“Morag! bring a basket here directly,” cried the Pensassenach, as she hurried down stairs with the large key of the cellar in her hand. “Now,” said she, putting a number of bottles into the basket, “take care of these; and make haste, and bring a cheese, and some loaves of bread, and follow me quickly out to the knoll with the basket.”
In a very little time, an enormous pile of fuel was built up on the summit of the knoll, with the tar-barrel in the centre of it, to which an opening was at first left from the external air, which was afterwards partially filled with dry furze-bushes dipped in tar, so as to afford the flame a ready communication inwards. When every thing was prepared, the Pensassenach seized a lighted candle from a lantern, and, as Dryden hath it, she
“Like another Helen, fired another Troy!”
that is to say, she set fire, not to a city, indeed, but to the whin-bushes, and the flame running inwards, to the tar-barrel, the whole mighty fabric of fuel was instantaneously in such a blaze, that any one might have thought that it was Troy itself that was burning.
“Now,” said the Pensassenach, “draw me one of those stone bottles of brandy, and fill me a tasse of it. I drink to those to whom I have dedicated this bonfire—I drink, in the first place, to the health of my brother John, captain in the Royal Regiment, whom I hope soon to see here!” and, putting the cuach to her lips, she sipped a modest lady’s share of the contents.
“Come, Bill Dallas,” continued she, addressing the travelling merchant, who, tired as he was with his long tramp, had yet sneaked out to secure his share of the liquor, as well as of the fun. “Come, Bill, you must drink next; you have the best right to do so, as the bearer of the good news.”
“Weel, here’s to Captain John, and wussin’ him health, and muckle happiness, and a gude wife till him, wi’ plenty o’ siller,” said the packman, tossing off the full contents of the tasse. “I’m sure there’s no a bonnier man, nor a better man, nor a gallanter sodger—eh, beg his honor’s pardon, I meant offisher—in the hail land o’ the British Isles, be the ither wha he may.”
“Well spoken, Bill,” cried the lady. “Now, John Smith, come it is your turn next.”
“Here’s helss, an’ mokel o’t, to her broder Captain Shon, and mokel gude wifes and gude sillers!” cried John Smith, draining the cuach to the last drop.—“Oich, but she’s goot trinks!” added he.
The cup and the toast went round a large and encreasing party; for the bonfire, sending up sharp pointed flames, as if it meditated piercing the very clouds, spread wonder and speculation all over the country far and wide, and brought all manner of idlers, like flies and moths, about it. A considerable space of time, as well as a tolerable quantity of brandy, was expended, before the health had been drank by every one.