“God bless your leddyship,” said poor Robert, “and his honour Sir Arthur, and the young laird, and the house of Knockwinnock in a’ its branches, far and near!–it’s been a kind and gude house to the puir this mony hundred years.”
“There”–said the Antiquary to Sir Arthur–“we won’t dispute–but there you see the gratitude of the poor people naturally turns to the civil virtues of your family. You don’t hear them talk of Redhand, or Hell-in-Harness. For me, I must say, _Odi accipitrem qui semper vivit in armis_–so let us eat and drink in peace, and be joyful, Sir Knight.”
A table was quickly covered in the parlour, where the party sat joyously down to some refreshment. At the request of Oldbuck, Edie Ochiltree was permitted to sit by the sideboard in a great leathern chair, which was placed in some measure behind a screen.
“I accede to this the more readily,” said Sir Arthur, “because I remember in my fathers days that chair was occupied by Ailshie Gourlay, who, for aught I know, was the last privileged fool, or jester, maintained by any family of distinction in Scotland.”
“Aweel, Sir Arthur,” replied the beggar, who never hesitated an instant between his friend and his jest, “mony a wise man sits in a fule’s seat, and mony a fule in a wise man’s, especially in families o’ distinction.”
Miss Wardour, fearing the effect of this speech (however worthy of Ailsbie Gourlay, or any other privileged jester) upon the nerves of her father, hastened to inquire whether ale and beef should not be distributed to the servants and people whom the news had assembled round the Castle.
“Surely, my love,” said her father; “when was it ever otherwise in our families when a siege had been raised?”
“Ay, a siege laid by Saunders Sweepclean the bailiff, and raised by Edie Ochiltree the gaberlunzie, _par nobile fratrum,_” said Oldbuck, “and well pitted against each other in respectability. But never mind, Sir Arthur– these are such sieges and such reliefs as our time of day admits of–and our escape is not less worth commemorating in a glass of this excellent wine–Upon my credit, it is Burgundy, I think.”
“Were there anything better in the cellar,” said Miss Wardour, “it would be all too little to regale you after your friendly exertions.”
“Say you so?” said the Antiquary: “why, then, a cup of thanks to you, my fair enemy, and soon may you be besieged as ladies love best to be, and sign terms of capitulation in the chapel of Saint Winnox!”
Miss Wardour blushed–Hector coloured, and then grew pale.
Sir Arthur answered, “My daughter is much obliged to you, Monkbarns; but unless you’ll accept of her yourself, I really do not know where a poor knight’s daughter is to seek for an alliance in these mercenary times.”
“Me, mean ye, Sir Arthur? No, not I! I will claim privilege of the duello, and, as being unable to encounter my fair enemy myself, I will appear by my champion–But of this matter hereafter. What do you find in the papers there, Hector, that you hold your head down over them as if your nose were bleeding?”
“Nothing particular, sir; but only that, as my arm is now almost quite well, I think I shall relieve you of my company in a day or two, and go to Edinburgh. I see Major Neville is arrived there. I should like to see him.”
“Major whom?” said his uncle.
“Major Neville, sir,” answered the young soldier.
“And who the devil is Major Neville?” demanded the Antiquary.
“O, Mr. Oldbuck,” said Sir Arthur, “you must remember his name frequently in the newspapers–a very distinguished young officer indeed. But I am happy to say that Mr. M’Intyre need not leave Monkbarns to see him, for my son writes that the Major is to come with him to Knockwinnock, and I need not say how happy I shall be to make the young gentlemen acquainted,–unless, indeed, they are known to each other already.”
“No, not personally,” answered Hector, “but I have had occasion to hear a good deal of him, and we have several mutual friends–your son being one of them. But I must go to Edinburgh; for I see my uncle is beginning to grow tired of me, and I am afraid”–
“That you will grow tired of him?” interrupted Oldbuck,–“I fear that’s past praying for. But you have forgotten that the ecstatic twelfth of August approaches, and that you are engaged to meet one of Lord Glenallan’s gamekeepers, God knows where, to persecute the peaceful feathered creation.”
“True, true, uncle–I had forgot that,” exclaimed the volatile Hector; “but you said something just now that put everything out of my head.”
“An it like your honours,” said old Edie, thrusting his white bead from behind the screen, where he had been plentifully regaling himself with ale and cold meat–“an it like your honours, I can tell ye something that will keep the Captain wi’ us amaist as weel as the pouting–Hear ye na the French are coming?”
“The French, you blockhead?” answered Oldbuck–“Bah!”
“I have not had time,” said Sir Arthur Wardour, “to look over my lieutenancy correspondence for the week–indeed, I generally make a rule to read it only on Wednesdays, except in pressing cases,–for I do everything by method; but from the glance I took of my letters, I observed some alarm was entertained.”
“Alarm?” said Edie, “troth there’s alarm, for the provost’s gar’d the beacon light on the Halket-head be sorted up (that suld hae been sorted half a year syne) in an unco hurry, and the council hae named nae less a man than auld Caxon himsell to watch the light. Some say it was out o’ compliment to Lieutenant Taffril,–for it’s neist to certain that he’ll marry Jenny Caxon,–some say it’s to please your honour and Monkbarns that wear wigs–and some say there’s some auld story about a periwig that ane o’ the bailies got and neer paid for–Onyway, there he is, sitting cockit up like a skart upon the tap o’ the craig, to skirl when foul weather comes.”
“On mine honour, a pretty warder,” said Monkbarns; “and what’s my wig to do all the while?”
“I asked Caxon that very question,” answered Ochiltree, “and he said he could look in ilka morning, and gie’t a touch afore he gaed to his bed, for there’s another man to watch in the day-time, and Caxon says he’ll friz your honour’s wig as weel sleeping as wauking.”
This news gave a different turn to the conversation, which ran upon national defence, and the duty of fighting for the land we live in, until it was time to part. The Antiquary and his nephew resumed their walk homeward, after parting from Knockwinnock with the warmest expressions of mutual regard, and an agreement to meet again as soon as possible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.
Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her: Shall I look pale because the maiden blooms Or sigh because she smiles, and smiles on others Not I, by Heaven!–I hold my peace too dear, To let it, like the plume upon her cap, Shake at each nod that her caprice shall dictate. Old Play.
“Hector,” said his uncle to Captain M’Intyre, in the course of their walk homeward, “I am sometimes inclined to suspect that, in one respect, you are a fool.”
“If you only think me so in _one_ respect, sir, I am sure you do me more grace than I expected or deserve.”
“I mean in one particular _par excellence,_” answered the Antiquary. “I have sometimes thought that you have cast your eyes upon Miss Wardour.”
“Well, sir,” said M’Intyre, with much composure.
“Well, sir,” echoed his uncle–“Deuce take the fellow! he answers me as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, that he, a captain in the array, and nothing at all besides, should marry the daughter of a baronet.”
“I presume to think, sir,” said the young Highlander, “there would be no degradation on Miss Wardour’s part in point of family.”
