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Waverley
OR
’TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE
by Sir Walter Scott, BART.
With Introductory Essay and Notes
By ANDREW LANG
With Illustrations
1893
THIS NEW EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
IS DEDICATED TO THE HON. MRS. MAXWELL SCOTT OF
ABBOTSFORD AND HER CHILDREN,
Walter, Mary, Michael, Alice, Malcolm,
Margaret and Herbert
GREAT-GRANDDAUGHTER AND GREAT-GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN
OF THE AUTHOR,
BY THE PUBLISHERS
TO
THE KING’S MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY.
SIRE,
The Author of this collection of Works of Fiction would not have
presumed to solicit for them your Majesty’s august patronage, were it
not that the perusal has been supposed in some instances to have
succeeded in amusing hours of relaxation, or relieving those of
languor, pain, or anxiety, and therefore must have so far aided the
warmest wish of your Majesty’s heart, by contributing in however small
a degree to the happiness of your people.
They are therefore humbly dedicated to your Majesty, agreeably to your
gracious permission, by
Your Majesty’s Dutiful Subject,
WALTER SCOTT.
ABBOTSFORD, 1_st January_, 1829.
Contents
EDITOR’S NOTE
ADVERTISEMENT
GENERAL PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF WAVERLEY
APPENDIX
No. I. Fragment of a Romance which was to have been entitled Thomas the Rhymer. Chapter I.
No. II. Conclusion of Mr. Strutt’s Romance of Queen-Hoo Hall.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
No. III. Anecdote of School Days
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO WAVERLEY
INTRODUCTION
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
VOLUME I.
I. INTRODUCTORY
II. WAVERLEY HONOUR—A RETROSPECT
III. EDUCATION
IV. CASTLE-BUILDING
V. CHOICE OF A PROFESSION
VI. THE ADIEUS OF WAVERLEY
VII. A HORSE-QUARTER IN SCOTLAND
VIII. A SCOTTISH MANOR-HOUSE SIXTY YEARS SINCE
IX. MORE OF THE MANOR-HOUSE AND ITS ENVIRONS
X. ROSE BRADWARDINE AND HER FATHER
XI. THE BANQUET
XII. REPENTANCE AND A RECONCILIATION
XIII. A MORE RATIONAL DAY THAN THE LAST
XIV. WAVERLEY BECOMES DOMESTICATED AT TULLY-VEOLAN
XV. A CREAGH, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
XVI. AN UNEXPECTED ALLY APPEARS
XVII. THE HOLD OF A HIGHLAND ROBBER
XVIII. WAVERLEY PROCEEDS ON HIS JOURNEY
XIX. THE CHIEF AND HIS MANSION
XX. A HIGHLAND FEAST
XXI. THE CHIEFTAIN’S SISTER
XXII. HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY
XXIII. WAVERLEY CONTINUES AT GLENNAQUOICH
XXIV. STAG-HUNT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
XXV. NEWS FROM ENGLAND
XXVI. AN ECLAIRCISSEMENT
XXVII. UPON THE SAME SUBJECT
XXVIII. A LETTER FROM TULLY-VEOLAN
XXIX. WAVERLEY’S RECEPTION IN THE LOWLANDS AFTER HIS HIGHLAND TOUR
AUTHOR’S NOTES—Volume I.
GLOSSARY—Volume I.
VOLUME II.
I. LOSS OF A HORSE’S SHOE MAY BE A SERIOUS INCONVENIENCE
II. AN EXAMINATION
III. A CONFERENCE, AND THE CONSEQUENCE
IV. A CONFIDANT
V. THINGS MEND A LITTLE
VI. A VOLUNTEER SIXTY YEARS SINCE
VII. AN INCIDENT
VIII. WAVERLEY IS STILL IN DISTRESS
IX. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE
X. THE JOURNEY IS CONTINUED
XI. AN OLD AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
XII. THE MYSTERY BEGINS TO BE CLEARED
XIII. A SOLDIER’S DINNER
XIV. THE BALL
XV. THE MARCH
XVI. AN INCIDENT GIVES RISE TO UNAVAILING REFLECTIONS
XVII. THE EVE OF BATTLE
XVIII. THE CONFLICT
XIX. AN UNEXPECTED EMBARRASSMENT
XX. THE ENGLISH PRISONER
XXI. RATHER UNIMPORTANT
XXII. INTRIGUES OF LOVE AND POLITICS
XXIII. INTRIGUES OF SOCIETY AND LOVE
XXIV. FERGUS A SUITOR
XXV. “TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER”
XXVI. A BRAVE MAN IN SORROW
XXVII. EXERTION
XXVIII. THE MARCH
XXIX. THE CONFUSION OF KING AGRAMANT’S CAMP
XXX. A SKIRMISH
XXXI. CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
XXXII. A JOURNEY TO LONDON
XXXIII. WHAT’S TO BE DONE NEXT?
XXXIV. DESOLATION
XXXV. COMPARING OF NOTES
XXXVI. MORE EXPLANATION
XXXVII.
XXXVIII.
XXXIX.
XL.
XLI. DULCE DOMUM
XLII.
XLIII. A POSTSCRIPT WHICH SHOULD HAVE BEEN A PREFACE
AUTHOR’S NOTES—Volume II.
GLOSSARY—Volume II.
List of Illustrations
VOLUME I.
PORTRAIT OF SIR WALTER SCOTT—_Painted by Raeburn, Etched by Batley_
ABBOTSFORD (FROM THE TWEED)—_Etched by D. Y. Cameron_
TULLY-VEOLAN—_Painted by W. J. Leitch, Etched by H. W. Batley_
“EH, SIRS!”—_Original Etching by George Cruickshank_
WAVERLEY AND ROSE BRADWARDINE—_Etched by Ben. Damman_
THE HOLD OF A HIGHLAND ROBBER—_Original Etching by R. W. Macbeth_
FLORA MAC-IVOR AT THE WATERFALL—_Original Etching by R. W. Macbeth_
VOLUME II.
PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD IN SHELTER—_Etched by H. M. Raeburn_
STIRLING CASTLE—_Etched by John Andrew and Son_
BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE—_Painted by Pettie, Etched by Raeburn_
COLONEL GARDINER—_Original Etching by H. Macbeth Raeburn_
DISBANDED—_Painted by John Pettie, Etched by F. Huth_
BAILIE MACWHEEBLE—_Painted by J. Lauder, Etched by H. Lefort_
“LADY WAUVERLEY! TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!”—_Etching by Cruickshank_
WAVERLEY’S LAST VISIT TO FLORA MAC-IVOR—_Painted by Herdman_
DOUNE CASTLE (FROM THE TEITH)—_Etched by John Andrew and Son_
[Illustration]
EDITOR’S NOTE.
The purpose of the added matter in this edition of the Waverley
Novels—a reprint of the _magnum opus_ of 1829–1832—is to give to the
stories their historical setting, by stating the circumstances in which
they were composed and made their first appearance.
Sir Walter’s own delightful Introductions, written hastily, as Lockhart
says, and with a failing memory, have occasionally been corrected by
Lockhart himself. His “Life of Scott” must always be our first and best
source, but fragments of information may be gleaned from Sir Walter’s
unpublished correspondence.
The Editor owes to the kindness of Mrs. Maxwell Scott permission to
examine the twenty-four large volumes of letters to Sir Walter, and
some other manuscripts, which are preserved at Abbotsford. These yield
but little of contemporary criticism or remark, as is natural, for
Scott shared his secret with few, and most topics were more grateful to
him than his own writings. Lockhart left little for his successors to
do, and the more any one studies the Abbotsford manuscripts, the more
must he admire the industry and tact of Scott’s biographer.
The Editor has also put together some examples of contemporary
published criticism which it is now not uninteresting to glance over.
In selecting these he has been aided by the kindness of Mrs. Ogilbie.
From the Abbotsford manuscripts and other sources he has added notes on
points which have become obscure by lapse of time. He has especially to
thank, for their courteous and ready assistance, Lady Napier and
Ettrick, who lent him Sir Walter’s letters to her kinswoman, the
Marchioness of Abercorn; Mr. David Douglas, the editor and publisher of
Scott’s “Journal,” who has generously given the help of his antiquarian
knowledge; and Mr. David MacRitchie, who permitted him to use the
corrected proofs of “Redgauntlet.”
ANDREW LANG
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
It has been the occasional occupation of the Author of “Waverley”, for
several years past, to revise and correct the voluminous series of
Novels which pass under that name, in order that, if they should ever
appear as his avowed productions, he might render them in some degree
deserving of a continuance of the public favour with which they have
been honoured ever since their first appearance. For a long period,
however, it seemed likely that the improved and illustrated edition
which he meditated would be a posthumous publication. But the course of
the events which occasioned the disclosure of the Author’s name having,
in a great measure, restored to him a sort of parental control over
these Works, he is naturally induced to give them to the press in a
corrected, and, he hopes, an improved form, while life and health
permit the task of revising and illustrating them. Such being his
purpose, it is necessary to say a few words on the plan of the proposed
Edition.
In stating it to be revised and corrected, it is not to be inferred
that any attempt is made to alter the tenor of the stories, the
character of the actors, or the spirit of the dialogue. There is no
doubt ample room for emendation in all these points,—but where the tree
falls it must lie. Any attempt to obviate criticism, however just, by
altering a work already in the hands of the public is generally
unsuccessful. In the most improbable fiction, the reader still desires
some air of _vraisemblance_, and does not relish that the incidents of
a tale familiar to him should be altered to suit the taste of critics,
or the caprice of the Author himself. This process of feeling is so
natural, that it may be observed even in children, who cannot endure
that a nursery story should be repeated to them differently from the
manner in which it was first told.
But without altering, in the slightest degree, either the story or the
mode of telling it, the Author has taken this opportunity to correct
errors of the press and slips of the pen. That such should exist cannot
be wondered at, when it is considered that the Publishers found it
their interest to hurry through the press a succession of the early
editions of the various Novels, and that the Author had not the usual
opportunity of revision. It is hoped that the present edition will be
found free from errors of that accidental kind.
The Author has also ventured to make some emendations of a different
character, which, without being such apparent deviations from the
original stories as to disturb the reader’s old associations, will, he
thinks, add something to the spirit of the dialogue, narrative, or
description. These consist in occasional pruning where the language is
redundant, compression where the style is loose, infusion of vigour
where it is languid, the exchange of less forcible for more appropriate
epithets—slight alterations in short, like the last touches of an
artist, which contribute to heighten and finish the picture, though an
inexperienced eye can hardly detect in what they consist.
The General Preface to the new Edition, and the Introductory Notices to
each separate work, will contain an account of such circumstances
attending the first publication of the Novels and Tales as may appear
interesting in themselves, or proper to be communicated to the public.
The Author also proposes to publish, on this occasion, the various
legends, family traditions, or obscure historical facts which have
formed the ground-work of these Novels, and to give some account of the
places where the scenes are laid, when these are altogether, or in
part, real; as well as a statement of particular incidents founded on
fact; together with a more copious Glossary, and Notes explanatory of
the ancient customs and popular superstitions referred to in the
Romances.
Upon the whole, it is hoped that the Waverley Novels, in their new
dress, will not be found to have lost any part of their attractions in
consequence of receiving illustrations by the Author, and undergoing
his careful revision.
ABBOTSFORD, _January_, 1829.
GENERAL PREFACE TO THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
And must I ravel out
My weaved-up follies?
Richard II, Act IV.
Having undertaken to give an Introductory Account of the compositions
which are here offered to the public, with Notes and Illustrations, the
Author, under whose name they are now for the first time collected,
feels that he has the delicate task of speaking more of himself and his
personal concerns than may perhaps be either graceful or prudent. In
this particular he runs the risk of presenting himself to the public in
the relation that the dumb wife in the jest-book held to her husband,
when, having spent half of his fortune to obtain the cure of her
imperfection, he was willing to have bestowed the other half to restore
her to her former condition. But this is a risk inseparable from the
task which the Author has undertaken, and he can only promise to be as
little of an egotist as the situation will permit. It is perhaps an
indifferent sign of a disposition to keep his word, that, having
introduced himself in the third person singular, he proceeds in the
second paragraph to make use of the first. But it appears to him that
the seeming modesty connected with the former mode of writing is
overbalanced by the inconvenience of stiffness and affectation which
attends it during a narrative of some length, and which may be observed
less or more in every work in which the third person is used, from the
Commentaries of Cæsar to the Autobiography of Alexander the
Corrector.(_a_)[*]
[* See Editor’s Notes at the end of the Volume. Wherever a similar
reference occurs, the reader will understand that the same direction
applies.]
I must refer to a very early period of my life, were I to point out my
first achievements as a tale-teller; but I believe some of my old
schoolfellows can still bear witness that I had a distinguished
character for that talent, at a time when the applause of my companions
was my recompense for the disgraces and punishments which the future
romance-writer incurred for being idle himself, and keeping others
idle, during hours that should have been employed on our tasks. The
chief enjoyment of my holidays was to escape with a chosen friend,
(_b_) who had the same taste with myself, and alternately to recite to
each other such wild adventures as we were able to devise. We told,
each in turn, interminable tales of knight-errantry and battles and
enchantments, which were continued from one day to another as
opportunity offered, without our ever thinking of bringing them to a
conclusion. As we observed a strict secrecy on the subject of this
intercourse, it acquired all the character of a concealed pleasure, and
we used to select for the scenes of our indulgence long walks through
the solitary and romantic environs of Arthur’s Seat, Salisbury Crags,
Braid Hills, and similar places in the vicinity of Edinburgh; and the
recollection of those holidays still forms an oasis in the pilgrimage
which I have to look back upon. I have only to add, that my friend
still lives, a prosperous gentleman, but too much occupied with graver
business to thank me for indicating him more plainly as a confidant of
my childish mystery.
When boyhood advancing into youth required more serious studies and
graver cares, a long illness threw me back on the kingdom of fiction,
as if it were by a species of fatality. My indisposition arose, in part
at least, from my having broken a blood-vessel; and motion and speech
were for a long time pronounced positively dangerous. For several weeks
I was confined strictly to my bed, during which time I was not allowed
to speak above a whisper, to eat more than a spoonful or two of boiled
rice, or to have more covering than one thin counterpane. When the
reader is informed that I was at this time a growing youth, with the
spirits, appetite, and impatience of fifteen, and suffered, of course,
greatly under this severe regimen, which the repeated return of my
disorder rendered indispensable, he will not be surprised that I was
abandoned to my own discretion, so far as reading (my almost sole
amusement) was concerned, and still less so, that I abused the
indulgence which left my time so much at my own disposal.
There was at this time a circulating library in Edinburgh, founded, I
believe, by the celebrated Allan Ramsay, which, besides containing a
most respectable collection of books of every description, was, as
might have been expected, peculiarly rich in works of fiction. It
exhibited specimens of every kind, from the romances of chivalry and
the ponderous folios of Cyrus and Cassandra, down to the most approved
works of later times. I was plunged into this great ocean of reading
without compass or pilot; and, unless when some one had the charity to
play at chess with me, I was allowed to do nothing save read from
morning to night. I was, in kindness and pity, which was perhaps
erroneous, however natural, permitted to select my subjects of study at
my own pleasure, upon the same principle that the humours of children
are indulged to keep them out of mischief. As my taste and appetite
were gratified in nothing else, I indemnified myself by becoming a
glutton of books. Accordingly, I believe I read almost all the
romances, old plays, and epic poetry in that formidable collection, and
no doubt was unconsciously amassing materials for the task in which it
has been my lot to be so much employed.
At the same time I did not in all respects abuse the license permitted
me. Familiar acquaintance with the specious miracles of fiction brought
with it some degree of satiety, and I began by degrees to seek in
histories, memoirs, voyages and travels, and the like, events nearly as
wonderful as those which were the work of imagination, with the
additional advantage that they were at least in a great measure true.
The lapse of nearly two years, during which I was left to the exercise
of my own free will, was followed by a temporary residence in the
country, where I was again very lonely but for the amusement which I
derived from a good though old-fashioned library. The vague and wild
use which I made of this advantage I cannot describe better than by
referring my reader to the desultory studies of Waverley in a similar
situation, the passages concerning whose course of reading were
imitated from recollections of my own. It must be understood that the
resemblance extends no farther.
Time, as it glided on, brought the blessings of confirmed health and
personal strength, to a degree which had never been expected or hoped
for. The severe studies necessary to render me fit for my profession
occupied the greater part of my time; and the society of my friends and
companions, who were about to enter life along with, me, filled up the
interval with the usual amusements of young men. I was in a situation
which rendered serious labour indispensable; for, neither possessing,
on the one hand, any of those peculiar advantages which are supposed to
favour a hasty advance in the profession of the law, nor being, on the
other hand, exposed to unusual obstacles to interrupt my progress, I
might reasonably expect to succeed according to the greater or less
degree of trouble which I should take to qualify myself as a pleader.
It makes no part of the present story to detail how the success of a
few ballads had the effect of changing all the purpose and tenor of my
life, and of converting a painstaking lawyer of some years’ standing
into a follower of literature. It is enough to say, that I had assumed
the latter character for several years before I seriously thought of
attempting a work of imagination in prose, although one or two of my
poetical attempts did not differ from romances otherwise than by being
written in verse. But yet I may observe, that about this time (now,
alas! thirty years since) I had nourished the ambitious desire of
composing a tale of chivalry, which was to be in the style of the
“Castle of Otranto”, with plenty of Border characters and supernatural
incident. Having found unexpectedly a chapter of this intended work
among some old papers, I have subjoined it to this introductory essay,
thinking some readers may account as curious the first attempts at
romantic composition by an author who has since written so much in that
department.[*] And those who complain, not unreasonably, of the
profusion of the Tales which have followed Waverley, may bless their
stars at the narrow escape they have made, by the commencement of the
inundation, which had so nearly taken place in the first year of the
century, being postponed for fifteen years later.
[* See the fragment alluded to, in the Appendix No I.]
This particular subject was never resumed, but I did not abandon the
idea of fictitious composition in prose, though I determined to give
another turn to the style of the work.
My early recollections of the Highland scenery and customs made so
favourable an impression in the poem called the “Lady of the Lake” that
I was induced to think of attempting something of the same kind in
prose. I had been a good deal in the Highlands at a time when they were
much less accessible and much less visited than they have been of late
years, and was acquainted with many of the old warriors of 1745, who
were, like most veterans, easily induced to fight their battles over
again for the benefit of a willing listener like myself. It naturally
occurred to me that the ancient traditions and high spirit of a people
who, living in a civilised age and country, retained so strong a
tincture of manners belonging to an early period of society, must
afford a subject favourable for romance, if it should not prove a
curious tale marred in the telling.
It was with some idea of this kind that, about the year 1805, I threw
together about one-third part of the first volume of “Waverley.” It was
advertised to be published by the late Mr. John Ballantyne, bookseller
in Edinburgh, under the name of “Waverley; or, ’Tis Fifty Years
Since,”—a title afterwards altered to ’Tis Sixty Years Since, that the
actual date of publication might be made to correspond with the period
in which the scene was laid. Having proceeded as far, I think, as the
seventh chapter, I showed my work to a critical friend, whose opinion
was unfavourable; and having then some poetical reputation, I was
unwilling to risk the loss of it by attempting a new style of
composition. I therefore threw aside the work I had commenced, without
either reluctance or remonstrance. I ought to add that, though my
ingenious friend’s sentence was afterwards reversed on an appeal to the
public, it cannot be considered as any imputation on his good taste;
for the specimen subjected to his criticism did not extend beyond the
departure of the hero for Scotland, and consequently had not entered
upon the part of the story which was finally found most interesting.
Be that as it may, this portion of the manuscript was laid aside in the
drawers of an old writing-desk, which, on my first coming to reside at
Abbotsford in 1811, was placed in a lumber garret and entirely
forgotten. Thus, though I sometimes, among other literary avocations,
turned my thoughts to the continuation of the romance which I had
commenced, yet, as I could not find what I had already written, after
searching such repositories as were within my reach, and was too
indolent to attempt to write it anew from memory, I as often laid aside
all thoughts of that nature.
Two circumstances in particular recalled my recollection of the mislaid
manuscript. The first was the extended and well-merited fame of Miss
Edgeworth, whose Irish characters have gone so far to make the English
familiar with the character of their gay and kind-hearted neighbours of
Ireland, that she may be truly said to have done more towards
completing the Union than perhaps all the legislative enactments by
which it has been followed up.
Without being so presumptuous as to hope to emulate the rich humour,
pathetic tenderness, and admirable tact which pervade the works of my
accomplished friend, I felt that something might be attempted for my
own country, of the same kind with that which Miss Edgeworth so
fortunately achieved for Ireland—something which might introduce her
natives to those of the sister kingdom in a more favourable light than
they had been placed hitherto, and tend to procure sympathy for their
virtues and indulgence for their foibles. I thought also, that much of
what I wanted in talent might be made up by the intimate acquaintance
with the subject which I could lay claim to possess, as having
travelled through most parts of Scotland, both Highland and Lowland,
having been familiar with the elder as well as more modern race, and
having had from my infancy free and unrestrained communication with all
ranks of my countrymen, from the Scottish peer to the Scottish
plough-man. Such ideas often occurred to me, and constituted an
ambitious branch of my theory, however far short I may have fallen of
it in practice.
But it was not only the triumphs of Miss Edgeworth which worked in me
emulation, and disturbed my indolence. I chanced actually to engage in
a work which formed a sort of essay piece, and gave me hope that I
might in time become free of the craft of romance-writing, and be
esteemed a tolerable workman.
In the year 1807–08 I undertook, at the request of John Murray, Esq.,
of Albemarle Street, to arrange for publication some posthumous
productions of the late Mr. Joseph Strutt, distinguished as an artist
and an antiquary, amongst which was an unfinished romance, entitled
“Queen-Hoo Hall.” The scene of the tale was laid in the reign of Henry
VI., and the work was written to illustrate the manners, customs, and
language of the people of England during that period. The extensive
acquaintance which Mr. Strutt had acquired with such subjects in
compiling his laborious “Horda Angel-Cynnan,” his “Royal and
Ecclesiastical Antiquities,” and his “Essay on the Sports and Pastimes
of the People of England,” had rendered him familiar with all the
antiquarian lore necessary for the purpose of composing the projected
romance; and although the manuscript bore the marks of hurry and
incoherence natural to the first rough draught of the author, it
evinced (in my opinion) considerable powers of imagination.
As the work was unfinished, I deemed it my duty, as editor, to supply
such a hasty and inartificial conclusion as could be shaped out from
the story, of which Mr. Strutt had laid the foundation. This concluding
chapter[*] is also added to the present Introduction, for the reason
already mentioned regarding the preceding fragment. It was a step in my
advance towards romantic composition; and to preserve the traces of
these is in a great measure the object of this Essay.
[* See Appendix, No. II.]
“Queen-Hoo Hall” was not, however, very successful. I thought I was
aware of the reason, and supposed that, by rendering his language too
ancient, and displaying his antiquarian knowledge too liberally, the
ingenious author had raised up an obstacle to his own success. Every
work designed for mere amusement must be expressed in language easily
comprehended; and when, as is sometimes the case in “Queen-Hoo Hall,”
the author addresses himself exclusively to the antiquary, he must be
content to be dismissed by the general reader with the criticism of
Mungo, in the “Padlock,” on the Mauritanian music, “What signifies me
hear, if me no understand?”
I conceived it possible to avoid this error; and, by rendering a
similar work more light and obvious to general comprehension, to escape
the rock on which my predecessor was shipwrecked. But I was, on the
other hand, so far discouraged by the indifferent reception of Mr.
Strutt’s romance as to become satisfied that the manners of the middle
ages did not possess the interest which I had conceived; and was led to
form the opinion that a romance founded on a Highland story and more
modern events would have a better chance of popularity than a tale of
chivalry. My thoughts, therefore, returned more than once to the tale
which I had actually commenced, and accident at length threw the lost
sheets in my way.
I happened to want some fishing-tackle for the use of a guest, when it
occurred to me to search the old writing-desk already mentioned, in
which I used to keep articles of that nature. I got access to it with
some difficulty; and, in looking for lines and flies, the long-lost
manuscript presented itself. I immediately set to work to complete it
according to my original purpose. And here I must frankly confess that
the mode in which I conducted the story scarcely deserved the success
which the romance afterwards attained.
The tale of “Waverley” was put together with so little care that I
cannot boast of having sketched any distinct plan of the work. The
whole adventures of Waverley, in his movements up and down the country
with the Highland cateran Bean Lean, are managed without much skill. It
suited best, however, the road I wanted to travel, and permitted me to
introduce some descriptions of scenery and manners, to which the
reality gave an interest which the powers of the Author might have
otherwise failed to attain for them. And though I have been in other
instances a sinner in this sort, I do not recollect any of these novels
in which I have transgressed so widely as in the first of the series.
Among other unfounded reports, it has been said that the copyright of
“Waverley” was, during the book’s progress through the press, offered
for sale to various book-sellers in London at a very inconsiderable
price. This was not the case. Messrs. Constable and Cadell, who
published the work, were the only persons acquainted with the contents
of the publication, and they offered a large sum for it while in the
course of printing, which, however, was declined, the Author not
choosing to part with the copyright.
The origin of the story of “Waverley,” and the particular facts on
which it is founded, are given in the separate introduction prefixed to
that romance in this edition, and require no notice in this place.
“Waverley” was published in 1814, and, as the title-page was without
the name of the Author, the work was left to win its way in the world
without any of the usual recommendations. Its progress was for some
time slow; but after the first two or three months its popularity had
increased in a degree which must have satisfied the expectations of the
Author, had these been far more sanguine than he ever entertained.
Great anxiety was expressed to learn the name of the Author, but on
this no authentic information could be attained. My original motive for
publishing the work anonymously was the consciousness that it was an
experiment on the public taste which might very probably fail, and
therefore there was no occasion to take on myself the personal risk of
discomfiture. For this purpose considerable precautions were used to
preserve secrecy. My old friend and schoolfellow, Mr. James Ballantyne,
who printed these Novels, had the exclusive task of corresponding with
the Author, who thus had not only the advantage of his professional
talents, but also of his critical abilities. The original manuscript,
or, as it is technically called, copy, was transcribed under Mr.
Ballantyne’s eye by confidential persons; nor was there an instance of
treachery during the many years in which these precautions were
resorted to, although various individuals were employed at different
times. Double proof-sheets were regularly printed off. One was
forwarded to the Author by Mr. Ballantyne, and the alterations which it
received were, by his own hand, copied upon the other proof-sheet for
the use of the printers, so that even the corrected proofs of the
Author were never seen in the printing office; and thus the curiosity
of such eager inquirers as made the most minute investigation was
entirely at fault.
But although the cause of concealing the Author’s name in the first
instance, when the reception of “Waverley” was doubtful, was natural
enough, it is more difficult, it may be thought, to account for the
same desire for secrecy during the subsequent editions, to the amount
of betwixt eleven and twelve thousand copies, which followed each other
close, and proved the success of the work. I am sorry I can give little
satisfaction to queries on this subject. I have already stated
elsewhere that I can render little better reason for choosing to remain
anonymous than by saying with Shylock, that such was my humour. It will
be observed that I had not the usual stimulus for desiring personal
reputation, the desire, namely, to float amidst the conversation of
men. Of literary fame, whether merited or undeserved, I had already as
much as might have contented a mind more ambitious than mine; and in
entering into this new contest for reputation I might be said rather to
endanger what I had than to have any considerable chance of acquiring
more. I was affected, too, by none of those motives which, at an
earlier period of life, would doubtless have operated upon me. My
friendships were formed, my place in society fixed, my life had
attained its middle course. My condition in society was higher perhaps
than I deserved, certainly as high as I wished, and there was scarce
any degree of literary success which could have greatly altered or
improved my personal condition.
I was not, therefore, touched by the spur of ambition, usually
stimulating on such occasions; and yet I ought to stand exculpated from
the charge of ungracious or unbecoming indifference to public applause.
I did not the less feel gratitude for the public favour, although I did
not proclaim it; as the lover who wears his mistress’s favour in his
bosom is as proud, though not so vain, of possessing it as another who
displays the token of her grace upon his bonnet. Far from such an
ungracious state of mind, I have seldom felt more satisfaction than
when, returning from a pleasure voyage, I found “Waverley” in the
zenith of popularity, and public curiosity in full cry after the name
of the Author. The knowledge that I had the public approbation was like
having the property of a hidden treasure, not less gratifying to the
owner than if all the world knew that it was his own. Another advantage
was connected with the secrecy which I observed. I could appear or
retreat from the stage at pleasure, without attracting any personal
notice or attention, other than what might be founded on suspicion
only. In my own person also, as a successful author in another
department of literature, I might have been charged with too frequent
intrusions on the public patience; but the Author of “Waverley” was in
this respect as impassible to the critic as the Ghost of Hamlet to the
partisan of Marcellus. Perhaps the curiosity of the public, irritated
by the existence of a secret, and kept afloat by the discussions which
took place on the subject from time to time, went a good way to
maintain an unabated interest in these frequent publications. There was
a mystery concerning the Author which each new novel was expected to
assist in unravelling, although it might in other respects rank lower
than its predecessors.
I may perhaps be thought guilty of affectation, should I allege as one
reason of my silence a secret dislike to enter on personal discussions
concerning my own literary labours. It is in every case a dangerous
intercourse for an author to be dwelling continually among those who
make his writings a frequent and familiar subject of conversation, but
who must necessarily be partial judges of works composed in their own
society. The habits of self-importance which are thus acquired by
authors are highly injurious to a well-regulated mind; for the cup of
flattery, if it does not, like that of Circe, reduce men to the level
of beasts, is sure, if eagerly drained, to bring the best and the
ablest down to that of fools. This risk was in some degree prevented by
the mask which I wore; and my own stores of self-conceit were left to
their natural course, without being enhanced by the partiality of
friends or adulation of flatterers.
If I am asked further reasons for the conduct I have long observed, I
can only resort to the explanation supplied by a critic as friendly as
he is intelligent; namely, that the mental organisation of the novelist
must be characterised, to speak craniologically, by an extraordinary
development of the passion for delitescency! I the rather suspect some
natural disposition of this kind; for, from the instant I perceived the
extreme curiosity manifested on the subject, I felt a secret
satisfaction in baffling it, for which, when its unimportance is
considered, I do not well know how to account.
My desire to remain concealed, in the character of the Author of these
Novels, subjected me occasionally to awkward embarrassments, as it
sometimes happened that those who were sufficiently intimate with me
would put the question in direct terms. In this case, only one of three
courses could be followed. Either I must have surrendered my secret, or
have returned an equivocating answer, or, finally, must have stoutly
and boldly denied the fact. The first was a sacrifice which I conceive
no one had a right to force from me, since I alone was concerned in the
matter. The alternative of rendering a doubtful answer must have left
me open to the degrading suspicion that I was not unwilling to assume
the merit (if there was any) which I dared not absolutely lay claim to;
or those who might think more justly of me must have received such an
equivocal answer as an indirect avowal. I therefore considered myself
entitled, like an accused person put upon trial, to refuse giving my
own evidence to my own conviction, and flatly to deny all that could
not be proved against me. At the same time I usually qualified my
denial by stating that, had I been the Author of these works, I would
have felt myself quite entitled to protect my secret by refusing my own
evidence, when it was asked for to accomplish a discovery of what I
desired to conceal.
The real truth is, that I never expected or hoped to disguise my
connection with these Novels from any one who lived on terms of
intimacy with me. The number of coincidences which necessarily existed
between narratives recounted, modes of expression, and opinions
broached in these Tales and such as were used by their Author in the
intercourse of private life must have been far too great to permit any
of my familiar acquaintances to doubt the identity betwixt their friend
and the Author of “Waverley;” and I believe they were all morally
convinced of it. But while I was myself silent, their belief could not
weigh much more with the world than that of others; their opinions and
reasoning were liable to be taxed with partiality, or confronted with
opposing arguments and opinions; and the question was not so much
whether I should be generally acknowledged to be the Author, in spite
of my own denial, as whether even my own avowal of the works, if such
should be made, would be sufficient to put me in undisputed possession
of that character.
I have been often asked concerning supposed cases, in which I was said
to have been placed on the verge of discovery; but, as I maintained my
point with the composure of a lawyer of thirty years’ standing, I never
recollect being in pain or confusion on the subject. In Captain
Medwyn’s “Conversations of Lord Byron” the reporter states himself to
have asked my noble and highly gifted friend, “If he was certain about
these Novels being Sir Walter Scott’s?” To which Lord Byron replied,
“Scott as much as owned himself the Author of ‘Waverley’ to me in
Murray’s shop. I was talking to him about that Novel, and lamented that
its Author had not carried back the story nearer to the time of the
Revolution. Scott, entirely off his guard, replied, ‘Ay, I might have
done so; but—’ there he stopped. It was in vain to attempt to correct
himself; he looked confused, and relieved his embarrassment by a
precipitate retreat.” I have no recollection whatever of this scene
taking place, and I should have thought that I was more likely to have
laughed than to appear confused, for I certainly never hoped to impose
upon Lord Byron in a case of the kind; and from the manner in which he
uniformly expressed himself, I knew his opinion was entirely formed,
and that any disclamations of mine would only have savoured of
affectation. I do not mean to insinuate that the incident did not
happen, but only that it could hardly have occurred exactly under the
circumstances narrated, without my recollecting something positive on
the subject. In another part of the same volume Lord Byron is reported
to have expressed a supposition that the cause of my not avowing myself
the Author of “Waverley” may have been some surmise that the reigning
family would have been displeased with the work. I can only say, it is
the last apprehension I should have entertained, as indeed the
inscription to these volumes sufficiently proves. The sufferers of that
melancholy period have, during the last and present reign, been
honoured both with the sympathy and protection of the reigning family,
whose magnanimity can well pardon a sigh from others, and bestow one
themselves, to the memory of brave opponents, who did nothing in hate,
but all in honour.
While those who were in habitual intercourse with the real author had
little hesitation in assigning the literary property to him, others,
and those critics of no mean rank, employed themselves in investigating
with persevering patience any characteristic features which might seem
to betray the origin of these Novels. Amongst these, one gentleman,
equally remarkable for the kind and liberal tone of his criticism, the
acuteness of his reasoning, and the very gentlemanlike manner in which
he conducted his inquiries, displayed not only powers of accurate
investigation, but a temper of mind deserving to be employed on a
subject of much greater importance; and I have no doubt made converts
to his opinion of almost all who thought the point worthy of
consideration.[*] Of those letters, and other attempts of the same
kind, the Author could not complain, though his incognito was
endangered. He had challenged the public to a game at bo-peep, and if
he was discovered in his “hiding-hole,” he must submit to the shame of
detection.
[* Letters on the Author of Waverley; Rodwell and Martin, London,
1822.(_d_)]
Various reports were of course circulated in various ways; some founded
on an inaccurate rehearsal of what may have been partly real, some on
circumstances having no concern whatever with the subject, and others
on the invention of some importunate persons, who might perhaps imagine
that the readiest mode of forcing the Author to disclose himself was to
assign some dishonourable and discreditable cause for his silence.
It may be easily supposed that this sort of inquisition was treated
with contempt by the person whom it principally regarded; as, among all
the rumours that were current, there was only one, and that as
unfounded as the others, which had nevertheless some alliance to
probability, and indeed might have proved in some degree true.
I allude to a report which ascribed a great part, or the whole, of
these Novels to the late Thomas Scott, Esq., of the 70th Regiment, then
stationed in Canada. Those who remember that gentleman will readily
grant that, with general talents at least equal to those of his elder
brother, he added a power of social humour and a deep insight into
human character which rendered him an universally delightful member of
society, and that the habit of composition alone was wanting to render
him equally successful as a writer. The Author of “Waverley” was so
persuaded of the truth of this, that he warmly pressed his brother to
make such an experiment, and willingly undertook all the trouble of
correcting and superintending the press. Mr. Thomas Scott seemed at
first very well disposed to embrace the proposal, and had even fixed on
a subject and a hero. The latter was a person well known to both of us
in our boyish years, from having displayed some strong traits of
character. Mr. T. Scott had determined to represent his youthful
acquaintance as emigrating to America, and encountering the dangers and
hardships of the New World, with the same dauntless spirit which he had
displayed when a boy in his native country. Mr. Scott would probably
have been highly successful, being familiarly acquainted with the
manners of the native Indians, of the old French settlers in Canada,
and of the Brulés, or Woodsmen, and having the power of observing with
accuracy what I have no doubt he could have sketched with force and
expression. In short, the Author believes his brother would have made
himself distinguished in that striking field in which, since that
period, Mr. Cooper has achieved so many triumphs. But Mr. T. Scott was
already affected by bad health, which wholly unfitted him for literary
labour, even if he could have reconciled his patience to the task. He
never, I believe, wrote a single line of the projected work; and I only
have the melancholy pleasure of preserving in the Appendix[*] the
simple anecdote on which he proposed to found it.
[* See Appendix, No. III.]
To this I may add, I can easily conceive that there may have been
circumstances which gave a colour to the general report of my brother
being interested in these works; and in particular that it might derive
strength from my having occasion to remit to him, in consequence of
certain family transactions, some considerable sums of money about that
period. To which it is to be added that if any person chanced to evince
particular curiosity on such a subject, my brother was likely enough to
divert himself with practising on their credulity.
It may be mentioned that, while the paternity of these Novels was from
time to time warmly disputed in Britain, the foreign booksellers
expressed no hesitation on the matter, but affixed my name to the whole
of the Novels, and to some besides to which I had no claim.
The volumes, therefore, to which the present pages form a Preface are
entirely the composition of the Author by whom they are now
acknowledged, with the exception, always, of avowed quotations, and
such unpremeditated and involuntary plagiarisms as can scarce be
guarded against by any one who has read and written a great deal. The
original manuscripts are all in existence, and entirely written
(_horresco referens_) in the Author’s own hand, excepting during the
years 1818 and 1819, when, being affected with severe illness, he was
obliged to employ the assistance of a friendly amanuensis.
The number of persons to whom the secret was necessarily entrusted, or
communicated by chance, amounted, I should think, to twenty at least,
to whom I am greatly obliged for the fidelity with which they observed
their trust, until the derangement of the affairs of my publishers,
Messrs. Constable and Co., and the exposure of their account books,
which was the necessary consequence, rendered secrecy no longer
possible. The particulars attending the avowal have been laid before
the public in the Introduction to the “Chronicles of the Canongate.”
The preliminary advertisement has given a sketch of the purpose of this
edition. I have some reason to fear that the notes which accompany the
tales, as now published, may be thought too miscellaneous and too
egotistical. It maybe some apology for this, that the publication was
intended to be posthumous, and still more, that old men may be
permitted to speak long, because they cannot in the course of nature
have long time to speak. In preparing the present edition, I have done
all that I can do to explain the nature of my materials, and the use I
have made of them; nor is it probable that I shall again revise or even
read these tales. I was therefore desirous rather to exceed in the
portion of new and explanatory matter which is added to this edition
than that the reader should have reason to complain that the
information communicated was of a general and merely nominal character.
It remains to be tried whether the public (like a child to whom a watch
is shown) will, after having been satiated with looking at the outside,
acquire some new interest in the object when it is opened and the
internal machinery displayed to them.
That “Waverley” and its successors have had their day of favour and
popularity must be admitted with sincere gratitude; and the Author has
studied (with the prudence of a beauty whose reign has been rather
long) to supply, by the assistance of art, the charms which novelty no
longer affords. The publishers have endeavoured to gratify the
honourable partiality of the public for the encouragement of British
art, by illustrating this edition with designs by the most eminent
living artists.
[Footnote: The illustrations here referred to were made for the edition
of 1829]
To my distinguished countryman, David Wilkie, to Edwin Landseer, who
has exercised his talents so much on Scottish subjects and scenery, to
Messrs. Leslie and Newton, my thanks are due, from a friend as well as
an author. Nor am I less obliged to Messrs. Cooper, Kidd, and other
artists of distinction to whom I am less personally known, for the
ready zeal with which they have devoted their talents to the same
purpose.
Farther explanation respecting the Edition is the business of the
publishers, not of the Author; and here, therefore, the latter has
accomplished his task of introduction and explanation. If, like a
spoiled child, he has sometimes abused or trifled with the indulgence
of the public, he feels himself entitled to full belief when he
exculpates himself from the charge of having been at any time
insensible of their kindness.
ABBOTSFORD,
1_st January_, 1829.
APPENDIX
No. I.[*]
FRAGMENT OF A ROMANCE WHICH WAS TO HAVE BEEN ENTITLED
THOMAS THE RHYMER.
[* It is not to be supposed that these fragments are given as
possessing any intrinsic value of themselves; but there may be some
curiosity attached to them, as to the first etchings of a plate, which
are accounted interesting by those who have, in any degree, been
interested in the more finished works of the artist.]
CHAPTER I.
The sun was nearly set behind the distant mountains of Liddesdale, when
a few of the scattered and terrified inhabitants of the village of
Hersildoun, which had four days before been burned by a predatory band
of English Borderers, were now busied in repairing their ruined
dwellings. One high tower in the centre of the village alone exhibited
no appearance of devastation. It was surrounded with court walls, and
the outer gate was barred and bolted. The bushes and brambles which
grew around, and had even insinuated their branches beneath the gate,
plainly showed that it must have been many years since it had been
opened. While the cottages around lay in smoking ruins, this pile,
deserted and desolate as it seemed to be, had suffered nothing from the
violence of the invaders; and the wretched beings who were endeavouring
to repair their miserable huts against nightfall, seemed to neglect the
preferable shelter which it might have afforded them, without the
necessity of labour.
Before the day had quite gone down, a knight, richly armed, and mounted
upon an ambling hackney, rode slowly into the village. His attendants
were a lady, apparently young and beautiful, who rode by his side upon
a dappled palfrey; his squire, who carried his helmet and lance, and
led his battle-horse, a noble steed, richly caparisoned. A page and
four yeomen, bearing bows and quivers, short swords, and targets of a
span breadth, completed his equipage, which, though small, denoted him
to be a man of high rank.
He stopped and addressed several of the inhabitants whom curiosity had
withdrawn from their labour to gaze at him; but at the sound of his
voice, and still more on perceiving the St. George’s Cross in the caps
of his followers, they fled, with a loud cry that the Southrons were
returned. The knight endeavoured to expostulate with the fugitives, who
were chiefly aged men, women, and children; but their dread of the
English name accelerated their flight, and in a few minutes, excepting
the knight and his attendants, the place was deserted by all. He paced
through the village to seek a shelter for the night, and despairing to
find one either in the inaccessible tower or the plundered huts of the
peasantry, he directed his course to the left hand, where he spied a
small, decent habitation, apparently the abode of a man considerably
above the common rank. After much knocking, the proprietor at length
showed himself at the window, and speaking in the English dialect, with
great signs of apprehension, demanded their business. The warrior
replied that his quality was an English knight and baron, and that he
was travelling to the court of the king of Scotland on affairs of
consequence to both kingdoms.
“Pardon my hesitation, noble Sir Knight,” said the old man, as he
unbolted and unbarred his doors,—
“Pardon my hesitation, but we are here exposed to too many intrusions
to admit of our exercising unlimited and unsuspicious hospitality. What
I have is yours; and God send your mission may bring back peace and the
good days of our old Queen Margaret!”
“Amen, worthy franklin,” quoth the knight,—“Did you know her?”
“I came to this country in her train,” said the franklin; “and the care
of some of her jointure lands, which she devolved on me, occasioned my
settling here.”
“And how do you, being an Englishman,” said the knight, “protect your
life and property here, when one of your nation cannot obtain a single
night’s lodging, or a draught of water, were he thirsty?”
“Marry, noble sir,” answered the franklin, “use, as they say, will make
a man live in a lion’s den; and as I settled here in a quiet time, and
have never given cause of offence, I am respected by my neighbours, and
even, as you see, by our _forayers_ from England.”
“I rejoice to hear it, and accept your hospitality. Isabella, my love,
our worthy host will provide you a bed. My daughter, good franklin, is
ill at ease. We will occupy your house till the Scottish king shall
return from his Northern expedition. Meanwhile call me Lord Lacy of
Chester.”
The attendants of the baron, assisted by the franklin, were now busied
in disposing of the horses and arranging the table for some refreshment
for Lord Lacy and his fair companion. While they sat down to it, they
were attended by their host and his daughter, whom custom did not
permit to eat in their presence, and who afterwards withdrew to an
outer chamber, where the squire and page (both young men of noble
birth) partook of supper, and were accommodated with beds. The yeomen,
after doing honour to the rustic cheer of Queen Margaret’s bailiff,
withdrew to the stable, and each, beside his favourite horse, snored
away the fatigues of their journey. Early on the following morning the
travellers were roused by a thundering knocking at the door of the
house, accompanied with many demands for instant admission, in the
roughest tone. The squire and page, of Lord Lacy, after buckling on
their arms, were about to sally out to chastise these intruders, when
the old host, after looking out at a private casement, contrived for
reconnoitring his visitors, entreated them, with great signs of terror,
to be quiet, if they did not mean that all in the house should be
murdered.
He then hastened to the apartment of Lord Lacy, whom he met dressed in
a long furred gown and the knightly cap called a _mortier_, irritated
at the noise, and demanding to know the cause which had disturbed the
repose of the household.
“Noble sir,” said the franklin, “one of the most formidable and bloody
of the Scottish Border riders is at hand. He is never seen,” added he,
faltering with terror, “so far from the hills, but with some bad
purpose, and the power of accomplishing it; so hold yourself to your
guard, for—”
A loud crash here announced that the door was broken down, and the
knight just descended the stair in time to prevent bloodshed betwixt
his attendants and the intruders. They were three in number. Their
chief was tall, bony, and athletic, his spare and muscular frame, as
well as the hardness of his features, marked the course of his life to
have been fatiguing and perilous. The effect of his appearance was
aggravated by his dress, which consisted of a jack, or jacket, composed
of thick buff leather, on which small plates of iron of a lozenge form
were stitched, in such a manner as to overlap each other and form a
coat of mail, which swayed with every motion of the wearer’s body. This
defensive armour covered a doublet of coarse gray cloth, and the
Borderer had a few half-rusted plates of steel on his shoulders, a
two-edged sword, with a dagger hanging beside it, in a buff belt; a
helmet, with a few iron bars, to cover the face instead of a visor, and
a lance of tremendous and uncommon length, completed his appointments.
The looks of the man were as wild and rude as his attire; his keen
black eyes never rested one moment fixed upon a single object, but
constantly traversed all around, as if they ever sought some danger to
oppose, some plunder to seize, or some insult to revenge. The latter
seemed to be his present object, for, regardless of the dignified
presence of Lord Lacy, he uttered the most incoherent threats against
the owner of the house and his guests.
“We shall see—ay, marry shall we—if an English hound is to harbour and
reset the Southrons here. Thank the Abbot of Melrose and the good
Knight of Coldingnow that have so long kept me from your skirts. But
those days are gone, by St. Mary, and you shall find it!”
It is probable the enraged Borderer would not have long continued to
vent his rage in empty menaces, had not the entrance of the four
yeomen, with their bows bent, convinced him that the force was not at
this moment on his own side.
Lord Lacy now advanced towards him. “You intrude upon my privacy,
soldier; withdraw yourself and Your followers. There is peace betwixt
our nations, or my servants should chastise thy presumption.”
“Such peace as ye give such shall you have,” answered the moss-trooper,
first pointing with his lance towards the burned village, and then
almost instantly levelling it against Lord Lacy. The squire drew his
sword, and severed at one blow the steel head from the truncheon of the
spear.
“Arthur Fitzherbert,” said the baron, “that stroke has deferred thy
knighthood for one year; never must that squire wear the spurs whose
unbridled impetuosity can draw unbidden his sword in the presence of
his master. Go hence, and think on what I have said.”
The squire left the chamber abashed.
“It were vain,” continued Lord Lacy, “to expect that courtesy from a
mountain churl which even my own followers can forget. Yet before thou
drawest thy brand,” for the intruder laid his hand upon the hilt of his
sword, “thou wilt do well to reflect that I came with a safe-conduct
from thy king, and have no time to waste in brawls with such as thou.”
“From _my_ king,—from my king!” re-echoed the mountaineer. “I care not
that rotten truncheon,” striking the shattered spear furiously on the
ground, “for the king of Fife and Lothian. But Habby of Cessford will
be here belive; and we shall soon know if he will permit an English
churl to occupy his hostelry.”
Having uttered these words, accompanied with a lowering glance from
under his shaggy black eyebrows, he turned on his heel and left the
house with his two followers; they mounted their horses, which they had
tied to an outer fence, and vanished in an instant.
“Who is this discourteous ruffian?” said Lord Lacy to the franklin, who
had stood in the most violent agitation during this whole scene.
“His name, noble lord, is Adam Kerr of the Moat, but he is commonly
called by his companions the Black Rider of Cheviot. I fear, I fear, he
comes hither for no good; but if the Lord of Cessford be near, he will
not dare offer any unprovoked outrage.”
“I have heard of that chief,” said the baron; “let me know when he
approaches. And do thou, Rodulph,” to the eldest yeoman, “keep a strict
watch. Adelbert,” to the page, “attend to arm me.” The page bowed, and
the baron withdrew to the chamber of the lady Isabella, to explain the
cause of the disturbance.
No more of the proposed tale was ever written; but the Author’s purpose
was that it should turn upon a fine legend of superstition which is
current in the part of the Borders where he had his residence, where,
in the reign of Alexander III. of Scotland, that renowned person,
Thomas of Hersildoune, called the Rhymer, actually flourished. This
personage, the Merlin of Scotland, and to whom some of the adventures
which the British bards assigned to Merlin Caledonius, or the Wild,
have been transferred by tradition, was, as is well known, a magician,
as well as a poet and prophet. He is alleged still to live in the land
of Faery, and is expected to return at some great convulsion of
society, in which he is to act a distinguished part,—a tradition common
to all nations, as the belief of the Mahomedans respecting their
twelfth Imaum demonstrates.
Now, it chanced many years since that there lived on the Borders a
jolly, rattling horse-cowper, who was remarkable for a reckless and
fearless temper, which made him much admired, and a little dreaded,
amongst his neighbours. One moonlight night, as he rode over Bowden
Moor, on the west side of the Eildon Hills, the scene of Thomas the
Rhymer’s prophecies, and often mentioned in his story, having a brace
of horses along with him which he had not been able to dispose of, he
met a man of venerable appearance and singularly antique dress, who, to
his great surprise, asked the price of his horses, and began to chaffer
with him on the subject. To Canobie Dick—(for so shall we call our
Border dealer)—a chap was a chap, and he would have sold a liaise to
the devil himself, without minding his cloven hoof, and would have
probably cheated Old Nick into the bargain. The stranger paid the price
they agreed on; and all that puzzled Dick in the transaction was that
the gild which he received was in unicorns, bonnet-pieces, and other
ancient coins, which would have been invaluable to collectors, but were
rather troublesome, in modern currency.
It was gold, however, and therefore Dick contrived to get better value
for the coin than he perhaps gave to his customer. By the command of so
good a merchant, he brought horses to the same slot more than once; the
purchaser only stipulating that he should always come by night, and
alone. I do not know whether it was from mere curiosity, or whether
some hope of gain mixed with it, but after Dick had sold several horses
in this way, he began to complain that dry-bargains were unlucky, and
to hint that since his chap must live in the neighbourhood, he ought,
in the courtesy of dealing, to treat him to half a mutchkin.
“You may see my dwelling if you will,” said the stranger; “but if you
lose courage at what you see there, you will rue it all your life.”
Dicken, however, laughed the warning to scorn, and having alighted to
secure his horse, he followed the stranger up a narrow foot-path, which
led them up the hills to the singular eminence stuck betwixt the most
southern and the centre peaks, and called, from its resemblance to such
an animal in its form, the Lucken Hare. At the foot of this eminence,
which is almost as famous for witch meetings as the neighbouring
wind-mill of Kippilaw, Dick was somewhat startled to observe that his
conductor entered the hill-side by a passage or cavern, of which he
himself, though well acquainted with the spot, had never seen or heard.
“You may still return,” said his guide, looking ominously back upon
him; but Dick scorned to show the white feather, and on they went. They
entered a very long range of stables; in every stall stood a coal-black
horse; by every horse lay a knight in coal-black armour, with a drawn
sword in his hand; but all were as silent, hoof and limb, as if they
had been cut out of marble. A great number of torches lent a gloomy
lustre to the hall, which, like those of the Caliph Vathek, was of
large dimensions. At the upper end, however, they at length arrived,
where a sword and horn lay on an antique table.
