The Antiquary — Complete by Walter Scott (fun to read .txt) 📕
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- Author: Walter Scott
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“And a’ the bonny engines, and wheels, and the coves, and sheughs, doun at Glenwithershins yonder, what’s to come o’ them?” said Edie.
“I hope the men, before they are dispersed, will make a bonfire of their gimcracks, as an army destroy their artillery when forced to raise a siege. And as for the holes, Edie, I abandon them as rat-traps, for the benefit of the next wise men who may choose to drop the substance to snatch at a shadow.”
“Hech, sirs! guide us a’! to burn the engines? that’s a great waste—Had ye na better try to get back part o’ your hundred pounds wi’ the sale o’ the materials?” he continued, with a tone of affected condolence.
“Not a farthing,” said the Antiquary, peevishly, taking a turn from him, and making a step or two away. Then returning, half-smiling at his own pettishness, he said, “Get thee into the house, Edie, and remember my counsel, never speak to me about a mine, nor to my nephew Hector about a phoca, that is a sealgh, as you call it.”
“I maun be ganging my ways back to Fairport,” said the wanderer; “I want to see what they’re saying there about the invasion;—but I’ll mind what your honour says, no to speak to you about a sealgh, or to the Captain about the hundred pounds that you gied to Douster”—
“Confound thee!—I desired thee not to mention that to me.”
“Dear me!” said Edie, with affected surprise; “weel, I thought there was naething but what your honour could hae studden in the way o’ agreeable conversation, unless it was about the Praetorian yonder, or the bodle that the packman sauld to ye for an auld coin.”
“Pshaw! pshaw!” said the Antiquary, turning from him hastily, and retreating into the house.
The mendicant looked after him a moment, and with a chuckling laugh, such as that with which a magpie or parrot applauds a successful exploit of mischief, he resumed once more the road to Fairport. His habits had given him a sort of restlessness, much increased by the pleasure he took in gathering news; and in a short time he had regained the town which he left in the morning, for no reason that he knew himself, unless just to “hae a bit crack wi’ Monkbarns.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. Red glared the beacon on Pownell On Skiddaw there were three; The bugle horn on moor and fell Was heard continually. James Hogg.
The watch who kept his watch on the hill, and looked towards Birnam, probably conceived himself dreaming when he first beheld the fated grove put itself into motion for its march to Dunsinane. Even so old Caxon, as perched in his hut, he qualified his thoughts upon the approaching marriage of his daughter, and the dignity of being father-in-law to Lieutenant Taffril, with an occasional peep towards the signal-post with which his own corresponded, was not a little surprised by observing a light in that direction. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, adjusting his observation by a cross-staff which had been placed so as to bear upon the point. And behold, the light increased, like a comet to the eye of the astronomer, “with fear of change perplexing nations.”
“The Lord preserve us!” said Caxon, “what’s to be done now? But there will be wiser heads than mine to look to that, sae I’se e’en fire the beacon.”
And he lighted the beacon accordingly, which threw up to the sky a long wavering train of light, startling the sea-fowl from their nests, and reflected far beneath by the reddening billows of the sea. The brother warders of Caxon being equally diligent, caught, and repeated his signal. The lights glanced on headlands and capes and inland hills, and the whole district was alarmed by the signal of invasion. *
* Note J. Alarms of Invasion.
Our Antiquary, his head wrapped warm in two double night-caps, was quietly enjoying his repose, when it was suddenly broken by the screams of his sister, his niece, and two maid-servants.
“What the devil is the matter?” said he, starting up in his bed— “womankind in my room at this hour of night!—are ye all mad?”
“The beacon, uncle!” said Miss M’Intyre.
“The French coming to murder us!” screamed Miss Griselda.
“The beacon! the beacon!—the French! the French!—murder! murder! and waur than murder!”—cried the two handmaidens, like the chorus of an opera.
“The French?” said Oldbuck, starting up—“get out of the room, womankind that you are, till I get my things on—And hark ye, bring me my sword.”
“Whilk o’ them, Monkbarns?” cried his sister, offering a Roman falchion of brass with the one hand, and with the other an Andrea Ferrara without a handle.
“The langest, the langest,” cried Jenny Rintherout, dragging in a two-handed sword of the twelfth century.
“Womankind,” said Oldbuck in great agitation, “be composed, and do not give way to vain terror—Are you sure they are come?”
“Sure, sure!” exclaimed Jenny—“ower sure!—a’ the sea fencibles, and the land fencibles, and the volunteers and yeomanry, are on fit, and driving to Fairport as hard as horse and man can gang—and auld Mucklebackit’s gane wi’ the lave—muckle gude he’ll do!—Hech, sirs!—he’ll be missed the morn wha wad hae served king and country weel!”
“Give me,” said Oldbuck, “the sword which my father wore in the year forty-five—it hath no belt or baldrick—but we’ll make shift.”
So saying he thrust the weapon through the cover of his breeches pocket. At this moment Hector entered, who had been to a neighbouring height to ascertain whether the alarm was actual.
“Where are your arms, nephew?” exclaimed Oldbuck—“where is your double-barrelled gun, that was never out of your hand when there was no occasion for such vanities?”
“Pooh! pooh! sir,” said Hector, “who ever took a fowling-piece on action? I have got my uniform on, you see—I hope I shall be of more use if they will give me a command than I could be with ten double-barrels. And you, sir,
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