Part 9

"'James,' said Miss Sarah, on his coming into the apartment where she was,'I hear that man quoting Pope. Now, James, I beg you'll be on your guard; for you may depend upon it he intends to cheat you. Recollect how often you have been taken in by Pope-quoters. There was the man that borrowed five pounds from you, on the strength of a quotation; there was the man that got your name to a fifty-pound bill, of which you had afterwards to pay every farthing, through precisely a similar claim on your bounty--for he had no other; then there was the fellow whom you recommended to the wood-merchants, and who forged a bill on his employers; then there were the silver spoons that you bought from the packman, and that turned out to be pewter and tin--all because they quoted Pope; then there was----But it would take me a week to go over half the impositions of which you have been the victim, through that detested and detestable Pope.'

"To this tirade poor Mr Darsy listened with the utmost patience and meekness, while a smile of good-nature, blended with an expression of pity for his sister's blindness to the merits of the poet, played on his intelligent and benevolent countenance.

"'Well, Sarah, my dear,' he said, when his sister had done speaking, 'if I have been taken in by these people, as I am willing enough to allow I have, whether does the shame and disgrace lie with them or me?'

"'I do not know, James, where the shame and disgrace lie,' said his sister; 'but I have a pretty good guess, and so have you, where the loss does. But all that I have to say, just now, James, is--be on your guard in your dealings with this Pope-quoting horse-couper.'

"Mr Darsy was about to come out with a quotation in reply--he had a very apt one at his finger ends--but, recollecting that this would only further irritate his sister, he made a violent effort, and suppressed it, and merely said, with his usual benevolent smile, 'I'll take care, Sarah, my dear; I'll take care.' And, saying this, he left the apartment, and, rejoined Willie Craig, who soon after took his leave, with his money in his pocket, and a good dose of whisky punch under his belt.

"On leaving the house, Willie came accidentally across Sandy Ramsay, who was at the moment in the act of yoking the black horse to a cart.

"'Ye hae gotten a prime beast there, Sandy,' said Willie.

"'If we hae, I'm thinkin we hae paid as weel for him,' replied the latter dryly. 'I'm dootin ye hae saft-saped the master to some purpose. Ye hae come Pope owre him, as ither folks hae dune before ye.'

"Willie smiled significantly, clapped his finger to his nose, and walked on without vouchsafing any other reply.

"'What horse is that, Sandy?' said Mr Darsy on the forenoon of the second day after Willie Craig's visit, as the former approached the house, leading an old grey, lame beast by the halter.

"'Do ye no ken him, sir?' replied Sandy, with an ominous smile.

"'No,' rejoined Mr Darsy, gravely.

"'Indeed, it's little wonder. This is Willie Craig's _black_ horse, but your grey ane.'

"'What do you mean, Sandy?' said Mr Darsy, in a tone of alarm. 'You don't mean to say that that's my horse, my black horse?'

"'It's a' that's for him, sir?' replied Sandy. 'A shower o' rain's made a' the difference. It has washed him into what ye see him--made him as grey as an auld rat. But his change o' colour's no the warst o't. See, he hasna a leg to staun upon, and every teeth that was in his head's faun oot. There they are, every ane.' And Sandy pulled a handful of horse-teeth out of his pocket. 'I hurried him hame out o' the plough,' continued Sandy, 'before he wad fa' in pieces a'thegither, as I expected every moment he wad do.'

"Mr Darsy held up his hands in amazement at this most extraordinary metamorphosis of his famous black charger, and muttered an ejaculation of surprise at the very strange occurrence, but said nothing for a few seconds. Although he said nothing, however, he felt a good deal; not for the pecuniary loss it involved--for that he did not care--but for the credit of the admirers of Pope. His sister, too--what would she say to it? Here was another instance of imposition chargeable against his adored author, to add to the long list of which she was already in possession. It was an awkward affair. He would ten times rather that the price of the horse had been thrown into the sea; and this he would cheerfully have done, had the alternative been put in his power. But there was no help for it.

