Guy Mannering, Vol. I

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Upon this unpleasant occurrence Captain Brown absented himself
from the inn in which he had resided under the name of Dawson, so
that Colonel Mannering's attempts to discover and trace him were
unavailing. He resolved, however, that no difficulties should
prevent his continuing his enterprise while Julia left him a ray
of hope. The interest he had secured in her bosom was such as she
had been unable to conceal from him, and with all the courage of
romantic gallantry he determined upon perseverance. But we believe
the reader will be as well pleased to learn his mode of thinking
and intention from his own communication to his special friend and
confidant, Captain Delaserre, a Swiss gentleman who had a company
in his regiment.

EXTRACT

'Let me hear from you soon, dear Delaserre. Remember, I can learn
nothing about regimental affairs but through your friendly medium,
and I long to know what has become of Ayre's court-martial, and
whether Elliot gets the majority; also how recruiting comes on,
and how the young officers like the mess. Of our kind friend the
Lieutenant-Colonel I need ask nothing; I saw him as I passed
through Nottingham, happy in the bosom of his family. What a
happiness it is, Philip, for us poor devils, that we have a little
resting-place between the camp and the grave, if we can manage to
escape disease, and steel, and lead, and the effects of hard
living. A retired old soldier is always a graceful and respected
character. He grumbles a little now and then, but then his is
licensed murmuring; were a lawyer, or a physician, or a clergyman
to breathe a complaint of hard luck or want of preferment, a
hundred tongues would blame his own incapacity as the cause. But
the most stupid veteran that ever faltered out the thrice-told
tale of a siege and a battle, and a cock and a bottle, is listened
to with sympathy and reverence when he shakes his thin locks and
talks with indignation of the boys that are put over his head. And
you and I, Delaserre, foreigners both--for what am I the better
that I was originally a Scotchman, since, could I prove my
descent, the English would hardly acknowledge me a countryman?--we
may boast that we have fought out our preferment, and gained that
by the sword which we had not money to compass otherwise. The
English are a wise people. While they praise themselves, and
affect to undervalue all other nations, they leave us, luckily,
trap-doors and back-doors open, by which we strangers, less
favoured by nature, may arrive at a share of their advantages. And
thus they are in some respects like a boastful landlord, who
exalts the value and flavour of his six-years-old mutton, while he
is delighted to dispense a share of it to all the company. In
short, you, whose proud family, and I, whose hard fate, made us
soldiers of fortune, have the pleasant recollection that in the
British service, stop where we may upon our career, it is only for
want of money to pay the turnpike, and not from our being
prohibited to travel the road. If, therefore, you can persuade
little Weischel to come into OURS, for God's sake let him buy the
ensigncy, live prudently, mind his duty, and trust to the fates
for promotion.

'And now, I hope you are expiring with curiosity to learn the end
of my romance. I told you I had deemed it convenient to make a few
days' tour on foot among the mountains of Westmoreland with
Dudley, a young English artist with whom I have formed some
acquaintance. A fine fellow this, you must know, Delaserre: he
paints tolerably, draws beautifully, converses well, and plays
charmingly on the flute; and, though thus well entitled to be a
coxcomb of talent, is, in fact, a modest unpretending young man.
On our return from our little tour I learned that the enemy had
been reconnoitring. Mr. Mervyn's barge had crossed the lake, I was
informed by my landlord, with the squire himself and a visitor.

'"What sort of person, landlord?"

'"Why, he was a dark officer-looking mon, at they called Colonel.
Squoire Mervyn questioned me as close as I had been at 'sizes. I
had guess, Mr. Dawson" (I told you that was my feigned name), "but
I tould him nought of your vagaries, and going out a-laking in the
mere a-noights, not I; an I can make no sport, I'se spoil none;
and Squoire Mervyn's as cross as poy-crust too, mon; he's aye
maundering an my guests but land beneath his house, though it be
marked for the fourth station in the survey. Noa, noa, e'en let un
smell things out o' themselves for Joe Hodges."

'You will allow there was nothing for it after this but paying
honest Joe Hodges's bill and departing, unless I had preferred
making him my confidant, for which I felt in no way inclined.
Besides, I learned that our ci-devant Colonel was on full retreat
for Scotland, carrying off poor Julia along with him. I understand
from those who conduct the heavy baggage that he takes his winter
quarters at a place called Woodbourne, in ---shire in Scotland.
He will be all on the alert just now, so I must let him enter his
entrenchments without any new alarm. And then, my good Colonel, to
whom I owe so many grateful thanks, pray look to your defence.