“O, Heaven forbid we should come on that topic!–No, no, equal both–both on the table-land of gentility, and qualified to look down on every _roturier_ in Scotland.”
“And in point of fortune we are pretty even, since neither of us have got any,” continued Hector. “There may be an error, but I cannot plead guilty to presumption.”
“But here lies the error, then, if you call it so,” replied his uncle: “she won’t have you, Hector.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“It is very sure, Hector; and to make it double sure, I must inform you that she likes another man. She misunderstood some words I once said to her, and I have since been able to guess at the interpretation she put on them. At the time I was unable to account for her hesitation and blushing; but, my poor Hector, I now understand them as a death-signal to your hopes and pretensions. So I advise you to beat your retreat and draw off your forces as well as you can, for the fort is too well garrisoned for you to storm it.”
“I have no occasion to beat any retreat, uncle,” said Hector, holding himself very upright, and marching with a sort of dogged and offended solemnity; “no man needs to retreat that has never advanced. There are women in Scotland besides Miss Wardour, of as good family”–
“And better taste,” said his uncle; “doubtless there are, Hector; and though I cannot say but that she is one of the most accomplished as well as sensible girls I have seen, yet I doubt, much of her merit would be cast away on you. A showy figure, now, with two cross feathers above her noddle–one green, one blue; who would wear a riding-habit of the regimental complexion, drive a gig one day, and the next review the regiment on the grey trotting pony which dragged that vehicle, _hoc erat in votis;_–these are the qualities that would subdue you, especially if she had a taste for natural history, and loved a specimen of a _phoca._”
“It’s a little hard, sir,” said Hector, “I must have that cursed seal thrown into my face on all occasions–but I care little about it–and I shall not break my heart for Miss Wardour. She is free to choose for herself, and I wish her all happiness.”
“Magnanimously resolved, thou prop of Troy! Why, Hector, I was afraid of a scene. Your sister told me you were desperately in love with Miss Wardour.”
“Sir,” answered the young man, “you would not have me desperately in love with a woman that does not care about me?”
“Well, nephew,” said the Antiquary, more seriously, “there is doubtless much sense in what you say; yet I would have given a great deal, some twenty or twenty-five years since, to have been able to think as you do.”
“Anybody, I suppose, may think as they please on such subjects,” said Hector.
“Not according to the old school,” said Oldbuck; “but, as I said before, the practice of the modern seems in this case the most prudential, though, I think, scarcely the most interesting. But tell me your ideas now on this prevailing subject of an invasion. The cry is still, They come.”
Hector, swallowing his mortification, which he was peculiarly anxious to conceal from his uncle’s satirical observation, readily entered into a conversation which was to turn the Antiquary’s thoughts from Miss Wardour and the seal. When they reached Monkbarns, the communicating to the ladies the events which had taken place at the castle, with the counter-information of how long dinner had waited before the womankind had ventured to eat it in the Antiquary’s absence, averted these delicate topics of discussion.
The next morning the Antiquary arose early, and, as Caxon had not yet made his appearance, he began mentally to feel the absence of the petty news and small talk of which the ex-peruquier was a faithful reporter, and which habit had made as necessary to the Antiquary as his occasional pinch of snuff, although he held, or affected to hold, both to be of the same intrinsic value. The feeling of vacuity peculiar to such a deprivation, was alleviated by the appearance of old Ochiltree, sauntering beside the clipped yew and holly hedges, with the air of a person quite at home. Indeed, so familiar had he been of late, that even Juno did not bark at him, but contented herself with watching him with a close and vigilant eye. Our Antiquary stepped out in his night-gown, and instantly received and returned his greeting.
“They are coming now, in good earnest, Monkbarns. I just cam frae Fairport to bring ye the news, and then I’ll step away back again. The Search has just come into the bay, and they say she’s been chased by a French fleet.
“The Search?” said Oldbuck, reflecting a moment. “Oho!”
“Ay, ay, Captain Taffril’s gun-brig, the Search.”
“What? any relation to _Search, No. II. ?_” said Oldbuck, catching at the light which the name of the vessel seemed to throw on the mysterious chest of treasure.
The mendicant, like a man detected in a frolic, put his bonnet before his face, yet could not help laughing heartily.–“The deil’s in you, Monkbarns, for garring odds and evens meet. Wha thought ye wad hae laid that and that thegither? Od, I am clean catch’d now.”
“I see it all,” said Oldbuck, “as plain as the legend on a medal of high preservation–the box in which the’ bullion was found belonged to the gun-brig, and the treasure to my phoenix?”–(Edie nodded assent),–“and was buried there that Sir Arthur might receive relief in his difficulties?”
“By me,” said Edie, “and twa o’ the brig’s men–but they didna ken its contents, and thought it some bit smuggling concern o’ the Captain’s. I watched day and night till I saw it in the right hand; and then, when that German deevil was glowering at the lid o’ the kist (they liked mutton weel that licked where the yowe lay), I think some Scottish deevil put it into my head to play him yon ither cantrip. Now, ye see, if I had said mair or less to Bailie Littlejohn, I behoved till hae come out wi’ a’ this story; and vexed would Mr. Lovel hae been to have it brought to light–sae I thought I would stand to onything rather than that.”
“I must say he has chosen his confidant well,” said Oldbuck, “though somewhat strangely.”
“I’ll say this for mysell, Monkbarns,” answered the mendicant, “that I am the fittest man in the haill country to trust wi’ siller, for I neither want it, nor wish for it, nor could use it if I had it. But the lad hadna muckle choice in the matter, for he thought he was leaving the country for ever (I trust he’s mistaen in that though); and the night was set in when we learned, by a strange chance, Sir Arthur’s sair distress, and Lovel was obliged to be on board as the day dawned. But five nights afterwards the brig stood into the bay, and I met the boat by appointment, and we buried the treasure where ye fand it.”
“This was a very romantic, foolish exploit,” said Oldbuck: “why not trust me, or any other friend?”
“The blood o’ your sister’s son,” replied Edie, “was on his hands, and him maybe dead outright–what time had he to take counsel?–or how could he ask it of you, by onybody?”
“You are right. But what if Dousterswivel had come before you?”
“There was little fear o’ his coming there without Sir Arthur: he had gotten a sair gliff the night afore, and never intended to look near the place again, unless he had been brought there sting and ling. He ken’d weel the first pose was o’ his ain hiding, and how could he expect a second? He just havered on about it to make the mair o’ Sir Arthur.”
“Then how,” said Oldbuck, “should Sir Arthur have come there unless the German had brought him?”
“Umph!” answered Edie drily. “I had a story about Misticot wad hae brought him forty miles, or you either. Besides, it was to be thought he would be for visiting the place he fand the first siller in–he ken’d na the secret o’ that job. In short, the siller being in this shape, Sir Arthur in utter difficulties, and Lovel determined he should never ken the hand that helped him,–for that was what he insisted maist upon,–we couldna think o’ a better way to fling the gear in his gate, though we simmered it and wintered it e’er sae lang. And if by ony queer mischance Doustercivil had got his claws on’t, I was instantly to hae informed you or the Sheriff o’ the haill story.”