“He that shall sound that horn and draw that sword,” said the stranger,
who now intimated that he was the famous Thomas of Hersildoune, “shall,
if his heart fail him not, be king over all broad Britain. So speaks
the tongue that cannot lie. But all depends on courage, and much on
your taking the sword or the horn first.” Dick was much disposed to
take the sword; but his bold spirit was quailed by the supernatural
terrors of the hall, and he thought to unsheathe the sword first, might
be construed into defiance, and give offence to the powers of the
Mountain. He took the bugle with a trembling hand, and a feeble note,
but loud enough to produce a terrible answer. Thunder rolled in
stunning peals through the immense hall; horses and men started to
life; the steeds snorted, stamped, grinned their bits, and tossed on
high their heads; the warriors sprung to their feet, clashed their
armour, and brandished their swords. Dick’s terror was extreme at
seeing the whole army, which had been so lately silent as the grave, in
uproar, and about to rush on him. He dropped the horn, and made a
feeble attempt to seize the enchanted sword; but at the same moment a
voice pronounced aloud the mysterious words,—
“Woe to the coward, that ever he was born,
Who did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!”
At the same time a whirlwind of irresistible fury howled through the
long hall, bore the unfortunate horse-jockey clear out of the mouth of
the cavern, and precipitated him over a steep bank of loose stones,
where the shepherds found him the next morning with just breath
sufficient to tell his fearful tale, after concluding which he expired.
This legend, with several variations, is found in many parts of
Scotland and England. The scene is sometimes laid in some favourite
glen of the Highlands, sometimes in the deep coal-mines of
Northumberland and Cumberland, which rim so far beneath the ocean. It
is also to be found in Reginald Scott’s book on Witchcraft, which was
written in the sixteenth century. It would be in vain to ask what was
the original of the tradition. The choice between the horn and sword
may, perhaps, include as a moral that it is foolhardy to awaken danger
before we have arms in our hands to resist it.
Although admitting of much poetical ornament, it is clear that this
legend would have formed but an unhappy foundation for a prose story,
and must have degenerated into a mere fairy tale. Dr. John Leyden has
beautifully introduced the tradition in his “Scenes of Infancy”:—
“Mysterious Rhymer, doomed by fate’s decree
Still to revisit Eildon’s fated tree,
Where oft the swain, at dawn of Hallow-day,
Hears thy fleet barb with wild impatience neigh,—
Say, who is he, with summons long and high,
Shall bid the charmed sleep of ages fly,
Roll the long sound through Eildon’s caverns vast,
While each dark warrior kindles at the blast,
The horn, the falchion, grasp with mighty hand,
And peal proud Arthur’s march from Fairy-land?”[*]
[* Scenes of Infancy, Part I.]
In the same cabinet with the preceding fragment, the following occurred
among other _disjecta membra_. It seems to be an attempt at a tale of a
different description from the last, but was almost instantly
abandoned. The introduction points out the time of the composition to
have been about the end of the eighteenth century.
THE LORD OF ENNERDALE.
IN A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM JOHN B______, ESQ., OF THAT ILK, TO
WILLIAM G______, F.R.S.E.
“Fill a bumper,” said the knight; “the ladies may spare us a little
longer. Fill a bumper to the Archduke Charles.”
The company did due honour to the toast of their landlord.
“The success of the archduke,” said the muddy vicar, “will tend to
further our negotiation at Paris; and if—”
“Pardon the interruption, Doctor,” quoth a thin, emaciated figure, with
somewhat of a foreign accent; “but why should you connect those events,
unless to hope that the bravery and victories of our allies may
supersede the necessity of a degrading treaty?”
“We begin to feel, Monsieur L’Abbé,” answered the vicar, with some
asperity, “that a Continental war entered into for the defence of an
ally who was unwilling to defend himself, and for the restoration of a
royal family, nobility, and priesthood who tamely abandoned their own
rights, is a burden too much even for the resources of this country.”
“And was the war, then, on the part of Great Britain,” rejoined the
Abbé, “a gratuitous exertion of generosity? Was there no fear of the
wide-wasting spirit of innovation which had gone abroad? Did not the
laity tremble for their property, the clergy for their religion, and
every loyal heart for the Constitution? Was it not thought necessary to
destroy the building which was on fire, ere the conflagration spread
around the vicinity?”
“Yet if upon trial,” said the doctor, “the walls were found to resist
our utmost efforts, I see no great prudence in persevering in our
labour amid the smouldering ruins.”
“What, Doctor,” said the baronet, “must I call to your recollection
your own sermon on the late general fast? Did you not encourage us to
hope that the Lord of Hosts would go forth with our armies, and that
our enemies, who blasphemed him, should be put to shame?”
“It may please a kind father to chasten even his beloved children,”
answered the vicar.
“I think,” said a gentleman near the foot of the table, “that the
Covenanters made some apology of the same kind for the failure of their
prophecies at the battle of Danbar, when their mutinous preachers
compelled the prudent Lesley to go down against the Philistines in
Gilgal.”
The vicar fixed a scrutinizing and not a very complacent eye upon this
intruder. He was a young man, of mean stature and rather a reserved
appearance. Early and severe study had quenched in his features the
gaiety peculiar to his age, and impressed upon them a premature cast of
thoughtfulness. His eve had, however, retained its fire, and his
gesture its animation. Had he remained silent, he would have been long
unnoticed; but when he spoke, there was something in his manner which
arrested attention.
“Who is this young man?” said the vicar, in a low voice, to his
neighbour.
“A Scotchman called Maxwell, on a visit to Sir Henry,” was the answer.
“I thought so, from his accent and his manner,” said the vicar. It may
be here observed that the Northern English retain rather more of the
ancient hereditary aversion to their neighbors than their countrymen of
the South. The interference of other disputants, each of whom urged his
opinion with all the vehemence of wine and politics, rendered the
summons to the drawing-room agreeable to the more sober part of the
company.
The company dispersed by degrees, and at length the vicar and the young
Scotchman alone remained, besides the baronet, his lady, daughters, and
myself. The clergyman had not, it would seem, forgot the observation
which ranked him with the false prophets of Dunbar, for he addressed
Mr. Maxwell upon the first opportunity.
“Hem! I think, sir, you mentioned something about the civil wars of
last century. You must be deeply skilled in them indeed, if you can
draw any parallel betwixt those and the present evil days,—davs which I
am ready to maintain are the most gloomy that ever darkened the
prospects of Britain.”
“God forbid, Doctor, that I should draw a comparison between the
present times and those you mention; I am too sensible of the
advantages we enjoy over our ancestors. Faction and ambition have
introduced division among us; but we are still free from the guilt of
civil bloodshed, and from all the evils which flow from it. Our foes,
sir, are not those of our own household; and while we continue united
and firm, from the attacks of a foreign enemy, however artful, or
however inveterate, we have, I hope, little to dread.”
“Have you found anything curious, Mr. Maxwell, among the dusty papers?”
said Sir Henry, who seemed to dread a revival of political discussion.
“My investigation amongst them led to reflection’s which I have just
now hinted,” said Maxwell; “and I think they are pretty strongly
exemplified by a story which I have been endeavouring to arrange from
some of your family manuscripts.”
“You are welcome to make what use of them you please,” said Sir Henry;
“they have been undisturbed for many a day, and I have often wished for
some person as well skilled as you in these old pothooks, to tell me
their meaning.”
“Those I just mentioned,” answered Maxwell, “relate to a piece of
private history savouring not a little of the marvellous, and
intimately connected with your family; if it is agreeable, I can read
to you the anecdotes in the modern shape into which I have been
endeavouring to throw them, and you can then judge of the value of the
originals.”
There was something in this proposal agreeable to all parties. Sir
Henry had family pride, which prepared him to take an interest in
whatever related to his ancestors. The ladies had dipped deeply into
the fashionable reading of the present day. Lady Ratcliff and her fair
daughters had climbed every pass, viewed every pine-shrouded ruin,
heard every groan, and lifted every trap-door, in company with the
noted heroine of “Udolpho.” They had been heard, however, to observe
that the famous incident of the Black Veil singularly resembled the
ancient apologue of the Mountain in labour, so that they were
unquestionably critics, as well as admirers. Besides all this, they had
valorously mounted _en croupe_ behind the ghostly horseman of Prague,
through all his seven translators, and followed the footsteps of Moor
through the forest of Bohemia. Moreover, it was even hinted (but this
was a greater mystery than all the rest) that a certain performance,
called the “Monk,” in three neat volumes, had been seen by a prying
eye, in the right-hand drawer of the Indian cabinet of Lady Ratcliff’s
dressing-room. Thus predisposed for wonders and signs, Lady Ratcliff
and her nymphs drew their chairs round a large blazing wood-fire, and
arranged themselves to listen to the tale. To that fire I also
approached, moved thereunto partly by the inclemency of the season, and
partly that my deafness, which you know, cousin, I acquired during my
campaign under Prince Charles Edward, might be no obstacle to the
gratification of my curiosity, which was awakened by what had any
reference to the fate of such faithful followers of royalty as you well
know the house of Ratcliff have ever been. To this wood-fire the vicar
likewise drew near, and reclined himself conveniently in his chair,
seemingly disposed to testify his disrespect for the narration and
narrator by falling asleep as soon as he conveniently could. By the
side of Maxwell (by the way, I cannot learn that he is in the least
related to the Nithsdale family) was placed a small table and a couple
of lights, by the assistance of which he read as follows:—
“Journal of Jan Von Eulen.
“On the 6th November, 1645, I, Jan Von Enlen, merchant in Rotterdam,
embarked with my only daughter on board of the good vessel ‘Vryheid,’
of Amsterdam, in order to pass into the unhappy and disturbed kingdom
of England.—7_th November_. A brisk gale; daughter sea-sick; myself
unable to complete the calculation which I have begun, of the
inheritance left by Jane Lansache, of Carlisle, my late dear wife’s
sister, the collection of which is the object of my voyage.—8_th
November_. Wind still stormy and adverse; a horrid disaster nearly
happened,—my dear child washed overboard as the vessel lurched to
leeward.—Memorandum, to reward the young sailor who saved her, out of
the first moneys which I can recover from the inheritance of her aunt
Lansache.—9_th November_. Calm P.M. light breezes front N. N. W. I
talked with the captain about the inheritance of my sister-in-law, Jane
Lansache. He says he knows the principal subject, which will not exceed
£1000 in value.—N. B. He is a cousin to a family of Petersons, which
was the name of the husband of my sister-in-law; so there is room to
hope it may be worth more than be reports.—10_th November_, 10 A.M. May
God pardon all our sins! An English frigate, bearing the Parliament
flag, has appeared in the offing, and gives chase.—11 A. M. She nears
us every moment, and the captain of our vessel prepares to clear for
action. May God again have mercy upon us!”
“Here,” said Maxwell, “the journal with which I have opened the
narration ends somewhat abruptly.”
“I am glad of it,” said Lady Ratcliff.
“But, Mr. Maxwell,” said young Frank, Sir Henry’s grandchild, “shall we
not hear how the battle ended?”
I do not know, cousin, whether I have not formerly made you acquainted
with the abilities of Frank Ratcliff. There is not a battle fought
between the troops of the Prince and of the government, during the
years 1745–46, of which he is not able to give an account. It is true,
I have taken particular pains to fix the events of this important
period upon his memory by frequent repetition.
“No, my dear,” said Maxwell, in answer to young Frank Itatcliff,—“No,
my dear, I cannot tell you the exact particulars of the engagement, but
its consequences appear from the following letter, despatched by
Garbonete Von Enlen, daughter of our journalist, to a relation in
England, from whom she implored assistance. After some general account
of the purpose of the voyage, and of the engagement, her narrative
proceeds thus:—
“The noise of the cannon had hardly ceased, before the sounds of a
language to me but half known, and the confusion on board our vessel,
informed me that the captors had boarded us and taken possession of our
vessel. I went on deck, where the first spectacle that met my eyes was
a young man, mate of our vessel, who, though disfigured and covered
with blood, was loaded with irons, and whom they were forcing over the
side of the vessel into a boat. The two principal persons among our
enemies appeared to be a man of a tall, thin figure, with a
high-crowned hat and long neck band, and short-cropped head of hair,
accompanied by a bluff, open-looking elderly man in a naval uniform.
‘Yarely! yarely! pull away, my hearts,’ said the latter, and the boat
bearing the unlucky young man soon carried him on board the frigate.
Perhaps you will blame me for mentioning this circumstance; but
consider, my dear cousin, this man saved my life, and his fate, even
when my own and my father’s were in the balance, could not but affect
me nearly.
“‘In the name of him who is jealous, even to slaying,’ said the first—”
_Cetera desunt_.
No. II.
CONCLUSION OF MR. STRUTT’S ROMANCE OF
QUEEN-HOO HALL.
BY THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.
CHAPTER IV.
A HUNTING PARTY.—AN ADVENTURE.—A DELIVERANCE.
The next morning the bugles were sounded by daybreak in the court of
Lord Boteler’s mansion, to call the inhabitants from their slumbers, to
assist in a splendid chase, with which the baron had resolved to
entertain his neighbour Fitzallen and his noble visitor St. Clere.
Peter Lanaret the falconer was in attendance, with falcons for the
knights, and tiercelets for the ladies, if they should choose to vary
their sport from hunting to hawking. Five stout yeomen keepers, with
their attendants, called Bagged Robins, all meetly arrayed in Kendal
green, with bugles and short hangers by their sides, and quarterstaffs
in their hands, led the slow-hounds, or brackets, by which the deer
were to be put up. Ten brace of gallant greyhounds, each of which was
fit to pluck down, singly, the tallest red deer, were led in leashes by
as many of Lord Boteler’s foresters. The pages, squires, and other
attendants of feudal splendour, well attired in their best
hunting-gear, upon horseback or foot, according to their rank,—with
their boar-spears, long bows, and cross-bows, were in seemly waiting.
A numerous train of yeomen, called in the language of the times
retainers, who yearly received a livery coat and a small pension for
their attendance on such solemn occasions, appeared in cassocks of
blue, bearing upon their arms the cognizance of the house of Boteler as
a badge of their adherence. They were the tallest men of their hands
that the neighbouring villages could supply, with every man his good
buckler on his shoulder, and a bright burnished broadsword dangling
from his leathern belt. On this occasion they acted as rangers for
beating up the thickets and rousing the game. These attendants filled
up the court of the castle, spacious as it was. On the green without,
you might have seen the motley assemblage of peasantry convened by
report of the splendid hunting, including most of our old acquaintances
from Tewin, as well as the jolly partakers of good cheer at Hob
Filcher’s. Gregory the jester, it may well be guessed, had no great
mind to exhibit himself in public after his recent disaster; but Oswald
the steward, a great formalist in whatever concerned the public
exhibition of his master’s household state, had positively enjoined his
attendance. “What,” quoth he, “shall the house of the brave Lord
Boteler, or such a brave day as this, be without a fool? Certes, the
good Lord St. Clere and his fair lady sister might think our
housekeeping as niggardly as that of their churlish kinsman at Gay
Bowers, who sent his father’s jester to the hospital, sold the poor
sot’s bells for hawk-jesses, and made a nightcap of his long-eared
bonnet. And, sirrah, let me see thee fool handsomely,—speak squibs and
crackers, instead of that dry, barren, musty gibing which thou hast
used of late; or, by the bones! the porter shall have thee to his
lodge, and cob thee with thine own wooden sword till thy skin is as
motley as thy doublet.”
To this stern injunction, Gregory made no reply, any more than to the
courteous offer of old Albert Drawslot, the chief park-keeper, who
proposed to blow vinegar in his nose, to sharpen his wit, as he had
done that blessed morning to Bragger, the old hound, whose scent was
failing. There was, indeed, little time for reply, for the bugles,
after a lively flourish, were now silent, and Peretto, with his two
attendant minstrels, stepping beneath the windows of the strangers’
apartments, joined in the following roundelay, the deep voices of the
rangers and falconers making up a chorus that caused the very
battlements to ring again.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray;
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay:
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When ’gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
Louder, louder chant the lay,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay;”
Tell them, youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we.
Time, stern huntsman, who can baulk,
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.
By the time this lay was finished, Lord Boteler, with his daughter and
kinsman, Fitzallen of Harden, and other noble guests had mounted their
palfreys, and the hunt set forward in due order. The huntsmen, having
carefully observed the traces of a large stag on the preceding evening,
were able, without loss of time, to conduct the company, by the marks
which they had made upon the trees, to the side of the thicket in
which, by the report of Drawslot, he had harboured all night. The
horsemen spreading themselves along the side of the cover, waited until
the keeper entered, leading his bandog, a large blood-hound tied in a
leam or band, from which he takes his name.
But it befell this. A hart of the second year, which was in the same
cover with the proper object of their pursuit, chanced to be
unharboured first, and broke cover very near where the Lady Emma and
her brother were stationed. An inexperienced varlet, who was nearer to
them, instantly unloosed two tall greyhounds, who sprung after the
fugitive with all the fleetness of the north wind. Gregory, restored a
little to spirits by the enlivening scene around him, followed,
encouraging the hounds with a loud tayout,[*] for which he had the
hearty curses of the huntsman, as well as of the baron, who entered
into the spirit of the chase with all the juvenile ardour of twenty.
“May the foul fiend, booted and spurred, ride down his bawling throat,
with a scythe at his girdle,” quoth Albert Drawslot; “here have I been
telling him that all the marks were those of a buck of the first head,
and he has hollowed the hounds upon a velvet-headed knobbler! By Saint
Hubert, if I break not his pate with my cross-bow, may I never cast off
hound more! But to it, my lords and masters! the noble beast is here
yet, and, thank the saints, we have enough of hounds.”
[* _Tailliers-hors;_ in modern phrase, Tally-ho]
The cover being now thoroughly beat by the attendants, the stag was
compelled to abandon it, and trust to his speed for his safety. Three
greyhounds were slipped upon him, whom he threw out, after running a
couple of miles, by entering an extensive furzy brake which extended
along the side of a hill. The horsemen soon came up, and casting off a
sufficient number of slowhounds, sent them, with the prickers, into the
cover, in order to chive the game from his strength. This object being
accomplished, afforded another severe chase of several miles, in a
direction almost circular, during which the poor animal tried every
wile to get rid of his persecutors. He crossed and traversed all such
dusty paths as were likely to retain the least scent of his footsteps;
he laid himself close to the ground, drawing his feet under his belly,
and clapping his nose close to the earth, lest he should be betrayed to
the hounds by his breath and hoofs. When all was in vain, and he found
the hounds coming fast in upon him, his own strength failing, his mouth
embossed with foam, and the tears dropping from his eyes, he turned in
despair upon his pursuers, who then stood at gaze, making an hideous
clamour, and awaiting their two-footed auxiliaries. Of these, it
chanced that the Lady Eleanor, taking more pleasure in the sport than
Matilda, and being a less burden to her palfrey than the Lord Boteler,
was the first who arrived at the spot, and taking a cross-bow from an
attendant, discharged a bolt at the stag. When the infuriated animal
felt himself wounded, he pushed franticly towards her from whom he had
received the shaft, and Lady Eleanor might have had occasion to repent
of her enterprise had not young Fitzallen, who had kept near her during
the whole day, at that instant galloped briskly in, and ere the stag
could change his object of assault, despatched him with his short
hunting-sword.
Albert Drawslot, who had just come up in terror for the young lady’s
safety, broke out into loud encomiums upon Fitzallen’s strength and
gallantry. “By ’r Lady,” said he, taking off his cap, and wiping his
sun-burnt face with his sleeve, “well struck, and in good time! But
now, boys, doff your bonnets, and sound the mort.”
The sportsmen then sounded a treble mort and set up a general whoop,
which, mingled with the yelping of the dogs, made the welkin ring
again. The huntsman then offered his knife to Lord Boteler, that he
might take the say of the deer; but the baron courteously insisted upon
Fitzallen going through that ceremony. The Lady Matilda was now come
up, with most of the attendants; and the interest of the chase being
ended, it excited some surprise that neither St. Clere nor his sister
made their appearance. The Lord Boteler commanded the horns again to
sound the recheat, in hopes to call in the stragglers, and said to
Fitzallen: “Methinks St. Clere, so distinguished for service in war,
should have been more forward in the chase.”
“I trow,” said Peter Lanaret, “I know the reason of the noble lord’s
absence; for when that moon-calf, Gregory, hallooed the dogs upon the
knobbler, and galloped like a green hilding, as he is, after them, I
saw the Lady Emma’s palfrey follow apace after that varlet, who should
be trashed for overrunning, and I think her noble brother has followed
her, lest she should come to harm. But here, by the rood, is Gregory to
answer for himself.”
At this moment Gregory entered the circle which had been formed round
the deer, out of breath, and his face covered with blood. He kept for
some time uttering inarticulate cries of “Harrow!” and “Wellaway!” and
other exclamations of distress and terror, pointing all the while to a
thicket at some distance from the spot where the deer had been killed.
“By my honour,” said the baron, “I would gladly know who has dared to
array the poor knave thus; and I trust he should dearly aby his
_outrecuidance_, were he the best, save one, in England.”
Gregory, who had now found more breath, cried, “Help, an ye be men!
Save Lady Emma and her brother, whom they are murdering in Brockenhurst
thicket.”
This put all in motion. Lord Boteler hastily commanded a small party of
his men to abide for the defence of the ladies, while he himself,
Fitzallen, and the rest made what speed they could towards the thicket,
guided by Gregory, who for that purpose was mounted behind Fabian.
Pushing through a narrow path, the first object they encountered was a
man of small stature lying on the ground, mastered and almost strangled
by two dogs, which were instantly recognized to be those that had
accompanied Gregory. A little farther was an open space, where lay
three bodies of dead or wounded men; beside these was Lady Emma,
apparently lifeless, her brother and a young forester bending over and
endeavouring to recover her. By employing the usual remedies, this was
soon accomplished; while Lord Boteler, astonished at such a scene,
anxiously inquired at St. Clere the meaning of what he saw, and whether
more danger was to be expected?
“For the present, I trust not,” said the young warrior, who they now
observed was slightly wounded; “but I pray you, of your nobleness, let
the woods here be searched; for we were assaulted by four of these base
assassins, and I see three only on the sward.”
The attendants now brought forward the person whom they had rescued
from the dogs, and Henry, with disgust, shame, and astonishment,
recognized his kinsman, Gaston St. Clere. This discovery he
communicated in a whisper to Lord Boteler, who commanded the prisoner
to be conveyed to Queen-Hoo Hall and closely guarded; meanwhile he
anxiously inquired of young St. Clere about his wound. “A scratch, a
trifle!” cried Henry; “I am in less haste to bind it than to introduce
to you one without whose aid that of the leech would have come too
late. Where is he? Where is my brave deliverer?”
“Here, most noble lord,” said Gregory, sliding from his palfrey and
stepping forward, “ready to receive the guerdon which your bounty would
heap on him.”
“Truly, friend Gregory,” answered the young warrior, “thou shalt not be
forgotten; for thou didst run speedily and roar manfully for aid,
without which, I think verily, we had not received it. But the brave
forester who came to my rescue when these three ruffians had nigh
overpowered me, where is he?”
Every one looked around; but though all had seen him on entering the
thicket, he was not now to be found. They could only conjecture that he
had retired during the confusion occasioned by the detention of Gaston.
“Seek not for him,” said the Lady Emma, who had now in some degree
recovered her composure; “he will not be found of mortal, unless at his
own season.”
The baron, convinced from this answer that her terror had, for the
time, somewhat disturbed her reason, forebore to question her; and
Matilda and Eleanor, to whom a message had been despatched with the
result of this strange adventure, arriving, they took the Lady Emma
between them, and all in a body returned to the castle.
The distance was, however, considerable, and before reaching it they
had another alarm. The prickers, who rode foremost in the troop,
halted, and announced to the Lord Boteler, that they perceived
advancing towards them a body of armed men. The followers of the baron
were numerous, but they were arrayed for the chase, not for battle; and
it was with great pleasure that he discerned, on the pennon of the
advancing body of men-at-arms, instead of the cognizance of Gaston, as
he had some reason to expect, the friendly bearings of Fitzosborne of
Diggswell, the same young lord who was present at the May-games with
Fitzallen of Marden. The knight himself advanced, sheathed in armour,
and, without raising his visor, informed Lord Boteler, that having
heard of a base attempt made upon a part of his train by ruffianly
assassins, he had mounted and armed a small party of his retainers, to
escort them to Queen-Hoo Hall. Having received and accepted an
invitation to attend them thither, they prosecuted their journey in
confidence and security, and arrived safe at home without any further
accident.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
INVESTIGATION OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE HUNTING.—A DISCOVERY.
—GREGORY’S MANHOOD.—FATE OF GASTON ST. CLERE.—CONCLUSION.
So soon as they arrived at the princely mansion of Boteler, the Lady
Emma craved permission to retire to her chamber, that she might compose
her spirits after the terror she had undergone. Henry St. Clere, in a
few words, proceeded to explain the adventure to the curious audience.
“I had no sooner seen my sister’s palfrey, in spite of her endeavours
to the contrary, entering with spirit into the chase set on foot by the
worshipful Gregory than I rode after to give her assistance. So long
was the chase that when the greyhounds pulled down the knobbler, we
were out of hearing of your bugles; and having rewarded and coupled the
dogs, I gave them to be led by the jester, and we wandered in quest of
our company, whom, it would seem, the sport had led in a different
direction. At length, passing through the thicket where you found us, I
was surprised by a cross-bow bolt whizzing past mine head. I drew my
sword and rushed into the thicket, but was instantly assailed by two
ruffians, while other two made towards my sister and Gregory. The poor
knave fled, crying for help, pursued by my false kinsman, now your
prisoner; and the designs of the other on my poor Emma (murderous no
doubt) were prevented by the sudden apparition of a brave woodsman,
who, after a short encounter, stretched the miscreant at his feet and
came to my assistance. I was already slightly wounded, and nearly
overlaid with odds. The combat lasted some time, for the caitiffs were
both well armed, strong, and desperate; at length, however, we had each
mastered our antagonist, when your retinue, my Lord Boteler, arrived to
my relief. So ends in my story; but, on my knighthood, I would give an
earl’s ransom for an opportunity of thanking the gallant forester by
whose aid I live to tell it.”
“Fear not,” said Lord Boteler; “he shall be found if this or the four
adjacent counties hold him. And now Lord Fitzosborne will be pleased to
doff the armour he has so kindly assumed for our sakes, and we will all
bowne ourselves for the banquet.”
When the hour of dinner approached, the Lady Matilda and her cousin
visited the chamber of the fair Darcy. They found her in a composed but
melancholy posture. She turned the discourse upon the misfortunes of
her life, and hinted that having recovered her brother, and seeing him
look forward to the society of one who would amply repay to him the
loss of hers, she had thoughts of dedicating her remaining life to
Heaven, by whose providential interference it had been so often
preserved.
Matilda coloured deeply at something in this speech, and her cousin
inveighed loudly against Emma’s resolution. “Ah, my dear Lady Eleanor,”
replied she, “I have to-day witnessed what I cannot but judge a
supernatural visitation, and to what end can it call me but to give
myself to the altar? That peasant who guided me, to Baddow through the
Park of Danbury, the same who appeared before me at different times and
in different forms during that eventful journey,—that youth, whose
features are imprinted on my memory, is the very individual forester
who this day rescued us in the forest. I cannot be mistaken; and
connecting these marvellous appearances with the spectre which I saw
while at Gay Bowers, I cannot resist the conviction that Heaven has
permitted my guardian angel to assume mortal shape for my relief and
protection.”
The fair cousins, after exchanging looks which implied a fear that her
mind was wandering, answered her in soothing terms, and finally
prevailed upon her to accompany them to the banqueting-hall. Here the
first person they encountered was the Baron Fitzosborne of Diggswell,
now divested of his armour; at the sight of whom the Lady Emma changed
colour, and exclaiming, “It is the same!” sunk senseless into the arms
of Matilda.
“She is bewildered by the terrors of the day,” said Eleanor; “and we
have done ill in obliging her to descend.”
“And I,” said Fitzosborne, “have done madly in presenting before her
one whose presence must recall moments the most alarming in her life.”
While the ladies supported Emma from the hall, Lord Boteler and St.
Clere requested an explanation from Fitzosborne of the words he had
used.
“Trust me, gentle lords,” said the Baron of Diggswell, “ye shall have
what ye demand, when I learn that Lady Emma Darcy has not suffered from
my imprudence.”
At this moment Lady Matilda, returning, said that her fair friend, on
her recovery, had calmly and deliberately insisted that she had seen
Fitzosborne before, in the most dangerous crisis of her life.
“I dread,” said she, “her disordered mind connects all that her eye
beholds with the terrible passages that she has witnessed.”
“Nay,” said Fitzosborne, “if noble St. Clere can pardon the
unauthorized interest which, with the purest and most honourable
intentions, I have taken in his sister’s fate, it is easy for me to
explain this mysterious impression.”
He proceeded to say that, happening to be in the hostelry called the
Griffin, near Baddow, while upon a journey in that country, he had met
with the old nurse of the Lady Emma Darcy, who, being just expelled
front Gay Bowers, was in the height of her grief and indignation, and
made loud and public proclamation of Lady Emma’s wrongs. From the
description she gave of the beauty of her foster-child, as well as from
the spirit of chivalry, Fitzosborne became interested in her fate. This
interest was deeply enhanced when, by a bribe to Old Gaunt the Reve, he
procured a view of the Lady Emma as she walked near the castle of Gay
Bowers. The aged churl refused to give him access to the castle, yet
dropped some hints, as if he thought the lady in danger, and wished she
were well out of it. His master, he said, had heard she had a brother
in life, and since that deprived him of all chance of gaining her
domains by purchase, he, in short, Gaunt wished they were safely
separated. “If any injury,” quoth he, “should happen to the damsel
here, it were ill for us all. I tried, by an innocent stratagem, to
frighten her from the castle by introducing a figure through a
trap-door and warning her, as if by a voice from the dead, to retreat
from thence; but the giglet is wilful, and is running upon her fate.”
Finding Gaunt, although covetous and communicative, too faithful a
servant to his wicked master to take any active steps against his
commands, Fitzosborne applied himself to old Ursely, whom he found more
tractable. Through her he learned the dreadful plot Gaston had laid to
rid himself of his kinswoman, and resolved to effect her deliverance.
But aware of the delicacy of Emma’s situation, he charged Ursely to
conceal from her the interest he took in her distress, resolving to
watch over her in disguise until he saw her in a place of safety. Hence
the appearance he made before her in various dresses during her
journey, in the course of which he was never far distant; and he had
always four stout yeomen within hearing of his bugle, had assistance
been necessary. When she was placed in safety at the lodge, it was
Fitzosborne’s intention to have prevailed upon his sisters to visit,
and take her under their protection; but he found them absent from
Diggswell, having gone to attend an aged relation who lay dangerously
ill in a distant county. They did not return until the day before the
May-games; and the other events followed too rapidly to permit
Fitzosborne to lay any plan for introducing them to Lady Emma Darcy. On
the day of the chase he resolved to preserve his romantic disguise and
attend the Lady Emma as a forester, partly to have the pleasure of
being near her, and partly to judge whether, according to an idle
report in the country, she favoured his friend and comrade Fitzallen of
Marden. This last motive, it may easily be believed, he did not declare
to the company. After the skirmish with the ruffians, he waited till
the baron and the hunters arrived, and then, still doubting the further
designs of Gaston, hastened to his castle to arm the band which had
escorted them to Queen-Hoo Hall.
Fitzosborne’s story being finished, he received the thanks of all the
company, particularly of St. Clere, who felt deeply the respectful
delicacy with which he had conducted himself towards his sister. The
lady was carefully informed of her obligations to him; and it is left
to the well-judging reader whether even the raillery of Lady Eleanor
made her regret that Heaven had only employed natural means for her
security, and that the guardian angel was converted into a handsome,
gallant, and enamoured knight.
The joy of the company in the hall extended itself to the buttery,
where Gregory the jester narrated such feats of arms done by himself in
the fray of the morning as might have shamed Bevis and Guy of Warwick.
He was, according to his narrative, singled out for destruction by the
gigantic baron himself, while he abandoned to meaner hands the
destruction of St. Clere and Fitzosborne.
“But, certes,” said he, “the foul paynim met his match; for, ever as he
foined at me with his brand, I parried his blows with my bauble, and
closing with him upon the third veny, threw him to the ground, and made
him cryrecreant to an unarmed man.”
“Tush, man!” said Drawslot, “thou forgettest thy best auxiliaries, the
good greyhounds, Help and Holdfast! I warrant thee that when the
humpbacked baron caught thee by the cowl, which he hath almost torn
off, thou hadst been in a fair plight, had they not remembered an old
friend and come in to the rescue. Why, man, I found them fastened on
him myself; and there was odd staving and stickling to make them ‘ware
haunch!’ Their mouths were full of the flex, for I pulled a piece of
the garment from their jaws. I warrant thee that when they brought him
to ground, thou fledst like a frighted pricket.”
“And as for Gregory’s gigantic paynim,” said Fabian, “why, he lies
yonder in the guard-room, the very size, shape, and colour of a spider
in a yewhedge.”
“It is false!” said Gregory; “Colbrand the Dane was a dwarf to him.”
“It is as true,” returned Fabian, “as that the Tasker is to be married
on Tuesday to pretty Margery. Gregory, thy sheet hath brought them
between a pair of blankets.”
“I care no more for such a gillflirt,” said the Jester, “than I do for
thy leasings. Marry, thou hop-o’-my-thumb, happy wouldst thou be could
thy head reach the captive baron’s girdle.”
“By the Mass,” said Peter Lanaret, “I will have one peep at this burly
gallant;” and leaving the buttery, he went to the guard-room where
Gaston St. Clere was confined. A man-at-arms, who kept sentinel on the
strong studded door of the apartment, said he believed he slept; for
that after raging, stamping, and uttering the most horrid imprecations,
he had been of late perfectly still. The falconer gently drew back a
sliding board, of a foot square, towards the top of the door, which
covered a hole of the same size, strongly latticed, through which the
warder, without opening the door, could look in upon his prisoner. From
this aperture he beheld the wretched Gaston suspended by the neck, by
his own girdle, to an iron ring in the side of his prison. He had
clambered to it by means of the table on which his food had been
placed; and in the agonies of shame and disappointed malice, had
adopted this mode of ridding himself of a wretched life. He was found
yet warm, but totally lifeless. A proper account of the manner of his
death was drawn up and certified. He was buried that evening in the
chapel of the castle, out of respect to his high birth; and the
chaplain of Fitzallen of Marden, who said the service upon the
occasion, preached, the next Sunday, an excellent sermon upon the text,
“Radix malorum est cupiditas,” which we have here transcribed.
[Here the manuscript from which we have painfully transcribed, and
frequently, as it were, translated this tale, for the reader’s
edification, is so indistinct and defaced that, excepting certain
“howbeits,” “nathlesses,” “lo ye’s!” etc. we can pick out little that
is intelligible, saving that avarice is defined “a likourishness of
heart after earthly things.”] A little farther there seems to have been
a gay account of Margery’s wedding with Ralph the Tasker, the running
at the quintain, and other rural games practised on the occasion. There
are also fragments of a mock sermon preached by Gregory upon that
occasion, as for example:—
“Mv dear cursed caitiffs, there was once a king, and he wedded a young
old queen, and she had a child; and this child was sent to Solomon the
Sage, praying he would give it the same blessing which he got from the
witch of Endor when she bit him by the heel. Hereof speaks the worthy
Dr. Radigundus Potator. Why should not Mass be said for all the roasted
shoe souls served up in the king’s dish on Saturday? For true it is
that Saint Peter asked father Adam, as they journeyed to Camelot, an
high, great, and doubtful question: ‘Adam, Adam, why eated’st thou the
apple without paring?’”[*]
[* This tirade of gibberish is literally taken or selected from a mock
discourse pronounced by a professed jester, which occurs in an ancient
manuscript in the Advocates’ Library, the same from which the late
ingenious Mr. Weber published the curious comic romance of the
“Limiting of the Hare.” It was introduced in compliance with Mr.
Strutt’s plan of rendering his tale an illustration of ancient manners.
A similar burlesque sermon is pronounced by the Fool in Sir David
Lindesay’s satire of the “Three Estates.” The nonsense and vulgar
burlesque of that composition illustrate the ground of Sir Andrew,
Aguecheek’s eulogy on the exploits of the jester in “Twelfth Night,”
who, reserving his sharper jests for Sir Toby, had doubtless enough of
the jargon of his calling to captivate the imbecility of his brother
knight, who is made to exclaim: “In sooth, thou wast in very gracious
fooling last night when thou spokest of Pigrogremitus, and of the
vapours passing the equinoctials of Quenbus; ’t was very good, i’
faith!” It is entertaining to find commentators seeking to discover
some meaning in the professional jargon of such a passage as this.]
With much goodly gibberish to the same effect, which display of
Gregory’s ready wit not only threw the whole company into convulsions
of laughter, but made such an impression on Rose, the Potter’s
daughter, that it was thought it would be the jester’s own fault if
Jack was long without his Jill. Much pithy matter concerning the
bringing the bride to bed, the loosing the bridegroom’s points, the
scramble which ensued for them, and the casting of the stocking, is
also omitted, from its obscurity.
The following song, which has been since borrowed by the worshipful
author of the famous “History of Fryar Bacon,” has been with difficulty
deciphered. It seems to have been sung on occasion of carrying home the
bride.
BRIDAL SONG.
_To the tune of “I have been a Fiddler,” etc._
And did you not hear of a mirth befell
The morrow after a wedding-day,
And carrying a bride at home to dwell?
And away to Tewin, away, away!
The quintain was set, and the garlands were made,—
’T is pity old customs should ever decay;
And woe be to him that was horsed on a jade,
For he carried no credit away, away.
We met a consort of fiddle-de-dees;
We set them a cockhorse, and made them play
The winning of Bullen, and Upsey-fires,
And away to Tewin, away, away!
There was ne’er a lad in all the parish
That would go to the plough that day;
But on his fore-horse his wench he carries,
And away to Tewin, away, away!
The butler was quick, and the ale he did tap,
The maidens did make the chamber full gay;
The servants did give me a fuddling cup,
And I did carry ’t away, away.
The smith of the town his liquor so took
That he was persuaded that the ground looked blue;
And I dare boldly be sworn on a book
Such smiths as he there’s but a few.
A posset was made, and the women did sip,
And simpering said they could eat no more;
Full many a maiden was laid on the lip,—
I’ll say no more, but give o’er (give o’er).
But what our fair readers will chiefly regret is the loss of three
declarations of love: the first by St. Clore to Matilda, which, with
the lady’s answer, occupies fifteen closely written pages of
manuscript. That of Fitzosborne to Emma is not much shorter; but the
amours of Fitzallen and Eleanor, being of a less romantic cast, are
closed in three pages only. The three noble couples were married in
Queen-Hoo Hall upon the same day, being the twentieth Sunday after
Easter. There is a prolix account of the marriage-feast, of which we
can pick out the names of a few dishes, such as peterel, crane,
sturgeon, swan, etc., with a profusion of wild-fowl and venison. We
also see that a suitable song was produced by Peretto on the occasion,
and that the bishop, who blessed the bridal beds which received the
happy couples, was no niggard of his holy water, bestowing half a
gallon upon each of the couches. We regret we cannot give these
curiosities to the reader in detail, but we hope to expose the
manuscript to abler antiquaries, so soon as it shall be framed and
glazed by the ingenious artist who rendered that service to Mr.
Ireland’s Shakspeare manuscripts. And so (being unable to lay aside the
style to which our pen is habituated), gentle reader, we bid thee
heartily farewell.
No. III.
ANECDOTE OF SCHOOL DAYS,
UPON WHICH MR. THOMAS SCOTT PROPOSED TO FOUND A TALE OF FICTION.
It is well known in the South that there is little or no boxing at the
Scottish schools. About forty or fifty years ago, however, a far more
dangerous mode of fighting, in parties or factions, was permitted in
the streets of Edinburgh, to the great disgrace of the police, and
danger of the parties concerned. These parties were generally formed
from the quarters of the town in which the combatants resided, those of
a particular square or district fighting against those of an adjoining
one. Hence it happened that the children of the higher classes were
often pitted against those of the lower, each taking their side
according to the residence of their friends. So far as I recollect,
however, it was unmingled either with feelings of democracy or
aristocracy, or, indeed, with malice or ill-will of any kind towards
the opposite party. In fact, it was only a rough mode of play. Such
contests were, however, maintained with great vigour with stones and
sticks and fisticuffs, when one party dared to charge, and the other
stood their ground. Of course mischief sometimes happened; boys are
said to have been killed at these “bickers,” as they were called, and
serious accidents certainly took place, as many contemporaries can bear
witness.
The Author’s father residing in George Square, in the southern side of
Edinburgh, the boys belonging to that family, with others in the
square, were arranged into a sort of company, to which a lady of
distinction presented a handsome set of colours. Now this company, or
regiment, as a matter of course, was engaged in weekly warfare with the
boys inhabiting the Crosscauseway, Bristo Street, the Potter Row,—in
short, the neighbouring suburbs. These last were chiefly of the lower
rank, but hardy loons, who threw stones to a hair’s-breadth, and were
very rugged antagonists at close quarters. The skirmish sometimes
lasted for a whole evening, until one party or the other was
victorious, when, if ours were successful, we drove the enemy to their
quarters, and were usually chased back by the reinforcement of bigger
lads who came to their assistance. If, on the contrary, we were
pursued, as was often the case, into the precincts of our square, we
were in our turn supported by our elder brothers, domestic servants,
and similar auxiliaries.
It followed, from our frequent opposition to each other, that though
not knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet well acquainted with
their appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them.
One very active and spirited boy might be considered as the principal
leader in the cohort of the suburbs. He was, I suppose, thirteen or
fourteen years old, finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair,
the very picture of a youthful Goth. This lad was always first in the
charge, and last in the retreat,—the Achilles, at once, and Ajax of the
Crosscauseway. He was too formidable to us not to have a cognomen, and,
like that of a knight of old, it was taken from the most remarkable
part of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which was
the principal part of his clothing; for, like Pentapolin, according to
Don Quixote’s account, Green-Breeks, as we called him, always entered
the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet.
It fell that once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest,
this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge so rapid and furious that
all fled before him. He was several paces before his comrades, and had
actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of our
party, whom some misjudging friend had intrusted with a _couteau de
chasse_, or hanger, inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corps
worthy of Major Sturgeon himself, struck poor Green-Breeks over the
head with strength sufficient to cut him down. When this was seen, the
casualty was so far beyond what had ever taken place before that both
parties fled different ways, leaving poor Green-Breeks, with his bright
hair plentifully dabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who
(honest man) took care not to know who had done the mischief. The
bloody hanger was flung into one of the Meadow ditches, and solemn
secrecy was sworn on all hands; but the remorse and terror of the actor
were beyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadful
character. The wounded hero was for a few days in the Infirmary, the
case being only a trifling one. But though inquiry was strongly pressed
on him, no argument could make him indicate the person from whom he had
received the wound, though he must have been perfectly well known to
him. When he recovered, and was dismissed, the author and his brothers
opened a communication with him, through the medium of a popular
gingerbread baker, of whom both parties were customers, in order to
tender a subsidy in name of smart-money. The sum would excite ridicule
were I to name it; but sure I am that the pockets of the noted
Green-Breeks never held as much money of his own. He declined the
remittance, saying that he would not sell his blood, but at the same
time reprobated the idea of being an informer, which, he said, was
“clam,” i.e., base or mean. With much urgency, he accepted a pound of
snuff for the use of some old woman—aunt, grandmother, or the like—with
whom he lived. We did not become friends, for the _bickers_ were more
agreeable to both parties than any more pacific amusement; but we
conducted them ever after under mutual assurances of the highest
consideration for each other.
Such was the hero whom Mr. Thomas Scott proposed to carry to Canada and
involve in adventures with the natives and colonists of that country.
Perhaps the youthful generosity of the lad will not seem so great in
the eyes of others as to those whom it was the means of screening from
severe rebuke and punishment. But it seemed, to those concerned, to
argue a nobleness of sentiment far beyond the pitch of most minds; and
however obscurely the lad, who showed such a frame of noble spirit, may
have lived or died, I cannot help being of opinion, that if fortune had
placed him in circumstances calling for gallantry or generosity, the
man would have fulfilled the promises of the boy. Long afterwards, when
the story was told to my father, he censured us severely for not
telling the truth at the time, that he might have attempted to be of
use to the young man in entering on life. But our alarms for the
consequences of the drawn sword, and the wound inflicted with such a
weapon, were far too predominant at the time for such a pitch of
generosity.
Perhaps I ought not to have inserted this schoolboy tale; but besides
the strong impression made by the incident at the time, the whole
accompaniments of the story are matters to me of solemn and sad
recollection. Of all the little band who were concerned in those
juvenile sports or brawls, I can scarce recollect a single survivor.
Some left the ranks of mimic war to die in the active service of their
country. Many sought distant lands, to return no more. Others,
dispersed in different paths of life, “my dim eyes now seek for in
vain.” Of five brothers, all healthy and promising in a degree far
beyond one whose infancy was visited by personal infirmity, and whose
health after this period seemed long very precarious, I am,
nevertheless, the only survivor. The best loved, and the best deserving
to be loved, who had destined this incident to be the foundation of
literary composition, died “before his day,” in a distant and foreign
land; and trifles assume an importance not their own, when connected
with those who have been loved and lost.
WAVERLEY;
OR,
’T IS SIXTY YEARS SINCE.
“Under which King, Bezonian? Speak, or die!”
Henry IV., Part II.
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO WAVERLEY.
“What is the value of a reputation that probably will not last above
one or two generations?” Sir Walter Scott once asked Ballantyne. Two
generations, according to the usual reckoning, have passed; “’T is
Sixty Years since” the “wondrous Potentate” of Wordsworth’s sonnet
died, yet the reputation on which he set so little store survives. A
constant tide of new editions of his novels flows from the press; his
plots give materials for operas and plays; he has been criticised,
praised, condemned: but his romances endure amid the changes of taste,
remaining the delight of mankind, while new schools and little masters
of fiction come and go.
Scott himself believed that even great works usually suffer periods of
temporary occultation. His own, no doubt, have not always been in their
primitive vogue. Even at first, English readers complained of the
difficulty caused by his Scotch, and now many make his “dialect” an
excuse for not reading books which their taste, debauched by third-rate
fiction, is incapable of enjoying. But Scott has never disappeared in
one of those irregular changes of public opinion remarked on by his
friend Lady Louisa Stuart. In 1821 she informed him that she had tried
the experiment of reading Mackenzie’s “Man of Feeling” aloud: “Nobody
cried, and at some of the touches I used to think so exquisite, they
laughed.”[*] His correspondent requested Scott to write something on
such variations of taste, which actually seem to be in the air and
epidemic, for they affect, as she remarked, young people who have not
heard the criticisms of their elders.[**] Thus Rousseau’s “Nouvelle
Héloïse,” once so fascinating to girls, and reputed so dangerous, had
become tedious to the young, Lady Louisa says, even in 1821. But to the
young, if they have any fancy and intelligence, Scott is not tedious
even now; and probably his most devoted readers are boys, girls, and
men of matured appreciation and considerable knowledge of literature.
The unformed and the cultivated tastes are still at one about Scott. He
holds us yet with his unpremeditated art, his natural qualities of
friendliness, of humour, of sympathy. Even the carelessness with which
his earliest and his kindest critics—Ellis, Erskine, and Lady Louisa
Stuart—reproached him has not succeeded in killing his work and
diminishing his renown.
[* Abbotsford Manuscripts.]
[** See Scott’s reply, with the anecdote about Mrs. Aphra Behn’s
novels, Lockhart, vi. 406 (edition of 1839).]
It is style, as critics remind us, it is perfection of form, no doubt,
that secure the permanence of literature; but Scott did not overstate
his own defects when he wrote in his Journal (April 22, 1826): “A
solecism in point of composition, like a Scotch word, is indifferent to
me. I never learned grammar. . . . I believe the bailiff in ‘The
Goodnatured Man’ is not far wrong when he says: ‘One man has one way of
expressing himself, and another another; and that is all the difference
between them.’” The difference between Scott and Thackeray or Flaubert
among good writers, and a crowd of self-conscious and mannered
“stylists” among writers not so very good, is essential. About
Shakspeare it was said that he “never blotted a line.” The observation
is almost literally true about Sir Walter. The pages of his manuscript
novels show scarcely a retouch or an erasure, whether in the “Waverley”
fragment of 1805 or the unpublished “Siege of Malta” of 1832.[*] The
handwriting becomes closer and smaller; from thirty-eight lines to the
page in “Waverley,” he advances to between fifty and sixty in
“Ivanhoe.” The few alterations are usually additions. For example, a
fresh pedantry of the Baron of Bradwardine’s is occasionally set down
on the opposite page. Nothing can be less like the method of Flaubert
or the method of Mr. Ruskin, who tells us that “a sentence of ‘Modern
Painters’ was often written four or five times over in my own hand, and
tried in every word for perhaps an hour,—perhaps a forenoon,—before it
was passed for the printer.” Each writer has his method; Scott was no
stippler or niggler, but, as we shall see later, he often altered much
in his proof-sheets.[**] As long as he was understood, he was almost
reckless of well-constructed sentences, of the one best word for his
meaning, of rounded periods. This indifference is not to be praised,
but it is only a proof of his greatness that his style, never
distinguished, and often lax, has not impaired the vitality of his
prose. The heart which beats in his works, the knowledge of human
nature, the dramatic vigour of his character, the nobility of his whole
being win the day against the looseness of his manner, the negligence
of his composition, against the haste of fatigue which set him, as Lady
Louisa Stuart often told him, on “huddling up a conclusion anyhow, and
so kicking the book out of his way.” In this matter of _dénouements_ he
certainly was no more careful than Shakspeare or Molière.
[* A history of Scott’s Manuscripts, with good fac-similes, will be
found in the Catalogue of the Scott Exhibition, Edinburgh, 1872.]
[** While speaking of correction, it may be noted that Scott, in his
“Advertisement” prefixed to the issue of 1829, speaks of changes made
in that collected edition. In “Waverley” these emendations are very
rare, and are unimportant. A few _callidæ juncturæ_ are added, a very
few lines are deleted. The postscript of the first edition did not
contain the anecdote about the hiding-place of the manuscript among the
fishing tackle. The first line of Flora Macdonald’s battle-song
(chapter xxii.) originally ran, “Mist darkens the mountain, night
darkens the vale,” in place of “There is mist on the mountain and mist
on the vale.” For the rest, as Scott says, “where the tree falls it
must lie.”]
The permanence of Sir Walter’s romances is proved, as we said, by their
survival among all the changes of fashion in the art of fiction. When
he took up his pen to begin “Waverley,” fiction had not absorbed, as it
does to-day, almost all the best imaginative energy of English or
foreign writers. Now we hear of “art” on every side, and every novelist
must give the world his opinion about schools and methods. Scott, on
the other hand, lived in the greatest poetical age since that of
Elizabeth. Poetry or the drama (in which, to be sure, few succeeded)
occupied Wordsworth, Byron, Coleridge, Shelley, Crabbe, Campbell, and
Keats. Then, as Joanna Baillie hyperbolically declared, “The Scotch
novels put poetry out of fashion.”[*] Till they appeared, novels seem
to have been left to readers like the plaintive lady’s-maid whom Scott
met at Dalkeith, when he beheld “the fair one descend from the carriage
with three half-bound volumes of a novel in her hand.” Mr. Morritt,
writing to Scott in March, 1815, hopes he will “restore pure narrative
to the dignity from which it gradually slipped before it dwindled into
a manufactory for the circulating library.” “Waverley,” he asserted,
“would prevail over people otherwise averse to blue-backed volumes.”
