Hector's brow now grew red in his turn.``Sir,'' he said, ``Idon't understand the meaning of Mancipia and Serfs, but Iconceive that such names are very improperly applied to Scotch Highlanders: no man but my mother's brother dared to have used such language in my presence; and I pray you will observe, that I consider it as neither hospitable, handsome, kind, nor generous usage towards your guest and your kinsman.
My ancestors, Mr.Oldbuck''--
``Were great and gallant chiefs, I dare say, Hector; and really I did not mean to give you such immense offence in treating a point of remote antiquity, a subject on which Ialways am myself cool, deliberate, and unimpassioned.But you are as hot and hasty, as if you were Hector and Achilles, and Agamemnon to boot.''
``I am sorry I expressed myself so hastily, uncle, especially to you, who have been so generous and good.But my ancestors''--``No more about it, lad; I meant them no affront--none.''
``I'm glad of it, sir; for the house of M`Intyre''--``Peace be with them all, every man of them,'' said the Antiquary.``But to return to our subject--Do you recollect, I say, any of those poems which afforded you such amusement?''
``Very hard this,'' thought M`Intyre, ``that he will speak with such glee of everything which is ancient, excepting my family.''--Then, after some efforts at recollection, he added aloud, ``Yes, sir,--I think I do remember some lines; but you do not understand the Gaelic language.''
``And will readily excuse hearing it.But you can give me some idea of the sense in our own vernacular idiom?''
``I shall prove a wretched interpreter,'' said M`Intyre, running over the original, well garnished with _aghes, aughs,_ and _oughs,_and similar gutterals, and then coughing and hawking as if the translation stuck in his throat.At length, having premised that the poem was a dialogue between the poet Oisin, or Ossian, and Patrick, the tutelar Saint of Ireland, and that it was difficult, if not impossible, to render the exquisite felicity of the first two or three lines, he said the sense was to this purpose:
``Patrick the psalm-singer, Since you will not listen to one of my stories, Though you never heard it before, I am sorry to tell you You are little better than an ass''--``Good! good!'' exclaimed the Antiquary; ``but go on.
Why, this is, after all, the most admirable fooling--I dare say the poet was very right.What says the Saint?''
``He replies in character,'' said M`Intyre; ``but you should hear M`Alpin sing the original.The speeches of Ossian come in upon a strong deep bass--those of Patrick are upon a tenor key.''
``Like M`Alpin's drone and small pipes, I suppose,'' said Oldbuck.``Well? Pray go on.''
``Well then, Patrick replies to Ossian:
Upon my word, son of Fingal, While I am warbling the psalms, The clamour of your old women's tales Disturbs my devotional exercises.''
``Excellent!--why, this is better and better.I hope Saint Patrick sung better than Blattergowl's precentor, or it would be hang--choice between the poet and psalmist.But what Iadmire is the courtesy of these two eminent persons towards each other.It is a pity there should not be a word of this in Macpherson's translation.''
``If you are sure of that,'' said M`Intyre, gravely, ``he must have taken very unwarrantable liberties with his original.''
``It will go near to be thought so shortly--but pray proceed.''
``Then,'' said M`Intyre, ``this is the answer of Ossian: