Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 68, No 422, December 1850

Wirtig shook his nephew's hand.

"Welcome you are!" said he, kindly. "Hospitality is the attribute of the noblest races. So long it please ye, remain under this poor roof. By the honour of a cavalier! I would gladly have you with me in the spring, when I think of rebuilding my house on a very different plan. You will find many changes here, kinsman Alexis. Come, fill your glass. A health to the Great Unknown! He has been my good genius. But we will talk of that on our way to the harvest feast."

The innkeeper's conversation on the road to the hamlet, where the festival was held, was in complete accordance with Caleb's account of his vagaries. He was perfectly mad on the subject of the author of Waverley. Never had human being, whether sage, poet, or philosopher, made so extraordinary an impression on an admirer as had the poet of Abbotsford on the host of the Star – now the Bear of Bradwardine. Wirtig identified himself with all the most striking characters of the Scottish novels. He assumed the tone by turns of a stern Presbyterian, a gossiping and eccentric antiquary, a haughty noble, an enthusiastic royalist, a warlike Highland chief. His intense study of the Waverley Novels, at a time when he was much shaken by his wife's sudden death, had warped his mind upon this particular subject. Combined with this monomania was a feeling of boundless gratitude to the Scottish bard for the prosperity the inn had enjoyed under the auspices of the Blessed Bear. His portrait hung in the dining-room, where his birthday was annually celebrated. Wirtig scarcely ever emptied a glass but to his health, or uttered a sentence without garnishing it with his favourite oaths and expressions. In his hour of sorrow, the honest German had made himself a new world out of the novelist's creations. The sorrow faded away, but the illusion remained. And Wirtig deeply resented every attempt to destroy it. Emily's lover, Elben, a thriving young attorney, had dared to attack the daily increasing folly of his future father-in-law, and had boldly taken the field against his Scottish idol. He paid dearly for his temerity. Argument sharpened into irony, and irony led to a quarrel, whose consequence was a sentence of banishment from the territory of the Clan Wirtig, pronounced against the unlucky lover, who then heartily bewailed his rashness – the more so that, whilst he himself was excluded from the presence of his mistress, he was kept in constant alarm lest some one of the numerous English visitors to the Bear of Bradwardine should seduce her affections, and bear her off to his island. In vain did he endeavour, through mutual friends, to mollify Scott's furious partisan; in vain did Emily, in secret concert with her lover, exert all her powers of coaxing. At last Wirtig declared he would no longer oppose their union when Elben should have atoned for his crime by presenting him with a novel from his own pen, written in the exact style of that stupendous genius whom the rash attorney had dared to vilify. Elben was horrified at this condition, but nevertheless, remembering that love works miracles, and has even been known to make a tolerable painter out of a blacksmith, he did not despair. He shut himself up with a complete edition of the Waverley novels, read and re-read, wrote, altered, corrected, and finally tore up his manuscripts. A hundred times he was on the point of abandoning the task in despair; a hundred times, stimulated by the promised recompense, he resumed his pen. But his labour was fruitless. A year elapsed; he had consumed sundry reams of paper, bottles of ink, and pounds of canister; the result was nil. The time allowed him expired at the approaching Christmas. Poor Emily's cheeks had lost their roses through anxiety and suspense. The Miffelstein gossips pitied her, abused her father, and laughed at Elben.

These latter details did not reach Alexis through either his uncle or his cousin. The former, on casual mention of the attorney's name, looked as grim as the most truculent Celt that ever carried claymore; in her father's presence Emily – or Amy, as the Scotomaniac now called her – dared not even allude to her lover. Elben himself, whom Alexis encountered gliding like a pale and melancholy ghost amidst the throng of holiday-makers, confided to his former school-mate the story of his woes. Alexis alternately pitied and laughed at him.

"Poor fellow!" said he, "how can I help you? I am no novelist, to write your book for you, nor yet a magnificent barbarian from the Scottish hills, to snatch your mistress from her father's tyranny and bear her to your arms amidst the soft melodies of the bagpipe. I see nothing for it but to give her up."

Elben looked indignant at the coldblooded suggestion.

"You do not understand these matters," said he, with an expression of disdain.

"Possibly not," replied Alexis, "but only reflect – you a romance-writer!"

Elben sighed. "True," he said, "it is a hopeless case. How many nights have I not sat in the moonlight upon the ruins of the old castle, to try and catch a little inspiration. I never caught anything but a cold. How many times have I stolen disguised into the lowest pot-houses, where it would ruin my reputation to be recognised, to acquire the popular phraseology. And yet I am no further advanced than a year ago!"