Thus it was an unconsidered art which Scott took up and revived. Half a
century had passed since Fielding gave us in “Tom Jones” his own and
very different picture of life in the “’forty-five,”—of life with all
the romance of the “Race to Derby” cut down to a sentence or two. Since
the age of the great English novelists, Richardson and Fielding and
Miss Burney, the art of fiction had been spasmodically alive in the
hands of Mrs. Radcliffe, had been sentimental with Henry Mackenzie, and
now was all but moribund, save for the humorous Irish sketches of Miss
Edgeworth. As Scott always insisted, it was mainly “the extended and
well-merited fame of Miss Edgeworth” which induced him to try his hand
on a novel containing pictures of Scottish life and character. Nothing
was more remarkable in his own novels than the blending of close and
humorous observation of common life with pleasure in adventurous
narratives about “what is not so, and was not so, and Heaven forbid
that it ever should be so,” as the girl says in the nursery tale.
Through his whole life he remained the dreamer of dreams and teller of
wild legends, who had held the lads of the High School entranced round
Luckie Brown’s fireside, and had fleeted the summer days in interchange
of romances with a schoolboy friend, Mr. Irving, among the hills that
girdle Edinburgh. He ever had a passion for “knights and ladies and
dragons and giants,” and “God only knows,” he says, “how delighted I
was to find myself in such society.” But with all this delight, his
imagination had other pleasures than the fantastic: the humours and
passions of ordinary existence were as clearly visible to him as the
battles, the castles, and the giants. True, he was more fastidious in
his choice of novels of real life than in his romantic reading. “The
whole Jemmy and Jessamy tribe I abhorred,” he said; “and it required
the art of Burney or the feeling of Mackenzie to fix my attention upon
a domestic tale.” But when the domestic tale was good and true, no man
appreciated it more than he. None has more vigorously applauded Miss
Austen than Scott, and it was thus that as the “Author of ‘Waverley’”
he addressed Miss Edgeworth, through James Ballantyne: “If I could but
hit Miss Edgeworth’s wonderful power of vivifying all her persons, and
making them live as _beings_ in your mind, I should not be afraid.”
“Often,” Ballantyne goes on, “has the Author of ‘Waverley’ used such
language to me; and I knew that I gratified him most when I could say,
‘Positively, this _is_ equal to Miss Edgeworth.’”
[* Abbotsford Manuscripts. Hogg averred that nobody either read or
wrote poetry after Sir Walter took to prose.]
Thus Scott’s own taste was catholic: and in this he was particularly
unlike the modern novelists, who proclaim, from both sides of the
Atlantic, that only in their own methods, and in sharing their own
exclusive tastes, is literary salvation. The prince of Romance was no
one-sided _romanticiste;_ his ear was open to all fiction good in its
kind. His generosity made him think Miss Edgeworth’s persons more alive
than his own. To his own romances he preferred Mrs. Shelley’s
“Frankenstein.”[*] As a critic, of course, he was mistaken; but his was
the generous error of the heart, and it is the heart in Walter Scott,
even more than the brain, that lends its own vitality to his creations.
Equipped as he was with a taste truly catholic, capable in old age of
admiring “Pelham,” he had the power to do what he calls “the big
bow-wow strain;” yet he was not, as in his modesty he supposed, denied
“the exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and
characters interesting, from the truth of the description and the
sentiment.”[**]
[* Scott reviewed “Frankenstein” in 1818. Mr. Shelley had sent it with
a brief note, in which he said that it was the work of a friend, and
that he had only seen it through the press. Sir Walter passed the book
on to Mr. Morritt, who, in reply, gave Scott a brief and not very
accurate history of Shelley. Sir Walter then wrote a most favourable
review of “Frankenstein” in “Blackwood’s Magazine,” observing that it
was attributed to Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley, a son-in-law of Mr. Godwin.
Mrs. Shelley presently wrote thanking him for the review, and assuring
him that it was her own work. Scott had apparently taken Shelley’s
disclaimer as an innocent evasion; it was an age of literary
superscheries.—_Abbotsford Manuscripts_.]
[** Journal, March 14, 1826.]
The letter of Rose Bradwardine to Waverley is alone enough to disprove
Scott’s disparagement of himself, his belief that he had been denied
exquisiteness of touch. Nothing human is more delicate, nothing should
be more delicately handled, than the first love of a girl. What the
“analytical” modern novelist would pass over and dissect and place
beneath his microscope till a student of any manliness blushes with
shame and annoyance, Scott suffers Rose Bradwardine to reveal with a
sensitive shyness. But Scott, of course, had even less in common with
the peeper and botanizer on maidens’ hearts than with the wildest
romanticist. He considered that “a want of story is always fatal to a
book the first reading, and it is well if it gets a chance of a
second.” From him “Pride and Prejudice” got a chance of three readings
at least. This generous universality of taste, in addition to all his
other qualities of humour and poetry, enabled Scott to raise the novel
from its decadence, and to make the dry bones of history live again in
his tales. With Charles Edward at Holyrood, as Mr. Senior wrote in the
“Quarterly Review,” “we are in the lofty region of romance. In any
other hands than those of Sir Walter Scott, the language and conduct of
those great people would have been as dignified as their situations. We
should have heard nothing of the hero in his new costume ‘majoring
afore the muckle pier-glass,’ of his arrest by the host of the
Candlestick, of his examination by the well-powdered Major Melville, or
of his fears of being informed against by Mrs. Nosebag.” In short,
“while the leading persons and events are as remote from ordinary life
as the inventions of Scudéry, the picture of human nature is as
faithful as could have been given by Fielding or Le Sage.” Though this
criticism has not the advantage of being new, it is true; and when we
have added that Scott’s novels are the novels of the poet who, next to
Shakspeare, knew mankind most widely and well, we have the secret of
his triumph.
For the first time in literature, it was a poet who held the pen of the
romancer in prose. Fielding, Richardson, De Foe, Miss Burney, were none
of them made by the gods poetical. Scott himself, with his habitual
generosity, would have hailed his own predecessor in Mrs. Radcliffe.
“The praise may be claimed for Mrs. Radcliffe of having been the first
to introduce into her prose fictions a beautiful and fanciful tone of
natural description and impressive narrative, which had hitherto been
exclusively applied to poetry. . . . Mrs. Radcliffe has a title to be
considered the first poetess of romantic fiction.” When “Guy Mannering”
appeared, Wordsworth sneered at it as a work of the Radcliffe school.
The slight difference produced by the introduction of humour could
scarcely be visible to Wordsworth. But Scott would not have been hurt
by his judgment. He had the literary courage to recognize merit even
when obscured by extravagance, and to applaud that in which people of
culture could find neither excellence nor charm. Like Thackeray, he had
been thrilled by Vivaidi in the Inquisition, and he was not the man to
hide his gratitude because his author was now out of fashion.
Thus we see that Scott, when he began “Waverley” in 1805, brought to
his labour no hard-and-fast theory of the art of fiction, but a kindly
readiness to be pleased, and to find good in everything. He brought his
wide knowledge of contemporary Scottish life “from the peer to the
ploughman;” he brought his well-digested wealth of antiquarian lore,
and the poetic skill which had just been busied with the “Lay of the
Last Minstrel,” and was still to be occupied, ere he finished his
interrupted novel, with “Marmion,” “The Lady of the Lake,” “Rokeby,”
and “The Lord of the Isles.” The comparative failure of the last-named
no doubt strengthened his determination to try prose romance. He had
never cared much for his own poems, he says, Byron had outdone him in
popularity, and the Muse—“the Good Demon” who once deserted
Herrick—came now less eagerly to his call.
It is curiously difficult to disentangle the statements about the
composition of “Waverley.” Our first authority, of course, is Scott’s
own account, given in the General Preface to the Edition of 1829.
Lockhart, however, remarks on the haste with which Sir Walter wrote the
Introductions to the _magnum opus;_ and the lapse of fifteen years, the
effects of disease, and his habitual carelessness about his own works
and mode of working may certainly to some extent have clouded his
memory. “About the year 1805,” as he says, he “threw together about one
third part of the first volume of ‘Waverley.’” It was advertised to be
published, he goes on, by Ballantyne, with the second title, “’T is
Fifty Years since.” This, obviously, would have made 1755 the date of
the events, just as the title “’T is Sixty Years since” in 1814 brought
the date of the events to 1754. By inspecting the water-mark of the
paper Lockhart discovered that 1805 was the period in which the first
few chapters were composed; the rest of the paper was marked 1814.
Scott next observes that the unfavourable opinion of a critical friend
on the first seven chapters induced him to lay the manuscript aside.
Who was this friend? Lockhart thinks it was Erskine. It is certain,
from a letter of Ballantyne’s at Abbotsford,—a letter printed by
Lockhart, September 15, 1810,—that Ballantyne in 1810 saw at least the
earlier portions of “Waverley,” and it is clear enough that he had seen
none of it before. If any friend did read it in 1805, it cannot have
been Ballantyne, and may have been Erskine. But none of the paper bears
a water-mark between 1805 and 1813, so Scott must merely have taken it
up, in 1810, as it had been for five years. Now Scott says that the
success of “The Lady of the Lake,” with its Highland pictures, induced
him “to attempt something of the same sort in prose.” This, as Lockhart
notes, cannot refer to 1805, as the “Lady of the Lake” did not appear
till 1810. But the good fortune of the “Lady” may very well have
induced him in 1810 to reconsider his Highland prose romance. In 1808,
as appears from an undated letter to Surtees of Mainsforth (Abbotsford
Manuscripts), he was contemplating a poem on “that wandering knight so
fair,” Charles Edward, and on the adventures of his flight, on Lochiel,
Flora Macdonald, the Kennedys, and the rest. Earlier still, on June 9,
1806, Scott wrote to Lady Abercorn that he had “a great work in
contemplation, a Highland romance of love, magic, and war.” “The Lady
of the Lake” took the place of that poem in his “century of
inventions,” and, stimulated by the popularity of his Highland romance
in verse, he disinterred the last seven chapters of “Waverley” from
their five years of repose. Very probably, as he himself hints, the
exercise of fitting a conclusion to Strutt’s “Queenhoo Hall” may have
helped to bring his fancy back to his own half-forgotten story of
“Waverley.” In 1811 Scott went to Abbotsford, and there, as he tells
us, he lost sight of his “Waverley” fragment.[*] Often looked for, it
was never found, till the accident of a search for fishing-tackle led
him to discover it in the drawer of an old bureau in a lumber-garret.
This cabinet afterwards came into the possession of Mr. William
Laidlaw, Scott’s friend and amanuensis, and it is still, the Editor
understands, in the hands of Miss Laidlaw. The fishing-tackle, Miss
Laidlaw tells the Editor (mainly red hackles, tied on hair, not gut),
still occupies the drawer, except a few flies which were given, as
relics, to the late Mr. Thomas Tod Stoddart. In 1813, then, volume i.
of “Waverley” was finished. Then Scott undertook some articles for
Constable, and laid the novel aside. The printing, at last, must have
been very speedy. Dining in Edinburgh, in June, 1814, Lockhart saw “the
hand of Walter Scott” busy at its task. “Page after page is finished,
and thrown on the heap of manuscripts, and still it goes on
unwearied.”[**] The book was published on July 7, the press hardly
keeping up with the activity of the author. Scott had written “two
volumes in three summer weeks” and the printers had not shown less
activity, while binders and stitchers must have worked extra tides.
[* Mr. R. P. Gillies says that in 1811 “Waverley, in three volumes, had
been announced by John Ballantyne, and a sheet or two set in types”
(Recollections of Sir Walter Scott, p 204).]
[** Lockhart, iv, 172.]
“Waverley” was published without the Author’s name. Scott’s reasons for
being anonymous have been stated by himself. “It was his humour,”—that
is the best of the reasons, and the secret gave him a great deal of
amusement. The Ballantynes, of course, knew it from the first; so did
Mr. Morritt, Lady Louisa Stuart, and Lord and Lady Montague, and others
were gradually admitted. In an undated letter, probably of November,
1816, Scott says to the Marchioness of Abercorn, a most intimate
friend: “I cannot even conjecture whom you mean by Mr. Mackenzie as
author of ‘The Antiquary.’ I should think my excellent old friend Mr.
Harry Mackenzie [author of the ‘Man of Feeling,’ etc.] was too much
advanced in years and plunged in business to amuse himself by writing
novels; and besides, the style in no degree resembles his.” (Lady
Abercorn meant “Young Harry Mackenzie,” not the patriarch.) “I am told
one of the English reviews gives these works by name and upon alleged
authority to George Forbes, Sir William’s brother; so they take them
off my hands, I don’t care who they turn to, for I am really tired of
an imputation which I am under the necessity of confuting at every
corner. Tom will soon be home from Canada, as the death of my elder
brother has left him a little money. He may answer for himself, but I
hardly suspect him, unless much changed, to be possessed of the
perseverance necessary to write nine volumes.” Scott elsewhere rather
encouraged the notion that his brother Thomas was the author, and tried
to make him exert himself and enter the field as a rival. Gossip also
assigned the “Scotch novels” to Jeffrey, to Mrs. Thomas Scott, aided by
her husband and Sir Walter, to a Dr. Greenfield, a clergyman, and to
many others. Sir Walter humorously suggested George Cranstoun as the
real offender. After the secret was publicly confessed, Lady Louisa
Stuart reminded Scott of all the amusement it had given them. “Old
Mortality” had been pronounced “too good” for Scott, and free from his
“wearisome descriptions of scenery.” Clever people had detected several
separate hands in “Old Mortality,” as in the Iliad. All this was
diverting. Moreover, Scott was in some degree protected from the bores
who pester a successful author. He could deny the facts very stoutly,
though always, as he insists, with the reservation implied in alleging
that, if he had been the author, he would still have declined to
confess. In the notes to later novels we shall see some of his “great
denials.”
The reception of “Waverley” was enthusiastic. Large editions were sold
in Edinburgh, and when Scott returned from his cruise in the northern
islands he found society ringing with his unacknowledged triumph.
Byron, especially, proclaimed his pleasure in “Waverley.” It may be
curious to recall some of the published reviews of the moment. Probably
no author ever lived so indifferent to published criticism as Scott.
Miss Edgeworth, in one of her letters, reminds him how they had both
agreed that writers who cared for the dignity and serenity of their
characters should abstain from “that authors’ bane-stuff.” “As to the
herd of critics,” Scott wrote to Miss Seward, after publishing “The
Lay,” “many of those gentlemen appear to me to be a set of tinkers,
who, unable to _make_ pots and pans, set up for _menders_ of them.” It
is probable, therefore, that he was quite unconcerned about the few
remarks which Mr. Gifford, in the “Quarterly Review” (vol. xl., 1814),
interspersed among a multitude of extracts, in a notice of “Waverley”
manufactured with scissors and paste. The “Quarterly” recognized “a
Scotch Castle Rackrent,” but in “a much higher strain.” The tale was
admitted to possess all the accuracy of history, and all the vivacity
of romance. Scott’s second novel, “Guy Mannering,” was attacked with
some viciousness in the periodical of which he was practically the
founder, and already the critic was anxious to repeat what Scott,
talking of Pope’s censors, calls “the cuckoo cry of ‘written out’!” The
notice of “Waverley” in the “Edinburgh Review” by Mr. Jeffrey was not
so slight and so unworthy of the topic. The novel was declared, and not
unjustly, to be “very hastily, and in many places very unskilfully,
written.” The Scotch was decried as “unintelligible” dialect by the
very reviewer who had accused “Marmion” of not being Scotch enough. But
the “Edinburgh” applauded “the extraordinary fidelity and felicity”
with which all the inferior agents in the story are represented.
“Fastidious readers” might find Callum Beg and Mrs. Nosebag and the
Cumberland peasants “coarse and disgusting,” said the reviewer, who
must have had in his imagination readers extremely superfine. He
objected to the earlier chapters as uninteresting, and—with justice—to
the passages where the author speaks in “the smart and flippant style
of modern makers of paragraphs.” “These form a strange and humiliating
contrast with the force and freedom of his manner when engaged in those
dramatic and picturesque representations to which his genius so
decidedly inclines.” He spoke severely of the places where Scott
explains the circumstances of Waverley’s adventures before he reaches
Edinburgh; and Scott himself, in his essay on Mrs. Radcliffe, regrets
that explanatory chapters had ever been invented. The reviewer broadly
hints his belief that Scott is the author; and on the whole, except for
a cautious lack of enthusiasm, the notice is fair and kindly. The
“Monthly Review” differed not much from the Blue and Yellow (the
“Edinburgh Review”).
“It is not one of the least merits of this very uncommon production
that all the subordinate characters are touched with the same
discriminating force which so strongly marks their principals; and that
in this manner almost every variety of station and interest, such as
existed at the period under review, is successively brought before the
mind of the reader in colours vivid as the original.
“A few oversights, we think, we have detected in the conduct of the
story which ought not to remain unnoticed. For example, the age of
Stanley and Lady Emily does not seem well to accord with the
circumstances of their union, as related in the commencement of the
work; and we are not quite satisfied that Edward should have been
so easily reconciled to the barbarous and stubborn prejudices which
precluded even the office of intercession for his gallant friend
and companion-in-arms.
“The pieces of poetry which are not very profusely scattered
through these volumes can scarcely fail to be ascribed to Mr.
Scott, whatever may be judged of the body of the work. In point of
comparative merit, we should class them neither with the highest
nor with the meanest effusions of his lyric minstrelsy.”
Lord Byron’s “Grandmother’s Review, the British,” was also friendly and
sagacious, in its elderly way.
“We request permission, therefore, to introduce ‘Waverley,’ a
publication which has already excited considerable interest in the
sister kingdom, to the literary world on this side the Tweed.
“A very short time has elapsed since this publication made its
appearance in Edinburgh, and though it came into the world in the
modest garb of anonymous obscurity, the Northern _literati_ are
unanimous, we understand, in ascribing part of it, at least, to the
pen of W. Scott.
“We are unwilling to consider this publication in the light of a
common novel whose fate it is to be devoured with rapidity for a
day, and afterwards forgotten forever, but as a vehicle of curious
and accurate information upon a subject which must at all times
demand our attention,—the history and manners of a very large and
renowned portion of the inhabitants of these islands. We would
recommend this tale as faithfully embodying the lives, the manners,
and the opinions of this departed race, and as affording those
features of ancient days which no man probably, besides its author,
has had the means to collect, the desire to preserve, or the power
to portray.
“Although there are characters sufficient to awaken the attention
and to diversify the scenes, yet they are not in sufficient number
to perplex the memory or to confuse the incidents. Their spirit is
well kept up till the very last, and they relieve one another with
so much art that the reader will not find himself wearied even with
the pedantic jargon of the old Baron of Bradwardine.
“Of Waverley himself we shall say but little, as his character is
far too common to need a comment; we can only say that his
wanderings are not gratuitous, nor is he wavering and indecisive
only because the author chooses to make him so. Every feature in
his character is formed by education, and it is to this first
source that we are constantly referred for a just and sufficient
cause of all the wandering passions as they arise in his mind.
“The secondary personages are drawn with much spirit and fidelity,
and with a very striking knowledge of the peculiarities of the
Scotch temper and disposition. The incidents are all founded on
fact, and the historical parts are related with much accuracy. The
livelier scenes which are displayed are of the most amusing
species, because they flow so naturally from the personages before
us that the characters, not the author, appear to speak. A strong
vein of very original humour marks the whole: in most instances it
is indeed of a local and particular nature, but in many cases it
assumes a more general appearance.
“Of the more serious portions we can speak with unqualified
approbation; the very few pathetic scenes which occur are short,
dignifed, and affecting. The love-scenes are sufficiently
contracted to produce that very uncommon sensation in the mind,—a
wish that they were longer.
“The religious opinions expressed in the course of the tale are
few, but of those few we fully approve.
“The humorous and happy adaptation of legal terms shows no moderate
acquaintance with the arcana of the law, and a perpetual allusion
to the English and Latin classics no common share of scholarship
and taste.”
The “Scots Magazine” illustrated the admirable unanimity of reviewers
when they _are_ unanimous. The “Anti-jacobin” objected that no
Château-Margaux sent in the wood from Bordeaux to Dundee in 1713 could
have been drinkable in 1745. “Claret two-and-thirty years old! It
almost gives us the gripes to think of it.” Indeed, Sir Walter, as
Lochhart assures us, was so far from being a judge of claret that he
could not tell when it was “corked.” One or two points equally
important amused the reviewer, who, like most of his class, detected
the hand of Scott. There was hardly a possibility, as Mr. Morritt told
Sir Walter, “that the poems in ‘Waverley’ could fail to suggest their
author. No man who ever heard you tell a story over a table but must
recognize you at once.” To his praise of “Waverley” Mr. Morritt hardly
added any adverse criticism, beyond doubting the merit of the early
chapters, and denouncing the word “sombre” as one which had lately
“kept bad company among the slipshod English of the sentimental
school.” Scott, in defence, informed Mr. Morritt that he had “left the
story to flag in the first volume on purpose. . . . I wished (with what
success Heaven knows) to avoid the ordinary error of novelists, whose
first volume is usually their best.”
It must be admitted that if Scott wished to make “Waverley” “flag” in
the beginning, he succeeded extremely well,—too well for many modern
readers, accustomed to a leap into the midst of the story. “These
introductory chapters,” he observes in a note on the fifth of them,
“have been a good deal censured as tedious and unnecessary; yet there
are circumstances recorded in them which the Author has not been able
to persuade himself to retract or cancel.” These “circumstances” are
probably the studies of Waverley, his romantic readings, which are
really autobiographic. Scott was, apparently, seriously of opinion that
the “mental discipline” of a proper classical education would have been
better for himself than his own delightfully desultory studies.
Ballantyne could not see what Waverley’s reading had to do with his
adventures and character. Scott persisted in being of another mind. He
himself, writing to Morritt, calls his hero “a sneaking piece of
imbecility;” but he probably started with loftier intentions of
“psychological analysis” than he fulfilled. He knew, and often said, in
private letters, as in published works, that he was no hand at a
respectable hero. Borderers, buccaneers, robbers, and humorsome people,
like Dugald Dalgetty and Bailie Nicol Jarvie and Macwheeble, whom he
said he preferred to any person in “Waverley,” were the characters he
delighted in. We may readily believe that Shakspeare too preferred
Jacques and the Fat Knight to Orlando or the favoured lover of Anne
Page. Your hero is a difficult person to make human,—unless, indeed, he
has the defects of Pendennis or Tom Jones. But it is likely enough that
the Waverley whom Scott had in his mind in 1805 was hardly the Waverley
of 1813. His early English chapters are much in the ordinary vein of
novels as they were then written; in those chapters come the “asides”
by the author which the “Edinburgh Review” condemned. But there remains
the kindly, honourable Sir Everard, while the calm atmosphere of
English meadows, and the plump charms of Miss Cecilia Stubbs, are
intended as foils to the hills of the North, the shy refinement of
Rose, and the heroic heart of Flora Mac-Ivor. Scott wished to show the
remote extremes of civilization and mental habit co-existing in the
same island of Scotland and England. Yet we regret such passages as
“craving pardon for my heroics, which I am unable in certain cases to
resist giving way to,” and so forth. Scott was no Thackeray, no
Fielding, and failed (chiefly in “Waverley”) when he attempted the mood
of banter, which one of his daughters, a lady “of Beatrice’s mind,”
“never got from me,” he observes.
In any serious attempt to criticise “Waverley” as a whole, it is not
easy to say whether we should try to put ourselves at the point of view
of its first readers, or whether we should look at it from the
vantage-ground of to-day. In 1814 the dead world of clannish loyalty
was fresh in many memories. Scott’s own mother had often spoken with a
person who had seen Cromwell enter Edinburgh after Dunbar. He himself
knew heroes of the Forty-five, and his friend Lady Louisa Stuart had
been well acquainted with Miss Walkinshaw, sister of the mistress of
Charles Edward. To his generation those things were personal memories,
which to us seem as distant as the reign of Men-ka-ra. They could not
but be “carried off their feet” by such pictures of a past still so
near them. Nor had they other great novelists to weaken the force of
Scott’s impressions. They had not to compare him with the melancholy
mirth of Thackeray, and the charm, the magic, of his style. Balzac was
of the future; of the future was the Scott of France,—the boyish, the
witty, the rapid, the brilliant, the inexhaustible Dumas. Scott’s
generation had no scruples about “realism,” listened to no sermons on
the glory of the commonplace; like Dr. Johnson, they admired a book
which “was amusing as a fairy-tale.” But we are overwhelmed with a
wealth of comparisons, and deafened by a multitude of homilies on
fiction, and distracted, like the people in the _Eyrbyggja_ Saga, by
the strange rising and setting, and the wild orbits of new “weirdmoons”
of romance. Before we can make up our minds on Scott, we have to
remember, or forget, the scornful patronage of one critic, the
over-subtlety and exaggerations of another, the more than papal
infallibility of a third. Perhaps the best critic would be an
intelligent school-boy, with a generous heart and an unspoiled
imagination. As his remarks are not accessible, as we must try to judge
“Waverley” like readers inured to much fiction and much criticism, we
must confess, no doubt, that the commencement has the faults which the
first reviewers detected, and which Scott acknowledged. He is decidedly
slow in getting to business, as they say; he began with more of
conscious ethical purpose than he went on, and his banter is poor. But
when once we enter the village of Tully-Veolan, the Magician finds his
wand. Each picture of place or person tells,—the old butler, the daft
Davie Gellatley, the solemn and chivalrous Baron, the pretty natural
girl, the various lairds, the factor Macwheeble,—all at once become
living people, and friends whom we can never lose. The creative fire of
Shakspeare lives again. The Highlanders—Evan Dhu, Donald Bean Lean, his
charming daughter, Callum Beg, and all the rest—are as natural as the
Lowlanders. In Fergus and Flora we feel, indeed, at first, that the
author has left his experience behind, and is giving us creatures of
fancy. But they too become human and natural,—Fergus in his moods of
anger, ambition, and final courageous resignation; Flora, in her grief.
As for Waverley, his creator was no doubt too hard on him. Among the
brave we hear that he was one of the bravest, though Scott always wrote
his battlepieces in a manner to suggest no discomfort, and does not
give us particular details of Waverley’s prowess. He has spirit enough,
this “sneaking piece of imbecility,” as he shows in his quarrel with
Fergus, on the march to Derby. Waverley, that creature of romance,
considered as a lover, is really not romantic enough. He loved Rose
because she loved him,—which is confessed to be unheroic behaviour.
Scott, in “Waverley,” certainly does not linger over love-scenes. With
Mr. Ruskin, we may say: “Let it not be thought for an instant that the
slight and sometimes scornful glance with which Scott passes over
scenes, which a novelist of our own day would have analyzed with the
airs of a philosopher, and painted with the curiosity of a gossip,
indicates any absence in his heart of sympathy with the great and
sacred elements of personal happiness.” But his mind entertained other
themes of interest, “loyalty, patriotism, piety.” On the other hand, it
is necessary to differ from Mr. Ruskin when he says that Scott “never
knew ‘l’amor che move ’l sol e l’altre stelle.’” He whose heart was
“broken for two years,” and retained the crack till his dying day, he
who, when old and tired, and near his death, was yet moved by the
memory of the name which thirty years before he had cut in Runic
characters on the turf at the Castle-gate of St. Andrew, knew love too
well to write of it much, or to speak of it at all. He had won his
ideal as alone the ideal can be won; he never lost her: she was with
him always, because she had been unattainable. “There are few,” he
says, “who have not, at one period of life, broken ties of love and
friendship, secret disappointments of the heart, to mourn over,—and we
know no book which recalls the memory of them more severely than ‘Julia
de Roubigné.’” He could not be very eager to recall them, he who had so
bitterly endured them, and because he had known and always knew “l’amor
che move ’l sol e l’altre stelle,” a seal was on his lips, a silence
broken only by a caress of Di Vernon’s.[*]
[* In a letter to Lady Abercorn, written when he was busy with the
“Lady of the Lake,” Scott complained that he could not draw a lover, in
spite of his own experience.]
This apology we may make, if an apology be needed, for what modern
readers may think the meagreness of the love-passages in Scott. He does
not deal in embraces and effusions, his taste is too manly; he does not
dwell much on Love, because, like the shepherd in Theocritus, he has
found him an inhabitant of the rocks. Moreover, when Scott began
novel-writing, he was as old as Thackeray when Thackeray said that
while at work on a love-scene he blushed so that you would think he was
going into an apoplexy. “Waverley” stands by its pictures of manners,
of character, by its humour and its tenderness, by its manly “criticism
of life,” by its touches of poetry, so various, so inspired, as in
Davie Gellatley with his songs, and Charles Edward in the gallant hour
of Holyrood, and Flora with her high, selfless hopes and broken heart,
and the beloved Baron, bearing his lot “with a good-humoured though
serious composure.” “To be sure, we may say with Virgilius Maro,
‘Fuimus Troes’—and there’s the end of an auld sang. But houses and
families and men have a’ stood lang eneugh when they have stood till
they fall with honour.”
“Waverley” ends like a fairy-tale, while real life ever ends like a
Northern saga. But among the good things that make life bearable, such
fairy-tales are not the least precious, and not the least enduring.
INTRODUCTION
The plan of this edition leads me to insert in this place some account
of the incidents on which the Novel of Waverley is founded. They have
been already given to the public by my late lamented friend, William
Erskine, Esq. (afterwards Lord Kinneder), when reviewing the Tales of
My Landlord for the Quarterly Review in 1817. The particulars were
derived by the critic from the Author’s information. Afterwards they
were published in the preface to the “Chronicles of the Canongate”.
They are now inserted in their proper place.
The mutual protection afforded by Waverley and Talbot to each other,
upon which the whole plot depends, is founded upon one of those
anecdotes which soften the features even of civil war; and, as it is
equally honourable to the memory of both parties, we have no hesitation
to give their names at length. When the Highlanders, on the morning of
the battle of Preston, 1745, made their memorable attack on Sir John
Cope’s army, a battery of four field-pieces was stormed and carried by
the Camerons and the Stewarts of Appine. The late Alexander Stewart of
Invernahylewas one of the foremost in the charge, and observing an
officer of the King’s forces, who, scorning to join the flight of all
around, remained with his sword in his hand, as if determined to the
very last to defend the post assigned to him, the Highland gentleman
commanded him to surrender, and received for reply a thrust, which he
caught in his target. The officer was now defenceless, and the
battle-axe of a gigantic Highlander (the miller of Invernahyle’s mill)
was uplifted to dash his brains out, when Mr. Stewart with difficulty
prevailed on him to yield. He took charge of his enemy’s property,
protected his person, and finally obtained him liberty on his parole.
The officer proved to be Colonel Whitefoord, an Ayrshire gentleman of
high character and influence, and warmly attached to the House of
Hanover; yet such was the confidence existing between these two
honourable men, though of different political principles, that, while
the civil war was raging, and straggling officers from the Highland
army were executed without mercy, Invernahyle hesitated not to pay his
late captive a visit, as he returned to the Highlands to raise fresh
recruits, on which occasion he spent a day or two in Ayrshire among
Colonel Whitefoord’s Whig friends, as pleasantly and as good-humouredly
as if all had been at peace around him.
After the battle of Culloden had ruined the hopes of Charles Edward and
dispersed his proscribed adherents, it was Colonel Whitefoord’s turn to
strain every nerve to obtain Mr. Stewart’s pardon. He went to the Lord
Justice Clerk to the Lord Advocate, and to all the officers of state,
and each application was answered by the production of a list in which
Invernahyle (as the good old gentleman was wont to express it) appeared
“marked with the sign of the beast!” as a subject unfit for favour or
pardon.
At length Colonel Whitefoord applied to the Duke of Cumberland in
person. From him, also, he received a positive refusal. He then limited
his request, for the present, to a protection for Stewart’s house,
wife, children, and property. This was also refused by the Duke; on
which Colonel Whitefoord, taking his commission from his bosom, laid it
on the table before his Royal Highness with much emotion, and asked
permission to retire from the service of a sovereign who did not know
how to spare a vanquished enemy. The Duke was struck, and even
affected. He bade the Colonel take up his commission, and granted the
protection he required. It was issued just in time to save the house,
corn, and cattle at Invernahyle from the troops, who were engaged in
laying waste what it was the fashion to call “the country of the
enemy.” A small encampment of soldiers was formed on Invernahyle’s
property, which they spared while plundering the country around, and
searching in every direction for the leaders of the insurrection, and
for Stewart in particular. He was much nearer them than they suspected;
for, hidden in a cave (like the Baron of Bradwardine), he lay for many
days so near the English sentinels that he could hear their muster-roll
called. His food was brought to him by one of his daughters, a child of
eight years old, whom Mrs. Stewart was under the necessity of
entrusting with this commission; for her own motions, and those of all
her elder inmates, were closely watched. With ingenuity beyond her
years, the child used to stray about among the soldiers, who were
rather kind to her, and thus seize the moment when she was unobserved
and steal into the thicket, when she deposited whatever small store of
provisions she had in charge at some marked spot, where her father
might find it. Invernahyle supported life for several weeks by means of
these precarious supplies; and, as he had been wounded in the battle of
Culloden, the hardships which he endured were aggravated by great
bodily pain. After the soldiers had removed their quarters he had
another remarkable escape.
As he now ventured to his own house at night and left it in the
morning, he was espied during the dawn by a party of the enemy, who
fired at and pursued him. The fugitive being fortunate enough to escape
their search, they returned to the house and charged the family with
harbouring one of the proscribed traitors. An old woman had presence of
mind enough to maintain that the man they had seen was the shepherd.
“Why did he not stop when we called to him?” said the soldier. “He is
as deaf, poor man, as a peat-stack,” answered the ready-witted
domestic. “Let him be sent for directly.” The real shepherd accordingly
was brought from the hill, and, as there was time to tutor him by the
way, he was as deaf when he made his appearance as was necessary to
sustain his character. Invernahyle was afterwards pardoned under the
Act of Indemnity.
The Author knew him well, and has often heard these circumstances from
his own mouth. He was a noble specimen of the old Highlander, far
descended, gallant, courteous, and brave, even to chivalry. He had been
_out_, I believe, in 1715 and 1745, was an active partaker in all the
stirring scenes which passed in the Highlands betwixt these memorable
eras; and, I have heard, was remarkable, among other exploits, for
having fought a duel with the broadsword with the celebrated Rob Roy
MacGregor at the clachan of Balquidder.
Invernahyle chanced to be in Edinburgh when Paul Jones came into the
Firth of Forth, and though then an old man, I saw him in arms, and
heard him exult (to use his own words) in the prospect of “drawing his
claymore once more before he died.” In fact, on that memorable
occasion, when the capital of Scotland was menaced by three trifling
sloops or brigs, scarce fit to have sacked a fishing village, he was
the only man who seemed to propose a plan of resistance. He offered to
the magistrates, if broadswords and dirks could be obtained, to find as
many Highlanders among the lower classes as would cut off any boat’s
crew who might be sent into a town full of narrow and winding passages,
in which they were like to disperse in quest of plunder. I know not if
his plan was attended to, I rather think it seemed too hazardous to the
constituted authorities, who might not, even at that time, desire to
see arms in Highland hands. A steady and powerful west wind settled the
matter by sweeping Paul Jones and his vessels out of the Firth.
If there is something degrading in this recollection, it is not
unpleasant to compare it with those of the last war, when Edinburgh,
besides regular forces and militia, furnished a volunteer brigade of
cavalry, infantry, and artillery to the amount of six thousand men and
upwards, which was in readiness to meet and repel a force of a far more
formidable description than was commanded by the adventurous American.
Time and circumstances change the character of nations and the fate of
cities; and it is some pride to a Scotchman to reflect that the
independent and manly character of a country, willing to entrust its
own protection to the arms of its children, after having been obscured
for half a century, has, during the course of his own lifetime,
recovered its lustre.
Other illustrations of “Waverley” will be found in the Notes at the
foot of the pages to which they belong. Those which appeared too long
to be so placed are given at the end of the chapters to which they
severally relate. [Footnote: In this edition at the end of the several
volumes.]
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
To this slight attempt at a sketch of ancient Scottish manners the
public have been more favourable than the Author durst have hoped or
expected. He has heard, with a mixture of satisfaction and humility,
his work ascribed to more than one respectable name. Considerations,
which seem weighty in his particular situation, prevent his releasing
those gentlemen from suspicion by placing his own name in the
title-page; so that, for the present at least, it must remain uncertain
whether WAVERLEY be the work of a poet or a critic, a lawyer or a
clergyman, or whether the writer, to use Mrs. Malaprop’s phrase, be,
“like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once.”
The Author, as he is unconscious of anything in the work itself (except
perhaps its frivolity) which prevents its finding an acknowledged
father, leaves it to the candour of the public to choose among the many
circumstances peculiar to different situations in life such as may
induce him to suppress his name on the present occasion. He may be a
writer new to publication, and unwilling to avow a character to which
he is unaccustomed; or he may be a hackneyed author, who is ashamed of
too frequent appearance, and employs this mystery, as the heroine of
the old comedy used her mask, to attract the attention of those to whom
her face had become too familiar. He may be a man of a grave
profession, to whom the reputation of being a novel-writer might be
prejudicial; or he may be a man of fashion, to whom writing of any kind
might appear pedantic. He may be too young to assume the character of
an author, or so old as to make it advisable to lay it aside.
The Author of “Waverley” has heard it objected to this novel, that, in
the character of Callum Beg and in the account given by the Baron of
Bradwardine of the petty trespasses of the Highlanders upon trifling
articles of property, he has borne hard, and unjustly so, upon their
national character. Nothing could be farther from his wish or
intention. The character of Callum Beg is that of a spirit naturally
turned to daring evil, and determined, by the circumstances of his
situation, to a particular species of mischief. Those who have perused
the curious Letters from the Highlands, published about 1726, will find
instances of such atrocious characters which fell under the writer’s
own observation, though it would be most unjust to consider such
villains as representatives of the Highlanders of that period, any more
than the murderers of Marr and Williamson can be supposed to represent
the English of the present day. As for the plunder supposed to have
been picked up by some of the insurgents in 1745, it must be remembered
that, although the way of that unfortunate little army was neither
marked by devastation nor bloodshed, but, on the contrary, was orderly
and quiet in a most wonderful degree, yet no army marches through a
country in a hostile manner without committing some depredations; and
several, to the extent and of the nature jocularly imputed to them by
the Baron, were really laid to the charge of the Highland insurgents;
for which many traditions, and particularly one respecting the Knight
of the Mirror, may be quoted as good evidence.[*]
[* A homely metrical narrative of the events of the period, which
contains some striking particulars, and is still a great favourite with
the lower classes, gives a very correct statement of the behaviour of
the mountaineers respecting this same military license; and, as the
verses are little known, and contain some good sense, we venture to
insert them.]
THE AUTHOR’S ADDRESS TO ALL IN GENERAL
Now, gentle readers, I have let you ken
My very thoughts, from heart and pen,
’Tis needless for to conten’
Or yet controule,
For there’s not a word o’t I can men’;
So ye must thole.
For on both sides some were not good;
I saw them murd’ring in cold blood,
Not the gentlemen, but wild and rude,
The baser sort,
Who to the wounded had no mood
But murd’ring sport!
Ev’n both at Preston and Falkirk,
That fatal night ere it grew mirk,
Piercing the wounded with their durk,
Caused many cry!
Such pity’s shown from Savage and Turk
As peace to die.
A woe be to such hot zeal,
To smite the wounded on the fiell!
It’s just they got such groats in kail,
Who do the same.
It only teaches crueltys real
To them again.
I’ve seen the men call’d Highland rogues,
With Lowland men make shangs a brogs,
Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs
Out at the door,
Take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs,
And pay nought for.
I saw a Highlander, ’t was right drole,
With a string of puddings hung on a pole,
Whip’d o’er his shoulder, skipped like a fole,
Caus’d Maggy bann,
Lap o’er the midden and midden-hole,
And aff he ran.
When check’d for this, they’d often tell ye,
Indeed _her nainsell’s_ a tume belly;
You’ll no gie’t wanting bought, nor sell me;
_Hersell_ will hae’t;
Go tell King Shorge, and Shordy’s Willie,
I’ll hae a meat.
I saw the soldiers at Linton-brig,
Because the man was not a Whig,
Of meat and drink leave not a skig,
Within his door;
They burnt his very hat and wig,
And thump’d him sore.
And through the Highlands they were so rude,
As leave them neither clothes nor food,
Then burnt their houses to conclude;
’T was tit for tat.
How can _her nainsell_ e’er be good,
To think on that?
And after all, O, shame and grief!
To use some worse than murd’ring thief,
Their very gentleman and chief,
Unhumanly!
Like Popish tortures, I believe,
Such cruelty.
Ev’n what was act on open stage
At Carlisle, in the hottest rage,
When mercy was clapt in a cage,
And pity dead,
Such cruelty approv’d by every age,
I shook my head.
So many to curse, so few to pray,
And some aloud huzza did cry;
They cursed the rebel Scots that day,
As they’d been nowt
Brought up for slaughter, as that way
Too many rowt.
Therefore, alas! dear countrymen,
O never do the like again,
To thirst for vengeance, never ben’
Your gun nor pa’,
But with the English e’en borrow and len’,
Let anger fa’.
Their boasts and bullying, not worth a louse,
As our King’s the best about the house.
’T is ay good to be sober and douce,
To live in peace;
For many, I see, for being o’er crouse,
Gets broken face.
WAVERLEY
OR
’TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE
Volume I.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY
The title of this work has not been chosen without the grave and solid
deliberation which matters of importance demand from the prudent. Even
its first, or general denomination, was the result of no common
research or selection, although, according to the example of my
predecessors, I had only to seize upon the most sounding and euphonic
surname that English history or topography affords, and elect it at
once as the title of my work and the name of my hero. But, alas! what
could my readers have expected from the chivalrous epithets of Howard,
Mordaunt, Mortimer, or Stanley, or from the softer and more sentimental
sounds of Belmour, Belville, Belfield, and Belgrave, but pages of
inanity, similar to those which have been so christened for half a
century past? I must modestly admit I am too diffident of my own merit
to place it in unnecessary opposition to preconceived associations; I
have, therefore, like a maiden knight with his white shield, assumed
for my hero, WAVERLEY, an uncontaminated name, bearing with its sound
little of good or evil, excepting what the reader shall hereafter be
pleased to affix to it. But my second or supplemental title was a
matter of much more difficult election, since that, short as it is, may
be held as pledging the author to some special mode of laying his
scene, drawing his characters, and managing his adventures. Had I, for
example, announced in my frontispiece, “Waverley, a Tale of other
Days,” must not every novel-reader have anticipated a castle scarce
less than that of Udolpho, of which the eastern wing had long been
uninhabited, and the keys either lost, or consigned to the care of some
aged butler or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, about the middle of
the second volume, were doomed to guide the hero, or heroine, to the
ruinous precincts? Would not the owl have shrieked and the cricket
cried in my very title-page? and could it have been possible for me,
with a moderate attention to decorum, to introduce any scene more
lively than might be produced by the jocularity of a clownish but
faithful valet, or the garrulous narrative of the heroine’s
_fille-de-chambre_, when rehearsing the stories of blood and horror
which she had heard in the servants’ hall? Again, had my title borne,
“Waverley, a Romance from the German,” what head so obtuse as not to
image forth a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and
mysterious association of Rosycrucians and Illuminati, with all their
properties of black cowls, caverns, daggers, electrical machines,
trap-doors, and dark-lanterns? Or if I had rather chosen to call my
work a “Sentimental Tale,” would it not have been a sufficient presage
of a heroine with a profusion of auburn hair, and a harp, the soft
solace of her solitary hours, which she fortunately finds always the
means of transporting from castle to cottage, although she herself be
sometimes obliged to jump out of a two-pair-of-stairs window, and is
more than once bewildered on her journey, alone and on foot, without
any guide but a blowzy peasant girl, whose jargon she hardly can
understand? Or, again, if my Waverley had been entitled “A Tale of the
Times,” wouldst thou not, gentle reader, have demanded from me a
dashing sketch of the fashionable world, a few anecdotes of private
scandal thinly veiled, and if lusciously painted, so much the better? a
heroine from Grosvenor Square, and a hero from the Barouche Club or the
Four-in-Hand, with a set of subordinate characters from the elegantes
of Queen Anne Street East, or the dashing heroes of the Bow-Street
Office? I could proceed in proving the importance of a title-page, and
displaying at the same time my own intimate knowledge of the particular
ingredients necessary to the composition of romances and novels of
various descriptions;—but it is enough, and I scorn to tyrannise longer
over the impatience of my reader, who is doubtless already anxious to
know the choice made by an author so profoundly versed in the different
branches of his art.
By fixing, then, the date of my story Sixty Years before this present
1st November, 1805, I would have my readers understand, that they will
meet in the following pages neither a romance of chivalry nor a tale of
modern manners; that my hero will neither have iron on his shoulders,
as of yore, nor on the heels of his boots, as is the present fashion of
Bond Street; and that my damsels will neither be clothed “in purple and
in pall,” like the Lady Alice of an old ballad, nor reduced to the
primitive nakedness of a modern fashionable at a rout. From this my
choice of an era the understanding critic may farther presage that the
object of my tale is more a description of men than manners. A tale of
manners, to be interesting, must either refer to antiquity so great as
to have become venerable, or it must bear a vivid reflection of those
scenes which are passing daily before our eyes, and are interesting
from their novelty. Thus the coat-of-mail of our ancestors, and the
triple-furred pelisse of our modern beaux, may, though for very
different reasons, be equally fit for the array of a fictitious
character; but who, meaning the costume of his hero to be impressive,
would willingly attire him in the court dress of George the Second’s
reign, with its no collar, large sleeves, and low pocket-holes? The
same may be urged, with equal truth, of the Gothic hall, which, with
its darkened and tinted windows, its elevated and gloomy roof, and
massive oaken table garnished with boar’s-head and rosemary, pheasants
and peacocks, cranes and cygnets, has an excellent effect in fictitious
description. Much may also be gained by a lively display of a modern
_fête_, such as we have daily recorded in that part of a newspaper
entitled the Mirror of Fashion, if we contrast these, or either of
them, with the splendid formality of an entertainment given Sixty Years
Since; and thus it will be readily seen how much the painter of antique
or of fashionable manners gains over him who delineates those of the
last generation.
Considering the disadvantages inseparable from this part of my subject,
I must be understood to have resolved to avoid them as much as
possible, by throwing the force of my narrative upon the characters and
passions of the actors;—those passions common to men in all stages of
society, and which have alike agitated the human heart, whether it
throbbed under the steel corslet of the fifteenth century, the brocaded
coat of the eighteenth, or the blue frock and white dimity waistcoat of
the present day.[*] Upon these passions it is no doubt true that the
state of manners and laws casts a necessary colouring; but the
bearings, to use the language of heraldry, remain the same, though the
tincture may be not only different, but opposed in strong
contradistinction. The wrath of our ancestors, for example, was
coloured _gules;_ it broke forth in acts of open and sanguinary
violence against the objects of its fury. Our malignant feelings, which
must seek gratification through more indirect channels, and undermine
the obstacles which they cannot openly bear down, may be rather said to
be tinctured sable. But the deep-ruling impulse is the same in both
cases; and the proud peer, who can now only ruin his neighbour
according to law, by protracted suits, is the genuine descendant of the
baron who wrapped the castle of his competitor in flames, and knocked
him on the head as he endeavoured to escape from the conflagration. It
is from the great book of Nature, the same through a thousand editions,
whether of black-letter, or wire-wove and hot-pressed, that I have
venturously essayed to read a chapter to the public. Some favourable
opportunities of contrast have been afforded me by the state of society
in the northern part of the island at the period of my history, and may
serve at once to vary and to illustrate the moral lessons, which I
would willingly consider as the most important part of my plan;
although I am sensible how short these will fall of their aim if I
shall be found unable to mix them with amusement—a task not quite so
easy in this critical generation as it was “Sixty Years Since.”
[* Alas! that attire, respectable and gentlemanlike in 1805, or
thereabouts, is now as antiquated as the Author of “Waverley” has
himself become since that period! The reader of fashion will please to
fill up the costume with an embroidered waistcoat of purple velvet or
silk, and a coat of whatever colour he pleases.]
CHAPTER II.
WAVERLEY-HONOUR—A RETROSPECT
It is, then, sixty years since Edward Waverley, the hero of the
following pages, took leave of his family, to join the regiment of
dragoons in which he had lately obtained a commission. It was a
melancholy day at Waverley-Honour when the young officer parted with
Sir Everard, the affectionate old uncle to whose title and estate he
was presumptive heir.
A difference in political opinions had early separated the Baronet from
his younger brother Richard Waverley, the father of our hero. Sir
Everard had inherited from his sires the whole train of Tory or
High-Church predilections and prejudices which had distinguished the
house of Waverley since the Great Civil War. Richard, on the contrary,
who was ten years younger, beheld himself born to the fortune of a
second brother, and anticipated neither dignity nor entertainment in
sustaining the character of Will Wimble. He saw early that, to succeed
in the race of life, it was necessary he should carry as little weight
as possible. Painters talk of the difficulty of expressing the
existence of compound passions in the same features at the same moment;
it would be no less difficult for the moralist to analyse the mixed
motives which unite to form the impulse of our actions. Richard
Waverley read and satisfied himself from history and sound argument
that, in the words of the old song,
Passive obedience was a jest,
And pshaw! was non-resistance;
yet reason would have probably been unable to combat and remove
hereditary prejudice could Richard have anticipated that his elder
brother, Sir Everard, taking to heart an early disappointment, would
have remained a bachelor at seventy-two. The prospect of succession,
however remote, might in that case have led him to endure dragging
through the greater part of his life as “Master Richard at the Hall,
the Baronet’s brother,” in the hope that ere its conclusion he should
be distinguished as Sir Richard Waverley of Waverley-Honour, successor
to a princely estate, and to extended political connections as head of
the county interest in the shire where it lay.
But this was a consummation of things not to be expected at Richard’s
outset, when Sir Everard was in the prime of life, and certain to be an
acceptable suitor in almost any family, whether wealth or beauty should
be the object of his pursuit, and when, indeed, his speedy marriage was
a report which regularly amused the neighbourhood once a year. His
younger brother saw no practicable road to independence save that of
relying upon his own exertions, and adopting a political creed more
consonant both to reason and his own interest than the hereditary faith
of Sir Everard in High-Church and in the house of Stuart. He therefore
read his recantation at the beginning of his career, and entered life
as an avowed Whig and friend of the Hanover succession.
The ministry of George the First’s time were prudently anxious to
diminish the phalanx of opposition. The Tory nobility, depending for
their reflected lustre upon the sunshine of a court, had for some time
been gradually reconciling themselves to the new dynasty. But the
wealthy country gentlemen of England, a rank which retained, with much
of ancient manners and primitive integrity, a great proportion of
obstinate and unyielding prejudice, stood aloof in haughty and sullen
opposition, and cast many a look of mingled regret and hope to Bois le
Due, Avignon, and Italy.[*] The accession of the near relation of one
of those steady and inflexible opponents was considered as a means of
bringing over more converts, and therefore Richard Waverley met with a
share of ministerial favour more than proportioned to his talents or
his political importance. It was, however, discovered that he had
respectable talents for public business, and the first admittance to
the minister’s levee being negotiated, his success became rapid. Sir
Everard learned from the public News-Letter, first that Richard
Waverley, Esquire, was returned for the ministerial borough of
Barterfaith; next, that Richard Waverley, Esquire, had taken a
distinguished part in the debate upon the Excise Bill in the support of
government; and, lastly, that Richard Waverley, Esquire, had been
honoured with a seat at one of those boards where the pleasure of
serving the country is combined with other important gratifications,
which, to render them the more acceptable, occur regularly once a
quarter.
[* Where the Chevalier St. George, or, as he was termed, the Old
Pretender, held his exiled court, as his situation compelled him to
shift his place of residence.]
Although these events followed each other so closely that the sagacity
of the editor of a modern newspaper would have presaged the two last
even while he announced the first, yet they came upon Sir Everard
gradually, and drop by drop, as it were, distilled through the cool and
procrastinating alembic of “Dyer’s Weekly Letter.”[1] For it may be
observed in passing, that instead of those mail-coaches, by means of
which every mechanic at his six-penny club, may nightly learn from
twenty contradictory channels the yesterday’s news of the capital, a
weekly post brought, in those days, to Waverley-Honour, a Weekly
Intelligencer, which, after it had gratified Sir Everard’s curiosity,
his sister’s, and that of his aged butler, was regularly transferred
from the Hall to the Rectory, from the Rectory to Squire Stubbs’s at
the Grange, from the Squire to the Baronet’s steward at his neat white
house on the heath, from the steward to the bailiff, and from him
through a huge circle of honest dames and gaffers, by whose hard and
horny hands it was generally worn to pieces in about a month after its
arrival.
