The Antiquary — Complete

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

By dint of charity from the town’s-people in aid of the load of provisions he had brought with him into durance, Edie Ochiltree had passed a day or two’s confinement without much impatience, regretting his want of freedom the less, as the weather proved broken and rainy.

“The prison,” he said, “wasna sae dooms bad a place as it was ca’d. Ye had aye a good roof ower your head to fend aff the weather, and, if the windows werena glazed, it was the mair airy and pleasant for the summer season. And there were folk enow to crack wi’, and he had bread eneugh to eat, and what need he fash himsell about the rest o’t?”

The courage of our philosophical mendicant began, however, to abate, when the sunbeams shone fair on the rusty bars of his grated dungeon, and a miserable linnet, whose cage some poor debtor had obtained permission to attach to the window, began to greet them with his whistle.

“Ye’re in better spirits than I am,” said Edie, addressing the bird, “for I can neither whistle nor sing for thinking o’ the bonny burnsides and green shaws that I should hae been dandering beside in weather like this. But hae—there’s some crumbs t’ye, an ye are sae merry; and troth ye hae some reason to sing an ye kent it, for your cage comes by nae faut o’ your ain, and I may thank mysell that I am closed up in this weary place.”

Ochiltree’s soliloquy was disturbed by a peace-officer, who came to summon him to attend the magistrate. So he set forth in awful procession between two poor creatures, neither of them so stout as he was himself, to be conducted into the presence of inquisitorial justice. The people, as the aged prisoner was led along by his decrepit guards, exclaimed to each other, “Eh! see sic a grey-haired man as that is, to have committed a highway robbery, wi’ ae fit in the grave!”—And the children congratulated the officers, objects of their alternate dread and sport, Puggie Orrock and Jock Ormston, on having a prisoner as old as themselves.

Thus marshalled forward, Edie was presented (by no means for the first time) before the worshipful Bailie Littlejohn, who, contrary to what his name expressed, was a tall portly magistrate, on whom corporation crusts had not been conferred in vain. He was a zealous loyalist of that zealous time, somewhat rigorous and peremptory in the execution of his duty, and a good deal inflated with the sense of his own power and importance;—otherwise an honest, well-meaning, and useful citizen.

“Bring him in! bring him in!” he exclaimed. “Upon my word these are awful and unnatural times! the very bedesmen and retainers of his Majesty are the first to break his laws. Here has been an old Blue-Gown committing robbery—I suppose the next will reward the royal charity which supplies him with his garb, pension, and begging license, by engaging in high-treason, or sedition at least—But bring him in.”

Edie made his obeisance, and then stood, as usual, firm and erect, with the side of his face turned a little upward, as if to catch every word which the magistrate might address to him. To the first general questions, which respected only his name and calling, the mendicant answered with readiness and accuracy; but when the magistrate, having caused his clerk to take down these particulars, began to inquire whereabout the mendicant was on the night when Dousterswivel met with his misfortune, Edie demurred to the motion. “Can ye tell me now, Bailie, you that understands the law, what gude will it do me to answer ony o’ your questions?”

“Good?—no good certainly, my friend, except that giving a true account of yourself, if you are innocent, may entitle me to set you at liberty.”

“But it seems mair reasonable to me now, that you, Bailie, or anybody that has anything to say against me, should prove my guilt, and no to be bidding me prove my innocence.”

“I don’t sit here,” answered the magistrate, “to dispute points of law with you. I ask you, if you choose to answer my question, whether you were at Ringan Aikwood, the forester’s, upon the day I have specified?”

“Really, sir, I dinna feel myself called on to remember,” replied the cautious bedesman.

“Or whether, in the course of that day or night,” continued the magistrate, “you saw Steven, or Steenie, Mucklebackit?—you knew him, I suppose?”

“O, brawlie did I ken Steenie, puir fallow,” replied the prisoner;—“but I canna condeshend on ony particular time I have seen him lately.”

“Were you at the ruins of St. Ruth any time in the course of that evening?”

“Bailie Littlejohn,” said the mendicant, “if it be your honour’s pleasure, we’ll cut a lang tale short, and I’ll just tell ye, I am no minded to answer ony o’ thae questions—I’m ower auld a traveller to let my tongue bring me into trouble.”

“Write down,” said the magistrate, “that he declines to answer all interrogatories, in respect that by telling the truth he might be brought to trouble.”

“Na, na,” said Ochiltree, “I’ll no hae that set down as ony part o’ my answer—but I just meant to say, that in a’ my memory and practice, I never saw ony gude come o’ answering idle questions.”

“Write down,” said the Bailie, “that, being acquainted with judicial interrogatories by long practice, and having sustained injury by answering questions put to him on such occasions, the declarant refuses.”

“Na, na, Bailie,” reiterated Edie, “ye are no to come in on me that gait neither.”

“Dictate the answer yourself then, friend,” said the magistrate, “and the clerk will take it down from your own mouth.”

“Ay, ay,” said Edie—“that’s what I ca’ fair play; I’se do that without loss o’ time. Sae, neighbour, ye may just write down, that Edie Ochiltree, the declarant, stands up for the liberty—na, I maunna say that neither—I am nae liberty-boy—I hae fought again’ them in the riots in Dublin—besides, I have ate the King’s bread mony a day. Stay, let me see. Ay—write that Edie Ochiltree, the Blue-Gown, stands up for the prerogative—(see that ye spell that word right—it’s a lang ane)—for the prerogative of the subjects of the land, and winna answer a single word that sall be asked at him this day, unless he sees a reason fort. Put down that, young man.”

