Let us do Mannering justice. A desire to serve the distressed had
also its share in determining him. He had considered the advantage
which Julia might receive from the company of Lucy Bertram, whose
genuine prudence and good sense could so surely be relied upon.
This idea had become much stronger since Mac-Morlan had confided to
him, under the solemn seal of secrecy, the whole of her conduct
towards young Hazlewood. To propose to her to become an inmate in
his family, if distant from the scenes of her youth and the few
whom she called friends, would have been less delicate; but at
Woodbourne she might without difficulty be induced to become the
visitor of a season, without being depressed into the situation of
an humble companion. Lucy Bertram, with some hesitation, accepted
the invitation to reside a few weeks with Miss Mannering. She felt
too well, that however the Colonel's delicacy might disguise the
truth, his principal motive was a generous desire to afford her his
countenance and protection, which his high connections, and higher
character, were likely to render influential in the neighbourhood.

About the same time the orphan girl received a letter from Mrs.
Bertram, the relation to whom she had written, as cold and
comfortless as could well be imagined. It enclosed, indeed, a
small sum of money, but strongly recommended economy, and that Miss
Bertram should board herself in some quiet family, either at
Kippletringan or in the neighbourhood, assuring her, that though
her own income was very scanty, she would not see her kinswoman
want.

Miss Bertram shed some natural tears over this cold-hearted
epistle; for in her mother's time, this good lady. had been a
guest at Ellangowan for nearly three years, and it was only upon
succeeding to a property of about 400L a-year that she had, taken
farewell of that hospitable mansion, which, otherwise, might have
had the honour of sheltering her until the death of its owner. Lucy
was strongly inclined to return the paltry donation, which, after
some struggles with avarice, pride had extorted from the old lady.
But on consideration, she contented herself with writing, that she
accepted it as a loan, which she hoped in a short time to repay,
and consulted her relative upon the invitation she had received
from Colonel and Miss Mannering. This time the answer came in
course of post, so fearful was Mrs. Bertram, that some frivolous
delicacy, or nonsense, as she termed it, might induce her cousin to
reject such a promising offer, and thereby at the same time to
leave herself still a burden upon her relations. Lucy, therefore,
had no alternative, unless she preferred continuing a burden upon
the worthy Mac-Morlans, who were too liberal to be rich. Those
kinsfolk who formerly requested the favour of her company, had of
late either silently, or with expressions of resentment that she
should have preferred Mac-Morlan's invitation to theirs, gradually
withdrawn their notice.

The fate of Dominie Sampson would have been deplorable had it
depended upon any one except Mannering, who was an admirer of
originality, for a separation from Lucy Bertram would have
certainly broken his heart. Mac-Morlan had given a full account of
his proceedings towards the daughter of his patron. The answer was
a request from Mannering to know, whether the Dominie still
possessed that admirable virtue of taciturnity by which he was so
notably distinguished at Ellangowan. Mac-Morlan replied in the
affirmative. "Let Mr. Sampson know," said the Colonel's next
letter, "that I shall want his assistance to catalogue and put in
order the library of my uncle, the bishop, which I have ordered to
be sent down by sea. I shall also want him to copy and arrange
some papers. Fix his salary at what you think befitting. Let the
poor man be properly dressed, and accompany his young lady to
Woodbourne."

Honest Mac-Morlan received this mandate with great joy, but
pondered much upon executing that part of it which related to newly
attiring the worthy Dominie. He looked at him with a scrutinising
eye, and it was but too plain that his present garments were daily
waxing more deplorable. To give him money, and bid him go and
furnish himself, would be only giving him the means of making
himself ridiculous; for when such a rare event arrived to Mr.
Sampson as the purchase of new garments, the additions which he
made to his wardrobe, by the guidance of his own taste, usually
brought all the boys of the village after him for many days. On
the other hand, to bring a tailor to measure him, and send home his
clothes, as for a schoolboy, would probably give offence. At length
Mac-Morlan resolved to consult Miss Bertram, and request her
interference. She assured him, that though she could not pretend
to superintend a gentleman's wardrobe, nothing was more easy than
to arrange the Dominie's.

"At Ellangowan," she said, "whenever my poor father thought any
part of the Dominie's dress wanted renewal, a servant was directed
to enter his room by night, for he sleeps as fast as a dormouse,
carry off the old vestment, and leave the new one; nor could anyone
observe that the Dominie exhibited the least consciousness of the
change put upon him on such occasions."

