"Will I not, man?--why, I will write the critical and historical notes on each canto, and draw out the plan of the story myself. I pretend to some poetical genius, Mr. Lovel, only I was never able to write verses."

"It is a pity, sir, that you should have failed in a qualification somewhat essential to the art."

"Essential?--not a whit--it is the mere mechanical department. A man may be a poet without measuring spondees and dactyls like the ancients, or clashing the ends of lines into rhyme like the moderns, as one may be an architect though unable to labour like a stone-mason--Dost think Palladio or Vitruvius ever carried a hod?"

"In that case, there should be two authors to each poem--one to think and plan, another to execute."

"Why, it would not be amiss; at any rate, we'll make the experiment;--not that I would wish to give my name to the public--a.s.sistance from a learned friend might be acknowledged in the preface after what flourish your nature will--I am a total stranger to authorial vanity."

Lovel was much entertained by a declaration not very consistent with the eagerness wherewith his friend seemed to catch at an opportunity of coming before the public, though in a manner which rather resembled stepping up behind a carriage than getting into one. The Antiquary was indeed uncommonly delighted; for, like many other men who spend their lives in obscure literary research, he had a secret ambition to appear in print, which was checked by cold fits of diffidence, fear of criticism, and habits of indolence and procrastination. "But," thought he, "I may, like a second Teucer, discharge my shafts from behind the shield of my ally; and, admit that he should not prove to be a first-rate poet, I am in no shape answerable for his deficiencies, and the good notes may very probably help off an indifferent text. But he is--he must be a good poet; he has the real Parna.s.sian abstraction--seldom answers a question till it is twice repeated--drinks his tea scalding, and eats without knowing what he is putting into his mouth. This is the real aestus, the awen of the Welsh bards, the divinus afflatus that transports the poet beyond the limits of sublunary things. His visions, too, are very symptomatical of poetic fury--I must recollect to send Caxon to see he puts out his candle to-night--poets and visionaries are apt to be negligent in that respect." Then, turning to his companion, he expressed himself aloud in continuation--

"Yes, my dear Lovel, you shall have full notes; and, indeed, think we may introduce the whole of the Essay on Castrametation into the appendix--it will give great value to the work. Then we will revive the good old forms so disgracefully neglected in modern times. You shall invoke the Muse--and certainly she ought to be propitious to an author who, in an apostatizing age, adheres with the faith of Abdiel to the ancient form of adoration.--Then we must have a vision--in which the Genius of Caledonia shall appear to Galgacus, and show him a procession of the real Scottish monarchs:--and in the notes I will have a hit at Boethius--No; I must not touch that topic, now that Sir Arthur is likely to have vexation enough besides--but I'll annihilate Ossian, Macpherson, and Mac-Cribb."

"But we must consider the expense of publication," said Lovel, willing to try whether this hint would fall like cold water on the blazing zeal of his self-elected coadjutor.

"Expense!" said Mr. Oldbuck, pausing, and mechanically fumbling in his pocket--"that is true;--I would wish to do something--but you would not like to publish by subscription?"

"By no means," answered Lovel.

"No, no!" gladly acquiesced the Antiquary--"it is not respectable. I'll tell you what: I believe I know a bookseller who has a value for my opinion, and will risk print and paper, and I will get as many copies sold for you as I can."

"O, I am no mercenary author," answered Lovel, smiling; "I only wish to be out of risk of loss."

"Hush! hush! we'll take care of that--throw it all on the publishers.

I do long to see your labours commenced. You will choose blank verse, doubtless?--it is more grand and magnificent for an historical subject; and, what concerneth you, my friend, it is, I have an idea, more easily written."

This conversation brought them to Monkbarns, where the Antiquary had to undergo a chiding from his sister, who, though no philosopher, was waiting to deliver a lecture to him in the portico. "Guide us, Monkbarns! are things no dear eneugh already, but ye maun be raising the very fish on us, by giving that randy, Luckie Mucklebackit, just what she likes to ask?"

"Why, Grizel," said the sage, somewhat abashed at this unexpected attack, "I thought I made a very fair bargain."

"A fair bargain! when ye gied the limmer a full half o' what she seekit!--An ye will be a wife-carle, and buy fish at your ain hands, ye suld never bid muckle mair than a quarter. And the impudent quean had the a.s.surance to come up and seek a dram--But I trow, Jenny and I sorted her!"

"Truly," said Oldbuck (with a sly look to his companion), "I think our estate was gracious that kept us out of hearing of that controversy.--Well, well, Grizel, I was wrong for once in my life ultra crepidam--I fairly admit. But hang expenses!--care killed a cat--we'll eat the fish, cost what it will.--And then, Lovel, you must know I pressed you to stay here to-day, the rather because our cheer will be better than usual, yesterday having been a gaude' day--I love the reversion of a feast better than the feast itself. I delight in the a.n.a.lecta, the collectanea, as I may call them, of the preceding day's dinner, which appear on such occasions--And see, there is Jenny going to ring the dinner-bell."

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

Be this letter delivered with haste--haste--post-haste!

Ride, villain, ride,--for thy life--for thy life--for thy life.

Ancient Indorsation of Letters of Importance.