“Then, Edie,” said the magistrate, “since you will give no information on the subject, I must send you back to prison till you shall be delivered in due course of law.”

“Aweel, sir, if it’s Heaven’s will and man’s will, nae doubt I maun submit,” replied the mendicant. “I hae nae great objection to the prison, only that a body canna win out o’t; and if it wad please you as weel, Bailie, I wad gie you my word to appear afore the Lords at the Circuit, or in ony other coart ye like, on ony day ye are pleased to appoint.”

“I rather think, my good friend,” answered Bailie Littlejohn, “your word might be a slender security where your neck may be in some danger. I am apt to think you would suffer the pledge to be forfeited. If you could give me sufficient security, indeed”—

At this moment the Antiquary and Captain M’Intyre entered the apartment.—“Good morning to you, gentlemen,” said the magistrate; “you find me toiling in my usual vocation—looking after the iniquities of the people—labouring for the respublica, Mr. Oldbuck—serving the King our master, Captain M’Intyre,—for I suppose you know I have taken up the sword?”

“It is one of the emblems of justice, doubtless,” answered the Antiquary;—“but I should have thought the scales would have suited you better, Bailie, especially as you have them ready in the warehouse.”

“Very good, Monkbarns—excellent! But I do not take the sword up as justice, but as a soldier—indeed I should rather say the musket and bayonet—there they stand at the elbow of my gouty chair, for I am scarce fit for drill yet—a slight touch of our old acquaintance podagra; I can keep my feet, however, while our sergeant puts me through the manual. I should like to know, Captain M’Intyre, if he follows the regulations correctly—he brings us but awkwardly to the present.” And he hobbled towards his weapon to illustrate his doubts and display his proficiency.

“I rejoice we have such zealous defenders, Bailie,” replied Mr. Oldbuck; “and I dare say Hector will gratify you by communicating his opinion on your progress in this new calling. Why, you rival the Hecate’ of the ancients, my good sir—a merchant on the Mart, a magistrate in the Townhouse, a soldier on the Links—quid non pro patria? But my business is with the justice; so let commerce and war go slumber.”

“Well, my good sir,” said the Bailie, “and what commands have you for me?”

“Why, here’s an old acquaintance of mine, called Edie Ochiltree, whom some of your myrmidons have mewed up in jail on account of an alleged assault on that fellow Dousterswivel, of whose accusation I do not believe one word.”

The magistrate here assumed a very grave countenance. “You ought to have been informed that he is accused of robbery, as well as assault—a very serious matter indeed; it is not often such criminals come under my cognizance.”

“And,” replied Oldbuck, “you are tenacious of the opportunity of making the very most of such as occur. But is this poor old man’s case really so very bad?”

“It is rather out of rule,” said the Bailie—“but as you are in the commission, Monkbarns, I have no hesitation to show you Dousterswivel’s declaration, and the rest of the precognition.” And he put the papers into the Antiquary’s hands, who assumed his spectacles, and sat down in a corner to peruse them.

The officers, in the meantime, had directions to remove their prisoner into another apartment; but before they could do so, M’Intyre took an opportunity to greet old Edie, and to slip a guinea into his hand.

“Lord bless your honour!” said the old man; “it’s a young soldier’s gift, and it should surely thrive wi’ an auld ane. I’se no refuse it, though it’s beyond my rules; for if they steek me up here, my friends are like eneugh to forget me—out o’sight out o’mind, is a true proverb; and it wadna be creditable for me, that am the king’s bedesman, and entitled to beg by word of mouth, to be fishing for bawbees out at the jail window wi’ the fit o’ a stocking, and a string.” As he made this observation he was conducted out of the apartment.

Mr. Dousterswivel’s declaration contained an exaggerated account of the violence he had sustained, and also of his loss.

“But what I should have liked to have asked him,” said Monkbarns, “would have been his purpose in frequenting the ruins of St. Ruth, so lonely a place, at such an hour, and with such a companion as Edie Ochiltree. There is no road lies that way, and I do not conceive a mere passion for the picturesque would carry the German thither in such a night of storm and wind. Depend upon it, he has been about some roguery, and in all probability hath been caught in a trap of his own setting—Nec lex justitior ulla.”

The magistrate allowed there was something mysterious in that circumstance, and apologized for not pressing Dousterswivel, as his declaration was voluntarily emitted. But for the support of the main charge, he showed the declaration of the Aikwoods concerning the state in which Dousterswivel was found, and establishing the important fact that the mendicant had left the barn in which he was quartered, and did not return to it again. Two people belonging to the Fairport undertaker, who had that night been employed in attending the funeral of Lady Glenallan, had also given declarations, that, being sent to pursue two suspicious persons who left the ruins of St. Ruth as the funeral approached, and who, it was supposed, might have been pillaging some of the ornaments prepared for the ceremony, they had lost and regained sight of them more than once, owing to the nature of the ground, which was unfavourable for riding, but had at length fairly lodged them both in Mucklebackit’s cottage. And one of the men added, that “he, the declarant, having dismounted from his horse, and gone close up to the window of the hut, he saw the old Blue-Gown and young Steenie Mucklebackit, with others, eating and drinking in the inside, and also observed the said Steenie Mucklebackit show a pocket-book to the others;—and declarant has no doubt that Ochiltree and Steenie Mucklebackit were the persons whom he and his comrade had pursued, as above mentioned.” And being interrogated why he did not enter the said cottage, declares, “he had no warrant so to do; and that as Mucklebackit and his family were understood to be rough-handed folk, he, the declarant, had no desire to meddle or make with their affairs, Causa scientiae patet. All which he declares to be truth,” etc.