“Well, notwithstanding all these wise precautions, I think your contrivance succeeded better than such a clumsy one deserved, Edie. But how the deuce came Lovel by such a mass of silver ingots?”
“That’s just what I canna tell ye–But they were put on board wi’ his things at Fairport, it’s like, and we stowed them into ane o’ the ammunition-boxes o’ the brig, baith for concealment and convenience of carriage.”
“Lord!” said Oldbuck, his recollection recurring to the earlier part of his acquaintance with Lovel; “and this young fellow, who was putting hundreds on so strange a hazard, I must be recommending a subscription to him, and paying his bill at the Ferry! I never will pay any person’s bill again, that’s certain.–And you kept up a constant correspondence with Lovel, I suppose?”
“I just gat ae bit scrape o’ a pen frae him, to say there wad, as yesterday fell, be a packet at Tannonburgh, wi’ letters o’ great consequence to the Knockwinnock folk; for they jaloused the opening of our letters at Fairport–And that’s a’s true; I hear Mrs. Mailsetter is to lose her office for looking after other folk’s business and neglecting her ain.”
“And what do you expect now, Edie, for being the adviser, and messenger, and guard, and confidential person in all these matters?”
“Deil haet do I expect–excepting that a’ the gentles will come to the gaberlunzie’s burial; and maybe ye’ll carry the head yoursell, as ye did puir Steenie Mucklebackit’s.–What trouble was’t to me? I was ganging about at ony rate–Oh, but I was blythe when I got out of Prison, though; for I thought, what if that weary letter should come when I am closed up here like an oyster, and a’ should gang wrang for want o’t? and whiles I thought I maun mak a clean breast and tell you a’ about it; but then I couldna weel do that without contravening Mr. Lovel’s positive orders; and I reckon he had to see somebody at Edinburgh afore he could do what he wussed to do for Sir Arthur and his family.”
“Well, and to your public news, Edie–So they are still coming are they?”
“Troth they say sae, sir; and there’s come down strict orders for the forces and volunteers to be alert; and there’s a clever young officer to come here forthwith, to look at our means o’ defence–I saw the Bailies lass cleaning his belts and white breeks–I gae her a hand, for ye maun think she wasna ower clever at it, and sae I gat a’ the news for my pains.”
“And what think you, as an old soldier?”
“Troth I kenna–an they come so mony as they speak o’, they’ll be odds against us. But there’s mony yauld chields amang thae volunteers; and I mauna say muckle about them that’s no weel and no very able, because I am something that gate mysell–But we’se do our best.”
“What! so your martial spirit is rising again, Edie?
Even in our ashes glow their wonted fires!
I would not have thought you, Edie, had so much to fight for?”
“_Me_ no muckle to fight for, sir?–isna there the country to fight for, and the burnsides that I gang daundering beside, and the hearths o’the gudewives that gie me my bit bread, and the bits o’ weans that come toddling to play wi’ me when I come about a landward town?–Deil!” he continued, grasping his pike-staff with great emphasis, “an I had as gude pith as I hae gude-will, and a gude cause, I should gie some o’ them a day’s kemping.”
“Bravo, bravo, Edie! The country’s in little ultimate danger, when the beggar’s as ready to fight for his dish as the laird for his land.”
Their further conversation reverted to the particulars of the night passed by the mendicant and Lovel in the ruins of St. Ruth; by the details of which the Antiquary was highly amused.
“I would have given a guinea,” he said, “to have seen the scoundrelly German under the agonies of those terrors, which it is part of his own quackery to inspire into others; and trembling alternately for the fury of his patron, and the apparition of some hobgoblin.”
“Troth,” said the beggar, “there was time for him to be cowed; for ye wad hae thought the very spirit of Hell-in-Harness had taken possession o’ the body o’ Sir Arthur. But what will come o’ the land-louper?”
“I have had a letter this morning, from which I understand he has acquitted you of the charge he brought against you, and offers to make such discoveries as will render the settlement of Sir Arthur’s affairs a more easy task than we apprehended–So writes the Sheriff; and adds, that he has given some private information of importance to Government, in consideration of which, I understand he will be sent back to play the knave in his own country.”
“And a’ the bonny engines, and wheels, and the coves, and sheughs, doun at Glenwithershins yonder, what’s to come o’ them?” said Edie.
“I hope the men, before they are dispersed, will make a bonfire of their gimcracks, as an army destroy their artillery when forced to raise a siege. And as for the holes, Edie, I abandon them as rat-traps, for the benefit of the next wise men who may choose to drop the substance to snatch at a shadow.”
“Hech, sirs! guide us a’! to burn the engines? that’s a great waste–Had ye na better try to get back part o’ your hundred pounds wi’ the sale o’ the materials?” he continued, with a tone of affected condolence.
“Not a farthing,” said the Antiquary, peevishly, taking a turn from him, and making a step or two away. Then returning, half-smiling at his own pettishness, he said, “Get thee into the house, Edie, and remember my counsel, never speak to me about a mine, nor to my nephew Hector about a _phoca,_ that is a sealgh, as you call it.”
“I maun be ganging my ways back to Fairport,” said the wanderer; “I want to see what they’re saying there about the invasion;–but I’ll mind what your honour says, no to speak to you about a sealgh, or to the Captain about the hundred pounds that you gied to Douster”–
“Confound thee!–I desired thee not to mention that to me.”
“Dear me!” said Edie, with affected surprise; “weel, I thought there was naething but what your honour could hae studden in the way o’ agreeable conversation, unless it was about the Praetorian yonder, or the bodle that the packman sauld to ye for an auld coin.”
“Pshaw! pshaw!” said the Antiquary, turning from him hastily, and retreating into the house.
The mendicant looked after him a moment, and with a chuckling laugh, such as that with which a magpie or parrot applauds a successful exploit of mischief, he resumed once more the road to Fairport. His habits had given him a sort of restlessness, much increased by the pleasure he took in gathering news; and in a short time he had regained the town which he left in the morning, for no reason that he knew himself, unless just to “hae a bit crack wi’ Monkbarns.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH.
Red glared the beacon on Pownell On Skiddaw there were three; The bugle horn on moor and fell Was heard continually.
James Hogg.
The watch who kept his watch on the hill, and looked towards Birnam, probably conceived himself dreaming when he first beheld the fated grove put itself into motion for its march to Dunsinane. Even so old Caxon, as perched in his hut, he qualified his thoughts upon the approaching marriage of his daughter, and the dignity of being father-in-law to Lieutenant Taffril, with an occasional peep towards the signal-post with which his own corresponded, was not a little surprised by observing a light in that direction. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, adjusting his observation by a cross-staff which had been placed so as to bear upon the point. And behold, the light increased, like a comet to the eye of the astronomer, “with fear of change perplexing nations.”
“The Lord preserve us!” said Caxon, “what’s to be done now? But there will be wiser heads than mine to look to that, sae I’se e’en fire the beacon.”
