The Antiquary — Complete by Walter Scott (fun to read .txt) 📕

conversation on the part of his guide, who threaded the thicket before him, now holding back the sprays to make his path easy, now exhorting him to make haste, now muttering to himself, after the custom of solitary and neglected old age, words which might have escaped Lovel’s ear even had he listened to them, or which, apprehended and retained, were too isolated to convey any connected meaning,—a habit which may be often observed among people of the old man’s age and calling.

At length, as Lovel, exhausted by his late indisposition, the harrowing feelings by which he was agitated, and the exertion necessary to keep up with his guide in a path so rugged, began to flag and fall behind, two or three very precarious steps placed him on the front of a precipice overhung with brushwood and copse. Here a cave, as narrow in its entrance as a fox-earth, was indicated by a small fissure in the rock, screened by the boughs of an aged oak, which, anchored by its thick and twisted roots in the upper part of the cleft, flung its branches almost straight outward from the cliff, concealing it effectually from all observation. It might indeed have escaped the attention even of those who had stood at its very opening, so uninviting was the portal at which the beggar entered. But within, the cavern was higher and more roomy, cut into two separate branches, which, intersecting each other at right angles, formed an emblem of the cross, and indicated the abode of an anchoret of former times. There are many caves of the same kind in different parts of Scotland. I need only instance those of Gorton, near Rosslyn, in a scene well known to the admirers of romantic nature.

The light within the eave was a dusky twilight at the entrance, which failed altogether in the inner recesses. “Few folks ken o’ this place,” said the old man; “to the best o’my knowledge, there’s just twa living by mysell, and that’s Jingling Jock and the Lang Linker. I have had mony a thought, that when I fand mysell auld and forfairn, and no able to enjoy God’s blessed air ony langer, I wad drag mysell here wi’ a pickle ait-meal; and see, there’s a bit bonny dropping well that popples that self-same gate simmer and winter;—and I wad e’en streek mysell out here, and abide my removal, like an auld dog that trails its useless ugsome carcass into some bush or bracken no to gie living things a scunner wi’ the sight o’t when it’s dead—Ay, and then, when the dogs barked at the lone farm-stead, the gudewife wad cry, Whisht, stirra, that’ll be auld Edie,’ and the bits o’ weans wad up, puir things, and toddle to the door to pu’ in the auld Blue-Gown that mends a’ their bonny-dies—But there wad be nae mair word o’ Edie, I trow.”

He then led Lovel, who followed him unresistingly, into one of the interior branches of the cave. “Here,” he said, “is a bit turnpike-stair that gaes up to the auld kirk abune. Some folks say this place was howkit out by the monks lang syne to hide their treasure in, and some said that they used to bring things into the abbey this gate by night, that they durstna sae weel hae brought in by the main port and in open day—And some said that ane o’ them turned a saint (or aiblins wad hae had folk think sae), and settled him down in this Saint Ruth’s cell, as the auld folks aye ca’d it, and garr’d big the stair, that he might gang up to the kirk when they were at the divine service. The Laird o’ Monkbarns wad hae a hantle to say about it, as he has about maist things, if he ken’d only about the place. But whether it was made for man’s devices or God’s service, I have seen ower muckle sin done in it in my day, and far ower muckle have I been partaker of—ay, even here in this dark cove. Mony a gudewife’s been wondering what for the red cock didna craw her up in the morning, when he’s been roasting, puir fallow, in this dark hole—And, ohon! I wish that and the like o’ that had been the warst o’t! Whiles they wad hae heard the din we were making in the very bowels o’ the earth, when Sanders Aikwood, that was forester in thae days, the father o’ Ringan that now is, was gaun daundering about the wood at e’en, to see after the Laird’s game and whiles he wad hae seen a glance o’ the light frae the door o’ the cave, flaughtering against the hazels on the other bank;—and then siccan stories as Sanders had about the worricows and gyre-carlins that haunted about the auld wa’s at e’en, and the lights that he had seen, and the cries that he had heard, when there was nae mortal e’e open but his ain; and eh! as he wad thrum them ower and ower to the like o’ me ayont the ingle at e’en, and as I wad gie the auld silly carle grane for grane, and tale for tale, though I ken’d muckle better about it than ever he did. Ay, ay—they were daft days thae;—but they were a’ vanity, and waur,—and it’s fitting that they wha hae led a light and evil life, and abused charity when they were young, suld aiblins come to lack it when they are auld.”

While Ochiltree was thus recounting the exploits and tricks of his earlier life, with a tone in which glee and compunction alternately predominated, his unfortunate auditor had sat down upon the hermit’s seat, hewn out of the solid rock, and abandoned himself to that lassitude, both of mind and body, which generally follows a course of events that have agitated both, The effect of his late indisposition, which had much weakened his system, contributed to this lethargic despondency. “The puir bairn!” said auld Edie, “an he sleeps in this damp hole, he’ll maybe wauken nae mair, or catch some sair disease. It’s no the same to him as to the like o’ us, that can sleep ony gate an anes our wames are fu’. Sit up, Maister Lovel, lad! After a’s come and gane, I dare say the captain-lad will do weel eneugh—and, after a’, ye are no the first that has had this misfortune. I hae seen mony a man killed, and helped to kill them mysell, though there was nae quarrel between us—and if it isna wrang to kill folk we have nae quarrel wi’, just because they wear another sort of a cockade, and speak a foreign language, I canna see but a man may have excuse for killing his ain mortal foe, that comes armed to the fair field to kill him. I dinna say it’s right—God forbid—or that it isna sinfu’ to take away what ye canna restore, and that’s the breath of man, whilk is in his nostrils; but I say it is a sin to be forgiven if it’s repented of. Sinfu’ men are we a’; but if ye wad believe an auld grey sinner that has seen the evil o’ his ways, there is as much promise atween the twa boards o’ the Testament as wad save the warst o’ us, could we but think sae.”

With such scraps of comfort and of divinity as he possessed, the mendicant thus continued to solicit and compel the attention of Lovel, until the twilight began to fade into night. “Now,” said Ochiltree, “I will carry ye to a mair convenient place, where I hae sat mony a time to hear the howlit crying out of the ivy tod, and to see the moonlight come through the auld windows o’ the ruins. There can be naebody come here after this time o’ night; and if they hae made ony search, thae blackguard shirra’-officers and constables, it will hae been ower lang syne. Od, they are as great cowards as ither folk, wi’ a’ their warrants and king’s keys*—I hae gien some o’ them a gliff in my day, when they were coming rather ower near me—But, lauded be grace for it! they canna stir me now for ony waur than an auld man and a beggar, and my badge is a gude protection; and then Miss Isabella Wardour is a