"'Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, after musing for a moment on the astounding deception which had just come to light, 'I'll tell you what it is, regarding this very strange affair. I think it very possible--nay, very likely--that the man Craig has been himself imposed upon with this horse, and that he knew nothing of its defects; for I cannot believe that so decent, intelligent, and well-informed a man as he is, could be guilty of such villany as this. I cannot believe it. Now, then, Sandy, I'll tell you what you'll do--you'll take the brown horse----'

"'Wi, your leave, sir, I'll no do that, for yon beast's no chancy to come near, let alane to ride. He's the maist vicious brute I ever saw, and 'll neither hap, stap, nor win. I dinna think ye'll ever get ony guid o' him.'

"'God bless me!' exclaimed Mr Darsy, confounded at this additional misfortune; 'he seemed quiet enough when brought here by Craig.'

"'Nae doot o't, he did,' replied Sandy; 'and heaven knows hoo the scoundrel managed it! But he's a very different thing noo, I can tell ye, sir.'

"'Dear me! that's really odd,' said Mr Darsy. 'Well, then, Sandy, I'll tell you what you'll do: you'll go to our good neighbour Mr Pentland, and get the loan of a pony from him, and ride over the length of Craig's--he lives, you know, at Longlane; it's only about nine miles distant--and tell him what has taken place; and I have no doubt he will at once refund the money, or, at any rate, give us other horses instead of those we have bought. He, indeed, said he would do the former, if we found anything wrong with them within a month.'

"'Catch him there, sir, if ye can,' said Sandy. 'The deil a bodle o' the price he'll ever gi'e back. He's no sae saft in the horn as that. He wad promise ye, I ha'e nae doot--he promises the same thing to every ane he sells a horse to; but whar's the man ever got a penny back frae Willy Craig, for a' that? I would gie half-a-croon mysel to see him.'

"'Well, well, but do you just try him, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy; 'and I have no doubt you will find all turn out right, notwithstanding of appearances.'

"Thus summarily enjoined, Sandy obtained the loan of a pony, mounted, and set off for Longlane, to have an interview with Willie Craig on the subject of his master's purchase.

"Willie was standing at the door of his own house when Sandy approached; and, knowing well what he came about, would have retreated; but it was too late. He was seen; and, aware of this, he kept his ground manfully, and resolved to face out fearlessly the coming storm, as he had done many a one of a similar kind before. On Sandy's approach, Willie, thrusting his hands into his breeches-pockets, and bursting into a loud laugh, hailed his coming visiter with--

'Come, then, my friend! my genius! come along!'

"'Ay, I'll come along,' replied Sandy, angrily; 'and maybe to your cost.

"'Awake, my St John!' shouted Willie--

'Awake, my St John! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings; Let us (since life can little more supply), Than just to look about us, and to die----'

"'Come, come, Willie, nane o' yer blarney for me,' said Sandy, now dismounting. 'Ye're no gaun to saft-sape me that way. What kind o' horses were they ye selt us?

"'Just the very pick o' the country,' replied Willie, coolly.

"'Ay, if ye mean the warst,' said Sandy. 'But to come to the point at ance--I'm sent here, Willie, by Mr Darsy--although I ken weel it's a fruitless errand--to tell ye that yer horses hae turned oot to be no worth their hides; that yer black ane has changed to a dirty grey wi' a shower o' rain, and is dead lame; and that the brown ane'll neither work in plough nor cart.'

"'Dear me, Sandy, ye surprise me!' replied Willie, with a look of amazement as like the genuine as it was possible for any man to assume.

"'Maybe I do,' said Sandy; 'but I hardly believe it. However, this being the case, my master has sent me to say that he expects you'll refund him the siller, as ye promised, or find him ither twa horses worth the amount, in their stead.'