'I protest to you, Delaserre, I often think there is a little
contradiction enters into the ardour of my pursuit. I think I
would rather bring this haughty insulting man to the necessity of
calling his daughter Mrs. Brown than I would wed her with his full
consent, and with the King's permission to change my name for the
style and arms of Mannering, though his whole fortune went with
them. There is only one circumstance that chills me a little:
Julia is young and romantic. I would not willingly hurry her into
a step which her riper years might disapprove; no--nor would I
like to have her upbraid me, were it but with a glance of her eye,
with having ruined her fortunes, far less give her reason to say,
as some have not been slow to tell their lords, that, had I left
her time for consideration, she would have been wiser and done
better. No, Delaserre, this must not be. The picture presses close
upon me, because I am aware a girl in Julia's situation has no
distinct and precise idea of the value of the sacrifice she makes.
She knows difficulties only by name; and, if she thinks of love
and a farm, it is a ferme ornee, such as is only to be found in
poetic description or in the park of a gentleman of twelve
thousand a year. She would be ill prepared for the privations of
that real Swiss cottage we have so often talked of, and for the
difficulties which must necessarily surround us even before we
attained that haven. This must be a point clearly ascertained.
Although Julia's beauty and playful tenderness have made an
impression on my heart never to be erased, I must be satisfied
that she perfectly understands the advantages she foregoes before
she sacrifices them for my sake.

'Am I too proud, Delaserre, when I trust that even this trial may
terminate favourably to my wishes? Am I too vain when I suppose
that the few personal qualities which I possess, with means of
competence, however moderate, and the determination of
consecrating my life to her happiness, may make amends for all I
must call upon her to forego? Or will a difference of dress, of
attendance, of style, as it is called, of the power of shifting at
pleasure the scenes in which she seeks amusement--will these
outweigh in her estimation the prospect of domestic happiness and
the interchange of unabating affection? I say nothing of her
father: his good and evil qualities are so strangely mingled that
the former are neutralised by the latter; and that which she must
regret as a daughter is so much blended with what she would gladly
escape from, that I place the separation of the father and child
as a circumstance which weighs little in her remarkable case.
Meantime I keep up my spirits as I may. I have incurred too many
hardships and difficulties to be presumptuous or confident in
success, and I have been too often and too wonderfully extricated
from them to be despondent.

'I wish you saw this country. I think the scenery would delight
you. At least it often brings to my recollection your glowing
descriptions of your native country. To me it has in a great
measure the charm of novelty. Of the Scottish hills, though born
among them, as I have always been assured, I have but an
indistinct recollection. Indeed, my memory rather dwells upon the
blank which my youthful mind experienced in gazing on the levels
of the isle of Zealand, than on anything which preceded that
feeling; but I am confident, from that sensation as well as from
the recollections which preceded it, that hills and rocks have
been familiar to me at an early period, and that, though now only
remembered by contrast, and by the blank which I felt while gazing
around for them in vain, they must have made an indelible
impression on my infant imagination. I remember, when we first
mounted that celebrated pass in the Mysore country, while most of
the others felt only awe and astonishment at the height and
grandeur of the scenery, I rather shared your feelings and those
of Cameron, whose admiration of such wild rocks was blended with
familiar love, derived from early association. Despite my Dutch
education, a blue hill to me is as a friend, and a roaring torrent
like the sound of a domestic song that hath soothed my infancy. I
never felt the impulse so strongly as in this land of lakes and
mountains, and nothing grieves me so much as that duty prevents
your being with me in my numerous excursions among recesses. Some
drawings I have attempted, but I succeed vilely. Dudley, on the
contrary, draws delightfully, with that rapid touch which seems
like magic; while I labour and botch, and make this too heavy and
that too light, and produce at last a base caricature. I must
stick to the flageolet, for music is the only one of the fine arts
which deigns to acknowledge me.