Mac-Morlan, in conformity with Miss Bertram's advice, procured a
skilful artist, who, on looking at the Dominie attentively,
undertook to make for him two suits of clothes, one black, and one
raven-gray, and even engaged that they should fit him--as well at
least (so the tailor qualified his enterprise), as a man of such an
out-of-the-way build could be fitted by merely human needles and
shears. When this fashioner had accomplished his task, and the
dresses were brought home, Mac-Morlan, judiciously resolving to
accomplish his purpose by degrees, withdrew that evening an
important part of his dress, and substituted the new article of
raiment in its stead. Perceiving that this passed totally without
notice, he next ventured on the waistcoat, and lastly on the coat.
When fully metamorphosed, and arrayed for the first time in his
life in a decent dress, they did observe, that the Dominie seemed
to have some indistinct and embarrassing consciousness that a
change had taken place on his outward man. Whenever they observed
this dubious expression gather upon his countenance, accompanied
with a glance, that fixed now upon the sleeve of his coat, now upon
the knees of his breeches, where he probably missed some antique
patching and darning, which, being executed with blue thread upon a
black ground, had somewhat the effect of embroidery, they always
took care to turn his attention into some other channel, until his
garments, "by the aid of use, cleaved to their mould." The only
remark he was ever known to make on the subject was, that "the air
of a town like Kippletringan, seemed favourable unto wearing
apparel, for he thought his coat looked almost as new as the first
day he put it on, which was when he went to stand trial for his
licence as a preacher."

When the Dominie first heard the liberal proposal of Colonel
Mannering, he turned a jealous and doubtful glance towards Miss
Bertram, as if he suspected that the project involved their
separation, but when Mr Mac-Morlan hastened to explain that she
would be a guest at Woodbourne for some time, he rubbed his huge
hands together, and burst into a portentous sort of chuckle, like
that of the Afrite in the tale of the Caliph Vathek. After this
unusual explosion of satisfaction, he remained quite passive in all
the rest of the transaction.

It had been settled that Mr. and Mrs. Mac-Morlan should take
possession of the house a few days before Mannering's arrival, both
to put everything in perfect order, and to make the transference of
Miss Bertram's residence from their family to his as easy and
delicate as possible. Accordingly, in the beginning of the month of
December, the party were settled at Woodbourne.


CHAPTER XX.

  A gigantic genius, fit to grapple with whole libraries.
    BOSWELL's Life of Johnson.

THE appointed day arrived, when the Colonel and Miss Mannering were
expected at Woodbourne. The hour was fast approaching, and the
little circle within doors had each their separate subjects of
anxiety. Mac-Morlan naturally desired to attach to himself the
patronage and countenance of a person of Mannering's wealth and
consequence. He was aware, from his knowledge of mankind, that
Mannering, though generous and benevolent, had the foible of
expecting and exacting a minute compliance with his directions. He
was therefore racking his recollection to discover if everything
had been arranged to meet the Colonel's wishes and instructional
and, under this uncertainty of mind, he traversed the house more
than once from the garret to the stables. Mrs. Mac-Morlan
revolved in a lesser orbit, comprehending the dining-parlour,
housekeeper's room, and kitchen. She was only

afraid that the dinner might be spoiled, to the . discredit of her
housewifely accomplishments. Even the usual passiveness of the
Dominie was so far disturbed, that he twice went to the window,
which looked out upon the avenue, and twice exclaimed, "Why tarry
the wheels of their chariot?" Lucy, the most quiet of the
expectants, had her own melancholy thoughts. She was now about to
be consigned to the charge, almost to the benevolence, of
strangers, with whose character, though hitherto very amiably
displayed, she was but imperfectly acquainted. The moments,
therefore, of suspense passed anxiously and heavily.

At length the trampling of horses and the sound of wheels were
heard. The servants, who had already arrived, drew up in the hall
to receive their master and mistress, with an importance and
empressement, which, to Lucy, who had never been accustomed to
society, or witnessed what is called the manners of the great, had
something alarming. Mac-Morlan went to she door to receive the
master and mistress of the family, and in a few moments they were
in the drawing-room.

