Volume 2, Chapter 2, of the Antiquary, and this doctor, your city's smoky-bearded compere, he will close you so much gold in a bolt's head, and on a turn convey in this stead another with sublime mercury, that shall burst, eat the heat, and all fly out in fumo. The Alchemist. How do you do, good Mr. Oldenbuck? And I do hope your young gentleman, Captain Mentire, is getting better again? It is a bad business when young gentlemen's will put lead balls into each other's body. The adventures of all kinds are very precarious, Mr. Doster Swivel, but I am happy to learn, continue the antiquary, from my friend Sir Arthur, that you have taken up a better trade and become a discoverer of gold. Ah, Mr. Oldenbuck, my good and honoured patron should not have told a word about that little matter, for though I have all reliance, yes indeed, on Mr. Oldenbuck's prudence and discretion, and his great friendship for Sir Arthur Wardour. Yet my heavens, it is in great ponderous secret. More ponderous than any of the metal we shall make by it, I fear, answered Oldenbuck. That is just as you shall have to faith and to patience for the grand experiment. If you join with Sir Arthur, as he has put in one hundred and fifty, see, here is one fifty in your dirty Fairport banknote. You put one other hundred and fifty into dirty notes, and you shall have to pure gold and silver. I cannot tell how much. Nor anyone for you, I believe, said the antiquary. But argue, Mr. Doster Swivel, suppose without troubling the same sneezing spirit with any farther fumigations, we should go in a body, and having fair daylight and our good consciences to prevent us, using no other conjuring implements than good substantial pickaxes and shovels, fairly trench the area of the chancel and the ruins of St. Ruth, from one end to the other, and so ascertain the existence of this supposed treasure, without putting ourselves to any farther expense. The ruins belong to Sir Arthur himself, so there can be no objection. Do you think we shall succeed in this way of managing the matter? You would not find one copper thimble, but Sir Arthur will do his pleasure, I have showed him how it is possible, very possible, to have the great sum of money for his occasions. I have showed him the real experiment. If he likes not to believe good Mr. Oldenbuck, it is nothing to Hermann Doster Swivel. He only loses the money and the gold and the silvers. That is all. Sir Arthur Warder cast an intimidated glance at Oldenbuck, who especially when present, not was standing there a frequent difference of opinion, no ordinary influence over his sentiments. In truth the baronet felt what he would not willingly have acknowledged, that his genius stood rebut before that of the antiquary. He respected him as a shrewd, penetrating, sarcastic character, feared his satire, and had some confidence in the general soundness of his opinions. He therefore looked at him, as if desiring his leave before indulging in his credulity. Doster Swivel saw he was in danger of losing his dup, unless he could make some favorable impression on the adviser. I know, my good Mr. Oldenbuck, it is one vanity to speak to you about to spirit and a goblin, but look at his curious horn. I know you know the curiosity of all the countries, and how the great Oldenburg horn, as they keep still in the museum at Copenhagen, was given to the Duke of Oldenburg by one female spirit of the wood. Now I would not put one trick on you if I were willing, you who know all the curiosity so well.  If it had been a box or a case, I would have said nothing. Being a horn, said Oldenbuck, does indeed strengthen your argument. It was an implement of nature's fashioning, and therefore much used among rude nations. Although it may be the metaphorical horn is more frequent in proportion to the progress of civilization. And this present horn, he continued, rubbing it upon his sleeve, is a curious and venerable relic, and no doubt was intended to prove a cornucopia, or a horn of plenty, to someone or other. But whether to the adept, or his patron, may be justly doubted. Well, Mr. Oldenbuck, I find you still hard to believe, but let me assure you, do monkish understand a magisterium? Let us leave talking of the magisterium, Mr. Dostoevsky, and think a little about the magistrate. Are you aware that this occupation of yours is against the law of Scotland, and that both Sir Arthur and myself are in the commission of the peace? My heaven! And what is that to the purpose when I am doing you all the good I can? Why, you must know that when the legislature abolished the cruel laws against witchcraft, they had no hope of destroying the superstitious feelings of humanity on which such chimeras had been founded. And to prevent those feelings from being tampered with by artful and designing persons, it is enacted by the ninth of George II, Chapter 5, that whosoever shall pretend by his alleged skill in any occult or crafty science to discover such goods as are lost, stolen, or concealed, he shall suffer punishment, by pillory, and imprisonment, as a common cheat and imposter. It is that the laws, asked Dostoevsky, with some agitation. Thyself shall see the act, replied the antiquary. Then, gentlemen, I shall take my leave of you, that is all. I do not like to stand on your what you call pillory. It is very bad way to take to air, I think, and I do not like your prisons no more, where one cannot take to air at all. As such be your taste, Mr. Dostoevsky swivel, said the antiquary, I advise you to stay where you are, for I cannot let you go, unless it be in the society of a constable. And moreover, I expect you will attend us, just now, to the ruins of St. Ruth, and point out the place where you propose to find this treasure. Might happen, Mr. Oldenbuck, what use is this to your old friend, when I tell you so plain as I can speak, that if you go now, you will not get so much treasure as one poor, shabby sixpence. I will try the experiment, however, and you shall be dealt with according to its success, always with Sir Arthur's permission. Sir Arthur, during this investigation, had looked extremely embarrassed and, to use a vulgar but expressive phrase, chopfallen. Oldenbuck's obstinate disbelief led him strongly to suspect the imposture of Dostoevsky swivel, and the adepts mode of keeping his ground was less resolute than he had expected. Yet he did not entirely give him up. Mr. Oldenbuck, said the Baronet, you do Mr. Dostoevsky swivel less than justice. He has undertaken to make this discovery by the use of his art, and by applying characters descriptive of the intelligences presiding over the planetary hour, in which the experiment is to be made. And you require him to proceed under a pain of punishment without allowing him the use of any of the preliminaries, which he considers as the means of procuring success. I did not say that exactly. I only required him to be present when we make the search, and not to leave us during the interval. I fear he may have some intelligence with the intelligences you talk of, and that whatever may be now hidden in St. Ruth may disappear before we get there. Well, gentlemen's, said Dostoevsky swivel, solemnly, I will make no objections to go along with you, but I tell you beforehand, you shall not find so much of anything as shall be worth your going twenty yard from your own gate. We will put that to a fair trial, said the antiquary, and the Baronet's equipage being ordered, Miss Wardaur received an intimation from her father, that she was to remain at Monk Barns until his return from an airing. The young lady was somewhat at a loss to reconcile this direction with the communication which she supposed must have passed between Sirothar and the antiquary, but she was compelled, for the present, to remain in a most unpleasant state of suspense. The journey of the treasure-seekers was melancholy enough. Mr. Swivel maintained a sulky silence, brooding at once over a disappointed expectation, and the risk of punishment. Sirothar, whose golden dreams had been gradually fading away, surveyed in gloomy prospect, the impending difficulties of his situation, and Old Buck, who perceived that his having so far interfered in his neighbour's affairs, gave the Baronet a right to expect some actual and efficient assistance, sadly pondered to what extent it would be necessary to draw open the strings of his purse. Thus each being wrapped in his own unpleasant ruminations, there was hardly a word set on either side, until they reached the four horseshoes, by which sign the little inn was distinguished. They procured at this place the necessary assistance and implements for digging, and while they were busy about these preparations, were suddenly joined by the old beggar at the oak-tree. The Lord blessed your honour, began the blue-gown, with a genuine, mendicant wine, and long life to you. Will pleased am I to hear the young captainman's tires like to be on his legs again soon.  Ah, old true penny, replied the antiquary. Why, thou has never come to Monk Barn since thy peril is by rock and flood. Here is something for thee to buy snuff. And fumbly in for his purse he pulled out at the same time the horn which enclose the coins. Hi, and there's something to put it in, said the mendicant, I in the ram's horn. That looms an old acquaintance of mine. I could take my eighth to that snichy enmol among a thousand. I carried it for money a year, till I niffered it for this tin and with I aged George Glenn, the dammer and sinker, when he took a fancy to down it Glenn Withershen's yonder. I, indeed, said old buck, so you exchanged it with a minor. But I presume you never saw it so well filled before. When opening it, he showed the coins. Troith! He may swear that, Monk Barns, when it was mine it near had a boon that like a sacks-penny worth of black or apne in it had ines. But I reckon you'll be going to make an antiquate, as ye I done with money and ore a thing besides. Oid! I wish anybody would make an antiquate me. But money I in will find worth in roasted bits of copper and horn and iron. God care uncooled a little about an old Carly, or their own country in kind. You may now guess, said old buck, turning to Sir Arthur, to whose good offices you were indebted the other night. To trace this cornucopia of yours to a minor is bringing it pretty near a friend of ours. I hope we shall be successful this morning without paying for it. And where's your honor's guy in the day? said the mendicant, with eye, ear, picks, and shoes. Oid! This will be some of your tricks, Monk Barns. You'll be for whirling in some of the old monks down by yonder, out of their graves, before they hear the last con. But with your leave, I's fellow ye at only rate, and see what you make ight. The party soon arrived at the ruins of the priory, and having gained the chancel, stood still to consider what course they were to pursue next. The antiquary, meantime, addressed the adept. Pray, Mr. Douser-Swivel, what is your advice in this matter? Shall we have most likelihood of success if we dig from east to west, or from west to east? Or will you assist us with your triangular vial of Maydew, or with your divining rod of which is hazel? Or will you have the goodness to supply us with a few something blustering terms of art, which, if they fail in our present service, may at least be useful to those who have not the happiness to be bachelors, to still their brawling children withal? Mr. Oldenburg said, Douser-Swivel, doggily, I've told you already that you will make no good work at all, and I will find some way of my own to thank you for your civilities to me. Yes, indeed. If your honours are thinking of turning the floor, said Old Eddie, I would but take a poor body's advice. I would begin below that moccostine that has the man there, streak it out upon his back in the mid-stort. I have some reason for thinking favourably of that plan myself, said the Baronet. And I have nothing to say against it, said Old Buck. It was not unusual to hide treasurer in the tombs of the deceased. Many instances might be quoted, of that, from Bartholenus and others. The tombstone, the same beneath which the coins have been found by Sarrathar and the German, was once more forced aside, and the earth gave easy way to the spain. It's travelled earth that, said Eddie. It hikes sky, I see. I can't win it for I in Cyrotus summer with old will win it, the bed-roll, and how could more graves than I in my day? But I left him in winter, for it was uncook hard work. And then it came a green yule, and the folk died thick and fast.  