"'Why, he was a dark officer-looking mon, at they called Colonel--Squoire Mervyn questioned me as close as I had been at sizes--I had guess, Mr. Dawson' (I told you that was my feigned name)--I but I tould him nought of your vagaries, and going out a-laking in the mere a-noights--not I--an I can make no sport.

I'se spoil none--and Squoire Mervyn's as cross as poy-crust too, mon--he's aye maundering an my guests but land beneath his house, though it be marked for the fourth station in the Survey. Noa, noa, e'en let un smell things out o' themselves for Joe Hodges--'

"You will allow there was nothing for it after this, but paying honest Joe Hodges's bill, and departing, unless I had preferred making him my confidant, for which I felt in no way inclined.

Besides, I learned that our ci-devant Colonel was on full retreat for Scotland, carrying off poor Julia along with him. I understand from those who conduct the heavy baggage, that he takes his winter'

quarters at a place called Woodbourne, in--shire in Scotland. He will be all on the alert just now, so I must let him enter his entrenchments without any new alarm. And then, my good Colonel, to whom I owe so many grateful thanks, pray look to your defence.

"I protest to you, Delaserre, I often think there is a little contradiction enters into the ardour of my pursuit. I think I would rather bring this haughty insulting man to the necessity of calling his daughter Mrs. Brown, than I would wed her with his full consent, and with the king's permission to change my name for the style and arms of Mannering, though his whole fortune went with them. There is only one circ.u.mstance that chills me a little-Julia is young and romantic. I would not willingly hurry her into a step which her riper years might disapprove--no;--nor would I like to have her upbraid me, were it but with a glance of her eye, with having ruined her fortunes--far less give her reason to say, as some have not been slow to tell their lords, that, had I left her time for consideration, she would have been wiser and done better.

No, Delaserre--this must not be. The picture presses close upon me, because I am aware a girl in Julia's situation has no distinct and precise idea of the value of the sacrifice she makes. She knows difficulties only by name; and, if she thinks of love and a farm, it is a ferme ornee, such as is only to be found in poetic description, or in the park of a gentleman of twelve thousand a year. She would be ill prepared for the privations of that real Swiss cottage we have so often talked of, and for the difficulties which must necessarily surround us even before we attained that haven. This must be a point clearly ascertained. Although Julia's beauty and playful tenderness have made an impression on my heart never to be erased, I must be satisfied that she perfectly understands the advantages she foregoes, before she sacrifices them for my sake.

"Am I too proud, Delaserre, when I trust that even this trial may terminate favourably to my wishes?-Am I too vain when I suppose, that the few personal qualities--which I possess, with means of competence however moderate, and the determination of consecrating my life to her happiness, may make amends for all I must call upon her to forego? Or will a difference of dress, of attendance, of style, as it is called, of the power of shifting at pleasure the scenes in which she seeks amus.e.m.e.nt,--will these outweigh, in her estimation, the prospect of domestic happiness, and the interchange of unabating affection? I say nothing of her father;--his good and evil qualities are so strangely mingled, that the former are neutralised by the latter; and that which she must regret as a daughter is so much blended with what she would gladly escape from, that I place the separation of the father and child as a circ.u.mstance which weighs little in her remarkable case. Meantime I keep up my spirits as I may. I have incurred too many hardships and difficulties to be presumptuous or confident in success, and I have been too often and too wonderfully extricated from them to be despondent.

"I wish you saw this country. I think the scenery would delight you. At least it often brings to my recollection your glowing descriptions of your native country. To me it has in a great measure the charm of novelty. Of the Scottish hills, though born among them, as I have always been a.s.sured, I have but an indistinct recollection. Indeed, my memory rather dwells upon the blank which my youthful mind experienced in gazing on the levels of the isle of Zealand, than on anything which preceded that feeling; but I am confident, from that sensation, as well as from the recollections which preceded it, that hills and rocks have been familiar to me at an early period, and that though now only remembered by contrast, And by the blank which I felt while gazing around for them in vain, they must have made an indelible impression on my infant imagination. I remember when we first mounted that celebrated pa.s.s in the Mysore country, while most of the others felt only awe and astonishment at the height and grandeur of the scenery, I rather shared your feelings and those of Cameron, whose admiration of such wild rocks was blended with familiar love, derived from early a.s.sociation. Despite my Dutch education, a blue hill to me is as a friend, and a roaring torrent like the sound of a domestic song that hath soothed my infancy. I never felt the impulse so strongly as in this land of lakes and mountains, and nothing grieves me so much as that duty prevents your being with me in my numerous excursions among its recesses. Some drawings I have attempted, but I succeed vilely-Dudley, on the contrary, draws delightfully, with that rapid touch which seems like magic, while I labour and blotch, and make this too heavy, and that too light, and produce at last a base caricature. I must stick to the flageolet, for music is the only one of the fine arts which deigns to acknowledge me.