And he lighted the beacon accordingly, which threw up to the sky a long wavering train of light, startling the sea-fowl from their nests, and reflected far beneath by the reddening billows of the sea. The brother warders of Caxon being equally diligent, caught, and repeated his signal. The lights glanced on headlands and capes and inland hills, and the whole district was alarmed by the signal of invasion. *
* Note J. Alarms of Invasion.
Our Antiquary, his head wrapped warm in two double night-caps, was quietly enjoying his repose, when it was suddenly broken by the screams of his sister, his niece, and two maid-servants.
“What the devil is the matter?” said he, starting up in his bed– “womankind in my room at this hour of night!–are ye all mad?”
“The beacon, uncle!” said Miss M’Intyre.
“The French coming to murder us!” screamed Miss Griselda.
“The beacon! the beacon!–the French! the French!–murder! murder! and waur than murder!”–cried the two handmaidens, like the chorus of an opera.
“The French?” said Oldbuck, starting up–“get out of the room, womankind that you are, till I get my things on–And hark ye, bring me my sword.”
“Whilk o’ them, Monkbarns?” cried his sister, offering a Roman falchion of brass with the one hand, and with the other an Andrea Ferrara without a handle.
“The langest, the langest,” cried Jenny Rintherout, dragging in a two-handed sword of the twelfth century.
“Womankind,” said Oldbuck in great agitation, “be composed, and do not give way to vain terror–Are you sure they are come?”
“Sure, sure!” exclaimed Jenny–“ower sure!–a’ the sea fencibles, and the land fencibles, and the volunteers and yeomanry, are on fit, and driving to Fairport as hard as horse and man can gang–and auld Mucklebackit’s gane wi’ the lave–muckle gude he’ll do!–Hech, sirs!–_he’ll_ be missed the morn wha wad hae served king and country weel!”
“Give me,” said Oldbuck, “the sword which my father wore in the year forty-five–it hath no belt or baldrick–but we’ll make shift.”
So saying he thrust the weapon through the cover of his breeches pocket. At this moment Hector entered, who had been to a neighbouring height to ascertain whether the alarm was actual.
“Where are your arms, nephew?” exclaimed Oldbuck–“where is your double-barrelled gun, that was never out of your hand when there was no occasion for such vanities?”
“Pooh! pooh! sir,” said Hector, “who ever took a fowling-piece on action? I have got my uniform on, you see–I hope I shall be of more use if they will give me a command than I could be with ten double-barrels. And you, sir, must get to Fairport, to give directions for quartering and maintaining the men and horses, and preventing confusion.”
“You are right, Hector,–l believe I shall do as much with my head as my hand too. But here comes Sir Arthur Wardour, who, between ourselves, is not fit to accomplish much either one way or the other.”
Sir Arthur was probably of a different opinion; for, dressed in his lieutenancy uniform, he was also on the road to Fairport, and called in his way to take Mr. Oldbuck with him, having had his original opinion of his sagacity much confirmed by late events. And in spite of all the entreaties of the womankind that the Antiquary would stay to garrison Monkbarns, Mr. Oldbuck, with his nephew, instantly accepted Sir Arthur’s offer.
Those who have witnessed such a scene can alone conceive the state of bustle in Fairport. The windows were glancing with a hundred lights, which, appearing and disappearing rapidly, indicated the confusion within doors. The women of lower rank assembled and clamoured in the market-place. The yeomanry, pouring from their different glens, galloped through the streets, some individually, some in parties of five or six, as they had met on the road. The drums and fifes of the volunteers beating to arms, were blended with the voice of the officers, the sound of the bugles, and the tolling of the bells from the steeple. The ships in the harbour were lit up, and boats from the armed vessels added to the bustle, by landing men and guns destined to assist in the defence of the place. This part of the preparations was superintended by Taffril with much activity. Two or three light vessels had already slipped their cables and stood out to sea, in order to discover the supposed enemy.
Such was the scene of general confusion, when Sir Arthur Wardour, Oldbuck, and Hector, made their way with difficulty into the principal square, where the town-house is situated. It was lighted up, and the magistracy, with many of the neighbouring gentlemen, were assembled. And here, as upon other occasions of the like kind in Scotland, it was remarkable how the good sense and firmness of the people supplied almost all the deficiencies of inexperience.
The magistrates were beset by the quarter-masters of the different corps for billets for men and horses. “Let us,” said Bailie Littlejohn, “take the horses into our warehouses, and the men into our parlours–share our supper with the one, and our forage with the other. We have made ourselves wealthy under a free and paternal government, and now is the time to show we know its value.”
A loud and cheerful acquiescence was given by all present, and the substance of the wealthy, with the persons of those of all ranks, were unanimously devoted to the defence of the country.
Captain M’Intyre acted on this occasion as military adviser and aide-de-camp to the principal magistrate, and displayed a degree of presence of mind, and knowledge of his profession, totally unexpected by his uncle, who, recollecting his usual _insouciance_ and impetuosity, gazed at him with astonishment from time to time, as he remarked the calm and steady manner in which he explained the various measures of precaution that his experience suggested, and gave directions for executing them. He found the different corps in good order, considering the irregular materials of which they were composed, in great force of numbers and high confidence and spirits. And so much did military experience at that moment overbalance all other claims to consequence, that even old Edie, instead of being left, like Diogenes at Sinope, to roll his tub when all around were preparing for defence, had the duty assigned him of superintending the serving out of the ammunition, which he executed with much discretion.
Two things were still anxiously expected–the presence of the Glenallan volunteers, who, in consideration of the importance of that family, had been formed into a separate corps, and the arrival of the officer before announced, to whom the measures of defence on that coast had been committed by the commander-in-chief, and whose commission would entitle him to take upon himself the full disposal of the military force.
At length the bugles of the Glenallan yeomanry were heard, and the Earl himself, to the surprise of all who knew his habits and state of health, appeared at their head in uniform. They formed a very handsome and well-mounted squadron, formed entirely out of the Earl’s Lowland tenants, and were followed by a regiment of five hundred men, completely equipped in the Highland dress, whom he had brought down from the upland glens, with their pipes playing in the van. The clean and serviceable appearance of this band of feudal dependants called forth the admiration of Captain M’Intyre; but his uncle was still more struck by the manner in which, upon this crisis, the ancient military spirit of his house seemed to animate and invigorate the decayed frame of the Earl, their leader. He claimed, and obtained for himself and his followers, the post most likely to be that of danger, displayed great alacrity in making the necessary dispositions, and showed equal acuteness in discussing their propriety. Morning broke in upon the military councils of Fairport, while all concerned were still eagerly engaged in taking precautions for their defence.