Cy, if I guide him, left will to delve his last dwellings by himself, ready. The diggers were now, so far advanced through the labours, as to discover that the size of the grave, which they were clearing out, had been originally secured by four walls of freestone, forming a parallelogram for the reception probably of the coffin. It is worthwhile, proceeding in our labours, said the antiquary to Sir Arthur, were it but for curiosity's sake.  The arms on the shield, said Sir Arthur, and sighed, as he spoke it, are the same with those on Mysticott's tower, supposed to have been built by Malcolm, the usurper. No man knew where he was buried, and there is an old prophecy in our family, that bodes us no good when his grave shall be discovered. I won't, said the beggar, I've often heard that when I was a barn. If Malcolm's the Mysticott's grave were fun, the lands of Noqunick were lost in one. Old Buck, with his spectacles on his nose, had already knocked down on the monument, and was tracing, partly with his eye, partly with his finger, the moldered devices upon the effigy of the deceased warrior. It is the Noqunick arms, sure enough, he exclaimed, quarterly with the coat of Wardour. Richard, called the red-handed Wardour, married Sybil Noqunick. The heiress of the Saxon family, and by that alliance, said Sir Arthur, brought the castle and the state into the name of Wardour, in the year of God, 1150. Very true, Sir Arthur, and here is the batten sinister, the mark of illegitimacy, extended diagonally through both coats upon the shield. Where can our eyes have been, that they did not see this curious monument before? And I, where is the threistane, that it didn't come before I, tilling you now? said Ogletree. Five ken this eyed-kirk, man and bern, for sixty long years, and I near noticed it before, and it's nice it mold neither, but what I might see it in their parrige. All were now induced to tax their memory, as to the former state of the ruins, in that corner of the chancel, and all agreed in recollecting a considerable pile of rubbish, which must have been removed and spread abroad, in order to make the tomb visible. Sir Arthur might indeed have remembered seeing the monument on the former occasion, but his mind was too much agitated to attend to the circumstance as a novelty. While these cisterns were engaged in these recollections and discussions, the workmen proceeded with their labour. They had already dug to the depth of nearly five feet, and as the flinging out the soil became more and more difficult, they began at length to tire of the job. We're down to the till now, said one of them, and the nearer coffin, or anything else is here, some conventure child's been a-four us, I reckon, and the labourer scrambled out of the grave. Ho-chlad! said Eddie, getting down in his room, let me try my hand for an eyed bedroon. You're good seekers, but you're finders. As soon as he got into the grave, he struck his pike staff forcibly down, and encountered resistance in its dissent, and the beggar exclaimed, like a Scotch schoolboy, when he finds anything. Night-headers and quarters, hi to my nine and nine to my neighbours! Everybody from the dejected baronet to the solemn adept, now caught the spirit of curiosity, crowded round the grave, and would have jumped into it, could its space have contained them. The labourers, who had begun to flag in their monotonous and apparently hopeless task, now resumed their tools, and plied them with all the ardour of expectation. Their shovels soon grated upon a hard wooden surface, which, as the earth was cleared away, assumed the distinct form of a chest, but greatly smaller than that of a coffin. Now all hands were at work, to heave it out of the grave, and all voices, as it was raised, proclaimed its weight and augured its value. They were not mistaken. When the chest or box was placed on the surface, and the lid forced up by a pickaxe, there was displayed first a coarse canvas cover, thin a quantity of oakum, and beneath that a number of ingots of silver. A general exclamation hailed a discovery so surprising and unexpected. The baronet threw his hands and eyes up to heaven, with a silent rapture of one who was delivered from inexpressible distress of mine. Old Buck, almost unable to credit his eyes, lifted one piece of silver after another. There was neither inscription nor stamp upon them, excepting one, which seemed to be Spanish. He could have no doubt of the purity and great value of the treasure before him. Still, however, removing piece by piece, he examined row by row, expecting to discover that the lower layers were of inferior value. But he could perceive no difference in this respect, and found himself compelled to admit that Sir Arthur had possessed himself of bullion to the value, perhaps of a thousand pounds sterling. Sir Arthur now promised the assistants a handsome recompense for their trouble, and began to busy himself about the mode of conveying this rich windfall to the castle of Nockwinnock, when the adept, recovering from his surprise, which had equaled that exhibited by any other individual of the party, twitched his sleeve and, having offered his humble congratulations, turned next to Old Buck with an air of triumph. I did tell you, my good friend Mr. Old Buck, that I was to seek opportunity to thank you for your civility. Now do not think I have found out. Very good way to return thank. Why, Mr. Douser-Sivill, do you pretend to have had any hand in our good success? You forget you refused us all aid of your science man, and you are here without your weapons that should have fought the battle, which you pretend to have gained in our behalf. You have used either charm, layman, sigil, talisman, spell, crystal, pentacle, magic mirror, nor geomantic figure. Where be your periaps and your apricot-abbers, man? Your mayfair and your vervein.    Ah! Rare Ben Johnson, long peace to thy ashes for a scourge of the quacks of the day. Who expected to see them revive in our own? The answer of the adept to the antiquary's tirade we must defer to our next chapter. End chapter second. Volume two, chapter third, of the antiquary. Thisly Revox recording is in the public domain. The antiquary, by Sir Walter Scott. Chapter third. Claws. You now shall know the king of the beggar's treasure. Yes, ere to-morrow you shall find your harbour here. Fail me not, for if I live, I'll fit you. The beggar's bush. The German determined, it would seem, to assert the vantage ground on which the discovery had placed him, replied with great pomp and statelyness to the attack of the antiquary. Maestro Oldenbach, all this may be very witty in comedy, but I have nothing to say, nothing at all, to people that will not believe their own eyesight. It is very true that I have not any of these things of the art, and it makes no more wonder what I had done to stay. But I would ask of you, my non-earned and good and generous patron, to put your hand into your right hand waistcoat pocket, and show me what you shall find there. Sir Arthur obeyed his direction, and pulled out the small plate of silver, which he had used under the adepts auspices, upon the former occasion. It is very true, said Sir Arthur, looking gravely at the antiquary. This is the graduated and calculated sigil, by which Mr. D'Auster Swivel and I regulated our first discovery. Shaw, my dear friend, said Oldenbach, you are too wise to believe in the influence of a trumperey, crownpiece, beat out thin, and a parcel of scratches upon it. I tell thee, Sir Arthur, that if D'Auster Swivel had known where to get this treasure himself, you would not have been lured of the least share of it. In truth, please, your honour, said Eddie, who put in his word on all occasions. I think since Mr. D'Auster Swivel had signed Mucklin Mariton discovering either gear, the least she can do is to guide him, that of that that is left behind for his labour. For doubtless that Ken were to find Saim Muckle, will I now difficulty to find my. D'Auster Swivel's brow grew very dark at this proposal, of leaving him to his eyeing purchase, as Oakletree expressed it. But the beggar, drawing him aside, whispered a word or two in his ear, to which he seemed to give serious attention. Even while Sir Arthur, his heart warm with his good fortune, said aloud, Never mind our friend Muck Barnes, Mr. D'Auster Swivel, but come to the castle to-morrow, and I'll convince you that I am not ungrateful for the hints you have given me about this matter. And the fifty fair report, dirty notes, as you call them, are hardly at your service. Come, my lads, get the cover of this precious chest fastened up again. But the cover had in the confusion fallen aside among the rubbish, or the loose earth, which had been removed from the grave. In short, it was not to be seen. Never mind, my good lads, tie the tarplin over it and get it away to the carriage. Muck Barnes, will you walk? I must go back your way to take up Miss Wardor. And I hope to take up your dinner also, Sir Arthur, and drink a glass of wine for joy of our happy adventure. Besides, you should write about the business to the extrequer, in case of any interference on the part of the crown. As you are Lord of the Manor, it will be easy to get a deed of gift, should they make any claim. We must talk about it, though. And I particularly recommend silence to all who are present, said Sir Arthur, looking round, all bowed and profess themselves dumb. Why, as to that, said Muck Barnes, recommending secrecy where a dozen of people are acquainted, with the circumstance to be concealed, is only putting the truth in masquerade, for the story will be circulated under twenty different shapes. But never mind, we will state the true one to the barons, and that is all that is necessary. I inclined to send off an express tonight, said the baronet. I