This slow succession of intelligence was of some advantage to Richard
Waverley in the case before us; for, had the sum total of his
enormities reached the ears of Sir Everard at once, there can be no
doubt that the new commissioner would have had little reason to pique
himself on the success of his politics. The Baronet, although the
mildest of human beings, was not without sensitive points in his
character; his brother’s conduct had wounded these deeply; the Waverley
estate was fettered by no entail (for it had never entered into the
head of any of its former possessors that one of their progeny could be
guilty of the atrocities laid by “Dyer’s Letter” to the door of
Richard), and if it had, the marriage of the proprietor might have been
fatal to a collateral heir. These various ideas floated through the
brain of Sir Everard without, however, producing any determined
conclusion.
He examined the tree of his genealogy, which, emblazoned with many an
emblematic mark of honour and heroic achievement, hung upon the
well-varnished wainscot of his hall. The nearest descendants of Sir
Hildebrand Waverley, failing those of his eldest son Wilfred, of whom
Sir Everard and his brother were the only representatives, were, as
this honoured register informed him (and, indeed, as he himself well
knew), the Waverleys of Highley Park, com. Hants; with whom the main
branch, or rather stock, of the house had renounced all connection
since the great law-suit in 1670.
This degenerate scion had committed a farther offence against the head
and source of their gentility, by the intermarriage of their
representative with Judith, heiress of Oliver Bradshawe, of Highley
Park, whose arms, the same with those of Bradshawe the regicide, they
had quartered with the ancient coat of Waverley. These offences,
however, had vanished from Sir Everard’s recollection in the heat of
his resentment; and had Lawyer Clippurse, for whom his groom was
despatched express, arrived but an hour earlier, he might have had the
benefit of drawing a new settlement of the lordship and manor of
Waverley-Honour, with all its dependencies. But an hour of cool
reflection is a great matter when employed in weighing the comparative
evil of two measures to neither of which we are internally partial.
Lawyer Clippurse found his patron involved in a deep study, which he
was too respectful to disturb, otherwise than by producing his paper
and leathern ink-case, as prepared to minute his honour’s commands.
Even this slight manœuvre was embarrassing to Sir Everard, who felt it
as a reproach to his indecision. He looked at the attorney with some
desire to issue his fiat, when the sun, emerging from behind a cloud,
poured at once its chequered light through the stained window of the
gloomy cabinet in which they were seated. The Baronet’s eye, as he
raised it to the splendour, fell right upon the central scutcheon,
inpressed with the same device which his ancestor was said to have
borne in the field of Hastings,—three ermines passant, argent, in a
field azure, with its appropriate motto, _sans tache_. “May our name
rather perish,” exclaimed Sir Everard, “than that ancient and loyal
symbol should be blended with the dishonoured insignia of a traitorous
Roundhead!”
All this was the effect of the glimpse of a sunbeam, just sufficient to
light Lawyer Clippurse to mend his pen. The pen was mended in vain. The
attorney was dismissed, with directions to hold himself in readiness on
the first summons.
The apparition of Lawyer Clippurse at the Hall occasioned much
speculation in that portion of the world to which Waverley-Honour
formed the centre. But the more judicious politicians of this microcosm
augured yet worse consequences to Richard Waverley from a movement
which shortly followed his apostasy. This was no less than an excursion
of the Baronet in his coach-and-six, with four attendants in rich
liveries, to make a visit of some duration to a noble peer on the
confines of the shire, of untainted descent, steady Tory principles,
and the happy father of six unmarried and accomplished daughters.
Sir Everard’s reception in this family was, as it may be easily
conceived, sufficiently favourable; but of the six young ladies, his
taste unfortunately determined him in favour of Lady Emily, the
youngest, who received his attentions with an embarrassment which
showed at once that she durst not decline them, and that they afforded
her anything but pleasure.
Sir Everard could not but perceive something uncommon in the restrained
emotions which the young lady testified at the advances he hazarded;
but, assured by the prudent Countess that they were the natural effects
of a retired education, the sacrifice might have been completed, as
doubtless has happened in many similar instances, had it not been for
the courage of an elder sister, who revealed to the wealthy suitor that
Lady Emily’s affections were fixed upon a young soldier of fortune, a
near relation of her own.
Sir Everard manifested great emotion on receiving this intelligence,
which was confirmed to him, in a private interview, by the young lady
herself, although under the most dreadful apprehensions of her father’s
indignation.
Honour and generosity were hereditary attributes of the house of
Waverley. With a grace and delicacy worthy the hero of a romance, Sir
Everard withdrew his claim to the hand of Lady Emily. He had even,
before leaving Blandeville Castle, the address to extort from her
father a consent to her union with the object of her choice. What
arguments he used on this point cannot exactly be known, for Sir
Everard was never supposed strong in the powers of persuasion; but the
young officer, immediately after this transaction, rose in the army
with a rapidity far surpassing the usual pace of unpatronised
professional merit, although, to outward appearance, that was all he
had to depend upon.
The shock which Sir Everard encountered upon this occasion, although
diminished by the consciousness of having acted virtuously and
generously had its effect upon his future life. His resolution of
marriage had been adopted in a fit of indignation; the labour of
courtship did not quite suit the dignified indolence of his habits; he
had but just escaped the risk of marrying a woman who could never love
him, and his pride could not be greatly flattered by the termination of
his amour, even if his heart had not suffered. The result of the whole
matter was his return to Waverley-Honour without any transfer of his
affections, notwithstanding the sighs and languishments of the fair
tell-tale, who had revealed, in mere sisterly affection, the secret of
Lady Emily’s attachment, and in despite of the nods, winks, and
innuendos of the officious lady mother, and the grave eulogiums which
the Earl pronounced successively on the prudence, and good sense, and
admirable dispositions, of his first, second, third, fourth, and fifth
daughters.
The memory of his unsuccessful amour was with Sir Everard, as with many
more of his temper, at once shy, proud, sensitive, and indolent, a
beacon against exposing himself to similar mortification, pain, and
fruitless exertion for the time to come. He continued to live at
Waverley-Honour in the style of an old English gentleman, of an ancient
descent and opulent fortune. His sister, Miss Rachel Waverley, presided
at his table; and they became, by degrees, an old bachelor and an
ancient maiden lady, the gentlest and kindest of the votaries of
celibacy.
The vehemence of Sir Everard’s resentment against his brother was but
short-lived; yet his dislike to the Whig and the placeman, though
unable to stimulate him to resume any active measures prejudicial to
Richard’s interest, in the succession to the family estate, continued
to maintain the coldness between them. Richard knew enough of the
world, and of his brother’s temper, to believe that by any
ill-considered or precipitate advances on his part, he might turn
passive dislike into a more active principle. It was accident,
therefore, which at length occasioned a renewal of their intercourse.
Richard had married a young woman of rank, by whose family interest and
private fortune he hoped to advance his career. In her right he became
possessor of a manor of some value, at the distance of a few miles from
Waverley-Honour.
Little Edward, the hero of our tale, then in his fifth year, was their
only child. It chanced that the infant with his maid had strayed one
morning to a mile’s distance from the avenue of Brerewood Lodge, his
father’s seat. Their attention was attracted by a carriage drawn by six
stately long-tailed black horses, and with as much carving and gilding
as would have done honour to my lord mayor’s. It was waiting for the
owner, who was at a little distance inspecting the progress of a
half-built farm-house. I know not whether the boy’s nurse had been a
Welsh or a Scotch-woman, or in what manner he associated a shield
emblazoned with three ermines with the idea of personal property, but
he no sooner beheld this family emblem than he stoutly determined on
vindicating his right to the splendid vehicle on which it was
displayed. The Baronet arrived while the boy’s maid was in vain
endeavouring to make him desist from his determination to appropriate
the gilded coach-and-six. The _rencontre_ was at a happy moment for
Edward, as his uncle had been just eyeing wistfully, with something of
a feeling like envy, the chubby boys of the stout yeoman whose mansion
was building by his direction. In the round-faced rosy cherub before
him, bearing his eye and his name, and vindicating a hereditary title
to his family, affection, and patronage, by means of a tie which Sir
Everard held as sacred as either Garter or Blue-mantle, Providence
seemed to have granted to him the very object best calculated to fill
up the void in his hopes and affections. Sir Everard returned to
Waverley-Hall upon a led horse, which was kept in readiness for him,
while the child and his attendant were sent home in the carriage to
Brerewood Lodge, with such a message as opened to Richard Waverley a
door of reconciliation with his elder brother.
Their intercourse, however, though thus renewed, continued to be rather
formal and civil than partaking of brotherly cordiality; yet it was
sufficient to the wishes of both parties. Sir Everard obtained, in the
frequent society of his little nephew, something on which his
hereditary pride might found the anticipated pleasure of a continuation
of his lineage, and where his kind and gentle affections could at the
same time fully exercise themselves. For Richard Waverley, he beheld in
the growing attachment between the uncle and nephew the means of
securing his son’s, if not his own, succession to the hereditary
estate, which he felt would be rather endangered than promoted by any
attempt on his own part towards a closer intimacy with a man of Sir
Everard’s habits and opinions.
Thus, by a sort of tacit compromise, little Edward was permitted to
pass the greater part of the year at the Hall, and appeared to stand in
the same intimate relation to both families, although their mutual
intercourse was otherwise limited to formal messages and more formal
visits. The education of the youth was regulated alternately by the
taste and opinions of his uncle and of his father. But more of this in
a subsequent chapter.
CHAPTER III.
EDUCATION
The education of our hero, Edward Waverley, was of a nature somewhat
desultory. In infancy his health suffered, or was supposed to suffer
(which is quite the same thing), by the air of London. As soon,
therefore, as official duties, attendance on Parliament, or the
prosecution of any of his plans of interest or ambition, called his
father to town, which was his usual residence for eight months in the
year, Edward was transferred to Waverley-Honour, and experienced a
total change of instructors and of lessons, as well as of residence.
This might have been remedied had his father placed him under the
superintendence of a permanent tutor. But he considered that one of his
choosing would probably have been unacceptable at Waverley-Honour, and
that such a selection as Sir Everard might have made, were the matter
left to him, would have burdened him with a disagreeable inmate, if not
a political spy, in his family. He therefore prevailed upon his private
secretary, a young man of taste and accomplishments, to bestow an hour
or two on Edward’s education while at Brerewood Lodge, and left his
uncle answerable for his improvement in literature while an inmate at
the Hall. This was in some degree respectably provided for. Sir
Everard’s chaplain, an Oxonian, who had lost his fellowship for
declining to take the oaths at the accession of George I, was not only
an excellent classical scholar, but reasonably skilled in science, and
master of most modern languages. He was, however, old and indulgent,
and the recurring interregnum, during which Edward was entirely freed
from his discipline, occasioned such a relaxation of authority, that
the youth was permitted, in a great measure, to learn as he pleased,
what he pleased, and when he pleased. This slackness of rule might have
been ruinous to a boy of slow understanding, who, feeling labour in the
acquisition of knowledge, would have altogether neglected it, save for
the command of a taskmaster; and it might have proved equally dangerous
to a youth whose animal spirits were more powerful than his imagination
or his feelings, and whom the irresistible influence of Alma would have
engaged in field-sports from morning till night. But the character of
Edward Waverley was remote from either of these. His powers of
apprehension were so uncommonly quick as almost to resemble intuition,
and the chief care of his preceptor was to prevent him, as a sportsman
would phrase it, from over-running his game—that is, from acquiring his
knowledge in a slight, flimsy, and inadequate manner. And here the
instructor had to combat another propensity too often united with
brilliancy of fancy and vivacity of talent—that indolence, namely, of
disposition, which can only be stirred by some strong motive of
gratification, and which renounces study as soon as curiosity is
gratified, the pleasure of conquering the first difficulties exhausted,
and the novelty of pursuit at an end. Edward would throw himself with
spirit upon any classical author of which his preceptor proposed the
perusal, make himself master of the style so far as to understand the
story, and, if that pleased or interested him, he finished the volume.
But it was in vain to attempt fixing his attention on critical
distinctions of philology, upon the difference of idiom, the beauty of
felicitous expression, or the artificial combinations of syntax. “I can
read and understand a Latin author,” said young Edward, with the
self-confidence and rash reasoning of fifteen, “and Scaliger or Bentley
could not do much more.” Alas! while he was thus permitted to read only
for the gratification of his amusement, he foresaw not that he was
losing for ever the opportunity of acquiring habits of firm and
assiduous application, of gaining the art of controlling, directing,
and concentrating the powers of his mind for earnest investigation—an
art far more essential than even that intimate acquaintance with
classical learning which is the primary object of study.
I am aware I may be here reminded of the necessity of rendering
instruction agreeable to youth, and of Tasso’s infusion of honey into
the medicine prepared for a child; but an age in which children are
taught the driest doctrines by the insinuating method of instructive
games, has little reason to dread the consequences of study being
rendered too serious or severe. The history of England is now reduced
to a game at cards, the problems of mathematics to puzzles and riddles,
and the doctrines of arithmetic may, we are assured, be sufficiently
acquired by spending a few hours a week at a new and complicated
edition of the Royal Game of the Goose. There wants but one step
further, and the Creed and Ten Commandments may be taught in the same
manner, without the necessity of the grave face, deliberate tone of
recital, and devout attention, hitherto exacted from the well-governed
childhood of this realm. It may, in the meantime, be subject of serious
consideration, whether those who are accustomed only to acquire
instruction through the medium of amusement may not be brought to
reject that which approaches under the aspect of study; whether those
who learn history by the cards may not be led to prefer the means to
the end; and whether, were we to teach religion in the way of sport,
our pupils may not thereby be gradually induced to make sport of their
religion. To our young hero, who was permitted to seek his instruction
only according to the bent of his own mind, and who, of consequence,
only sought it so long as it afforded him amusement, the indulgence of
his tutors was attended with evil consequences, which long continued to
influence his character, happiness, and utility.
Edward’s power of imagination and love of literature, although the
former was vivid and the latter ardent, were so far from affording a
remedy to this peculiar evil, that they rather inflamed and increased
its violence. The library at Waverley-Honour, a large Gothic room, with
double arches and a gallery, contained such a miscellaneous and
extensive collection of volumes as had been assembled together, during
the course of two hundred years, by a family which had been always
wealthy, and inclined, of course, as a mark of splendour, to furnish
their shelves with the current literature of the day, without much
scrutiny or nicety of discrimination. Throughout this ample realm
Edward was permitted to roam at large. His tutor had his own studies;
and church politics and controversial divinity, together with a love of
learned ease, though they did not withdraw his attention at stated
times from the progress of his patron’s presumptive heir, induced him
readily to grasp at any apology for not extending a strict and
regulated survey towards his general studies. Sir Everard had never
been himself a student, and, like his sister, Miss Rachel Waverley, he
held the common doctrine, that idleness is incompatible with reading of
any kind, and that the mere tracing the alphabetical characters with
the eye is in itself a useful and meritorious task, without
scrupulously considering what ideas or doctrines they may happen to
convey. With a desire of amusement, therefore, which better discipline
might soon have converted into a thirst for knowledge, young Waverley
drove through the sea of books like a vessel without a pilot or a
rudder. Nothing perhaps increases by indulgence more than a desultory
habit of reading, especially under such opportunities of gratifying it.
I believe one reason why such numerous instances of erudition occur
among the lower ranks is, that, with the same powers of mind, the poor
student is limited to a narrow circle for indulging his passion for
books, and must necessarily make himself master of the few he possesses
ere he can acquire more. Edward, on the contrary, like the epicure who
only deigned to take a single morsel from the sunny side of a peach,
read no volume a moment after it ceased to excite his curiosity or
interest; and it necessarily happened, that the habit of seeking only
this sort of gratification rendered it daily more difficult of
attainment, till the passion for reading, like other strong appetites,
produced by indulgence a sort of satiety.
Ere he attained this indifference, however, he had read, and stored in
a memory of uncommon tenacity, much curious, though ill-arranged and
miscellaneous information. In English literature he was master of
Shakespeare and Milton, of our earlier dramatic authors, of many
picturesque and interesting passages from our old historical
chronicles, and was particularly well acquainted with Spenser, Drayton,
and other poets who have exercised themselves on romantic fiction, of
all themes the most fascinating to a youthful imagination, before the
passions have roused themselves and demand poetry of a more sentimental
description. In this respect his acquaintance with Italian opened him
yet a wider range. He had perused the numerous romantic poems, which,
from the days of Pulci, have been a favourite exercise of the wits of
Italy, and had sought gratification in the numerous collections of
_novelle_, which were brought forth by the genius of that elegant
though luxurious nation, in emulation of the “Decameron.” In classical
literature, Waverley had made the usual progress, and read the usual
authors; and the French had afforded him an almost exhaustless
collection of memoirs, scarcely more faithful than romances, and of
romances so well written as hardly to be distinguished from memoirs.
The splendid pages of Froissart, with his heart-stirring and
eye-dazzling descriptions of war and of tournaments, were among his
chief favourites; and from those of Brantome and De la Noue he learned
to compare the wild and loose, yet superstitious, character of the
nobles of the League with the stern, rigid, and sometimes turbulent
disposition of the Huguenot party. The Spanish had contributed to his
stock of chivalrous and romantic lore. The earlier literature of the
northern nations did not escape the study of one who read rather to
awaken the imagination than to benefit the understanding. And yet,
knowing much that is known but to few, Edward Waverley might justly be
considered as ignorant, since he knew little of what adds dignity to
man, and qualifies him to support and adorn an elevated situation in
society.
The occasional attention of his parents might indeed have been of
service to prevent the dissipation of mind incidental to such a
desultory course of reading. But his mother died in the seventh year
after the reconciliation between the brothers, and Richard Waverley
himself, who, after this event, resided more constantly in London, was
too much interested in his own plans of wealth and ambition to notice
more respecting Edward than that he was of a very bookish turn, and
probably destined to be a bishop. If he could have discovered and
analysed his son’s waking dreams, he would have formed a very different
conclusion.
CHAPTER IV.
CASTLE-BUILDING
I have already hinted that the dainty, squeamish, and fastidious taste
acquired by a surfeit of idle reading had not only rendered our hero
unfit for serious and sober study, but had even disgusted him in some
degree with that in which he had hitherto indulged.
He was in his sixteenth year when his habits of abstraction and love of
solitude became so much marked as to excite Sir Everard’s affectionate
apprehension. He tried to counterbalance these propensities by engaging
his nephew in field-sports, which had been the chief pleasure of his
own youthful days. But although Edward eagerly carried the gun for one
season, yet when practice had given him some dexterity, the pastime
ceased to afford him amusement.
In the succeeding spring, the perusal of old Isaac Walton’s fascinating
volume determined Edward to become “a brother of the angle.” But of all
diversions which ingenuity ever devised for the relief of idleness,
fishing is the worst qualified to amuse a man who is at once indolent
and impatient; and our hero’s rod was speedily flung aside. Society and
example, which, more than any other motives, master and sway the
natural bent of our passions, might have had their usual effect upon
the youthful visionary. But the neighbourhood was thinly inhabited, and
the home-bred young squires whom it afforded were not of a class fit to
form Edward’s usual companions, far less to excite him to emulation in
the practice of those pastimes which composed the serious business of
their lives.
There were a few other youths of better education and a more liberal
character, but from their society also our hero was in some degree
excluded. Sir Everard had, upon the death of Queen Anne, resigned his
seat in Parliament, and, as his age increased and the number of his
contemporaries diminished, had gradually withdrawn himself from
society; so that when, upon any particular occasion, Edward mingled
with accomplished and well-educated young men of his own rank and
expectations, he felt an inferiority in their company, not so much from
deficiency of information, as from the want of the skill to command and
to arrange that which he possessed. A deep and increasing sensibility
added to this dislike of society. The idea of having committed the
slightest solecism in politeness, whether real or imaginary, was agony
to him; for perhaps even guilt itself does not impose upon some minds
so keen a sense of shame and remorse, as a modest, sensitive, and
inexperienced youth feels from the consciousness of having neglected
etiquette or excited ridicule. Where we are not at ease, we cannot be
happy; and therefore it is not surprising that Edward Waverley supposed
that he disliked and was unfitted for society, merely because he had
not yet acquired the habit of living in it with ease and comfort, and
of reciprocally giving and receiving pleasure.
The hours he spent with his uncle and aunt were exhausted in listening
to the oft-repeated tale of narrative old age. Yet even there his
imagination, the predominant faculty of his mind, was frequently
excited. Family tradition and genealogical history, upon which much of
Sir Everard’s discourse turned, is the very reverse of amber, which,
itself a valuable substance, usually includes flies, straws, and other
trifles; whereas these studies, being themselves very insignificant and
trifling, do nevertheless serve to perpetuate a great deal of what is
rare and valuable in ancient manners, and to record many curious and
minute facts which could have been preserved and conveyed through no
other medium. If, therefore, Edward Waverley yawned at times over the
dry deduction of his line of ancestors, with their various
intermarriages, and inwardly deprecated the remorseless and protracted
accuracy with which the worthy Sir Everard rehearsed the various
degrees of propinquity between the house of Waverley-Honour and the
doughty barons, knights, and squires to whom they stood allied; if
(notwithstanding his obligations to the three ermines passant) he
sometimes cursed in his heart the jargon of heraldry, its griffins, its
moldwarps, its wyverns, and its dragons, with all the bitterness of
Hotspur himself, there were moments when these communications
interested his fancy and rewarded his attention.
The deeds of Wilibert of Waverley in the Holy Land, his long absence
and perilous adventures, his supposed death, and his return on the
evening when the betrothed of his heart had wedded the hero who had
protected her from insult and oppression during his absence; the
generosity with which the Crusader relinquished his claims, and sought
in a neighbouring cloister that peace which passeth not away;[2]—to
these and similar tales he would hearken till his heart glowed and his
eye glistened. Nor was he less affected when his aunt, Mrs. Rachel,
narrated the sufferings and fortitude of Lady Alice Waverley during the
Great Civil War. The benevolent features of the venerable spinster
kindled into more majestic expression as she told how Charles had,
after the field of Worcester, found a day’s refuge at Waverley-Honour,
and how, when a troop of cavalry were approaching to search the
mansion, Lady Alice dismissed her youngest son with a handful of
domestics, charging them to make good with their lives an hour’s
diversion, that the king might have that space for escape. “And, God
help her,” would Mrs. Rachel continue, fixing her eyes upon the
heroine’s portrait as she spoke, “full dearly did she purchase the
safety of her prince with the life of her darling child. They brought
him here a prisoner, mortally wounded; and you may trace the drops of
his blood from the great hall door along the little gallery, and up to
the saloon, where they laid him down to die at his mother’s feet. But
there was comfort exchanged between them; for he knew, from the glance
of his mother’s eye, that the purpose of his desperate defence was
attained. Ah! I remember,” she continued, “I remember well to have seen
one that knew and loved him. Miss Lucy Saint Aubin lived and died a
maid for his sake, though one of the most beautiful and wealthy matches
in this country; all the world ran after her, but she wore widow’s
mourning all her life for poor William, for they were betrothed though
not married, and died in—I cannot think of the date; but I remember, in
the November of that very year, when she found herself sinking, she
desired to be brought to Waverley-Honour once more, and visited all the
places where she had been with my grand-uncle, and caused the carpets
to be raised that she might trace the impression of his blood, and if
tears could have washed it out, it had not been there now; for there
was not a dry eye in the house. You would have thought, Edward, that
the very trees mourned for her, for their leaves dropt around her
without a gust of wind, and, indeed, she looked like one that would
never see them green again.”
From such legends our hero would steal away to indulge the fancies they
excited. In the corner of the large and sombre library, with no other
light than was afforded by the decaying brands on its ponderous and
ample hearth, he would exercise for hours that internal sorcery by
which past or imaginary events are presented in action, as it were, to
the eye of the muser. Then arose in long and fair array the splendour
of the bridal feast at Waverley-Castle; the tall and emaciated form of
its real lord, as he stood in his pilgrim’s weeds, an unnoticed
spectator of the festivities of his supposed heir and intended bride;
the electrical shock occasioned by the discovery; the springing of the
vassals to arms; the astonishment of the bridegroom; the terror and
confusion of the bride; the agony with which Wilibert observed that her
heart as well as consent was in these nuptials; the air of dignity, yet
of deep feeling, with which he flung down the half-drawn sword, and
turned away for ever from the house of his ancestors. Then would he
change the scene, and fancy would at his wish represent Aunt Rachel’s
tragedy. He saw the Lady Waverley seated in her bower, her ear strained
to every sound, her heart throbbing with double agony, now listening to
the decaying echo of the hoofs of the king’s horse, and when that had
died away, hearing in every breeze that shook the trees of the park,
the noise of the remote skirmish. A distant sound is heard like the
rushing of a swoln stream; it comes nearer, and Edward can plainly
distinguish the galloping of horses, the cries and shouts of men, with
straggling pistol-shots between, rolling forwards to the Hall. The lady
starts up—a terrified menial rushes in—but why pursue such a
description?
As living in this ideal world became daily more delectable to our hero,
interruption was disagreeable in proportion. The extensive domain that
surrounded the Hall, which, far exceeding the dimensions of a park, was
usually termed Waverley-Chase, had originally been forest ground, and
still, though broken by extensive glades, in which the young deer were
sporting, retained its pristine and savage character. It was traversed
by broad avenues, in many places half grown up with brush-wood, where
the beauties of former days used to take their stand to see the stag
coursed with greyhounds, or to gain an aim at him with the crossbow. In
one spot, distinguished by a moss-grown Gothic monument, which retained
the name of Queen’s Standing, Elizabeth herself was said to have
pierced seven bucks with her own arrows. This was a very favourite
haunt of Waverley. At other times, with his gun and his spaniel, which
served as an apology to others, and with a book in his pocket, which
perhaps served as an apology to himself, he used to pursue one of these
long avenues, which, after an ascending sweep of four miles, gradually
narrowed into a rude and contracted path through the cliffy and woody
pass called Mirkwood Dingle, and opened suddenly upon a deep, dark, and
small lake, named, from the same cause, Mirkwood-Mere. There stood, in
former times, a solitary tower upon a rock almost surrounded by the
water, which had acquired the name of the Strength of Waverley, because
in perilous times it had often been the refuge of the family. There, in
the wars of York and Lancaster, the last adherents of the Red Rose who
dared to maintain her cause carried on a harassing and predatory
warfare, till the stronghold was reduced by the celebrated Richard of
Gloucester. Here, too, a party of Cavaliers long maintained themselves
under Nigel Waverley, elder brother of that William whose fate Aunt
Rachel commemorated. Through these scenes it was that Edward loved to
“chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy,” and, like a child among his
toys, culled and arranged, from the splendid yet useless imagery and
emblems with which his imagination was stored, visions as brilliant and
as fading as those of an evening sky. The effect of this indulgence
upon his temper and character will appear in the next chapter.
CHAPTER V.
CHOICE OF A PROFESSION
From the minuteness with which I have traced Waverley’s pursuits, and
the bias which these unavoidably communicated to his imagination, the
reader may perhaps anticipate, in the following tale, an imitation of
the romance of Cervantes. But he will do my prudence injustice in the
supposition. My intention is not to follow the steps of that inimitable
author, in describing such total perversion of intellect as
misconstrues the objects actually presented to the senses, but that
more common aberration from sound judgment, which apprehends
occurrences indeed in their reality, but communicates to them a
tincture of its own romantic tone and colouring. So far was Edward
Waverley from expecting general sympathy with his own feelings, or
concluding that the present state of things was calculated to exhibit
the reality of those visions in which he loved to indulge, that he
dreaded nothing more than the detection of such sentiments as were
dictated by his musings. He neither had nor wished to have a confidant,
with whom to communicate his reveries; and so sensible was he of the
ridicule attached to them, that, had he been to choose between any
punishment short of ignominy, and the necessity of giving a cold and
composed account of the ideal world in which he lived the better part
of his days, I think he would not have hesitated to prefer the former
infliction. This secrecy became doubly precious as he felt in advancing
life the influence of the awakening passions. Female forms of exquisite
grace and beauty began to mingle in his mental adventures; nor was he
long without looking abroad to compare the creatures of his own
imagination with the females of actual life.
The list of the beauties who displayed their hebdomadal finery at the
parish church of Waverley was neither numerous nor select. By far the
most passable was Miss Sissly, or, as she rather chose to be called,
Miss Cecilia Stubbs, daughter of Squire Stubbs at the Grange. I know
not whether it was by the “merest accident in the world,” a phrase
which, from female lips, does not always exclude _malice prepense_,—or
whether it was from a conformity of taste, that Miss Cecilia more than
once crossed Edward in his favourite walks through Waverley-Chase. He
had not as yet assumed courage to accost her on these occasions; but
the meeting was not without its effect. A romantic lover is a strange
idolater, who sometimes cares not out of what log he frames the object
of his adoration; at least, if nature has given that object any
passable proportion of personal charms, he can easily play the Jeweller
and Dervise in the Oriental tale,[*] and supply her richly, out of the
stores of his own imagination, with supernatural beauty, and all the
properties of intellectual wealth.
[* See Hoppner’s tale of The Seven Lovers.]
But ere the charms of Miss Cecilia Stubbs had erected her into a
positive goddess, or elevated her at least to a level with the saint
her namesake, Mrs. Rachel Waverley gained some intimation which
determined her to prevent the approaching apotheosis. Even the most
simple and unsuspicious of the female sex have (God bless them!) an
instinctive sharpness of perception in such matters, which sometimes
goes the length of observing partialities that never existed, but
rarely misses to detect such as pass actually under their observation.
Mrs. Rachel applied herself with great prudence, not to combat, but to
elude, the approaching danger, and suggested to her brother the
necessity that the heir of his house should see something more of the
world than was consistent with constant residence at Waverley-Honour.
Sir Everard would not at first listen to a proposal which went to
separate his nephew from him. Edward was a little bookish, he admitted,
but youth, he had always heard, was the season for learning, and, no
doubt, when his rage for letters was abated, and his head fully stocked
with knowledge, his nephew would take to field-sports and country
business. He had often, he said, himself regretted that he had not
spent some time in study during his youth: he would neither have shot
nor hunted with less skill, and he might have made the roof of Saint
Stephen’s echo to longer orations than were comprised in those zealous
Noes, with which, when a member of the House during Godolphin’s
administration, he encountered every measure of government.
Aunt Rachel’s anxiety, however, lent her address to carry her point.
Every representative of their house had visited foreign parts, or
served his country in the army, before he settled for life at
Waverley-Honour, and she appealed for the truth of her assertion to the
genealogical pedigree, an authority which Sir Everard was never known
to contradict. In short, a proposal was made to Mr. Richard Waverley,
that his son should travel, under the direction of his present tutor
Mr. Pembroke, with a suitable allowance from the Baronet’s liberality.
The father himself saw no objection to this overture; but upon
mentioning it casually at the table of the minister, the great man
looked grave. The reason was explained in private. The unhappy turn of
Sir Everard’s politics, the minister observed, was such as would render
it highly improper that a young gentleman of such hopeful prospects
should travel on the Continent with a tutor, doubtless of his uncle’s
choosing, and directing his course by his instructions. What might Mr.
Edward Waverley’s society be at Paris, what at Rome, where all manner
of snares were spread by the Pretender and his sons—these were points
for Mr. Waverley to consider. This he could himself say, that he knew
his Majesty had such a just sense of Mr. Richard Waverley’s merits,
that, if his son adopted the army for a few years, a troop, he
believed, might be reckoned upon in one of the dragoon regiments lately
returned from Flanders.
A hint thus conveyed and enforced was not to be neglected with
impunity; and Richard Waverley, though with great dread of shocking his
brother’s prejudices, deemed he could not avoid accepting the
commission thus offered him for his son. The truth is, he calculated
much, and justly, upon Sir Everard’s fondness for Edward, which made
him unlikely to resent any step that he might take in due submission to
parental authority. Two letters announced this determination to the
Baronet and his nephew. The latter barely communicated the fact, and
pointed out the necessary preparations for joining his regiment. To his
brother, Richard was more diffuse and circuitous. He coincided with
him, in the most flattering manner, in the propriety of his son’s
seeing a little more of the world, and was even humble in expressions
of gratitude for his proposed assistance; was, however, deeply
concerned that it was now, unfortunately, not in Edward’s power exactly
to comply with the plan which had been chalked out by his best friend
and benefactor. He himself had thought with pain on the boy’s
inactivity, at an age when all his ancestors had borne arms; even
Royalty itself had deigned to inquire whether young Waverley was not
now in Flanders, at an age when his grandfather was already bleeding
for his king in the Great Civil War. This was accompanied by an offer
of a troop of horse. What could he do? There was no time to consult his
brother’s inclinations, even if he could have conceived there might be
objections on his part to his nephew’s following the glorious career of
his predecessors. And, in short, that Edward was now (the intermediate
steps of cornet and lieutenant being overleapt with great agility)
Captain Waverley, of Gardiner’s regiment of dragoons, which he must
join in their quarters at Dundee in Scotland, in the course of a month.
Sir Everard Waverley received this intimation with a mixture of
feelings. At the period of the Hanoverian succession he had withdrawn
from parliament, and his conduct in the memorable year 1715 had not
been altogether unsuspected. There were reports of private musters of
tenants and horses in Waverley-Chase by moonlight, and of cases of
carbines and pistols purchased in Holland, and addressed to the
Baronet, but intercepted by the vigilance of a riding officer of the
excise, who was afterwards tossed in a blanket on a moonless night, by
an association of stout yeomen, for his officiousness. Nay, it was even
said, that at the arrest of Sir William Wyndham, the leader of the Tory
party, a letter from Sir Everard was found in the pocket of his
night-gown. But there was no overt act which an attainder could be
founded on, and government, contented with suppressing the insurrection
of 1715, felt it neither prudent nor safe to push their vengeance
farther than against those unfortunate gentlemen who actually took up
arms.
Nor did Sir Everard’s apprehensions of personal consequences seem to
correspond with the reports spread among his Whig neighbours. It was
well known that he had supplied with money several of the distressed
Northumbrians and Scotchmen, who, after being made prisoners at Preston
in Lancashire, were imprisoned in Newgate and the Marshalsea, and it
was his solicitor and ordinary counsel who conducted the defence of
some of these unfortunate gentlemen at their trial. It was generally
supposed, however, that, had ministers possessed any real proof of Sir
Everard’s accession to the rebellion, he either would not have ventured
thus to brave the existing government, or at least would not have done
so with impunity. The feelings which then dictated his proceedings were
those of a young man, and at an agitating period. Since that time Sir
Everard’s Jacobitism had been gradually decaying, like a fire which
burns out for want of fuel. His Tory and High-Church principles were
kept up by some occasional exercise at elections and quarter-sessions;
but those respecting hereditary right were fallen into a sort of
abeyance. Yet it jarred severely upon his feelings, that his nephew
should go into the army under the Brunswick dynasty; and the more so,
as, independent of his high and conscientious ideas of paternal
authority, it was impossible, or at least highly imprudent, to
interfere authoritatively to prevent it. This suppressed vexation gave
rise to many poohs and pshaws which were placed to the account of an
incipient fit of gout, until, having sent for the Army List, the worthy
Baronet consoled himself with reckoning the descendants of the houses
of genuine loyalty, Mordaunts, Granvilles, and Stanleys, whose names
were to be found in that military record; and, calling up all his
feelings of family grandeur and warlike glory, he concluded, with logic
something like Falstaff’s, that when war was at hand, although it were
shame to be on any side but one, it were worse shame to be idle than to
be on the worst side, though blacker than usurpation could make it. As
for Aunt Rachel, her scheme had not exactly terminated according to her
wishes, but she was under the necessity of submitting to circumstances;
and her mortification was diverted by the employment she found in
fitting out her nephew for the campaign, and greatly consoled by the
prospect of beholding him blaze in complete uniform.
Edward Waverley himself received with animated and undefined surprise
this most unexpected intelligence. It was, as a fine old poem expresses
it, “like a fire to heather set,” that covers a solitary hill with
smoke, and illumines it at the same time with dusky fire. His tutor,
or, I should say, Mr. Pembroke, for he scarce assumed the name of
tutor, picked up about Edward’s room some fragments of irregular verse,
which he appeared to have composed under the influence of the agitating
feelings occasioned by this sudden page being turned up to him in the
book of life. The doctor, who was a believer in all poetry which was
composed by his friends, and written out in fair straight lines, with a
capital at the beginning of each, communicated this treasure to Aunt
Rachel, who, with her spectacles dimmed with tears, transferred them to
her commonplace book, among choice receipts for cookery and medicine,
favourite texts, and portions from High-Church divines, and a few
songs, amatory and Jacobitical, which she had carolled in her younger
days, from whence her nephew’s poetical _tentamina_ were extracted when
the volume itself, with other authentic records of the Waverley family,
were exposed to the inspection of the unworthy editor of this memorable
history. If they afford the reader no higher amusement, they will
serve, at least, better than narrative of any kind, to acquaint him
with the wild and irregular spirit of our hero:—
Late, when the Autumn evening fell
On Mirkwood-Mere’s romantic dell,
The lake return’d, in chasten’d gleam,
The purple cloud, the golden beam:
Reflected in the crystal pool,
Headland and bank lay fair and cool;
The weather-tinted rock and tower
Each drooping tree, each fairy flower,
So true, so soft, the mirror gave,
As if there lay beneath the wave,
Secure from trouble, toil, and care,
A world than earthly world more fair.
But distant winds began to wake,
And roused the Genius of the Lake!
He heard the groaning of the oak,
And donn’d at once his sable cloak,
As warrior, at the battle-cry,
Invests him with his panoply:
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press’d
He ’gan to shake his foamy crest
O’er furrow’d brow and blacken’d cheek,
And bade his surge in thunder speak.
In wild and broken eddies whirl’d.
Flitted that fond ideal world,
And to the shore in tumult tost
The realms of fairy bliss were lost.
Yet, with a stern delight and strange,
I saw the spirit-stirring change,
As warr’d the wind with wave and wood,
Upon the ruin’d tower I stood,
And felt my heart more strongly bound,
Responsive to the lofty sound,
While, joying in the mighty roar,
I mourn’d that tranquil scene no more.
So, on the idle dreams of youth,
Breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth,
Bids each fair vision pass away,
Like landscape on the lake that lay,
As fair, as flitting, and as frail,
As that which fled the Autumn gale.—
For ever dead to fancy’s eye
Be each gay form that glided by,
While dreams of love and lady’s charms
Give place to honour and to arms!
In sober prose, as perhaps these verses intimate less decidedly, the
transient idea of Miss Cecilia Stubbs passed from Captain Waverley’s
heart amid the turmoil which his new destinies excited. She appeared,
indeed, in full splendour in her father’s pew upon the Sunday when he
attended service for the last time at the old parish church, upon which
occasion, at the request of his uncle and Aunt Rachel, he was induced
(nothing loath, if the truth must be told) to present himself in full
uniform.
There is no better antidote against entertaining too high an opinion of
others than having an excellent one of ourselves at the very same time.
Miss Stubbs had indeed summoned up every assistance which art could
afford to beauty; but, alas! hoop, patches, frizzled locks, and a new
mantua of genuine French silk, were lost upon a young officer of
dragoons who wore for the first time his gold-laced hat, jack-boots,
and broadsword. I know not whether, like the champion of an old
ballad,—
His heart was all on honour bent,
He could not stoop to love;
No lady in the land had power
His frozen heart to move;
or whether the deep and flaming bars of embroidered gold, which now
fenced his breast, defied the artillery of Cecilia’s eyes; but every
arrow was launched at him in vain.
Yet did I mark where Cupid’s shaft did light;
It lighted not on little western flower,
But on bold yeoman, flower of all the west,
Hight Jonas Culbertfield, the steward’s son.
Craving pardon for my heroics (which I am unable in certain cases to
resist giving way to), it is a melancholy fact, that my history must
here take leave of the fair Cecilia, who, like many a daughter of Eve,
after the departure of Edward, and the dissipation of certain idle
visions which she had adopted, quietly contented herself with a
_pis-aller_, and gave her hand, at the distance of six months, to the
aforesaid Jonas, son of the Baronet’s steward, and heir (no unfertile
prospect) to a steward’s fortune, besides the snug probability of
succeeding to his father’s office. All these advantages moved Squire
Stubbs, as much as the ruddy brown and manly form of the suitor
influenced his daughter, to abate somewhat in the article of their
gentry; and so the match was concluded. None seemed more gratified than
Aunt Rachel, who had hitherto looked rather askance upon the
presumptuous damsel (as much so, peradventure, as her nature would
permit), but who, on the first appearance of the new-married pair at
church, honoured the bride with a smile and a profound curtsy, in
presence of the rector, the curate, the clerk, and the whole
congregation of the united parishes of Waverley _cum_ Beverley.
I beg pardon, once and for all, of those readers who take up novels
merely for amusement, for plaguing them so long with old-fashioned
politics, and Whig and Tory, and Hanoverians and Jacobites. The truth
is, I cannot promise them that this story shall be intelligible, not to
say probable, without it. My plan requires that I should explain the
motives on which its action proceeded; and these motives necessarily
arose from the feelings, prejudices, and parties of the times. I do not
invite my fair readers, whose sex and impatience give them the greatest
right to complain of these circumstances, into a flying chariot drawn
by hippogriffs, or moved by enchantment. Mine is a humble English
post-chaise, drawn upon four wheels, and keeping his Majesty’s highway.
Such as dislike the vehicle may leave it at the next halt, and wait for
the conveyance of Prince Hussein’s tapestry, or Malek the Weaver’s
flying sentrybox. Those who are contented to remain with me will be
occasionally exposed to the dulness inseparable from heavy roads, steep
hills, sloughs, and other terrestrial retardations; but with tolerable
horses and a civil driver (as the advertisements have it), I engage to
get as soon as possible into a more picturesque and romantic country,
if my passengers incline to have some patience with me during my first
stages.[*]
[* These Introductory Chapters have been a good deal censured as
tedious and unnecessary. Yet there are circumstances recorded in them
which the author has not been able to persuade himself to retrench or
cancel.]
CHAPTER VI.
THE ADIEUS OF WAVERLEY
It was upon the evening of this memorable Sunday that Sir Everard
entered the library, where he narrowly missed surprising our young hero
as he went through the guards of the broadsword with the ancient weapon
of old Sir Hildebrand, which, being preserved as an heirloom, usually
hung over the chimney in the library, beneath a picture of the knight
and his horse, where the features were almost entirely hidden by the
knight’s profusion of curled hair, and the Bucephalus which he bestrode
concealed by the voluminous robes of the Bath with which he was
decorated. Sir Everard entered, and after a glance at the picture and
another at his nephew, began a little speech, which, however, soon
dropt into the natural simplicity of his common manner, agitated upon
the present occasion by no common feeling. “Nephew,” he said; and then,
as mending his phrase, “My dear Edward, it is God’s will, and also the
will of your father, whom, under God, it is your duty to obey, that you
should leave us to take up the profession of arms, in which so many of
your ancestors have been distinguished. I have made such arrangements
as will enable you to take the field as their descendant, and as the
probable heir of the house of Waverley; and, sir, in the field of
battle you will remember what name you bear. And, Edward, my dear boy,
remember also that you are the last of that race, and the only hope of
its revival depends upon you; therefore, as far as duty and honour will
permit, avoid danger—I mean unnecessary danger—and keep no company with
rakes, gamblers, and Whigs, of whom, it is to be feared, there are but
too many in the service into which you are going. Your colonel, as I am
informed, is an excellent man—for a Presbyterian; but you will remember
your duty to God, the Church of England, and the—” (this breach ought
to have been supplied, according to the rubric, with the word “king;”
but as, unfortunately, that word conveyed a double and embarrassing
sense, one meaning _de facto_ and the other _de jure_, the knight
filled up the blank otherwise)—“the Church of England, and all
constituted authorities.” Then, not trusting himself with any further
oratory, he carried his nephew to his stables to see the horses
destined for his campaign. Two were black (the regimental colour),
superb chargers both; the other three were stout active hacks, designed
for the road, or for his domestics, of whom two were to attend him from
the Hall; an additional groom, if necessary, might be picked up in
Scotland.
“You will depart with but a small retinue,” quoth the Baronet,
“compared to Sir Hildebrand, when he mustered before the gate of the
Hall a larger body of horse than your whole regiment consists of. I
could have wished that these twenty young fellows from my estate, who
have enlisted in your troop, had been to march with you on your journey
to Scotland. It would have been something, at least; but I am told
their attendance would be thought unusual in these days, when every new
and foolish fashion is introduced to break the natural dependence of
the people upon their landlords.”
Sir Everard had done his best to correct this unnatural disposition of
the times; for he had brightened the chain of attachment between the
recruits and their young captain, not only by a copious repast of beef
and ale, by way of parting feast, but by such a pecuniary donation to
each individual as tended rather to improve the conviviality than the
discipline of their march. After inspecting the cavalry, Sir Everard
again conducted his nephew to the library, where he produced a letter,
carefully folded, surrounded by a little stripe of flox-silk, according
to ancient form, and sealed with an accurate impression of the Waverley
coat-of-arms. It was addressed, with great formality, “To Cosmo Comyne
Bradwardine, Esq., of Bradwardine, at his principal mansion of
Tully-Veolan, in Perthshire, North Britain. These—By the hands of
Captain Edward Waverley, nephew of Sir Everard Waverley, of
Waverley-Honour, Bart.”
The gentleman to whom this enormous greeting was addressed, of whom we
shall have more to say in the sequel, had been in arms for the exiled
family of Stuart in the year 1715, and was made prisoner at Preston in
Lancashire. He was of a very ancient family, and somewhat embarrassed
fortune; a scholar, according to the scholarship of Scotchmen, that is,
his learning was more diffuse than accurate, and he was rather a reader
than a grammarian. Of his zeal for the classic authors he is said to
have given an uncommon instance. On the road between Preston and
London, he made his escape from his guards; but being afterwards found
loitering near the place where they had lodged the former night, he was
recognised, and again arrested. His companions, and even his escort,
were surprised at his infatuation, and could not help inquiring, why,
being once at liberty, he had not made the best of his way to a place
of safety; to which he replied, that he had intended to do so, but, in
good faith, he had returned to seek his Titus Livius, which he had
forgot in the hurry of his escape.[3] The simplicity of this anecdote
struck the gentleman, who, as we before observed, had managed the
defence of some of those unfortunate persons, at the expense of Sir
Everard, and perhaps some others of the party. He was, besides, himself
a special admirer of the old Patavinian, and though probably his own
zeal might not have carried him such extravagant lengths, even to
recover the edition of Sweynheim and Pannartz (supposed to be the
_princeps_), he did not the less estimate the devotion of the North
Briton, and in consequence exerted himself to so much purpose to remove
and soften evidence, detect legal flaws, _et cetera_, that he
accomplished the final discharge and deliverance of Cosmo Comyne
Bradwardine from certain very awkward consequences of a plea before our
sovereign lord the king in Westminster.
The Baron of Bradwardine, for he was generally so called in Scotland
(although his intimates, from his place of residence, used to
denominate him Tully-Veolan, or more familiarly, Tully), no sooner
stood _rectus in curia_ than he posted down to pay his respects and
make his acknowledgments at Waverley-Honour. A congenial passion for
field-sports, and a general coincidence in political opinions, cemented
his friendship with Sir Everard, notwithstanding the difference of
their habits and studies in other particulars; and, having spent
several weeks at Waverley-Honour, the Baron departed with many
expressions of regard, warmly pressing the Baronet to return his visit,
and partake of the diversion of grouse-shooting, upon his moors in
Perthshire next season. Shortly after, Mr. Bradwardine remitted from
Scotland a sum in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the King’s High
Court of Westminster, which, although not quite so formidable when
reduced to the English denomination, had, in its original form of
Scotch pounds, shillings, and pence, such a formidable effect upon the
frame of Duncan Macwheeble, the laird’s confidential factor,
baron-bailie, and man of resource, that he had a fit of the cholic,
which lasted for five days, occasioned, he said, solely and utterly by
becoming the unhappy instrument of conveying such a serious sum of
money out of his native country into the hands of the false English.
But patriotism, as it is the fairest, so it is often the most
suspicious mask of other feelings; and many who knew Bailie Macwheeble
concluded that his professions of regret were not altogether
disinterested, and that he would have grudged the moneys paid to the
_loons_ at Westminster much less had they not come from Bradwardine
estate, a fund which he considered as more particularly his own. But
the Bailie protested he was absolutely disinterested—
“Woe, woe, for Scotland, not a whit for me!”
The laird was only rejoiced that his worthy friend, Sir Everard
Waverley of Waverley-Honour, was reimbursed of the expenditure which he
had outlaid on account of the house of Bradwardine. It concerned, he
said, the credit of his own family, and of the kingdom of Scotland at
large, that these disbursements should be repaid forthwith, and, if
delayed, it would be a matter of national reproach. Sir Everard,
accustomed to treat much larger sums with indifference, received the
remittance of £294, 13_s_. 6_d_. without being aware that the payment
was an international concern, and, indeed, would probably have forgot
the circumstance altogether, if Bailie Macwheeble had thought of
comforting his cholic by intercepting the subsidy. A yearly intercourse
took place, of a short letter and a hamper or a cask or two, between
Waverley-Honour and Tully-Veolan, the English exports consisting of
mighty cheeses and mightier ale, pheasants, and venison, and the
Scottish returns being vested in grouse, white hares, pickled salmon,
and usquebaugh; all which were meant, sent, and received as pledges of
constant friendship and amity between two important houses. It followed
as a matter of course, that the heir-apparent of Waverley-Honour could
not with propriety visit Scotland without being furnished with
credentials to the Baron of Bradwardine.
When this matter was explained and settled, Mr. Pembroke expressed his
wish to take a private and particular leave of his dear pupil. The good
man’s exhortations to Edward to preserve an unblemished life and
morals, to hold fast the principles of the Christian religion, and to
eschew the profane company of scoffers and latitudinarians, too much
abounding in the army, were not unmingled with his political
prejudices. It had pleased Heaven, he said, to place Scotland
(doubtless for the sins of their ancestors in 1642) in a more
deplorable state of darkness than even this unhappy kingdom of England.
Here, at least, although the candlestick of the Church of England had
been in some degree removed from its place, it yet afforded a
glimmering light; there was a hierarchy, though schismatical, and
fallen from the principles maintained by those great fathers of the
church, Sancroft and his brethren; there was a liturgy, though woefully
perverted in some of the principal petitions. But in Scotland it was
utter darkness; and, excepting a sorrowful, scattered, and persecuted
remnant, the pulpits were abandoned to Presbyterians, and, he feared,
to sectaries of every description. It should be his duty to fortify his
dear pupil to resist such unhallowed and pernicious doctrines in church
and state as must necessarily be forced at times upon his unwilling
ears.
Here he produced two immense folded packets, which appeared each to
contain a whole ream of closely written manuscript. They had been the
labour of the worthy man’s whole life; and never were labour and zeal
more absurdly wasted. He had at one time gone to London, with the
intention of giving them to the world, by the medium of a bookseller in
Little Britain, well known to deal in such commodities, and to whom he
was instructed to address himself in a particular phrase and with a
certain sign, which, it seems, passed at that time current among the
initiated Jacobites. The moment Mr. Pembroke had uttered the
Shibboleth, with the appropriate gesture, the bibliopolist greeted him,
notwithstanding every disclamation, by the title of Doctor, and
conveying him into his back shop, after inspecting every possible and
impossible place of concealment, he commenced: “Eh, Doctor!—Well—all
under the rose—snug—I keep no holes here even for a Hanoverian rat to
hide in. And, what—eh! any good news from our friends over the
water?—and how does the worthy King of France?—Or perhaps you are more
lately from Rome? it must be Rome will do it at last—the church must
light its candle at the old lamp.—Eh—what, cautious? I like you the
better; but no fear.”
Here Mr. Pembroke with some difficulty stopt a torrent of
interrogations, eked out with signs, nods, and winks; and, having at
length convinced the bookseller that he did him too much honour in
supposing him an emissary of exiled royalty, he explained his actual
business.
