The Pirate
began to broach, to the astonished and somewhat offended Udaller, some
of those projects for ameliorating the islands, which he had boasted of
to his fellow-travellers upon their journey of the morning.
But the innovations which he suggested, and the reception which they met
with at the hand of Magnus Troil, must be told in the next Chapter.
FOOTNOTES:
[40] See Hibbert's Description of the Zetland Islands, p. 470.
CHAPTER XIV.
We'll keep our customs--what is law itself,
But old establish'd custom? What religion,
(I mean, with one-half of the men that use it,)
Save the good use and wont that carries them
To worship how and where their fathers worshipp'd?
All things resolve in custom--we'll keep ours.
_Old Play._
We left the company of Magnus Troil engaged in high wassail and revelry.
Mordaunt, who, like his father, shunned the festive cup, did not partake
in the cheerfulness which the ship diffused among the guests as they
unloaded it, and the pinnace, as it circumnavigated the table. But, in
low spirits as he seemed, he was the more meet prey for the
story-telling Halcro, who had fixed upon him, as in a favourable state
to play the part of listener, with something of the same instinct that
directs the hooded crow to the sick sheep among the flock, which will
most patiently suffer itself to be made a prey of. Joyfully did the poet
avail himself of the advantages afforded by Mordaunt's absence of mind,
and unwillingness to exert himself in measures of active defence. With
the unfailing dexterity peculiar to prosers, he contrived to dribble out
his tale to double its usual length, by the exercise of the privilege of
unlimited digressions; so that the story, like a horse on the _grand
pas_, seemed to be advancing with rapidity, while, in reality, it scarce
was progressive at the rate of a yard in the quarter of an hour. At
length, however, he had discussed, in all its various bearings and
relations, the history of his friendly landlord, the master fashioner in
Russel Street, including a short sketch of five of his relations, and
anecdotes of three of his principal rivals, together with some general
observations upon the dress and fashion of the period; and having
marched thus far through the environs and outworks of his story, he
arrived at the body of the place, for so the Wits' Coffeehouse might be
termed. He paused on the threshold, however, to explain the nature of
his landlord's right occasionally to intrude himself into this
well-known temple of the Muses.
"It consisted," said Halcro, "in the two principal points, of bearing
and forbearing; for my friend Thimblethwaite was a person of wit
himself, and never quarrelled with any jest which the wags who
frequented that house were flinging about, like squibs and crackers on a
rejoicing night; and then, though some of the wits--ay, and I daresay
the greater number, might have had some dealings with him in the way of
trade, he never was the person to put any man of genius in unpleasant
remembrance of such trifles. And though, my dear young Master Mordaunt,
you may think this is but ordinary civility, because in this country it
happens seldom that there is either much borrowing or lending, and
because, praised be Heaven, there are neither bailiffs nor
sheriff-officers to take a poor fellow by the neck, and because there
are no prisons to put him into when they have done so, yet, let me tell
you, that such a lamblike forbearance as that of my poor, dear, deceased
landlord, Thimblethwaite, is truly uncommon within the London bills of
mortality. I could tell you of such things that have happened even to
myself, as well as others, with these cursed London tradesmen, as would
make your hair stand on end.--But what the devil has put old Magnus into
such note? he shouts as if he were trying his voice against a north-west
gale of wind."
Loud indeed was the roar of the old Udaller, as, worn out of patience by
the schemes of improvement which the factor was now undauntedly pressing
upon his consideration, he answered him, (to use an Ossianic phrase,)
like a wave upon a rock,
"Trees, Sir Factor--talk not to me of trees! I care not though there
never be one on the island, tall enough to hang a coxcomb upon. We will
have no trees but those that rise in our havens--the good trees that
have yards for boughs, and standing-rigging for leaves."
"But touching the draining of the lake of Braebaster, whereof I spoke to
you, Master Magnus Troil," said the persevering agriculturist, "whilk I
opine would be of so much consequence, there are two ways--down the
Linklater glen, or by the Scalmester burn. Now, having taken the level
of both"----
"There is a third way, Master Yellowley," answered the landlord.
"I profess I can see none," replied Triptolemus, with as much good faith
as a joker could desire in the subject of his wit, "in respect that the
hill called Braebaster on the south, and ane high bank on the north, of
whilk I cannot carry the name rightly in my head"----
"Do not tell us of hills and banks, Master Yellowley--there is a third
way of draining the loch, and it is the only way that shall be tried in
my day. You say my Lord Chamberlain and I are the joint proprietors--so
be it--let each of us start an equal proportion of brandy, lime-juice,
and sugar, into the loch--a ship's cargo or two will do the job--let us
assemble all the jolly Udallers of the country, and in twenty-four hours
you shall see dry ground where the loch of Braebaster now is."
A loud laugh of applause, which for a time actually silenced
Triptolemus, attended a jest so very well suited to time and place--a
jolly toast was given--a merry song was sung--the ship unloaded her
sweets--the pinnace made its genial rounds--the duet betwixt Magnus and
Triptolemus, which had attracted the attention of the whole company from
its superior vehemence, now once more sunk, and merged into the general
hum of the convivial table, and the poet Halcro again resumed his
usurped possession of the ear of Mordaunt Mertoun.
