The Fortunes of Nigel. Вальтер Скотт

have at Edinburgh as fine a navigable river as the Thames, with all its shipping?”

      “The Thames!” exclaimed Richie, in a tone of ineffable contempt – “God bless your honour’s judgment, we have at Edinburgh the Water-of-Leith and the Nor-loch!”

      “And the Pow-Burn, and the Quarry-holes, and the Gusedub, ye fause loon!” answered Master George, speaking Scotch with a strong and natural emphasis; “it is such land-loupers as you, that, with your falset and fair fashions, bring reproach on our whole country.”

      “God forgie me, sir,” said Richie, much surprised at finding the supposed southron converted into a native Scot, “I took your honour for an Englisher! But I hope there was naething wrang in standing up for ane’s ain country’s credit in a strange land, where all men cry her down?”

      “Do you call it for your country’s credit, to show that she has a lying, puffing rascal, for one of her children?” said Master George. “But come, man, never look grave on it, – as you have found a countryman, so you have found a friend, if you deserve one – and especially if you answer me truly.”

      “I see nae gude it wad do me to speak ought else but truth,” said the worthy North Briton.

      “Well, then – to begin,” said Master George, “I suspect you are a son of old Mungo Moniplies, the flesher, at the West-Port.”

      “Your honour is a witch, I think,” said Richie, grinning.

      “And how dared you, sir, to uphold him for a noble?”

      “I dinna ken, sir,” said Richie, scratching his head; “I hear muckle of an Earl of Warwick in these southern parts, – Guy, I think his name was, – and he has great reputation here for slaying dun cows, and boars, and such like; and I am sure my father has killed more cows and boars, not to mention bulls, calves, sheep, ewes, lambs, and pigs, than the haill Baronage of England.”

      “Go to! you are a shrewd knave,” said Master George; “charm your tongue, and take care of saucy answers. Your father was an honest burgher, and the deacon of his craft: I am sorry to see his son in so poor a coat.”

      “Indifferent, sir,” said Richie Moniplies, looking down on his garments – “very indifferent; but it is the wonted livery of poor burghers’ sons in our country – one of Luckie Want’s bestowing upon us – rest us patient! The king’s leaving Scotland has taken all custom frae Edinburgh; and there is hay made at the Cross, and a dainty crop of fouats in the Grass-market. There is as much grass grows where my father’s stall stood, as might have been a good bite for the beasts he was used to kill.”

      “It is even too true,” said Master George; “and while we make fortunes here, our old neighbours and their families are starving at home. This should be thought upon oftener. – And how came you by that broken head, Richie? – tell me honestly.”

      “Troth, sir, I’se no lee about the matter,” answered Moniplies. “I was coming along the street here, and ilk ane was at me with their jests and roguery. So I thought to mysell, ye are ower mony for me to mell with; but let me catch ye in Barford’s Park, or at the fit of the Vennel, I could gar some of ye sing another sang. Sae ae auld hirpling deevil of a potter behoved just to step in my way and offer me a pig, as he said, just to put my Scotch ointment in, and I gave him a push, as but natural, and the tottering deevil coupit ower amang his ain pigs, and damaged a score of them. And then the reird raise, and hadna these twa gentlemen helped me out of it, murdered I suld hae been, without remeid. And as it was, just when they got haud of my arm to have me out of the fray, I got the lick that donnerit me from a left-handed lighterman.”

      Master George looked to the apprentices as if to demand the truth of this story.

      “It is just as he says, sir,” replied Jenkin; “only I heard nothing about pigs. – The people said he had broke some crockery, and that – I beg pardon, sir – nobody could thrive within the kenning of a Scot.”

      “Well, no matter what they said, you were an honest fellow to help the weaker side. – And you, sirrah,” continued Master George, addressing his countryman, “will call at my house to-morrow morning, agreeable to this direction.”

      “I will wait upon your honour,” said the Scot, bowing very low; “that is, if my honourable master will permit me.”

      “Thy master?” said George, – “Hast thou any other master save Want, whose livery you say you wear?”

      “Troth, in one sense, if it please your honour, I serve twa masters,” said Richie; “for both my master and me are slaves to that same beldam, whom we thought to show our heels to by coming off from Scotland. So that you see, sir, I hold in a sort of black ward tenure, as we call it in our country, being the servant of a servant.”

      “And what is your master’s name?” said Master George; and observing that Richie hesitated, he added, “Nay, do not tell me, if it is a secret.”

      “A secret that there is little use in keeping,” said Richie; “only ye ken that our northern stomachs are ower proud to call in witnesses to our distress. No that my master is in mair than present pinch, sir,” he added, looking towards the two English apprentices, “having a large sum in the Royal Treasury – that is,” he continued, in a whisper to Master George, – “the king is owing him a lot of siller; but it’s ill getting at it, it’s like. – My master is the young Lord Glenvarloch.”

      Master George testified surprise at the name. – “You one of the young Lord Glenvarloch’s followers, and in such a condition?”

      “Troth, and I am all the followers he has, for the present that is; and blithe wad I be if he were muckle better aff than I am, though I were to bide as I am.”

      “I have seen his father with four gentlemen and ten lackeys at his heels,” said Master George, “rustling in their laces and velvets. Well, this is a changeful world, but there is a better beyond it. – The good old house of Glenvarloch, that stood by king and country five hundred years!”

      “Your honour may say a thousand,” said the follower.

      “I will say what I know to be true, friend,” said the citizen, “and not a word more. – You seem well recovered now – can you walk?”

      “Bravely, sir,” said Richie; “it was but a bit dover. I was bred at the West-Port, and my cantle will stand a clour wad bring a stot down.”

      “Where does your master lodge?”

      “We pit up, an it like your honour,” replied the Scot, “in a sma’ house at the fit of ane of the wynds that gang down to the water-side, with a decent man, John Christie, a ship-chandler, as they ca’t. His father came from Dundee. I wotna the name of the wynd, but it’s right anent the mickle kirk yonder; and your honour will mind, that we pass only by our family-name of simple Mr. Nigel Olifaunt, as keeping ourselves retired for the present, though in Scotland we be called the Lord Nigel.”

      “It is wisely done of your master,” said the citizen. “I will find out your lodgings, though your direction be none of the clearest.” So saying, and slipping a piece of money at the same time into Richie Moniplies’s hand, he bade him hasten home, and get into no more affrays.

      “I will take care of that now, sir,” said Richie, with a look of importance, “having a charge about me. And so, wussing ye a’ weel, with special thanks to these twa young gentlemen – ”

      “I am no gentleman,” said Jenkin, flinging his cap on his head; “I am a tight London ‘prentice, and hope to be a freeman one day. Frank may write himself gentleman, if he will.”

      “I was a gentleman once,” said Tunstall, “and I hope I have done nothing to lose the name of one.”

      “Weel, weel, as ye list,” said Richie Moniplies; “but I am mickle beholden to ye baith – and I am not a hair the less like to bear it in mind that I say but little about it just now. – Gude-night to you, my kind countryman.” So saying, he thrust out of the sleeve of his ragged doublet a long bony hand and arm, on which the muscles rose like whip-cord.