'Did you know that Colonel Mannering was a draughtsman? I believe
not, for he scorned to display his accomplishments to the view of
a subaltern. He draws beautifully, however. Since he and Julia
left Mervyn Hall, Dudley was sent for there. The squire, it seems,
wanted a set of drawings made up, of which Mannering had done the
first four, but was interrupted by his hasty departure in his
purpose of completing them. Dudley says he has seldom seen
anything so masterly, though slight; and each had attached to it a
short poetical description. Is Saul, you will say, among the
prophets? Colonel Mannering write poetry! Why, surely this man
must have taken all the pains to conceal his accomplishments that
others do to display theirs. How reserved and unsociable he
appeared among us! how little disposed to enter into any
conversation which could become generally interesting! And then
his attachment to that unworthy Archer, so much below him in every
respect; and all this because he was the brother of Viscount
Archerfield, a poor Scottish peer! I think, if Archer had longer
survived the wounds in the affair of Cuddyboram, he would have
told something that might have thrown light upon the
inconsistencies of this singular man's character. He repeated to
me more than once, "I have that to say which will alter your hard
opinion of our late Colonel." But death pressed him too hard; and
if he owed me any atonement, which some of his expressions seemed
to imply, he died before it could be made.

'I propose to make a further excursion through this country while
this fine frosty weather serves, and Dudley, almost as good a
walker as myself, goes with me for some part of the way. We part
on the borders of Cumberland, when he must return to his lodgings
in Marybone, up three pair of stairs, and labour at what he calls
the commercial part of his profession. There cannot, he says, be
such a difference betwixt any two portions of existence as between
that in which the artist, if an enthusiast, collects the subjects
of his drawings and that which must necessarily be dedicated to
turning over his portfolio and exhibiting them to the provoking
indifference, or more provoking criticism, of fashionable
amateurs. "During the summer of my year," says Dudley, "I am as
free as a wild Indian, enjoying myself at liberty amid the
grandest scenes of nature; while during my winters and springs I
am not only cabined, cribbed, and confined in a miserable garret,
but condemned to as intolerable subservience to the humour of
others, and to as indifferent company, as if I were a literal
galley slave." I have promised him your acquaintance, Delaserre;
you will be delighted with his specimens of art, and he with your
Swiss fanaticism for mountains and torrents.

'When I lose Dudley's company, I am informed that I can easily
enter Scotland by stretching across a wild country in the upper
part of Cumberland; and that route I shall follow, to give the
Colonel time to pitch his camp ere I reconnoitre his position.
Adieu! Delaserre. I shall hardly find another opportunity of
writing till I reach Scotland.'

CHAPTER XXII

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily bend the stile-a,
A merry heart goes all the day,
A sad one tires in a mile-a.

--Winter's Tale.

Let the reader conceive to himself a clear frosty November
morning, the scene an open heath, having for the background that
huge chain of mountains in which Skiddaw and Saddleback are
preeminent; let him look along that BLIND ROAD, by which I mean
the track so slightly marked by the passengers' footsteps that it
can but be traced by a slight shade of verdure from the darker
heath around it, and, being only visible to the eye when at some
distance, ceases to be distinguished while the foot is actually
treading it; along this faintly-traced path advances the object of
our present narrative. His firm step, his erect and free carriage,
have a military air which corresponds well with his well-
proportioned limbs and stature of six feet high. His dress is so
plain and simple that it indicates nothing as to rank; it may be
that of a gentleman who travels in this manner for his pleasure,
or of an inferior person of whom it is the proper and usual garb.
Nothing can be on a more reduced scale than his travelling
equipment. A volume of Shakspeare in each pocket, a small bundle
with a change of linen slung across his shoulders, an oaken cudgel
in his hand, complete our pedestrian's accommodations, and in this
equipage we present him to our readers.

Brown had parted that morning from his friend Dudley, and begun
his solitary walk towards Scotland.

The first two or three miles were rather melancholy, from want of
the society to which he had of late been accustomed. But this
unusual mood of mind soon gave way to the influence of his natural
good spirits, excited by the exercise and the bracing effects of
the frosty air. He whistled as he went along, not 'from want of
thought,' but to give vent to those buoyant feelings which he had
no other mode of expressing. For each peasant whom he chanced to
meet he had a kind greeting or a good-humoured jest; the hardy
Cumbrians grinned as they passed, and said, 'That's a kind heart,
God bless un!' and the market-girl looked more than once over her
shoulder at the athletic form, which corresponded so well with the
frank and blythe address of the stranger. A rough terrier dog, his
constant companion, who rivalled his master in glee, scampered at
large in a thousand wheels round the heath, and came back to jump
up on him and assure him that he participated in the pleasure of
the journey. Dr. Johnson thought life had few things better than
the excitation produced by being whirled rapidly along in a post-
chaise; but he who has in youth experienced the confident and
independent feeling of a stout pedestrian in an interesting
country, and during fine weather, will hold the taste of the great
moralist cheap in comparison.