Mannering, who had travelled as usual on horseback, entered with
his daughter hanging upon his arm. She was of the middle size, or
rather less, but formed with much elegance; piercing dark eyes, and
jet-black hair of great length, corresponded with the vivacity and
intelligence of features, in which were blended a little
haughtiness, and a little bashfulness, a great deal of shrewdness,
and some power of humorous sarcasm. "I shall not like her," was
the result of Lucy Bertram's first glance; "and yet I rather think
I shall," was the thought excited by the second.

Miss Mannering was furred and mantled up to the throat against the
severity of the weather; the Colonel in his military greatcoat. He
bowed to Mrs. Mac-Morlan, whom his daughter also acknowledged with
a fashionable curtsey, not dropped so low as at all to incommode
her person. The Colonel then led his daughter up to Miss Bertram,
and, taking the hand of the latter, with an air of great kindness,
and almost paternal affection, he said, "Julia, this is the young
lady whom I hope our good friends have prevailed on to honour our
house with a long visit. I shall be much gratified indeed if you
can render Woodbourne as pleasant to Miss Bertram, as Ellangowan
was to me when I first came as a wanderer into this country."

The young lady curtsied acquiescence, and took her new friend's
hand. Mannering now turned his eye upon the Dominie, who had made
bows since his entrance into the room, sprawling out his leg, and
bending his back like an automaton, which continues to repeat the
same movement until the motion is stopt by the artist. "My good
friend, Mr. Sampson,"--said Mannering, introducing him to his
daughter, and darting at the same time a reproving glance at the
damsel, notwithstanding he had himself some disposition to join her
too obvious inclination to risibility--"This gentleman, Julia, is
to put my books in order when they arrive, and I expect to derive
great advantage from his extensive learning."

"I am sure we are obliged to the gentleman, papa; and, to borrow a
ministerial mode of giving thanks, I shall never forget the
extraordinary countenance he has been pleased to show us.--But,
Miss Bertram," continued she hastily, for her father's brows began
to darken, "we have travelled a good way,--will you permit me to
retire before dinner?"

This intimation dispersed all the company, save the Dominie, who,
having no idea of dressing but when he was to rise, or of
undressing but when he meant to go to bed, remained by himself,
chewing the cud of a mathematical demonstration, until the company
again assembled in the drawing-room, and from thence adjourned to
the dining-parlour.

When the day was concluded, Mannering took an opportunity, to hold
a minute's conversation with his daughter in private.

"How do you like your guests, Julia?"

"Oh, Miss Bertram of all things--but this is a most original
parson--why, dear sir, no human being will be able to look at him
without laughing."

"While he is under my roof, Julia, every one must learn to do so."

"Lord, papa, the very footmen could not keep their gravity!"

"Then let them strip off my livery," said the Colonel,--"and oath
at their leisure. Mr. Sampson is a man whom I esteem for his
simplicity and benevolence of character."

"Oh, I am convinced of his generosity too," said this lively lady;
"he cannot lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth without bestowing a
share on everything round."

"Julia, you are incorrigible;--but remember, I expect your mirth on
this subject to be under such restraint, that it shall neither
offend this worthy man's feelings nor those of Miss Bertram, who
may be more apt to feel upon his account than he on his own. And
so good-night, my dear; and recollect, that though Mr. Sampson has
certainly not sacrificed to the graces, there are many things in
this world more truly deserving of ridicule than either awkwardness
of manners or simplicity of character."

In a day or two Mr. and Mrs. Mac-Morlan left Woodbourne, after
taking an affectionate farewell of their late guest. The household
were now settled in their new quarters. The young ladies followed
their studies and amusements together. Colonel Mannering was
agreeably surprised to find that Miss Bertram was well skilled in
French and Italian, thanks to the assiduity of Dominie Sampson,
whose labour had silently made him acquainted with most modern as
well as ancient languages. Of music she knew little or nothing,
but her new friend undertook to give her lessons; in exchange for
which, she was to learn from Lucy the habit of walking, and the art
of riding, and the courage necessary to defy the season. Mannering
was careful to substitute for their amusement in the evening such.
books as might convey some solid instruction with entertainment,
and as he read aloud with great skill and taste, the winter nights
passed pleasantly away.