"Did you know that Colonel Mannering was a draughtsman?--I believe not, for he scorned to display his accomplishments to the view of a subaltern. He draws beautifully, however. Since he and Julia left Mervyn Hall, Dudley was sent for there. The squire, it seems, wanted a set of drawings made up, of which Mannering had done the first four, but was interrupted, by his hasty departure, in his purpose of completing them. Dudley says he has seldom seen anything so masterly, though slight; and each had attached to it a short poetical description. Is Saul, you will say, among the prophets?--Colonel Mannering write poetry!--Why surely this man must have taken all the pains to conceal his accomplishments that others do to display theirs. How reserved and unsociable he appeared among us!--how little disposed to enter into any conversation which could become generally interesting! And then his attachment to that unworthy Archer, so much below him in every respect; and all this, because he was the brother of Viscount Archerfield, a poor Scottish peer! I think if Archer had longer survived the wounds in the affair of Cuddyboram, he would have told something that might have thrown light upon the inconsistencies of this singular man's character. He repeated to me more than once, 'I have that to say, which will alter your hard opinion of our late Colonel.' But death pressed him too hard; and if he owed me any atonement, which some of his expressions seemed to imply, he died before it could be made.

"I propose to make a further excursion through this country while this fine frosty weather serves, and Dudley, almost as good a walker as myself, goes with me for some part of the way. We part on the borders of c.u.mberland, where he must return to his lodgings in Marybone, up three pair of stairs, and labour at what he calls the commercial part of his profession. There cannot, he says, be such a difference betwixt any two portions of existence, as between that in which the artist, if an enthusiast, collects the subjects of his drawings, and that which must necessarily he dedicated to turning over his portfolio, and exhibiting them to the provoking indifference, or more provoking criticism, of fashionable amateurs.

'During the summer of my year,' says Dudley, 'I am as free as a wild Indian, enjoying myself at liberty amid the grandest scenes of nature; while, during my winters and springs, I am not only cabined, cribbed, and confined in a miserable garret, but condemned to as intolerable subservience to the humour of others, and to as indifferent company, as if I were a literal galley-slave. 'I have promised him your acquaintance, Delaserre; you will be delighted with his specimens of art, and he with your Swiss fanaticism for mountains and torrents.

"When I lose Dudley's company, I am informed--that I can easily enter Scotland by stretching across a wild country in the upper part of c.u.mberland; and that route I shall follow, to give the Colonel time to pitch his camp ere I reconnoitre his position.--Adieu! Delaserre--I shall hardly find another opportunity of writing till I reach Scotland."

CHAPTER XXII.

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, A sad one tires in a mile-a.

Winter's Tale.

LET the reader conceive to himself a clear frosty November morning, the scene an open heath,--having for the background that huge chain of mountains in which Skiddaw and Saddleback are pre-eminent; let him look along that blind road, by which I mean the track so slightly marked by the pa.s.sengers' footsteps that it can but be traced by a slight shade of verdure from the darker heath around it and, being only visible to the eye when at some distance, ceases to be distinguished while the foot is actually treading it--along this faintly-traced path advances the object of our present narrative. His firm step, his erect and free carriage, have a military air, which corresponds well with his well-proportioned limbs, and stature of six feet high. His dress is so plain and simple that it indicates nothing as to rank--it may be that of a gentleman who travels in this manner for his pleasure, or of an inferior person of whom it is the proper and usual garb. Nothing can be on a more reduced scale than his travelling equipment. A volume of Shakespeare in each pocket, a small bundle with a change of linen slung across his shoulders, an oaken cudgel in his hand, complete our pedestrian's accommodations, and in this equipage we present him to our readers.

Brown had parted that morning from his friend Dudley, and began his solitary walk towards Scotland.