“What do you say to that body of evidence against your friend?” said the magistrate, when he had observed the Antiquary had turned the last leaf.

“Why, were it in the case of any other person, I own I should say it looked, prima facie, a little ugly; but I cannot allow anybody to be in the wrong for beating Dousterswivel—Had I been an hour younger, or had but one single flash of your warlike genius, Bailie, I should have done it myself long ago. He is nebulo nebulonum, an impudent, fraudulent, mendacious quack, that has cost me a hundred pounds by his roguery, and my neighbour Sir Arthur, God knows how much. And besides, Bailie, I do not hold him to be a sound friend to Government.”

“Indeed?” said Bailie Littlejohn; “if I thought that, it would alter the question considerably.”

“Right—for, in beating him,” observed Oldbuck, “the bedesman must have shown his gratitude to the king by thumping his enemy; and in robbing him, he would only have plundered an Egyptian, whose wealth it is lawful to spoil. Now, suppose this interview in the ruins of St. Ruth had relation to politics,—and this story of hidden treasure, and so forth, was a bribe from the other side of the water for some great man, or the funds destined to maintain a seditious club?”

“My dear sir,” said the magistrate, catching at the idea, “you hit my very thoughts! How fortunate should I be if I could become the humble means of sifting such a matter to the bottom!—Don’t you think we had better call out the volunteers, and put them on duty?”

“Not just yet, while podagra deprives them of an essential member of their body. But will you let me examine Ochiltree?”

“Certainly; but you’ll make nothing of him. He gave me distinctly to understand he knew the danger of a judicial declaration on the part of an accused person, which, to say the truth, has hanged many an honester man than he is.”

“Well, but, Bailie,” continued Oldbuck, “you have no objection to let me try him?”

“None in the world, Monkbarns. I hear the sergeant below—I’ll rehearse the manual in the meanwhile. Baby, carry my gun and bayonet down to the room below—it makes less noise there when we ground arms.” And so exit the martial magistrate, with his maid behind him bearing his weapons.

“A good squire that wench for a gouty champion,” observed Oldbuck.— “Hector, my lad, hook on, hook on—Go with him, boy—keep him employed, man, for half-an-hour or so—butter him with some warlike terms—praise his dress and address.”

Captain M’Intyre, who, like many of his profession, looked down with infinite scorn on those citizen soldiers who had assumed arms without any professional title to bear them, rose with great reluctance, observing that he should not know what to say to Mr. Littlejohn; and that to see an old gouty shop-keeper attempting the exercise and duties of a private soldier, was really too ridiculous.

“It may be so, Hector,” said the Antiquary, who seldom agreed with any person in the immediate proposition which was laid down—“it may possibly be so in this and some other instances; but at present the country resembles the suitors in a small-debt court, where parties plead in person, for lack of cash to retain the professed heroes of the bar. I am sure in the one case we never regret the want of the acuteness and eloquence of the lawyers; and so, I hope, in the other, we may manage to make shift with our hearts and muskets, though we shall lack some of the discipline of you martinets.”

“I have no objection, I am sure, sir, that the whole world should fight if they please, if they will but allow me to be quiet,” said Hector, rising with dogged reluctance.

“Yes, you are a very quiet personage indeed,” said his uncle, “whose ardour for quarrelling cannot pass so much as a poor phoca sleeping upon the beach!”

But Hector, who saw which way the conversation was tending, and hated all allusions to the foil he had sustained from the fish, made his escape before the Antiquary concluded the sentence.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

The Antiquary, in order to avail himself of the permission given him to question the accused party, chose rather to go to the apartment in which Ochiltree was detained, than to make the examination appear formal by bringing him again into the magistrate’s office. He found the old man seated by a window which looked out on the sea; and as he gazed on that prospect, large tears found their way, as if unconsciously, to his eye, and from thence trickled down his cheeks and white beard. His features were, nevertheless, calm and composed, and his whole posture and mien indicated patience and resignation. Oldbuck had approached him without being observed, and roused him out of his musing by saying kindly, “I am sorry, Edie, to see you so much cast down about this matter.”

The mendicant started, dried his eyes very hastily with the sleeve of his gown, and endeavouring to recover his usual tone of indifference and jocularity, answered, but with a voice more tremulous than usual, “I might weel hae judged, Monkbarns, it was you, or the like o’ you, was coming in to disturb me—for it’s ae great advantage o’ prisons and courts o’ justice, that ye may greet your een out an ye like, and nane o’ the folk that’s concerned about them will ever ask you what it’s for.”

“Well, Edie,” replied Oldbuck, “I hope your present cause of distress is not so bad but it may be removed.”

