The Antiquary — Complete

'I am avised of the contrary,' said Oldbuck.

'How say you, Mr. Lovel?—speak up for your own credit, man.'

Lovel was obliged to confess himself in the ridiculous situation of one alike ignorant of the subject of conversation and controversy which had engaged the company for an hour.

'Lord help the lad, his head has been wool-gathering!—I thought how it would be when the womankind were admitted—no getting a word of sense out of a young fellow for six hours after.—Why, man, there was once a people called the Piks'—

'More properly Picts,' interrupted the Baronet.

'I say the Pikar, Pihar, Piochtar, Piaghter, or Peughtar,' vociferated Oldbuck; 'they spoke a Gothic dialect'—

'Genuine Celtic,' again asseverated the knight.

'Gothic! Gothic! I'll go to death upon it!' counter-asseverated the squire.

'Why, gentlemen,' sad Lovel, 'I conceive that is a dispute which may be easily settled by philologists, if there are any remains of the language.'

'There is but one word,' said the Baronet, 'but, in spite of Mr. Oldbuck's pertinacity, it is decisive of the question.'

'Yes, in my favour,' said Oldbuck: 'Mr. Lovel, you shall be judge—I have the learned Pinkerton on my side.'

'I, on mine, the indefatigable and erudite Chalmers.'

'Gordon comes into my opinion.'

'Sir Robert Sibbald holds mine.'

'Innes is with me!' vociferated Oldbuck.

'Riston has no doubt!' shouted the Baronet.

'Truly, gentlemen,' said Lovel, 'before you muster your forces and overwhelm me with authorities, I should like to know the word in dispute.'

'Benval' said both the disputants at once.

'Which signifies caput valli,' said Sir Arthur.

'The head of the wall,' echoed Oldbuck.

There was a deep pause.—'It is rather a narrow foundation to build a hypothesis upon,' observed the arbiter.

'Not a whit, not a whit,' said Oldbuck; 'men fight best in a narrow ring—an inch is as good as a mile for a home-thrust.'

'It is decidedly Celtic,' said the Baronet; 'every hill in the Highlands begins with Ben.'

'But what say you to Val, Sir Arthur; is it not decidedly the Saxon wall?'

'It is the Roman vallum,' said Sir Arthur;—'the Picts borrowed that part of the word.'

'No such thing; if they borrowed anything, it must have been your Ben, which they might have from the neighbouring Britons of Strath Cluyd.'

'The Piks, or Picts,' said Lovel, 'must have been singularly poor in dialect, since, in the only remaining word of their vocabulary, and that consisting only of two syllables, they have been confessedly obliged to borrow one of them from another language; and, methinks, gentlemen, with submission, the controversy is not unlike that which the two knights fought, concerning the shield that had one side white and the other black. Each of you claim one- half of the word, and seem to resign the other. But what strikes me most, is the poverty of the language which has left such slight vestiges behind it.'

'You are in an error,' said Sir Arthur; 'it was a copious language, and they were a great and powerful people; built two steeples—one at Brechin, one at Abernethy. The Pictish maidens of the blood-royal were kept in Edinburgh Castle, thence called Castrum Puellarum.'

'A childish legend,' said Oldbuck, 'invented to give consequence to trumpery womankind. It was called the Maiden Castle, quasi lucus a non lucendo, because it resisted every attack, and women never do.'

'There is a list of the Pictish kings,' persisted Sir Arthur, 'well authenticated from Crentheminachcryme (the date of whose reign is somewhat uncertain) down to Drusterstone, whose death concluded their dynasty. Half of them have the Celtic patronymic Mac prefixed—Mac, id est filius;—what do you say to that, Mr. Oldbuck? There is Drust Macmorachin, Trynel Maclachlin (first of that ancient clan, as it may be judged), and Gormach Macdonald, Alpin Macmetegus, Drust Mactallargam' (here he was interrupted by a fit of coughing)—'ugh, ugh, ugh—Golarge Macchan—ugh, ugh—Macchanan—ugh— Macchananail, Kenneth—ugh—ugh— Macferedith, Eachan Macfungus—and twenty more, decidedly Celtic names, which I could repeat, if this damned cough would let me.'

'Take a glass of wine, Sir Arthur, and drink down that bead-roll of unbaptized jargon, that would choke the devil—why, that last fellow has the only intelligible name you have repeated—they are all of the tribe of Macfungus—mushroom monarchs every one of them; sprung up from the fumes of conceit, folly, and falsehood, fermenting in the brains of some mad Highland seannachie.'

'I am surprised to hear you, Mr. Oldbuck: you know, or ought to know, that the list of these potentates was copied by Henry Maule of Melguin, from the Chronicles of Loch Leven and St. Andrews, and put forth by him in his short but satisfactory history of the Picts, printed by Robert Freebairn of Edinburgh, and sold by him at his shop in the Parliament Close, in the year of God seventeen hundred and five, or six, I am not precisely certain which—but I have a copy at home that stands next to my twelvemo copy of the Scots Acts, and ranges on the shelf with them very well. What say you to that, Mr. Oldbuck?'

'Say?—why, I laugh at Harry Maule and his history,' answered Oldbuck, 'and thereby comply with his request, of giving it entertainment according to its merits.'

'Do not laugh at a better man than yourself,' said Sir Arthur, somewhat scornfully.

'I do not conceive I do, Sir Arthur, in laughing either at him or his history.'

'Henry Maule of Melgum was a gentleman, Mr. Oldbuck.'

'I presume he had no advantage of me in that particular,' replied the Antiquary, somewhat tartly.

'Permit me, Mr. Oldbuck—he was a gentleman of high family, and ancient descent, and therefore'—

'The descendant of a Westphalian printer should speak of him with deference? Such may be your opinion, Sir Arthur—it is not mine. I conceive that my descent from that painful and industrious typographer, Wolfbrand Oldenbuck, who, in the month of December 1493, under the patronage, as the colophon tells us, of Sebaldus Scheyter and Sebastian Kammermaister, accomplished the printing of the great Chronicle of Nuremberg—I conceive, I say, that my descent from that great restorer of learning is more creditable to me as a man of letters, than if I had numbered in my genealogy all the brawling, bullet-headed, iron-fisted, old Gothic barons since the days of Crentheminachcryme—not one of whom, I suppose, could write his own name.'

'If you mean the observation as a sneer at my ancestry,' said the knight, with an assumption of dignified superiority and composure, 'I have the pleasure to inform you, that the name of my ancestor, Gamelyn de Guardover, Miles, is written fairly with his own hand in the earliest copy of the Ragman-roll.'

'Which only serves to show that he was one of the earliest who set the mean example of submitting to Edward I. What have, you to say for the stainless loyalty of your family, Sir Arthur, after such a backsliding as that?'

'It's enough, sir,' said Sir Arthur, starting up fiercely, and pushing back his chair; 'I shall hereafter take care how I honour with my company one who shows himself so ungrateful for my condescension.'

'In that you will do as you find most agreeable, Sir Arthur;—I hope, that as I was not aware of the extent of the obligation which you have done me by visiting my poor house, I may be excused for not having carried my gratitude to the extent of servility.'

'Mighty well—mighty well, Mr. Oldbuck—I wish you a good evening—Mr. a—a—a—Shovel—I wish you a very good evening.'

Out of the parlour door flounced the incensed Sir Arthur, as if the spirit of the whole Round Table inflamed