Rob Roy

poor Owen, could the bob-wig which he then wore have uncurled itself, and stood on end with horror, I am convinced the morning's labour of the friseur would have been undone, merely by the excess of his astonishment at this enormity. An inroad on the strong-box, or an erasure in the ledger, or a mis-summation in a fitted account, could hardly have surprised him more disagreeably. My father read the lines sometimes with an affectation of not being able to understand the sense—sometimes in a mouthing tone of mock heroic—always with an emphasis of the most bitter irony, most irritating to the nerves of an author.

'O for the voice of that wild horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 
The dying hero's call, 
That told imperial Charlemagne, 
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain 
Had wrought his champion's fall.

'Fontarabian echoes!' continued my father, interrupting himself; 'the Fontarabian Fair would have been more to the purpose—Paynim!—What's Paynim?—Could you not say Pagan as well, and write English at least, if you must needs write nonsense?—

'Sad over earth and ocean sounding. 
And England's distant cliffs astounding.

Such are the notes should say 
How Britain's hope, and France's fear, 
Victor of Cressy and Poitier, 
In Bordeaux dying lay.'

'Poitiers, by the way, is always spelt with an s, and I know no reason why orthography should give place to rhyme.—

''Raise my faint head, my squires,' he said, 
'And let the casement be display'd, 
That I may see once more 
The splendour of the setting sun 
Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne, 
And Blaye's empurpled shore.

'Garonne and sun is a bad rhyme. Why, Frank, you do not even understand the beggarly trade you have chosen.

''Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, 
His fall the dews of evening steep, 
As if in sorrow shed, 
So soft shall fall the trickling tear, 
When England's maids and matrons hear 
Of their Black Edward dead. 

''And though my sun of glory set, 
Nor France, nor England, shall forget 
The terror of my name; 
And oft shall Britain's heroes rise, 
New planets in these southern skies, 
Through clouds of blood and flame.'

'A cloud of flame is something new—Good-morrow, my masters all, and a merry Christmas to you!—Why, the bellman writes better lines.' He then tossed the paper from him with an air of superlative contempt, and concluded—'Upon my credit, Frank, you are a greater blockhead than I took you for.'

What could I say, my dear Tresham? There I stood, swelling with indignant mortification, while my father regarded me with a calm but stern look of scorn and pity; and poor Owen, with uplifted hands and eyes, looked as striking a picture of horror as if he had just read his patron's name in the Gazette. At length I took courage to speak, endeavouring that my tone of voice should betray my feelings as little as possible.

'I am quite aware, sir, how ill qualified I am to play the conspicuous part in society you have destined for me; and, luckily, I am not ambitious of the wealth I might acquire. Mr. Owen would be a much more effective assistant.' I said this in some malice, for I considered Owen as having deserted my cause a little too soon.

'Owen!' said my father—'The boy is mad—actually insane. And, pray, sir, if I may presume to inquire, having coolly turned me over to Mr. Owen (although I may expect more attention from any one than from my son), what may your own sage projects be?'

'I should wish, sir,' I replied, summoning up my courage, 'to travel for two or three years, should that consist with your pleasure; otherwise, although late, I would willingly spend the same time at Oxford or Cambridge.'

'In the name of common sense! was the like ever heard?—to put yourself to school among pedants and Jacobites, when you might be pushing your fortune in the world! Why not go to Westminster or Eton at once, man, and take to Lilly's Grammar and Accidence, and to the birch, too, if you like it?'

'Then, sir, if you think my plan of improvement too late, I would willingly return to the Continent.'

'You have already spent too much time there to little purpose, Mr. Francis.'

'Then I would choose the army, sir, in preference to any other active line of life.'

'Choose the d—l!' answered my father, hastily, and then checking himself—'I profess you make me as great a fool as you are yourself. Is he not enough to drive one mad, Owen?'—Poor Owen shook his head, and looked down. 'Hark ye, Frank,' continued my father, 'I will cut all this matter very short. I was at your age when my father turned me out of doors, and settled my legal inheritance on my younger brother. I left Osbaldistone Hall on the back of a broken-down hunter, with ten guineas in my purse. I have never crossed the threshold again, and I never will. I know not, and I care not, if my fox-hunting brother is alive, or has broken his neck; but he has