Part of Brown's view in choosing that unusual track which leads
through the eastern wilds of Cumberland into Scotland, had been a
desire to view the remains of the celebrated Roman Wall, which are
more visible in that direction than in any other part of its
extent. His education had been imperfect and desultory; but
neither the busy scenes in which he had been engaged, nor the
pleasures of youth, nor the precarious state of his own
circumstances, had diverted him from the task of mental
improvement. 'And this then is the Roman Wall,' he said,
scrambling up to a height which commanded the course of that
celebrated work of antiquity. 'What a people! whose labours, even
at this extremity of their empire, comprehended such space, and
were executed upon a scale of such grandeur! In future ages, when
the science of war shall have changed, how few traces will exist
of the labours of Vauban and Coehorn, while this wonderful
people's remains will even then continue to interest and astonish
posterity! Their fortifications, their aqueducts, their theatres,
their fountains, all their public works, bear the grave, solid,
and majestic character of their language; while our modern
labours, like our modern tongues, seem but constructed out of
their fragments.' Having thus moralised, he remembered that he was
hungry, and pursued his walk to a small public-house, at which he
proposed to get some refreshment.

The alehouse, for it was no better, was situated in the bottom of
a little dell, through which trilled a small rivulet. It was
shaded by a large ash tree, against which the clay-built shed that
served the purpose of a stable was erected, and upon which it
seemed partly to recline. In this shed stood a saddled horse,
employed in eating his corn. The cottages in this part of
Cumberland partake of the rudeness which characterises those of
Scotland. The outside of the house promised little for the
interior, notwithstanding the vaunt of a sign, where a tankard of
ale voluntarily decanted itself into a tumbler, and a
hieroglyphical scrawl below attempted to express a promise of
'good entertainment for man and horse.' Brown was no fastidious
traveller: he stopped and entered the cabaret. [Footnote: See Note
2.]

The first object which caught his eye in the kitchen was a tall,
stout, country-looking man in a large jockey great-coat, the owner
of the horse which stood in the shed, who was busy discussing huge
slices of cold boiled beef, and casting from time to time an eye
through the window to see how his steed sped with his provender. A
large tankard of ale flanked his plate of victuals, to which he
applied himself by intervals. The good woman of the house was
employed in baking. The fire, as is usual in that country, was on
a stone hearth, in the midst of an immensely large chimney, which
had two seats extended beneath the vent. On one of these sat a
remarkably tall woman, in a red cloak and slouched bonnet, having
the appearance of a tinker or beggar. She was busily engaged with
a short black tobacco-pipe.

At the request of Brown for some food, the landlady wiped with her
mealy apron one corner of the deal table, placed a wooden trencher
and knife and fork before the traveller, pointed to the round of
beef, recommended Mr. Dinmont's good example, and finally filled a
brown pitcher with her home-brewed. Brown lost no time in doing
ample credit to both. For a while his opposite neighbour and he
were too busy to take much notice of each other, except by a good-
humoured nod as each in turn raised the tankard to his head. At
length, when our pedestrian began to supply the wants of little
Wasp, the Scotch store-farmer, for such was Mr. Dinmont, found
himself at leisure to enter into conversation.

'A bonny terrier that, sir, and a fell chield at the vermin, I
warrant him; that is, if he's been weel entered, for it a' lies in
that.'

'Really, sir,' said Brown, 'his education has been somewhat
neglected, and his chief property is being a pleasant companion.'

'Ay, sir? that's a pity, begging your pardon, it's a great pity
that; beast or body, education should aye be minded. I have six
terriers at hame, forbye twa couple of slow-hunds, five grews, and
a wheen other dogs. There's auld Pepper and auld Mustard, and
young Pepper and young Mustard, and little Pepper and little
Mustard. I had them a' regularly entered, first wi' rottens, then
wi' stots or weasels, and then wi' the tods and brocks, and now
they fear naething that ever cam wi' a hairy skin on't.'

'I have no doubt, sir, they are thoroughbred; but, to have so many
dogs, you seem to have a very limited variety of names for them?'

'O, that's a fancy of my ain to mark the breed, sir. The Deuke
himsell has sent as far as Charlie's Hope to get ane o' Dandy
Dinmont's Pepper and Mustard terriers. Lord, man, he sent Tam
Hudson [Footnote: The real name of this veteran sportsman is now
restored.] the keeper, and sicken a day as we had wi' the foumarts
and the tods, and sicken a blythe gae-down as we had again e'en!
Faith, that was a night!'