The man of books with a much more composed air proceeded to examine the
manuscripts. The title of the first was “A Dissent from Dissenters, or
the Comprehension confuted; showing the Impossibility of any
Composition between the Church and Puritans, Presbyterians, or
Sectaries of any Description; illustrated from the Scriptures, the
Fathers of the Church, and the soundest Controversial Divines.” To this
work the bookseller positively demurred. “Well meant,” he said, “and
learned, doubtless;” but the time had gone by. Printed on small-pica it
would run to eight hundred pages, and could never pay. Begged therefore
to be excused. Loved and honoured the true church from his soul, and,
had it been a sermon on the martyrdom, or any twelve-penny touch—“why,
I would venture something for the honour of the cloth. But come, let’s
see the other. ‘Right Hereditary righted!’—Ah! there’s some sense in
this. Hum—hum—hum—pages so many, paper so much, letter-press—Ah—I’ll
tell you, though, Doctor, you must knock out some of the Latin and
Greek; heavy, Doctor, damn’d heavy—(beg your pardon) and if you throw
in a few grains more pepper—I am he that never preached my author. I
have published for Drake and Charlwood Lawton, and poor Amhurst.[4] Ah,
Caleb! Caleb! Well, it was a shame to let poor Caleb starve, and so
many fat rectors and squires among us. I gave him a dinner once a week;
but, Lord love you, what’s once a week, when a man does not know where
to go the other six days? Well, but I must show the manuscript to
little Tom Alibi the solicitor, who manages all my law affairs—must
keep on the windy side; the mob were very uncivil the last time I
mounted in Old Palace Yard—all Whigs and Roundheads every man of them,
Williamites and Hanover rats.”
The next day Mr. Pembroke again called on the publisher, but found Tom
Alibi’s advice had determined him against undertaking the work. “Not
but what I would go to—(what was I going to say?) to the Plantations
for the church with pleasure—but, dear Doctor, I have a wife and
family; but, to show my zeal, I’ll recommend the job to my neighbour
Trimmel—he is a bachelor, and leaving off business, so a voyage in a
western barge would not inconvenience him.” But Mr. Trimmel was also
obdurate, and Mr. Pembroke, fortunately perchance for himself, was
compelled to return to Waverley-Honour with his treatise in vindication
of the real fundamental principles of church and state safely packed in
his saddle-bags.
As the public were thus likely to be deprived of the benefit arising
from his lucubrations by the selfish cowardice of the trade, Mr.
Pembroke resolved to make two copies of these tremendous manuscripts
for the use of his pupil. He felt that he had been indolent as a tutor,
and, besides, his conscience checked him for complying with the request
of Mr. Richard Waverley, that he would impress no sentiments upon
Edward’s mind inconsistent with the present settlement in church and
state. But now, thought he, I may, without breach of my word, since he
is no longer under my tuition, afford the youth the means of judging
for himself, and have only to dread his reproaches for so long
concealing the light which the perusal will flash upon his mind. While
he thus indulged the reveries of an author and a politician, his
darling proselyte, seeing nothing very inviting in the title of the
tracts, and appalled by the bulk and compact lines of the manuscript,
quietly consigned them to a corner of his travelling trunk.
Aunt Rachel’s farewell was brief and affectionate. She only cautioned
her dear Edward, whom she probably deemed somewhat susceptible, against
the fascination of Scottish beauty. She allowed that the northern part
of the island contained some ancient families, but they were all Whigs
and Presbyterians except the Highlanders; and respecting them she must
needs say, there could be no great delicacy among the ladies, where the
gentlemen’s usual attire was, as she had been assured, to say the
least, very singular, and not at all decorous. She concluded her
farewell with a kind and moving benediction, and gave the young
officer, as a pledge of her regard, a valuable diamond ring (often worn
by the male sex at that time), and a purse of broad gold-pieces, which
also were more common Sixty Years Since than they have been of late.
CHAPTER VII.
A HORSE-QUARTER IN SCOTLAND
The next morning, amid varied feelings, the chief of which was a
predominant, anxious, and even solemn impression, that he was now in a
great measure abandoned to his own guidance and direction, Edward
Waverley departed from the Hall amid the blessings and tears of all the
old domestics and the inhabitants of the village, mingled with some sly
petitions for sergeantcies and corporalships, and so forth, on the part
of those who professed that “they never thoft to ha’ seen Jacob, and
Giles, and Jonathan go off for soldiers, save to attend his honour, as
in duty bound.” Edward, as in duty bound, extricated himself from the
supplicants with the pledge of fewer promises than might have been
expected from a young man so little accustomed to the world. After a
short visit to London, he proceeded on horseback, then the general mode
of travelling, to Edinburgh, and from thence to Dundee, a seaport on
the eastern coast of Angus-shire, where his regiment was then
quartered.
He now entered upon a new world, where, for a time, all was beautiful
because all was new. Colonel Gardiner, the commanding officer of the
regiment, was himself a study for a romantic, and at the same time an
inquisitive youth. In person he was tall, handsome, and active, though
somewhat advanced in life. In his early years he had been what is
called, by manner of palliative, a very gay young man, and strange
stories were circulated about his sudden conversion from doubt, if not
infidelity, to a serious and even enthusiastic turn of mind. It was
whispered that a supernatural communication, of a nature obvious even
to the exterior senses, had produced this wonderful change; and though
some mentioned the proselyte as an enthusiast, none hinted at his being
a hypocrite. This singular and mystical circumstance gave Colonel
Gardiner a peculiar and solemn interest in the eyes of the young
soldier.[5] It may be easily imagined that the officers, of a regiment
commanded by so respectable a person composed a society more sedate and
orderly than a military mess always exhibits; and that Waverley escaped
some temptations to which he might otherwise have been exposed.
Meanwhile his military education proceeded. Already a good horseman, he
was now initiated into the arts of the manege, which, when carried to
perfection, almost realise the fable of the Centaur, the guidance of
the horse appearing to proceed from the rider’s mere volition, rather
than from the use of any external and apparent signal of motion. He
received also instructions in his field duty; but I must own, that when
his first ardour was past, his progress fell short in the latter
particular of what he wished and expected. The duty of an officer, the
most imposing of all others to the inexperienced mind, because
accompanied with so much outward pomp and circumstance, is in its
essence a very dry and abstract task, depending chiefly upon
arithmetical combinations, requiring much attention, and a cool and
reasoning head to bring them into action. Our hero was liable to fits
of absence, in which his blunders excited some mirth, and called down
some reproof. This circumstance impressed him with a painful sense of
inferiority in those qualities which appeared most to deserve and
obtain regard in his new profession. He asked himself in vain, why his
eye could not judge of distance or space so well as those of his
companions; why his head was not always successful in disentangling the
various partial movements necessary to execute a particular evolution;
and why his memory, so alert upon most occasions, did not correctly
retain technical phrases and minute points of etiquette or field
discipline. Waverley was naturally modest, and therefore did not fall
into the egregious mistake of supposing such minuter rules of military
duty beneath his notice, or conceiting himself to be born a general,
because he made an indifferent subaltern. The truth was, that the vague
and unsatisfactory course of reading which he had pursued, working upon
a temper naturally retired and abstracted, had given him that wavering
and unsettled habit of mind which is most averse to study and riveted
attention. Time, in the mean while, hung heavy on his hands. The gentry
of the neighbourhood were disaffected, and showed little hospitality to
the military guests; and the people of the town, chiefly engaged in
mercantile pursuits, were not such as Waverley chose to associate with.
The arrival of summer, and a curiosity to know something more of
Scotland than he could see in a ride from his quarters, determined him
to request leave of absence for a few weeks. He resolved first to visit
his uncle’s ancient friend and correspondent, with the purpose of
extending or shortening the time of his residence according to
circumstances. He travelled of course on horse-back, and with a single
attendant, and passed his first night at a miserable inn, where the
landlady had neither shoes nor stockings, and the landlord, who called
himself a gentleman, was disposed to be rude to his guest, because he
had not bespoke the pleasure of his society to supper.[6] The next day,
traversing an open and uninclosed country, Edward gradually approached
the Highlands of Perthshire, which at first had appeared a blue outline
in the horizon, but now swelled into huge gigantic masses, which
frowned defiance over the more level country that lay beneath them.
Near the bottom of this stupendous barrier, but still in the Lowland
country, dwelt Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine of Bradwardine; and, if
grey-haired eld can be in aught believed, there had dwelt his
ancestors, with all their heritage, since the days of the gracious King
Duncan.
CHAPTER VIII.
A SCOTTISH MANOR-HOUSE SIXTY YEARS SINCE
It was about noon when Captain Waverley entered the straggling village,
or rather hamlet, of Tully-Veolan, close to which was situated the
mansion of the proprietor. The houses seemed miserable in the extreme,
especially to an eye accustomed to the smiling neatness of English
cottages. They stood, without any respect for regularity, on each side
of a straggling kind of unpaved street, where children, almost in a
primitive state of nakedness, lay sprawling, as if to be crushed by the
hoofs of the first passing horse. Occasionally, indeed, when such a
consummation seemed inevitable, a watchful old grandam, with her close
cap, distaff, and spindle, rushed like a sibyl in frenzy out of one of
these miserable cells, dashed into the middle of the path, and
snatching up her own charge from among the sunburnt loiterers, saluted
him with a sound cuff, and transported him back to his dungeon, the
little white-headed varlet screaming all the while, from the very top
of his lungs, a shrilly treble to the growling remonstrances of the
enraged matron. Another part in this concert was sustained by the
incessant yelping of a score of idle useless curs, which followed,
snarling, barking, howling, and snapping at the horses’ heels; a
nuisance at that time so common in Scotland, that a French tourist,
who, like other travellers, longed to find a good and rational reason
for everything he saw, has recorded, as one of the memorabilia of
Caledonia, that the state maintained, in each village a relay of curs,
called _collies_, whose duty it was to chase the _chevaux de poste_
(too starved and exhausted to move without such a stimulus) from one
hamlet to another, till their annoying convoy drove them to the end of
their stage. The evil and remedy (such as it is) still exist. But this
is remote from our present purpose, and is only thrown out for
consideration of the collectors under Mr. Dent’s Dog Bill.
As Waverley moved on, here and there an old man, bent as much by toil
as years, his eyes bleared with age and smoke, tottered to the door of
his hut, to gaze on the dress of the stranger and the form and motions
of the horses, and then assembled, with his neighbours, in a little
group at the smithy, to discuss the probabilities of whence the
stranger came and where he might be going. Three or four village girls,
returning from the well or brook with pitchers and pails upon their
heads, formed more pleasing objects, and, with their thin short-gowns
and single petticoats, bare arms, legs, and feet, uncovered heads and
braided hair, somewhat resembled Italian forms of landscape. Nor could
a lover of the picturesque have challenged either the elegance of their
costume or the symmetry of their shape; although, to say the truth, a
mere Englishman in search of the “comfortable”,—a word peculiar to his
native tongue, might have wished the clothes less scanty, the feet and
legs somewhat protected from the weather, the head and complexion
shrouded from the sun, or perhaps might even have thought the whole
person and dress considerably improved by a plentiful application of
spring water, with a _quantum sufficit_ of soap. The whole scene was
depressing; for it argued, at the first glance, at least a stagnation
of industry, and perhaps of intellect. Even curiosity, the busiest
passion of the idle, seemed of a listless cast in the village of
Tully-Veolan: the curs aforesaid alone showed any part of its activity;
with the villagers it was passive. They stood, and gazed at the
handsome young officer and his attendant, but without any of those
quick motions and eager looks that indicate the earnestness with which
those who live in monotonous ease at home look out for amusement
abroad. Yet the physiognomy of the people, when more closely examined,
was far from exhibiting the indifference of stupidity; their features
were rough, but remarkably intelligent; grave, but the very reverse of
stupid; and from among the young women an artist might have chosen more
than one model whose features and form resembled those of Minerva. The
children also, whose skins were burnt black, and whose hair was
bleached white, by the influence of the sun, had a look and manner of
life and interest. It seemed, upon the whole, as if poverty, and
indolence, its too frequent companion, were combining to depress the
natural genius and acquired information of a hardy, intelligent, and
reflecting peasantry.
Some such thoughts crossed Waverley’s mind as he paced his horse slowly
through the rugged and flinty street of Tully-Veolan, interrupted only
in his meditations by the occasional caprioles which his charger
exhibited at the reiterated assaults of those canine Cossacks, the
_collies_ before mentioned. The village was more than half a mile long,
the cottages being irregularly divided from each other by gardens, or
yards, as the inhabitants called them, of different sizes, where (for
it is Sixty Years Since) the now universal potato was unknown, but
which were stored with gigantic plants of _kale_ or colewort, encircled
with groves of nettles, and exhibited here and there a huge hemlock, or
the national thistle, overshadowing a quarter of the petty inclosure.
The broken ground on which the village was built had never been
levelled; so that these inclosures presented declivities of every
degree, here rising like terraces, there sinking like tan-pits. The
dry-stone walls which fenced, or seemed to fence (for they were sorely
breached), these hanging gardens of Tully-Veolan were intersected by a
narrow lane leading to the common field, where the joint labour of the
villagers cultivated alternate ridges and patches of rye, oats, barley,
and pease, each of such minute extent that at a little distance the
unprofitable variety of the surface resembled a tailor’s book of
patterns. In a few favoured instances, there appeared behind the
cottages a miserable wigwam, compiled of earth, loose stones, and turf,
where the wealthy might perhaps shelter a starved cow or sorely galled
horse. But almost every hut was fenced in front by a huge black stack
of turf on one side of the door, while on the other the family dunghill
ascended in noble emulation.
[Illustration: Tully-Veolan]
About a bowshot from the end of the village appeared the inclosures
proudly denominated the Parks of Tully-Veolan, being certain square
fields, surrounded and divided by stone walls five feet in height. In
the centre of the exterior barrier was the upper gate of the avenue,
opening under an archway, battlemented on the top, and adorned with two
large weather-beaten mutilated masses of upright stone, which, if the
tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, at
least had been once designed to represent, two rampant Bears, the
supporters of the family of Bradwardine. This avenue was straight and
of moderate length, running between a double row of very ancient
horse-chestnuts, planted alternately with sycamores, which rose to such
huge height, and flourished so luxuriantly, that their boughs completely
over-arched the broad road beneath. Beyond these venerable ranks, and
running parallel to them, were two high walls, of apparently the like
antiquity, overgrown with ivy, honeysuckle, and other climbing plants.
The avenue seemed very little trodden, and chiefly by foot-passengers;
so that being very broad, and enjoying a constant shade, it was clothed
with grass of a deep and rich verdure, excepting where a foot-path,
worn by occasional passengers, tracked with a natural sweep the way
from the upper to the lower gate. This nether portal, like the former,
opened in front of a wall ornamented with some rude sculpture, with
battlements on the top, over which were seen, half-hidden by the trees
of the avenue, the high steep roofs and narrow gables of the mansion,
with lines indented into steps, and corners decorated with small
turrets. One of the folding leaves of the lower gate was open, and as
the sun shone full into the court behind, a long line of brilliancy was
flung upon the aperture up the dark and gloomy avenue. It was one of
those effects which a painter loves to represent, and mingled well with
the struggling light which found its way between the boughs of the
shady arch that vaulted the broad green alley.
The solitude and repose of the whole scene seemed almost monastic; and
Waverley, who had given his horse to his servant on entering the first
gate, walked slowly down the avenue, enjoying the grateful and cooling
shade, and so much pleased with the placid ideas of rest and seclusion
excited by this confined and quiet scene, that he forgot the misery and
dirt of the hamlet he had left behind him. The opening into the paved
court-yard corresponded with the rest of the scene. The house, which
seemed to consist of two or three high, narrow, and steep-roofed
buildings, projecting from each other at right angles, formed one side
of the inclosure. It had been built at a period when castles were no
longer necessary, and when the Scottish architects had not yet acquired
the art of designing a domestic residence. The windows were numberless,
but very small; the roof had some nondescript kind of projections,
called bartizans, and displayed at each frequent angle a small turret,
rather resembling a pepper-box than a Gothic watchtower. Neither did
the front indicate absolute security from danger. There were loop-holes
for musketry, and iron stanchions on the lower windows, probably to
repel any roving band of gypsies, or resist a predatory visit from the
caterans of the neighbouring Highlands. Stables and other offices
occupied another side of the square. The former were low vaults, with
narrow slits instead of windows, resembling, as Edward’s groom
observed, “rather a prison for murderers, and larceners, and such like
as are tried at ’sizes, than a place for any Christian cattle.” Above
these dungeon-looking stables were granaries, called girnels, and other
offices, to which there was access by outside stairs of heavy masonry.
Two battlemented walls, one of which faced the avenue, and the other
divided the court from the garden, completed the inclosure.
Nor was the court without its ornaments. In one corner was a
tun-bellied pigeon-house, of great size and rotundity, resembling in
figure and proportion the curious edifice called Arthur’s Oven, which
would have turned the brains of all the antiquaries in England, had not
the worthy proprietor pulled it down for the sake of mending a
neighbouring dam-dyke. This dove-cot, or columbarium, as the owner
called it, was no small resource to a Scottish laird of that period,
whose scanty rents were eked out by the contributions levied upon the
farms by these light foragers, and the conscriptions exacted from the
latter for the benefit of the table.
Another corner of the court displayed a fountain, where a huge bear,
carved in stone, predominated over a large stone-basin, into which he
disgorged the water. This work of art was the wonder of the country ten
miles round. It must not be forgotten, that all sorts of bears, small
and large, demi or in full proportion, were carved over the windows,
upon the ends of the gables, terminated the spouts, and supported the
turrets, with the ancient family motto, =Bewar the Bar=, cut under each
hyperborean form. The court was spacious, well paved, and perfectly
clean, there being probably another entrance behind the stables for
removing the litter. Everything around appeared solitary, and would
have been silent, but for the continued plashing of the fountain; and
the whole scene still maintained the monastic illusion which the fancy
of Waverley had conjured up. And here we beg permission to close a
chapter of still life.[7]
CHAPTER IX.
MORE OF THE MANOR-HOUSE AND ITS ENVIRONS
After having satisfied his curiosity by gazing around him for a few
minutes, Waverley applied himself to the massive knocker of the
hall-door, the architrave of which bore the date 1594. But no answer
was returned, though the peal resounded through a number of apartments,
and was echoed from the court-yard walls without the house, startling
the pigeons from the venerable rotunda which they occupied, and
alarming anew even the distant village curs, which had retired to sleep
upon their respective dunghills. Tired of the din which he created, and
the unprofitable responses which it excited, Waverley began to think
that he had reached the castle of Orgoglio as entered by the victorious
Prince Arthur,—
When ’gan he loudly through the house to call,
But no man cared to answer to his cry;
There reign’d a solemn silence over all,
Nor voice was heard, nor wight was seen in bower or hall.
Filled almost with expectation of beholding some “old, old man, with
beard as white as snow,” whom he might question concerning this
deserted mansion, our hero turned to a little oaken wicket-door, well
clenched with iron-nails, which opened in the court-yard wall at its
angle with the house. It was only latched, notwithstanding its
fortified appearance, and, when opened, admitted him into the garden,
which presented a pleasant scene.[*] The southern side of the house,
clothed with fruit-trees, and having many evergreens trained upon its
walls, extended its irregular yet venerable front along a terrace,
partly paved, partly gravelled, partly bordered with flowers and choice
shrubs. This elevation descended by three several flights of steps,
placed in its centre and at the extremities, into what might be called
the garden proper, and was fenced along the top by a stone parapet with
a heavy balustrade, ornamented from space to space with huge grotesque
figures of animals seated upon their haunches, among which the
favourite bear was repeatedly introduced. Placed in the middle of the
terrace between a sashed-door opening from the house and the central
flight of steps, a huge animal of the same species supported on his
head and fore-paws a sun-dial of large circumference, inscribed with
more diagrams than Edward’s mathematics enabled him to decipher.
[* At Ravelston may be seen such a garden, which the taste of the
proprietor, the author’s friend and kinsman, Sir Alexander Keith,
Knight Mareschal, has judiciously preserved. That, as well as the house
is, however, of smaller dimensions than the Baron of Bradwardine’s
mansion and garden are presumed to have been.]
The garden, which seemed to be kept with great accuracy, abounded in
fruit-trees, and exhibited a profusion of flowers and evergreens, cut
into grotesque forms. It was laid out in terraces, which descended rank
by rank from the western wall to a large brook, which had a tranquil
and smooth appearance, where it served as a boundary to the garden;
but, near the extremity, leapt in tumult over a strong dam, or
wear-head, the cause of its temporary tranquillity, and there forming a
cascade, was overlooked by an octangular summer-house, with a gilded
bear on the top by way of vane. After this feat, the brook, assuming
its natural rapid and fierce character, escaped from the eye down a
deep and wooded dell, from the copse of which arose a massive, but
ruinous tower, the former habitation of the Barons of Bradwardine. The
margin of the brook, opposite to the garden, displayed a narrow meadow,
or haugh, as it was called, which formed a small washing-green; the
bank, which retired behind it, was covered by ancient trees.
The scene, though pleasing, was not quite equal to the gardens of
Alcina; yet wanted not the “due donzellette garrule” of that enchanted
paradise, for upon the green aforesaid two bare-legged damsels, each
standing in a spacious tub, performed with their feet the office of a
patent washing-machine. These did not, however, like the maidens of
Armida, remain to greet with their harmony the approaching guest, but,
alarmed at the appearance of a handsome stranger on the opposite side,
dropped their garments (I should say garment, to be quite correct) over
their limbs, which their occupation exposed somewhat too freely, and,
with a shrill exclamation of “Eh, sirs!” uttered with an accent between
modesty and coquetry, sprung off like deer in different directions.
[Illustration]
Waverley began to despair of gaining entrance into this solitary and
seemingly enchanted mansion, when a man advanced up one of the garden
alleys, where he still retained his station. Trusting this might be a
gardener, or some domestic belonging to the house, Edward descended the
steps in order to meet him; but as the figure approached, and long
before he could descry its features, he was struck with the oddity of
its appearance and gestures. Sometimes this mister wight held his hands
clasped over his head, like an Indian Jogue in the attitude of penance;
sometimes he swung them perpendicularly, like a pendulum, on each side;
and anon he slapped them swiftly and repeatedly across his breast, like
the substitute used by a hackney-coachman for his usual flogging
exercise, when his cattle are idle upon the stand, in a clear frosty
day. His gait was as singular as his gestures, for at times he hopped
with great perseverance on the right foot, then exchanged that
supporter to advance in the same manner on the left, and then putting
his feet close together he hopped upon both at once. His attire also
was antiquated and extravagant. It consisted in a sort of grey jerkin,
with scarlet cuffs and slashed sleeves, showing a scarlet lining; the
other parts of the dress corresponded in colour, not forgetting a pair
of scarlet stockings, and a scarlet bonnet, proudly surmounted with a
turkey’s feather. Edward, whom he did not seem to observe, now
perceived confirmation in his features of what the mien and gestures
had already announced. It was apparently neither idiocy nor insanity
which gave that wild, unsettled, irregular expression to a face which
naturally was rather handsome, but something that resembled a compound
of both, where the simplicity of the fool was mixed with the
extravagance of a crazed imagination. He sung with great earnestness,
and not without some taste, a fragment of an old Scottish ditty:—
False love, and hast thou play’d me this
In summer among the flowers?
I will repay thee back again
In winter among the showers.
Unless again, again, my love,
Unless you turn again;
As you with other maidens rove,
I’ll smile on other men.[*]
[* This is a genuine ancient fragment, with some alteration in the two
last lines.]
Here lifting up his eyes, which had hitherto been fixed in observing
how his feet kept time to the tune, he beheld Waverley, and instantly
doffed his cap, with many grotesque signals of surprise, respect, and
salutation. Edward, though with little hope of receiving an answer to
any constant question, requested to know whether Mr. Bradwardine were
at home, or where he could find any of the domestics. The questioned
party replied, and, like the witch of Thalaba, “still his speech was
song,”—
The Knight’s to the mountain
His bugle to wind;
The Lady’s to greenwood
Her garland to bind.
The bower of Burd Ellen
Has moss on the floor,
That the step of Lord William
Be silent and sure.
This conveyed no information, and Edward, repeating his queries,
received a rapid answer, in which, from the haste and peculiarity of
the dialect, the word “butler” was alone intelligible. Waverley then
requested to see the butler; upon which the fellow, with a knowing look
and nod of intelligence, made a signal to Edward to follow, and began
to dance and caper down the alley up which he had made his approaches.
A strange guide this, thought Edward, and not much unlike one of
Shakespeare’s roynish clowns. I am not over prudent to trust to his
pilotage; but wiser men have been led by fools. By this time he reached
the bottom of the alley, where, turning short on a little parterre of
flowers, shrouded from the east and north by a close yew hedge, he
found an old man at work without his coat, whose appearance hovered
between that of an upper servant and gardener; his red nose and ruffled
shirt belonging to the former profession; his hale and sunburnt visage,
with his green apron, appearing to indicate
“Old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden.”
The major domo, for such he was, and indisputably the second officer of
state in the barony (nay, as chief minister of the interior, superior
even to Bailie Macwheeble in his own department of the kitchen and
cellar)—the major domo laid down his spade, slipped on his coat in
haste, and with a wrathful look at Edward’s guide, probably excited by
his having introduced a stranger while he was engaged in this
laborious, and, as he might suppose it, degrading office, requested to
know the gentleman’s commands. Being informed that he wished to pay his
respects to his master, that his name was Waverley, and so forth, the
old man’s countenance assumed a great deal of respectful importance.
“He could take it upon his conscience to say, his honour would have
exceeding pleasure in seeing him. Would not Mr. Waverley choose some
refreshment after his journey? His honour was with the folk who were
getting doon the dark hag; the twa gardener lads (an emphasis on the
word twa) had been ordered to attend him; and he had been just amusing
himself in the mean time with dressing Miss Rose’s flower-bed, that he
might be near to receive his honour’s orders, if need were; he was very
fond of a garden, but had little time for such divertisements.”
“He canna get it wrought in abune twa days in the week at no rate
whatever,” said Edward’s fantastic conductor.
A grim look from the butler chastised his interference, and he
commanded him, by the name of Davie Gellatley, in a tone which admitted
no discussion, to look for his honour at the dark hag, and tell him
there was a gentleman from the south had arrived at the Ha’.
“Can this poor fellow deliver a letter?” asked Edward.
“With all fidelity, sir, to any one whom he respects. I would hardly
trust him with a long message by word of mouth—though he is more knave
than fool.”
Waverley delivered his credentials to Mr. Gellatley, who seemed to
confirm the butler’s last observation, by twisting his features at him,
when he was looking another way, into the resemblance of the grotesque
face on the bole of a German tobacco pipe; after which, with an odd
_congé_ to Waverley, he danced off to discharge his errand.
“He is an innocent, sir,” said the butler; “there is one such in almost
every town in the country, but ours is brought far ben. He used to work
a day’s turn weel enough; but he helped Miss Rose when she was flemit
with the Laird of Killancureit’s new English bull, and since that time
we ca’ him Davie Do-little; indeed we might ca’ him Davie Do-naething,
for since he got that gay clothing, to please his honour and my young
mistress (great folks will have their fancies), he has done naething
but dance up and down about the _toun_, without doing a single turn,
unless trimming the laird’s fishing-wand or busking his flies, or may
be catching a dish of trouts at an orra time. But here comes Miss Rose,
who, I take burden upon me for her, will be especial glad to see one of
the house of Waverley at her father’s mansion of Tully-Veolan.”
But Rose Bradwardine deserves better of her unworthy historian than to
be introduced at the end of a chapter.
In the mean while it may be noticed, that Waverley learned two things
from this colloquy: that in Scotland a single house was called a
“town”, and a natural fool an “innocent”.[8]
CHAPTER X.
ROSE BRADWARDINE AND HER FATHER
Miss Bradwardine was but seventeen; yet, at the last races of the
county town of——, upon her health being proposed among a round of
beauties, the Laird of Bumperquaigh, permanent toast-master and
croupier of the Bautherwhillery Club, not only said “More” to the
pledge in a pint bumper of Bourdeaux, but, ere pouring forth the
libation, denominated the divinity to whom it was dedicated, “the Rose
of Tully-Veolan”; upon which festive occasion three cheers were given
by all the sitting members of that respectable society, whose throats
the wine had left capable of such exertion. Nay, I am well assured,
that the sleeping partners of the company snorted applause, and that
although strong bumpers and weak brains had consigned two or three to
the floor, yet even these, fallen as they were from their high estate,
and weltering—I will carry the parody no farther—uttered divers
inarticulate sounds, intimating their assent to the motion.
Such unanimous applause could not be extorted but by acknowledged
merit; and Rose Bradwardine not only deserved it, but also the
approbation of much more rational persons than the Bautherwhillery Club
could have mustered, even before discussion of the first _magnum_. She
was indeed a very pretty girl of the Scotch cast of beauty, that is,
with a profusion of hair of paley gold, and a skin like the snow of her
own mountains in whiteness. Yet she had not a pallid or pensive cast of
countenance; her features, as well as her temper, had a lively
expression; her complexion, though not florid, was so pure as to seem
transparent, and the slightest emotion sent her whole blood at once to
her face and neck. Her form, though under the common size, was
remarkably elegant, and her motions light, easy, and unembarrassed. She
came from another part of the garden to receive Captain Waverley, with
a manner that hovered between bashfulness and courtesy.
The first greetings past, Edward learned from her that the _dark hag_,
which had somewhat puzzled him in the butler’s account of his master’s
avocations, had nothing to do either with a black cat or a broomstick,
but was simply a portion of oak copse which was to be felled that day.
She offered, with diffident civility, to show the stranger the way to
the spot, which, it seems, was not far distant; but they were prevented
by the appearance of the Baron of Bradwardine in person, who, summoned
by David Gellatley, now appeared, “on hospitable thoughts intent,”
clearing the ground at a prodigious rate with swift and long strides,
which reminded Waverley of the seven-league boots of the nursery fable.
He was a tall, thin, athletic figure, old indeed and grey-haired, but
with every muscle rendered as tough as whip-cord by constant exercise.
He was dressed carelessly, and more like a Frenchman than an Englishman
of the period, while, from his hard features and perpendicular rigidity
of stature, he bore some resemblance to a Swiss officer of the guards,
who had resided some time at Paris, and caught the _costume_, but not
the ease or manner, of its inhabitants. The truth was, that his
language and habits were as heterogeneous as his external appearance.
Owing to his natural disposition to study, or perhaps to a very general
Scottish fashion of giving young men of rank a legal education, he had
been bred with a view to the bar. But the politics of his family
precluding the hope of his rising in that profession, Mr. Bradwardine
travelled with high reputation for several years, and made some
campaigns in foreign service. After his _démêlée_ with the law of high
treason in 1715, he had lived in retirement, conversing almost entirely
with those of his own principles in the vicinage. The pedantry of the
lawyer, superinduced upon the military pride of the soldier, might
remind a modern of the days of the zealous volunteer service, when the
bar-gown of our pleaders was often flung over a blazing uniform. To
this must be added the prejudices of ancient birth and Jacobite
politics, greatly strengthened by habits of solitary and secluded
authority, which, though exercised only within the bounds of his
half-cultivated estate, was there indisputable and undisputed. For, as
he used to observe, “the lands of Bradwardine, Tully-Veolan, and
others, had been erected into a free barony by a charter from David the
First, cum liberali potest. habendi curias et justicias, cum fossa et
furca (_lie_, pit and gallows) et saka et soka, et thol et theam, et
infang-thief et outfang-thief, sive hand-habend, sive bak-barand.” The
peculiar meaning of all these cabalistical words few or none could
explain; but they implied, upon the whole, that the Baron of
Bradwardine might, in case of delinquency, imprison, try, and execute
his vassals at his pleasure. Like James the First, however, the present
possessor of this authority was more pleased in talking about
prerogative than in exercising it; and excepting that he imprisoned two
poachers in the dungeon of the old tower of Tully-Veolan, where they
were sorely frightened by ghosts, and almost eaten by rats, and that he
set an old woman in the _jougs_ (or Scottish pillory) for saying “there
were mair fules in the laird’s ha’ house than Davie Gellatley,” I do
not learn that he was accused of abusing his high powers. Still,
however, the conscious pride of possessing them gave additional
importance to his language and deportment.
At his first address to Waverley, it would seem that the hearty
pleasure he felt to behold the nephew of his friend had somewhat
discomposed the stiff and upright dignity of the Baron of Bradwardine’s
demeanour, for the tears stood in the old gentleman’s eyes, when,
having first shaken Edward heartily by the hand in the English fashion,
he embraced him _à la mode Française_, and kissed him on both sides of
his face; while the hardness of his gripe, and the quantity of Scotch
snuff which his accolade communicated, called corresponding drops of
moisture to the eyes of his guest.
“Upon the honour of a gentleman,” he said, “but it makes me young again
to see you here, Mr. Waverley! A worthy scion of the old stock of
Waverley-Honour—_spes altera_, as Maro hath it—and you have the look of
the old line, Captain Waverley; not so portly yet as my old friend Sir
Everard—_mais cela viendra avec le temps_, as my Dutch acquaintance,
Baron Kikkitbroeck, said of the _sagesse of madame son épouse_. And so
ye have mounted the cockade? Right, right; though I could have wished
the colour different, and so I would ha’ deemed might Sir Everard. But
no more of that; I am old, and times are changed. And how does the
worthy knight baronet, and the fair Mrs. Rachel?—Ah, ye laugh, young
man! In troth she was the fair Mrs. Rachel in the year of grace
seventeen hundred and sixteen; but time passes—_et singula prædantur
anni_—that is most certain. But once again ye are most heartily welcome
to my poor house of Tully-Veolan! Hie to the house, Rose, and see that
Alexander Saunderson looks out the old Château Margaux, which I sent
from Bourdeaux to Dundee in the year 1713.”
Rose tripped off demurely enough till she turned the first corner, and
then ran with the speed of a fairy, that she might gain leisure, after
discharging her father’s commission, to put her own dress in order, and
produce all her little finery, an occupation for which the approaching
dinner-hour left but limited time.
“We cannot rival the luxuries of your English table, Captain Waverley,
or give you the _epulæ lautiores_ of Waverley-Honour. I say ‘epulæ’
rather than prandium, because the latter phrase is popular: epulae ad
senatum, prandium vero ad populum attinet, says Suetonius Tranquillus.
But I trust ye will applaud my Bourdeaux; _c’est des doux oreilles_, as
Captain Vinsauf used to say; _vinum primæ notæ_, the principal of Saint
Andrews denominated it. And, once more, Captain Waverley, right glad am
I that ye are here to drink the best my cellar can make forthcoming.”
This speech, with the necessary interjectional answers, continued from
the lower alley where they met up to the door of the house, where four
or five servants in old-fashioned liveries, headed by Alexander
Saunderson, the butler, who now bore no token of the sable stains of
the garden, received them in grand _costume_,
In an old hall hung round with pikes and with bows,
With old bucklers and corslets that had borne many shrewd blows.
With much ceremony, and still more real kindness, the Baron, without
stopping in any intermediate apartment, conducted his guest through
several into the great dining parlour, wainscotted with black oak, and
hung round with the pictures of his ancestry, where a table was set
forth in form for six persons, and an old-fashioned beaufet displayed
all the ancient and massive plate of the Bradwardine family. A bell was
now heard at the head of the avenue; for an old man, who acted as
porter upon gala days, had caught the alarm given by Waverley’s
arrival, and, repairing to his post, announced the arrival of other
guests.
These, as the Baron assured his young friend, were very estimable
persons. “There was the young Laird of Balmawhapple, a Falconer by
surname, of the house of Glenfarquhar, given right much to
field-sports—_gaudet equis et canibus_—but a very discreet young
gentleman. Then there was the Laird of Killancureit, who had devoted
his leisure _until_ tillage and agriculture, and boasted himself to be
possessed of a bull of matchless merit, brought from the county of
Devon (the Damnonia of the Romans, if we can trust Robert of
Cirencester). He is, as ye may well suppose from such a tendency, but
of yeoman extraction—_servabit odorem testa diu;_ and I believe,
between ourselves, his grandsire was from the wrong side of the
Border—one Bullsegg, who came hither as a steward, or bailiff, or
ground-officer, or something in that department, to the last Girnigo of
Killancureit, who died of an atrophy. After his master’s death, sir,—ye
would hardly believe such a scandal,—but this Bullsegg, being portly
and comely of aspect, intermarried with the lady dowager, who was young
and amorous, and possessed himself of the estate, which devolved on
this unhappy woman by a settlement of her umwhile husband, in direct
contravention of an unrecorded taillie, and to the prejudice of the
disponer’s own flesh and blood, in the person of his natural heir and
seventh cousin, Girnigo of Tipperhewit, whose family was so reduced by
the ensuing law-suit, that his representative is now serving as a
private gentleman-sentinel in the Highland Black Watch. But this
gentleman, Mr. Bullsegg of Killancureit that now is, has good blood in
his veins by the mother and grandmother, who were both of the family of
Pickletillim, and he is well liked and looked upon, and knows his own
place. And God forbid, Captain Waverley, that we of irreproachable
lineage should exult over him, when it may be, that in the eighth,
ninth, or tenth generation, his progeny may rank, in a manner, with the
old gentry of the country. Rank and ancestry, sir, should be the last
words in the mouths of us of unblemished race—_vix ea nostra voco_, as
Naso saith. There is, besides, a clergyman of the true (though
suffering) Episcopal church of Scotland. He was a confessor in her
cause after the year 1715, when a Whiggish mob destroyed his
meeting-house, tore his surplice, and plundered his dwelling-house of
four silver spoons, intromitting also with his mart and his mealark,
and with two barrels, one of single and one of double ale, besides
three bottles of brandy.[9] My baron-bailie and doer, Mr. Duncan
Macwheeble, is the fourth on our list. There is a question, owing to
the incertitude of ancient orthography, whether he belongs to the clan
of Wheedle or of Quibble, but both have produced persons eminent in the
law.”—
“As such he described them by person and name,
They enter’d, and dinner was served as they came.”
CHAPTER XI.
THE BANQUET
The entertainment was ample and handsome, according to the Scotch ideas
of the period, and the guests did great honour to it. The Baron ate
like a famished soldier, the Laird of Balmawhapple like a sportsman,
Bullsegg of Killancureit like a farmer, Waverley himself like a
traveller, and Bailie Macwheeble like all four together; though, either
out of more respect, or in order to preserve that proper declination of
person which showed a sense that he was in the presence of his patron,
he sat upon the edge of his chair, placed at three feet distance from
the table, and achieved a communication with his plate by projecting
his person towards it in a line which obliqued from the bottom of his
spine, so that the person who sat opposite to him could only see the
foretop of his riding periwig.
This stooping position might have been inconvenient to another person;
but long habit made it, whether seated or walking, perfectly easy to
the worthy Bailie. In the latter posture it occasioned, no doubt, an
unseemly projection of the person towards those who happened to walk
behind; but those being at all times his inferiors (for Mr. Macwheeble
was very scrupulous in giving place to all others), he cared very
little what inference of contempt or slight regard they might derive
from the circumstance. Hence, when he waddled across the court to and
from his old grey pony, he somewhat resembled a turnspit walking upon
its hind legs.
The nonjuring clergyman was a pensive and interesting old man, with
much of the air of a sufferer for conscience’ sake. He was one of those
“Who, undeprived, their benefice forsook.”
For this whim, when the Baron was out of hearing, the Bailie used
sometimes gently to rally Mr. Rubrick, upbraiding him with the nicety
of his scruples. Indeed, it must be owned, that he himself, though at
heart a keen partisan of the exiled family, had kept pretty fair with
all the different turns of state in his time; so that Davie Gellatley
once described him as a particularly good man, who had a very quiet and
peaceful conscience, _that never did him any harm_.
When the dinner was removed, the Baron announced the health of the
King, politely leaving to the consciences of his guests to drink to the
sovereign _de facto_ or _de jure_, as their politics inclined. The
conversation now became general; and, shortly afterwards, Miss
Bradwardine, who had done the honours with natural grace and
simplicity, retired, and was soon followed by the clergyman. Among the
rest of the party, the wine, which fully justified the encomiums of the
landlord, flowed freely round, although Waverley, with some difficulty,
obtained the privilege of sometimes neglecting the glass. At length, as
the evening grew more late, the Baron made a private signal to Mr.
Saunders Saunderson, or, as he facetiously denominated him, _Alexander
ab Alexandro_, who left the room with a nod, and soon after returned,
his grave countenance mantling with a solemn and mysterious smile, and
placed before his master a small oaken casket, mounted with brass
ornaments of curious form. The Baron, drawing out a private key,
unlocked the casket, raised the lid, and produced a golden goblet of a
singular and antique appearance, moulded into the shape of a rampant
bear, which the owner regarded with a look of mingled reverence, pride,
and delight, that irresistibly reminded Waverley of Ben Jonson’s Tom
Otter, with his Bull, Horse, and Dog, as that wag wittily denominated
his chief carousing cups. But Mr. Bradwardine, turning towards him with
complacency, requested him to observe this curious relic of the olden
time.
“It represents,” he said, “the chosen crest of our family, a bear, as
ye observe, and _rampant;_ because a good herald will depict every
animal in its noblest posture, as a horse _salient_, a greyhound
_currant_, and, as may be inferred, a ravenous animal _in actu
ferociori_, or in a voracious, lacerating, and devouring posture. Now,
sir, we hold this most honourable achievement by the wappen-brief, or
concession of arms, of Frederick Red-beard, Emperor of Germany, to my
predecessor, Godmund Bradwardine, it being the crest of a gigantic
Dane, whom he slew in the lists in the Holy Land, on a quarrel touching
the chastity of the emperor’s spouse or daughter, tradition saith not
precisely which, and thus, as Virgilius hath it—
“‘Mutemus clypeos, Danaumque insignia nobis
Aptemus.’
Then for the cup, Captain Waverley, it was wrought by the command of
Saint Duthac, Abbot of Aberbrothock, for behoof of another baron of the
house of Bradwardine, who had valiantly defended the patrimony of that
monastery against certain encroaching nobles. It is properly termed the
Blessed Bear of Bradwardine (though old Doctor Doubleit used jocosely
to call it Ursa Major), and was supposed, in old and Catholic times, to
be invested with certain properties of a mystical and supernatural
quality. And though I give not in to such _anilia_, it is certain it
has always been esteemed a solemn standard cup and heirloom of our
house; nor is it ever used but upon seasons of high festival, and such
I hold to be the arrival of the heir of Sir Everard under my roof; and
I devote this draught to the health and prosperity of the ancient and
highly-to-be-honoured house of Waverley.”
During this long harangue, he carefully decanted a cob-webbed bottle of
claret into the goblet, which held nearly an English pint; and, at the
conclusion, delivering the bottle to the butler, to be held carefully
in the same angle with the horizon, he devoutly quaffed off the
contents of the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine.
Edward, with horror and alarm, beheld the animal making his rounds, and
thought with great anxiety upon the appropriate motto, “Beware the
Bear”; but, at the same time, plainly foresaw that, as none of the
guests scrupled to do him this extraordinary honour, a refusal on his
part to pledge their courtesy would be extremely ill received.
Resolving, therefore, to submit to this last piece of tyranny, and then
to quit the table, if possible, and confiding in the strength of his
constitution, he did justice to the company in the contents of the
Blessed Bear, and felt less inconvenience from the draught than he
could possibly have expected. The others, whose time had been more
actively employed, began to show symptoms of innovation—“the good wine
did its good office.”[*] The frost of etiquette and pride of birth
began to give way before the genial blessings of this benign
constellation, and the formal appellatives with which the three
dignitaries had hitherto addressed each other were now familiarly
abbreviated into Tully, Bally, and Killie. When a few rounds had
passed, the two latter, after whispering together, craved permission (a
joyful hearing for Edward) to ask the grace-cup. This, after some
delay, was at length produced, and Waverley concluded the orgies of
Bacchus were terminated for the evening. He was never more mistaken in
his life.
[* Southey’s Madoc.]
As the guests had left their horses at the small inn, or
_change-house_, as it was called, of the village, the Baron could not,
in politeness, avoid walking with them up the avenue, and Waverley from
the same motive, and to enjoy after this feverish revel the cool summer
evening, attended the party. But when they arrived at Luckie Macleary’s
the Lairds of Balmawhapple and Killancureit declared their
determination to acknowledge their sense of the hospitality of
Tully-Veolan by partaking, with their entertainer and his guest Captain
Waverley, what they technically called _deoch an doruis_, a
stirrup-cup, to the honour of the Baron’s roof-tree.[10]
It must be noticed that the Bailie, knowing by experience that the
day’s jovialty, which had been hitherto sustained at the expense of his
patron, might terminate partly at his own, had mounted his spavined
grey pony, and, between gaiety of heart and alarm for being hooked into
a reckoning, spurred him into a hobbling canter (a trot was out of the
question), and had already cleared the village. The others entered the
change-house, leading Edward in unresisting submission; for his
landlord whispered him, that to demur to such an overture would be
construed into a high misdemeanour against the _leges conviviales_, or
regulations of genial compotation. Widow Macleary seemed to have
expected this visit, as well she might, for it was the usual
consummation of merry bouts, not only at Tully-Veolan, but at most
other gentlemen’s houses in Scotland, Sixty Years Since. The guests
thereby at once acquitted themselves of their burden of gratitude for
their entertainer’s kindness, encouraged the trade of his change-house,
did honour to the place which afforded harbour to their horses, and
indemnified themselves for the previous restraints imposed by private
hospitality, by spending what Falstaff calls the sweet of the night in
the genial license of a tavern.
Accordingly, in full expectation of these distinguished guests, Luckie
Macleary had swept her house for the first time this fortnight,
tempered her turf-fire to such a heat as the season required in her
damp hovel even at Midsummer, set forth her deal table newly washed,
propped its lame foot with a fragment of turf, arranged four or five
stools of huge and clumsy form upon the sites which best suited the
inequalities of her clay floor; and having, moreover, put on her clean
toy, rokelay, and scarlet plaid, gravely awaited the arrival of the
company, in full hope of custom and profit. When they were seated under
the sooty rafters of Luckie Macleary’s only apartment, thickly
tapestried with cobwebs, their hostess, who had already taken her cue
from the Laird of Balmawhapple, appeared with a huge pewter
measuring-pot, containing at least three English quarts, familiarly
denominated a Tappit Hen, and which, in the language of the hostess,
reamed (_i.e._, mantled) with excellent claret just drawn from the
cask.
It was soon plain that what crumbs of reason the Bear had not devoured
were to be picked up by the Hen; but the confusion which appeared to
prevail favoured Edward’s resolution to evade the gaily circling glass.
The others began to talk thick and at once, each performing his own
part in the conversation without the least respect to his neighbour.
The Baron of Bradwardine sung French _chansons à boire_, and spouted
pieces of Latin; Killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key,
of top-dressing and bottom-dressing,[*] and year-olds, and gimmers, and
dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed
turnpike-act; while Balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled
his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called Whistler. In the middle of
this din, the Baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the
instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed that for a moment he
obtained it, he hastened to beseech their attention “unto a military
ariette, which was a particular favourite of the Maréchal Duc de
Berwick”; then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of
a French musquetaire, he immediately commenced,—
“Mon cœur volage, dit elle,
N’est pas pour vous, garçon;
Est pour un homme de guerre,
Qui a barbe au menton.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.
“Qui port chapeau à plume,
Soulier à rouge talon,
Qui joue de la flute,
Aussi du violon.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.”
[* This has been censured as an anachronism; and it must be confessed
that agriculture of this kind was unknown to the Scotch Sixty Years
Since.]
Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a
d—d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethroughwi’t, the piper of Cupar;
and, without wasting more time, struck up,—
It’s up Glenbarchan’s braes I gaed,
And o’er the bent of Killiebraid,
And mony a weary cast I made,
To cuittle the moor-fowl’s tail.[*]
[* _Suum cuique_. This snatch of a ballad was composed by Andrew
MacDonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of “Vimonda”.]
The Baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous
strains of Balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to
hum “Lon, Lon, Laridon,” and to regard the successful candidate for the
attention of the company with an eye of disdain, while Balmawhapple
proceeded,—
If up a bonny black-cock should spring,
To whistle him down wi’ a slug in his wing,
And strap him on to my lunzie string,
Right seldom would I fail.
After an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sung the
first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared there
was “more sense in that than in all the _derry-dongs_ of France, and
Fifeshire to the boot of it.” The Baron only answered with a long pinch
of snuff and a glance of infinite contempt. But those noble allies, the
Bear and the Hen, had emancipated the young laird from the habitual
reverence in which he held Bradwardine at other times. He pronounced
the claret “shilpit,” and demanded brandy with great vociferation. It
was brought; and now the Demon of Politics envied even the harmony
arising from this Dutch concert, merely because there was not a
wrathful note in the strange compound of sounds which it produced.
Inspired by her, the Laird of Balmawhapple, now superior to the nods
and winks with which the Baron of Bradwardine, in delicacy to Edward,
had hitherto checked his entering upon political discussion, demanded a
bumper, with the lungs of a Stentor, “to the little gentleman in black
velvet who did such service in 1702, and may the white horse break his
neck over a mound of his making!”
Edward was not at that moment clear-headed enough to remember that King
William’s fall, which occasioned his death, was said to be owing to his
horse stumbling at a mole-hill; yet felt inclined to take umbrage at a
toast which seemed, from the glance of Balmawhapple’s eye, to have a
peculiar and uncivil reference to the Government which he served. But,
ere he could interfere, the Baron of Bradwardine had taken up the
quarrel. “Sir,” he said, “whatever my sentiments _tanquam privatus_ may
be in such matters, I shall not tamely endure your saying anything that
may impinge upon the honourable feelings of a gentleman under my roof.
Sir, if you have no respect for the laws of urbanity, do ye not respect
the military oath, the _sacramentum militare_, by which every officer
is bound to the standards under which he is enrolled? Look at Titus
Livius, what he says of those Roman soldiers who were so unhappy as
_exuere sacramentum_, to renounce their legionary oath; but you are
ignorant, sir, alike of ancient history and modern courtesy.”
“Not so ignorant as ye would pronounce me,” roared Balmawhapple. “I ken
weel that you mean the Solemn League and Covenant; but if a’ the Whigs
in hell had taken the—”
Here the Baron and Waverley both spoke at once, the former calling out,
“Be silent, sir! ye not only show your ignorance, but disgrace your
native country before a stranger and an Englishman”; and Waverley, at
the same moment, entreating Mr. Bradwardine to permit him to reply to
an affront which seemed levelled at him personally. But the Baron was
exalted by wine, wrath, and scorn above all sublunary considerations.
“I crave you to be hushed, Captain Waverley; you are elsewhere,
peradventure, _sui juris_,—foris-familiated, that is, and entitled, it
may be, to think and resent for yourself; but in my domain, in this
poor Barony of Bradwardine, and under this roof, which is _quasi_ mine,
being held by tacit relocation by a tenant at will, I am _in loco
parentis_ to you, and bound to see you scathless. And for you, Mr.
Falconer of Balmawhapple, I warn ye, let me see no more aberrations
from the paths of good manners.”
“And I tell you, Mr. Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine of Bradwardine and
Tully-Veolan,” retorted the sportsman in huge disdain, “that I’ll make
a moor-cock of the man that refuses my toast, whether it be a
crop-eared English Whig wi’ a black ribband at his lug, or ane wha
deserts his ain friends to claw favour wi’ the rats of Hanover.”
In an instant both rapiers were brandished, and some desperate passes
exchanged. Balmawhapple was young, stout, and active; but the Baron,
infinitely more master of his weapon, would, like Sir Toby Belch, have
tickled his opponent other gates than he did had he not been under the
influence of Ursa Major.
Edward rushed forward to interfere between the combatants, but the
prostrate bulk of the Laird of Killancureit, over which he stumbled,
intercepted his passage. How Killancureit happened to be in this
recumbent posture at so interesting a moment was never accurately
known. Some thought he was about to insconce himself under the table;
he himself alleged that he stumbled in the act of lifting a
joint-stool, to prevent mischief, by knocking down Balmawhapple. Be
that as it may, if readier aid than either his or Waverley’s had not
interposed, there would certainly have been bloodshed. But the
well-known clash of swords, which was no stranger to her dwelling,
aroused Luckie Macleary as she sat quietly beyond the hallan, or
earthen partition of the cottage, with eyes employed on Boston’s “Crook
the Lot,” while her ideas were engaged in summing up the reckoning. She
boldly rushed in, with the shrill expostulation, “Wad their honours
slay ane another there, and bring discredit on an honest widow-woman’s
house, when there was a’ the lee-land in the country to fight upon?” a
remonstrance which she seconded by flinging her plaid with great
dexterity over the weapons of the combatants. The servants by this time
rushed in, and being, by great chance, tolerably sober, separated the
incensed opponents, with the assistance of Edward and Killancureit. The
latter led off Balmawhapple, cursing, swearing, and vowing revenge
against every Whig, Presbyterian, and fanatic in England and Scotland,
from John-o’-Groat’s to the Land’s End, and with difficulty got him to
horse. Our hero, with the assistance of Saunders Saunderson, escorted
the Baron of Bradwardine to his own dwelling, but could not prevail
upon him to retire to bed until he had made a long and learned apology
for the events of the evening, of which, however, there was not a word
intelligible, except something about the Centaurs and the Lapithæ.
