A Praiser of Past Times.

—— Now your traveller,

He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess.

King John.

The noise stated at the conclusion of last chapter to have disturbed Mr. Bindloose, was the rapping of one, as in haste and impatience, at the Bank-office door, which office was an apartment of the Banker’s house, on the left hand of his passage, as the parlour in which he had received Mrs. Dods was upon the right.

In general, this office was patent to all having business there; but at present, whatever might be the hurry of the party who knocked, the clerks within the office could not admit him, being themselves made prisoners by the prudent jealousy of Mr. Bindloose, to prevent them from listening to his consultation with Mrs. Dods. They therefore answered the angry and impatient knocking of the stranger only with stifled giggling from within, finding it no doubt an excellent joke, that their master’s precaution was thus interfering with their own discharge of duty.

With one or two hearty curses upon them, as the regular plagues of his life, Mr. Bindloose darted into the passage, and admitted the stranger into his official apartment. The doors both of the parlour and office remaining open, the ears of Luckie Dods (experienced, as the reader knows, in collecting intelligence) could partly overhear what passed. The conversation seemed to regard a cash transaction of some importance, as Meg became aware when the stranger raised a voice which was naturally sharp and high, as he did when uttering the following words, towards the close of a conversation which had lasted about five minutes —“Premium? — Not a pice, sir — not a courie — not a farthing — premium for a Bank of England bill? — d’ye take me for a fool, sir? — do not I know that you call forty days par when you give remittances to London?”

Mr. Bindloose was here heard to mutter something indistinctly about the custom of the trade.

“Custom!” retorted the stranger, “no such thing — damn’d bad custom, if it is one — don’t tell me of customs —‘Sbodikins, man, I know the rate of exchange all over the world, and have drawn bills from Timbuctoo — My friends in the Strand filed it along with Bruce’s from Gondar — talk to me of premium on a Bank of England post-bill! — What d’ye look at the bill for? — D’ye think it doubtful — I can change it.”

“By no means necessary,” answered Bindloose, “the bill is quite right; but it is usual to indorse, sir.”

“Certainly — reach me a pen — d’ye think I can write with my rattan? — What sort of ink is this? — yellow as curry sauce — never mind — there is my name — Peregrine Touchwood — I got it from the Willoughbies, my Christian name — Have I my full change here?”

“Your full change, sir,” answered Bindloose.

“Why, you should give me a premium, friend, instead of me giving you one.”

“It is out of our way, I assure you, sir,” said the Banker, “quite out of our way — but if you would step into the parlour and take a cup of tea”——

“Why, ay,” said the stranger, his voice sounding more distinctly as (talking all the while, and ushered along by Mr. Bindloose) he left the office and moved towards the parlour, “a cup of tea were no such bad thing, if one could come by it genuine — but as for your premium”—— So saying, he entered the parlour and made his bow to Mrs. Dods, who, seeing what she called a decent, purpose-like body, and aware that his pocket was replenished with English and Scottish paper currency, returned the compliment with her best curtsy.

Mr. Touchwood, when surveyed more at leisure, was a short, stout, active man, who, though sixty years of age and upwards, retained in his sinews and frame the elasticity of an earlier period. His countenance expressed self-confidence, and something like a contempt for those who had neither seen nor endured so much as he had himself. His short black hair was mingled with grey, but not entirely whitened by it. His eyes were jet-black, deep-set, small, and sparkling, and contributed, with a short turned-up nose, to express an irritable and choleric habit. His complexion was burnt to a brick-colour by the vicissitudes of climate, to which it had been subjected; and his face, which at the distance of a yard or two seemed hale and smooth, appeared, when closely examined, to be seamed with a million of wrinkles, crossing each other in every direction possible, but as fine as if drawn by the point of a very small needle.20 His dress was a blue coat and buff waistcoat, half boots remarkably well blacked, and a silk handkerchief tied with military precision. The only antiquated part of his dress was a cocked hat of equilateral dimensions, in the button-hole of which he wore a very small cockade. Mrs. Dods, accustomed to judge of persons by their first appearance, said, that in the three steps which he made from the door to the tea-table, she recognised, without the possibility of mistake, the gait of a person who was well to pass in the world; “and that,” she added with a wink, “is what we victuallers are seldom deceived in. If a gold-laced waistcoat has an empty pouch, the plain swan’s-down will be the brawer of the twa.”

“A drizzling morning, good madam,” said Mr. Touchwood, as with a view of sounding what sort of company he had got into.

“A fine saft morning for the crap, sir,” answered Mrs. Dods, with equal solemnity.

“Right, my good madam; soft is the very word, though it has been some time since I heard it. I have cast a double hank about the round world since I last heard of a soft21 morning.”

“You will be from these parts, then?” said the writer, ingeniously putting a case, which, he hoped, would induce the stranger to explain himself. “And yet, sir,” he added, after a pause, “I was thinking that Touchwood is not a Scottish name, at least that I ken of.”

“Scottish name? — no,” replied the traveller; “but a man may have been in these parts before, without being a native — or, being a native, he may have had some reason to change his name — there are many reasons why men change their names.”

“Certainly, and some of them very good ones,” said the lawyer; “as in the common case of an heir of entail, where deed of provision and tailzie is maist ordinarily implemented by taking up name and arms.”

“Ay, or in the case of a man having made the country too hot for him under his own proper appellative,” said Mr. Touchwood.