recommend your honour to assure a hand, said Ocaltree, little Davy, male-sitter, and the butcher's rice-steen pony. We will talk over the matter as we go to Muck Barnes, said Sir Arthur. My lads, to the work people, come with me to the four horseshoes that I may take down all your names. Doubters will. I won't ask you to go down to Muck Barnes, as the Laird and you differ so widely in opinion. But do not fail to come to see me tomorrow. Dahlster Swivel growled on an answer, in which the words duty, mine honoured patron, and weight upon Sir Arthur's, were alone distinguishable. And after the baronet and his friend had left the ruins, followed by the servants and the workmen, who in hope of reward and whisky joyfully attended their leader. The adept remained in a brown study by the side of the open grave. Who was it, as could have thought this? He ejaculated, unconsciously. Mine highly kite. I have heard of such things, and often spoken of such things, but sappermint. I never thought to see them. And if I had gone, but two were three feet deeper down in the earth. Mine himel. It had been all mine own, so much more as I have been muddling about to get from this fool's man. Here the German ceased his soliloquy for raising his eyes. He encountered those of Eddie Ocultry, who had not followed the rest of the company, but resting as usual on his pike staff, had planted himself on the other side of the grave. The features of the old man, naturally shrewd and expressive, almost to an appearance of neighbouring, seemed in this instant so keenly knowing that even the assurance of doucher swivel, though a professed adventurer, sunk beneath their glances. But he saw the necessity of an eclairism and rallying his spirits, instantly began to sound the mendicant on the occurrences of the day. Good meister, Eddie's Ocultries. Eddie Ocultry, my meister, your prayer, Weedsman and the Kings, answered the blue gown. Well done, good Eddie, what do you think of all this? I was just thinking it was very kind, for I dare not say very simple, of your honour to guide the twice-riched gentles, why high lands and layered ships and silver without end, this grand pose of silver and treasure, three times tried in the fire, as the scripture expresses it, that might have made your cell and only twar or three honest bodies beside, as happy and content as the day was lying. Indeed, Eddie, my knownest friends, that is very true, only I did not know that is, I was not sure, where to find the girl to myself. What, was it not by your honour's advice and counsel that Monk Barnes and the knight Anarchoonic came here then? Ah, yes, but it was by another circumstance. I did not know that they would have found a treasure, my friend, though I did guess by such a tintamari and cough and sneeze and groan among the spirit one other night here, that there might be treasure and bullion here about. Ah, mine hemel, the spirit will hone and groan over his gelt, as if he were a Dutch burgomaster, counting his dollars after a great dinner at the Stadthaus. And do you really believe that, like that, Mr. Duster Divel, askew for a man like you, vote free? Mind friend, answered the adept, forced by circumstances to speak something nearer the truth than he generally used to do. I believed it no more than you and no man at all, till I did hear them hone and moan and groan myself on deodorant, until this day I did see the cause, which was on great chest, all full of deodorant silver from Mexico. And what would you have, I think, then? And what would you guide, I mean, said the thee, that would help you to seek another kissful of silver? Give, mine hemel, one great big quarter of it. Now, if the secret were mine, said the mendicant, I would stand out for half, for you see, though I am but a poor ragged body and couldn't a carrier silver were going to sell for fear of being taken up. Yet I could find money folk would pass it away for me at uncoumuckel easier profit than you're thinking on. Ike, hemel, mine good friend, what was it I said? I did mean to say you should have to trade quarter part for your half, and the one quarter to be my fair half.  We will divide equally what we find, like brother and brother. Now, look at this board that I just flung into the dark, I allowed, out of the way. While Monk Barnes was glowing, over on the silver yonder, he's a sharp child in Monk Barnes, how he's glad to keep the leg of this out, out of his sight. You maybe can read the character better than me. I'm now that book learned, and at least, I'm now that muckled in practice. With this modest declaration of ignorance, Ogletree brought forth from behind a pillar the cover of the box or chest of treasure, which when forced from its hinges, had been carelessly flung aside during the ardor of curiosity, to ascertain the contents which it concealed, and had been afterwards, as it seems, secreted by the mendicant. There was a word and a number upon the plank, and the beggar made them more distinct by spitting upon his ragged blue handkerchief, and rubbing off the clay by which the inscription was obscured. It was in the ordinary black letter. Can you make out it? Said Eddie to the adept. S, said the philosopher, like a child giving his lesson in the primer. S-T-A-R-C-H. S-T-R-C-H. That is what the woman-washers put into the neck-artures and the shirt-collar. S-T-R-C-H. Echoed Ogletree.  It's S-R-C-H, man, S-R-C-H. See, there's the yee-clearin' distinct. Ah, I see it now. It is S-R-C-H. Number one. Mine Himmel. Then there must be a number two. Mine good friend. For search is what you call to seek and dig, and this is but number one. Mine wort. There's one great big prize in the wheel for us, good M-I-S-T-O-R-O-C-O-T-R-E. I wheel it, maybe say, but we could not hook for it now. We are nigh-shoes. Were they I'd taken them away? And it's like some of them will be sent back to fling the earth into the hold and make I-things tricky in. But in you sit down with me or while in the wood, I satisfy your honor, that ye I just lighted on the only man in the country that could I told about Malcolm Wisticott and his hidden treasure. But first we'll rub out the letters on this board for fear tell tears. And by the assistance of his knife, the beggar erased and defaced the characters so as to make them quite unintelligible, and then dob the board with clay so as to obliterate all traces of the erasure. Dostro Swivel stared at him in ambiguous silence. There was an intelligence and alacrity about all the old man's movements, which indicated a person that could not be easily over-reached. And yet, for even rogues acknowledge in some degree the spirit of precedence, our adept felt the disgrace of playing a secondary part and dividing winnings with so mean and associate. His appetite for gain, however, was sufficiently sharp to overpower his offended pride, and though far more an imposter than a dupe, he was not without a certain degree of personal faith, even in the gross superstitions by means of which he imposed upon others. Still, being accustomed to act as a leader on such occasions, he felt humiliated at feeling himself in the situation of a vulture marshaled to his prey by a carrion crow. Let me, however, hear this story to an end, thought Dostro Swivel, and it will be hard if I do not make mine account in it. Better as master any ochre trees makes proposes. The adept, thus transformed into a pupil from a teacher of the mystic art, followed ochre tree in passive acquiescence to the priors oak, a spot as the reader may remember at a short distance from the ruins. Where the Germans sat down, and silence, waited the old man's communication.  But now a matter, you may be sure it was clattered about in the kitchen, like anything else in a great house, though it were forbidden in the high. Hence I heard the circumstance rehearsed by old servants in the family, and in their prison days, when things that eyeworld sort of arrayed a capet in mind round winter firesides as they used to be. I question if there's anybody in the country can tell the tale about myself. I outtaken the layer though, for there's a parchment-book about it, as I heard, in the charter-room at Nocunic Castle. Well, all that is very well, but get you on with your stories, my good friend, said Dostor Snivel. How ere ye see, continued the mendicant. This was a job in the old times, a rugged and reaving through the high country, when it was alike, iron for himself, and gold for his eye. When I men wanted property if he had strength to take it, or had it langer, then he had power to keep it. It was just he or her, and she or him, whichever could win up most. I threw the east country here, and I doubt through the rest of Scotland, in the south in same manner. Sign these days to Richard Wardour came into the land, and that was the first of the name ever was in this country. There's been money in them since sighing, the mice, like him, they cied hand in harness, and the rest of them are sleeping down in yon ruins. They were proud, dour sediment, but uncoup brave, and I stood up for the wheel of the country. God, sign the mine. There's no muckle-pulpery in that wish. They'd called them the Norman Wardours, though they came from the south to this country. So they searched that they called Red Hand, and they drew up with the old Nocwinnick either day. For then there were Nocwinnicks of that ilk, and would find Mary his only daughter, that wish to have the castle and the land. Leith Leith was the last. Subo Nocwinnick, they'd called her, that told me the tale. Leith Leith, was she the guy into the march, for she'd find a wee or thick with a cousin of her own, that her father had some ill will too. Ancide was, that after she'd been married to Sir Richard Jimp four months, for marry him shaman it's like. You no hinder her, gying them a present of a only money-nave Baron. Then there was a sickenin' like Hythrow, and as a like was never seen, and she's be burnt, and he's be slain, was the best words of their mouths. But it was always saluted up again, Samgate, and the Baron was sent away. And bred up near the highlands, and grew up to be a fine one or fellow, like Monion that's come out the wrong side of the blanket. And Sir Richard with the red hand, he had a fair offspring, eye his own, and all was loud and quiet, till his head was laid in the ground. But then down came Malcolm Mysticott, Sir Arthur says, it should be misbegot, but the eye kind him Mysticott, that spoke at long sign. Down came this Malcolm, the love begot, by Glen Isla, with a stringer, long legged highlanders at his heels, that's eye ready for anybody's mischief, and he threeps the castle in the hands, eye his eyeing as his mother's at his son, and turns eye the waters out to the hill. There's a sort of fighting and blood spilling about it, for the gentles took different sides. But Malcolm had the uppermost for a long time, kept at the castle in Okwinich, and strengthened it, and built that Mokotower, that the guy Mysticott's tower to this day. My good friend, old Mr. Eddie Ogletree, interrupted the German. This is all as one like the long histories of a baron of sixteen quarters in mine countries, but I would as rather hear of the silver