“And the poor young fellow, Steenie Mucklebackit, is to be buried this morning,” said our old friend the Antiquary, as he exchanged his quilted night-gown for an old-fashioned black coat in lieu of the snuff-coloured vestment which he ordinarily wore, “and, I presume, it is expected that I should attend the funeral?”
“Ou, ay,” answered the faithful Caxon, officiously brushing the white threads and specks from his patron’s habit. “The body, God help us! was sae broken against the rocks that they’re fain to hurry the burial. The sea’s a kittle cast, as I tell my daughter, puir thing, when I want her to get up her spirits; the sea, says I, Jenny, is as uncertain a calling”—
“As the calling of an old periwig-maker, that’s robbed of his business by crops and the powder-tax. Caxon, thy topics of consolation are as ill chosen as they are foreign to the present purpose. Quid mihi cum faemina? What have I to do with thy womankind, who have enough and to spare of mine own?—I pray of you again, am I expected by these poor people to attend the funeral of their son?”
“Ou, doubtless, your honour is expected,” answered Caxon; “weel I wot ye are expected. Ye ken, in this country ilka gentleman is wussed to be sae civil as to see the corpse aff his grounds; ye needna gang higher than the loan-head—it’s no expected your honour suld leave the land; it’s just a Kelso convoy, a step and a half ower the doorstane.”
“A Kelso convoy!” echoed the inquisitive Antiquary; “and why a Kelso convoy more than any other?”
“Dear sir,” answered Caxon, “how should I ken? it’s just a by-word.”
“Caxon,” answered Oldbuck, “thou art a mere periwig-maker—Had I asked Ochiltree the question, he would have had a legend ready made to my hand.”
“My business,” replied Caxon, with more animation than he commonly displayed, “is with the outside of your honour’s head, as ye are accustomed to say.”
“True, Caxon, true; and it is no reproach to a thatcher that he is not an upholsterer.”
He then took out his memorandum-book and wrote down “Kelso convoy—said to be a step and a half over the threshold. Authority—Caxon.—Quaere— Whence derived? Mem. To write to Dr. Graysteel upon the subject.”