Society was quickly formed where there were so many inducements.
Most of the families of the neighbourhood visited Colonel
Mannering, and he was soon able to select from among them such as
best suited his taste and habits. Charles Hazlewood held a
distinguished place in his favour, and was a frequent visitor, not
without the consent and approbation of his parents; for there was
no knowing, they thought, what assiduous attention might product,
and the beautiful Miss Mannering, of high family, with an Indian
fortune, was a prize worth looking after. Dazzled with such a
prospect, they never considered the risk which had once been some
object of their apprehension, that his boyish and inconsiderate
fancy might form an attachment to the penniless Lucy Bertram, who
had nothing on earth to recommend her, but a pretty face, good
birth, and a most amiable disposition. Mannering was more
prudent. He considered himself acting as Miss Bertram's guardian,
and, while he did not think it incumbent upon him altogether to
check her intercourse with a young gentleman for whom, excepting in
wealth, she was a match in every respect, he laid it under such
insensible restraints as might prevent any engagement or
eclaircissement taking place until the young man should have seen a
little more of life and of the world, and have attained that age
when he might be considered as entitled to judge for himself in the
matter in which his happiness was chiefly interested.

While these matters engaged the attention of the other members of
the Woodbourne family, Dominie Sampson was occupied, body and soul,
in the arrangement of the late bishop's library, which had been
sent from Liverpool by sea, and conveyed by thirty or forty carts
from the seaport at which it was landed. Sampson's joy at
beholding the ponderous contents of these chests arranged upon the
floor of the large apartment, from whence he was to transfer them
to the shelves, baffles all description. He grinned like an ogre,
swung his arms like the sails of a windmill, shouted "Prodigious"
till the roof rung to his raptures. "He had never," he said,
"seen so many books together, except in the College Library; "and
now his dignity and delight in being superintendent of the
collection, raised him, in his own opinion, almost to the rank of
the academical librarian, whom he had always regarded as the
greatest and happiest man on earth. Neither were his transports
diminished upon a hasty examination of the contents of these
volumes. Some, indeed, of belles lettres, poems, plays, or
memoirs, he tossed indignantly aside, with the implied censure of
"psha," or "frivolous"; but the greater and bulkier part of the
collection bore a very different character. The deceased prelate,
a divine of the old and deeply-learned cast, had loaded his shelves
with volumes which displayed the antique and venerable attributes
so happily described by a modern poet.

That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid, Those ample
clasps of solid metal made, The close-press'd leaves unoped for
many an age, The dull red edging of the well-filled page, On the
broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd, Where yet the title stands
in tarnish'd gold.

Books of theology and controversial divinity, commentaries, and
polyglots, sets of the fathers, and sermons, which might each
furnish forth ten brief discourses of modern date, books of
science, ancient and modern, classical authors in their best and
rarest forms; such formed the late bishop's venerable library, and
over such the eye of Dominie Sampson gloated with rapture. He
entered them in the catalogue in his best running hand, forming
each letter with the accuracy of a lover writing a valentine, and
placed each individually on the destined shelf with all the
reverence which I have seen a lady pay to a jar of old china. With
all this zeal his labours advanced slowly. He often opened a
volume when halfway up the library steps, fell upon some
interesting passage, and, without shifting his inconvenient
posture, continued immersed in the fascinating perusal until the
servant pulled him by the skirts to assure him that dinner waited.

         How happily the days
         Of Thalaba went by!

And, having thus left the principal characters of our ,tale in a
situation which, being sufficiently comfortable to themselves, is,
of course, utterly uninteresting to the reader, we take up the
history of a person who has as yet only been named, and who has all
the interest that uncertainty and misfortune can give.



CHAPTER XXI.

  What say'st thou, Wise One?--that all-powerful Love
  Can fortune's strong impediments remove;
  Nor is it strange that worth should wed to worth,
  The pride of genius with the pride of birth.
    Crabbe.

V. Brown,--I will not give at full length his thrice unhappy
name--had been from infancy a ball for fortune to spurn at; but
nature had given him that elasticity of mind which rises higher
from the rebound. His form was tall, manly, and active, and his
features corresponded with his person; for, although far from
regular, they had an expression of intelligence and good humour,
and when he spoke, or was particularly animated, might be decidedly
pronounced interesting. His manner indicated the military
profession, which had been his choice, and in which he had now
attained the rank of captain, the person who succeeded Colonel
Mannering in his command having laboured to repair the injustice
which Brown had sustained by that gentleman's prejudice against
him. But this, as well as his liberation from captivity, had taken
place after Mannering left India. Brown followed at no distant
period, his regiment being recalled home. His first inquiry was
after the family of Mannering, and, easily learning their route
northward, he followed it with the purpose of, resuming his
addresses to Julia. With her father he deemed he had no measures
to keep; for, ignorant of the more venomous belief which had been
instilled into the Colonel's mind, he regarded him as an oppressive
aristocrat, who had used his power as a commanding officer to
deprive him of the preferment due to his behaviour, and who had
forced upon him a personal quarrel without any better reason than
his attentions to a pretty young woman, agreeable to herself, and
permitted and countenanced by her mother. He was determined,
therefore, to take no rejection unless from the young lady herself,
believing that the heavy misfortunes of his painful wound and
imprisonment were direct injuries received from the father, which
might dispense with his using much ceremony towards him. How far
his scheme had succeeded when his nocturnal visit was discovered by
Mr. Mervyn, our readers are already informed.

