“Umph! well, that’s the opinion of the democraws, as you call them—What say the rest o’ Fairport?”
“In troth,” said the candid reporter, “I canna say it’s muckle better. Captain Coquet, of the volunteers—that’s him that’s to be the new collector,—and some of the other gentlemen of the Blue and a’ Blue Club, are just saying it’s no right to let popists, that hae sae mony French friends as the Yerl of Glenallan, gang through the country, and—but your honour will maybe be angry?”
“Not I, Caxon,” said Oldbuck; “fire away as if you were Captain Coquet’s whole platoon—I can stand it.”
“Weel then, they say, sir, that as ye didna encourage the petition about the peace, and wadna petition in favour of the new tax, and as you were again’ bringing in the yeomanry at the meal mob, but just for settling the folk wi’ the constables—they say ye’re no a gude friend to government; and that thae sort o’ meetings between sic a powerfu’ man as the Yerl, and sic a wise man as you,—Od they think they suld be lookit after; and some say ye should baith be shankit aff till Edinburgh Castle.”
“On my word,” said the Antiquary, “I am infinitely obliged to my neighbours for their good opinion of me! And so I, that have never interfered with their bickerings, but to recommend quiet and moderate measures, am given up on both sides as a man very likely to commit high treason, either against King or People?—Give me my coat, Caxon—give me my coat;—it’s lucky I live not in their report. Have you heard anything of Taffril and his vessel?”
Caxon’s countenance fell.—“Na, sir, and the winds hae been high, and this is a fearfu’ coast to cruise on in thae eastern gales,—the headlands rin sae far out, that a veshel’s embayed afore I could sharp a razor; and then there’s nae harbour or city of refuge on our coast—a’ craigs and breakers;—a veshel that rins ashore wi’ us flees asunder like the powther when I shake the pluff—and it’s as ill to gather ony o’t again. I aye tell my daughter thae things when she grows wearied for a letter frae Lieutenant Taffril—It’s aye an apology for him. Ye sudna blame him, says I, hinny, for ye little ken what may hae happened.”
“Ay, ay, Caxon, thou art as good a comforter as a valet-de-chambre.—Give me a white stock, man,—dye think I can go down with a handkerchief about my neck when I have company?”
“Dear sir, the Captain says a three-nookit hankercher is the maist fashionable overlay, and that stocks belang to your honour and me that are auld warld folk. I beg pardon for mentioning us twa thegither, but it was what he said.”
“The Captain’s a puppy, and you are a goose, Caxon.”
“It’s very like it may be sae,” replied the acquiescent barber: “I am sure your honour kens best.”