“And I had hoped, Monkbarns,” answered the mendicant, in a tone of reproach, “that ye had ken’d me better than to think that this bit trifling trouble o’ my ain wad bring tears into my auld een, that hae seen far different kind o’ distress.—Na, na!—But here’s been the puir lass, Caxon’s daughter, seeking comfort, and has gotten unco little— there’s been nae speerings o’ Taffril’s gunbrig since the last gale; and folk report on the key that a king’s ship had struck on the Reef of Rattray, and a’ hands lost—God forbid! for as sure as you live, Monkbarns, the puir lad Lovel, that ye liked sae weel, must have perished.”

“God forbid indeed!” echoed the Antiquary, turning pale—“I would rather Monkbarns House were on fire. My poor dear friend and coadjutor! I will down to the quay instantly.”

“I’m sure yell learn naething mair than I hae tauld ye, sir,” said Ochiltree, “for the officer-folk here were very civil (that is, for the like o’ them), and lookit up ae their letters and authorities, and could throw nae light on’t either ae way or another.”

“It can’t be true! it shall not be true!” said the Antiquary, “And I won’t believe it if it were!—Taffril’s an excellent sea man, and Lovel (my poor Lovel!) has all the qualities of a safe and pleasant companion by land or by sea—one, Edie, whom, from the ingenuousness of his disposition, I would choose, did I ever go a sea-voyage (which I never do, unless across the ferry), fragilem mecum solvere phaselum, to be the companion of my risk, as one against whom the elements could nourish no vengeance. No, Edie, it is not, and cannot be true—it is a fiction of the idle jade Rumour, whom I wish hanged with her trumpet about her neck, that serves only with its screech-owl tones to fright honest folks out of their senses.—Let me know how you got into this scrape of your own.”

“Are ye axing me as a magistrate, Monkbarns, or is it just for your ain satisfaction!”

“For my own satisfaction solely,” replied the Antiquary.

“Put up your pocket-book and your keelyvine pen then, for I downa speak out an ye hae writing materials in your hands—they’re a scaur to unlearned folk like me—Od, ane o’ the clerks in the neist room will clink down, in black and white, as muckle as wad hang a man, before ane kens what he’s saying.”

Monkbarns complied with the old man’s humour, and put up his memorandum-book.

Edie then went with great frankness through the part of the story already known to the reader, informing the Antiquary of the scene which he had witnessed between Dousterswivel and his patron in the ruins of St. Ruth, and frankly confessing that he could not resist the opportunity of decoying the adept once more to visit the tomb of Misticot, with the purpose of taking a comic revenge upon him for his quackery. He had easily persuaded Steenie, who was a bold thoughtless young fellow, to engage in the frolic along with him, and the jest had been inadvertently carried a great deal farther than was designed. Concerning the pocket-book, he explained that he had expressed his surprise and sorrow as soon as he found it had been inadvertently brought off: and that publicly, before all the inmates of the cottage, Steenie had undertaken to return it the next day, and had only been prevented by his untimely fate.

The Antiquary pondered a moment, and then said, “Your account seems very probable, Edie, and I believe it from what I know of the parties. But I think it likely that you know a great deal more than you have thought it proper to tell me, about this matter of the treasure trove—I suspect you have acted the part of the Lar Familiaris in Plautus—a sort of Brownie, Edie, to speak to your comprehension, who watched over hidden treasures.—I do bethink me you were the first person we met when Sir Arthur made his successful attack upon Misticot’s grave, and also that when the labourers began to flag, you, Edie, were again the first to leap into the trench, and to make the discovery of the treasure. Now you must explain all this to me, unless you would have me use you as ill as Euclio does Staphyla in the Aulularia.”

“Lordsake, sir,” replied the mendicant, “what do I ken about your Howlowlaria?—it’s mair like a dog’s language than a man’s.”

“You knew, however, of the box of treasure being there?” continued Oldbuck.

“Dear sir,” answered Edie, assuming a countenance of great simplicity, “what likelihood is there o’that? d’ye think sae puir an auld creature as me wad hae kend o’ sic a like thing without getting some gude out o’t?—and ye wot weel I sought nane and gat nane, like Michael Scott’s man. What concern could I hae wi’t?”

“That’s just what I want you to explain to me,” said Oldbuck; “for I am positive you knew it was there.”

“Your honour’s a positive man, Monkbarns—and, for a positive man, I must needs allow ye’re often in the right.”

“You allow, then, Edie, that my belief is well founded?”

Edie nodded acquiescence.

“Then please to explain to me the whole affair from beginning to end,” said the Antiquary.

“If it were a secret o’ mine, Monkbarns,” replied the beggar, “ye suldna ask twice; for I hae aye said ahint your back, that for a’ the nonsense maggots that ye whiles take into your head, ye are the maist wise and discreet o’ a’ our country gentles. But I’se een be open-hearted wi’ you, and tell you that this is a friend’s secret, and that they suld draw me wi’ wild horses, or saw me asunder, as they did the children of Ammon, sooner than I would speak a word mair about the matter, excepting this, that there was nae ill intended, but muckle gude, and that the purpose was to serve them that are worth twenty hundred o’ me. But there’s nae law, I trow, that makes it a sin to ken where ither folles siller is, if we didna pit hand til’t oursell?”

Oldbuck walked once or twice up and down the room in profound thought, endeavouring to find some plausible reason for transactions of a nature so mysterious—but his ingenuity was totally at fault. He then placed himself before the prisoner.