Leaving Mr. Oldbuck and his friend to enjoy their hard bargain of fish, we beg leave to transport the reader to the back-parlour of the post-master's house at Fairport, where his wife, he himself being absent, was employed in a.s.sorting for delivery the letters which had come by the Edinburgh post. This is very often in country towns the period of the day when gossips find it particularly agreeable to call on the man or woman of letters, in order, from the outside of the epistles, and, if they are not belied, occasionally from the inside also, to amuse themselves with gleaning information, or forming conjectures about the correspondence and affairs of their neighbours. Two females of this description were, at the time we mention, a.s.sisting, or impeding, Mrs.

Mailsetter in her official duty.

"Eh, preserve us, sirs!" said the butcher's wife, "there's ten-- eleven--twall letters to Tennant and Co.--thae folk do mair business than a' the rest o' the burgh."

"Ay; but see, la.s.s," answered the baker's lady, "there's twa o' them faulded unco square, and sealed at the tae side--I doubt there will be protested bills in them."

"Is there ony letters come yet for Jenny Caxon?" inquired the woman of joints and giblets; "the lieutenant's been awa three weeks."

"Just ane on Tuesday was a week," answered the dame of letters.

"Wast a ship-letter?" asked the Fornerina.

"In troth wast."

"It wad be frae the lieutenant then," replied the mistress of the rolls, somewhat disappointed--"I never thought he wad hae lookit ower his shouther after her."

"Od, here's another," quoth Mrs. Mailsetter. "A ship-letter--post-mark, Sunderland." All rushed to seize it.--"Na, na, leddies," said Mrs.

Mailsetter, interfering; "I hae had eneugh o' that wark--Ken ye that Mr.

Mailsetter got an unco rebuke frae the secretary at Edinburgh, for a complaint that was made about the letter of Aily Bisset's that ye opened, Mrs. Shortcake?"

"Me opened!" answered the spouse of the chief baker of Fairport; "ye ken yoursell, madam, it just cam open o' free will in my hand--what could I help it?--folk suld seal wi' better wax."

"Weel I wot that's true, too," said Mrs. Mailsetter, who kept a shop of small wares, "and we have got some that I can honestly recommend, if ye ken onybody wanting it. But the short and the lang o't is, that we'll lose the place gin there's ony mair complaints o' the kind."

"Hout, la.s.s--the provost will take care o' that."

"Na, na, I'll neither trust to provost nor bailier" said the postmistress,--"but I wad aye be obliging and neighbourly, and I'm no again your looking at the outside of a letter neither--See, the seal has an anchor on't--he's done't wi' ane o' his b.u.t.tons, I'm thinking."

"Show me! show me!" quoth the wives of the chief butcher and chief baker; and threw themselves on the supposed love-letter, like the weird sisters in Macbeth upon the pilot's thumb, with curiosity as eager and scarcely less malignant. Mrs. Heukbane was a tall woman--she held the precious epistle up between her eyes and the window. Mrs. Shortcake, a little squat personage, strained and stood on tiptoe to have her share of the investigation.

"Ay, it's frae him, sure eneugh," said the butcher's lady;--"I can read Richard Taffril on the corner, and it's written, like John Thomson's wallet, frae end to end."

"Haud it lower down, madam," exclaimed Mrs. Shortcake, in a tone above the prudential whisper which their occupation required--"haud it lower down--Div ye think naebody can read hand o' writ but yoursell?"

"Whist, whist, sirs, for G.o.d's sake!" said Mrs. Mailsetter, "there's somebody in the shop,"--then aloud--"Look to the customers, Baby!"--Baby answered from without in a shrill tone--"It's naebody but Jenny Caxon, ma'am, to see if there's ony letters to her."

"Tell her," said the faithful postmistress, winking to her compeers, "to come back the morn at ten o'clock, and I'll let her ken--we havena had time to sort the mail letters yet--she's aye in sic a hurry, as if her letters were o' mair consequence than the best merchant's o' the town."

Poor Jenny, a girl of uncommon beauty and modesty, could only draw her cloak about her to hide the sigh of disappointment and return meekly home to endure for another night the sickness of the heart occasioned by hope delayed.

"There's something about a needle and a pole," said Mrs. Shortcake, to whom her taller rival in gossiping had at length yielded a peep at the subject of their curiosity.

"Now, that's downright shamefu'," said Mrs. Heukbane, "to scorn the poor silly gait of a la.s.sie after he's keepit company wi' her sae lang, and had his will o' her, as I make nae doubt he has."

"It's but ower muckle to be doubted," echoed Mrs. Shortcake;--"to cast up to her that her father's a barber and has a pole at his door, and that she's but a manty-maker hersell! Hout fy for shame!"

"Hout tout, leddies," cried Mrs. Mailsetter, "ye're clean wrang--It's a line out o' ane o' his sailors' sangs that I have heard him sing, about being true like the needle to the pole."

"Weel, weel, I wish it may be sae," said the charitable Dame Heukbane,--"but it disna look weel for a la.s.sie like her to keep up a correspondence wi' ane o' the king's officers."

"I'm no denying that," said Mrs. Mailsetter; "but it's a great advantage to the revenue of the post-office thae love-letters. See, here's five or six letters to Sir Arthur Wardour--maist o' them sealed wi' wafers, and no wi' wax. There will be a downcome, there, believe me."

"Ay; they will be business letters, and no frae ony o' his grand friends, that seals wi' their coats of arms, as they ca' them," said Mrs. Heukbane;--"pride will hae a fa'--he hasna settled his account wi' my gudeman, the deacon, for this twalmonth--he's but slink, I doubt."