At length a cry among the people announced, “There’s the brave Major Neville come at last, with another officer;” and their post-chaise and four drove into the square, amidst the huzzas of the volunteers and inhabitants. The magistrates, with their assessors of the lieutenancy, hastened to the door of their town-house to receive him; but what was the surprise of all present, but most especially that of the Antiquary, when they became aware, that the handsome uniform and military cap disclosed the person and features of the pacific Lovel! A warm embrace, and a hearty shake of the hand, were necessary to assure him that his eyes were doing him justice. Sir Arthur was no less surprised to recognise his son, Captain Wardour, in Lovel’s, or rather Major Neville’s company. The first words of the young officers were a positive assurance to all present, that the courage and zeal which they had displayed were entirely thrown away, unless in so far as they afforded an acceptable proof of their spirit and promptitude.
“The watchman at Halket-head,” said Major Neville, “as we discovered by an investigation which we made in our route hither, was most naturally misled by a bonfire which some idle people had made on the hill above Glenwithershins, just in the line of the beacon with which his corresponded.”
Oldbuck gave a conscious look to Sir Arthur, who returned it with one equally sheepish, and a shrug of the shoulders,
“It must have been the machinery which we condemned to the flames in our wrath,” said the Antiquary, plucking up heart, though not a little ashamed of having been the cause of so much disturbance–“The devil take Dousterswivel with all my heart!–I think he has bequeathed us a legacy of blunders and mischief, as if he had lighted some train of fireworks at his departure. I wonder what cracker will go off next among our shins. But yonder comes the prudent Caxon.–Hold up your head, you ass–your betters must bear the blame for you–And here, take this what-d’ye-call it”–(giving him his sword)–“I wonder what I would have said yesterday to any man that would have told me I was to stick such an appendage to my tail.”
Here he found his arm gently pressed by Lord Glenallan, who dragged him into a separate apartment. “For God’s sake, who is that young gentleman who is so strikingly like”–
“Like the unfortunate Eveline,” interrupted Oldbuck. “I felt my heart warm to him from the first, and your lordship has suggested the very cause.”
“But who–who is he?” continued Lord Glenallan, holding the Antiquary with a convulsive grasp.
“Formerly I would have called him Lovel, but now he turns out to be Major Neville.”
“Whom my brother brought up as his natural son–whom he made his heir– Gracious Heaven! the child of my Eveline!”
“Hold, my lord–hold!” said Oldbuck, “do not give too hasty way to such a presumption;–what probability is there?”
“Probability? none! There is certainty! absolute certainty! The agent I mentioned to you wrote me the whole story–I received it yesterday, not sooner. Bring him, for God’s sake, that a father’s eyes may bless him before he departs.”
“I will; but for your own sake and his, give him a few moments for preparation.”
And, determined to make still farther investigation before yielding his entire conviction to so strange a tale, he sought out Major Neville, and found him expediting the necessary measures for dispersing the force which had been assembled.
“Pray, Major Neville, leave this business for a moment to Captain Wardour and to Hector, with whom, I hope, you are thoroughly reconciled” (Neville laughed, and shook hands with Hector across the table), “and grant me a moment’s audience.”
“You have a claim on me, Mr. Oldbuck, were my business more urgent,” said Neville, “for having passed myself upon you under a false name, and rewarding your hospitality by injuring your nephew.”
“You served him as he deserved,” said Oldbuck–“though, by the way, he showed as much good sense as spirit to-day–Egad! if he would rub up his learning, and read Caesar and Polybus, and the _Stratagemata Polyaeni,_ I think he would rise in the army–and I will certainly lend him a lift.”
“He is heartily deserving of it,” said Neville; “and I am glad you excuse me, which you may do the more frankly, when you know that I am so unfortunate as to have no better right to the name of Neville, by which I have been generally distinguished, than to that of Lovel, under which you knew me.”
“Indeed! then, I trust, we shall find out one for you to which you shall have a firm and legal title.”
“Sir!–I trust you do not think the misfortune of my birth a fit subject”–
“By no means, young man,” answered the Antiquary, interrupting him;–“I believe I know more of your birth than you do yourself–and, to convince you of it, you were educated and known as a natural son of Geraldin Neville of Neville’s-Burgh, in Yorkshire, and I presume, as his destined heir?”
“Pardon me–no such views were held out to me. I was liberally educated, and pushed forward in the army by money and interest; but I believe my supposed father long entertained some ideas of marriage, though he never carried them into effect.”
“You say your _supposed_ father?–What leads you to suppose Mr. Geraldin Neville was not your real father?”
“I know, Mr. Oldbuck, that you would not ask these questions on a point of such delicacy for the gratification of idle curiosity. I will therefore tell you candidly, that last year, while we occupied a small town in French Flanders, I found in a convent, near which I was quartered, a woman who spoke remarkably good English–She was a Spaniard –her name Teresa D’Acunha. In the process of our acquaintance, she discovered who I was, and made herself known to me as the person who had charge of my infancy. She dropped more than one hint of rank to which I was entitled, and of injustice done to me, promising a more full disclosure in case of the death of a lady in Scotland, during whose lifetime she was determined to keep the secret. She also intimated that Mr. Geraldin Neville was not my father. We were attacked by the enemy, and driven from the town, which was pillaged with savage ferocity by the republicans. The religious orders were the particular objects of their hate and cruelty. The convent was burned, and several nuns perished– among others Teresa; and with her all chance of knowing the story of my birth: tragic by all accounts it must have been.”
“_Raro antecedentem scelestum,_ or, as I may here say, _scelestam,_” said Oldbuck, “_deseruit poena_–even Epicureans admitted that. And what did you do upon this?”
“I remonstrated with Mr. Neville by letter, and to no purpose. I then obtained leave of absence, and threw myself at his feet, conjuring him to complete the disclosure which Teresa had begun. He refused, and, on my importunity, indignantly upbraided me with the favours he had already conferred. I thought he abused the power of a benefactor, as he was compelled to admit he had no title to that of a father, and we parted in mutual displeasure. I renounced the name of Neville, and assumed that under which you knew me. It was at this time, when residing with a friend in the north of England who favoured my disguise, that I became acquainted with Miss Wardour, and was romantic enough to follow her to Scotland. My mind wavered on various plans of life, when I resolved to apply once more to Mr. Neville for an explanation of the mystery of my birth. It was long ere I received an answer; you were present when it was put into my hands. He informed me of his bad state of health, and conjured me, for my own sake, to inquire no farther into the nature of his connection with me, but to rest satisfied with his declaring it to be such and so intimate, that he designed to constitute me his heir. When I was preparing to leave Fairport to join him, a second express brought me word that he was no more. The possession of great wealth was unable to suppress the remorseful feelings with which I now regarded my conduct to my benefactor, and some hints in his letter appearing to intimate there was on my birth a deeper stain than that of ordinary illegitimacy, I remembered certain prejudices of Sir Arthur.”
“And you brooded over these melancholy ideas until you were ill, instead of coming to me for advice, and telling me the whole story?” said Oldbuck.
“Exactly; then came my quarrel with Captain M’Intyre, and my compelled departure from Fairport and its vicinity.”
“From love and from poetry–Miss Wardour and the Caledoniad?”
“Most true.”
“And since that time you have been occupied, I suppose, with plans for Sir Arthur’s relief?”
