lady’s orders to the trusty
steward.
Honest Harrison had his own reasons for doubting the prudence of this
command; but, once issued and received, there was a necessity for obeying
it. He set off, therefore, at a hand-gallop, followed by the butler, in
such a military attitude as became one who had served under Montrose, and
with a look of defiance, rendered sterner and fiercer by the inspiring
fumes of a gill of brandy, which he had snatched a moment to bolt to the
king’s health, and confusion to the Covenant, during the intervals of
military duty. Unhappily this potent refreshment wiped away from the
tablets of his memory the necessity of paying some attention to the
distresses and difficulties of his rear-file, Goose Gibbie. No sooner had
the horses struck a canter, than Gibbie’s jack-boots, which the poor
boy’s legs were incapable of steadying, began to play alternately against
the horse’s flanks, and, being armed with long-rowelled spurs, overcame
the patience of the animal, which bounced and plunged, while poor
Gibbie’s entreaties for aid never reached the ears of the too heedless
butler, being drowned partly in the concave of the steel cap in which his
head was immersed, and partly in the martial tune of the Gallant Grames,
which Mr Gudyill whistled with all his power of lungs.
The upshot was, that the steed speedily took the matter into his own
hands, and having gambolled hither and thither to the great amusement of
all spectators, set off at full speed towards the huge family-coach
already described. Gibbie’s pike, escaping from its sling, had fallen to
a level direction across his hands, which, I grieve to say, were seeking
dishonourable safety in as strong a grasp of the mane as their muscles
could manage. His casque, too, had slipped completely over his face, so
that he saw as little in front as he did in rear. Indeed, if he could, it
would have availed him little in the circumstances; for his horse, as if
in league with the disaffected, ran full tilt towards the solemn equipage
of the Duke, which the projecting lance threatened to perforate from
window to window, at the risk of transfixing as many in its passage as
the celebrated thrust of Orlando, which, according to the Italian epic
poet, broached as many Moors as a Frenchman spits frogs.
On beholding the bent of this misdirected career, a panic shout of
mingled terror and wrath was set up by the whole equipage, insides and
outsides, at once, which had the happy effect of averting the threatened
misfortune. The capricious horse of Goose Gibbie was terrified by the
noise, and stumbling as he turned short round, kicked and plunged
violently as soon as he recovered. The jack-boots, the original cause of
the disaster, maintaining the reputation they had acquired when worn by
better cavaliers, answered every plunge by a fresh prick of the spurs,
and, by their ponderous weight, kept their place in the stirrups. Not so
Goose Gibbie, who was fairly spurned out of those wide and ponderous
greaves, and precipitated over the horse’s head, to the infinite
amusement of all the spectators. His lance and helmet had forsaken him in
his fall, and, for the completion of his disgrace, Lady Margaret
Bellenden, not perfectly aware that it was one of her warriors who was
furnishing so much entertainment, came up in time to see her diminutive
man-at-arms stripped of his lion’s hide,--of the buff-coat, that is, in
which he was muffled.
As she had not been made acquainted with this metamorphosis, and could
not even guess its cause, her surprise and resentment were extreme, nor
were they much modified by the excuses and explanations of her steward
and butler. She made a hasty retreat homeward, extremely indignant at the
shouts and laughter of the company, and much disposed to vent her
displeasure on the refractory agriculturist whose place Goose Gibbie had
so unhappily supplied. The greater part of the gentry now dispersed, the
whimsical misfortune which had befallen the gens d’armerie of
Tillietudlem furnishing them with huge entertainment on their road
homeward. The horsemen also, in little parties, as their road lay
together, diverged from the place of rendezvous, excepting such as,
having tried their dexterity at the popinjay, were, by ancient custom,
obliged to partake of a grace-cup with their captain before their
departure.