To the considerable relief of Alexis, the despairing lover was here interrupted by the explosion of two little mortars; a shower of squibs and rockets flew through the air, and the women crowded together in real or affected terror. In the rush, the two friends were separated, and Alexis again found himself by the side of old Wirtig, who was soothing the alarm of his timorous daughter. "Fear nothing, good Amy," he said; "danger there is none." Then turning to Alexis: "Cousin!" said he solemnly, "by our dear Lady of Embrun! yon was a report! the loudest ever made by mortar. The explosion of the steamboat which yesterday blew Prince Hector of Rauchpfeifenheim and his whole court into the air, could scarcely have been louder."

"Nay, nay," said Alexis, "things were not quite as bad as that. Rumour has exaggerated, as usual. No one was blown into the air – no one even wounded. The steamboat which the prince had launched on the lake near his capital, was certainly lost, in consequence of the badness of the machinery. But the prince and all on board had left the vessel in good time. The slight service it was my good fortune to render, by taking off Prince Hector in a swift row-boat, doubtless procured me, more than any particular abilities of mine, my appointment as his royal highness's architect."

The bystanders looked with redoubled respect at the man thus preferred by the popular sovereign of the adjacent state. The sentimental Emily lisped her congratulations. Her father shook his nephew vehemently by the hand.

"By St Dunstan! kinsman," he cried, "it was well done, and I dare swear thou art as brave a lad as ever handled oar! Give me the packet of squibs; Amy, thou shall see me fire one in honour of thy cousin Alexis!"

The firework, unskilfully thrown, lodged in the coat skirts of a stout broad-shouldered man in a round hat and a long brown surtout, who was elbowing his way through the crowd. The stranger, evidently a foreigner, strove furiously against the hissing sputtering projectile, and at last succeeded in throwing it under his feet and trampling it out with his heavy boot-soles. Then, brandishing a formidable walking-cane, and grumbling most ominously, he began to work his way as fast as a slight lameness in one of his feet permitted, to the place where Wirtig was blowing his match and preparing for another explosion. Emily called her father's attention to the stranger's hostile demonstrations, but the valiant host of the Bear of Bradwardine heeded them not. From time immemorial, he said, it had been use and custom at Miffelstein harvest-home to burn people's clothes with squibs, and he certainly should not, in the year of grace 1827, set an example of deviation from so venerable a practice. When, however, he distinguished some well-known English oaths issuing from the stranger's lips – and when Caleb came up and whispered in his ear that the traveller had alighted at the Bear, and, finding himself lonely, had demanded to be conducted to the festival – the worthy innkeeper regretted that he had directed his broadside against the stern of a natural ally, and seemed disposed to make due and cordial apology. After some cursing and grumbling in English, the stranger's wrath was appeased, and in a sort of Anglo-German jargon, he declared himself satisfied. He said some civil things to Emily, took a seat by her side, abused the squib and rocket practice, praised his host's wine, and made himself at home. Wirtig's attention seemed greatly engrossed by the new comer, whom he examined with the corner of his eye, taking no further part in the diversions of the festival, and quite omitting to observe the furtive glances exchanged between his daughter and Elben, who lurked in the vicinity.

Presently Alexis, who had been overwhelmed by the greetings of old acquaintances and playmates, returned to his uncle's party. He started at sight of the Englishman.

"How now!" he exclaimed; "you here, my good sir? By what chance?"

The stranger evidently shared the young man's surprise at their meeting. Hastily quitting his seat, he took Alexis by the arm, and led him out of the throng. At a short distance off, but out of all earshot, Wirtig saw them walking up and down, the Englishman talking and gesticulating with great earnestness, Alexis listening with smiling attention. The host of the Bear sat in deep thought, his eyes riveted upon the Englishman.

"Caleb," he suddenly demanded of the old waiter, who was moistening his larynx with a mug of cider – "Caleb, how came yon gentleman to our hostelry?"

"On horseback, Master Wirtig," replied Caleb, mustering up his reminiscences of the Tales of my Landlord, "on a gallant bay gelding. His honour wore spatterdashes, such as they wear to hunt the fox, I believe, in his country. His cane hung from his button; and if it so please ye, Master Wirtig, I will describe his horse furniture as well as my poor old memory will permit."

"Enough!" said Wirtig, impatiently. "Whence comes the traveller, and whither is he bound?"

Caleb shrugged his shoulders.

"Has he written his name in the strangers' book?"

"He has so, Master Wirtig, after long entreaty; for at first he steadfastly refused. At last he wrote it. 'Let none see this,' he said, 'save your master; and let him be discreet, or – '"

"Glorious!" interrupted Wirtig, and, in the joy of his heart, was near embracing his astonished servant. "I had a presentiment of it, but say – his name?"

Caleb looked embarrassed. "You alone were to see it, Master Wirtig, and I – you know I am not very good at reading writing. I looked into the book, but – "

"How looked the word, fellow?"

