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

Who smiled in death?—

How animating, for example, at the conclusion of a weary march, to find yourself in the vicinity of a Runic monument, and discover that you have pitched your tent beside the tomb of a hero!”

“I am afraid, sir, our mess would be better supplied if it chanced to be in the neighbourhood of a good poultry-yard.”

“Alas, that you should say so! No wonder the days of Cressy and Agincourt are no more, when respect for ancient valour has died away in the breasts of the British soldiery.”

“By no means, sir—by no manner of means. I dare say that Edward and Henry, and the rest of these heroes, thought of their dinner, however, before they thought of examining an old tombstone. But I assure you, we are by no means insensible to the memoir of our fathers’ fame; I used often of an evening to get old Rory MAlpin to sing us songs out of Ossian about the battles of Fingal and Lamon Mor, and Magnus and the Spirit of Muirartach.”

“And did you believe,” asked the aroused Antiquary, “did you absolutely believe that stuff of Macpherson’s to be really ancient, you simple boy?”

“Believe it, sir?—how could I but believe it, when I have heard the songs sung from my infancy?”

“But not the same as Macpherson’s English Ossian—you’re not absurd enough to say that, I hope?” said the Antiquary, his brow darkening with wrath.

But Hector stoutly abode the storm; like many a sturdy Celt, he imagined the honour of his country and native language connected with the authenticity of these popular poems, and would have fought knee-deep, or forfeited life and land, rather than have given up a line of them. He therefore undauntedly maintained, that Rory MAlpin could repeat the whole book from one end to another;—and it was only upon cross-examination that he explained an assertion so general, by adding “At least, if he was allowed whisky enough, he could repeat as long as anybody would hearken to him.”

“Ay, ay,” said the Antiquary; “and that, I suppose, was not very long.”

“Why, we had our duty, sir, to attend to, and could not sit listening all night to a piper.”

“But do you recollect, now,” said Oldbuck, setting his teeth firmly together, and speaking without opening them, which was his custom when contradicted—“Do you recollect, now, any of these verses you thought so beautiful and interesting—being a capital judge, no doubt, of such things?”

“I don’t pretend to much skill, uncle; but it’s not very reasonable to be angry with me for admiring the antiquities of my own country more than those of the Harolds, Harfagers, and Hacos you are so fond of.”

“Why, these, sir—these mighty and unconquered Goths—were your ancestors! The bare-breeched Celts whom theysubdued, and suffered only to exist, like a fearful people, in the crevices of the rocks, were but their Mancipia and Serfs!”

Hector’s brow now grew red in his turn. “Sir,” he said, “I don’t understand the meaning of Mancipia and Serfs, but I conceive that such names are very improperly applied to Scotch Highlanders: no man but my mother’s brother dared to have used such language in my presence; and I pray you will observe, that I consider it as neither hospitable, handsome, kind, nor generous usage towards your guest and your kinsman. My ancestors, Mr. Oldbuck”—

“Were great and gallant chiefs, I dare say, Hector; and really I did not mean to give you such immense offence in treating a point of remote antiquity, a subject on which I always am myself cool, deliberate, and unimpassioned. But you are as hot and hasty, as if you were Hector and Achilles, and Agamemnon to boot.”

“I am sorry I expressed myself so hastily, uncle, especially to you, who have been so generous and good. But my ancestors”—

“No more about it, lad; I meant them no affront—none.”

“I’m glad of it, sir; for the house of M’Intyre”—

“Peace be with them all, every man of them,” said the Antiquary. “But to return to our subject—Do you recollect, I say, any of those poems which afforded you such amusement?”

“Very hard this,” thought M’Intyre, “that he will speak with such glee of everything which is ancient, excepting my family. “—Then, after some efforts at recollection, he added aloud, “Yes, sir,—I think I do remember some lines; but you do not understand the Gaelic language.”

“And will readily excuse hearing it. But you can give me some idea of the sense in our own vernacular idiom?”

“I shall prove a wretched interpreter,” said M’Intyre, running over the original, well garnished with aghes, aughs, and oughs, and similar gutterals, and then coughing and hawking as if the translation stuck in his throat. At length, having premised that the poem was a dialogue between the poet Oisin, or Ossian, and Patrick, the tutelar Saint of Ireland, and that it was difficult, if not impossible, to render the exquisite felicity of the first two or three lines, he said the sense was to this purpose:

“Patrick the psalm-singer, Since you will not listen to one of my stories, Though you never heard it before, I am sorry to tell you You are little better than an ass”—

“Good! good!” exclaimed the Antiquary; “but go on. Why, this is, after all, the most admirable fooling—I dare say the poet was very right. What says the Saint?”

“He replies in character,” said M’Intyre; “but you should hear MAlpin sing the original. The speeches of Ossian come in upon a strong deep bass—those of Patrick are upon a tenor key.”

“Like MAlpin’s drone and small pipes, I suppose,” said Oldbuck. “Well? Pray go on.”

“Well then, Patrick replies to Ossian:

Upon my word, son of Fingal, While I am warbling the psalms, The clamour of your old women’s tales Disturbs my devotional exercises.”

“Excellent!—why, this is better and better. I hope Saint Patrick sung better than Blattergowl’s precentor, or it would be hang—choice between the poet and psalmist. But what I admire is the courtesy of these two eminent persons towards each other. It is a pity there should not be a word of this in Macpherson’s translation.”

“If you are sure of that,” said M’Intyre, gravely, “he must have taken very unwarrantable liberties with his original.”

“It will go near to be thought so shortly—but pray proceed.”