and gold. Where you see, continued the mendicant. This Malcolm was wheeled helped by Mokot, a brother of his father's, that was prior St. Ruth here, and Mokotreasure they gathered between them to secure the succession of their house in the lands of Okwinich. Folk said that the monks in thy days had the art of multiplying metals. At only rate, they were very rich. Alas, they came to this, that the young wardar, that was Redhand's son, challenged Mysticott to fight with him in the this, as they guided. That's no lister, Taylor's runes, and salvages a clife, but a palanthing. They set up for them to fight in, like Gamecocks, who wheeled, Mysticott was beaten, and at his brother's mercy, but he wouldn't touch his life for the blood of Nockwinich, that was in bite their veins. So Malcolm was compelled to turn a monk, and he died soon after in the priory of pure disfighting fixation. Neither he ever kind, whereas uncle the priory aired him, or what he did with his guide in silver, for a student on the writer, Hailey Kirkin, would guide no account to anybody. But the prophecy got abroad in the country, that whenever Mysticott's grave was found out, the estate of Nockwinich should be lost and won. Ah, my good old friend, Maester Eddie, and that is not so very unlikely if Sir Arthur's will quarrel with his good friends to please Mr. Oldenbuck. And so you do think that discolors and silvers belonged to good Mr. Malcolm, Mysticott. Truth, do I, Mr. Arthur Diven? And you do believe that there is more of that sorts behind? Why, my sirty, do I? How could it be otherwise? Search, number one. That is a mock-alance to say. Searching, you'll find, number two. Besides, young Cassus only silvered, I heard that Mysticott's pose had mock-al yellow gold in it. Then, my good friends, said the adept, jumping up hastily, why do we not set about our little job directly? For try good reasons, answered the beggar, who quietly kept his sitting posture. First, because, as I said before, we had nothing to dig with, for they had taken away the picks and shoes, and secondly, because there would be a wean, I-lo-gokes coming to Glower, at the hole, as long as it's daylight, and maybe the lion may send somebody to fill it up. In any way, we would be catched. But if you will meet me on this place, at twelve o'clock, with a dark lantern, I, like, choose ready, and will gine quietly about our job, our twice-sales, and night-buddy, the wiser fort. Be, be what my good friend, said Doster Swivel, from whose recollection his former nocturnal adventure was not to be altogether erased, even by the splendid hobes which Eddie's narrative held forth. It is not so good, or so safe, to be about good master Mischty Gott's grab at that time of night, yet I forgot how I told you the spirits did hone and moan there. I do assure you, there is disturbance there. If you're afraid of ice, answer the mendicant coolly, I'll do the job myself, and bring your share of the cillar to any place you'd like to appoint. No, no, my excellent old, Mr. Eddie, too much trouble for you, I will not have that. I will come myself, and it will be better most.   It's like Daddy meant I should be his heirs, so it would not be civility in me not to come myself for my inheritance. I twirled a clock, then, said the mendicant, we meet under this tree, I'll watch for a while, and see that I, ready, meddles with the grave. It's only saying the lards forbade it. Then get my bit supper, fry ringin' the pointer up by, and leave to sleep in his barn, and I'll slip out at night, and near be missed. Do so, my good master Eddie, and I will meet you here on this very place, though all the spirits should moan and sneeze their very brains out. So saying, he shook hands with the old men, and with this mutual pledge of fidelity to their appointment, they separated for the present. The night set in stormy, with wind and occasional showers of rain. Ae, sirs, said the old mendicant, as he took his place on the sheltered side of the large oak tree, to wait for his associate. Ae, sirs, but human nature is a willful of life, and it's not a good thing to do, and it's not a good thing to do, and it's not a good thing to do, and it's not a good thing to do, and it's not a good thing to do, Hey, sirs, but human nature is a willful and willy-ard thing. Is it not an uncool lucra, or gain, would bring this stoush to dable, out in a blast of wind, like this, at twilight clock at night, to thoroughwild, gieusty wise? And I'm not, I have bigger food than myself to buy it here waiting for him. Have he made these sage reflections? He racked himself clothes in his cloak, and fixed his eye on the moon as she waited amid the stormy and dusky clouds, which the wind from time to time drove across her surface. The melancholy and uncertain gleams that she shot from between the passing shadows fell full upon the rifted arches and shafted windows of the old building, which were thus, for an instant, made distinctly visible in their ruinous state, and none became a dark, undistinguished and shadowy mass. The little lake had its share of these transient beams of light, and showed its waters broken, whitened, and agitated under the passing storm, which, when the clouds swept over the moon, were only distinguished by their sullen and murmuring plash against the beach. The wooded glen repeated to every successive gust that hurried through its narrow trough, the deep and various groan, with which the trees replied to the whirlwind, and the sound sunk again, as the blast passed away, into a feign and passing murmur, resembling the size of an exhausted criminal after the first pangs of his torture are over. In these sounds, superstition might have found ample gratification for that state of excited terror which he fears and yet loves. But such feeling is made no part of Oakle Tree's composition. His mind wandered back to the scenes of his youth. I kept guard on the outposts, Spythe in Germany and America, he said to himself, in Monio war night than this, and when I kent there was maybe a dozen other riflemen in the thicket before me. But I was eye-gleg at my duty, nobody ever catched Eddie sleeping. As he muttered thus to himself, he instinctively shouldered his trusty pike-staff, assumed the port of a sentinel on duty, and as a step advanced towards the tree, called with atone, assorting better with his military reminiscences than his present state. Stand! Who goes there? To devil, good Eddie, answered Dausterswivel, why does you speak so loud as a barren houter, or what you call a factionary? I mean a sentinel. Just because I thought you was a sentinel at that moment, answered the mendicant, here's an awesome night. How you brought the lantern and a poke for the sitter? I, I, my good friend, said the German, here it is, my pair of what you call saddle-bag, one side will be for you, one side for me. I will put them on my horse, to save you to trouble, as you are, old man. Have you a horse, then? asked Eddie Ocultry. Oh, yes, my friend, Tideyonder, by de style, responded the adept. Weird, I just, I, were to the bargain, there's a nine of my gear gang on your beast-back. What was it, as you would be afraid of? said the foreigner. Only of losing sight of horse-man, and money, again replied the garballonsy. Does you know that you make one gentleman's out to be one great rogue? Money-gentlemen, replied Ocultry, can make that out for themselves. But what's the sense of quarreling? If you want to gang on, gang on. If no, I'll guide back to the good-igh-strawing mignonike-woods-burn that I left with, might he'll really know, and I'll pick back the pick and shul, where I got them. Dostro Swivel deliberated a moment, whether by suffering Eddie to depart, he might not secure the whole of the expected wealth for his own exclusive use. But the want of digging implements, the uncertainty whether, if he had them, he could clear out the grave to a sufficient depth without assistance, and, above all, the reluctance which he felt, owing to the experience of the former knight, to venture alone on the terrors of Mysticott's grave, satisfied him the attempt would be hazardous, endeavouring, therefore, to assume his usual cajoling-tone, though internally incensed, he begged. His good friend, Meister Eddie Ocultry's, would lead the way, and assured him of his acquiescence an all such an excellent friend could propose. Howe'er, howe'er, then, said Eddie, take good care of your feet among the lying grass and the loose stones, I wish you may get the light to keep it in nice, with this fearsome wind. But there's a blink of moonlight at times, thus saying, old Eddie, closely accompanied by the adept, led the way towards the ruins, but presently made a full halt in front of them.  Now, will you tell me, I think, do you believe in guise and spirits that walk the earth? Do you believe in them, I or no? Now, good Mr. Eddie, whispered Duster Swivel, in an expostulatory tone of voice. Is this the times where our place is for such a questions? Indeed is it. By the tine and the tother, Mr. Duster and Swivel, from unfairly tell ye, there's reports that old Mr. Code walks. Now, this would be an uncony night to meet him in, and why, kins, if ye would be o'er well pleased with our purpose of visiting his pose. All look good in geister, mucher the adept. The rest of their conjuration, being lost in a tremulous warble of his voice, I do urge you not to speak so, Mr. Eddie, for, from all I heard at one other night, I do much believes. Now, I, said Ocultry, entering the chancel, and flinging abroad his arm with an air of defiance. I wouldn't a guy the crack of my thumb for him were he to appear at this moment. He's but a disembodied spirit, as we are in body-lines. For the loaf of heavens, said Duster Swivel, say nothing at all neither about somebodies or nobodies. I will, said the beggar, expanding the shade of the lantern. Here's the stine, and spirit for no spirit, I'd be a wee bit deeper in the grave. And he jumped into the place, from which the precious chest had that morning been removed. After striking a few strokes, he tired, or affected the tire, and said to his companion, I'm old and failed now, and kind of keep at it. Time about fair play, neighbour.  Then I'll talk turn about with you. Duster Swivel, accordingly, took the place which the beggar had evacuated, and toiled with all the zeal that awakened Averus, mingled with the anxious wish to finish the undertaking, and leave the place as soon as possible, could inspire in a mind at once greedy, suspicious, and timorous. Eddie, standing much at his ease by the side of the hole, contented himself with exhorting his associate to labour hard. My sirty, if you ever rot for seconds a day's wage, and it be but, say, the tenth part of the size, or the quiest, no, I, it will double its value, be in field to guide, instead of silver. Heud, you work as if ye had been bred to pick and shawl, you could win your round half count, Elkaday.  