"To me it looked a good deal like a blot."

"Now, by St Bennet of Seyton! thou art the dullest knave that ever wore green apron! How many letters?"

Caleb scratched his head. "Hard to say exactly; but not more than five, I would wager that."

"Five! Varlet, thou rejoicest me. Heavens! that such good fortune should be mine! Run, man, run as you never ran before! Bid Jenny kill, roast and boil! A great supper! Scottish cookery! The oak-table shall groan with its load of sack, ale, and whisky. Let Quentin put the horses to, and fetch us with the carriage. Rob Roy must go round to all the best houses, and invite the neighbours. Tell Rowena to leave the goats, and help Jenny in the kitchen. By my halidome! I had almost forgotten. Old Edith must sweep out the ballroom, and Front-de-Bœuf put wax-lights in the chandeliers. Go! run! fly!"

Caleb disappeared. In his place came a crowd of the innkeeper's friends and gossips. "What now? What is up?" was asked on all sides. And Wirtig exultingly replied: – "A feast! a banquet! such as the walls of the Bear of Bradwardine never yet beheld. For they are this day honoured by the presence of the most welcome guest that ever trod the streets of Miffelstein. Wine shall flow like water, and there's welcome to all the world."

Breaking through the inquisitive throng, Wirtig hurried to meet Alexis, who was now returning alone from his mysterious conference with the stranger.

"Well?" cried the uncle, with beaming countenance and expanded eyes.

"Well?" coolly replied the nephew.

"Is it he, or is it not?"

"Who?"

"Who? Now, by the soul of St Edward! thou hast sworn to drive me mad. You say you have not been in Scotland? Was it in Paris you knew him? Or do you think I am blind? Is not that his noble Scottish countenance? the high cheek-bones – the sharp gray eyes – the large mouth, and the bold expression? And then the lame foot, and five letters! What would you have more?"

"Really, uncle, I would have nothing more."

"Obstinate fellow! you will explain nothing! But the portrait, the face, the five letters – your mystery is useless – the secret is out – the stranger is – Scott!"

"Scott!" cried Alexis, greatly surprised. "How do you know that?"

"Enough! I know it. 'Tis the Great Unknown! Shame on you, Alexis, to try to deceive your uncle! Tell the great man, with whom you, unworthy that you are, have been so fortunate as to make acquaintance, that his incognito shall be respected, as surely as I bear an English heart in my bosom. By the rood, shall it! For all Miffelstein he shall be the Unknown. But I crave his good leave to celebrate his coming."

"I will answer for his making no objection," replied Alexis, who apparently struggled with some inward emotion, for his voice was tremulous, his face very red, and his eyes were steadfastly fixed on the toes of his boots.

"Answer for yourself, Sir Architect!" said his uncle, somewhat sharply. Then, in a lower and confidential tone, "Where is the immortal genius?" he inquired.

"If I mistake not," replied Alexis, "I see him yonder, eating curds and pumpernickel."

"Ah, the great man!" ejaculated Wirtig; "to condescend to food so unworthy of his illustrious jaws. And see, he is about to fire off the mortar! Engaging familiarity! Boom! The loudest report to-day! The piece is mine, though it cost me a thousand florins! It shall be christened Walter Scott!"

"Hush, hush!" interposed Alexis; "if you go on in this way, the incognito will be in danger. And he himself must not perceive that you – "

"True!" interrupted the excited Wirtig, clapping his hand on his lips. "Ah, could I but speak Gaelic, or even English, the better to commune with the inspired bard! But he has translated Goetz von Berlichingen, so must understand the pure German of Miffelstein. But now tell me, Alexis, in strict confidence, how comes the first of the world's poets in our poor village? Has he, perchance, heard of the Bear of Bradwardine, and of his faithful clansman, John Jacob Wirtig? Or does he seek subject for a new romance, and propose to place his hero at Miffelstein, as he conducted Durward to Plessis-les-Tours, and the brave knight Kenneth to Palestine?"

"Neither the one nor the other, my dear uncle, unfortunately for us," replied Alexis thoughtfully, and pausing between his sentences. "Trusting to your discretion, and to convince you of its necessity, I will not conceal from you that a great peril has brought the Author of Waverley to Miffelstein. You must know that he has just published an historical romance, in which, availing himself of the novelist's license, he has represented Charlemagne and Henry the Fourth of France vanquished in single combat by William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. A French general, taking offence at this, has insisted upon his retracting the statement, or fighting a duel with blunderbusses at six paces. Of course a man of honour cannot retract – "

"Of course not! Never did Scottish chief so demean himself! I see it all. The – Unknown has shot the general, and – "

"On the contrary, uncle. He does not want to be shot by the general, and that is why he is here, where none will look for him."