The Antiquary — Complete by Walter Scott (best fiction novels to read TXT) 📖

sounding name, from Jamblichus down to Aubrey, who have wasted their time in devising imaginary remedies for non-existing diseases.—But I hope, my young friend, that, charmed or uncharmed—secured by the potency of Hypericon, With vervain and with dill, That hinder witches of their will,

or left disarmed and defenceless to the inroads of the invisible world, you will give another night to the terrors of the haunted apartment, and another day to your faithful and feal friends.”

“I heartily wish I could, but”—

“Nay, but me no buts—I have set my heart upon it.”

“I am greatly obliged, my dear sir, but”—

“Look ye there, now—but again!—I hate but; I know no form of expression in which he can appear, that is amiable, excepting as a butt of sack. But is to me a more detestable combination of letters than no itself.No is a surly, honest fellow—speaks his mind rough and round at once. But is a sneaking, evasive, half-bred, exceptuous sort of a conjunction, which comes to pull away the cup just when it is at your lips—

—it does allay The good precedent—fie upon but yet! But yet is as a jailor to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor.”

“Well, then,” answered Lovel, whose motions were really undetermined at the moment, “you shall not connect the recollection of my name with so churlish a particle. I must soon think of leaving Fairport, I am afraid—and I will, since you are good enough to wish it, take this opportunity of spending another day here.”

“And you shall be rewarded, my boy. First, you shall see John o’ the Girnel’s grave, and then we’ll walk gently along the sands, the state of the tide being first ascertained (for we will have no more Peter Wilkins’ adventures, no more Glum and Gawrie work), as far as Knockwinnock Castle, and inquire after the old knight and my fair foe—which will but be barely civil, and then”—

“I beg pardon, my dear sir; but, perhaps, you had better adjourn your visit till to-morrow—I am a stranger, you know.”

“And are, therefore, the more bound to show civility, I should suppose. But I beg your pardon for mentioning a word that perhaps belongs only to a collector of antiquities—I am one of the old school,

When courtiers galloped o’er four counties The ball’s fair partner to behold, And humbly hope she caught no cold.”

“Why, if—if—if you thought it would be expected—but I believe I had better stay.”

“Nay, nay, my good friend, I am not so old-fashioned as to press you to what is disagreeable, neither—it is sufficient that I see there is some remora, some cause of delay, some mid impediment, which I have no title to inquire into. Or you are still somewhat tired, perhaps;—I warrant I find means to entertain your intellects without fatiguing your limbs—I am no friend to violent exertion myself—a walk in the garden once a-day is exercise, enough for any thinking being—none but a fool or a fox-hunter would require more. Well, what shall we set about?—my Essay on Castrametation—but I have that in petto for our afternoon cordial;—or I will show you the controversy upon Ossian’s Poems between Mac-Cribb and me. I hold with the acute Orcadian—he with the defenders of the authenticity;—the controversy began in smooth, oily, lady-like terms, but is now waxing more sour and eager as we get on—it already partakes somewhat of old Scaliger’s style. I fear the rogue will get some scent of that story of Ochiltree’s—but at worst, I have a hard repartee for him on the affair of the abstracted Antigonus—I will show you his last epistle and the scroll of my answer—egad, it is a trimmer!”

So saying, the Antiquary opened a drawer, and began rummaging among a quantity of miscellaneous papers, ancient and modern. But it was the misfortune of this learned gentleman, as it may be that of many learned and unlearned, that he frequently experienced, on such occasions, what Harlequin calls l’embarras des richesses; in other words, the abundance of his collection often prevented him from finding the article he sought for. “Curse the papers!—I believe,” said Oldbuck, as he shuffled them to and fro—“I believe they make themselves wings like grasshoppers, and fly away bodily—but here, in the meanwhile, look at that little treasure.” So saying, he put into his hand a case made of oak, fenced at the corner with silver roses and studs—“Pr’ythee, undo this button,” said he, as he observed Lovel fumbling at the clasp. He did so,—the lid opened, and discovered a thin quarto, curiously bound in black shagreen—“There, Mr. Lovel—there is the work I mentioned to you last night—the rare quarto of the Augsburg Confession, the foundation at once and the bulwark of the Reformation drawn up by the learned and venerable Melancthon, defended by the Elector of Saxony, and the other valiant hearts who stood up for their faith, even against the front of a powerful and victorious emperor, and imprinted by the scarcely less venerable and praiseworthy Aldobrand Oldenbuck, my happy progenitor, during the yet more tyrannical attempts of Philip II. to suppress at once civil and religious liberty. Yes, sir—for printing this work, that eminent man was expelled from his ungrateful country, and driven to establish his household gods even here at Monkbarns, among the ruins of papal superstition and domination.—Look upon his venerable effigies, Mr. Lovel, and respect the honourable occupation in which it presents him, as labouring personally at the press for the diffusion of Christian and political knowledge.—And see here his favourite motto, expressive of his independence and self- reliance, which scorned to owe anything to patronage that was not earned by desert—expressive also of that firmness of mind and tenacity of purpose recommended by Horace. He was indeed a man who would have stood firm, had his whole printing-house, presses, fonts, forms, great and small pica, been shivered to pieces around him—Read, I say, his motto,—for each printer had his motto, or device, when that illustrious art was first practised. My ancestor’s was expressed, as you see, in the Teutonic phrase, Kunst macht Gunst—that is, skill, or prudence, in availing ourselves of our natural talents and advantages, will compel favour and patronage, even where it is withheld from prejudice or ignorance.”

“And that,” said Lovel, after a moment’s thoughtful silence—“that, then, is the meaning of these German words?”

“Unquestionably. You perceive the appropriate application to a consciousness of inward worth, and of eminence in a useful and honourable art.—Each printer in those days, as I have already informed you, had his device, his impresa, as I may call it, in the same manner as the doughty chivalry of the age, who frequented tilt and tournament. My ancestor boasted as much in his, as if he had displayed it over a conquered field of battle, though it betokened the diffusion of knowledge, not the effusion of blood. And yet there is a family tradition which affirms him to have chosen it from a more romantic circumstance.”

“And what is that said to have been, my good sir?” inquired his young friend.

“Why, it rather encroaches on my respected predecessor’s fame for prudence and