Given a kick to a large one, which the adept had heaved out with difficulty, and which Eddie pushed back again to the great annoyance of his associate's shins. Thus exhorted by the mendicant, Duster Swivel struggled and laboured among the stones and stiff clay, toiling like a horse, and, internally, blaspheming in German. When such an unhallowed syllable escaped his lobes, Eddie changed his battery upon him. Oh, dinner's swear, dinner's swear! What kinswise listening? Aye. Oi, gud gud es! What's yon? Hoyt, it's just a branch of ivy, flitterin' away, for the way, when the moon was in, it looked uncool like a dead man's arm with a taper in it. I thought it was Mr. Kondimsel. But never mind, work ye away, fling the earth wail up, buy out to the gate. Hoyt, if ye know as clean a worker at a grave as when winnetimsel, what guys ye start now? You're just at the very bit for a chance. Stop! said the German, in a tone of anger and disappointment. Why? I'm down at the rocks that did cursed ruins, God forgive me, is founded upon. We're, said the beggar, that's a legliest bit of money. It will be bought a muckl through stein, lay down to cover the gold. Take the pick, tid it, and pit my strength, men. Hi, gud! Downright devil of spritz it, I's warn't ye? Hi! That will do it. He comes on with wile as his strikes. In fact, the adept, moved by Eddie's exhortations, fetched two or three desperate blows, and succeeded in breaking, not indeed that against which he struck, which, as he had already conjectured, was the solid rock, but the implement which he wielded, drawing at the same time his arms up to the shoulder-blades. Hurrah, boys, there goes Ringen's pickaxe, cried Eddie, it's a shame why the Fairport folk to sell sick and frail gear. Try the shul, at it again, Mr. Dr. Divan. The adept, without reply, scrambled out of the pit, which was now about six feet deep, and addressed his associate in a voice that trembled with anger.  Riley, Mr. Dr. Divan, brahly do I ken ye, and I was done money a day, but there's not just an indication, for I'm wearing, to see I our treasures. We should hide by thins of the pock-menky filled by this time. I hope it's broke enough to hoi-dai the gear.  If you do put another jest upon me, I will cleave your skull-piece with the shovels. And where would my hens and my pike-staffs be at the time? Why, Daddy, in a tone that indicated no apprehension, hoi-toit, Mr. Dr. Divan, I hide in the neb-sai-lang in the world neither, to be shoaled out to the gate. Would I ask you to be a kanker and man, with your friends? I'll wager I'll find out the treasure in a minute. And he jumped into the pit, and took up the spade.  Here to him now, said Ogletree. He cans how to gar-folk find out the gear. Hoid, I'm thinking he's been drew that way himself some day. At this insinuation, which alluded obviously to the former seam betwixt himself and Sir Arthur, the philosopher lost the slender remnant of patience he had left, and being of violent passions, heaved up the truncheon of the broken maddock to discharge it upon the old man's head. The blowwood in all probability have been fatal, and not he at whom it was aimed, exclaimed in a stern and firm voice, shamed he a man, do you think heaven or earth will suffer yet a murder in old man that might be your father? Look behind you, man. Mr. Swivel turned instinctively, and beheld to his utter astonishment a tall dark figure standing close behind him. The apparition gave him no time to proceed by exorcism or otherwise, but having instantly recourse to the Bois-de-Faye, took measure of the adept shoulders three or four times, with blows so substantial, that he fell under the weight of them, and remained senseless for some minutes, between fear and stupefaction. When he came to himself he was alone in the ruined chancel, lying upon the soft and damp earth which had been thrown out of Mr. Cott's grave. He raised himself with a confused sensation of anger, pain, and terror, and it was not until he had sat upright for some minutes that he could arrange his idea sufficiently to recollect how he came there or with what purpose. As his recollection returned, he could have little doubt that the bait held out to him by occultry to bring him to that solitary spot, the sarcasms by which he had provoked him into a quarrel, and the ready assistance which he had had at hand for terminating it in the manner in which it had ended, were all parts of a concerted plan to bring disgrace and damage on Herman Duster Swivel. He could hardly suppose that he was indebted for the fatigue, anxiety, and beating which he had undergone, purely to the malice of Eddie Occultry singly, but concluded that the mendicant had acted apart assigned to him by some person of greater importance. His suspicions hesitated between Old Buck and Sir Arthur Wardor. The former had been at no pains to conceal a marked dislike of him, but the latter he had deeply injured, and although he judged that Sir Arthur did not know the extent of his wrongs towards him, yet it was easy to suppose he had gathered enough of the truth to make him desirous of revenge. Occultry had alluded to at least one circumstance which the adept had every reason to suppose was private between Sir Arthur and himself, and therefore must have been learned from the former. The language of Old Buck also intimated a conviction of his neighbouring, which Sir Arthur heard without making any animated defence. Lastly, the way in which Duster Swivel supposed the baronet to have exercised his revenge was not inconsistent with the practice of other countries with which the adept was better acquainted than with those of North Britain. With him, as with many bad men, to suspect an injury and to nourish the purpose of revenge was one in the same movement.  But although a purpose of revenge floated through his brain, it was no time to indulge such speculations. The hour, the place, his own situation, and perhaps the presence or near neighbourhood of his assailants, made self-preservation the adepts first object. The lantern had been thrown down and extinguished in the scuffle. The wind, which formally howled so loudly through the aisles of the ruin, had now greatly fallen, lulled by the rain, which was descending very fast. The moon from the same cause was totally obscured, and though Duster Swivel had some experience of the ruins, and knew that he must endeavour to regain the eastern door of the chancel, yet the confusion of his ideas was such that he hesitated for some time, ere he could ascertain in what direction he was to seek it. In this perplexity the suggestions of superstition, taking the advantage of darkness and his evil conscience, began again to present themselves to his disturbed imagination. But, bah, quoth he, valiantly to himself, it is all nonsense, all one part of the damn big trick in imposture, devil, that one thick, scald, scotch baronet, as I have led by the nose for five years, should cheat Hermann Duster Swivel. As he had come to this conclusion, an incident occurred, which tended greatly to shake the grounds on which he had adopted it. Amid the melancholy cell of the dying wind, and the plash of the raindrops, on leaves and stones, arose, and apparently at no great distance from the listener, a strain of vocal music so sad and solemn, as if the departed spirits of the churchmen who had once inhabited these deserted ruins, were mourning the solitude and desolation to which their hallowed precincts had been abandoned. Duster Swivel, who had now got upon his feet, and was groping around the wall of the chancel, stood rooted to the ground on the occurrence of this new phenomenon, each faculty of his soul, seemed for the moment concerted in the sense of hearing, and all rushed back with the unanimous information that the deep, wild and prolonged chant which he now heard was the appropriate music of one of the most solemn dirges of the Church of Rome. Why performed in such a solitude, and by what class of choristers, were questions which the terrified imagination of the adept, stirred with all the German superstitions of nixies, oak-kings, werewolves, hobgoblins, black spirits and white blue spirits, and gray, durst not even attempt to solve. Another of his senses was soon engaged in the investigation. At the extremity of one of the transeps of the Church, at the bottom of a few descending steps, was a small iron-graded door, opening, as far as he recollected, to a sort of low vault or sacristy. As he cast his eye in the direction of the sound, he observed a strong reflection of red light glimmering through these bars, and against the steps which descended to them. Dostoevsky stood a moment, uncertain what to do, then suddenly forming a desperate resolution, he moved down the aisle to the place from which the light proceeded. Fortified, with the sign of the cross, and as many exorcisms as his memory could recover, he advanced to the grate, from which unseen he could see what passed in the interior of the vault. As he approached with timid and uncertain steps, the chant, after one or two wild and prolonged cadences, died away into profound silence. The grate, when he reached it, presented a singular spectacle in the interior of the sacristy, an open grave, with four tall flambos, each about six feet high, placed at the four corners, a beer having a corpse in its shroud, the arms folded upon the breast, rested upon trestles at one side of the grave, as if ready to be interred, a priest dressed in his cope and stole, held open the surface book, another churchman in his vestments, bore a holy water sprinkler, and two boys in white surpluses, held censors with incense, a man of a figure once tall and commanding, but now bent with age or infirmity, stood alone and nearest to the coffin, attired in deep mourning, such were the most prominent figures of the group. At a little distance were two or three persons of both sexes, attired in long mourning hoods and cloaks, and five or six others in the same legubria stress, still farther removed from the body, around the walls of the vault, stood ranged in motionless order, each bearing in his hand a huge torch of black wax. The smoky light from so many flambos, by the red and indistinct atmosphere which had spread around, gave a hazy dubious and, as it were, phantom-like appearance to the outlines of this singular apparition. The voice of the priest, loud, clear, and sonorous, now recited from the breviary which he held in his hand, those solemn words which the ritual of the Catholic Church has concentrated to the rendering of dust to dust. Meanwhile, a duster swivel, the place, the hour, and the surprise considered, still remained uncertain whether what he saw was substantial or an unearthly representation of the rights to which, in former times, these walls were familiar, but which are now rarely practiced in protestant countries, and almost never in Scotland. He was uncertain whether to abide the conclusion of the ceremony or to endeavor to regain the chancell when a change in his position made him visible through the grate to one of the attendant mourners. The person who first aspired him indicated his discovery to the individual who stood apart and nears the coffin. By a sign and, upon his making a sign and reply, two of the group detached themselves and glided along with noiseless steps, as if fearing to disturb the service, unlocked and opened the grate which separated them from the adept. Each took him by an arm and, exerting a degree of force, which he would have been incapable of resisting, had his fear permitted him to attempt opposition. They placed him on the ground in the chancell, and sat down, one on each side of him, as if to detain him. Satisfied he was in the power of mortals like himself, the adept would have put some questions to them, but while one pointed to the vault, from which the sound of the priest's voice was distinctly heard, the other placed his finger upon his lips in token of silence, a hint which the German thought it most prudent to obey. And thus they detained him, until aloud, alleluia, peeling through the deserted arches of St. Ruth, closed the singular ceremony which had had been his fortune to witness. When the hymn had died away with all its echoes, the voice of one of the sable personages, under whose guard the adept had remained, said in a familiar tone in dialect, Dear sirs, Mr. Dostrozovo, is this you? Could not you have let us can, and you had wussed till I had been present at the ceremony? My lord, could not take it well, your common blinkin' and jinkin' in, in that fashion. In the name of all deadest goodness, tell me what you are? Interrupted the German in his turn. What am I? Why, what should I be but ring an Ike wood, the noquenic pointer? What are you doin' here at this time of night, unless you were come to attend the ladies' burial?  