CHAPTER XII.
REPENTANCE AND A RECONCILIATION
Waverley was unaccustomed to the use of wine, excepting with great
temperance. He slept therefore soundly till late in the succeeding
morning, and then awakened to a painful recollection of the scene of
the preceding evening. He had received a personal affront—he, a
gentleman, a soldier, and a Waverley. True, the person who offered it
was not, at the time it was given, possessed of the moderate share of
sense which nature had allotted him; true also, in resenting this
insult, he would break the laws of Heaven as well as of his country;
true, in doing so, he might take the life of a young man who perhaps
respectably discharged the social duties, and render his family
miserable, or he might lose his own—no pleasant alternative even to the
bravest, when it is debated coolly and in private.
All this pressed on his mind; yet the original statement recurred with
the same irresistible force. He had received a personal insult; he was
of the house of Waverley; and he bore a commission. There was no
alternative; and he descended to the breakfast parlour with the
intention of taking leave of the family, and writing to one of his
brother officers to meet him at the inn midway between Tully-Veolan and
the town where they were quartered, in order that he might convey such
a message to the Laird of Balmawhapple as the circumstances seemed to
demand. He found Miss Bradwardine presiding over the tea and coffee,
the table loaded with warm bread, both of flour, oatmeal, and
barleymeal, in the shape of loaves, cakes, biscuits, and other
varieties, together with eggs, reindeer ham, mutton and beef ditto,
smoked salmon, marmalade, and all the other delicacies which induced
even Johnson himself to extol the luxury of a Scotch breakfast above
that of all other countries. A mess of oatmeal porridge, flanked by a
silver jug, which held an equal mixture of cream and butter-milk, was
placed for the Baron’s share of this repast; but Rose observed, he had
walked out early in the morning, after giving orders that his guest
should not be disturbed.
Waverley sat down almost in silence, and with an air of absence and
abstraction which could not give Miss Bradwardine a favourable opinion
of his talents for conversation. He answered at random one or two
observations which she ventured to make upon ordinary topics; so that,
feeling herself almost repulsed in her efforts at entertaining him, and
secretly wondering that a scarlet coat should cover no better breeding,
she left him to his mental amusement of cursing Doctor Doubleit’s
favourite constellation of Ursa Major as the cause of all the mischief
which had already happened and was likely to ensue. At once he started,
and his colour heightened, as, looking toward the window, he beheld the
Baron and young Balmawhapple pass arm in arm, apparently in deep
conversation; and he hastily asked, “Did Mr. Falconer sleep here last
night?” Rose, not much pleased with the abruptness of the first
question which the young stranger had addressed to her, answered drily
in the negative, and the conversation again sunk into silence.
At this moment Mr. Saunderson appeared, with a message from his master,
requesting to speak with Captain Waverley in another apartment. With a
heart which beat a little quicker, not indeed from fear, but from
uncertainty and anxiety, Edward obeyed the summons. He found the two
gentlemen standing together, an air of complacent dignity on the brow
of the Baron, while something like sullenness or shame, or both,
blanked the bold visage of Balmawhapple. The former slipped his arm
through that of the latter, and thus seeming to walk with him, while in
reality he led him, advanced to meet Waverley, and, stopping in the
midst of the apartment, made in great state the following oration:
“Captain Waverley—my young and esteemed friend, Mr. Falconer of
Balmawhapple, has craved of my age and experience, as of one not wholly
unskilled in the dependencies and punctilios of the duello or
monomachia, to be his interlocutor in expressing to you the regret with
which he calls to remembrance certain passages of our symposion last
night, which could not but be highly displeasing to you, as serving for
the time under this present existing government. He craves you, sir, to
drown in oblivion the memory of such solecisms against the laws of
politeness, as being what his better reason disavows, and to receive
the hand which he offers you in amity; and I must needs assure you that
nothing less than a sense of being _dans son tort_, as a gallant French
chevalier, Mons. Le Bretailleur, once said to me on such an occasion,
and an opinion also of your peculiar merit, could have extorted such
concessions; for he and all his family are, and have been, time out of
mind, _Mavortia pectora_, as Buchanan saith, a bold and warlike sept,
or people.”
Edward immediately, and with natural politeness, accepted the hand
which Balmawhapple, or rather the Baron in his character of mediator,
extended towards him. “It was impossible,” he said, “for him to
remember what a gentleman expressed his wish he had not uttered; and he
willingly imputed what had passed to the exuberant festivity of the
day.”
“That is very handsomely said,” answered the Baron; “for undoubtedly,
if a man be _ebrius_, or intoxicated, an incident which on solemn and
festive occasions may and will take place in the life of a man of
honour; and if the same gentleman, being fresh and sober, recants the
contumelies which he hath spoken in his liquor, it must be held _vinum
locutum est;_ the words cease to be his own. Yet would I not find this
exculpation relevant in the case of one who was _ebriosus_, or an
habitual drunkard; because, if such a person choose to pass the greater
part of his time in the predicament of intoxication, he hath no title
to be exeemed from the obligations of the code of politeness, but
should learn to deport himself peaceably and courteously when under
influence of the vinous stimulus. And now let us proceed to breakfast,
and think no more of this daft business.”
I must confess, whatever inference may be drawn from the circumstance,
that Edward, after so satisfactory an explanation, did much greater
honour to the delicacies of Miss Bradwardine’s breakfast-table than his
commencement had promised. Balmawhapple, on the contrary, seemed
embarrassed and dejected; and Waverley now, for the first time,
observed that his arm was in a sling, which seemed to account for the
awkward and embarrassed manner with which he had presented his hand. To
a question from Miss Bradwardine, he muttered in answer something about
his horse having fallen; and seeming desirous to escape both from the
subject and the company, he arose as soon as breakfast was over, made
his bow to the party, and, declining the Baron’s invitation to tarry
till after dinner, mounted his horse and returned to his own home.
Waverley now announced his purpose of leaving Tully-Veolan early enough
after dinner to gain the stage at which he meant to sleep; but the
unaffected and deep mortification with which the good-natured and
affectionate old gentleman heard the proposal quite deprived him of
courage to persist in it. No sooner had he gained Waverley’s consent to
lengthen his visit for a few days than he laboured to remove the
grounds upon which he conceived he had meditated a more early retreat.
“I would not have you opine, Captain Waverley, that I am by practice or
precept an advocate of ebriety, though it may be that, in our festivity
of last night, some of our friends, if not perchance altogether
_ebrii_, or drunken, were, to say the least, _ebrioli_, by which the
ancients designed those who were fuddled, or, as your English
vernacular and metaphorical phrase goes, half-seas-over. Not that I
would so insinuate respecting you, Captain Waverley, who, like a
prudent youth, did rather abstain from potation; nor can it be truly
said of myself, who, having assisted at the tables of many great
generals and marechals at their solemn carousals, have the art to carry
my wine discreetly, and did not, during the whole evening, as ye must
have doubtless observed, exceed the bounds of a modest hilarity.”
There was no refusing assent to a proposition so decidedly laid down by
him, who undoubtedly was the best judge; although, had Edward formed
his opinion from his own recollections, he would have pronounced that
the Baron was not only _ebriolus_, but verging to become _ebrius;_ or,
in plain English, was incomparably the most drunk of the party, except
perhaps his antagonist the Laird of Balmawhapple. However, having
received the expected, or rather the required, compliment on his
sobriety, the Baron proceeded—“No, sir, though I am myself of a strong
temperament, I abhor ebriety, and detest those who swallow wine _gulæ
causa_, for the oblectation of the gullet; albeit I might deprecate the
law of Pittacus of Mitylene, who punished doubly a crime committed
under the influence of _Liber Pater;_ nor would I utterly accede to the
objurgation of the younger Plinius, in the fourteenth book of his
‘Historia Naturalis.’ No, sir, I distinguish, I discriminate, and
approve of wine so far only as it maketh glad the face, or, in the
language of Flaccus, _recepto amico_.”
Thus terminated the apology which the Baron of Bradwardine thought it
necessary to make for the superabundance of his hospitality; and it may
be easily believed that he was neither interrupted by dissent nor any
expression of incredulity.
He then invited his guest to a morning ride, and ordered that Davie
Gellatley should meet them at the _dern path_ with Ban and Buscar.
“For, until the shooting season commence, I would willingly show you
some sport, and we may, God willing, meet with a roe. The roe, Captain
Waverley, may be hunted at all times alike; for never being in what is
called _pride of grease_, he is also never out of season, though it be
a truth that his venison is not equal to that of either the red or
fallow deer.[*] But he will serve to show how my dogs run; and
therefore they shall attend us with David Gellatley.”
[* The learned in cookery dissent from the Baron of Bradwardine, and
hold the roe venison dry and indifferent food, unless when dressed in
soup and Scotch collops.]
Waverley expressed his surprise that his friend Davie was capable of
such trust; but the Baron gave him to understand that this poor
simpleton was neither fatuous, _nec naturaliter idiota_, as is
expressed in the brieves of furiosity, but simply a crack-brained
knave, who could execute very well any commission which jumped with his
own humour, and made his folly a plea for avoiding every other. “He has
made an interest with us,” continued the Baron, “by saving Rose from a
great danger with his own proper peril; and the roguish loon must
therefore eat of our bread and drink of our cup, and do what he can, or
what he will, which, if the suspicions of Saunderson and the Bailie are
well founded, may perchance in his case be commensurate terms.”
Miss Bradwardine then gave Waverley to understand that this poor
simpleton was dotingly fond of music, deeply affected by that which was
melancholy, and transported into extravagant gaiety by light and lively
airs. He had in this respect a prodigious memory, stored with
miscellaneous snatches and fragments of all tunes and songs, which he
sometimes applied, with considerable address, as the vehicles of
remonstrance, explanation, or satire. Davie was much attached to the
few who showed him kindness; and both aware of any slight or ill usage
which he happened to receive, and sufficiently apt, where he saw
opportunity, to revenge it. The common people, who often judge hardly
of each other as well as of their betters, although they had expressed
great compassion for the poor _innocent_ while suffered to wander in
rags about the village, no sooner beheld him decently clothed, provided
for, and even a sort of favourite, than they called up all the
instances of sharpness and ingenuity, in action and repartee, which his
annals afforded, and charitably bottomed thereupon a hypothesis that
David Gellatley was no farther fool than was necessary to avoid hard
labour. This opinion was not better founded than that of the Negroes,
who, from the acute and mischievous pranks of the monkeys, suppose that
they have the gift of speech, and only suppress their powers of
elocution to escape being set to work. But the hypothesis was entirely
imaginary; David Gellatley was in good earnest the half-crazed
simpleton which he appeared, and was incapable of any constant and
steady exertion. He had just so much solidity as kept on the windy side
of insanity, so much wild wit as saved him from the imputation of
idiocy, some dexterity in field-sports (in which we have known as great
fools excel), great kindness and humanity in the treatment of animals
entrusted to him, warm affections, a prodigious memory, and an ear for
music.
The stamping of horses was now heard in the court, and Davie’s voice
singing to the two large deer greyhounds,
Hie away, hie away,
Over bank and over brae,
Where the copsewood is the greenest,
Where the fountains glisten sheenest,
Where the lady-fern grows strongest,
Where the morning dew lies longest,
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it,
Where the fairy latest trips it.
Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Over bank and over brae,
Hie away, hie away.
“Do the verses he sings,” asked Waverley, “belong to old Scottish
poetry, Miss Bradwardine?”
“I believe not,” she replied. “This poor creature had a brother, and
Heaven, as if to compensate to the family Davie’s deficiencies, had
given him what the hamlet thought uncommon talents. An uncle contrived
to educate him for the Scottish kirk, but he could not get preferment
because he came from our _ground_. He returned from college hopeless
and brokenhearted, and fell into a decline. My father supported him
till his death, which happened before he was nineteen. He played
beautifully on the flute, and was supposed to have a great turn for
poetry. He was affectionate and compassionate to his brother, who
followed him like his shadow, and we think that from him Davie gathered
many fragments of songs and music unlike those of this country. But if
we ask him where he got such a fragment as he is now singing, he either
answers with wild and long fits of laughter, or else breaks into tears
of lamentation; but was never heard to give any explanation, or to
mention his brother’s name since his death.”
“Surely,” said Edward, who was readily interested by a tale bordering
on the romantic, “surely more might be learned by more particular
inquiry.”
“Perhaps so,” answered Rose; “but my father will not permit any one to
practise on his feelings on this subject.”
By this time the Baron, with the help of Mr. Saunderson, had indued a
pair of jack-boots of large dimensions, and now invited our hero to
follow him as he stalked clattering down the ample stair-case, tapping
each huge balustrade as he passed with the butt of his massive
horse-whip, and humming, with the air of a _chasseur_ of Louis
Quatorze,—
“Pour la chasse ordonnée il faut preparer tout.
Ho la ho! Vite! vite debout!”
CHAPTER XIII.
A MORE RATIONAL DAY THAN THE LAST
The Baron of Bradwardine, mounted on an active and well-managed horse,
and seated on a demi-pique saddle, with deep housings to agree with his
livery, was no bad representative of the old school. His light-coloured
embroidered coat, and superbly barred waistcoat, his brigadier wig,
surmounted by a small gold-laced cocked-hat, completed his personal
costume; but he was attended by two well-mounted servants on horseback,
armed with holster-pistols.
In this guise he ambled forth over hill and valley, the admiration of
every farm-yard which they passed in their progress, till, “low down in
a grassy vale,” they found David Gellatley leading two very tall deer
greyhounds, and presiding over half a dozen curs, and about as many
bare-legged and bare-headed boys, who, to procure the chosen
distinction of attending on the chase, had not failed to tickle his
ears with the dulcet appellation of Maister Gellatley, though probably
all and each had hooted him on former occasions in the character of
daft Davie. But this is no uncommon strain of flattery to persons in
office, nor altogether confined to the barelegged villagers of
Tully-Veolan; it was in fashion Sixty Years Since, is now, and will be
six hundred years hence, if this admirable compound of folly and
knavery, called the world, shall be then in existence.
These “gillie-wet-foots,”[*] as they were called, were destined to beat
the bushes, which they performed with so much success, that, after half
an hour’s search, a roe was started, coursed, and killed; the Baron
following on his white horse, like Earl Percy of yore, and
magnanimously flaying and embowelling the slain animal (which, he
observed, was called by the French _chasseurs, faire la curée_) with
his own baronial _couteau de chasse_. After this ceremony, he conducted
his guest homeward by a pleasant and circuitous route, commanding an
extensive prospect of different villages and houses, to each of which
Mr. Bradwardine attached some anecdote of history or genealogy, told in
language whimsical from prejudice and pedantry, but often respectable
for the good sense and honourable feelings which his narrative
displayed, and almost always curious, if not valuable, for the
information they contained.
[* A bare-footed Highland lad is called a “gillie-wet-foot.” _Gillie_,
in general, means servant, or attendant.]
The truth is, the ride seemed agreeable to both gentlemen, because they
found amusement in each other’s conversation, although their characters
and habits of thinking were in many respects totally opposite. Edward,
we have informed the reader, was warm in his feelings, wild and
romantic in his ideas and in his taste of reading, with a strong
disposition towards poetry. Mr Bradwardine was the reverse of all this,
and piqued himself upon stalking through life with the same upright,
starched, stoical gravity which distinguished his evening promenade
upon the terrace of Tully-Veolan, where for hours together—the very
model of old Hardyknute—
“Stately stepp’d he east the wa’,
And stately stepp’d he west.”
As for literature, he read the classic poets, to be sure, and the
“Epithalamium” of Georgius Buchanan and Arthur Johnston’s Psalms, of a
Sunday; and the “Deliciæ Poetarum Scotorum,” and Sir David Lindsay’s
“Works”, and Barbour’s “Brace”, and Blind Harry’s “Wallace”, and “The
Gentle Shepherd”, and “The Cherry and The Slae.”
But though he thus far sacrificed his time to the Muses, he would, if
the truth must be spoken, have been much better pleased had the pious
or sapient apothegms, as well as the historical narratives, which these
various works contained, been presented to him in the form of simple
prose. And he sometimes could not refrain from expressing contempt of
the “vain and unprofitable art of poem-making”, in which, he said, “the
only one who had excelled in his time was Allan Ramsay, the
periwigmaker.”[*]
[* The Baron ought to have remembered that the joyous Allan literally
drew his blood from the house of the noble earl whom he terms,—
“Dalhousie of an old descent
My stoup, my pride, my ornament.”]
But although Edward and he differed _toto cœlo_, as the Baron would
have said, upon this subject, yet they met upon history as on a neutral
ground, in which each claimed an interest. The Baron, indeed, only
cumbered his memory with matters of fact, the cold, dry, hard outlines
which history delineates. Edward, on the contrary, loved to fill up and
round the sketch with the colouring of a warm and vivid imagination,
which gives light and life to the actors and speakers in the drama of
past ages. Yet with tastes so opposite, they contributed greatly to
each other’s amusement. Mr. Bradwardine’s minute narratives and
powerful memory supplied to Waverley fresh subjects of the kind upon
which his fancy loved to labour, and opened to him a new mine of
incident and of character. And he repaid the pleasure thus communicated
by an earnest attention, valuable to all story-tellers, more especially
to the Baron, who felt his habits of self-respect flattered by it; and
sometimes also by reciprocal communications, which interested Mr.
Bradwardine, as confirming or illustrating his own favourite anecdotes.
Besides, Mr. Bradwardine loved to talk of the scenes of his youth,
which had been spent in camps and foreign lands, and had many
interesting particulars to tell of the generals under whom he had
served and the actions he had witnessed.
Both parties returned to Tully-Veolan in great good-humour with each
other; Waverley desirous of studying more attentively what he
considered as a singular and interesting character, gifted with a
memory containing a curious register of ancient and modern anecdotes;
and Bradwardine disposed to regard Edward as _puer_ (or rather
_juvenis_) _bonæ spei et magnæ indolis_, a youth devoid of that
petulant volatility which is impatient of, or vilipends, the
conversation and advice of his seniors, from which he predicted great
things of his future success and deportment in life. There was no other
guest except Mr. Rubrick, whose information and discourse, as a
clergyman and a scholar, harmonised very well with that of the Baron
and his guest.
Shortly after dinner, the Baron, as if to show that his temperance was
not entirely theoretical, proposed a visit to Rose’s apartment, or, as
he termed it, her “troisième étage.” Waverley was accordingly conducted
through one or two of those long awkward passages with which ancient
architects studied to puzzle the inhabitants of the houses which they
planned, at the end of which Mr. Bradwardine began to ascend, by two
steps at once, a very steep, narrow, and winding stair, leaving Mr.
Rubrick and Waverley to follow at more leisure, while he should
announce their approach to his daughter.
After having climbed this perpendicular corkscrew until their brains
were almost giddy, they arrived in a little matted lobby, which served
as an anteroom to Rose’s _sanctum sanctorum_, and through which they
entered her parlour. It was a small, but pleasant apartment, opening to
the south, and hung with tapestry; adorned besides with two pictures,
one of her mother, in the dress of a shepherdess, with a bell-hoop; the
other of the Baron, in his tenth year, in a blue coat, embroidered
waistcoat, laced hat, and bag-wig, with a bow in his hand. Edward could
not help smiling at the costume, and at the odd resemblance between the
round, smooth, red-cheeked, staring visage in the portrait, and the
gaunt, bearded, hollow-eyed, swarthy features, which travelling,
fatigues of war, and advanced age, had bestowed on the original. The
Baron joined in the laugh. “Truly,” he said, “that picture was a
woman’s fantasy of my good mother’s (a daughter of the Laird of
Tulliellum, Captain Waverley; I indicated the house to you when we were
on the top of the Shinnyheuch; it was burnt by the Dutch auxiliaries
brought in by the Government in 1715); I never sate for my
pourtraicture but once since that was painted, and it was at the
special and reiterated request of the Maréchal Duke of Berwick.”
The good old gentleman did not mention what Mr. Rubrick afterwards told
Edward, that the Duke had done him this honour on account of his being
the first to mount the breach of a fort in Savoy during the memorable
campaign of 1709, and his having there defended himself with his
half-pike for nearly ten minutes before any support reached him. To do
the Baron justice, although sufficiently prone to dwell upon, and even
to exaggerate, his family dignity and consequence, he was too much a
man of real courage ever to allude to such personal acts of merit as he
had himself manifested.
Miss Rose now appeared from the interior room of her apartment, to
welcome her father and his friends. The little labours in which she had
been employed obviously showed a natural taste, which required only
cultivation. Her father had taught her French and Italian, and a few of
the ordinary authors in those languages ornamented her shelves. He had
endeavoured also to be her preceptor in music; but as he began with the
more abstruse doctrines of the science, and was not perhaps master of
them himself, she had made no proficiency farther than to be able to
accompany her voice with the harpsichord; but even this was not very
common in Scotland at that period. To make amends, she sung with great
taste and feeling, and with a respect to the sense of what she uttered
that might be proposed in example to ladies of much superior musical
talent. Her natural good sense taught her that, if, as we are assured
by high authority, music be “married to immortal verse,” they are very
often divorced by the performer in a most shameful manner. It was
perhaps owing to this sensibility to poetry, and power of combining its
expression with those of the musical notes, that her singing gave more
pleasure to all the unlearned in music, and even to many of the
learned, than could have been communicated by a much finer voice and
more brilliant execution unguided by the same delicacy of feeling.
A bartizan, or projecting gallery, before the windows of her parlour,
served to illustrate another of Rose’s pursuits; for it was crowded
with flowers of different kinds, which she had taken under her special
protection. A projecting turret gave access to this Gothic balcony,
which commanded a most beautiful prospect. The formal garden, with its
high bounding walls, lay below, contracted, as it seemed, to a mere
parterre; while the view extended beyond them down a wooded glen, where
the small river was sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in copse. The
eye might be delayed by a desire to rest on the rocks, which here and
there rose from the dell with massive or spiry fronts, or it might
dwell on the noble, though ruined tower, which was here beheld in all
its dignity, frowning from a promontory over the river. To the left
were seen two or three cottages, a part of the village, the brow of the
hill concealed the others. The glen, or dell, was terminated by a sheet
of water, called Loch Veolan, into which the brook discharged itself,
and which now glistened in the western sun. The distant country seemed
open and varied in surface, though not wooded; and there was nothing to
interrupt the view until the scene was bounded by a ridge of distant
and blue hills, which formed the southern boundary of the strath or
valley. To this pleasant station Miss Bradwardine had ordered coffee.
The view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family
anecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which the Baron told with
great enthusiasm. The projecting peak of an impending crag which rose
near it had acquired the name of Saint Swithin’s Chair. It was the
scene of a peculiar superstition, of which Mr. Rubrick mentioned some
curious particulars, which reminded Waverley of a rhyme quoted by Edgar
in King Lear; and Rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in
which they had been interwoven by some village poet,
Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung,
Saved others’ names, but left his own unsung.
The sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave
all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which his
poetry so much wanted. I almost doubt if it can be read with patience,
destitute of these advantages, although I conjecture the following copy
to have been somewhat corrected by Waverley, to suit the taste of those
who might not relish pure antiquity.
ST. SWITHIN’S CHAIR
On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere ye boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless’d;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.
For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
Sailing through moonshine or swath’d in the cloud.
The Lady she sat in Saint Swithin’s Chair,
The dew of the night has damp’d her hair:
Her cheek was pale; but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.
She mutter’d the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopp’d the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.
He that dare sit on Saint Swithin’s Chair,
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,
Questions three, when he speaks the spell,
He may ask, and she must tell.
The Baron has been with King Robert his liege
These three long years in battle and siege;
News are there none of his weal or his woe,
And fain the Lady his fate would know.
She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;—
Is it the moody owl that shrieks?
Or is it that sound, betwixt laughter and scream,
The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?
The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,
And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow;
The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,
When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly Form!
“I am sorry to disappoint the company, especially Captain Waverley, who
listens with such laudable gravity; it is but a fragment, although I
think there are other verses, describing the return of the Baron from
the wars, and how the lady was found ‘clay-cold upon the grounsill
ledge.’”
“It is one of those figments,” observed Mr. Bradwardine, “with which
the early history of distinguished families was deformed in the times
of superstition; as that of Rome, and other ancient nations, had their
prodigies, sir, the which you may read in ancient histories, or in the
little work compiled by Julius Obsequens, and inscribed by the learned
Scheffer, the editor, to his patron, Benedictus Skytte, Baron of
Dudershoff.”
“My father has a strange defiance of the marvellous, Captain Waverley,”
observed Rose, “and once stood firm when a whole synod of Presbyterian
divines were put to the rout by a sudden apparition of the foul fiend.”
Waverley looked as if desirous to hear more.
“Must I tell my story as well as sing my song? Well—Once upon a time
there lived an old woman, called Janet Gellatley, who was suspected to
be a witch, on the infallible grounds that she was very old, very ugly,
very poor, and had two sons, one of whom was a poet and the other a
fool, which visitation, all the neighbourhood agreed, had come upon her
for the sin of witchcraft. And she was imprisoned for a week in the
steeple of the parish church, and sparely supplied with food, and not
permitted to sleep until she herself became as much persuaded of her
being a witch as her accusers; and in this lucid and happy state of
mind was brought forth to make a clean breast, that is, to make open
confession of her sorceries, before all the Whig gentry and ministers
in the vicinity, who were no conjurors themselves. My father went to
see fair play between the witch and the clergy; for the witch had been
born on his estate. And while the witch was confessing that the Enemy
appeared, and made his addresses to her as a handsome black man,—which,
if you could have seen poor old blear-eyed Janet, reflected little
honour on Apollyon’s taste,—and while the auditors listened with
astonished ears, and the clerk recorded with a trembling hand, she, all
of a sudden, changed the low mumbling tone with which she spoke into a
shrill yell, and exclaimed, “Look to yourselves! look to yourselves! I
see the Evil One sitting in the midst of ye.” The surprise was general,
and terror and flight its immediate consequences. Happy were those who
were next the door; and many were the disasters that befell hats,
bands, cuffs, and wigs, before they could get out of the church, where
they left the obstinate prelatist to settle matters with the witch and
her admirer at his own peril or pleasure.”
“_Risu solvuntur tabulæ_,” said the Baron; “when they recovered their
panic trepidation they were too much ashamed to bring any wakening of
the process against Janet Gellatley.”[11]
This anecdote led to a long discussion of
All those idle thoughts and fantasies,
Devices, dreams, opinions unsound,
Shows, visions, soothsays, and prophecies,
And all that feigned is, as leasings, tales, and lies.
With such conversation, and the romantic legends which it introduced,
closed our hero’s second evening in the house of Tully-Veolan.
CHAPTER XIV.
A DISCOVERY—WAVERLEY BECOMES DOMESTICATED AT TULLY-VEOLAN
The next day Edward arose betimes, and in a morning walk around the
house and its vicinity came suddenly upon a small court in front of the
dog-kennel, where his friend Davie was employed about his four-footed
charge. One quick glance of his eye recognised Waverley, when,
instantly turning his back, as if he had not observed him, he began to
sing part of an old ballad:—
“Young men will love thee more fair and more fast
(_Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?_);
Old men’s love the longest will last
(_And the throstle-cock’s head is under his wing_).
“The young man’s wrath is like light straw on fire
(_Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?_);
But like red-hot steel is the old man’s ire,
(_And the throstle-cock’s head is under his wing_).
“The young man will brawl at the evening board
(_Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?_);
But the old man will draw at the dawning the sword,
(_And the throstle-cock’s head is under his wing_).”
Waverley could not avoid observing that Davie laid something like a
satirical emphasis on these lines. He therefore approached, and
endeavoured, by sundry queries, to elicit from him what the innuendo
might mean; but Davie had no mind to explain, and had wit enough to
make his folly cloak his knavery. Edward could collect nothing from
him, excepting that the Laird of Balmawhapple had gone home yesterday
morning “wi’ his boots fu’ o’ bluid.” In the garden, however, he met
the old butler, who no longer attempted to conceal that, having been
bred in the nursery line with Sumack and Co. of Newcastle, he sometimes
wrought a turn in the flower-borders to oblige the Laird and Miss Rose.
By a series of queries, Edward at length discovered, with a painful
feeling of surprise and shame, that Balmawhapple’s submission and
apology had been the consequence of a _rencontre_ with the Baron before
his guest had quitted his pillow, in which the younger combatant had
been disarmed and wounded in the sword arm.
Greatly mortified at this information, Edward sought out his friendly
host, and anxiously expostulated with him upon the injustice he had
done him in anticipating his meeting with Mr. Falconer, a circumstance
which, considering his youth and the profession of arms which he had
just adopted, was capable of being represented much to his prejudice.
The Baron justified himself at greater length than I choose to repeat.
He urged that the quarrel was common to them, and that Balmawhapple
could not, by the code of honour, _evite_ giving satisfaction to both,
which he had done in his case by an honourable meeting, and in that of
Edward by such a _palinode_ as rendered the use of the sword
unnecessary, and which, being made and accepted, must necessarily
_sopite_ the whole affair.
With this excuse, or explanation, Waverley was silenced, if not
satisfied; but he could not help testifying some displeasure against
the Blessed Bear, which had given rise to the quarrel, nor refrain from
hinting that the sanctified epithet was hardly appropriate. The Baron
observed, he could not deny that “the Bear, though allowed by heralds
as a most honourable ordinary, had, nevertheless, somewhat fierce,
churlish, and morose in his disposition (as might be read in Archibald
Simson, pastor of Dalkeith’s “Hieroglyphica Animalium”) and had thus
been the type of many quarrels and dissensions which had occurred in
the house of Bradwardine; of which,” he continued, “I might commemorate
mine own unfortunate dissension with my third cousin by the mother’s
side, Sir Hew Halbert, who was so unthinking as to deride my family
name, as if it had been _quasi Bear-Warden,_ a most uncivil jest, since
it not only insinuated that the founder of our house occupied such a
mean situation as to be a custodier of wild beasts, a charge which, ye
must have observed, is only entrusted to the very basest plebeians;
but, moreover, seemed to infer that our coat-armour had not been
achieved by honourable actions in war, but bestowed by way of
_paranomasia_, or pun, upon our family appellation,—a sort of bearing
which the French call _armoires parlantes_, the Latins _arma
cantantia_, and your English authorities canting heraldry, being indeed
a species of emblazoning more befitting canters, gaberlunzies, and such
like mendicants, whose gibberish is formed upon playing upon the word,
than the noble, honourable, and useful science of heraldry, which
assigns armorial bearings as the reward of noble and generous actions,
and not to tickle the ear with vain quodlibets, such as are found in
jestbooks.”[12] Of his quarrel with Sir Hew he said nothing more than
that it was settled in a fitting manner.
Having been so minute with respect to the diversions of Tully-Veolan on
the first days of Edward’s arrival, for the purpose of introducing its
inmates to the reader’s acquaintance, it becomes less necessary to
trace the progress of his intercourse with the same accuracy. It is
probable that a young man, accustomed to more cheerful society, would
have tired of the conversation of so violent an assertor of the “boast
of heraldry” as the Baron; but Edward found an agreeable variety in
that of Miss Bradwardine, who listened with eagerness to his remarks
upon literature, and showed great justness of taste in her answers. The
sweetness of her disposition had made her submit with complacency, and
even pleasure, to the course of reading prescribed by her father,
although it not only comprehended several heavy folios of history, but
certain gigantic tomes in high-church polemics. In heraldry he was
fortunately contented to give her only such a slight tincture as might
be acquired by perusal of the two folio volumes of Nisbet. Rose was
indeed the very apple of her father’s eye. Her constant liveliness, her
attention to all those little observances most gratifying to those who
would never think of exacting them, her beauty, in which he recalled
the features of his beloved wife, her unfeigned piety, and the noble
generosity of her disposition, would have justified the affection of
the most doting father.
[Illustration]
His anxiety on her behalf did not, however, seem to extend itself in
that quarter where, according to the general opinion, it is most
efficiently displayed, in labouring, namely, to establish her in life,
either by a large dowry or a wealthy marriage. By an old settlement,
almost all the landed estates of the Baron went, after his death, to a
distant relation; and it was supposed that Miss Bradwardine would
remain but slenderly provided for, as the good gentleman’s cash matters
had been too long under the exclusive charge of Bailie Macwheeble to
admit of any great expectations from his personal succession. It is
true, the said Bailie loved his patron and his patron’s daughter next
(though at an incomparable distance) to himself. He thought it was
possible to set aside the settlement on the male line, and had actually
procured an opinion to that effect (and, as he boasted, without a fee)
from an eminent Scottish counsel, under whose notice he contrived to
bring the point while consulting him regularly on some other business.
But the Baron would not listen to such a proposal for an instant. On
the contrary, he used to have a perverse pleasure in boasting that the
barony of Bradwardine was a male fief, the first charter having been
given at that early period when women were not deemed capable to hold a
feudal grant; because, according to _Les coustusmes de Normandie, c’est
l’homme ki se bast et ki conseille_, or, as is yet more ungallantly
expressed by other authorities, all of whose barbarous names he
delighted to quote at full length, because a woman could not serve the
superior, or feudal lord, in war, on account of the decorum of her sex,
nor assist him with advice, because of her limited intellect, nor keep
his counsel, owing to the infirmity of her disposition. He would
triumphantly ask, how it would become a female, and that female a
Bradwardine, to be seen employed _in servitio exuendi, seu detrahendi,
caligas regis post battaliam?_ that is, in pulling off the king’s boots
after an engagement, which was the feudal service by which he held the
barony of Bradwardine. “No,” he said, “beyond hesitation, _procul
dubio_, many females, as worthy as Rose, had been excluded, in order to
make way for my own succession, and Heaven forbid that I should do
aught that might contravene the destination of my forefathers, or
impinge upon the right of my kinsman, Malcolm Bradwardine of
Inchgrabbit, an honourable, though decayed branch of my own family.”
The Bailie, as prime minister, having received this decisive
communication from his sovereign, durst not press his own opinion any
farther, but contented himself with deploring, on all suitable
occasions, to Saunderson, the minister of the interior, the laird’s
self-willedness, and with laying plans for uniting Rose with the young
Laird of Balmawhapple, who had a fine estate, only moderately burdened,
and was a faultless young gentleman, being as sober as a saint—if you
keep brandy from him and him from brandy—and who, in brief, had no
imperfection but that of keeping light company at a time; such as
Jinker, the horse-couper, and Gibby Gaethroughwi’t, the piper o’ Cupar;
“o’ whilk follies, Mr. Saunderson, he’ll mend, he’ll mend,” pronounced
the Bailie.
“Like sour ale in simmer,” added Davie Gellatley, who happened to be
nearer the conclave than they were aware of.
Miss Bradwardine, such as we have described her, with all the
simplicity and curiosity of a recluse, attached herself to the
opportunities of increasing her store of literature which Edward’s
visit afforded her. He sent for some of his books from his quarters,
and they opened to her sources of delight of which she had hitherto had
no idea. The best English poets, of every description, and other works
on belles-lettres, made a part of this precious cargo. Her music, even
her flowers, were neglected, and Saunders not only mourned over, but
began to mutiny against, the labour for which he now scarce received
thanks. These new pleasures became gradually enhanced by sharing them
with one of a kindred taste. Edward’s readiness to comment, to recite,
to explain difficult passages, rendered his assistance invaluable; and
the wild romance of his spirit delighted a character too young and
inexperienced to observe its deficiencies. Upon subjects which
interested him, and when quite at ease, he possessed that flow of
natural, and somewhat florid eloquence, which has been supposed as
powerful even as figure, fashion, fame, or fortune, in winning the
female heart. There was, therefore, an increasing danger in this
constant intercourse to poor Rose’s peace of mind, which was the more
imminent as her father was greatly too much abstracted in his studies,
and wrapped up in his own dignity, to dream of his daughter’s incurring
it. The daughters of the house of Bradwardine were, in his opinion,
like those of the house of Bourbon or Austria, placed high above the
clouds of passion which might obfuscate the intellects of meaner
females; they moved in another sphere, were governed by other feelings,
and amenable to other rules than those of idle and fantastic affection.
In short, he shut his eyes so resolutely to the natural consequences of
Edward’s intimacy with Miss Bradwardine, that the whole neighbourhood
concluded that he had opened them to the advantages of a match between
his daughter and the wealthy young Englishman, and pronounced him much
less a fool than he had generally shown himself in cases where his own
interest was concerned.
If the Baron, however, had really meditated such an alliance, the
indifference of Waverley would have been an insuperable bar to his
project. Our hero, since mixing more freely with the world, had learned
to think with great shame and confusion upon his mental legend of Saint
Cecilia, and the vexation of these reflections was likely, for some
time at least, to counterbalance the natural susceptibility of his
disposition. Besides, Rose Bradwardine, beautiful and amiable as we
have described her, had not precisely the sort of beauty or merit which
captivates a romantic imagination in early youth. She was too frank,
too confiding, too kind; amiable qualities, undoubtedly, but
destructive of the marvellous, with which a youth of imagination
delights to dress the empress of his affections. Was it possible to
bow, to tremble, and to adore, before the timid, yet playful little
girl, who now asked Edward to mend her pen, now to construe a stanza in
Tasso, and now how to spell a very—very long word in her version of it?
All these incidents have their fascination on the mind at a certain
period of life, but not when a youth is entering it, and rather looking
out for some object whose affection may dignify him in his own eyes
than stooping to one who looks up to him for such distinction. Hence,
though there can be no rule in so capricious a passion, early love is
frequently ambitious in choosing its object; or, which comes to the
same, selects her (as in the case of Saint Cecilia aforesaid) from a
situation that gives fair scope for _le beau idéal_, which the reality
of intimate and familiar life rather tends to limit and impair. I knew
a very accomplished and sensible young man cured of a violent passion
for a pretty woman, whose talents were not equal to her face and
figure, by being permitted to bear her company for a whole afternoon.
Thus, it is certain, that had Edward enjoyed such an opportunity of
conversing with Miss Stubbs, Aunt Rachel’s precaution would have been
unnecessary, for he would as soon have fallen in love with the
dairy-maid. And although Miss Bradwardine was a very different
character, it seems probable that the very intimacy of their
intercourse prevented his feeling for her other sentiments than those
of a brother for an amiable and accomplished sister; while the
sentiments of poor Rose were gradually, and without her being
conscious, assuming a shade of warmer affection.
I ought to have said that Edward, when he sent to Dundee for the books
before mentioned, had applied for, and received permission, extending
his leave of absence. But the letter of his commanding officer
contained a friendly recommendation to him not to spend his time
exclusively with persons who, estimable as they might be in a general
sense, could not be supposed well affected to a government which they
declined to acknowledge by taking the oath of allegiance. The letter
further insinuated, though with great delicacy, that although some
family connections might be supposed to render it necessary for Captain
Waverley to communicate with gentlemen who were in this unpleasant
state of suspicion, yet his father’s situation and wishes ought to
prevent his prolonging those attentions into exclusive intimacy. And it
was intimated, that, while his political principles were endangered by
communicating with laymen of this description, he might also receive
erroneous impressions in religion from the prelatic clergy, who so
perversely laboured to set up the royal prerogative in things sacred.
This last insinuation probably induced Waverley to set both down to the
prejudices of his commanding officer. He was sensible that Mr.
Bradwardine had acted with the most scrupulous delicacy, in never
entering upon any discussion that had the most remote tendency to bias
his mind in political opinions, although he was himself not only a
decided partisan of the exiled family, but had been trusted at
different times with important commissions for their service. Sensible,
therefore, that there was no risk of his being perverted from his
allegiance, Edward felt as if he should do his uncle’s old friend
injustice in removing from a house where he gave and received pleasure
and amusement, merely to gratify a prejudiced and ill-judged suspicion.
He therefore wrote a very general answer, assuring his commanding
officer that his loyalty was not in the most distant danger of
contamination, and continued an honoured guest and inmate of the house
of Tully-Veolan.
CHAPTER XV.
A CREAGH, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
When Edward had been a guest at Tully-Veolan nearly six weeks, he
descried, one morning, as he took his usual walk before the breakfast
hour, signs of uncommon perturbation in the family. Four bare-legged
dairy-maids, with each an empty milk-pail in her hand, ran about with
frantic gestures, and uttering loud exclamations of surprise, grief,
and resentment. From their appearance, a pagan might have conceived
them a detachment of the celebrated Belides, just come from their
baling penance. As nothing was to be got from this distracted chorus,
excepting “Lord guide us!” and “Eh sirs!” ejaculations which threw no
light upon the cause of their dismay, Waverley repaired to the
fore-court, as it was called, where he beheld Bailie Macwheeble
cantering his white pony down the avenue with all the speed it could
muster. He had arrived, it would seem, upon a hasty summons, and was
followed by half a score of peasants from the village who had no great
difficulty in keeping pace with him.
The Bailie, greatly too busy and too important to enter into
explanations with Edward, summoned forth Mr. Saunderson, who appeared
with a countenance in which dismay was mingled with solemnity, and they
immediately entered into close conference. Davie Gellatley was also
seen in the group, idle as Diogenes at Sinope while his countrymen were
preparing for a siege. His spirits always rose with anything, good or
bad, which occasioned tumult, and he continued frisking, hopping,
dancing, and singing the burden of an old ballad,—
“Our gear’s a’ gane,”
until, happening to pass too near the Bailie, he received an admonitory
hint from his horse-whip, which converted his songs into lamentation.
Passing from thence towards the garden, Waverley beheld the Baron in
person, measuring and re-measuring, with swift and tremendous strides,
the length of the terrace; his countenance clouded with offended pride
and indignation, and the whole of his demeanour such as seemed to
indicate, that any inquiry concerning the cause of his discomposure
would give pain at least, if not offence. Waverley therefore glided
into the house, without addressing him, and took his way to the
breakfast-parlour, where he found his young friend Rose, who, though
she neither exhibited the resentment of her father, the turbid
importance of Bailie Macwheeble, nor the despair of the handmaidens,
seemed vexed and thoughtful. A single word explained the mystery. “Your
breakfast will be a disturbed one, Captain Waverley. A party of
Caterans have come down upon us last night, and have driven off all our
milch cows.”
“A party of Caterans?”
“Yes; robbers from the neighbouring Highlands. We used to be quite free
from them while we paid blackmail to Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr; but
my father thought it unworthy of his rank and birth to pay it any
longer, and so this disaster has happened. It is not the value of the
cattle, Captain Waverley, that vexes me; but my father is so much hurt
at the affront, and is so bold and hot, that I fear he will try to
recover them by the strong hand; and if he is not hurt himself, he will
hurt some of these wild people, and then there will be no peace between
them and us perhaps for our life-time; and we cannot defend ourselves
as in old times, for the government have taken all our arms; and my
dear father is so rash—O what will become of us!”—Here poor Rose lost
heart altogether, and burst into a flood of tears.
The Baron entered at this moment, and rebuked her with more asperity
than Waverley had ever heard him use to any one. “Was it not a shame,”
he said, “that she should exhibit herself before any gentleman in such
a light, as if she shed tears for a drove of horned nolt and milch
kine, like the daughter of a Cheshire yeoman!—Captain Waverley, I must
request your favourable construction of her grief, which may, or ought
to proceed, solely from seeing her father’s estate exposed to spulzie
and depredation from common thieves and sornars, while we are not
allowed to keep half a score of muskets, whether for defence or
rescue.”
Bailie Macwheeble entered immediately afterwards, and by his report of
arms and ammunition confirmed this statement, informing the Baron, in a
melancholy voice, that though the people would certainly obey his
honour’s orders, yet there was no chance of their following the gear to
ony guid purpose, in respect there were only his honour’s body servants
who had swords and pistols, and the depredators were twelve
Highlanders, completely armed after the manner of their country. Having
delivered this doleful annunciation, he assumed a posture of silent
dejection, shaking his head slowly with the motion of a pendulum when
it is ceasing to vibrate, and then remained stationary, his body
stooping at a more acute angle than usual, and the latter part of his
person projecting in proportion.
The Baron, meanwhile, paced the room in silent indignation, and at
length fixing his eye upon an old portrait, whose person was clad in
armour, and whose features glared grimly out of a huge bush of hair,
part of which descended from his head to his shoulders, and part from
his chin and upper-lip to his breast-plate,—“That gentleman, Captain
Waverley, my grandsire,” he said, “with two hundred horse,—whom he
levied within his own bounds, discomfited and put to the rout more than
five hundred of these Highland reivers, who have been ever _lapis
offensionis et petra scandali_, a stumbling-block and a rock of
offence, to the Lowland vicinage—he discomfited them, I say, when they
had the temerity to descend to harry this country, in the time of the
civil dissensions, in the year of grace sixteen hundred forty and two.
And now, sir, I, his grandson, am thus used at such unworthy hands.”
Here there was an awful pause; after which all the company, as is usual
in cases of difficulty, began to give separate and inconsistent
counsel. Alexander ab Alexandro proposed they should send some one to
compound with the Caterans, who would readily, he said, give up their
prey for a dollar a head. The Bailie opined that this transaction would
amount to theft-boot, or composition of felony; and he recommended that
some _canny hand_ should be sent up to the glens to make the best
bargain he could, as it were for himself, so that the Laird might not
be seen in such a transaction. Edward proposed to send off to the
nearest garrison for a party of soldiers and a magistrate’s warrant;
and Rose, as far as she dared, endeavoured to insinuate the course of
paying the arrears of tribute money to Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr,
who, they all knew, could easily procure restoration of the cattle, if
he were properly propitiated.
None of these proposals met the Baron’s approbation. The idea of
composition, direct or implied, was absolutely ignominious; that of
Waverley only showed that he did not understand the state of the
country, and of the political parties which divided it; and, standing
matters as they did with Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr, the Baron would
make no concession to him, were it, he said, “to procure restitution
_in integrum_ of every stirk and stot that the chief, his forefathers,
and his clan, had stolen since the days of Malcolm Canmore.”
In fact his voice was still for war, and he proposed to send expresses
to Balmawhapple, Killancureit, Tulliellum, and other lairds, who were
exposed to similar depredations, inviting them to join in the pursuit;
“and then, sir, shall these _nebulones nequissimi_, as Leslæus calls
them, be brought to the fate of their predecessor Cacus,
“Elisos oculos, et siccum sanguine guttur.”
The bailie, who by no means relished these warlike counsels, here
pulled forth an immense watch, of the colour, and nearly of the size,
of a pewter warming-pan, and observed it was now past noon, and that
the Caterans had been seen in the pass of Ballybrough soon after
sunrise; so that, before the allied forces could assemble, they and
their prey would be far beyond the reach of the most active pursuit,
and sheltered in those pathless deserts, where it was neither advisable
to follow, nor indeed possible to trace them.
This proposition was undeniable. The council therefore broke up without
coming to any conclusion, as has occurred to councils of more
importance; only it was determined that the Bailie should send his own
three milkcows down to the mains for the use of the Baron’s family, and
brew small ale, as a substitute for milk, in his own. To this
arrangement, which was suggested by Saunderson, the Bailie readily
assented, both from habitual deference to the family, and an internal
consciousness that his courtesy would, in some mode or other, be repaid
tenfold.
The Baron having also retired to give some necessary directions,
Waverley seized the opportunity to ask, whether this Fergus, with the
unpronounceable name, was the chief thief-taker of the district?
“Thief-taker!” answered Rose, laughing; “he is a gentleman of great
honour and consequence, the chieftain of an independent branch of a
powerful Highland clan, and is much respected, both for his own power
and that of his kith, kin, and allies.”
“And what has he to do with the thieves, then? Is he a magistrate, or
in the commission of the peace?” asked Waverley.
“The commission of war rather, if there be such a thing,” said Rose;
“for he is a very unquiet neighbour to his unfriends, and keeps a
greater _following_ on foot than many that have thrice his estate. As
to his connection with the thieves, that I cannot well explain; but the
boldest of them will never steal a hoof from any one that pays
black-mail to Vich Ian Vohr.”
“And what is black-mail?”
“A sort of protection-money that Low-Country gentlemen and heritors,
lying near the Highlands, pay to some Highland chief, that he may
neither do them harm himself, nor suffer it to be done to them by
others; and then if your cattle are stolen, you have only to send him
word, and he will recover them; or it may be, he will drive away cows
from some distant place, where he has a quarrel, and give them to you
to make up your loss.”
“And is this sort of Highland Jonathan Wild admitted into society, and
called a gentleman?”
“So much so,” said Rose, “that the quarrel between my father and Fergus
Mac-Ivor began at a county meeting, where he wanted to take precedence
of all the Lowland gentlemen then present, only my father would not
suffer it. And then he upbraided my father that he was under his
banner, and paid him tribute; and my father was in a towering passion,
for Bailie Macwheeble, who manages such things his own way, had
contrived to keep this black-mail a secret from him, and passed it in
his account for cess-money. And they would have fought; but Fergus
Mac-Ivor said, very gallantly, he would never raise his hand against a
grey head that was so much respected as my father’s.—O I wish, I wish
they had continued friends!”
“And did you ever see this Mr. Mac-Ivor, if that be his name, Miss
Bradwardine?”
“No, that is not his name; and he would consider _master_ as a sort of
affront, only that you are an Englishman, and know no better. But the
Lowlanders call him, like other gentlemen, by the name of his estate,
Glennaquoich; and the Highlanders call him Vich Ian Vohr, that is, the
son of John the Great; and we upon the braes here call him by both
names indifferently.”
“I am afraid I shall never bring my English tongue to call him by
either one or other.”
“But he is a very polite, handsome man,” continued Rose; “and his
sister Flora is one of the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies
in this country; she was bred in a convent in France, and was a great
friend of mine before this unhappy dispute. Dear Captain Waverley, try
your influence with my father to make matters up. I am sure this is but
the beginning of our troubles; for Tully-Veolan has never been a safe
or quiet residence when we have been at feud with the Highlanders. When
I was a girl about ten, there was a skirmish fought between a party of
twenty of them and my father and his servants behind the mains; and the
bullets broke several panes in the north windows, they were so near.
Three of the Highlanders were killed, and they brought them in wrapped
in their plaids, and laid them on the stone floor of the hall; and next
morning, their wives and daughters came, clapping their hands, and
crying the coronach, and shrieking, and carried away the dead bodies,
with the pipes playing before them. I could not sleep for six weeks
without starting and thinking I heard these terrible cries, and saw the
bodies lying on the steps, all stiff and swathed up in their bloody
tartans. But since that time there came a party from the garrison at
Stirling, with a warrant from the Lord Justice Clerk, or some such
great man, and took away all our arms; and now, how are we to protect
ourselves if they come down in any strength?”
Waverley could not help starting at a story which bore so much
resemblance to one of his own day-dreams. Here was a girl scarce
seventeen, the gentlest of her sex, both in temper and appearance, who
had witnessed with her own eyes such a scene as he had used to conjure
up in his imagination, as only occurring in ancient times, and spoke of
it coolly, as one very likely to recur. He felt at once the impulse of
curiosity, and that slight sense of danger which only serves to
heighten its interest. He might have said with Malvolio, ““I do not now
fool myself, to let imagination jade me!” I am actually in the land of
military and romantic adventures, and it only remains to be seen what
will be my own share in them.”
The whole circumstances now detailed concerning the state of the
country seemed equally novel and extraordinary. He had indeed often
heard of Highland thieves, but had no idea of the systematic mode in
which their depredations were conducted; and that the practice was
connived at, and even encouraged, by many of the Highland chieftains,
who not only found the creaghs, or forays, useful for the purpose of
training individuals of their clan to the practice of arms, but also of
maintaining a wholesome terror among their Lowland neighbours, and
levying, as we have seen, a tribute from them, under colour of
protection-money.