"'Whee-ee-ee-ou!' whistled Willie. 'Is that the next o't? Weel, I didna think your maister was sae unreasonable a man as that comes to, Sandy; but there's a heap o' queer folk in this world.'

"'My feth! there's that,' said the latter; 'and some o' them no far aff.'

"'As lang's _ye're_ sae near, ye may say that, Sandy,' replied Willie; 'but to gie ye an answer to Mr Darsy, tell him, wi' my compliments, Sandy, that there's a truth among Pope's maxims that he doesna seem to hae fan oot. Tell him, wi' my best respects, that, in

'Spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.

Tell ye him _that_, Sandy, and I'm sure he'll be perfectly satisfied.'

"'Do ye no mean to refund the money, then?' inquired Sandy.

"'Deil a cowrie,' said Willie.

"'Nor to gie him ither horses in exchange?'

"'No a hoof.'

"'Weel, then, _ye_ are an infernal scoundrel--that's a' I hae to say,' replied Sandy, remounting his pony, and starting off on his return home.

"On arriving at Dryfield, Sandy hastened to Mr Darsy's apartment, to inform him of the result of his mission, but, on opening the door, drew hastily back again, on finding a stranger in the room.

"'Come in--come in, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, on observing the former retreating. 'This gentleman will excuse your intrusion; for he is a

'Friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear.'

"It might be so--of this we shall be better able to judge by and by; but the reader will think with us, we have little doubt, that this was saying rather too much of an acquaintance of half-an-hour; for no longer had the stranger been known to him by whom he was thus so highly complimented. Mr Darsy's visitor was, or at least represented himself to be, an itinerant preacher, who, aware, as he said, of that gentleman's benevolence and hospitality, had taken the liberty of calling on him as he passed on his pious vocation. This account of himself and calling, he wound up with a very apt quotation from Pope; and, we need hardly add, that it was to this circumstance he was mainly indebted for the rapid progress he had made in Mr Darsy's affections.

"To return to our story:--On Mr Darsy's repeating the couplet above quoted, the stranger, who was a decent, quiet, elderly man, dressed in somewhat rusty blacks, smiled at the compliment, and looked graciously on Sandy, as if at once to assure him that he need be under no restraint on his account, and that he was, in truth, the worthy person which Mr Darsy had represented him to be. Thus encouraged, Sandy entered the apartment; and, at Mr Darsy's request, told the result of his mission. On hearing it, the worthy man merely shook his head, and said--

"'Well, well, Sandy, there's no help for it. We must just take better care next time.'

"He then explained to the stranger gentleman the nature of the transaction. The good man was horrified, held up his hands in amazement, and recited, with much feeling and solemnity--

'The good must merit God's peculiar care; But who but God can tell us who they are!'

"'Ah, who indeed?' said Mr Darsy, smiling. 'There is the difficulty.'

"'Ay, there, indeed, it is,' said the stranger, smiling in his turn. 'Who but God can tell the pure from the impure of heart? Who but he separate the tares from the wheat, the corn from the chaff? None else, indeed, my respected friend'--looking benevolently on Mr Darsy.

"'My dear sir,' replied the latter, emphatically, and taking his benevolent looking visiter by the hand, to mark his deep sense of the truths which he delivered--'my dear sir,' he said, adding no more in words, but _looking_ the remainder of the sentence, which, when translated, said--'you speak well and wisely.' After a moment--'My good sir!' exclaimed Mr Darsy, glancing at his visiter's shoes, which appeared much travel-soiled, 'I suspect you have had a long walk to-day. You seemed fatigued. Now, you will take a little of something or other--a glass or two of wine, or a little brandy, or something of that sort, till dinner is ready.'

"'You are too good--too good, my very excellent and much-respected friend,' replied the stranger; 'but,' he added, with a subdued yet significant look, 'there are other men of Ross than he whom Pope celebrated. There are others--

'Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows, Whose seats the weary traveller repose.'