Upon this unpleasant occurrence, Captain Brown absented himself
from the inn in which he had resided under the name of Dawson, so
that Colonel Mannering's attempts to discover and trace him were
unavailing. He resolved, however, that no difficulties should
prevent his continuing his enterprise, while Julia left him a ray
of hope. The interest he had secured in her bosom was such as she
had been unable to conceal from him, and with all the courage of
romantic gallantry he determined upon perseverance. But we believe
the reader will be as well pleased to learn his mode of thinking
and intentions from his own communication to his special friend and
confidant, Captain Delaserre, a Swiss gentleman, who had a company
in his regiment.

"Let me bear from you soon, dear Delaserre.--Remember, I can learn
nothing about regimental affairs but through your friendly medium,
and I long to know what has become of Ayre's court-martial, and
whether Elliot gets the majority; also how recruiting comes on, and
how the young officers like the mess. Of our kind friend, the
Lieutenant-Colonel, I need ask nothing; I saw him as I passed
through Nottingham, happy in the bosom of his family. What a
happiness it is, Philip, for us poor devils, that we have a little
resting-place between the camp and the grave, if we can manage to
escape disease, and steel, and lead, and the effects of hard
living. A retires old soldier is always a graceful and respected
character. He grumbles a little now and then, but then his is
licensed murmuring-were a lawyer, or a physician, or a clergyman,
to breathe a complaint of hard luck or want of preferment, a
hundred tongues would blame his own incapacity as the cause. But
the most stupid veteran that ever faltered out the thrice-told tale
of a siege and a battle, and a cock and a bottle, is listened to
with sympathy and reverence, when he shakes his thin locks, and
talks with indignation of the boys that are put over his head. And
you and I, Delaserre, foreigners both,--for what am I the better
that I was originally a Scotchman, since, could I prove my descent,
the English would hardly acknowledge me a countryman?-we may boast
that we have fought out our preferment, and gained that by the
sword which we had not money to compass otherwise. The English are
a wise people. While they praise themselves, and affect to
undervalue all other nations, they leave us, luckily, trap-doors
and back-doors open, by which we strangers, less favoured by
nature, may arrive at a share of their advantages. And thus they
are, in some respects like a boastful landlord, who exalts the
value and flavour of his six-years'-old mutton, while he is
delighted to dispense a share of it to all the company. In short,
you, whose proud family, and I, whose hard fate, made us soldiers
of fortune, have the pleasant recollection, that in the British
service, stop where we may upon our career, it is only for want of
money to pay the turnpike, and not from our being prohibited to
travel the road. If, therefore, we can persuade little Weischel to
come into ours, for God's sake let him buy the ensigncy, live
prudently, mind his duty, and trust to the fates for promotion.

"And now, I hope you are expiring with curiosity to learn the end
of my romance. I told you I had deemed it convenient to make a few
days' tour on foot among the mountains of Westmoreland, with
Dudley, a young English artist, with whom I have formed some
acquaintance. A fine fellow this, you must know, Delaserre--he
paints tolerably, draws beautifully, converses well, and plays
charmingly on the flute; and, though thus well entitled to be a
coxcomb of talent, is, in fact, a modest unpretending young man. On
our return from our little tour, I learned that the enemy had been
reconnoitring. Mr. Mervyn's barge had crossed the lake, I was
informed by my landlord, with the squire himself and a visitor.

"'What sort of person, landlord?'

"'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 circumstance 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 amusement,--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
circumstance 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 assured, 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 pass
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
association. 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 Cumberland, 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 Cumberland; 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 passengers' 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
Cumbrians grinned as they passed, and said, "that's a kind heart,
God 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 assure him that he participated 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 Cumberland 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
circumstances, 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 space, 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 Cumberland 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 apron 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-cock, 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-cock! 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-cock, and shoot a black-cock, and eat a
black-cock 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 feck
[*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."