“Yes, sir; with the assistance of Captain Wardour at Edinburgh.”
“And Edie Ochiltree here–you see I know the whole story. But how came you by the treasure?”
“It was a quantity of plate which had belonged to my uncle, and was left in the custody of a person at Fairport. Some time before his death he had sent orders that it should be melted down. He perhaps did not wish me to see the Glenallan arms upon it.”
“Well, Major Neville–or let me say, Lovel, being the name in which I rather delight–you must, I believe, exchange both of your _alias’s_ for the style and title of the Honourable William Geraldin, commonly called Lord Geraldin.”
The Antiquary then went through the strange and melancholy circumstances concerning his mother’s death.
“I have no doubt,” he said, “that your uncle wished the report to be believed, that the child of this unhappy marriage was no more–perhaps he might himself have an eye to the inheritance of his brother–he was then a gay wild young man–But of all intentions against your person, however much the evil conscience of Elspeth might lead her to inspect him from the agitation in which he appeared, Teresa’s story and your own fully acquit him. And now, my dear sir, let me have the pleasure of introducing a son to a father.”
We will not attempt to describe such a meeting. The proofs on all sides were found to be complete, for Mr. Neville had left a distinct account of the whole transaction with his confidential steward in a sealed packet, which was not to be opened until the death of the old Countess; his motive for preserving secrecy so long appearing to have been an apprehension of the effect which the discovery, fraught with so much disgrace, must necessarily produce upon her haughty and violent temper.
In the evening of that day, the yeomanry and volunteers of Glenallan drank prosperity to their young master. In a month afterwards Lord Geraldin was married to Miss Wardour, the Antiquary making the lady a present of the wedding ring–a massy circle of antique chasing, bearing the motto of Aldobrand Oldenbuck, _Kunst macht gunst._
Old Edie, the most important man that ever wore a blue gown, bowls away easily from one friend’s house to another, and boasts that he never travels unless on a sunny day. Latterly, indeed, he has given some symptoms of becoming stationary, being frequently found in the corner of a snug cottage between Monkbarns and Knockwinnock, to which Caxon retreated upon his daughter’s marriage, in order to be in the neighbourhood of the three parochial wigs, which he continues to keep in repair, though only for amusement. Edie has been heard to say, “This is a gey bein place, and it’s a comfort to hae sic a corner to sit in in a bad day.” It is thought, as he grows stiffer in the joints, he will finally settle there.
The bounty of such wealthy patrons as Lord and Lady Geraldin flowed copiously upon Mrs. Hadoway and upon the Mucklebackits. By the former it was well employed, by the latter wasted. They continue, however, to receive it, but under the administration of Edie Ochiltree; and they do not accept it without grumbling at the channel through which it is conveyed.
Hector is rising rapidly in the army, and has been more than once mentioned in the Gazette, and rises proportionally high in his uncle’s favour; and what scarcely pleases the young soldier less, he has also shot two seals, and thus put an end to the Antiquary’s perpetual harping upon the story of the _phoca._People talk of a marriage between Miss M’Intyre and Captain Wardour; but this wants confirmation.
The Antiquary is a frequent visitor at Knockwinnock and Glenallan House, ostensibly for the sake of completing two essays, one on the mail-shirt of the Great Earl, and the other on the left-hand gauntlet of Hell-in-Harness. He regularly inquires whether Lord Geraldin has commenced the Caledoniad, and shakes his head at the answers he receives._En attendant,_ however, he has completed his notes, which, we believe, will be at the service of any one who chooses to make them public without risk or expense to THE ANTIQUARY.
NOTES TO THE ANTIQUARY.
Note A, p. #.–Mottoes.
[“It was in correcting the proof-sheets of this novel that Scott first took to equipping his chapters with mottoes of his own fabrication. On one occasion he happened to ask John Ballantyne, who was sitting by him, to hunt for a particular passage in Beaumont and Fletcher. John did as he was bid, but did not succeed in discovering the lines. ‘Hang it, Johnnie,’ cried Scott, ‘I believe I can make a motto sooner than you will find one.’ He did so accordingly; and from that hour, whenever memory failed to suggest an appropriate epigraph, he had recourse to the inexhaustible mines of “old play” or “old ballad,” to which we owe some of the most exquisite verses that ever flowed from his pen.”–_J. G. Lockhart._
See also the Introduction to “Chronicles of the Canongate,” vol. xix.]
Note B, p. #.–Sandy Gordon’s Itinerarium.
[This well-known work, the “Itinerarium Septentrionale, or a Journey thro’ most of the Counties of Scotland, and those in the North of England,” was published at London in 1727, folio. The author states, that in prosecuting his work he “made a pretty laborious progress through almost every part of Scotland for three years successively.” Gordon was a native of Aberdeenshire, and had previously spent some years in travelling abroad, probably as a tutor. He became Secretary to the London Society of Antiquaries in 1736. This office be resigned in 1741, and soon after went out to South Carolina with Governor Glen, where he obtained a considerable grant of land. On his death, about the year 1753, he is said to have left “a handsome estate to his family.”–See _Literary Anecdotes of Bowyer,_ by John Nichols, vol. v., p. 329, etc.]
Note C, p. #.–Praetorium.
It may be worth while to mention that the incident of the supposed Praetorium actually happened to an antiquary of great learning and acuteness, Sir John Clerk of Penicuik, one of the Barons of the Scottish Court of Exchequer, and a parliamentary commissioner for arrangement of the Union between England and Scotland. As many of his writings show, Sir John was much attached to the study of Scottish antiquities. He had a small property in Dumfriesshire, near the Roman station on the hill called Burrenswark. Here he received the distinguished English antiquarian Roger Gale, and of course conducted him to see this remarkable spot, where the lords of the world have left such decisive marks of their martial labours.
An aged shepherd whom they had used as a guide, or who had approached them from curiosity, listened with mouth agape to the dissertations on foss and vellum, ports _dextra, sinistra,_ and _decumana,_ which Sir John Clerk delivered _ex cathedra,_ and his learned visitor listened with the deference to the dignity of a connoisseur on his own ground. But when the cicerone proceeded to point out a small hillock near the centre of the enclosure as the Praetorium, Corydon’s patience could hold no longer, and, like Edie Ochiltree, he forgot all reverence, and broke in with nearly the same words–“Praetorium here, Praetorium there, I made the bourock mysell with a flaughter-spade.” The effect of this undeniable evidence on the two lettered sages may be left to the reader’s imagination.
The late excellent and venerable John Clerk of Eldin, the celebrated author of _Naval Tactics,_ used to tell this story with glee, and being a younger son of Sir John’s was perhaps present on the occasion.
