The Antiquary — Volume 01. Вальтер Скотт

upon your next visit to Monkbarns, my trivial Essay upon Castrametation, with some particular Remarks upon the Vestiges of Ancient Fortifications lately discovered by the Author at the Kaim of Kinprunes. I think I have pointed out the infallible touchstone of supposed antiquity. I premise a few general rules on that point, on the nature, namely, of the evidence to be received in such cases. Meanwhile be pleased to observe, for example, that I could press into my service Claudian's famous line,

                     Ille Caledoniis posuit qui castra pruinis.

      For pruinis, though interpreted to mean hoar frosts, to which I own we are somewhat subject in this north-eastern sea-coast, may also signify a locality, namely, Prunes; the Castra Pruinis posita would therefore be the Kaim of Kinprunes. But I waive this, for I am sensible it might be laid hold of by cavillers as carrying down my Castra to the time of Theodosius, sent by Valentinian into Britain as late as the year 367, or thereabout. No, my good friend, I appeal to people's eye-sight. Is not here the Decuman gate? and there, but for the ravage of the horrid plough, as a learned friend calls it, would be the Praetorian gate. On the left hand you may see some slight vestiges of the porta sinistra, and on the right, one side of the porta dextra wellnigh entire. Here, then, let us take our stand, on this tumulus, exhibiting the foundation of ruined buildings, — the central point — the praetorium, doubtless, of the camp. From this place, now scarce to be distinguished but by its slight elevation and its greener turf from the rest of the fortification, we may suppose Agricola to have looked forth on the immense army of Caledonians, occupying the declivities of yon opposite hill, — the infantry rising rank over rank, as the form of ground displayed their array to its utmost advantage, — the cavalry and covinarii, by which I understand the charioteers — another guise of folks from your Bond-street four-in-hand men, I trow — scouring the more level space below —

                             — See, then, Lovel — See —

                  See that huge battle moving from the mountains!

              Their gilt coats shine like dragon scales; — their march

              Like a rough tumbling storm. — See them, and view them,

                             And then see Rome no more! —

      Yes, my dear friend, from this stance it is probable — nay, it is nearly certain, that Julius Agricola beheld what our Beaumont has so admirably described! — From this very Praetorium" —

      A voice from behind interrupted his ecstatic description — "Praetorian here, Praetorian there, I mind the bigging o't."

      Both at once turned round, Lovel with surprise, and Oldbuck with mingled surprise and indignation, at so uncivil an interruption. An auditor had stolen upon them, unseen and unheard, amid the energy of the Antiquary's enthusiastic declamation, and the attentive civility of Lovel. He had the exterior appearance of a mendicant. A slouched hat of huge dimensions; a long white beard which mingled with his grizzled hair; an aged but strongly marked and expressive countenance, hardened, by climate and exposure, to a right brick-dust complexion; a long blue gown, with a pewter badge on the right arm; two or three wallets, or bags, slung across his shoulder, for holding the different kinds of meal, when he received his charity in kind from those who were but a degree richer than himself: — all these marked at once a beggar by profession, and one of that privileged class which are called in Scotland the King's Bedesmen, or, vulgarly, Blue-Gowns.

      "What is that you say, Edie?" said Oldbuck, hoping, perhaps, that his ears had betrayed their duty — "what were you speaking about!"

      "About this bit bourock, your honour," answered the undaunted Edie; "I mind the bigging o't."

      "The devil you do! Why, you old fool, it was here before you were born, and will be after you are hanged, man!"

      "Hanged or drowned, here or awa, dead or alive, I mind the bigging o't."

      "You — you — you — ," said the Antiquary, stammering between confusion and anger, "you strolling old vagabond, what the devil do you know about it?"

      "Ou, I ken this about it, Monkbarns — and what profit have I for telling ye a lie? — l just ken this about it, that about twenty years syne, I, and a wheen hallenshakers like mysell, and the mason-lads that built the lang dike that gaes down the loaning, and twa or three herds maybe, just set to wark, and built this bit thing here that ye ca' the — the — Praetorian, and a' just for a bield at auld Aiken Drum's bridal, and a bit blithe gae-down wi' had in't, some sair rainy weather. Mair by token, Monkbarns, if ye howk up the bourock, as ye seem to have began, yell find, if ye hae not fund it already, a stane that ane o' the mason-callants cut a ladle on to have a bourd at the bridegroom, and he put four letters on't, that's A. D. L. L. — Aiken Drum's Lang Ladle — for Aiken was ane o' the kale-suppers o' Fife."

      "This," thought Lovel to himself, "is a famous counterpart to the story of Keip on this syde." He then ventured to steal a glance at our Antiquary, but quickly withdrew it in sheer compassion. For, gentle reader, if thou hast ever beheld the visage of a damsel of sixteen, whose romance of true love has been blown up by an untimely discovery, or of a child of ten years, whose castle of cards has been blown down by a malicious companion, I can safely aver to you, that Jonathan Oldbuck of Monkbarns looked neither more wise nor less disconcerted.

      "There is some mistake about this," he said, abruptly turning away from the mendicant.

      "Deil a bit on my side o' the wa'," answered the sturdy beggar; "I never deal in mistakes, they aye bring mischances. — Now, Monkbarns, that young gentleman, that's wi' your honour, thinks little of a carle like me; and yet, I'll wager I'll tell him whar he was yestreen at the gloamin, only he maybe wadna like to hae't spoken o' in company."

      Lovel's soul rushed to his cheeks, with the vivid blush of two-and-twenty.

      "Never mind the old rogue," said Mr. Oldbuck; "don't suppose I think the worse of you for your profession; they are only prejudiced fools and coxcombs that do so. You remember what old Tully says in his oration, pro Archia poeta, concerning one of your confraternity —quis nostrum tam anino agresti ac duro fuit — ut — ut— I forget the Latin — the meaning is, which of us was so rude and barbarous as to remain unmoved at the death of the great Roscius, whose advanced age was so far from preparing us for his death, that we rather hoped one so graceful, so excellent in his art, ought to be exempted from the common lot of mortality? So the Prince of Orators spoke of the stage and its professor."

      1

      The late George Constable of Wallace Craigie, near Dundee.

      2