The first two or three miles were rather melancholy, from want of the society to which he had of late been accustomed. But this unusual mood of mind soon gave way to the influence of his natural good spirits, excited by the exercise and the bracing effects of the frosty air. He whistled as he went along, not "from want of thought," but to give vent to those buoyant feelings which he had no other mode of expressing. For each peasant whom he chanced to meet, he had a kind greeting or a good-humoured jest; the hardy c.u.mbrians grinned as they pa.s.sed, and said, "that's a kind heart, G.o.d bless un!" and the market-girl looked more than once over her shoulder at the athletic form, which corresponded so well with the frank and blithe address of the stranger. A rough terrier dog, his constant companion, who rivalled his master in glee, scampered at large in a thousand wheels round the heath, and came back to jump up on him, and a.s.sure him that he partic.i.p.ated in the pleasure of the journey. Dr. Johnson thought life had few things better than the excitation produced by being whirled rapidly along in a post-chaise; but he who has in youth experienced the confident and independent feeling of a stout pedestrian in an interesting country, and during fine weather, will hold the taste of the great moralist cheap in comparison.

Part of Brown's view in choosing that unusual tract which leads through the eastern wilds of c.u.mberland into Scotland, had been a desire to view the remains of the celebrated Roman Wall, which are more visible in that direction than in any other part of its extent. His education had been imperfect and desultory; but neither the busy scenes in which he had been engaged, nor the pleasures of youth, nor the precarious state of his own circ.u.mstances, had diverted him from the task of mental improvement.--"And this then is the Roman Wall," he said, scrambling up to a height which commanded the course of that celebrated work of antiquity. "What a people! whose labours, even at this extremity of their empire, comprehended such s.p.a.ce, and were executed upon a scale of such grandeur! In future ages, when the science of war shall have changed, how few traces will exist of the labours of Vauban and Coehorn, while this wonderful people's remains will even then continue to interest and astonish posterity! Their fortifications, their aqueducts, their theatres, their fountains, all their public works, bear the grave, solid, and majestic character of their language; while our modern labours, like our modern tongues, seem but constructed out of their fragments." Having thus moralised, he remembered that he was hungry, and pursued his walk to a small public-house at which he proposed to get some refreshment.

The alehouse, for it was no better, was situated in the bottom of a little dell, through which trilled a small rivulet. It was shaded by a large ash tree, against which the clay-built shed, that served the purpose of a stable, was erected, and upon which it seemed partly to recline. In this shed stood a saddled horse, employed in eating his corn. The cottages in this part of c.u.mberland partake of the rudeness which characterises those of Scotland. The outside of the house promised little for the interior, notwithstanding the vaunt of a sign, where a tankard of ale voluntarily decanted itself into a tumbler, and a hieroglyphical scrawl below attempted to express a promise of "good entertainment for man and horse." Brown was no fastidious traveller--he stopped and entered the cabaret [*

See Note 1. Mumps's Ha'.]

The first object which caught. his eye in the kitchen was a tall, stout, country-looking man, in a large jockey great-coat, the owner of the horse which stood in the shed, who was busy discussing huge slices of cold boiled beef, and casting from time to time an eye through the window, to see how his steed sped with his provender. A large tankard of ale flanked his plate of victuals, to which he applied himself by intervals. The good woman of the house was employed in baking. The fire, as is usual in that country, was on a stone hearth, in the midst of an immensely large chimney, which had two seats extended beneath the vent. On one of these sat a remarkably tall woman, in a red cloak and slouched bonnet, having the appearance of a tinker or beggar. She was busily engaged with a short black tobacco-pipe.

At the request of Brown for some food, the landlady wiped with her mealy ap.r.o.n one corner of the deal table, placed a wooden trencher and knife and fork before the traveller, pointed to the round of beef, recommended Mr. Dinmont's good example, and, finally, filled a brown pitcher with her home-brewed. Brown lost no time in doing ample credit to both. For a while, his opposite neighbour and he were too busy to take much notice of each other, except by a good-humoured nod as each in turn raised the tankard to his head.

At length, when our pedestrian began to supply the wants of little Wasp, the Scotch storefarmer, for such was Mr. Dinmont, found himself at leisure to enter into conversation.

"A bonny terrier that, sir--and a fell [*Fiery] chield at the vermin, I warrant him--that is, if he's been weel entered, for it a' lies in that."

"Really, sir," said Brown, "his education has been somewhat neglected, and his chief property is being pleasant companion."

"Ay, sir? that's a pity, begging your pardon--it's great pity that--beast or body, education should aye be minded. I have six terriers at hame, forbye twa couple of slow-hunds, five grews, [*Greyhounds] and a wheen [*Few] other dogs. There's auld Pepper and auld Mustard, and young Pepper and young Mustard, and little Pepper and little Mustard--I had them a' regularly entered, first wi' rottens [*Rats]--then wi' stots or weasels--and then wi' the tods and brocks [*Badgers]--and now they fear naething that ever cam wi' a hairy skin on't."