Note D, p. #.–Mr. Rutherfurd’s Dream
The legend of Mrs. Grizel Oldbuck was partly taken from an extraordinary story which happened about seventy years since, in the South of Scotland, so peculiar in its circumstances that it merits being mentioned in this place. Mr. Rutherfurd of Bowland, a gentleman of landed property in the vale of Gala, was prosecuted for a very considerable sum, the accumulated arrears of teind (or tithe) for which he was said to be indebted to a noble family, the titulars (lay impropriators of the tithes). Mr. Rutherfurd was strongly impressed with the belief that his father had, by a form of process peculiar to the law of Scotland, purchased these lands from the titular, and therefore that the present prosecution was groundless. But, after an industrious search among his father’s papers, an investigation of the public records, and a careful inquiry among all persons who had transacted law business for his father, no evidence could be recovered to support his defence. The period was now near at hand when he conceived the loss of his lawsuit to be inevitable, and he had formed his determination to ride to Edinburgh next day, and make the best bargain he could in the way of compromise. He went to bed with this resolution and, with all the circumstances of the case floating upon his mind, had a dream to the following purpose:–His father, who had been many years dead, appeared to him, he thought, and asked him why he was disturbed in his mind. In dreams men are not surprised at such apparitions. Mr. Rutherfurd thought that he informed his father of the cause of his distress, adding that the payment of a considerable sum of money was the more unpleasant to him, because he had a strong consciousness that it was not due, though he was unable to recover any evidence in support of his belief, “You are right, my son,” replied the paternal shade; “I did acquire right to these teinds, for payment of which you are now prosecuted. The papers relating to the transaction are in the hands of Mr.–, a writer (or attorney), who is now retired from professional business, and resides at Inveresk, near Edinburgh. He was a person whom I employed on that occasion for a particular reason, but who never on any other occasion transacted business on my account. It is very possible,” pursued the vision, “that Mr.–may have forgotten a matter which is now of a very old date; but you may call it to his recollection by this token, that when I came to pay his account, there was difficulty in getting change for a Portugal piece of gold, and that we were forced to drink out the balance at a tavern.”
Mr. Rutherfurd awakened in the morning with all the words of the vision imprinted on his mind, and thought it worth while to ride across the country to Inveresk, instead of going straight to Edinburgh. When he came there he waited on the gentleman mentioned in the dream, a very old man; without saying anything of the vision, he inquired whether he remembered having conducted such a matter for his deceased father. The old gentleman could not at first bring the circumstance to his recollection, but on mention of the Portugal piece of gold, the whole returned upon his memory; he made an immediate search for the papers, and recovered them,– so that Mr. Rutherfurd carried to Edinburgh the documents necessary to gain the cause which he was on the verge of losing.
The author has often heard this story told by persons who had the best access to know the facts, who were not likely themselves to be deceived, and were certainly incapable of deception. He cannot therefore refuse to give it credit, however extraordinary the circumstances may appear. The circumstantial character of the information given in the dream, takes it out of the general class of impressions of the kind which are occasioned by the fortuitous coincidence of actual events with our sleeping thoughts. On the other hand, few will suppose that the laws of nature were suspended, and a special communication from the dead to the living permitted, for the purpose of saving Mr. Rutherfurd a certain number of hundred pounds. The author’s theory is, that the dream was only the recapitulation of information which Mr. Rutherfurd had really received from his father while in life, but which at first he merely recalled as a general impression that the claim was settled. It is not uncommon for persons to recover, during sleep, the thread of ideas which they have lost during their waking hours.
It may be added, that this remarkable circumstance was attended with bad consequences to Mr. Rutherfurd; whose health and spirits were afterwards impaired by the attention which he thought himself obliged to pay to the visions of the night.
Note E, p. #.–Nick-sticks.
A sort of tally generally used by bakers of the olden time in settling with their customers. Each family had its own nick-stick, and for each loaf as delivered a notch was made on the stick. Accounts in Exchequer, kept by the same kind of check, may have occasioned the Antiquary’s partiality. In Prior’s time the English bakers had the same sort of reckoning.
Have you not seen a baker’s maid, Between two equal panniers sway’d? Her tallies useless lie and idle, If placed exactly in the middle.
Note F, p. #.–Witchcraft.
A great deal of stuff to the same purpose with that placed in the mouth of the German adept, may be found in Reginald Scott’s _Discovery of Witchcraft,_ Third Edition, folio, London, 1665. The Appendix is entitled, “An Excellent Discourse of the Nature and Substances of Devils and Spirits, in two Books; the first by the aforesaid author (Reginald Scott), the Second now added in this Third Edition as succedaneous to the former, and conducing to the completing of the whole work.” This Second Book, though stated as succedaneous to the first, is, in fact, entirely at variance with it; for the work of Reginald Scott is a compilation of the absurd and superstitious ideas concerning witches so generally entertained at the time, and the pretended conclusion is a serious treatise on the various means of conjuring astral spirits.
[Scott’s _Discovery of Witchcraft_ was first published in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, London, 1584.]
Note G, p. #.–Gyneocracy.
In the fishing villages on the Firths of Forth and Tay, as well as elsewhere in Scotland, the government is gyneocracy, as described in the text. In the course of the late war, and during the alarm of invasion, a fleet of transports entered the Firth of Forth under the convoy of some ships of war, which would reply to no signals. A general alarm was excited, in consequence of which, all the fishers, who were enrolled as sea-fencibles, got on board the gun-boats which they were to man as occasion should require, and sailed to oppose the supposed enemy. The foreigners proved to be Russians, with whom we were then at peace. The county gentlemen of Mid-Lothian, pleased with the zeal displayed by the sea-fencibles at a critical moment, passed a vote for presenting the community of fishers with a silver punch-bowl, to be used on occasions of festivity. But the fisher-women, on hearing what was intended, put in their claim to have some separate share in the intended honorary reward. The men, they said, were their husbands; it was they who would have been sufferers if their husbands had been killed, and it was by their permission and injunctions that they embarked on board the gun-boats for the public service. They therefore claimed to share the reward in some manner which should distinguish the female patriotism which they had shown on the occasion. The gentlemen of the county willingly admitted the claim; and without diminishing the value of their compliment to the men, they made the females a present of a valuable broach, to fasten the plaid of the queen of the fisher-women for the time.
It may be further remarked, that these Nereids are punctilious among themselves, and observe different ranks according to the commodities they deal in. One experienced dame was heard to characterise a younger damsel as “a puir silly thing, who had no ambition, and would never,” she prophesied, “rise above the _mussel-line_ of business.”
Note H, p. #.–Battle of Harlaw.
The great battle of Harlaw, here and formerly referred to, might be said to determine whether the Gaelic or the Saxon race should be predominant in Scotland. Donald, Lord of the Isles, who had at that period the power of an independent sovereign, laid claim to the Earldom of Ross during the Regency of Robert, Duke of Albany. To enforce his supposed right, he ravaged the north with a large army of Highlanders and Islesmen. He was encountered at Harlaw, in the Garioch, by Alexander, Earl of Mar, at the head of the northern nobility and gentry of Saxon and Norman descent. The battle was bloody and indecisive; but the invader was obliged to retire in consequence of the loss he sustained, and afterwards was compelled to make submission to the Regent, and renounce his pretensions to Ross; so that all the advantages of the field were gained by the Saxons. The battle of Harlaw was fought 24th July 1411.