"This couplet, which was given in a mild and gentle tone, was so palpably directed to Mr Darsy, that he could not avoid seeing its intended application to himself; and, seeing this, he shook his head and smiled a disclaimer.

"'My good friend,' he said, 'I have but slender pretension to any portion of that noble character, so masterly drawn by the immortal bard of Twickenham; yet do I agree with what the poet elsewhere says, that

'All fame is foreign but of true desert-- Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart-- One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud hurrahs; And more true joy Marcellus, exiled, feels, Than Caesar with a senate at his heels.'

"The stranger smiled, bowed, and looked benevolently on his host.

"'Beautiful--beautiful!' he exclaimed, in a tone of rapture. 'How terse--how forcible! Yet, Mr Darsy, there are those--ay, there are those who say that Pope is no poet!'

"Mr Darsy smiled grimly.

"'I have heard,' he said, 'that there are such monsters in human shape; but I have never been so unfortunate as to meet with one of them. If I did, I do not know what I should do. I think I should murder the Goth off-hand. I believe I should. No human patience could stand against such heresy--such blasphemy, as I may call it.'

"Mr Darsy now rung the bell, and desired the servant to put some wine and brandy on the table. The order was immediately complied with, and the two Popites forthwith drew in.

"'Wine or brandy, my dear sir?' said Mr Darsy.

"'Why,' said the gentle stranger, who, by the way, had given in his name as Claythorn--'why,' he said, with a quiet, pleasant smile, 'I will take a little brandy, if you please. Wine doesn't agree with me. I find the alcohol safer.'

"'Then help yourself, my dear friend,' replied Mr Darsy; and Mr Darsy's friend did help himself, and that with a liberality which was rather surprising in one of his cloth; although it would not have surprised any one who had studied and drawn the proper conclusion from the appearance of his nose, which was of a bright, luminous red. Having finished his first jorum, Mr Darsy pressed his dear friend to another tifter; and his dear friend, nothing loth, did as he was desired; presenting satisfactory evidence, that a love of Pope and of brandy-and-water were perfectly compatible, doubt it who might. Opened up by the benign influence of the alcohol, the itinerant preacher now began to give Pope by the yard. Before, he had dealt him out sparingly--in bits and fragments: he now gave whole pages on end, to the inexpressible delight of his entertainer, who, having been induced, by the rarity of the occasion--the meeting with so enthusiastic an admirer of his beloved bard--to take a glass or two of wine extra, gave as ample measure in return.

"The conversation between the two Popites was thus reduced to nothing--only a word or two now and then; the rest was entirely made up of quotations. While Mr Darsy and his guest were thus employed, a servant came to announce that dinner was on the table. Both immediately rose to their feet. When they had done so, Mr Darsy took the preacher by the hand, and said, in an under tone--

"'Now, my dear good friend, when you go down stairs you will see my sister. She will dine with us. A good creature as ever lived--an excellent creature. But--but--I am ashamed to say it. The fact is, and you know it, my dear friend, that

'Good, as well as ill, Woman's at best a contradiction still.'

"'My sister, in short, my dear friend, has no fancy for our adored bard. I can't account for it; but so it is. Therefore, if you will just be so good as say nothing about him while she is present, it will be as well. No quotations, you understand. We'll have our revenge for this restraint when she retires. We will resume the subject then, my dear sir,' added Mr Darsy, slapping his guest, in a friendly and jocose way, on the shoulder, as he spoke. 'We'll have a night of it; and I'll smuggle down _his_ works from my library, and we will glance them over together when we've got the room to ourselves. That will be a treat, eh?'