Robbed? Why would you seek a deed here? Murdered? What do you speak, pretty blithe for a murdered man? Put in fear. What put she in fear, Mr. Dostrozovo? I will tell you, myster pointer, Ike wood-ringin', just that old, mis-great dog, villain blue-gown, as you call, Eddie-oakle-trees. Hadn't everybody that answered ringin', had he was kind to me, and my father before me, for a true, loyal, and such fast man, and more right-woken, he's sleepin' up yonder in our barn, and has been since ten and even. I touch you what you like, Mr. Dostrozovo, and whether anybody touched you or not, I'm sure Eddie's sackless. Master ringin' Ike wood-pointers, I do not know what you call sackless, but let alone all the oils and soot that you say he has, and I will tell you I was this night robbed of fifty pounds by your oil and sooty friend, Eddie-oakle-trees. And he is no more in your barn even now, than I ever shall be, in the kingdom of heaven. Here, sir, if you will guide up with me, as a burial-company is dispersed, we's make you down a bed at the lodge, and we see if Eddie is at the barn. There was twy wild-lookin' chaps left the old Kirk when we were comin' up with the corpse, that certain, had the priest, who I like zeal that, only heretics should look on at our church ceremonies, sent twy the writing-solies after them, so we heal alibatsis from them. Thus-weeking, the kindly apparition, with the assistance of the mute personage, who was a son, disencombered himself of his cloak, and prepared to his court douser-sovil to the place of that rest, which he adept so much need in. I will apply to the magistrates to-morrow, said the adept, order, I will have the law put in force against all the peoples. While he thus muttered vengeance against the cause of his injury, he tottered from among the ruins, supporting himself on Ringin and his son, whose assistance his state of weakness rendered very necessary. When they were clear of the priory, and had gained little meadow in which it stands, douser-sovil could perceive the torches which had caused him so much alarm, issuing in a regular procession from the ruins, and glancing their light, like that of the Ignis Fatuis, on the banks of the lake. After moving along the path for some short space, with a fluctuating and a regular motion, the lights were at once extinguished. We I put out the torches at the Highly Cross, well on sick occasions, said the forester to his guest. And accordingly, no farther visible sign of the procession offered itself to douser-sovil, although his ear could catch the distant and decreasing echo of horses hooves in the direction towards which the mourners had bent their course. End Chapter 4 Volume 2, Chapter 5 of The Antiquary This labour-box recording is in the public domain. The Antiquary by Sir Walter Scott. Chapter 5 Who will may the boaty row, and better may she speed, and wheel may the boaty row, that earns the Barney's brain? The boaty rows, the boaty rows, the boaty rows will wean, and nightsome be their life that bear, the Merlin and the Crean. Old Balan We must now introduce our reader to the interior of the Fisher's Cottage, mentioned in Chapter 11 of this edifying history. I wish you could say that its inside was well arranged, decently furnished, or tolerably clean. On the contrary, I am compelled to admit there was confusion, there was dilapidation, there was dirt, good store. Yet with all this, there was about the inmates, lucky Mucklebacket and her family, an appearance of ease, plenty, and comfort, that seemed to warrant their old, sluddish proverb, the clardier, the cozier. A huge fire, though the season was summer, occupied the hearth, and served at once for affording light, heat, and the means of preparing food. The fishing had been successful, and the family, with customary improvements, had since unleading the cargo, continued an unremitting operation of boiling and frying that part of the produce reserved for home consumption, and the bones and fragments lay on the wooden trenchers, mingled with morsels of broken bannocks and shattered mugs of half-drunk pure. The stout and athletic form of Maggie herself, bustling here and there, among a pack of half-grown girls and younger children, of whom she chucked one, now here and another, now there, with an exclamation of, Get out of the gate, ye little sorrow! Was strongly contrasted with the passive and half-stupified look and manner of her husband's mother, a woman advanced to the last age of human life, who was seated in her wanted chair close by the fire, the warmth of which she coveted, yet hardly seemed to be sensible of. Now muttering to herself, now smiling vagantly to the children, as they pulled the strings of her toy, or close cap, or twitched her blue-checked apron. With her distaff in her bosom and her spindle in her hand, she plied lazily and mechanically the old-fashioned Scottish thrift, according to the old-fashioned Scottish manner. The younger children, crawling among the feet of the elder, watched the progress of Granny's spindle as it twisted, and now then ventured to interrupt its progress, as it danced upon the floor in those vagaries which the more regulated spinning wheel has now so universally superseded, that even the faded princess in the fairy tale might roam through all Scotland without the risk of piercing her hand with a spindle and dying of the wound. Late as the hour was, and it was long past midnight, the whole family were still on foot and far from proposing to go to bed. The dame was still busy broiling car-cakes on the girdle, and the elder girl, the half-naked mermaid elsewhere commemorated, was preparing a pile of thin-horned headaches, that is, headaches smoked with greenwood, to be eaten along with these relishing provisions. While they were thus employed, a slight tap at the door, accompanied with the question, Are ye up yet, sirs? announced a visitor. The answer, Hi, hi! Come your ways, Ben, Hini. Occasion the lifting of the latch, and Jenny, rinther out, the female domestic of our antiquary, made her appearance. Hi, hi! exclaimed the mistress of the family. Hey, sirs, can this be you, Jenny? A sight to use, good for Sine and I, lass. Oh, woman, we've been sight taken up, with Captain Hector's wound up by, that I haven't had my fit out o'er the door this fortnight. But he's better now, and I'd cax and seeps in his room, in case he wanted anything. Sise, so jodh folk go to bed I, even snorted my head up a bit, and left the house door in the latch, in case anybody should be wanting in or out while I was away. And just came down the gate to see, and there was only cracks among ye. Hi, hi! answered Lucky Muckabacket. I see I got an eye o' bra as on, and you're looking out for Sine now. But he's not at home the night, and you no do for Sine, lass, effectively stinging like you's no fit to maintain a man. Sine will no do for me, retorted Jenny, with a toss of her head, that might have become a higher-born damsel. I might have a man that can maintain his wife. Oh, aye, honey, there's your landward in Burroughs town-notions, my certee. Fisher wives can better. They keep the man, and keep the house, and keep the tiller, too, lass. Hoween poured drudges yar, answered the nymph of the land to the nymph of the sea. As soon as the keel of the cobble touches the sand, dail a bit, mare, will the lazy fisher loons work. But the wivesman killed their coats, and wade into the surf to take the fisher shore. And then the man cast off the watton, puts on the dryan, sits down with his pipe, and his gills stoop, and hint the ingle, like on ye old hoody. And near a turn will they do till the cobbles afloat again. And the wife shimun get the skull on her back, and away with the fish to the next Burroughs town, and scald and ban, will ick a wife, that will scald and ban, where till it sod. And that's the guide Fisher wives life, poor slave and bodies. Slaves, ky wee lass, ky the head of the house, slaves, little ye can about it lass. Show me a word my saunders dar speak, or a torn he dar do about the house, without it be just to take his meat, and his drink, and his diversion, like any other wanes. He has myer sense, than to ky anything about the biggin design, fry the roof tree, down to a crack a trench around the bink. He can's will enough, wife feeds him, and clades him, and keeps a tight sack and rape, when his cobble is jown away in the firth, per fallah. Nae, nae lass, dim that sell the goods, guide the purse, dim that guide the purse, row the house. Show me an ear bits of farmer bodies, that will let their wife drive the stock to the market, hen ky in the depths. Nae, nae. Ho weer le weer maggy, el coland has its eye in luch, but we're stiny the night, when I is coming, gyne. And where's the good man? I had put in the good man to his bed, for he was even sire for fine, and seen he's away, out about some barns breakin' with the old guberlanzi, el yocotree. They'll be in sign, and he can sit down. Troth, good wife, takin' a seat, I hinder that muckl time to stop, but I mind tell ye about the news. Y'all I heard of the muckl kist, a god that Sir Arthur has found on by a st. Ruth. He'll be grander than ever now, he'll no can hold down his head to sneeze, for fear is seen his shun. Ho I, I, the country's heard of that, but already says that they ky ten times mireer than ever was, and he saw them hulk it up. Hoid, it would be long, or a poor body that needed it got sick of wind-fire. Nay, that's sure enough, and y'all I heard all the countessa, Glen Allen, bein' dead in line and statin', how she's to be buried at st. Ruth, as this night flies, with torchlight, and how the poppest servants, and ringin' Ikewood, that's a papers too, are to be there, and it will be the grandest show ever was seen. Troth, honey, answered the nary-ed, if they