“This story of yours, friend Edie, is an absolute enigma, and would require a second OEdipus to solve it—who OEdipus was, I will tell you some other time if you remind me—However, whether it be owing to the wisdom or to the maggots with which you compliment me, I am strongly disposed to believe that you have spoken the truth, the rather that you have not made any of those obtestations of the superior powers, which I observe you and your comrades always make use of when you mean to deceive folks.” (Here Edie could not suppress a smile.) “If, therefore, you will answer me one question, I will endeavour to procure your liberation.”

“If ye’ll let me hear the question,” said Edie, with the caution of a canny Scotchman, “I’ll tell you whether I’ll answer it or no.”

“It is simply,” said the Antiquary, “Did Dousterswivel know anything about the concealment of the chest of bullion?”

“He, the ill-fa’ard loon!” answered Edie, with much frankness of manner— “there wad hae been little speerings o’t had Dustansnivel ken’d it was there—it wad hae been butter in the black dog’s hause.”

“I thought as much,” said Oldbuck. “Well, Edie, if I procure your freedom, you must keep your day, and appear to clear me of the bail-bond, for these are not times for prudent men to incur forfeitures, unless you can point out another Aulam auri plenam quadrilibrem—another Search, No. I.”

“Ah!” said the beggar, shaking his head, “I doubt the bird’s flown that laid thae golden eggs—for I winna ca’ her goose, though that’s the gait it stands in the story-buick—But I’ll keep my day, Monkbarns; ye’se no loss a penny by me—And troth I wad fain be out again, now the weather’s fine—and then I hae the best chance o’ hearing the first news o’ my friends.”

“Well, Edie, as the bouncing and thumping beneath has somewhat ceased, I presume Bailie Littlejohn has dismissed his military preceptor, and has retired from the labours of Mars to those of Themis—I will have some conversation with him—But I cannot and will not believe any of those wretched news you were telling me.”

“God send your honour may be right!” said the mendicant, as Oldbuck left the room.

The Antiquary found the magistrate, exhausted with the fatigues of the drill, reposing in his gouty chair, humming the air, “How merrily we live that soldiers be!” and between each bar comforting himself with a spoonful of mock-turtle soup. He ordered a similar refreshment for Oldbuck, who declined it, observing, that, not being a military man, he did not feel inclined to break his habit of keeping regular hours for meals—“Soldiers like you, Bailie, must snatch their food as they find means and time. But I am sorry to hear ill news of young Taffril’s brig.”

“Ah, poor fellow!” said the bailie, “he was a credit to the town—much distinguished on the first of June.”

“But,” said Oldbuck, “I am shocked to hear you talk of him in the preterite tense.”

“Troth, I fear there may be too much reason for it, Monkbarns;—and yet let us hope the best. The accident is said to have happened in the Rattray reef of rocks, about twenty miles to the northward, near Dirtenalan Bay—I have sent to inquire about it—and your nephew run out himself as if he had been flying to get the Gazette of a victory.”

Here Hector entered, exclaiming as he came in, “I believe it’s all a damned lie—I can’t find the least authority for it, but general rumour.”

“And pray, Mr. Hector,” said his uncle, “if it had been true, whose fault would it have been that Lovel was on board?”

“Not mine, I am sure,” answered Hector; “it would have been only my misfortune.”

“Indeed!” said his uncle, “I should not have thought of that.”

“Why, sir, with all your inclination to find me in the wrong,” replied the young soldier, “I suppose you will own my intention was not to blame in this case. I did my best to hit Lovel, and if I had been successful, ‘tis clear my scrape would have been his, and his scrape would have been mine.”

“And whom or what do you intend to hit now, that you are lugging with you that leathern magazine there, marked Gunpowder?”

“I must be prepared for Lord Glenallan’s moors on the twelfth, sir,” said M’Intyre.

“Ah, Hector! thy great chasse, as the French call it, would take place best—

Could you meet but with a martial phoca, instead of an unwarlike heath-bird.”

“The devil take the seal, sir, or phoca, if you choose to call it so! It’s rather hard one can never hear the end of a little piece of folly like that.”

“Well, well,” said Oldbuck, “I am glad you have the grace to be ashamed of it—as I detest the whole race of Nimrods, I wish them all as well matched. Nay, never start off at a jest, man—I have done with the phoca—though, I dare say, the Bailie could tell us the value of seal-skins just now.”

“They are up,” said the magistrate, “they are well up—the fishing has been unsuccessful lately.”

“We can bear witness to that,” said the tormenting Antiquary, who was delighted with the hank this incident had given him over the young sportsman: One word more, Hector, and

Aha, my boy! Come, never mind it; I must go to business.—Bailie, a word with you: you must take bail—moderate bail, you understand—for old Ochiltree’s appearance.”

“You don’t consider what you ask,” said the Bailie; “the offence is assault and robbery.”

“Hush! not a word about it,” said the Antiquary. “I gave you a hint before—I will possess you more fully hereafter—I promise you, there is a secret.”

“But, Mr. Oldbuck, if the state is concerned, I, who do the whole drudgery business here, really have a title to be consulted, and until I am”—

“Hush! hush!” said the Antiquary, winking and putting his finger to his nose,—“you shall have the full credit, the entire management, whenever matters are ripe. But this is an obstinate old fellow, who will not hear of two people being as yet let into his mystery, and he has not fully acquainted me with the clew to Dousterswivel’s devices.”