"Thus cautioned as to his conduct in the presence of Mr Darsy's sister, Mr Claythorn descended to the dining-room with his host. Not a word--not the most distant allusion to Pope--escaped either of the two gentlemen; so that, whatever Miss Darsy's suspicions of the case might be--and she certainly looked as if she had some suspicions of it--nothing transpired to give her assurance of the fact. On her retiring, however, the pent-up sluices of the Popites were thrown open, and out there rushed two impetuous streams of poetry; sometimes blending, sometimes alternating, and sometimes running counter to each other. Mr Darsy was delighted--more than delighted with his friend; for he had never, in the whole course of his life, met with one who could quote his favourite author with such facility and at such length, as the guest whom he was now entertaining; neither had he ever met with one who had so deep, so thorough a reverence for the mighty moral poet.

"This was altogether, in short, one of the happiest nights he had ever spent in his life. At its close, Mr Darsy accompanied his guest--who he insisted should remain with him all night--to his bedroom, and parted from him there with a very apt quotation, to which his friend replied with another no less felicitous, which he delivered in a very feeling and impressive manner. On the following morning--

"'What keeps your reverend friend, brother?' said Miss Darsy, somewhat sneeringly--for she had strong suspicions of the stranger's being a Popite--as she sat at the breakfast-table, waiting the appearance of that person, before proceeding to discharge the duties of the morning meal.

"'Really, my dear, I don't know,' replied Mr Darsy. 'The poor man is fatigued, I daresay; and we sat up rather late last night.'

"'Ay, brother, I fancy you found him a very pleasant intelligent companion,' said Miss Darsy, with a look and tone of peculiar meaning.

"What this meaning was, Mr Darsy perfectly understood. He knew that his sister was at once insinuating her suspicions of the stranger's Popism, and driving at a discovery of the fact. Aware of this, and by no means desirous of coming to an explanation on the subject, Mr Darsy, without noticing his sister's remark, said he would 'just step up-stairs to see what was keeping Mr Claythorn,' and deliver himself (but of this he said nothing) of a happy quotation which had occurred to him, and which he thought would form an exceedingly appropriate greeting.

"He entered his friend's bedroom; there was no movement. He drew aside the curtains; the bed was unoccupied. The Pope-quoter had decamped. He was off; and off, too, were a dozen silver spoons and a small gold watch; all of which property had been unguardedly left in the room in which he slept."

Here ended my good host's (Mr Pentland) anecdotes and sketch of the worthy proprietor of Dryfield; but, he added, he could give as much more of the same kind, if I chose, as would fill half-a-dozen volumes. I thanked him, and said that I would rest content with what he had been kind enough to give me, in the meantime; but that, if the readers of the "Border Tales"--for which, I told him, I intended these memorabilia--desired any more, I should, perhaps, take the liberty of applying to him again.

THE SURGEON'S TALES.

THE CHERRY-STONE.

I have always been anxious to avoid giving publicity to details of my profession which might harrow the feelings of mankind--than which, I believe, nothing is more easy of accomplishment by those who are, as I am, in the daily exercise of painful operations on the human body. Pain has been gifted to man as an inheritance, so ample, in so many forms and complexions, in so many directions, that we have only to think, and we feel it--we have only to look, and we see it--we have only to speak or act, and we rouse it. Yet so wonderfully are we constituted, that we do not hate it more than we _love_ it; while we are all engaged in the general endeavours to banish it and conceal it, we have such a craving appetite for it, in the second-hand form of narrative, that we gloat over pictures of suffering with the feelings of an epicure, and seek and call for the stimulus of sighs, and groans, and tears, with an avidity only equalled by our desire of personal happiness. A final cause might be traced in this extraordinary feature of the human mind, if we were curious to know the ways of the Almighty, the modes he has had recourse to, to fit us for life, and prepare us for death; but this is not my object, nor, while I continue to draw pictures from life--charged with a moral that may instruct, truth that may edify, or results that may show there is good in evil, and wonderful deliverances from apparently irremediable wo--is it my desire to minister to the mysterious appetite for sorrow, according to its wants, or the abilities which a long experience might enable me to exercise with greater effect than many sensitive minds might approve.