Bailie Macwheeble, who soon afterwards entered, expatiated still more
at length upon the same topic. This honest gentleman’s conversation was
so formed upon his professional practice, that Davie Gellatley once
said his discourse was like a “charge of horning.” He assured our hero,
that “from the maist ancient times of record, the lawless thieves,
limmers, and broken men of the Highlands, had been in fellowship
together by reason of their surnames, for the committing of divers
thefts, reifs, and herships upon the honest men of the Low Country,
when they not only intromitted with their whole goods and gear, corn,
cattle, horse, nolt, sheep, outsight and insight plenishing, at their
wicked pleasure, but moreover made prisoners, ransomed them, or
concussed them into giving borrows (pledges) to enter into captivity
again;—all which was directly prohibited in divers parts of the Statute
Book, both by the act one thousand five hundred and sixty-seven, and
various others; the whilk statutes, with all that had followed and
might follow thereupon, were shamefully broken and vilipended by the
said sorners, limmers, and broken men, associated into fellowships, for
the aforesaid purposes of theft, stouthreef, fire-raising, murther,
_raptus mulierum_, or forcible abduction of women, and such like as
aforesaid.”
It seemed like a dream to Waverley that these deeds of violence should
be familiar to men’s minds, and currently talked of as falling within
the common order of things, and happening daily in the immediate
vicinity, without his having crossed the seas, and while he was yet in
the otherwise well-ordered island of Great Britain.[13]
CHAPTER XVI.
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY APPEARS
The Baron returned at the dinner-hour, and had in a great measure
recovered his composure and good-humour. He not only confirmed the
stories which Edward had heard from Rose and Bailie Macwheeble, but
added many anecdotes from his own experience, concerning the state of
the Highlands and their inhabitants. The chiefs he pronounced to be, in
general, gentlemen of great honour and high pedigree, whose word was
accounted as a law by all those of their own sept, or clan. “It did not
indeed,” he said, “become them, as had occurred in late instances, to
propone their _prosapia_, a lineage which rested for the most part on
the vain and fond rhymes of their seannachies or bhairds, as
æquiponderate with the evidence of ancient charters and royal grants of
antiquity, conferred upon distinguished houses in the Low Country by
divers Scottish monarchs; nevertheless, such was their _outrecuidance_
and presumption, as to undervalue those who possessed such evidents, as
if they held their lands in a sheep’s skin.”
This, by the way, pretty well explained the cause of quarrel between
the Baron and his Highland ally. But he went on to state so many
curious particulars concerning the manners, customs, and habits of this
patriarchal race that Edward’s curiosity became highly interested, and
he inquired whether it was possible to make with safety an excursion
into the neighbouring Highlands, whose dusky barrier of mountains had
already excited his wish to penetrate beyond them. The Baron assured
his guest that nothing would be more easy, providing this quarrel were
first made up, since he could himself give him letters to many of the
distinguished chiefs, who would receive him with the utmost courtesy
and hospitality.
While they were on this topic, the door suddenly opened, and, ushered
by Saunders Saunderson, a Highlander, fully armed and equipped, entered
the apartment. Had it not been that Saunders acted the part of master
of the ceremonies to this martial apparition, without appearing to
deviate from his usual composure, and that neither Mr. Bradwardine nor
Rose exhibited any emotion, Edward would certainly have thought the
intrusion hostile. As it was, he started at the sight of what he had
not yet happened to see, a mountaineer in his full national costume.
The individual Gael was a stout, dark, young man, of low stature, the
ample folds of whose plaid added to the appearance of strength which
his person exhibited. The short kilt, or petticoat, showed his sinewy
and clean-made limbs; the goatskin purse, flanked by the usual
defences, a dirk and steel-wrought pistol, hung before him; his bonnet
had a short feather, which indicated his claim to be treated as a
_duinhé-wassel_, or sort of gentleman; a broadsword dangled by his
side, a target hung upon his shoulder, and a long Spanish fowling-piece
occupied one of his hands. With the other hand he pulled off his
bonnet, and the Baron, who well knew their customs, and the proper mode
of addressing them, immediately said, with an air of dignity, but
without rising, and much, as Edward thought, in the manner of a prince
receiving an embassy, “Welcome, Evan Dhu Maccombich; what news from
Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr?”
“Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr,” said the ambassador, in good English,
“greets you well, Baron of Bradwardine and Tully-Veolan, and is sorry
there has been a thick cloud interposed between you and him, which has
kept you from seeing and considering the friendship and alliances that
have been between your houses and forebears of old; and he prays you
that the cloud may pass away, and that things may be as they have been
heretofore between the clan Ivor and the house of Bradwardine, when
there was an egg between them for a flint and a knife for a sword. And
he expects you will also say, you are sorry for the cloud, and no man
shall hereafter ask whether it descended from the hill to the valley,
or rose from the valley to the hill; for they never struck with the
scabbard who did not receive with the sword, and woe to him who would
lose his friend for the stormy cloud of a spring morning.”
To this the Baron of Bradwardine answered with suitable dignity, that
he knew the chief of Clan Ivor to be a well-wisher to the _king_, and
he was sorry there should have been a cloud between him and any
gentleman of such sound principles, “for when folks are banding
together, feeble is he who hath no brother.”
This appearing perfectly satisfactory, that the peace between these
august persons might be duly solemnised, the Baron ordered a stoup of
usquebaugh, and, filling a glass, drank to the health and prosperity of
Mac-Ivor of Glennaquoich; upon which the Celtic ambassador, to requite
his politeness, turned down a mighty bumper of the same generous
liquor, seasoned with his good wishes to the house of Bradwardine.
Having thus ratified the preliminaries of the general treaty of
pacification, the envoy retired to adjust with Mr. Macwheeble some
subordinate articles with which it was not thought necessary to trouble
the Baron. These probably referred to the discontinuance of the
subsidy, and apparently the Bailie found means to satisfy their ally,
without suffering his master to suppose that his dignity was
compromised. At least, it is certain, that after the plenipotentiaries
had drunk a bottle of brandy in single drams, which seemed to have no
more effect upon such seasoned vessels than if it had been poured upon
the two bears at the top of the avenue, Evan Dhu Maccombich, having
possessed himself of all the information which he could procure
respecting the robbery of the preceding night, declared his intention
to set off immediately in pursuit of the cattle, which he pronounced to
be “no that far off; they have broken the bone,” he observed, “but they
have had no time to suck the marrow.”
Our hero, who had attended Evan Dhu during his perquisitions, was much
struck with the ingenuity which he displayed in collecting information,
and the precise and pointed conclusions which he drew from it. Evan
Dhu, on his part, was obviously flattered with the attention of
Waverley, the interest he seemed to take in his inquiries, and his
curiosity about the customs and scenery of the Highlands. Without much
ceremony he invited Edward to accompany him on a short walk of ten or
fifteen miles into the mountains, and see the place where the cattle
were conveyed to; adding, “If it be as I suppose, you never saw such a
place in your life, nor ever will, unless you go with me or the like of
me.”
Our hero, feeling his curiosity considerably excited by the idea of
visiting the den of a Highland Cacus, took, however, the precaution to
inquire if his guide might be trusted. He was assured that the
invitation would on no account have been given had there been the least
danger, and that all he had to apprehend was a little fatigue; and, as
Evan proposed he should pass a day at his Chieftain’s house in
returning, where he would be sure of good accommodation and an
excellent welcome, there seemed nothing very formidable in the task he
undertook. Rose, indeed, turned pale when she heard of it; but her
father, who loved the spirited curiosity of his young friend, did not
attempt to damp it by an alarm of danger which really did not exist,
and a knapsack, with a few necessaries, being bound on the shoulders of
a sort of deputy gamekeeper, our hero set forth with a fowling-piece in
his hand, accompanied by his new friend Evan Dhu, and followed by the
gamekeeper aforesaid, and by two wild Highlanders, the attendants of
Evan, one of whom had upon his shoulder a hatchet at the end of a pole,
called a Lochaber-axe,[14] and the other a long ducking-gun. Evan, upon
Edward’s inquiry, gave him to understand that this martial escort was
by no means necessary as a guard, but merely, as he said, drawing up
and adjusting his plaid with an air of dignity, that he might appear
decently at Tully-Veolan, and as Vich Ian Vohr’s foster-brother ought
to do. “Ah!” said he, “if you Saxon _duinhé-wassel_ (English gentleman)
saw but the Chief with his tail on!”
“With his tail on?” echoed Edward in some surprise.
“Yes—that is, with all his usual followers, when he visits those of the
same rank. There is,” he continued, stopping and drawing himself
proudly up, while he counted upon his fingers the several officers of
his chief’s retinue; “there is his _hanchman_, or right-hand man; then
his _bàrd_, or poet; then his _bladier_, or orator, to make harangues
to the great folks whom he visits; then his _gilly-more_, or
armour-bearer, to carry his sword and target, and his gun; then his
_gilly-casfliuch_, who carries him on his back through the sikes and
brooks; then his _gilly-comstrian_, to lead his horse by the bridle in
steep and difficult paths; then his _gilly-trushharnish_, to carry his
knapsack; and the piper and the piper’s man, and it may be a dozen
young lads beside, that have no business, but are just boys of the
belt, to follow the Laird and do his honour’s bidding.”
“And does your Chief regularly maintain all these men?” demanded
Waverley.
“All these?” replied Evan; “ay, and many a fair head beside, that would
not ken where to lay itself, but for the mickle barn at Glennaquoich.”
With similar tales of the grandeur of the Chief in peace and war, Evan
Dhu beguiled the way till they approached more closely those huge
mountains which Edward had hitherto only seen at a distance. It was
towards evening as they entered one of the tremendous passes which
afford communication between the high and low country; the path, which
was extremely steep and rugged, winded up a chasm between two
tremendous rocks, following the passage which a foaming stream, that
brawled far below, appeared to have worn for itself in the course of
ages. A few slanting beams of the sun, which was now setting, reached
the water in its darksome bed, and showed it partially, chafed by a
hundred rocks and broken by a hundred falls. The descent from the path
to the stream was a mere precipice, with here and there a projecting
fragment of granite, or a scathed tree, which had warped its twisted
roots into the fissures of the rock. On the right hand, the mountain
rose above the path with almost equal inaccessibility; but the hill on
the opposite side displayed a shroud of copsewood, with which some
pines were intermingled.
“This,” said Evan, “is the pass of Bally-Brough, which was kept in
former times by ten of the clan Donnochie against a hundred of the
Low-Country carles. The graves of the slain are still to be seen in
that little _corri_, or bottom, on the opposite side of the burn; if
your eyes are good, you may see the green specks among the heather.
See, there is an _earn_, which you Southrons call an eagle. You have no
such birds as that in England. He is going to fetch his supper from the
Laird of Bradwardine’s braes, but I’ll send a slug after him.”
He fired his piece accordingly, but missed the superb monarch of the
feathered tribes, who, without noticing the attempt to annoy him,
continued his majestic flight to the southward. A thousand birds of
prey, hawks, kites, carrion-crows, and ravens, disturbed from the
lodgings which they had just taken up for the evening, rose at the
report of the gun, and mingled their hoarse and discordant notes with
the echoes which replied to it, and with the roar of the mountain
cataracts. Evan, a little disconcerted at having missed his mark, when
he meant to have displayed peculiar dexterity, covered his confusion by
whistling part of a pibroch as he reloaded his piece, and proceeded in
silence up the pass.
It issued in a narrow glen, between two mountains, both very lofty and
covered with heath. The brook continued to be their companion, and they
advanced up its mazes, crossing them now and then, on which occasions
Evan Dhu uniformly offered the assistance of his attendants to carry
over Edward; but our hero, who had been always a tolerable pedestrian,
declined the accommodation, and obviously rose in his guide’s opinion,
by showing that he did not fear wetting his feet. Indeed he was
anxious, so far as he could without affectation, to remove the opinion
which Evan seemed to entertain of the effeminacy of the Lowlanders, and
particularly of the English.
Through the gorge of this glen they found access to a black bog, of
tremendous extent, full of large pit-holes, which they traversed with
great difficulty and some danger, by tracks which no one but a
Highlander could have followed. The path itself, or rather the portion
of more solid ground on which the travellers half walked, half waded,
was rough, broken, and in many places quaggy and unsound. Sometimes the
ground was so completely unsafe that it was necessary to spring from
one hillock to another, the space between being incapable of bearing
the human weight. This was an easy matter to the Highlanders, who wore
thin-soled brogues fit for the purpose, and moved with a peculiar
springing step; but Edward began to find the exercise, to which he was
unaccustomed, more fatiguing than he expected. The lingering twilight
served to show them through this Serbonian bog, but deserted them
almost totally at the bottom of a steep and very stony hill, which it
was the travellers’ next toilsome task to ascend. The night, however,
was pleasant, and not dark; and Waverley, calling up mental energy to
support personal fatigue, held on his march gallantly, though envying
in his heart his Highland attendants, who continued, without a symptom
of abated vigour, the rapid and swinging pace, or rather trot, which,
according to his computation, had already brought them fifteen miles
upon their journey.
After crossing this mountain and descending on the other side towards a
thick wood, Evan Dhu held some conference with his Highland attendants,
in consequence of which Edward’s baggage was shifted from the shoulders
of the gamekeeper to those of one of the gillies, and the former was
sent off with the other mountaineer in a direction different from that
of the three remaining travellers. On asking the meaning of this
separation, Waverley was told that the Lowlander must go to a hamlet
about three miles off for the night; for unless it was some very
particular friend, Donald Bean Lean, the worthy person whom they
supposed to be possessed of the cattle, did not much approve of
strangers approaching his retreat. This seemed reasonable, and silenced
a qualm of suspicion which came across Edward’s mind when he saw
himself, at such a place and such an hour, deprived of his only Lowland
companion. And Evan immediately afterwards added, “that indeed he
himself had better get forward, and announce their approach to Donald
Bean Lean, as the arrival of a _sidier roy_ (red soldier) might
otherwise be a disagreeable surprise.” And without waiting for an
answer, in jockey phrase, he trotted out, and putting himself to a very
round pace, was out of sight in an instant.
Waverley was now left to his own meditations, for his attendant with
the battle-axe spoke very little English. They were traversing a thick,
and, as it seemed, an endless wood of pines, and consequently the path
was altogether indiscernible in the murky darkness which surrounded
them. The Highlander, however, seemed to trace it by instinct, without
the hesitation of a moment, and Edward followed his footsteps as close
as he could.
After journeying a considerable time in silence, he could not help
asking, “Was it far to the end of their journey?”
“Ta cove was tree, four mile; but as _duinhé-wassel_ was a wee taiglit,
Donald could, tat is, might—would—should send ta _curragh_.”
This conveyed no information. The _curragh_ which was promised might be
a man, a horse, a cart, or chaise; and no more could be got from the
man with the battle-axe but a repetition of “Aich ay! ta _curragh_.”
But in a short time Edward began to conceive his meaning, when, issuing
from the wood, he found himself on the banks of a large river or lake,
where his conductor gave him to understand they must sit down for a
little while. The moon, which now began to rise, showed obscurely the
expanse of water which spread before them, and the shapeless and
indistinct forms of mountains with which it seemed to be surrounded.
The cool and yet mild air of the summer night refreshed Waverley after
his rapid and toilsome walk; and the perfume which it wafted from the
birch trees,[*] bathed in the evening dew, was exquisitely fragrant.
[* It is not the weeping birch, the most common species in the
Highlands, but the woolly-leaved Lowland birch, that is distinguished
by this fragrance.]
He had now time to give himself up to the full romance of his
situation. Here he sate on the banks of an unknown lake, under the
guidance of a wild native, whose language was unknown to him, on a
visit to the den of some renowned outlaw, a second Robin Hood, perhaps,
or Adam o’ Gordon, and that at deep midnight, through scenes of
difficulty and toil, separated from his attendant, left by his guide.
What a variety of incidents for the exercise of a romantic imagination,
and all enhanced by the solemn feeling of uncertainty at least, if not
of danger! The only circumstance which assorted ill with the rest was
the cause of his journey—the Baron’s milk-cows! this degrading incident
he kept in the background.
While wrapt in these dreams of imagination, his companion gently
touched him, and, pointing in a direction nearly straight across the
lake, said, “Yon’s ta cove.” A small point of light was seen to twinkle
in the direction in which he pointed, and, gradually increasing in size
and lustre, seemed to flicker like a meteor upon the verge of the
horizon. While Edward watched this phenomenon, the distant dash of oars
was heard. The measured sound approached near and more near, and
presently a loud whistle was heard in the same direction. His friend
with the battle-axe immediately whistled clear and shrill, in reply to
the signal, and a boat, manned with four or five Highlanders, pushed
for a little inlet, near which Edward was sitting. He advanced to meet
them with his attendant, was immediately assisted into the boat by the
officious attention of two stout mountaineers, and had no sooner seated
himself than they resumed their oars, and began to row across the lake
with great rapidity.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE HOLD OF A HIGHLAND ROBBER
The party preserved silence, interrupted only by the monotonous and
murmured chant of a Gaelic song, sung in a kind of low recitative by
the steersman, and by the dash of the oars, which the notes seemed to
regulate, as they dipped to them in cadence. The light, which they now
approached more nearly, assumed a broader, redder and more irregular
splendour. It appeared plainly to be a large fire, but whether kindled
upon an island or the mainland Edward could not determine. As he saw
it, the red glaring orb seemed to rest on the very surface of the lake
itself, and resembled the fiery vehicle in which the Evil Genius of an
Oriental tale traverses land and sea. They approached nearer, and the
light of the fire sufficed to show that it was kindled at the bottom of
a huge dark crag or rock, rising abruptly from the very edge of the
water; its front, changed by the reflection to dusky red, formed a
strange and even awful contrast to the banks around, which were from
time to time faintly and partially illuminated by pallid moonlight.
The boat now neared the shore, and Edward could discover that this
large fire, amply supplied with branches of pine-wood by two figures,
who, in the red reflection of its light, appeared like demons, was
kindled in the jaws of a lofty cavern, into which an inlet from the
lake seemed to advance; and he conjectured, which was indeed true, that
the fire had been lighted as a beacon to the boatmen on their return.
They rowed right for the mouth of the cave, and then, shipping their
oars, permitted the boat to enter in obedience to the impulse which it
had received. The skiff passed the little point or platform of rock on
which the fire was blazing, and running about two boats’ lengths
farther, stopped where the cavern (for it was already arched overhead)
ascended from the water by five or six broad ledges of rock, so easy
and regular that they might be termed natural steps. At this moment a
quantity of water was suddenly flung upon the fire, which sunk with a
hissing noise, and with it disappeared the light it had hitherto
afforded. Four or five active arms lifted Waverley out of the boat,
placed him on his feet, and almost carried him into the recesses of the
cave. He made a few paces in darkness, guided in this manner; and
advancing towards a hum of voices, which seemed to sound from the
centre of the rock, at an acute turn Donald Bean Lean and his whole
establishment were before his eyes.
[Illustration]
The interior of the cave, which here rose very high, was illuminated by
torches made of pine-tree, which emitted a bright and bickering light,
attended by a strong though not unpleasant odour. Their light was
assisted by the red glare of a large charcoal fire, round which were
seated five or six armed Highlanders, while others were indistinctly
seen couched on their plaids in the more remote recesses of the cavern.
In one large aperture, which the robber facetiously called his “spence”
(or pantry), there hung by the heels the carcasses of a sheep, or ewe,
and two cows lately slaughtered. The principal inhabitant of this
singular mansion, attended by Evan Dhu as master of the ceremonies,
came forward to meet his guest, totally different in appearance and
manner from what his imagination had anticipated. The profession which
he followed, the wilderness in which he dwelt, the wild warrior forms
that surrounded him, were all calculated to inspire terror. From such
accompaniments, Waverley prepared himself to meet a stern, gigantic,
ferocious figure, such as Salvator would have chosen to be the central
object of a group of banditti.[15]
Donald Bean Lean was the very reverse of all these. He was thin in
person and low in stature, with light sandy-coloured hair, and small
pale features, from which he derived his agnomen of “Bean” or white;
and although his form was light, well proportioned and active, he
appeared, on the whole, rather a diminutive and insignificant figure.
He had served in some inferior capacity in the French army, and in
order to receive his English visitor in great form, and probably
meaning, in his way, to pay him a compliment, he had laid aside the
Highland dress for the time, to put on an old blue and red uniform and
a feathered hat, in which he was far from showing to advantage, and
indeed looked so incongruous, compared with all around him, that
Waverley would have been tempted to laugh, had laughter been either
civil or safe. The robber received Captain Waverley with a profusion of
French politeness and Scottish hospitality, seemed perfectly to know
his name and connections, and to be particularly acquainted with his
uncle’s political principles. On these he bestowed great applause, to
which Waverley judged it prudent to make a very general reply.
Being placed at a convenient distance from the charcoal fire, the heat
of which the season rendered oppressive, a strapping Highland damsel
placed before Waverley, Evan, and Donald Bean three _cogues_, or wooden
vessels composed of staves and hoops, containing _eanaruich_,[*] a sort
of strong soup, made out of a particular part of the inside of the
beeves. After this refreshment, which, though coarse, fatigue and
hunger rendered palatable, steaks, roasted on the coals, were supplied
in liberal abundance, and disappeared before Evan Dhu and their host
with a promptitude that seemed like magic, and astonished Waverley, who
was much puzzled to reconcile their voracity with what he had heard of
the abstemiousness of the Highlanders. He was ignorant that this
abstinence was with the lower ranks wholly compulsory, and that, like
some animals of prey, those who practise it were usually gifted with
the power of indemnifying themselves to good purpose when chance threw
plenty in their way. The whisky came forth in abundance to crown the
cheer. The Highlanders drank it copiously and undiluted; but Edward,
having mixed a little with water, did not find it so palatable as to
invite him to repeat the draught. Their host bewailed himself
exceedingly that he could offer him no wine; had he but known
four-and-twenty hours before, he would have had some, had it been
within the circle of forty miles round him. But no gentleman could do
more to show his sense of the honour of a visit from another than to
offer him the best cheer his house afforded. Where there are no bushes
there can be no nuts, and the way of those you live with is that you
must follow.
[* This was the regale presented by Rob Roy to the Laird of Tullibody.]
He went on regretting to Evan Dhu the death of an aged man, Donnacha an
Amrigh, or Duncan with the Cap, “a gifted seer,” who foretold, through
the second sight, visitors of every description who haunted their
dwelling, whether as friends or foes.
“Is not his son Malcolm _taishatr_ (a second-sighted person)?” asked
Evan.
“Nothing equal to his father,” replied Donald Bean. “He told us the
other day, we were to see a great gentleman riding on a horse, and
there came nobody that whole day but Shemus Beg, the blind harper, with
his dog. Another time he advertised us of a wedding, and behold it
proved a funeral; and on the _creagh_, when he foretold to us we should
bring home a hundred head of horned cattle, we gripped nothing but a
fat bailie of Perth.”
From this discourse he passed to the political and military state of
the country; and Waverley was astonished, and even alarmed, to find a
person of this description so accurately acquainted with the strength
of the various garrisons and regiments quartered north of the Tay. He
even mentioned the exact number of recruits who had joined Waverley’s
troop from his uncle’s estate, and observed they were “pretty men”,
meaning, not handsome, but stout warlike fellows. He put Waverley in
mind of one or two minute circumstances which had happened at a general
review of the regiment, which satisfied him that the robber had been an
eye-witness of it; and Evan Dhu having by this time retired from the
conversation, and wrapped himself up in his plaid to take some repose,
Donald asked Edward, in a very significant manner, whether he had
nothing particular to say to him.
Waverley, surprised and somewhat startled at this question from such a
character, answered, he had no motive in visiting him but curiosity to
see his extraordinary place of residence. Donald Bean Lean looked him
steadily in the face for an instant, and then said, with a significant
nod, “You might as well have confided in me; I am as much worthy of
trust as either the Baron of Bradwardine or Vich Ian Vohr. But you are
equally welcome to my house.”
Waverley felt an involuntary shudder creep over him at the mysterious
language held by this outlawed and lawless bandit, which, in despite of
his attempts to master it, deprived him of the power to ask the meaning
of his insinuations. A heath pallet, with the flowers stuck uppermost,
had been prepared for him in a recess of the cave, and here, covered
with such spare plaids as could be mustered, he lay for some time
watching the motions of the other inhabitants of the cavern. Small
parties of two or three entered or left the place, without any other
ceremony than a few words in Gaelic to the principal outlaw, and, when
he fell asleep, to a tall Highlander who acted as his lieutenant, and
seemed to keep watch during his repose. Those who entered seemed to
have returned from some excursion, of which they reported the success,
and went without farther ceremony to the larder, where, cutting with
their dirks their rations from the carcasses which were there
suspended, they proceeded to broil and eat them at their own pleasure
and leisure. The liquor was under strict regulation, being served out
either by Donald himself, his lieutenant, or the strapping Highland
girl aforesaid, who was the only female that appeared. The allowance of
whisky, however, would have appeared prodigal to any but Highlanders,
who, living entirely in the open air and in a very moist climate, can
consume great quantities of ardent spirits without the usual baneful
effects either upon the brain or constitution.
At length the fluctuating groups began to swim before the eyes of our
hero as they gradually closed; nor did he re-open them till the morning
sun was high on the lake without, though there was but a faint and
glimmering twilight in the recesses of Uaimh an Ri, or the King’s
Cavern, as the abode of Donald Bean Lean was proudly denominated.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WAVERLEY PROCEEDS ON HIS JOURNEY
When Edward had collected his scattered recollection, he was surprised
to observe the cavern totally deserted. Having arisen and put his dress
in some order, he looked more accurately round him; but all was still
solitary. If it had not been for the decayed brands of the fire, now
sunk into grey ashes, and the remnants of the festival, consisting of
bones half burnt and half gnawed, and an empty keg or two, there
remained no traces of Donald and his band. When Waverley sallied forth
to the entrance of the cave, he perceived that the point of rock, on
which remained the marks of last night’s beacon, was accessible by a
small path, either natural or roughly hewn in the rock, along the
little inlet of water which ran a few yards up into the cavern, where,
as in a wetdock, the skiff which brought him there the night before was
still lying moored. When he reached the small projecting platform on
which the beacon had been established, he would have believed his
further progress by land impossible, only that it was scarce probable
but what the inhabitants of the cavern had some mode of issuing from it
otherwise than by the lake. Accordingly, he soon observed three or four
shelving steps, or ledges of rock, at the very extremity of the little
platform; and, making use of them as a staircase, he clambered by their
means around the projecting shoulder of the crag on which the cavern
opened, and, descending with some difficulty on the other side, he
gained the wild and precipitous shores of a Highland loch, about four
miles in length and a mile and a half across, surrounded by heathy and
savage mountains, on the crests of which the morning mist was still
sleeping.
Looking back to the place from which he came, he could not help
admiring the address which had adopted a retreat of such seclusion and
secrecy. The rock, round the shoulder of which he had turned by a few
imperceptible notches, that barely afforded place for the foot, seemed,
in looking back upon it, a huge precipice, which barred all further
passage by the shores of the lake in that direction. There could be no
possibility, the breadth of the lake considered, of descrying the
entrance of the narrow and low-browed cave from the other side; so
that, unless the retreat had been sought for with boats, or disclosed
by treachery, it might be a safe and secret residence to its garrison
as long as they were supplied with provisions. Having satisfied his
curiosity in these particulars, Waverley looked around for Evan Dhu and
his attendants, who, he rightly judged, would be at no great distance,
whatever might have become of Donald Bean Lean and his party, whose
mode of life was, of course, liable to sudden migrations of abode.
Accordingly, at the distance of about half a mile, he beheld a
Highlander (Evan apparently) angling in the lake, with another
attending him, whom, from the weapon which he shouldered, he recognised
for his friend with the battle-axe.
Much nearer to the mouth of the cave he heard the notes of a lively
Gaelic song, guided by which, in a sunny recess, shaded by a glittering
birch-tree, and carpeted with a bank of firm white sand, he found the
damsel of the cavern, whose lay had already reached him, busy, to the
best of her power, in arranging to advantage a morning repast of milk,
eggs, barley-bread, fresh butter, and honey-comb. The poor girl had
already made a circuit of four miles that morning in search of the
eggs, of the meal which baked her cakes, and of the other materials of
the breakfast, being all delicacies which she had to beg or borrow from
distant cottagers. The followers of Donald Bean Lean used little food
except the flesh of the animals which they drove away from the
Lowlands; bread itself was a delicacy seldom thought of, because hard
to be obtained, and all the domestic accommodations of milk, poultry,
butter, etc., were out of the question in this Scythian camp. Yet it
must not be omitted that, although Alice had occupied a part of the
morning in providing those accommodations for her guest which the
cavern did not afford, she had secured time also to arrange her own
person in her best trim. Her finery was very simple. A short
russet-coloured jacket and a petticoat of scanty longitude was her
whole dress; but these were clean, and neatly arranged. A piece of
scarlet embroidered cloth, called the snood, confined her hair, which
fell over it in a profusion of rich dark curls. The scarlet plaid,
which formed part of her dress, was laid aside, that it might not
impede her activity in attending the stranger. I should forget Alice’s
proudest ornament were I to omit mentioning a pair of gold ear-rings
and a golden rosary, which her father (for she was the daughter of
Donald Bean Lean) had brought from France, the plunder, probably, of
some battle or storm.
Her form, though rather large for her years, was very well
proportioned, and her demeanour had a natural and rustic grace, with
nothing of the sheepishness of an ordinary peasant. The smiles,
displaying a row of teeth of exquisite whiteness, and the laughing
eyes, with which, in dumb show, she gave Waverley that morning greeting
which she wanted English words to express, might have been interpreted
by a coxcomb, or perhaps by a young soldier who, without being such,
was conscious of a handsome person, as meant to convey more than the
courtesy of an hostess. Nor do I take it upon me to say that the little
wild mountaineer would have welcomed any staid old gentleman advanced
in life, the Baron of Bradwardine, for example, with the cheerful pains
which she bestowed upon Edward’s accommodation. She seemed eager to
place him by the meal which she had so sedulously arranged, and to
which she now added a few bunches of cranberries, gathered in an
adjacent morass. Having had the satisfaction of seeing him seated at
his breakfast, she placed herself demurely upon a stone at a few yards’
distance, and appeared to watch with great complacency for some
opportunity of serving him.
Evan and his attendant now returned slowly along the beach, the latter
bearing a large salmon-trout, the produce of the morning’s sport,
together with the angling-rod, while Evan strolled forward, with an
easy, self-satisfied, and important gait, towards the spot where
Waverley was so agreeably employed at the breakfast-table. After
morning greetings had passed on both sides, and Evan, looking at
Waverley, had said something in Gaelic to Alice, which made her laugh,
yet colour up to her eyes, through a complexion well embrowned by sun
and wind, Evan intimated his commands that the fish should be prepared
for breakfast. A spark from the lock of his pistol produced a light,
and a few withered fir branches were quickly in flame, and as speedily
reduced to hot embers, on which the trout was broiled in large slices.
To crown the repast, Evan produced from the pocket of his short jerkin
a large scallop shell, and from under the folds of his plaid a ram’s
horn full of whisky. Of this he took a copious dram, observing he had
already taken his “morning” with Donald Bean Lean before his departure;
he offered the same cordial to Alice and to Edward, which they both
declined. With the bounteous air of a lord, Evan then proffered the
scallop to Dugald Mahony, his attendant, who, without waiting to be
asked a second time, drank it off with great gusto. Evan then prepared
to move towards the boat, inviting Waverley to attend him. Meanwhile,
Alice had made up in a small basket what she thought worth removing,
and flinging her plaid around her, she advanced up to Edward, and with
the utmost simplicity, taking hold of his hand, offered her cheek to
his salute, dropping at the same time her little curtsy. Evan, who was
esteemed a wag among the mountain fair, advanced as if to secure a
similar favour; but Alice, snatching up her basket, escaped up the
rocky bank as fleetly as a roe, and, turning round and laughing, called
something out to him in Gaelic, which he answered in the same tone and
language; then, waving her hand to Edward, she resumed her road, and
was soon lost among the thickets, though they continued for some time
to hear her lively carol, as she proceeded gaily on her solitary
journey.
They now again entered the gorge of the cavern, and stepping into the
boat, the Highlander pushed off, and, taking advantage of the morning
breeze, hoisted a clumsy sort of sail, while Evan assumed the helm,
directing their course, as it appeared to Waverley, rather higher up
the lake than towards the place of his embarkation on the preceding
night. As they glided along the silver mirror, Evan opened the
conversation with a panegyric upon Alice, who, he said, was both
“canny” and “fendy,” and was, to the boot of all that, the best dancer
of a strathspey in the whole strath. Edward assented to her praises so
far as he understood them, yet could not help regretting that she was
condemned to such a perilous and dismal life.
“_Oich!_ for that,” said Evan, “there is nothing in Perthshire that she
need want, if she ask her father to fetch it, unless it be too hot or
too heavy.”
“But to be the daughter of a cattle-stealer—a common thief!”
“Common thief!—no such thing: Donald Bean Lean never _lifted_ less
than a drove in his life.”
“Do you call him an uncommon thief, then?”
“No; he that steals a cow from a poor widow, or a stirk from a cotter,
is a thief; he that lifts a drove from a Sassenach laird is a
gentleman-drover. And, besides, to take a tree from the forest, a
salmon from the river, a deer from the hill, or a cow from a Lowland
strath, is what no Highlander need ever think shame upon.”
“But what can this end in, were he taken in such an appropriation?”
“To be sure he would _die for the law_, as many a pretty man has done
before him.”
“Die for the law!”
“Ay; that is, with the law, or by the law; be strapped up on the _kind_
gallows of Crieff,[16] where his father died, and his goodsire died,
and where I hope he’ll live to die himsell, if he’s not shot, or
slashed, in a _creagh_.”
“You _hope_ such a death for your friend, Evan?”
“And that do I e’en; would you have me wish him to die on a bundle of
wet straw in yon den of his, like a mangy tyke?”
“But what becomes of Alice, then?”
“Troth, if such an accident were to happen, as her father would not
need her help ony langer, I ken nought to hinder me to marry her
mysell.”
“Gallantly resolved,” said Edward; “but, in the meanwhile, Evan, what
has your father-in-law (that shall be, if he have the good fortune to
be hanged) done with the Baron’s cattle?”
“_Oich_,” answered Evan, “they were all trudging before your lad and
Allan Kennedy before the sun blinked ower Ben Lawers this morning; and
they’ll be in the pass of Bally-Brough by this time, in their way back
to the parks of Tully-Veolan, all but two, that were unhappily
slaughtered before I got last night to Uaimh an Ri.”
“And where are we going, Evan, if I may be so bold as to ask?” said
Waverley.
“Where would you be ganging, but to the Laird’s ain house of
Glennaquoich? Ye would not think to be in his country, without ganging
to see him? It would be as much as a man’s life’s worth.”
“And are we far from Glennaquoich?”
“But five bits of miles; and Vich Ian Vohr will meet us.”
In about half an hour they reached the upper end of the lake, where,
after landing Waverley, the two Highanders drew the boat into a little
creek among thick flags and reeds, where it lay perfectly concealed.
The oars they put in another place of concealment, both for the use of
Donald Bean Lean probably, when his occasions should next bring him to
that place.
The travellers followed for some time a delightful opening into the
hills, down which a little brook found its way to the lake. When they
had pursued their walk a short distance, Waverley renewed his questions
about their host of the cavern.
“Does he always reside in that cave?”
“Out, no! it’s past the skill of man to tell where he’s to be found at
a’ times; there’s not a dern nook, or cove, or _corri_, in the whole
country that he’s not acquainted with.”
“And do others beside your master shelter him?”
“My master? _My_ master is in Heaven,” answered Evan, haughtily; and
then immediately assuming his usual civility of manner, “but you mean
my Chief;—no, he does not shelter Donald Bean Lean, nor any that are
like him; he only allows him (with a smile) wood and water.”
“No great boon, I should think, Evan, when both seem to be very
plenty.”
“Ah! but ye dinna see through it. When I say wood and water, I mean the
loch and the land; and I fancy Donald would be put till ’t if the Laird
were to look for him wi’ threescore men in the wood of Kailychat
yonder; and if our boats, with a score or twa mair, were to come down
the loch to Uaimh an Ri, headed by mysell, or ony other pretty man.”
“But suppose a strong party came against him from the Low Country,
would not your Chief defend him?”
“Na, he would not ware the spark of a flint for him—if they came with
the law.”
“And what must Donald do, then?”
“He behoved to rid this country of himsell, and fall back, it may be,
over the mount upon Letter Scriven.”
“And if he were pursued to that place?”
“I’se warrant he would go to his cousin’s at Rannoch.”
“Well, but if they followed him to Rannoch?”
“That,” quoth Evan, “is beyond all belief; and, indeed, to tell you the
truth, there durst not a Lowlander in all Scotland follow the fray a
gun-shot beyond Bally-Brough, unless he had the help of the _Sidier
Dhu_.”
“Whom do you call so?”
“The _Sidier Dhu?_ the black soldier; that is what they call the
independent companies that were raised to keep peace and law in the
Highlands. Vich Ian Vohr commanded one of them for five years, and I
was sergeant mysell, I shall warrant ye. They call them_ Sidier Dhu_
because they wear the tartans, as they call your men—King George’s
men—_Sidier Roy_, or red soldiers.”
“Well, but when you were in King George’s pay, Evan, you were surely
King George’s soldiers?”
“Troth, and you must ask Vich Ian Vohr about that; for we are for his
king, and care not much which o’ them it is. At ony rate, nobody can
say we are King George’s men now, when we have not seen his pay this
twelve-month.”
This last argument admitted of no reply, nor did Edward attempt any; he
rather chose to bring back the discourse to Donald Bean Lean. “Does
Donald confine himself to cattle, or does he ‘lift,’ as you call it,
anything else that comes in his way?”
“Troth, he’s nae nice body, and he’ll just tak onything, but most
readily cattle, horse, or live Christians; for sheep are slow of
travel, and inside plenishing is cumbrous to carry, and not easy to put
away for siller in this country.”
“But does he carry off men and women?”
“Out, ay. Did not ye hear him speak o’ the Perth bailie? It cost that
body five hundred merks ere he got to the south of Bally-Brough. And
ance Donald played a pretty sport.[17] There was to be a blythe bridal
between the Lady Cramfeezer, in the howe o’ the Mearns (she was the
auld laird’s widow, and no sae young as she had been hersell), and
young Gilliewhackit, who had spent his heirship and movables, like a
gentleman, at cock-matches, bull-baitings, horse-races, and the like.
Now, Donald Bean Lean, being aware that the bridegroom was in request,
and wanting to cleik the cunzie (that is, to hook the siller), he
cannily carried off Gilliewhackit ae night when he was riding
_dovering_ hame (wi’ the malt rather abune the meal), and with the help
of his gillies he gat him into the hills with the speed of light, and
the first place he wakened in was the cove of Uaimh an Ri. So there was
old to do about ransoming the bridegroom; for Donald would not lower a
farthing of a thousand punds—”
“The devil!”
“Punds Scottish, ye shall understand. And the lady had not the siller
if she had pawned her gown; and they applied to the governor o’
Stirling castle, and to the major o’ the Black Watch; and the governor
said it was ower far to the northward, and out of his district; and the
major said his men were gane hame to the shearing, and he would not
call them out before the victual was got in for all the Cramfeezers in
Christendom, let alane the Mearns, for that it would prejudice the
country. And in the meanwhile ye’ll no hinder Gilliewhackit to take the
small-pox. There was not the doctor in Perth or Stirling would look
near the poor lad; and I cannot blame them, for Donald had been
misguggled by ane of these doctors about Paris, and he swore he would
fling the first into the loch that he catched beyond the pass. However
some _cailliachs_ (that is, old women) that were about Donald’s hand
nursed Gilliewhackit sae weel that, between the free open air in the
cove and the fresh whey, deil an he did not recover maybe as weel as if
he had been closed in a glazed chamber and a bed with curtains, and fed
with red wine and white meat. And Donald was sae vexed about it that,
when he was stout and weel, he even sent him free home, and said he
would be pleased with onything they would like to gie him for the
plague and trouble which he had about Gilliewhackit to an unkenn’d
degree. And I cannot tell you precisely how they sorted; but they
agreed sae right that Donald was invited to dance at the wedding in his
Highland trews, and they said that there was never sae meikle siller
clinked in his purse either before or since. And to the boot of all
that, Gilliewhackit said that, be the evidence what it liked, if he had
the luck to be on Donald’s inquest, he would bring him in guilty of
nothing whatever, unless it were wilful arson or murder under trust.”
With such bald and disjointed chat Evan went on illustrating the
existing state of the Highlands, more perhaps to the amusement of
Waverley than that of our readers. At length, after having marched over
bank and brae, moss and heather, Edward, though not unacquainted with
the Scottish liberality in computing distance, began to think that
Evan’s five miles were nearly doubled. His observation on the large
measure which the Scottish allowed of their land, in comparison to the
computation of their money, was readily answered by Evan with the old
jest, “The deil take them wha have the least pint stoup.”[*]
[* The Scotch are liberal in computing their land and liquor; the
Scottish pint corresponds to two English quarts. As for their coin,
every one knows the couplet—
How can the rogues pretend to sense?
Their pound is only twenty pence.]
And now the report of a gun was heard, and a sportsman was seen, with
his dogs and attendant, at the upper end of the glen. “Shough,” said
Dugald Mahony, “tat’s ta chief.”
“It is not,” said Evan, imperiously. “Do you think he would come to
meet a Sassenach _duinhé-wassel_ in such a way as that?”
But as they approached a little nearer, he said, with an appearance of
mortification, “And it is even he, sure enough; and he has not his tail
on after all; there is no living creature with him but Callum Beg.”
In fact, Fergus Mac-Ivor, of whom a Frenchman might have said as truly
as of any man in the Highlands, “Qu’il connoit bien ses gens” had no
idea of raising himself in the eyes of an English young man of fortune
by appearing with a retinue of idle Highlanders disproportioned to the
occasion. He was well aware that such an unnecessary attendance would
seem to Edward rather ludicrous than respectable; and, while few men
were more attached to ideas of chieftainship and feudal power, he was,
for that very reason, cautious of exhibiting external marks of dignity,
unless at the time and in the manner when they were most likely to
produce an imposing effect. Therefore, although, had he been to receive
a brother chieftain, he would probably have been attended by all that
retinue which Evan described with so much unction, he judged it more
respectable to advance to meet Waverley with a single attendant, a very
handsome Highland boy, who carried his master’s shooting-pouch and his
broadsword, without which he seldom went abroad.
When Fergus and Waverley met, the latter was struck with the peculiar
grace and dignity of the Chieftain’s figure. Above the middle size and
finely proportioned, the Highland dress, which he wore in its simplest
mode, set off his person to great advantage. He wore the trews, or
close trowsers, made of tartan, chequed scarlet and white; in other
particulars his dress strictly resembled Evan’s, excepting that he had
no weapon save a dirk, very richly mounted with silver. His page, as we
have said, carried his claymore; and the fowling-piece, which he held
in his hand, seemed only designed for sport. He had shot in the course
of his walk some young wild-ducks, as, though “close time” was then
unknown, the broods of grouse were yet too young for the sportsman. His
countenance was decidedly Scottish, with all the peculiarities of the
northern physiognomy, but yet had so little of its harshness and
exaggeration that it would have been pronounced in any country
extremely handsome. The martial air of the bonnet, with a single
eagle’s feather as a distinction, added much to the manly appearance of
his head, which was besides ornamented with a far more natural and
graceful cluster of close black curls than ever were exposed to sale in
Bond Street.
An air of openness and affability increased the favorable impression
derived from this handsome and dignified exterior. Yet a skilful
physiognomist would have been less satisfied with the countenance on
the second than on the first view. The eyebrow and upper lip bespoke
something of the habit of peremptory command and decisive superiority.
Even his courtesy, though open, frank, and unconstrained, seemed to
indicate a sense of personal importance; and, upon any check or
accidental excitation, a sudden, though transient lour of the eye
showed a hasty, haughty, and vindictive temper, not less to be dreaded
because it seemed much under its owner’s command. In short, the
countenance of the Chieftain resembled a smiling summer’s day, in
which, notwithstanding, we are made sensible by certain, though slight
signs that it may thunder and lighten before the close of evening.
It was not, however, upon their first meeting that Edward had an
opportunity of making these less favourable remarks. The Chief received
him as a friend of the Baron of Bradwardine, with the utmost expression
of kindness and obligation for the visit; upbraided him gently with
choosing so rude an abode as he had done the night before; and entered
into a lively conversation with him about Donald Bean’s housekeeping,
but without the least hint as to his predatory habits, or the immediate
occasion of Waverley’s visit, a topic which, as the Chief did not
introduce it, our hero also avoided. While they walked merrily on
towards the house of Glennaquoich, Evan, who now fell respectfully into
the rear, followed with Callum Beg and Dugald Mahony.
We shall take the opportunity to introduce the reader to some
particulars of Fergus Mac-Ivor’s character and history, which were not
completely known to Waverley till after a connection which, though
arising from a circumstance so casual, had for a length of time the
deepest influence upon his character, actions, and prospects. But this,
being an important subject, must form the commencement of a new
chapter.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE CHIEF AND HIS MANSION
The ingenious licentiate Francisco de Ubeda, when he commenced his
history of “La Picara Justina Diez,”—which, by the way, is one of the
most rare books of Spanish literature,—complained of his pen having
caught up a hair, and forthwith begins, with more eloquence than common
sense, an affectionate expostulation with that useful implement,
upbraiding it with being the quill of a goose,—a bird inconstant by
nature, as frequenting the three elements of water, earth, and air
indifferently, and being, of course, “to one thing constant never.” Now
I protest to thee, gentle reader, that I entirely dissent from
Francisco de Ubeda in this matter, and hold it the most useful quality
of my pen, that it can speedily change from grave to gay, and from
description and dialogue to narrative and character. So that if my
quill display no other properties of its mother-goose than her
mutability, truly I shall be well pleased; and I conceive that you, my
worthy friend, will have no occasion for discontent. From the jargon,
therefore, of the Highland gillies I pass to the character of their
Chief. It is an important examination, and therefore, like Dogberry, we
must spare no wisdom.
The ancestor of Fergus Mac-Ivor, about three centuries before, had set
up a claim to be recognised as chief of the numerous and powerful clan
to which he belonged, the name of which it is unnecessary to mention.
Being defeated by an opponent who had more justice, or at least more
force, on his side, he moved southwards, with those who adhered to him,
in quest of new settlements, like a second Æneas. The state of the
Perthshire Highlands favoured his purpose. A great baron in that
country had lately become traitor to the crown; Ian, which was the name
of our adventurer, united himself with those who were commissioned by
the king to chastise him, and did such good service that he obtained a
grant of the property, upon which he and his posterity afterwards
resided. He followed the king also in war to the fertile regions of
England, where he employed his leisure hours so actively in raising
subsidies among the boors of Northumberland and Durham, that upon his
return he was enabled to erect a stone tower, or fortalice, so much
admired by his dependants and neighbours that he, who had hitherto been
called Ian Mac-Ivor, or John the son of Ivor, was thereafter
distinguished, both in song and genealogy, by the high title of Ian nan
Chaistel, or John of the Tower. The descendants of this worthy were so
proud of him that the reigning chief always bore the patronymic title
of Vich Ian Vohr, i.e. the son of John the Great; while the clan at
large, to distinguish them from that from which they had seceded, were
denominated Sliochd nan Ivor, the race of Ivor.
The father of Fergus, the tenth in direct descent from John of the
Tower, engaged heart and hand in the insurrection of 1715, and was
forced to fly to France, after the attempt of that year in favour of
the Stuarts had proved unsuccessful. More fortunate than other
fugitives, he obtained employment in the French service, and married a
lady of rank in that kingdom, by whom he had two children, Fergus and
his sister Flora. The Scottish estate had been forfeited and exposed to
sale, but was repurchased for a small price in the name of the young
proprietor, who in consequence came to reside upon his native
domains.[18] It was soon perceived that he possessed a character of
uncommon acuteness, fire, and ambition, which, as he became acquainted
with the state of the country, gradually assumed a mixed and peculiar
tone, that could only have been acquired Sixty Years Since.
Had Fergus Mac-Ivor lived Sixty Years sooner than he did, he would in
all probability have wanted the polished manner and knowledge of the
world which he now possessed; and had he lived Sixty Years later, his
ambition and love of rule would have lacked the fuel which his
situation now afforded. He was indeed, within his little circle, as
perfect a politician as Castruccio Castracani himself. He applied
himself with great earnestness to appease all the feuds and dissensions
which often arose among other clans in his neighbourhood, so that he
became a frequent umpire in their quarrels. His own patriarchal power
he strengthened at every expense which his fortune would permit, and
indeed stretched his means to the uttermost to maintain the rude and
plentiful hospitality which was the most valued attribute of a
chieftain. For the same reason he crowded his estate with a tenantry,
hardy indeed, and fit for the purposes of war, but greatly outnumbering
what the soil was calculated to maintain. These consisted chiefly of
his own clan, not one of whom he suffered to quit his lands if he could
possibly prevent it. But he maintained, besides, many adventurers from
the mother sept, who deserted a less warlike, though more wealthy chief
to do homage to Fergus Mac-Ivor. Other individuals, too, who had not
even that apology, were nevertheless received into his allegiance,
which indeed was refused to none who were, like Poins, proper men of
their hands, and were willing to assume the name of Mac-Ivor.
He was enabled to discipline these forces, from having obtained command
of one of the independent companies raised by government to preserve
the peace of the Highlands. While in this capacity he acted with vigour
and spirit, and preserved great order in the country under his charge.
He caused his vassals to enter by rotation into his company, and serve
for a certain space of time, which gave them all in turn a general
notion of military discipline. In his campaigns against the banditti,
it was observed that he assumed and exercised to the utmost the
discretionary power which, while the law had no free course in the
Highlands, was conceived to belong to the military parties who were
called in to support it. He acted, for example, with great and
suspicious lenity to those freebooters who made restitution on his
summons and offered personal submission to himself, while he rigorously
pursued, apprehended, and sacrificed to justice all such interlopers as
dared to despise his admonitions or commands. On the other hand, if any
officers of justice, military parties, or others, presumed to pursue
thieves or marauders through his territories, and without applying for
his consent and concurrence, nothing was more certain than that they
would meet with some notable foil or defeat; upon which occasions
Fergus Mac-Ivor was the first to condole with them, and after gently
blaming their rashness, never failed deeply to lament the lawless state
of the country. These lamentations did not exclude suspicion, and
matters were so represented to government that our Chieftain was
deprived of his military command.[19]
Whatever Fergus Mac-Ivor felt on this occasion, he had the art of
entirely suppressing every appearance of discontent; but in a short
time the neighbouring country began to feel bad effects from his
disgrace. Donald Bean Lean, and others of his class, whose depredations
had hitherto been confined to other districts, appeared from
thenceforward to have made a settlement on this devoted border; and
their ravages were carried on with little opposition, as the Lowland
gentry were chiefly Jacobites, and disarmed. This forced many of the
inhabitants into contracts of black-mail with Fergus Mac-Ivor, which
not only established him their protector, and gave him great weight in
all their consultations, but, moreover, supplied funds for the waste of
his feudal hospitality, which the discontinuance of his pay might have
otherwise essentially diminished.
In following this course of conduct, Fergus had a further object than
merely being the great man of his neighbourhood, and ruling
despotically over a small clan. From his infancy upward he had devoted
himself to the cause of the exiled family, and had persuaded himself,
not only that their restoration to the crown of Britain would be
speedy, but that those who assisted them would be raised to honour and
rank. It was with this view that he laboured to reconcile the
Highlanders among themselves, and augmented his own force to the
utmost, to be prepared for the first favourable opportunity of rising.
With this purpose also he conciliated the favour of such Lowland
gentlemen in the vicinity as were friends to the good cause; and for
the same reason, having incautiously quarrelled with Mr. Bradwardine,
who, notwithstanding his peculiarities, was much respected in the
country, he took advantage of the foray of Donald Bean Lean to solder
up the dispute in the manner we have mentioned. Some, indeed, surmised
that he caused the enterprise to be suggested to Donald, on purpose to
pave the way to a reconciliation, which, supposing that to be the case,
cost the Laird of Bradwardine two good milch cows. This zeal in their
behalf the House of Stuart repaid with a considerable share of their
confidence, an occasional supply of louis-d’or, abundance of fair
words, and a parchment, with a huge waxen seal appended, purporting to
be an earl’s patent, granted by no less a person than James the Third
King of England, and Eighth King of Scotland, to his right feal,
trusty, and well-beloved Fergus Mac-Ivor of Glennaquoich, in the county
of Perth, and kingdom of Scotland.