let nigh buddy, but papers come there, it'll no be muckl o' a show in this country, for the old harlot, as honest Mr. Blattlerer calls her, has few that drink o' her cup, o' enchantments in this corner, o' our chosen lands. But what can ale them to bury the eyed Carlin, a rudest wife she was, in the night-time? I daresay are, good mother will ken. Here she exalted her voice, and exclaimed twice her thrice, good mother, good mother. But, lost in the apathy of age and deafness, the age-sibble, she addressed, continued implying her spindle, without understanding the appeal made to her. Speak to your grandmother, Ginny. Lloyd, I would rather hail the cobble half of my life, and the Nor-West wind whistling again in my teeth. Granny, said the little mermaid, and a voice to which the old woman was but our custom. Many wants to ken what for the Glen Allen folk I bury by candlelight, in the ruin of St. Ruth. The old woman paused in the act of twirling the spindle, turned round to the rest of the party, lifted her withered, trembling, and clay-colored hand, raised up her ashen-hued and wrinkled face, which the quick motion of two light-blue eyes, chiefly distinguished from the visage of a corpse, and as if catching at any touch of association with the living world, answered, What cars the Glen Allen family into their dead by torchlight, said the lassie? Is there a Glen Allen dead, E, now? We might be eyed dead in buried too, said Maggie, for anything you would ken about it. And then, raising her voice to the stretch of her mother-in-law's comprehension, she added, It's the eyed Countess, good mother. And as she cied Hame then at last, said the old woman, in a voice that seemed to be agitated with much more feeling, then belonged to her extreme old age, and the general indifference and apathy of her manner, as she then called to her last account after a long race of pride and power. O God, forgiver! But money was asking ye, resumed the lesser querest, What for the Glen Allen family I bury their dead by torchlight? They have eyed and so, said the grandmother, since the time the great-year-old fell in the sire-battle of the Harla. When they say the Kornock was cried in eye-day from the mouth of the Te, to the bulk of the Cabrack, that ye would hath heard, nigh other sound, but that of lamentation for the great folks, that had fine fighting against Donald of the Isles. But the great-year-old's mother was livin', they were a doubty, and a dour-race, the women, or the house of Glen Allen. And she would eye-night Kornock cried for her son, but had him laid in the silence in midnight, in his place of rest, without either drinkin' the dirge, or cryin' the lament. She said he had killed ye now, that day he died. For the widows and daughters of the Highlanders, he had slain to cry the Kornock. For them they had lost, and for her son too. And so she laid him in his grave with dry eyes, and without a groan or a wail. And it was thought a proud word of the family, and they eye-stick it by it, and the mayor in the latter times, because, in the night-time, they admire freedom to perform their poper ceremonies by darkness, and in secrecy, than in the daylight. At least that was the case in my time. They would have been disturbed in the day-time, bife by the law, and the commons of Fairport. They may be overlooked now, as I heard. The world's changed, how well it hardly can, whether I'm standin' or sittin', or dead or livin'. And lookin' round the fire, as if in a state of unconscious uncertainty, of which she complained, old Ellsworth relapsed into her habitual and mechanical occupation of twirling the spindle. Hey, Sears! said Jenny, rent the route.  It's like the dead speakin' to the livin'. You know that far wrong, lass. She minds nothing or what passes the day. But said her on old tales, and she can speak like a print-book. She can smear about the Glenennan family than mice folk. The good man's father was their fisher-money-a-day. Yaman Ken the Pappus make a great point of eatin' a fish. It's not a bad part to their religion that, whatever the rest is. How could I sell the best of fish at the best of prices for the countess's iron table? Grace be with her, especially on a Friday. But see as our good mother's hands and lips are gangin', now it's workin' in her head like barm. She'll speak enough the night, while she'll no speak a word in a week, unless it be to the bits of barns. Hey, Mrs. Mucklebracket, she's an awesome wife. Said Jenny in reply. Do you think she's eye-together right? Folks say she done a gang to the Kirk, or speak to the minister, and that she was iron sub-pappus, but, since her good man's been dead, nobody can's what she is. Do you think yourself that she's no one canny? Canny, ye silly taupy. Think ye iron wives less canny than another. Unless it be Alice in Brick, I really couldn't unconscious swear for her. I've kept the boxes, she's set filled with part-hands, when— Wish, wish, Maggie, whispered Jenny, your good mother's gonna speak again. Wasn't there some I know ye said? asked the old sub-o, or did I dream, or was it revealed to me, that Joslyn, Lady Glen Allen, is dead, and buried this night? Yes, good mother, screamed the daughter-in-law. It's even Sai. And even Sai let it be, said old Ellsworth. She's made money as our heart in her day. I, even our own sons, is he livin' yet? I, he's livin' yet, but how long he'll live? However, didn't you mind his coming and asking after you in the spring, and livin' Siller? He may be Sai, Maggie, I didn't mind it, but handsome gentleman he was, and his father before him. Eh, if his father had lived, they might have been happy folk. But he was going, and the lady carried it in, over and out over with her son, and guard him, troll the thing he never sold, I trolled, and do the thing he has repented, I his life, and will repent still, where his life is long, as is lying in weary semina mine. Oh, what was it, granny? And what was it, good mother? And what is it, lucky Ellsworth? Asked the children, the mother and the visitor, in one breath. Never asked what it was. Answered the old sobo. But pray to God, the yarn of left to the pride, and willfulness are yarn hearts. They may be as powerful in a cabin as in a castle. I can bear sad witness to that. Oh, that weary and fearful night, will never gang out of my eyed head.  Heaven will avenge on I that had to do with it. Sirs, is my son out with the cobble this windy even? Nigh, nigh, mother, nigh cobble can keep the sea this wind. He's sleeping in this bed, out hoar, yonder, and the hullen. Is Stinney out at sea, then? Nigh, granny, Stinney's away out with I-a-de-de-o-co-tree, the gobbler-lunsey. Maybe they'll be going to see the burial. That cannot be, said the mother of the family. We cut nothing out till Jock Vand came in, and told us the Ikewoods had worn in to attend. They keep thy things on coo private, and they were to bring the corpse either way by the castle, ten miles off, under cloud a night. She is laying in state this ten days at Glen Allen House, in a grand chamber, a hung with black and lighted with wax cannon. God is sazer, ejaculated Old Elspeth. Her head apparently is still occupied by the event of the Countess's death. She was a hard-hearted woman, but she's going to account for it I, and his mercy is infinite. God grant she may find it, say. And she relapsed into silence, which she did not break again during the rest of the evening. I wonder what that old deft beggar, Carly, and our son Stiney can be doing out, and syconeak is this, said Magni Mucklebacket, and her expression of surprise was echoed by her visitor. Gang away, I know ye heenies, up to the hewl-head, and guide them a cry in case they're within herein. The car cakes will be burnt to a cinder. The little emissary departed, but in a few minutes came running back with a loud exclamation. Hi, money! Hi, granny! There's a white bogel chasing twy black-eyes down the hew. A noise of footsteps followed this singular annunciation, and young Stiney Mucklebacket, closely followed by a diogletree, bounced into the hut. They were panting and out of breath. The first thing Stiney did was to look for the bar of the door, which his mother reminded him had been broken up for firewood in the hard winter three years ago. For what use, she said, had the like of them for bars. There's nobody chasing us, said the beggar, after he had taken his breath. We're even like the wicked that Flea would know and pursue with. Droweth but we were chased, said Stiney, by a spirit or something little better. It was a man in white on horseback, said Eddie, for the soft groan that, when a bear the beast, flung him about. I would, that would. But I didn't think my old legs could have brought me ife as fast. I ran amiced as fast as if I had been at Preston Pans. Readers note. This refers to the flight of the government forces at the battle of Preston Pans, 1745. End Readers note. What you doubt, gawks, said Lucky Muckabucket. It would liven some of the riders at the Countess's burial. What? said Eddie. Is the old Countess buried the night at St. Bruce? Hoy, that would be the lights and the noise that scared us away. I wish I had kind. I would have stood them and no left the man yonder. But they'll take care of him. You strike over hard, Stiney. I doubt you found her the chain. Near a bit, said Stiney, laughing, he has broad broad shoulders, and I just took measure of them with the stang. Horde, if I hadn't been something short with him, he would I knock at your old hams out loud. Weird, and I wouldn't clear this scrape, said Eddie. It's termed provenance, Nymar. But I kind of think it an unlawful thing to pit a bit trick on sickle land open scoundrel that just lives by trick and honest refolk. But what are we to do with this? said Stiney, producing a pocketbook. Horde, guide us men. Said Eddie in great alarm. What guide you to touch the gear? A very leaf of that pocketbook would be enough to hang us byth. I didn't again, said Stiney. The book could find out of his pocket I fancy, for I find it among my feet when I was grabbing about to see him on his logs again. And I just patted in my poach to keep it safe, and then came the trap of horse, and you cried, ring, ring, and I had Nymar thought to the book. We won't get it back to the loon some gate or other. You had better take it yourself, I think, with people light, uptubbing in aces woods. I wouldn't for a hundred pounds it was fund in our hands. Stiney undertook to do as he was directed. A funny night she had made out, Mr. Stiney. Said Jenny went therout, who, impatient and remaining so long unnoticed, now presented herself to the young fisherman. A funny night she had made out, trapping about with guberlanzis, and getting yourself hunted with wary cows, when you should be sleeping in your bed, like your father, honest man. This attack called forth a suitable response of rustic railery from the young fisherman. An attack was now commenced upon the car-cakes and smoked fish, and sustained with great perseverance by assistance of a bicker or two of two penny ale, and a bottle of gin. The mendicant then retired to the straw of an outhouse adjoining. The children had one by one crept into