“Aha! so we must tip that fellow the alien act, I suppose?”

“To say truth, I wish you would.”

“Say no more,” said the magistrate; “it shall forthwith be done—he shall be removed tanquam suspect—I think that’s one of your own phrases, Monkbarns?”

“It is classical, Bailie—you improve.”

“Why, public business has of late pressed upon me so much, that I have been obliged to take my foreman into partnership. I have had two several correspondences with the Under Secretary of State—one on the proposed tax on Riga hemp-seed, and the other on putting down political societies. So you might as well communicate to me as much as you know of this old fellow’s discovery of a plot against the state.”

“I will, instantly, when I am master of it,” replied Oldbuck—-“I hate the trouble of managing such matters myself. Remember, however, I did not say decidedly a plot against the state I only say I hope to discover, by this man’s means, a foul plot.”

“If it be a plot at all, there must be treason in it, or sedition at least,” said the Bailie—“Will you bail him for four hundred merks?”

“Four hundred merks for an old Blue-Gown! Think on the act 1701 regulating bail-bonds!—Strike off a cipher from the sum—I am content to bail him for forty merks.”

“Well, Mr. Oldbuck, everybody in Fairport is always willing to oblige you—and besides, I know that you are a prudent man, and one that would be as unwilling to lose forty, as four hundred merks. So I will accept your bail, meo periculo—what say you to that law phrase again? I had it from a learned counsel. I will vouch it, my lord, he said, meo periculo.”

“And I will vouch for Edie Ochiltree, meo periculo, in like manner,” said Oldbuck. “So let your clerk draw out the bail-bond, and I will sign it.”

When this ceremony had been performed, the Antiquary communicated to Edie the joyful tidings that he was once more at liberty, and directed him to make the best of his way to Monkbarns House, to which he himself returned with his nephew, after having perfected their good work.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

“I wish to Heaven, Hector,” said the Antiquary, next morning after breakfast, “you would spare our nerves, and not be keeping snapping that arquebuss of yours.”

“Well, sir, I’m sure I’m sorry to disturb you,” said his nephew, still handling his fowling-piece;—“but it’s a capital gun—it’s a Joe Manton, that cost forty guineas.”

“A fool and his money are soon parted, nephew—there is a Joe Miller for your Joe Manton,” answered the Antiquary; “I am glad you have so many guineas to throw away.”

“Every one has their fancy, uncle,—you are fond of books.”

“Ay, Hector,” said the uncle, “and if my collection were yours, you would make it fly to the gunsmith, the horse-market, the dog-breaker,— Coemptos undique nobiles libros—mutare loricis Iberis.”

“I could not use your books, my dear uncle,” said the young soldier, “that’s true; and you will do well to provide for their being in better hands. But don’t let the faults of my head fall on my heart—I would not part with a Cordery that belonged to an old friend, to get a set of horses like Lord Glenallan’s.”

“I don’t think you would, lad—I don’t think you would,” said his softening relative. “I love to tease you a little sometimes; it keeps up the spirit of discipline and habit of subordination—You will pass your time happily here having me to command you, instead of Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,’ as Milton has it; and instead of the French,” he continued, relapsing into his ironical humour, “you have the Gens humida ponti—for, as Virgil says,

which might be rendered,

Nay, if you grow angry, I have done. Besides, I see old Edie in the court-yard, with whom I have business. Good-bye, Hector—Do you remember how she splashed into the sea like her master Proteus, et se jactu dedit aequor in altum?”

M’Intyre,—waiting, however, till the door was shut,—then gave way to the natural impatience of his temper.

“My uncle is the best man in the world, and in his way the kindest; but rather than hear any more about that cursed phoca, as he is pleased to call it, I would exchange for the West Indies, and never see his face again.”

Miss M’Intyre, gratefully attached to her uncle, and passionately fond of her brother, was, on such occasions, the usual envoy of reconciliation. She hastened to meet her uncle on his return, before he entered the parlour.

“Well, now, Miss Womankind, what is the meaning of that imploring countenance?—has Juno done any more mischief?”

“No, uncle; but Juno’s master is in such fear of your joking him about the seal—I assure you, he feels it much more than you would wish;—it’s very silly of him, to be sure; but then you can turn everybody so sharply into ridicule”—

“Well, my dear,” answered Oldbuck, propitiated by the compliment, “I will rein in my satire, and, if possible, speak no more of the phoca—I will not even speak of sealing a letter, but say umph, and give a nod to you when I want the wax-light—I am not monitoribus asper, but, Heaven knows, the most mild, quiet, and easy of human beings, whom sister, niece, and nephew, guide just as best pleases them.”

With this little panegyric on his own docility, Mr. Oldbuck entered the parlour, and proposed to his nephew a walk to the Mussel-crag. “I have some questions to ask of a woman at Mucklebackit’s cottage,” he observed, “and I would willingly have a sensible witness with me—so, for fault of a better, Hector, I must be contented with you.”

“There is old Edie, sir, or Caxon—could not they do better than me?” answered M’Intyre, feeling somewhat alarmed at the prospect of a long tete-a-tete with his uncle.

“Upon my word, young man, you turn me over to pretty companions, and I am quite sensible of your politeness,” replied Mr. Oldbuck. “No, sir, I intend the old Blue-Gown shall go with me—not as a competent witness, for he is, at present, as our friend Bailie Littlejohn says (blessings on his learning!) tanquam suspectus, and you are suspicione major, as our law has it.”