"I have no doubt, sir, they are thoroughbred--but, to have so many dogs, you seem to have a very limited variety of names for them?"

"Oh, that's a fancy o' my ain to mark the breed sir; the Deuke himself has sent as far as Charlies hope to get ane o' Dandie Dinmont's Pepper and Mustard terriers--Lord, man, he sent Tam Hudson [* The real name of this veteran sportsman is now restored] the keeper, and sicken a day as we had wi' the foumarts [*Polecats] and the tods, and sicken a blythe gaedown as we had again e'en! Faith, that was a night!

"I suppose game is very plenty with you?"

"Plenty, man!--I believe there's mair hares than sheep on my farm; and for the moor-fawl, or the gray-fowl, they lie as thick as doos in a dooket--Did ye ever shoot a black-c.o.c.k, man?"

"Really I had never even the pleasure to see one, except in the museum at Keswick."

"There now--I could guess that by your Southland tongue--It's very odd of these English folk that come here, how few of them has seen a black-c.o.c.k! I'll tell you what--ye seem to be an honest lad, and if you'll call on me--on Dandie Dinmont--at Charlies-hope--ye shall see a black-c.o.c.k, and shoot a black-c.o.c.k, and eat a black-c.o.c.k too, man."

"Why, the proof of the matter is the eating, to be sure, sir; and I shall be happy if I can find time to accept your invitation."

"Time, man? what ails ye to gae hame wi' me the now? How d'ye travel?"

"On foot, sir; and if that handsome pony be yours, I should find it impossible to keep up with you."

"No unless ye can walk up to fourteen mile an hour. But ye can come ower the night as far as Riccarton, where there is a public--or if ye like to stop at jockey Grieve's at the Heuch, they would be blythe to see ye, and I am just gaun to stop and drink a dram at the door wi' him, and I would tell him you're coming up--or stay--gudewife, could ye lend this gentleman the gudeman's galloway, and I'll send it ower the Waste in the morning wi' the callant?" [*Lad]

The galloway was turned out upon the fell, and was swear to catch--"Aweel, aweel, there's nae help for't, but come up the morn at ony rate.--And now, gudewife, I maun ride, to get to the Liddel or it be dark, for your Waste has but a kittle [*Ticklish]

character, ye ken yourself."

"Hout fie, Mr. Dinmont, that's no like you, to gie the country an ill name--I wot, there has been nane stirred in the Waste since Sawney Culloch, the travelling-merchant, that Rowley Overdees and Jock Penny suffered for at Carlisle twa years since. There's no ane in Bewcastle would do the like o' that now--we be a' true folk now."

"Ay, Tib, that will be when the deil's blind,--and his een's no sair yet. But hear ye, gudewife, I have been through maist f.e.c.k [*Part] o' Galloway and Dumfriesshire, and I have been round by Carlisle, and I was at the Staneshiebank fair the day, and I would like ill to be rubbit sae near hame, so I'll take the gate."

"Hae ye been in Dumfries and Galloway?" said the old dame, who sat smoking by the fireside, and who had not yet spoken a word.

"Troth have I, gudewife, and a weary round I've had o't."

"Then ye'll maybe ken a place they ca' Ellangowan?

"Ellangowan, that was Mr. Bertram's--I ken the place weel eneugh.

The Laird died about a fortnight since, as I heard."

"Died!"--said the old woman, dropping her pipe, and rising and coming forward upon the floor--died?--are you sure of that?"

"Troth, am I," said Dinmont, "for it made nae sma' noise in the countryside. He died just at the roup of the stocking and furniture; it stoppit the roup, and mony folk were disappointed.

They said he was the last of an auld family too, and mony were sorry--for gude blude's scarcer in Scotland than it has been."

"Dead!" replied the old woman, whom our readers have already recognised as their acquaintance Meg Merrilies--"dead! that quits a' scores. And did ye say he died without an heir?"

"Ay did he, gudewife, and the estate's sell'd by the same token; for they said, they couldna have sell'd it, if there had been an heir-male."

"Sell'd!" echoed the gipsy, with something like a scream; "and wha durst buy Ellangowan that was not of Bertram's blude?--and wha could tell whether the bonny knave-bairn may not come back to claim his ain!--wha durst buy the estate and the castle of Ellangowan?"

"Troth, gudewife, just ane o' thae writer chields that buys a'

thing--they ca' him Glossin, I think."