Note I, p. #.–Elspeth’s death.
The concluding circumstance of Elspeth’s death is taken from an incident said to have happened at the funeral of John, Duke of Roxburghe. All who were acquainted with that accomplished nobleman must remember that he was not more remarkable for creating and possessing a most curious and splendid library, than for his acquaintance with the literary treasures it contained. In arranging his books, fetching and replacing the volumes which he wanted, and carrying on all the necessary intercourse which a man of letters holds with his library, it was the Duke’s custom to employ, not a secretary or librarian, but a livery servant, called Archie, whom habit had made so perfectly acquainted with the library, that he knew every book, as a shepherd does the individuals of his flock, by what is called head-mark, and could bring his master whatever volume he wanted, and afford all the mechanical aid the Duke required in his literary researches. To secure the attendance of Archie, there was a bell hung in his room, which was used on no occasion except to call him individually to the Duke’s study.
His Grace died in Saint James’s Square, London, in the year 1804; the body was to be conveyed to Scotland, to lie in state at his mansion of Fleurs, and to be removed from thence to the family burial-place at Bowden.
At this time, Archie, who had been long attacked by a liver-complaint, was in the very last stage of that disease. Yet he prepared himself to accompany the body of the master whom he had so long and so faithfully waited upon. The medical persons assured him he could not survive the journey. It signified nothing, he said, whether he died in England or Scotland; he was resolved to assist in rendering the last honours to the kind master from whom he had been inseparable for so many years, even if he should expire in the attempt. The poor invalid was permitted to attend the Duke’s body to Scotland; but when they reached Fleurs he was totally exhausted, and obliged to keep his bed, in a sort of stupor which announced speedy dissolution. On the morning of the day fixed for removing the dead body of the Duke to the place of burial, the private bell by which he was wont to summon his attendant to his study was rung violently. This might easily happen in the confusion of such a scene, although the people of the neighbourhood prefer believing that the bell sounded of its own accord. Ring, however, it did; and Archie, roused by the well-known summons, rose up in his bed, and faltered, in broken accents, “Yes, my Lord Duke–yes–I will wait on your Grace instantly;” and with these words on his lips he is said to have fallen back and expired.
Note J, p. #.–Alarm of invasion.
The story of the false alarm at Fairport, and the consequences, are taken from a real incident. Those who witnessed the state of Britain, and of Scotland in particular, from the period that succeeded the war which commenced in 1803 to the battle of Trafalgar, must recollect those times with feelings which we can hardly hope to make the rising generation comprehend. Almost every individual was enrolled either in a military or civil capacity, for the purpose of contributing to resist the long-suspended threats of invasion, which were echoed from every quarter. Beacons were erected along the coast, and all through the country, to give the signal for every one to repair to the post where his peculiar duty called him, and men of every description fit to serve held themselves in readiness on the shortest summons. During this agitating period, and on the evening of the 2d February 1804, the person who kept watch on the commanding station of Home Castle, being deceived by some accidental fire in the county of Northumberland, which he took for the corresponding signal-light in that county with which his orders were to communicate, lighted up his own beacon. The signal was immediately repeated through all the valleys on the English Border. If the beacon at Saint Abb’s Head had been fired, the alarm would have run northward, and roused all Scotland. But the watch at this important point judiciously considered, that if there had been an actual or threatened descent on our eastern sea-coast, the alarm would have come along the coast and not from the interior of the country.
Through the Border counties the alarm spread with rapidity, and on no occasion when that country was the scene of perpetual and unceasing war, was the summons to arms more readily obeyed. In Berwickshire, Roxburghshire, and Selkirkshire, the volunteers and militia got under arms with a degree of rapidity and alacrity which, considering the distance individuals lived from each other, had something in it very surprising–they poured to the alarm-posts on the sea-coast in a state so well armed and so completely appointed, with baggage, provisions, etc., as was accounted by the best military judges to render them fit for instant and effectual service.
There were some particulars in the general alarm which are curious and interesting. The men of Liddesdale, the most remote point to the westward which the alarm reached, were so much afraid of being late in the field, that they put in requisition all the horses they could find, and when they had thus made a forced march out of their own country, they turned their borrowed steeds loose to find their way back through the hills, and they all got back safe to their own stables. Another remarkable circumstance was, the general cry of the inhabitants of the smaller towns for arms, that they might go along with their companions. The Selkirkshire Yeomanry made a remarkable march, for although some of the individuals lived at twenty and thirty miles’ distance from the place where they mustered, they were nevertheless embodied and in order in so short a period, that they were at Dalkeith, which was their alarm-post, about one o’clock on the day succeeding the first signal, with men and horses in good order, though the roads were in a bad state, and many of the troopers must have ridden forty or fifty miles without drawing bridle. Two members of the corps chanced to be absent from their homes, and in Edinburgh on private business. The lately married wife of one of these gentlemen, and the widowed mother of the other, sent the arms, uniforms, and chargers of the two troopers, that they might join their companions at Dalkeith. The author was very much struck by the answer made to him by the last-mentioned lady, when he paid her some compliment on the readiness which she showed in equipping her son with the means of meeting danger, when she might have left him a fair excuse for remaining absent. “Sir,” she replied, with the spirit of a Roman matron, “none can know better than you that my son is the only prop by which, since his father’s death, our family is supported. But I would rather see him dead on that hearth, than hear that he had been a horse’s length behind his companions in the defence of his king and country.” The author mentions what was immediately under his own eye, and within his own knowledge; but the spirit was universal, wherever the alarm reached, both in Scotland and England.
The account of the ready patriotism displayed by the country on this occasion, warmed the hearts of Scottishmen in every corner of the world. It reached the ears of the well-known Dr. Leyden, whose enthusiastic love of Scotland, and of his own district of Teviotdale, formed a distinguished part of his character. The account which was read to him when on a sick-bed, stated (very truly) that the different corps, on arriving at their alarm-posts, announced themselves by their music playing the tunes peculiar to their own districts, many of which have been gathering-signals for centuries. It was particularly remembered, that the Liddesdale men, before mentioned, entered Kelso playing the lively tune–
O wha dare meddle wi’ me, And wha dare meddle wi’ me!
My name it is little Jock Elliot, And wha dare meddle wi’ me!
The patient was so delighted with this display of ancient Border spirit, that he sprung up in his bed, and began to sing the old song with such vehemence of action and voice, that his attendants, ignorant of the cause of excitation, concluded that the fever had taken possession of his brain; and it was only the entry of another Borderer, Sir John Malcolm, and the explanation which he was well qualified to give, that prevented them from resorting to means of medical coercion.
The circumstances of this false alarm and its consequences may be now held of too little importance even for a note upon a work of fiction; but, at the period when it happened, it was hailed by the country as a propitious omen, that the national force, to which much must naturally have been trusted, had the spirit to look in the face the danger which they had taken arms to repel; and every one was convinced, that on whichever side God might bestow the victory, the invaders would meet with the most determined opposition from the children of the soil.