“I wish I were a major, sir,” said Hector, catching only the last, and, to a soldier’s ear, the most impressive word in the sentence,—“but, without money or interest, there is little chance of getting the step.”

“Well, well, most doughty son of Priam,” said the Antiquary, “be ruled by your friends, and there’s no saying what may happen—Come away with me, and you shall see what may be useful to you should you ever sit upon a court-martial, sir.”

“I have been on many a regimental court-martial, sir,” answered Captain M’Intyre. “But here’s a new cane for you.”

“Much obliged, much obliged.”

“I bought it from our drum-major,” added M’Intyre, “who came into our regiment from the Bengal army when it came down the Red Sea. It was cut on the banks of the Indus, I assure you.”

“Upon my word, ‘tis a fine ratan, and well replaces that which the ph— Bah! what was I going to say?”

The party, consisting of the Antiquary, his nephew, and the old beggar, now took the sands towards Mussel-crag—the former in the very highest mood of communicating information, and the others, under a sense of former obligation, and some hope for future favours, decently attentive to receive it. The uncle and nephew walked together, the mendicant about a step and a half behind, just near enough for his patron to speak to him by a slight inclination of his neck, and without the trouble of turning round. (Petrie, in his Essay on Good-breeding, dedicated to the magistrates of Edinburgh, recommends, upon his own experience, as tutor in a family of distinction, this attitude to all led captains, tutors, dependants, and bottle-holders of every description. ) Thus escorted, the Antiquary moved along full of his learning, like a lordly man of war, and every now and then yawing to starboard and larboard to discharge a broadside upon his followers.

“And so it is your opinion,” said he to the mendicant, “that this windfall—this arca auri, as Plautus has it, will not greatly avail Sir Arthur in his necessities?”

“Unless he could find ten times as much,” said the beggar, “and that I am sair doubtful of;—I heard Puggie Orrock, and the tother thief of a sheriff-officer, or messenger, speaking about it—and things are ill aff when the like o’ them can speak crousely about ony gentleman’s affairs. I doubt Sir Arthur will be in stane wa’s for debt, unless there’s swift help and certain.”

“You speak like a fool,” said the Antiquary.—“Nephew, it is a remarkable thing, that in this happy country no man can be legally imprisoned for debt.”

“Indeed, sir?” said M’Intyre; “I never knew that before—that part of our law would suit some of our mess well.”

“And if they arena confined for debt,” said Ochiltree, “what is’t that tempts sae mony puir creatures to bide in the tolbooth o’ Fairport yonder?—they a’ say they were put there by their creditors—Od! they maun like it better than I do, if they’re there o’ free will.”

“A very natural observation, Edie, and many of your betters would make the same; but it is founded entirely upon ignorance of the feudal system. Hector, be so good as to attend, unless you are looking out for another— Ahem!” (Hector compelled himself to give attention at this hint. ) “And you, Edie, it may be useful to you reram cognoscere causas. The nature and origin of warrant for caption is a thing haud alienum a Scaevolae studiis.—You must know then, once more, that nobody can be arrested in Scotland for debt.”

“I haena muckle concern wi’ that, Monkbarns,” said the old man, “for naebody wad trust a bodle to a gaberlunzie.”

“I pr’ythee, peace, man—As a compulsitor, therefore, of payment, that being a thing to which no debtor is naturally inclined, as I have too much reason to warrant from the experience I have had with my own,—we had first the letters of four forms, a sort of gentle invitation, by which our sovereign lord the king, interesting himself, as a monarch should, in the regulation of his subjects’ private affairs, at first by mild exhortation, and afterwards by letters of more strict enjoinment and more hard compulsion—What do you see extraordinary about that bird, Hector?—it’s but a seamaw.”

“It’s a pictarnie, sir,” said Edie.

“Well, what an if it were—what does that signify at present?—But I see you’re impatient; so I will waive the letters of four forms, and come to the modern process of diligence.—You suppose, now, a man’s committed to prison because he cannot pay his debt? Quite otherwise: the truth is, the king is so good as to interfere at the request of the creditor, and to send the debtor his royal command to do him justice within a certain time—fifteen days, or six, as the case may be. Well, the man resists and disobeys: what follows? Why, that he be lawfully and rightfully declared a rebel to our gracious sovereign, whose command he has disobeyed, and that by three blasts of a horn at the market-place of Edinburgh, the metropolis of Scotland. And he is then legally imprisoned, not on account of any civil debt, but because of his ungrateful contempt of the royal mandate. What say you to that, Hector?—there’s something you never knew before.” *

* The doctrine of Monkbarns on the origin of imprisonment for civil debt in Scotland, may appear somewhat whimsical, but was referred to, and admitted to be correct, by the Bench of the Supreme Scottish Court, on 5th December 1828, in the case of Thom v. Black. In fact, the Scottish law is in this particular more jealous of the personal liberty of the subject than any other code in Europe.

“No, uncle; but, I own, if I wanted money to pay my debts, I would rather thank the king to send me some, than to declare me a rebel for not doing what I could not do.”

“Your education has not led you to consider these things,” replied his uncle; “you are incapable of estimating the elegance of the legal fiction, and the manner in which it reconciles that duress, which, for the protection of commerce, it has been found necessary to extend towards refractory debtors, with the most scrupulous attention to the liberty of the subject.”