their nests. The old grandmother was deposited in her flock bed. Stiney, notwithstanding his preceding fatigue, had the gallantry to accompany Mr. and therout to her own mansion, and at what hour he returned, the story, sayeth not. And the matron of the family, having laid the gathering coal upon the fire, and put things in some sort of order, retired to rest the last of the family. Reader's note to Chapter Fifth In the fishing villages on the Firths of Forth and Tay, as well as elsewhere in Scotland, the government is Gynecocracy, as described in the text. In the course of the late war and during the alarm of invasion, a fleet of transports entered the Firth of Forth under the convoy of some ships of war, which would reply to no signals. A general alarm was excited, in consequence of which all the fishers, who were enrolled as sea-fensibles, got on board the gun-boats, which they were to man, as occasions should require, and sailed to oppose the supposed enemy. The foreigners proved to be Russians, with whom we were then at peace. The county gentlemen of Midlothian, pleased with the zeal displayed by the sea-fensibles, at a critical moment, passed a boat for presenting the community of fishers with a silver punch-bowl, to be used on occasions of festivity. But the fisher-women, on hearing what was intended, put in their claim to have some separate share in the intended honorary reward. The men, they said, were their husbands. It was they who would have been sufferers if their husbands had been killed, and it was by their permission and injunctions that they embarked on board the gun-boats for the public service. They therefore claimed to share the reward in some manner, which should distinguish the female patriotism, which they had shown on the occasion. The gentlemen of the country willingly admitted the claim, and without diminishing the value of their compliment to the men, they made the females a present of a valuable brooch to fasten the plaid of the queen of the fisher-women for the time. It may be further remarked that these naryads are punctilious among themselves, and observe different ranks according to the commodities they deal in. One experienced aim was her to characterize a younger damsel as a pear-city thing who had no ambition, and would never, she prophesied, rise above the muscle-line of business.


My name is Sandvagnin, and I am the author of Madignal Self Love, Narcissism Ritism.  To the narcissist, our civilization is an entopia, a narcissistic utopia. To all others, to the rest of us, it is a dystopia, a dystopia. A narcissistic, horrible, alien wasteland of a landscape. Collectives, societies, and cultures and civilizations can be as pathologically narcissistic as individuals, and in contemporary times they are. Sigmund Freud wrote in Civilization and His Discontents, It is always possible to bind together a considerable number of people in love, so long as there are other people left over to receive the manifestations of their aggressiveness. A wise man he was. Four centuries earlier, Matthew or Mateo Wici, a Jesuit father, wrote this about the Chinese. Because of their ignorance of the size of the earth, and the exaggerated opinion they have of themselves, the Chinese are of the opinion that only China, among the nations, is deserving of admiration. Relative to the grandeur of empire, public administration, and reputation of learning, they look upon all other people, not only as barbarous, but as unrisening animals. To the Chinese, there is no other place on earth that can boast of a king, a dynasty or of culture. The more their pride is inflated by this ignorance, the more humiliated the Chinese become, when the truth is revealed. Four centuries later, our civilization is all Chinese. It is based on a carpe diem mentality for every man for himself. What's in it for me? Out with the barely old, in with the untried new. Malignant individualism run amok and gone awry, infecting and contaminating every act and behavior. Even charitable giving has been transformed into narcissistic altruism, tax deductible of course. As their societies and value systems implode and crumble, and as their skills are rendered obsolete, people suffer anomic traumas, deep pain, terror-filled disorientation in equal measures. People feel utterly alienated and atomized, and they react with hurt aversion, avoidance, and reclusion. We are all schizoids nowadays. Technology enables it. As empathy, emotional sustenance, and commoner support, solidarity, loyalty, and a sense of belonging, all become relics of a fast-receiving past. The mass victims of anomic trauma put up primitive, stop-gap, their last resort, narcissistic defenses. These, in turn, only exacerbate the very traumatic conditions, social dislocations, and experiences that necessitated their deployment in the fast place. So it is a vicious cycle. Moreover, the anonymity which is the inevitable outcome of life in anthill-begge localesies and in cities with millions of denizens. Today, these are the abodes of three-quarters of humanity in the wake of relentless urbanization, so the anonymity of these three-quarters of humanity is excruciating. In an effort to reassert the self-identity and to remind other people of their existence as something more than a statistic, people resort to ever-escalating attention-grabbing and seeking behaviors, coupled with aggressive boundary-setting. So the grab, as you can, and damn the consequences to yourself and others' mentality spreads across generations and among peers. There is no refuge. No work. Collectives. Large collectives, like nations, the church. Small collectives, like families, workplaces, corporations, neighborhoods. Collectives are rendered dysfunctional by rapid-fire changes and commensurate enabling technology. Our very ability to self-organize, self-assemble and act in unison is in jeopardy as is our future as a species. From the dawn of history to the late 1950s, the collective was the organizing principle of human affairs. The suit of happiness was channeled via collectives, and even dissidents and rebels formed collectives to express their grievances. But this whole system brought humanity to the verge of extinction. Disenchanted with vast ideologies, people switched to the opposite form, militant individualism. And this became the new battle crime, an organizing principle of increasingly more narcissistic collectives and individuals alike. In their book, Personality Disorders in Modern Life, Theodore Millen, Roger Davies, state as a matter of fact that pathological narcissism was the preserve of the royal and the wealthy, and that it seems to retain prominence only in the late 20th century. Pathological narcissism, according to them, may be associated with higher levels of muscle hierarchy of needs. Individuals in less advantaged nations are too busy trying to survive to be arrogant or grandiose. Millen and Davies, like Clash before them, Christopher Clash, attribute pathological narcissism to a society that stresses individualism and self-critification in the sense of community, namely the United States. They assert that the disorder is more prevalent among certain professions, with star power or respect. In an individualistic culture, the narcissist is God's gift to the world, they say. In a collective society, the narcissist is God's gift to the collective. Millen quotes Warren and Capone as the role of culture in the development of narcissistic personality disorders in America, Japan and Denmark. It says, individualistic narcissistic structures of self-regard in individualistic societies are rather self-contained and independent. In collectivist countries, narcissistic configurations of the weed self denote self-esteem derived from strong identification with the reputation and honor of the family, groups and others in hierarchical relationships. I beg to differ. Having lived in the past 20 years in 12 countries on four continents, from the impoverished to the affluent, with individualistic and collectivist societies, I'm in the position to know that Millen and Davies are wrong. Theirs is indeed between essentially provincial, American point of view, which lacks an intimate knowledge of other parts of the world. Pathological narcissism is a ubiquitous phenomenon because every human being, regardless of the nature of his society and culture, develops healthy narcissism early in life. Healthy narcissism is rendered pathological by abuse and trauma, and abuse and trauma alas are universal human behaviors and occurrences. When we say abuse, we need any refusal to acknowledge the emerging boundaries of the individual. Smothering, daunting and excessive expectations are as abusive as beating or incest. With 7 billion humans on the planet, the need to assert oneself, the need to be noticed, to be recognized as unique, is ever more pressing. No one likes to feel like a cog in a machine, an atom in an organism, or a speck of dust among billions. Consumerism and mass communication that lead to global culture and societal homogeneity foster the same narcissistic reactions and provoke the same narcissistic offenses in whole collectives as they do in individual. They are malignant narcissists among subsistence farmers in Africa, nomads in the Sinai Desert, day laborers in Eastern Europe, and intellectuals and socialites in Manhattan. I have lived in all these places. Malignant narcissism is all-pervasive and independent of culture and society. It is true, though, that the way pathological narcissism manifests in his experience is dependent on the particulars of societies and cultures. In some cultures, narcissism is encouraged, the United States. In others, it is suppressed, Japan. In some societies, it is channeled against minorities, the countries of the Balkans. In others, it is tainted with paranoia, Israel. In collective societies, it may be projected onto the collective, China, in individualistic societies, and it is an individual strength. Yet, can families, organizations, ethnic groups, churches, and even whole nations, corporations, be safely described as narcissistic or pathologically self-absorbed?  Narcissistic profiling? The answer is, it depends. Human collectives, states, firms, households, institutions, political parties, operations, clips, hands.  The longer the association or affiliation of the members, the more cohesive and performed is the inner dynamics of the group. The more the Secretary or numerous its enemies, the more intensive the physical and emotional experiences of the individuals it is comprised of, the stronger the bonds of local language and history, the more rigorous might and assertion of a common pathology be. Such an all pervasive and extensive pathology manifests itself in the behavior of each and every member. It is a defining, but though often implicit or underlined, mental structure. It has explanatory and predictive powers. It is recurrent and invariable, a pattern of conduct, melded with distorted cognition and stunted emotions. And it is often vehemently denied by the collective and by its members. So here we are, beginning of a new century, more narcissistic than ever. More psychopathic by the day.  Happy New Year.