“That is a supposition, sir,” replied the lawyer, “which it would ill become me to put. — But at any rate, if you knew this country formerly, ye cannot but be marvellously pleased with the change we have been making since the American war — hill-sides bearing clover instead of heather — rents doubled, trebled, quadrupled — the auld reekie dungeons pulled down, and gentlemen living in as good houses as you will see any where in England.”

“Much good may it do them, for a pack of fools!” replied Mr. Touchwood, hastily.

“You do not seem much delighted with our improvements, sir?” said the banker, astonished to hear a dissentient voice where he conceived all men were unanimous.

“Pleased!” answered the stranger —“Yes, as much pleased as I am with the devil, who I believe set many of them agoing. Ye have got an idea that every thing must be changed — Unstable as water, ye shall not excel — I tell ye, there have been more changes in this poor nook of yours within the last forty years, than in the great empires of the East for the space of four thousand, for what I know.”

“And why not,” replied Bindloose, “if they be changes for the better?”

“But they are not for the better,” replied Mr. Touchwood, eagerly. “I left your peasantry as poor as rats indeed, but honest and industrious, enduring their lot in this world with firmness, and looking forward to the next with hope — Now they are mere eye-servants — looking at their watches, forsooth, every ten minutes, lest they should work for their master half an instant after loosing-time — And then, instead of studying the Bible on the work days, to kittle the clergymen with doubtful points of controversy on the Sabbath, they glean all their theology from Tom Paine and Voltaire.”

“Weel I wot the gentleman speaks truth,” said Mrs. Dods. “I fand a bundle of their bawbee blasphemies in my ain kitchen — But I trow I made a clean house of the packman loon that brought them! — No content wi’ turning the tawpies’ heads wi’ ballants, and driving them daft wi’ ribands, to cheat them out of their precious souls, and gie them the deevil’s ware, that I suld say sae, in exchange for the siller that suld support their puir father that’s aff wark and bedridden!”

“Father! madam,” said the stranger; “they think no more of their father than Regan or Goneril.”

“In gude troth, ye have skeel of our sect, sir,” replied the dame; “they are gomerils, every one of them — I tell them sae every hour of the day, but catch them profiting by the doctrine.”

“And then the brutes are turned mercenary, madam,” said Mr. Touchwood, “I remember when a Scottishman would have scorned to touch a shilling that he had not earned, and yet was as ready to help a stranger as an Arab of the desert. And now, I did but drop my cane the other day as I was riding — a fellow who was working at the hedge made three steps to lift it — I thanked him, and my friend threw his hat on his head, and ‘damned my thanks, if that were all’— Saint Giles could not have excelled him.”

“Weel, weel,” said the banker, “that may be a’ as you say, sir, and nae doubt wealth makes wit waver; but the country’s wealthy, that cannot be denied, and wealth, sir, ye ken”——

“I know wealth makes itself wings,” answered the cynical stranger; “but I am not quite sure we have it even now. You make a great show, indeed, with building and cultivation; but stock is not capital, any more than the fat of a corpulent man is health or strength.”

“Surely, Mr. Touchwood,” said Bindloose, who felt his own account in the modern improvements, “a set of landlords, living like lairds in good earnest, and tenants with better housekeeping than the lairds used to have, and facing Whitsunday and Martinmas as I would face my breakfast — if these are not signs of wealth, I do not know where to seek for them.”

“They are signs of folly, sir,” replied Touchwood; “folly that is poor, and renders itself poorer by desiring to be thought rich; and how they come by the means they are so ostentatious of, you, who are a banker, perhaps can tell me better than I can guess.”

“There is maybe an accommodation bill discounted now and then, Mr. Touchwood; but men must have accommodation, or the world would stand still — accommodation is the grease that makes the wheels go.”

“Ay, makes them go down hill to the devil,” answered Touchwood. “I left you bothered about one Ayr bank, but the whole country is an Air bank now, I think — And who is to pay the piper? — But it’s all one — I will see little more of it — it is a perfect Babel, and would turn the head of a man who has spent his life with people who love sitting better than running, silence better than speaking, who never eat but when they are hungry, never drink but when thirsty, never laugh without a jest, and never speak but when they have something to say. But here, it is all run, ride, and drive — froth, foam, and flippancy — no steadiness — no character.”

“I’ll lay the burden of my life,” said Dame Dods, looking towards her friend Bindloose, “that the gentleman has been at the new Spaw-waal yonder!”

“Spaw do you call it, madam? — If you mean the new establishment that has been spawned down yonder at St. Ronan’s, it is the very fountain-head of folly and coxcombry — a Babel for noise, and a Vanity-fair for nonsense — no well in your swamps tenanted by such a conceited colony of clamorous frogs.”

“Sir, sir!” exclaimed Dame Dods, delighted with the unqualified sentence passed upon her fashionable rivals, and eager to testify her respect for the judicious stranger who had pronounced it — “will you let me have the pleasure of pouring you out a dish of tea?” And so saying, she took bustling possession of the administration which had hitherto remained in the hands of Mr. Bindloose himself.

“I hope it is to your taste, sir,” she continued, when the traveller had accepted her courtesy with the grateful acknowledgment, which men addicted to speak a great deal usually show to a willing auditor.

“It is as good as we have any right to expect, ma’am,” answered Mr. Touchwood; “not quite like what I have drunk at Canton with old Fong Qua — but the Celestial Empire does not send its best tea to Leadenhall Street, nor does Leadenhall Street send its best to Marchthorn.”

“That may be very true, sir,” replied the dame; &ldqu............