“I don’t know, sir,” answered the unenlightened Hector; “but if a man must pay his debt or go to jail, it signifies but little whether he goes as a debtor or a rebel, I should think. But you say this command of the king’s gives a license of so many days—Now, egad, were I in the scrape, I would beat a march and leave the king and the creditor to settle it among themselves before they came to extremities.”

“So wad I,” said Edie; “I wad gie them leg-bail to a certainty.”

“True,” replied Monkbarns; “but those whom the law suspects of being unwilling to abide her formal visit, she proceeds with by means of a shorter and more unceremonious call, as dealing with persons on whom patience and favour would be utterly thrown away.”

“Ay,” said Ochiltree, “that will be what they ca’ the fugie-warrants—I hae some skeel in them. There’s Border-warrants too in the south country, unco rash uncanny things;—I was taen up on ane at Saint James’s Fair, and keepit in the auld kirk at Kelso the haill day and night; and a cauld goustie place it was, I’se assure ye.—But whatna wife’s this, wi’ her creel on her back? It’s puir Maggie hersell, I’m thinking.”

It was so. The poor woman’s sense of her loss, if not diminished, was become at least mitigated by the inevitable necessity of attending to the means of supporting her family; and her salutation to Oldbuck was made in an odd mixture between the usual language of solicitation with which she plied her customers, and the tone of lamentation for her recent calamity.

“How’s a’ wi’ ye the day, Monkbarns? I havena had the grace yet to come down to thank your honour for the credit ye did puir Steenie, wi’ laying his head in a rath grave, puir fallow. “—Here she whimpered and wiped her eyes with the corner of her blue apron—“But the fishing comes on no that ill, though the gudeman hasna had the heart to gang to sea himsell— Atweel I would fain tell him it wad do him gude to put hand to wark—but I’m maist fear’d to speak to him—and it’s an unco thing to hear ane o’ us speak that gate o’ a man—However, I hae some dainty caller haddies, and they sall be but three shillings the dozen, for I hae nae pith to drive a bargain ennow, and maun just tak what ony Christian body will gie, wi’ few words and nae flyting.”

“What shall we do, Hector?” said Oldbuck, pausing: “I got into disgrace with my womankind for making a bad bargain with her before. These maritime animals, Hector, are unlucky to our family.”

“Pooh, sir, what would you do?—give poor Maggie what she asks, or allow me to send a dish of fish up to Monkbarns.”

And he held out the money to her; but Maggie drew back her hand. “Na, na, Captain; ye’re ower young and ower free o’ your siller—ye should never tak a fish-wife’s first bode; and troth I think maybe a flyte wi’ the auld housekeeper at Monkbarns, or Miss Grizel, would do me some gude—And I want to see what that hellicate quean Jenny Ritherout’s doing—folk said she wasna weel—She’ll be vexing hersell about Steenie, the silly tawpie, as if he wad ever hae lookit ower his shouther at the like o’her!—Weel, Monkbarns, they’re braw caller haddies, and they’ll bid me unco little indeed at the house if ye want crappit-heads the day.”

And so on she paced with her burden,—grief, gratitude for the sympathy of her betters, and the habitual love of traffic and of gain, chasing each other through her thoughts.

“And now that we are before the door of their hut,” said Ochiltree, “I wad fain ken, Monkbarns, what has gar’d ye plague yoursell wi’ me a’ this length? I tell ye sincerely I hae nae pleasure in ganging in there. I downa bide to think how the young hae fa’en on a’ sides o’ me, and left me an useless auld stump wi’ hardly a green leaf on’t.”

“This old woman,” said Oldbuck, “sent you on a message to the Earl of Glenallan, did she not?”

“Ay!” said the surprised mendicant; “how ken ye that sae weel?”

“Lord Glenallan told me himself,” answered the Antiquary; “so there is no delation—no breach of trust on your part; and as he wishes me to take her evidence down on some important family matters, I chose to bring you with me, because in her situation, hovering between dotage and consciousness, it is possible that your voice and appearance may awaken trains of recollection which I should otherwise have no means of exciting. The human mind—what are you about, Hector?”

“I was only whistling for the dog, sir,” replied the Captain “she always roves too wide—I knew I should be troublesome to you.”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Oldbuck, resuming the subject of his disquisition—“the human mind is to be treated like a skein of ravelled silk, where you must cautiously secure one free end before you can make any progress in disentangling it.”

“I ken naething about that,” said the gaberlunzie; “but an my auld acquaintance be hersell, or anything like hersell, she may come to wind us a pirn. It’s fearsome baith to see and hear her when she wampishes about her arms, and gets to her English, and speaks as if she were a prent book, let a-be an auld fisher’s wife. But, indeed, she had a grand education, and was muckle taen out afore she married an unco bit beneath hersell. She’s aulder than me by half a score years—but I mind weel eneugh they made as muckle wark about her making a half-merk marriage wi’ Simon Mucklebackit, this Saunders’s father, as if she had been ane o’ the gentry. But she got into favour again, and then she lost it again, as I hae heard her son say, when he was a muckle chield; and then they got muckle siller, and left the Countess’s land, and settled here. But things never throve wi’ them. Howsomever, she’s a weel-educate woman, and an she win to her English, as I hae heard her do at an orra time, she may come to fickle us a’.”