"Glossin!--Gibbie Glossin!--that I have carried in my creels a
hundred times, for his mother wasna muckle better than mysell--he
to presume to buy the barony of Ellangowan!--Gude be wi' us--it is
an awfu' warld!--I wished him ill--but no sic a downfa' as a' that
neither--wae's me! wae's me to think o't!"--She remained a moment
silent, but still opposing with her hand the farmer's retreat, who,
betwixt every question, was about to turn his back, but
good-humouredly stopped on observing the deep interest his answers
appeared to excite.

"It will be seen and heard of--earth and sea will not hold their
peace langer!--Can ye say if the same man be now the Sheriff of the
county that has been sae for some years past?"

"Na, he's got some other berth in Edinburgh, they say--but gude
day, gudewife, I maun ride." She followed him to his horse, and,
while he drew the births of his saddle, adjusted the walise, and
put on the bridle, still plied him with questions concerning Mr.
Bertram's death, and the fate of his daughter; on which, however,
she could obtain little information from the honest farmer.

"Did ye ever see a place they ca' Derncleugh, about a mile frae the
Place of Ellangowan?"

"I wot weel have I, gudewife,--a wild-looking den it is, wi' a
wheen auld wa's o' shealins sonder--I saw it when I gaed ower the
ground wi' ane that wanted to take the farm."

It was a blythe bit ance said Meg, speaking to herself,--"Did ye
notice if there was an auld saugh [*Willow] tree that's maist
blawn down, but yet its roots are in the earth, and it hangs ower
the bit burn--mony a day hae I wrought my stocking, and sat on my
sunkie [*a Stool.] under that saugh."

"Hout, deills i' the wife, wi' her saughs, and her sunkies, and
Ellangowans--Godsake, woman, let me away--there's saxpence t'ye to
buy half a mutchkin, instead o' clavering about thae auld-warld
stories."

"Thanks to ye, gudeman--and now ye hae answered a' my questions,
and never speired wherefore I asked thein, I'll gie you a bit
canny [*Prudent] advice, and ye maunna speir what for neither.
Tib Mumps will be out wi' the stirrup-dram in a gliffing
[*Twinkling]--he'll ask ye whether ye gang ower Willie's brae, or
through Conscowthart moss--tell her ony ane ye like, but be sure
(speaking low and emphatically) to tak the ane ye dinna tell her."
The farmer laughed and promised, and the Gipsy retreated.

"Will you take her advice?" said Brown, who had been an attentive
listener to this conversation.

"That will I no--the randy quean!--Na, I had far rather Tib Mumps
kenn'd which way I was gaun than her--though Tib's no muckle to
lippen [*Trust] to neither, and I would advise ye on no account
to stay in the house a' night."

In a moment after, Tib, the landlady, appeared with her
stirrup-cup, which was taken off. She then, as Meg had predicted,
inquired whether he went the hill or the moss road. He answered,
the latter; and, having bid Brown good-bye, and again told him, "he
depended on seeing him at Charlies-hope, the morn at latest," he
rode off at a round pace.



CHAPTER XXIII.

  Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway.
    Winter's Tale

The hint of the hospitable farmer was not lost on Brown. But, while
he paid his reckoning, he could not avoid repeatedly fixing Iris
eyes on Meg Merrilies. She was, in all respects, the same
witch-like figure as when we first introduced her at Ellangowan
Place. Time had grizzled her raven locks, and added wrinkles to
her wild features, but her height remained erect, and her activity
was unimpaired. It was remarked of this woman, as of others of the
same description, that a life of action, though not of labour, gave
her the perfect command of her limbs and figure, so that the
attitudes into which she most naturally threw herself, were free,
unconstrained, and picturesque. At present, she stood by the
window of the cottage, her person drawn up so as to show to full
advantage her masculine stature, and her head somewhat thrown back,
that the large bonnet, with which her face was shrouded, might not
interrupt her steady gaze at Brown. At every gesture he made, and
every tone he uttered, she seemed to give an almost imperceptible
start. On his part, he was surprised to find that he could not
look upon this singular figure without some emotion. "Have I
dreamed of such a figure?" he said to himself, "or does this wild
and singular-looking woman recall to my recollection some of the
strange figures I have seen in our Indian pagodas?"