'I suppose game is very plenty with you?'

'Plenty, man! I believe there's mair hares than sheep on my farm;
and for the moor-fowl or the grey-fowl, they lie as thick as doos
in a dookit. Did ye ever shoot a blackcock, man?'

'Really I had never even the pleasure to see one, except in the
museum at Keswick.'

'There now! I could guess that by your Southland tongue. It's very
odd of these English folk that come here, how few of them has seen
a blackcock! I'll tell you what--ye seem to be an honest lad, and
if you'll call on me, on Dandy Dinmont, at Charlie's Hope, ye
shall see a blackcock, and shoot a blackcock, and eat a blackcock
too, man.'

'Why, the proof of the matter is the eating, to be sure, sir; and
I shall be happy if I can find time to accept your invitation.'

'Time, man? what ails ye to gae hame wi' me the now? How d' ye
travel?'

'On foot, sir; and if that handsome pony be yours, I should find
it impossible to keep up with you.'

'No, unless ye can walk up to fourteen mile an hour. But ye can
come ower the night as far as Riccarton, where there is a public;
or if ye like to stop at Jockey Grieve's at the Heuch, they would
be blythe to see ye, and I am just gaun to stop and drink a dram
at the door wi' him, and I would tell him you're coming up. Or
stay--gudewife, could ye lend this gentleman the gudeman's
galloway, and I'll send it ower the Waste in the morning wi' the
callant?'

The galloway was turned out upon the fell, and was swear to
catch.--'Aweel, aweel, there's nae help for't, but come up the
morn at ony rate. And now, gudewife, I maun ride, to get to the
Liddel or it be dark, for your Waste has but a kittle character,
ye ken yoursell.'

'Hout fie, Mr. Dinmont, that's no like you, to gie the country an
ill name. I wot, there has been nane stirred in the Waste since
Sawney Culloch, the travelling-merchant, that Rowley Overdees and
Jock Penny suffered for at Carlisle twa years since. There's no
ane in Bewcastle would do the like o' that now; we be a' true folk
now.'

'Ay, Tib, that will be when the deil's blind; and his een's no
sair yet. But hear ye, gudewife, I have been through maist feck o'
Galloway and Dumfries-shire, and I have been round by Carlisle,
and I was at the Staneshiebank Fair the day, and I would like ill
to be rubbit sae near hame, so I'll take the gate.'

'Hae ye been in Dumfries and Galloway?' said the old dame who sate
smoking by the fireside, and who had not yet spoken a word.

'Troth have I, gudewife, and a weary round I've had o't.'

'Then ye'll maybe ken a place they ca' Ellangowan?'

'Ellangowan, that was Mr. Bertram's? I ken the place weel eneugh.
The Laird died about a fortnight since, as I heard.'

'Died!' said the old woman, dropping her pipe, and rising and
coming forward upon the floor--'died? are you sure of that?'

'Troth, am I,' said Dinmont, 'for it made nae sma' noise in the
country-side. He died just at the roup of the stocking and
furniture; it stoppit the roup, and mony folk were disappointed.
They said he was the last of an auld family too, and mony were
sorry; for gude blude's scarcer in Scotland than it has been.'

'Dead!' replied the old woman, whom our readers have already
recognised as their acquaintance Meg Merrilies--'dead! that quits
a' scores. And did ye say he died without an heir?'

'Ay did he, gudewife, and the estate's sell'd by the same token;
for they said they couldna have sell'd it if there had been an
heir-male.'

'Sell'd!' echoed the gipsy, with something like a scream; 'and wha
durst buy Ellangowan that was not of Bertram's blude? and wha
could tell whether the bonny knave-bairn may not come back to
claim his ain? wha durst buy the estate and the castle of
Ellangowan?'

'Troth, gudewife, just ane o' thae writer chields that buys a'
thing; they ca' him Glossin, I think.'

'Glossin! Gibbie Glossin! that I have carried in my creels a
hundred times, for his mother wasna muckle better than mysell--he
to presume to buy the barony of Ellangowan! Gude be wi' us; it is
an awfu' warld! I wished him ill; but no sic a downfa' as a' that
neither. Wae's me! wae's me to think o't!' She remained a moment
silent but still opposing with her hand the farmer's retreat, who
betwixt every question was about to turn his back, but good-
humouredly stopped on observing the deep interest his answers
appeared to excite.

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