"Whereabouts was I?" he said, with a tone which expressed to his weary
listener more plainly than words could, how much of his desultory tale
yet remained to be told. "O, I remember--we were just at the door of the
Wits' Coffeehouse--it was set up by one"----
"Nay, but, my dear Master Halcro," said his hearer, somewhat
impatiently, "I am desirous to hear of your meeting with Dryden."
"What, with glorious John?--true--ay--where was I? At the Wits'
Coffeehouse--Well, in at the door we got--the waiters, and so forth,
staring at me; for as to Thimblethwaite, honest fellow, his was a
well-known face.--I can tell you a story about that"----
"Nay, but John Dryden?" said Mordaunt, in a tone which deprecated
further digression.
"Ay, ay, glorious John--where was I?--Well, as we stood close by the
bar, where one fellow sat grinding of coffee, and another putting up
tobacco into penny parcels--a pipe and a dish cost just a penny--then
and there it was that I had the first peep of him. One Dennis sat near
him, who"----
"Nay, but John Dryden--what like was he?" demanded Mordaunt.
"Like a little fat old man, with his own grey hair, and in a
full-trimmed black suit, that sat close as a glove. Honest
Thimblethwaite let no one but himself shape for glorious John, and he
had a slashing hand at a sleeve, I promise you--But there is no getting
a mouthful of common sense spoken here--d----n that Scotchman, he and
old Magnus are at it again!"
It was very true; and although the interruption did not resemble a
thunder-clap, to which the former stentorian exclamation of the Udaller
might have been likened, it was a close and clamorous dispute,
maintained by question, answer, retort, and repartee, as closely huddled
upon each other as the sounds which announce from a distance a close and
sustained fire of musketry.
"Hear reason, sir?" said the Udaller; "we will hear reason, and speak
reason too; and if reason fall short, you shall have rhyme to boot.--Ha,
my little friend Halcro!"
Though cut off in the middle of his best story, (if that could be said
to have a middle, which had neither beginning nor end,) the bard
bristled up at the summons, like a corps of light infantry when ordered
up to the support of the grenadiers, looked smart, slapped the table
with his hand, and denoted his becoming readiness to back his hospitable
landlord, as becomes a well-entertained guest. Triptolemus was a little
daunted at this reinforcement of his adversary; he paused, like a
cautious general, in the sweeping attack which he had commenced on the
peculiar usages of Zetland, and spoke not again until the Udaller poked
him with the insulting query, "Where is your reason now, Master
Yellowley, that you were deafening me with a moment since?"
"Be but patient, worthy sir," replied the agriculturist; "what on earth
can you or any other man say in defence of that thing you call a plough,
in this blinded country? Why, even the savage Highlandmen, in Caithness
and Sutherland, can make more work, and better, with their gascromh, or
whatever they call it."
"But what ails you at it, sir?" said the Udaller; "let me hear your
objections to it. It tills our land, and what would ye more?"
"It hath but one handle or stilt," replied Triptolemus.
"And who the devil," said the poet, aiming at something smart, "would
wish to need a pair of stilts, if he can manage to walk with a single
one?"
"Or tell me," said Magnus Troil, "how it were possible for Neil of
Lupness, that lost one arm by his fall from the crag of Nekbreckan, to
manage a plough with two handles?"
"The harness is of raw seal-skin," said Triptolemus.
"It will save dressed leather," answered Magnus Troil.
"It is drawn by four wretched bullocks," said the agriculturist, "that
are yoked breast-fashion; and two women must follow this unhappy
instrument, and complete the furrows with a couple of shovels."
"Drink about, Master Yellowley," said the Udaller; "and, as you say in
Scotland, 'never fash your thumb.' Our cattle are too high-spirited to
let one go before the other; our men are too gentle and well-nurtured to
take the working-field without the women's company; our ploughs till our
land--our land bears us barley; we brew our ale, eat our bread, and make
strangers welcome to their share of it. Here's to you, Master
Yellowley."
This was said in a tone meant to be decisive of the question; and,
accordingly, Halcro whispered to Mordaunt, "That has settled the matter,
and now we will get on with glorious John.--There he sat in his suit of
full-trimmed black; two years due was the bill, as mine honest landlord
afterwards told me,--and such an eye in his head!--none of your burning,
blighting, falcon eyes, which we poets are apt to make a rout
about,--but a soft, full, thoughtful, yet penetrating glance--never saw
the like of it in my life, unless it were little Stephen Kleancogg's,
the fiddler, at Papastow, who"----
"Nay, but John Dryden?" said Mordaunt, who, for want of better
amusement, had begun to take a sort of pleasure in keeping the old
gentleman to his narrative, as men herd in a restiff sheep, when they
wish to catch him. He returned to his theme, with his usual phrase of
"Ay, true--glorious John--Well, sir, he cast his eye, such as I have
described it, on mine landlord, and 'Honest Tim,' said he, 'what hast
thou got here?' and all the wits, and lords, and gentlemen, that used to
crowd round him, like the wenches round a pedlar at a fair, they made
way for us, and up we came to the fireside, where he had his own
established chair,--I have heard it was carried to the balcony in
summer, but it was by the fireside when I saw it,--so up came Tim