With this future coronet glittering before his eyes, Fergus plunged
deeply into the correspondence and plots of that unhappy period; and,
like all such active agents, easily reconciled his conscience to going
certain lengths in the service of his party, from which honour and
pride would have deterred him had his sole object been the direct
advancement of his own personal interest. With this insight into a
bold, ambitious, and ardent, yet artful and politic character, we
resume the broken thread of our narrative.
The chief and his guest had by this time reached the house of
Glennaquoich, which consisted of Ian nan Chaistel’s mansion, a high
rude-looking square tower, with the addition of a _lofted_ house, that
is, a building of two stories, constructed by Fergus’s grandfather when
he returned from that memorable expedition, well remembered by the
western shires under the name of the Highland Host. Upon occasion of
this crusade against the Ayrshire Whigs and Covenanters, the Vich Ian
Vohr of the time had probably been as successful as his predecessor was
in harrying Northumberland, and therefore left to his posterity a rival
edifice as a monument of his magnificence.
Around the house, which stood on an eminence in the midst of a narrow
Highland valley, there appeared none of that attention to convenience,
far less to ornament and decoration, which usually surrounds a
gentleman’s habitation. An inclosure or two, divided by dry-stone
walls, were the only part of the domain that was fenced; as to the
rest, the narrow slips of level ground which lay by the side of the
brook exhibited a scanty crop of barley, liable to constant
depredations from the herds of wild ponies and black cattle that grazed
upon the adjacent hills. These ever and anon made an incursion upon the
arable ground, which was repelled by the loud, uncouth, and dissonant
shouts of half a dozen Highland swains, all running as if they had been
mad, and every one hallooing a half-starved dog to the rescue of the
forage. At a little distance up the glen was a small and stunted wood
of birch; the hills were high and heathy, but without any variety of
surface; so that the whole view was wild and desolate rather than grand
and solitary. Yet, such as it was, no genuine descendant of Ian nan
Chaistel would have changed the domain for Stow or Blenheim.
There was a sight, however, before the gate, which perhaps would have
afforded the first owner of Blenheim more pleasure than the finest view
in the domain assigned to him by the gratitude of his country. This
consisted of about a hundred Highlanders, in complete dress and arms;
at sight of whom the Chieftain apologised to Waverley in a sort of
negligent manner. “He had forgot,” he said, “that he had ordered a few
of his clan out, for the purpose of seeing that they were in a fit
condition to protect the country, and prevent such accidents as, he was
sorry to learn, had befallen the Baron of Bradwardine. Before they were
dismissed, perhaps Captain Waverley might choose to see them go through
a part of their exercise.”
Edward assented, and the men executed with agility and precision some
of the ordinary military movements. They then practised individually at
a mark, and showed extraordinary dexterity in the management of the
pistol and firelock. They took aim, standing, sitting, leaning, or
lying prostrate, as they were commanded, and always with effect upon
the target. Next, they paired off for the broadsword exercise; and,
having manifested their individual skill and dexterity, united in two
bodies, and exhibited a sort of mock encounter, in which the charge,
the rally, the flight, the pursuit, and all the current of a heady
fight, were exhibited to the sound of the great war bagpipe.
On a signal made by the Chief, the skirmish was ended. Matches were
then made for running, wrestling, leaping, pitching the bar, and other
sports, in which this feudal militia displayed incredible swiftness,
strength, and agility; and accomplished the purpose which their
Chieftain had at heart, by impressing on Waverley no light sense of
their merit as soldiers, and of the power of him who commanded them by
his nod.[20]
“And what number of such gallant fellows have the happiness to call you
leader?” asked Waverley.
“In a good cause, and under a chieftain whom they loved, the race of
Ivor have seldom taken the field under five hundred claymores. But you
are aware, Captain Waverley, that the disarming act, passed about
twenty years ago, prevents their being in the complete state of
preparation as in former times; and I keep no more of my clan under
arms than may defend my own or my friends’ property, when the country
is troubled with such men as your last night’s landlord; and
government, which has removed other means of defence, must connive at
our protecting ourselves.”
“But, with your force, you might soon destroy or put down such gangs as
that of Donald Bean Lean.”
“Yes, doubtless; and my reward would be a summons to deliver up to
General Blakeney, at Stirling, the few broadswords they have left us;
there were little policy in that, methinks. But come, captain, the
sound of the pipes informs me that dinner is prepared. Let me have the
honour to show you into my rude mansion.”
CHAPTER XX.
A HIGHLAND FEAST
Ere Waverley entered the banqueting hall, he was offered the
patriarchal refreshment of a bath for the feet, which the sultry
weather, and the morasses he had traversed, rendered highly acceptable.
He was not, indeed, so luxuriously attended upon this occasion as the
heroic travellers in the Odyssey; the task of ablution and abstersion
being performed, not by a beautiful damsel, trained
To chafe the limb, and pour the fragrant oil,
but by a smoke-dried skinny old Highland woman, who did not seem to
think herself much honoured by the duty imposed upon her, but muttered
between her teeth, “Our fathers’ herds did not feed so near together
that I should do you this service.” A small donation, however, amply
reconciled this ancient handmaiden to the supposed degradation; and, as
Edward proceeded to the hall, she gave him her blessing in the Gaelic
proverb, “May the open hand be filled the fullest.”
The hall, in which the feast was prepared, occupied all the first story
of Ian nan Chaistel’s original erection, and a huge oaken table
extended through its whole length. The apparatus for dinner was simple,
even to rudeness, and the company numerous, even to crowding. At the
head of the table was the Chief himself, with Edward, and two or three
Highland visitors of neighbouring clans; the elders of his own tribe,
wadsetters and tacksmen, as they were called, who occupied portions of
his estate as mortgagers or lessees, sat next in rank; beneath them,
their sons and nephews and foster-brethren; then the officers of the
Chief’s household, according to their order; and lowest of all, the
tenants who actually cultivated the ground. Even beyond this long
perspective, Edward might see upon the green, to which a huge pair of
folding doors opened, a multitude of Highlanders of a yet inferior
description, who, nevertheless, were considered as guests, and had
their share both of the countenance of the entertainer and of the cheer
of the day. In the distance, and fluctuating round this extreme verge
of the banquet, was a changeful group of women, ragged boys and girls,
beggars, young and old, large greyhounds, and terriers, and pointers,
and curs of low degree; all of whom took some interest, more or less
immediate, in the main action of the piece.
This hospitality, apparently unbounded, had yet its line of economy.
Some pains had been bestowed in dressing the dishes of fish, game,
etc., which were at the upper end of the table, and immediately under
the eye of the English stranger. Lower down stood immense clumsy joints
of mutton and beef, which, but for the absence of pork,[21] abhorred in
the Highlands, resembled the rude festivity of the banquet of
Penelope’s suitors. But the central dish was a yearling lamb, called “a
hog in har’st,” roasted whole. It was set upon its legs, with a bunch
of parsley in its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to
gratify the pride of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty
than the elegance of his master’s table. The sides of this poor animal
were fiercely attacked by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with
the knives which were usually in the same sheath with the dagger, so
that it was soon rendered a mangled and rueful spectacle. Lower down
still, the victuals seemed of yet coarser quality, though sufficiently
abundant. Broth, onions, cheese, and the fragments of the feast regaled
the sons of Ivor who feasted in the open air.
The liquor was supplied in the same proportion, and under similar
regulations. Excellent claret and champagne were liberally distributed
among the Chief’s immediate neighbours; whisky, plain or diluted, and
strong beer refreshed those who sat near the lower end. Nor did this
inequality of distribution appear to give the least offence. Every one
present understood that his taste was to be formed according to the
rank which he held at table; and, consequently, the tacksmen and their
dependants always professed the wine was too cold for their stomachs,
and called, apparently out of choice, for the liquor which was assigned
to them from economy.[22] The bag-pipers, three in number, screamed,
during the whole time of dinner, a tremendous war-tune; and the echoing
of the vaulted roof, and clang of the Celtic tongue, produced such a
Babel of noises that Waverley dreaded his ears would never recover it.
Mac-Ivor, indeed, apologised for the confusion occasioned by so large a
party, and pleaded the necessity of his situation, on which unlimited
hospitality was imposed as a paramount duty. “These stout idle kinsmen
of mine,” he said, “account my estate as held in trust for their
support; and I must find them beef and ale, while the rogues will do
nothing for themselves but practise the broadsword, or wander about the
hills, shooting, fishing, hunting, drinking, and making love to the
lasses of the strath. But what can I do, Captain Waverley? everything
will keep after its kind, whether it be a hawk or a Highlander.” Edward
made the expected answer, in a compliment upon his possessing so many
bold and attached followers.
“Why, yes,” replied the Chief, “were I disposed, like my father, to put
myself in the way of getting one blow on the head, or two on the neck,
I believe the loons would stand by me. But who thinks of that in the
present day, when the maxim is, ‘Better an old woman with a purse in
her hand than three men with belted brands?’” Then, turning to the
company, he proposed the “Health of Captain Waverley, a worthy friend
of his kind neighbour and ally, the Baron of Bradwardine.”
“He is welcome hither,” said one of the elders, “if he come from Cosmo
Comyne Bradwardine.”
“I say nay to that,” said an old man, who apparently did not mean to
pledge the toast;—“I say nay to that. While there is a green leaf in
the forest, there will be fraud in a Comyne.”
“There is nothing but honour in the Baron of Bradwardine,” answered
another ancient; “and the guest that comes hither from him should be
welcome, though he came with blood on his hand, unless it were blood of
the race of Ivor.”
The old man whose cup remained full replied, “There has been blood
enough of the race of Ivor on the hand of Bradwardine.”
“Ah! Ballenkeiroch,” replied the first, “you think rather of the flash
of the carbine at the mains of Tully-Veolan than the glance of the
sword that fought for the cause at Preston.”
“And well I may,” answered Ballenkeiroch; “the flash of the gun cost me
a fair-haired son, and the glance of the sword has done but little for
King James.”
The Chieftain, in two words of French, explained to Waverley that the
Baron had shot this old man’s son in a fray near Tully-Veolan, about
seven years before; and then hastened to remove Ballenkeiroch’s
prejudice, by informing him that Waverley was an Englishman,
unconnected by birth or alliance with the family of Bradwardine; upon
which the old gentleman raised the hitherto-untasted cup and
courteously drank to his health. This ceremony being requited in kind,
the Chieftain made a signal for the pipes to cease, and said aloud,
“Where is the song hidden, my friends, that Mac-Murrough cannot find
it?”
Mac-Murrough, the family _bhairdh_, an aged man, immediately took the
hint, and began to chant, with low and rapid utterance, a profusion of
Celtic verses, which were received by the audience with all the
applause of enthusiasm. As he advanced in his declamation, his ardour
seemed to increase. He had at first spoken with his eyes fixed on the
ground; he now cast them around as if beseeching, and anon as if
commanding, attention, and his tones rose into wild and impassioned
notes, accompanied with appropriate gestures. He seemed to Edward, who
attended to him with much interest, to recite many proper names, to
lament the dead, to apostrophise the absent, to exhort, and entreat,
and animate those who were present. Waverley thought he even discerned
his own name, and was convinced his conjecture was right from the eyes
of the company being at that moment turned towards him simultaneously.
The ardour of the poet appeared to communicate itself to the audience.
Their wild and sun-burnt countenances assumed a fiercer and more
animated expression; all bent forward towards the reciter, many sprung
up and waved their arms in ecstasy, and some laid their hands on their
swords. When the song ceased, there was a deep pause, while the aroused
feelings of the poet and of the hearers gradually subsided into their
usual channel.
The Chieftain, who, during this scene had appeared rather to watch the
emotions which were excited than to partake their high tone of
enthusiasm, filled with claret a small silver cup which stood by him.
“Give this,” he said to an attendant, “to Mac-Murrough nan Fonn (that
is, of the songs), and when he has drank the juice, bid him keep, for
the sake of Vich Ian Vohr, the shell of the gourd which contained it.”
The gift was received by Mac-Murrough with profound gratitude; he drank
the wine, and, kissing the cup, shrouded it with reverence in the plaid
which was folded on his bosom. He then burst forth into what Edward
justly supposed to be an extemporaneous effusion of thanks and praises
of his Chief. It was received with applause, but did not produce the
effect of his first poem. It was obvious, however, that the clan
regarded the generosity of their Chieftain with high approbation. Many
approved Gaelic toasts were then proposed, of some of which the
Chieftain gave his guest the following versions:—
“To him that will not turn his back on friend or foe.” “To him that
never forsook a comrade.” “To him that never bought or sold justice.”
“Hospitality to the exile, and broken bones to the tyrant.” “The lads
with the kilts.” “Highlanders, shoulder to shoulder,”—with many other
pithy sentiments of the like nature.
Edward was particularly solicitous to know the meaning of that song
which appeared to produce such effect upon the passions of the company,
and hinted his curiosity to his host. “As I observe,” said the
Chieftain, “that you have passed the bottle during the last three
rounds, I was about to propose to you to retire to my sister’s
tea-table, who can explain these things to you better than I can.
Although I cannot stint my clan in the usual current of their
festivity, yet I neither am addicted myself to exceed in its amount,
nor do I,” added he, smiling, “keep a Bear to devour the intellects of
such as can make good use of them.”
Edward readily assented to this proposal, and the Chieftain, saying a
few words to those around him, left the table, followed by Waverley. As
the door closed behind them, Edward heard Vich Ian Vohr’s health
invoked with a wild and animated cheer, that expressed the satisfaction
of the guests and the depth of their devotion to his service.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE CHIEFTAIN’S SISTER
The drawing-room of Flora Mac-Ivor was furnished in the plainest and
most simple manner; for at Glennaquoich every other sort of expenditure
was retrenched as much as possible, for the purpose of maintaining, in
its full dignity, the hospitality of the Chieftain, and retaining and
multiplying the number of his dependants and adherents. But there was
no appearance of this parsimony in the dress of the lady herself, which
was in texture elegant, and even rich, and arranged in a manner which
partook partly of the Parisian fashion and partly of the more simple
dress of the Highlands, blended together with great taste. Her hair was
not disfigured by the art of the friseur, but fell in jetty ringlets on
her neck, confined only by a circlet, richly set with diamonds. This
peculiarity she adopted in compliance with the Highland prejudices,
which could not endure that a woman’s head should be covered before
wedlock.
Flora Mac-Ivor bore a most striking resemblance to her brother Fergus;
so much so that they might have played Viola and Sebastian with the
same exquisite effect produced by the appearance of Mrs. Henry Siddons
and her brother, Mr. William Murray, in these characters. They had the
same antique and regular correctness of profile; the same dark eyes,
eye-lashes, and eye-brows; the same clearness of complexion, excepting
that Fergus’s was embrowned by exercise and Flora’s possessed the
utmost feminine delicacy. But the haughty and somewhat stern regularity
of Fergus’s features was beautifully softened in those of Flora. Their
voices were also similar in tone, though differing in the key. That of
Fergus, especially while issuing orders to his followers during their
military exercise, reminded Edward of a favourite passage in the
description of Emetrius:
“Whose voice was heard around,
Loud as a trumpet with a silver sound.”
That of Flora, on the contrary, was soft and sweet—“an excellent thing
in woman”; yet, in urging any favourite topic, which she often pursued
with natural eloquence, it possessed as well the tones which impress
awe and conviction as those of persuasive insinuation. The eager glance
of the keen black eye, which, in the Chieftain, seemed impatient even
of the material obstacles it encountered, had in his sister acquired a
gentle pensiveness. His looks seemed to seek glory, power, all that
could exalt him above others in the race of humanity; while those of
his sister, as if she were already conscious of mental superiority,
seemed to pity, rather than envy, those who were struggling for any
farther distinction. Her sentiments corresponded with the expression of
her countenance. Early education had impressed upon her mind, as well
as on that of the Chieftain, the most devoted attachment to the exiled
family of Stuart. She believed it the duty of her brother, of his clan,
of every man in Britain, at whatever personal hazard, to contribute to
that restoration which the partisans of the Chevalier St. George had
not ceased to hope for. For this she was prepared to do all, to suffer
all, to sacrifice all. But her loyalty, as it exceeded her brother’s in
fanaticism, excelled it also in purity. Accustomed to petty intrigue,
and necessarily involved in a thousand paltry and selfish discussions,
ambitious also by nature, his political faith was tinctured, at least,
if not tainted, by the views of interest and advancement so easily
combined with it; and at the moment he should unsheathe his claymore,
it might be difficult to say whether it would be most with the view of
making James Stuart a king or Fergus Mac-Ivor an earl. This, indeed,
was a mixture of feeling which he did not avow even to himself, but it
existed, nevertheless, in a powerful degree.
In Flora’s bosom, on the contrary, the zeal of loyalty burnt pure and
unmixed with any selfish feeling; she would have as soon made religion
the mask of ambitious and interested views as have shrouded them under
the opinions which she had been taught to think patriotism. Such
instances of devotion were not uncommon among the followers of the
unhappy race of Stuart, of which many memorable proofs will recur to
the minds of most of my readers. But peculiar attention on the part of
the Chevalier de St. George and his princess to the parents of Fergus
and his sister, and to themselves when orphans, had riveted their
faith. Fergus, upon the death of his parents, had been for some time a
page of honour in the train of the Chevalier’s lady, and, from his
beauty and sprightly temper, was uniformly treated by her with the
utmost distinction. This was also extended to Flora, who was maintained
for some time at a convent of the first order at the princess’s
expense, and removed from thence into her own family, where she spent
nearly two years. Both brother and sister retained the deepest and most
grateful sense of her kindness.
Having thus touched upon the leading principle of Flora’s character, I
may dismiss the rest more slightly. She was highly accomplished, and
had acquired those elegant manners to be expected from one who, in
early youth, had been the companion of a princess; yet she had not
learned to substitute the gloss of politeness for the reality of
feeling. When settled in the lonely regions of Glennaquoich, she found
that her resources in French, English, and Italian literature were
likely to be few and interrupted; and, in order to fill up the vacant
time, she bestowed a part of it upon the music and poetical traditions
of the Highlanders, and began really to feel the pleasure in the
pursuit which her brother, whose perceptions of literary merit were
more blunt, rather affected for the sake of popularity than actually
experienced. Her resolution was strengthened in these researches by the
extreme delight which her inquiries seemed to afford those to whom she
resorted for information.
Her love of her clan, an attachment which was almost hereditary in her
bosom, was, like her loyalty, a more pure passion than that of her
brother. He was too thorough a politician, regarded his patriarchal
influence too much as the means of accomplishing his own
aggrandisement, that we should term him the model of a Highland
Chieftain. Flora felt the same anxiety for cherishing and extending
their patriarchal sway, but it was with the generous desire of
vindicating from poverty, or at least from want and foreign oppression,
those whom her brother was by birth, according to the notions of the
time and country, entitled to govern. The savings of her income, for
she had a small pension from the Princess Sobieski, were dedicated, not
to add to the comforts of the peasantry, for that was a word which they
neither knew nor apparently wished to know, but to relieve their
absolute necessities when in sickness or extreme old age. At every
other period they rather toiled to procure something which they might
share with the Chief, as a proof of their attachment, than expected
other assistance from him save what was afforded by the rude
hospitality of his castle, and the general division and subdivision of
his estate among them. Flora was so much beloved by them that, when
Mac-Murrough composed a song in which he enumerated all the principal
beauties of the district, and intimated her superiority by concluding,
that “the fairest apple hung on the highest bough,” he received, in
donatives from the individuals of the clan, more seed-barley than would
have sowed his Highland Parnassus, the bard’s croft, as it was called,
ten times over.
From situation as well as choice, Miss Mac-Ivor’s society was extremely
limited. Her most intimate friend had been Rose Bradwardine, to whom
she was much attached; and when seen together, they would have afforded
an artist two admirable subjects for the gay and the melancholy muse.
Indeed Rose was so tenderly watched by her father, and her circle of
wishes was so limited, that none arose but what he was willing to
gratify, and scarce any which did not come within the compass of his
power. With Flora it was otherwise. While almost a girl she had
undergone the most complete change of scene, from gaiety and splendour
to absolute solitude and comparative poverty; and the ideas and wishes
which she chiefly fostered respected great national events, and changes
not to be brought round without both hazard and bloodshed, and
therefore not to be thought of with levity. Her manner, consequently,
was grave, though she readily contributed her talents to the amusement
of society, and stood very high in the opinion of the old Baron, who
used to sing along with her such French duets of Lindor and Cloris,
etc., as were in fashion about the end of the reign of old Louis le
Grand.
It was generally believed, though no one durst have hinted it to the
Baron of Bradwardine, that Flora’s entreaties had no small share in
allaying the wrath of Fergus upon occasion of their quarrel. She took
her brother on the assailable side, by dwelling first upon the Baron’s
age, and then representing the injury which the cause might sustain,
and the damage which must arise to his own character in point of
prudence—so necessary to a political agent, if he persisted in carrying
it to extremity. Otherwise it is probable it would have terminated in a
duel, both because the Baron had, on a former occasion, shed blood of
the clan, though the matter had been timely accommodated, and on
account of his high reputation for address at his weapon, which Fergus
almost condescended to envy. For the same reason she had urged their
reconciliation, which the Chieftain the more readily agreed to as it
favoured some ulterior projects of his own.
To this young lady, now presiding at the female empire of the
tea-table, Fergus introduced Captain Waverley, whom she received with
the usual forms of politeness.
CHAPTER XXII.
HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY
When the first salutations had passed, Fergus said to his sister, “My
dear Flora, before I return to the barbarous ritual of our forefathers,
I must tell you that Captain Waverley is a worshipper of the Celtic
muse, not the less so perhaps that he does not understand a word of her
language. I have told him you are eminent as a translator of Highland
poetry, and that Mac-Murrough admires your version of his songs upon
the same principle that Captain Waverley admires the original,—because
he does not comprehend them. Will you have the goodness to read or
recite to our guest in English the extraordinary string of names which
Mac-Murrough has tacked together in Gaelic? My life to a moor-fowl’s
feather, you are provided with a version; for I know you are in all the
bard’s councils, and acquainted with his songs long before he rehearses
them in the hall.”
“How can you say so, Fergus? You know how little these verses can
possibly interest an English stranger, even if I could translate them
as you pretend.”
“Not less than they interest me, lady fair. To-day your joint
composition, for I insist you had a share in it, has cost me the last
silver cup in the castle, and I suppose will cost me something else
next time I hold _cour plénière_, if the muse descends on Mac-Murrough;
for you know our proverb,—“When the hand of the chief ceases to bestow,
the breath of the bard is frozen in the utterance.”—Well, I would it
were even so: there are three things that are useless to a modern
Highlander,—a sword which he must not draw, a bard to sing of deeds
which he dare not imitate, and a large goat-skin purse without a
louis-d’or to put into it.”
“Well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect me to
keep yours. I assure you, Captain Waverley, that Fergus is too proud to
exchange his broadsword for a maréchal’s baton, that he esteems
Mac-Murrough a far greater poet than Homer, and would not give up his
goat-skin purse for all the louis-d’or which it could contain.”
“Well pronounced, Flora; blow for blow, as Conan[23] said to the devil.
Now do you two talk of bards and poetry, if not of purses and
claymores, while I return to do the final honours to the senators of
the tribe of Ivor.” So saying, he left the room.
The conversation continued between Flora and Waverley; for two
well-dressed young women, whose character seemed to hover between that
of companions and dependants, took no share in it. They were both
pretty girls, but served only as foils to the grace and beauty of their
patroness. The discourse followed the turn which the Chieftain had
given it, and Waverley was equally amused and surprised with the
account which the lady gave him of Celtic poetry.
“The recitation,” she said, “of poems recording the feats of heroes,
the complaints of lovers, and the wars of contending tribes, forms the
chief amusement of a winter fire-side in the Highlands. Some of these
are said to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into any
of the languages of civilised Europe, cannot fail to produce a deep and
general sensation. Others are more modern, the composition of those
family bards whom the chieftains of more distinguished name and power
retain as the poets and historians of their tribes. These, of course,
possess various degrees of merit; but much of it must evaporate in
translation, or be lost on those who do not sympathise with the
feelings of the poet.”
“And your bard, whose effusions seemed to produce such effect upon the
company to-day, is he reckoned among the favourite poets of the
mountains?”
“That is a trying question. His reputation is high among his
countrymen, and you must not expect me to depreciate it.[*]
[* The Highland poet almost always was an improvisatore. Captain Burt
met one of them at Lovat’s table.]
“But the song, Miss Mac-Ivor, seemed to awaken all those warriors, both
young and old.”
“The song is little more than a catalogue of names of the Highland
clans under their distinctive peculiarities, and an exhortation to them
to remember and to emulate the actions of their forefathers.”
“And am I wrong in conjecturing, however extraordinary the guess
appears, that there was some allusion to me in the verses which he
recited?”
“You have a quick observation, Captain Waverley, which in this instance
has not deceived you. The Gaelic language, being uncommonly vocalic, is
well adapted for sudden and extemporaneous poetry; and a bard seldom
fails to augment the effects of a premeditated song by throwing in any
stanzas which may be suggested by the circumstances attending the
recitation.”
“I would give my best horse to know what the Highland bard could find
to say of such an unworthy Southron as myself.”
“It shall not even cost you a lock of his mane. Una, _Mavourneen!_ (She
spoke a few words to one of the young girls in attendance, who
instantly curtsied and tripped out of the room.) I have sent Una to
learn from the bard the expressions he used, and you shall command my
skill as dragoman.”
Una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a few lines
in Gaelic. Flora seemed to think for a moment, and then, slightly
colouring, she turned to Waverley—“It is impossible to gratify your
curiosity, Captain Waverley, without exposing my own presumption. If
you will give me a few moments for consideration, I will endeavour to
engraft the meaning of these lines upon a rude English translation
which I have attempted of a part of the original. The duties of the
tea-table seem to be concluded, and, as the evening is delightful, Una
will show you the way to one of my favourite haunts, and Cathleen and I
will join you there.”
Una, having received instructions in her native language, conducted
Waverley out by a passage different from that through which he had
entered the apartment. At a distance he heard the hall of the Chief
still resounding with the clang of bagpipes and the high applause of
his guests. Having gained the open air by a postern door, they walked a
little way up the wild, bleak, and narrow valley in which the house was
situated, following the course of the stream that winded through it. In
a spot, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, two brooks, which
formed the little river, had their junction. The larger of the two came
down the long bare valley, which extended, apparently without any
change or elevation of character, as far as the hills which formed its
boundary permitted the eye to reach. But the other stream, which had
its source among the mountains on the left hand of the strath, seemed
to issue from a very narrow and dark opening betwixt two large rocks.
These streams were different also in character. The larger was placid,
and even sullen in its course, wheeling in deep eddies, or sleeping in
dark blue pools; but the motions of the lesser brook were rapid and
furious, issuing from between precipices, like a maniac from his
confinement, all foam and uproar.
It was up the course of this last stream that Waverley, like a knight
of romance, was conducted by the fair Highland damsel, his silent
guide. A small path, which had been rendered easy in many places for
Flora’s accommodation, led him through scenery of a very different
description from that which he had just quitted. Around the castle all
was cold, bare, and desolate, yet tame even in desolation; but this
narrow glen, at so short a distance, seemed to open into the land of
romance. The rocks assumed a thousand peculiar and varied forms. In one
place a crag of huge size presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbid
the passenger’s farther progress; and it was not until he approached
its very base that Waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn by
which the pathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle.
In another spot the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of the
chasm had approached so near to each other that two pine-trees laid
across, and covered with turf, formed a rustic bridge at the height of
at least one hundred and fifty feet. It had no ledges, and was barely
three feet in breadth.
While gazing at this pass of peril, which crossed, like a single black
line, the small portion of blue sky not intercepted by the projecting
rocks on either side, it was with a sensation of horror that Waverley
beheld Flora and her attendant appear, like inhabitants of another
region, propped, as it were, in mid air, upon this trembling structure.
She stopped upon observing him below, and, with an air of graceful ease
which made him shudder, waved her handkerchief to him by way of signal.
He was unable, from the sense of dizziness which her situation
conveyed, to return the salute; and was never more relieved than when
the fair apparition passed on from the precarious eminence which she
seemed to occupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on the
other side.
Advancing a few yards, and passing under the bridge which he had viewed
with so much terror, the path ascended rapidly from the edge of the
brook, and the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheatre, waving with
birch, young oaks, and hazels, with here and there a scattered
yew-tree. The rocks now receded, but still showed their grey and shaggy
crests rising among the copse-wood. Still higher rose eminences and
peaks, some bare, some clothed with wood, some round and purple with
heath, and others splintered into rocks and crags. At a short turning
the path, which had for some furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenly
placed Waverley in front of a romantic waterfall. It was not so
remarkable either for great height or quantity of water as for the
beautiful accompaniments which made the spot interesting. After a
broken cataract of about twenty feet, the stream was received in a
large natural basin filled to the brim with water, which, where the
bubbles of the fall subsided, was so exquisitely clear that, although
it was of great depth, the eye could discern each pebble at the bottom.
Eddying round this reservoir, the brook found its way as if over a
broken part of the ledge, and formed a second fall, which seemed to
seek the very abyss; then, wheeling out beneath from among the smooth
dark rocks which it had polished for ages, it wandered murmuring down
the glen, forming the stream up which Waverley had just ascended.[24]
The borders of this romantic reservoir corresponded in beauty; but it
was beauty of a stern and commanding cast, as if in the act of
expanding into grandeur. Mossy banks of turf were broken and
interrupted by huge fragments of rock, and decorated with trees and
shrubs, some of which had been planted under the direction of Flora,
but so cautiously that they added to the grace without diminishing the
romantic wildness of the scene.
Here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapes of
Poussin, Waverley found Flora gazing on the waterfall. Two paces
further back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use of
which had been taught to Flora by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers of
the Western Highlands. The sun, now stooping in the west, gave a rich
and varied tinge to all the objects which surrounded Waverley, and
seemed to add more than human brilliancy to the full expressive
darkness of Flora’s eye, exalted the richness and purity of her
complexion, and enhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form.
Edward thought he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined a
figure of such exquisite and interesting loveliness. The wild beauty of
the retreat, bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled
feeling of delight and awe with which he approached her, like a fair
enchantress of Boiardo or Ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around
seemed to have been created an Eden in the wilderness.
Flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power, and
pleased with its effects, which she could easily discern from the
respectful yet confused address of the young soldier. But, as she
possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene and other
accidental circumstances full weight in appreciating the feelings with
which Waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and, unacquainted with
the fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, considered
his homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charms
might have expected in such a situation. She therefore quietly led the
way to a spot at such a distance from the cascade that its sound should
rather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and,
sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from
Cathleen.
“I have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, Captain
Waverley, both because I thought the scenery would interest you, and
because a Highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect
translation were I to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate
accompaniments. To speak in the poetical language of my country, the
seat of the Celtic Muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill,
and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. He who woos her
must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the
solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.”
Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a
voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that the
muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate
representative. But Waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind,
found no courage to utter it. Indeed, the wild feeling of romantic
delight with which he heard the few first notes she drew from her
instrument amounted almost to a sense of pain. He would not for worlds
have quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude,
that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication of
emotions which now agitated his bosom.
Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard
for a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle-song in
former ages. A few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and
peculiar tone, which harmonised well with the distant waterfall, and
the soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen,
which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. The following verses
convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and
accompanied, they were heard by Waverley:—
There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded—it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumb’d every hand!
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden’d with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hush’d every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale’s peaks are illumined with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan[*] leap bright in the blaze.
O high-minded Moray,[**] the exiled! the dear!
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the North let it fly,
Like the sun’s latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beam’d on your forefathers’ eye,
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
O, sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat!
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe!
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle’s bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!
Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!
Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renown’d Rorri More,
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar.
How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o’er tresses of grey!
How the race of wrong’d Alpine and murder’d Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!
Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!
Mac-Neil of the islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!
[* The young and daring adventurer, Charles Edward, landed at
Glenaladale, in Moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of
Glenfinnan, mustering around it the Mac-Donalds, the Camerons, and
other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. There
is a monument erected on the spot, with a Latin inscription by the late
Doctor Gregory.]
[** The Marquis of Tullibardine’s elder brother, who, long exiled,
returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745.]
Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Flora and
interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. At a distant whistle
he turned and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow.
“That is Fergus’s faithful attendant, Captain Waverley, and that was
his signal. He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good
time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your
saucy English poets calls
“‘Our bootless host of high-born beggars,
Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.’”
Waverley expressed his regret at the interruption.
“O you cannot guess how much you have lost! The bard, as in duty bound,
has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of the Banners,
enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a
cheerer of the harper and bard—‘a giver of bounteous gifts.’ Besides,
you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of
the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green—the
rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and
whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. This valiant
horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were
distinguished by their loyalty as well as by their courage. All this
you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, I judge,
from the distant sound of my brother’s whistle, I may have time to sing
the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.”
“Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
’T is the bugle—but not for the chase is the call;
’T is the pibroch’s shrill summons—but not to the hall.
“’T is the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath:
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
“Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin’s in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore,
Or die like your sires, and endure it no more!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIII.
WAVERLEY CONTINUES AT GLENNAQUOICH
As Flora concluded her song, Fergus stood before them. “I knew I should
find you here, even without the assistance of my friend Bran. A simple
and unsublimed taste now, like my own, would prefer a _jet d’eau_ at
Versailles to this cascade, with all its accompaniments of rock and
roar; but this is Flora’s Parnassus, Captain Waverley, and that
fountain her Helicon. It would be greatly for the benefit of my cellar
if she could teach her coadjutor, Mac-Murrough, the value of its
influence: he has just drunk a pint of usquebaugh to correct, he said,
the coldness of the claret. Let me try its virtues.” He sipped a little
water in the hollow of his hand, and immediately commenced, with a
theatrical air,—
“O Lady of the desert, hail!
That lovest the harping of the Gael,
Through fair and fertile regions borne,
Where never yet grew grass or corn.
But English poetry will never succeed under the influence of a Highland
Helicon. _Allons, courage!_
O vous, qui buvez, à tasse pleine,
A cette heureuse fontaine,
Où on ne voit, sur le rivage,
Que quelques vilains troupeaux,
Suivis de nymphes de village,
Qui les escortent sans sabots—”
“A truce, dear Fergus! spare us those most tedious and insipid persons
of all Arcadia. Do not, for Heaven’s sake, bring down Coridon and
Lindor upon us.”
“Nay, if you cannot relish _la houlette et le chalumeau_, have with you
in heroic strains.”
“Dear Fergus, you have certainly partaken of the inspiration of
Mac-Murrough’s cup rather than of mine.”
“I disclaim it, _ma belle demoiselle_, although I protest it would be
the more congenial of the two. Which of your crack-brained Italian
romancers is it that says,
Io d’Elicona niente
Mi curo, in fe de Dio; che’l bere d’acque
(Bea chi ber ne vuol) sempre mi spiacque![*]
[* Good sooth, I reck nought of your Helicon;
Drink water whoso will, in faith I will drink none.]
But if you prefer the Gaelic, Captain Waverley, here is little Cathleen
shall sing you Drimmindhu. Come, Cathleen, _astore_ (that is, my dear),
begin; no apologies to the _Cean-kinné_.”
Cathleen sung with much liveliness a little Gaelic song, the burlesque
elegy of a countryman on the loss of his cow, the comic tones of which,
though he did not understand the language, made Waverley laugh more
than once.[*]
[* This ancient Gaelic ditty is still well known, both in the Highlands
and in Ireland. It was translated into English, and published, if I
mistake not, under the auspices of the facetious Tom D’Urfey, by the
title of “Colley, my Cow.”]
“Admirable, Cathleen!” cried the Chieftain; “I must find you a handsome
husband among the clansmen one of these days.”
Cathleen laughed, blushed, and sheltered herself behind her companion.
In the progress of their return to the castle, the Chieftain warmly
pressed Waverley to remain for a week or two, in order to see a grand
hunting party, in which he and some other Highland gentlemen proposed
to join. The charms of melody and beauty were too strongly impressed in
Edward’s breast to permit his declining an invitation so pleasing. It
was agreed, therefore, that he should write a note to the Baron of
Bradwardine, expressing his intention to stay a fortnight at
Glennaquoich, and requesting him to forward by the bearer (a _gilly_ of
the Chieftain’s) any letters which might have arrived for him.
This turned the discourse upon the Baron, whom Fergus highly extolled
as a gentleman and soldier. His character was touched with yet more
discrimination by Flora, who observed he was the very model of the old
Scottish cavalier, with all his excellencies and peculiarities. “It is
a character, Captain Waverley, which is fast disappearing; for its best
point was a self-respect which was never lost sight of till now. But in
the present time the gentlemen whose principles do not permit them to
pay court to the existing government are neglected and degraded, and
many conduct themselves accordingly; and, like some of the persons you
have seen at Tully-Veolan, adopt habits and companions inconsistent
with their birth and breeding. The ruthless proscription of party seems
to degrade the victims whom it brands, however unjustly. But let us
hope a brighter day is approaching, when a Scottish country gentleman
may be a scholar without the pedantry of our friend the Baron, a
sportsman without the low habits of Mr. Falconer, and a judicious
improver of his property without becoming a boorish two-legged steer
like Killancureit.”
Thus did Flora prophesy a revolution, which time indeed has produced,
but in a manner very different from what she had in her mind.
The amiable Rose was next mentioned, with the warmest encomium on her
person, manners, and mind. “That man,” said Flora, “will find an
inestimable treasure in the affections of Rose Bradwardine who shall be
so fortunate as to become their object. Her very soul is in home, and
in the discharge of all those quiet virtues of which home is the
centre. Her husband will be to her what her father now is, the object
of all her care, solicitude, and affection. She will see nothing, and
connect herself with nothing, but by him and through him. If he is a
man of sense and virtue, she will sympathise in his sorrows, divert his
fatigue, and share his pleasures. If she becomes the property of a
churlish or negligent husband, she will suit his taste also, for she
will not long survive his unkindness. And, alas! how great is the
chance that some such unworthy lot may be that of my poor friend! O
that I were a queen this moment, and could command the most amiable and
worthy youth of my kingdom to accept happiness with the hand of Rose
Bradwardine!”
“I wish you would command her to accept mine _en attendant_,” said
Fergus, laughing.
I don’t know by what caprice it was that this wish, however jocularly
expressed, rather jarred on Edward’s feelings, notwithstanding his
growing inclination to Flora and his indifference to Miss Bradwardine.
This is one of the inexplicabilities of human nature, which we leave
without comment.
“Yours, brother?” answered Flora, regarding him steadily. “No; you have
another bride—Honour; and the dangers you must run in pursuit of her
rival would break poor Rose’s heart.”
With this discourse they reached the castle, and Waverley soon prepared
his despatches for Tully-Veolan. As he knew the Baron was punctilious
in such matters, he was about to impress his billet with a seal on
which his armorial bearings were engraved, but he did not find it at
his watch, and thought he must have left it at Tully-Veolan. He
mentioned his loss, borrowing at the same time the family seal of the
Chieftain.
“Surely,” said Miss Mac-Ivor, “Donald Bean Lean would not—”
“My life for him in such circumstances,” answered her brother;
“besides, he would never have left the watch behind.”
“After all, Fergus,” said Flora, “and with every allowance, I am
surprised you can countenance that man.”
“I countenance him? This kind sister of mine would persuade you,
Captain Waverley, that I take what the people of old used to call “a
steakraid,” that is, a “collop of the foray,” or, in plainer words, a
portion of the robber’s booty, paid by him to the Laird, or Chief,
through whose grounds he drove his prey. O, it is certain that, unless
I can find some way to charm Flora’s tongue, General Blakeney will send
a sergeant’s party from Stirling (this he said with haughty and
emphatic irony) to seize Vich Ian Vohr, as they nickname me, in his own
castle.”
“Now, Fergus, must not our guest be sensible that all this is folly and
affectation? You have men enough to serve you without enlisting
banditti, and your own honour is above taint. Why don’t you send this
Donald Bean Lean, whom I hate for his smoothness and duplicity even
more than for his rapine, out of your country at once? No cause should
induce me to tolerate such a character.”
“_No_ cause, Flora?” said the Chieftain significantly.
“No cause, Fergus! not even that which is nearest to my heart. Spare it
the omen of such evil supporters!”
“O but, sister,” rejoined the Chief gaily, “you don’t consider my
respect for _la belle passion_. Evan Dhu Maccombich is in love with
Donald’s daughter, Alice, and you cannot expect me to disturb him in
his amours. Why, the whole clan would cry shame on me. You know it is
one of their wise sayings, that a kinsman is part of a man’s body, but
a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.”
“Well, Fergus, there is no disputing with you; but I would all this may
end well.”
“Devoutly prayed, my dear and prophetic sister, and the best way in the
world to close a dubious argument. But hear ye not the pipes, Captain
Waverley? Perhaps you will like better to dance to them in the hall
than to be deafened with their harmony without taking part in the
exercise they invite us to.”
Waverley took Flora’s hand. The dance, song, and merry-making
proceeded, and closed the day’s entertainment at the castle of Vich Ian
Vohr. Edward at length retired, his mind agitated by a variety of new
and conflicting feelings, which detained him from rest for some time,
in that not unpleasing state of mind in which fancy takes the helm, and
the soul rather drifts passively along with the rapid and confused tide
of reflections than exerts itself to encounter, systematise, or examine
them. At a late hour he fell asleep, and dreamed of Flora Mac-Ivor.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A STAG-HUNT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
Shall this be a long or a short chapter? This is a question in which
you, gentle reader, have no vote, however much you may be interested in
the consequences; just as you may (like myself) probably have nothing
to do with the imposing a new tax, excepting the trifling circumstance
of being obliged to pay it. More happy surely in the present case,
since, though it lies within my arbitrary power to extend my materials
as I think proper, I cannot call you into Exchequer if you do not think
proper to read my narrative. Let me therefore consider. It is true that
the annals and documents in my hands say but little of this Highland
chase; but then I can find copious materials for description elsewhere.
There is old Lindsay of Pitscottie ready at my elbow, with his Athole
hunting, and his “lofted and joisted palace of green timber; with all
kind of drink to be had in burgh and land, as ale, beer, wine,
muscadel, malvaise, hippocras, and aqua-vitæ; with wheat-bread,
main-bread, ginge-bread, beef, mutton, lamb, veal, venison, goose,
grice, capon, coney, crane, swan, partridge, plover, duck, drake,
brissel-cock, pawnies, black-cock, muir-fowl, and capercailzies”; not
forgetting the “costly bedding, vaiselle, and napry,” and least of all
the “excelling stewards, cunning baxters, excellent cooks, and
pottingars, with confections and drugs for the desserts.” Besides the
particulars which may be thence gleaned for this Highland feast (the
splendour of which induced the Pope’s legate to dissent from an opinion
which he had hitherto held, that Scotland, namely, was the—the—the
latter end of the world)—besides these, might I not illuminate my pages
with Taylor the Water Poet’s hunting in the braes of Mar, where,—
Through heather, mosse, ’mong frogs, and bogs, and fogs,
’Mongst craggy cliffs and thunder-batter’d hills,
Hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and dogs,
Where two hours’ hunting fourscore fat deer kills.
Lowland, your sports are low as is your seat;
The Highland games and minds are high and great.
But without further tyranny over my readers, or display of the extent
of my own reading, I shall content myself with borrowing a single
incident from the memorable hunting at Lude, commemorated in the
ingenious Mr. Gunn’s essay on the Caledonian Harp, and so proceed in my
story with all the brevity that my natural style of composition,
partaking of what scholars call the periphrastic and ambagitory, and
the vulgar the circumbendibus, will permit me.
The solemn hunting was delayed, from various causes, for about three
weeks. The interval was spent by Waverley with great satisfaction at
Glennaquoich; for the impression which Flora had made on his mind at
their first meeting grew daily stronger. She was precisely the
character to fascinate a youth of romantic imagination. Her manners,
her language, her talents for poetry and music, gave additional and
varied influence to her eminent personal charms. Even in her hours of
gaiety she was in his fancy exalted above the ordinary daughters of
Eve, and seemed only to stoop for an instant to those topics of
amusement and gallantry which others appear to live for. In the
neighbourhood of this enchantress, while sport consumed the morning and
music and the dance led on the hours of evening, Waverley became daily
more delighted with his hospitable landlord, and more enamoured of his
bewitching sister.
At length the period fixed for the grand hunting arrived, and Waverley
and the Chieftain departed for the place of rendezvous, which was a
day’s journey to the northward of Glennaquoich. Fergus was attended on
this occasion by about three hundred of his clan, well armed and
accoutred in their best fashion. Waverley complied so far with the
custom of the country as to adopt the trews (he could not be reconciled
to the kilt), brogues, and bonnet, as the fittest dress for the
exercise in which he was to be engaged, and which least exposed him to
be stared at as a stranger when they should reach the place of
rendezvous. They found on the spot appointed several powerful Chiefs,
to all of whom Waverley was formally presented, and by all cordially
received. Their vassals and clansmen, a part of whose feudal duty it
was to attend on these parties, appeared in such numbers as amounted to
a small army. These active assistants spread through the country far
and near, forming a circle, technically called the “tinchel,” which,
gradually closing, drove the deer in herds together towards the glen
where the Chiefs and principal sportsmen lay in wait for them. In the
meanwhile these distinguished personages bivouacked among the flowery
heath, wrapped up in their plaids, a mode of passing a summer’s night
which Waverley found by no means unpleasant.
For many hours after sunrise the mountain ridges and passes retained
their ordinary appearance of silence and solitude, and the Chiefs, with
their followers, amused themselves with various pastimes, in which the
joys of the shell, as Ossian has it, were not forgotten. “Others apart
sat on a hill retired,” probably as deeply engaged in the discussion
of politics and news as Milton’s spirits in metaphysical disquisition.
At length signals of the approach of the game were descried and heard.
Distant shouts resounded from valley to valley, as the various parties
of Highlanders, climbing rocks, struggling through copses, wading
brooks, and traversing thickets, approached more and more near to each
other, and compelled the astonished deer, with the other wild animals
that fled before them, into a narrower circuit. Every now and then the
report of muskets was heard, repeated by a thousand echoes. The baying
of the dogs was soon added to the chorus, which grew ever louder and
more loud. At length the advanced parties of the deer began to show
themselves; and as the stragglers came bounding down the pass by two or
three at a time, the Chiefs showed their skill by distinguishing the
fattest deer, and their dexterity in bringing them down with their
guns. Fergus exhibited remarkable address, and Edward was also so
fortunate as to attract the notice and applause of the sportsmen.
But now the main body of the deer appeared at the head of the glen,
compelled into a very narrow compass, and presenting such a formidable
phalanx that their antlers appeared at a distance, over the ridge of
the steep pass, like a leafless grove. Their number was very great, and
from a desperate stand which they made, with the tallest of the
red-deer stags arranged in front, in a sort of battle-array, gazing on
the group which barred their passage down the glen, the more
experienced sportsmen began to augur danger. The work of destruction,
however, now commenced on all sides. Dogs and hunters were at work, and
muskets and fusees resounded from every quarter. The deer, driven to
desperation, made at length a fearful charge right upon the spot where
the more distinguished sportsmen had taken their stand. The word was
given in Gaelic to fling themselves upon their faces; but Waverley, on
whose English ears the signal was lost, had almost fallen a sacrifice
to his ignorance of the ancient language in which it was communicated.
Fergus, observing his danger, sprung up and pulled him with violence to
the ground, just as the whole herd broke down upon them. The tide being
absolutely irresistible, and wounds from a stag’s horn highly
dangerous,[*] the activity of the Chieftain may be considered, on this
occasion, as having saved his guest’s life. He detained him with a firm
grasp until the whole herd of deer had fairly run over them. Waverley
then attempted to rise, but found that he had suffered several very
severe contusions, and, upon a further examination, discovered that he
had sprained his ankle violently.
[* The thrust from the tynes, or branches, of the stag’s horns was
accounted far more dangerous than those of the boar’s tusk:—
If thou be hurt with horn of stag, it brings thee to thy bier,
But barber’s hand shall boar’s hurt heal, thereof have thou no fear.]
This checked the mirth of the meeting, although the Highlanders,
accustomed to such incidents, and prepared for them, had suffered no
harm themselves. A wigwam was erected almost in an instant, where
Edward was deposited on a couch of heather. The surgeon, or he who
assumed the office, appeared to unite the characters of a leech and a
conjuror. He was an old smoke-dried Highlander, wearing a venerable
grey beard, and having for his sole garment a tartan frock, the skirts
of which descended to the knee, and, being undivided in front, made the
vestment serve at once for doublet and breeches.[*] He observed great
ceremony in approaching Edward; and though our hero was writhing with
pain, would not proceed to any operation which might assuage it until
he had perambulated his couch three times, moving from east to west,
according to the course of the sun. This, which was called making the
“deasil,”[**] both the leech and the assistants seemed to consider as a
matter of the last importance to the accomplishment of a cure; and
Waverley, whom pain rendered incapable of expostulation, and who indeed
saw no chance of its being attended to, submitted in silence.
[* This garb, which resembled the dress often put on children in
Scotland, called a “polonie” (that is, “polonaise”), is a very ancient
modification of the Highland garb. It was, in fact, the hauberk or
shirt of mail, only composed of cloth instead of rings of armour.]
[** Old Highlanders will still make the “deasil” around those whom they
wish well to. To go round a person in the opposite direction, or
wither-shins (German _wider-shins_), is unlucky, and a sort of
incantation.]
After this ceremony was duly performed, the old Esculapius let his
patient’s blood with a cupping-glass with great dexterity, and
proceeded, muttering all the while to himself in Gaelic, to boil on the
fire certain herbs, with which he compounded an embrocation. He then
fomented the parts which had sustained injury, never failing to murmur
prayers or spells, which of the two Waverley could not distinguish, as
his ear only caught the words Gasper-Melchior-Balthazar-max-prax-fax,
and similar gibberish. The fomentation had a speedy effect in
alleviating the pain and swelling, which our hero imputed to the virtue
of the herbs or the effect of the chafing, but which was by the
bystanders unanimously ascribed to the spells with which the operation
had been accompanied. Edward was given to understand that not one of
the ingredients had been gathered except during the full moon, and that
the herbalist had, while collecting them, uniformly recited a charm,
which in English ran thus:—
Hail to thee, thou holy herb,
That sprung on holy ground!
All in the Mount Olivet
First wert thou found.
Thou art boot for many a bruise,
And healest many a wound;
In our Lady’s blessed name,
I take thee from the ground.[*]
[* This metrical spell, or something very like it, is preserved by
Reginald Scott in his work on Witchcraft.]
Edward observed with some surprise that even Fergus, notwithstanding
his knowledge and education, seemed to fall in with the superstitious
ideas of his countrymen, either because he deemed it impolitic to
affect scepticism on a matter of general belief, or more probably
because, like most men who do not think deeply or accurately on such
subjects, he had in his mind a reserve of superstition which balanced
the freedom of his expressions and practice upon other occasions.
Waverley made no commentary, therefore, on the manner of the treatment,
but rewarded the professor of medicine with a liberality beyond the
utmost conception of his wildest hopes. He uttered on the occasion so
many incoherent blessings in Gaelic and English that Mac-Ivor, rather
scandalized at the excess of his acknowledgments, cut them short by
exclaiming, “Ceud mile mhalloich ort!” (that is, “A hundred thousand
curses on you!”) and so pushed the helper of men out of the cabin.
After Waverley was left alone, the exhaustion of pain and fatigue—for
the whole day’s exercise had been severe—threw him into a profound, but
yet a feverish sleep, which he chiefly owed to an opiate draught
administered by the old Highlander from some decoction of herbs in his
pharmacopœia.
Early the next morning, the purpose of their meeting being over, and
their sports damped by the untoward accident, in which Fergus and all
his friends expressed the greatest sympathy, it became a question how
to dispose of the disabled sportsman. This was settled by Mac-Ivor, who
had a litter prepared, of “birch and hazel-grey,”[*] which was borne by
his people with such caution and dexterity as renders it not improbable
that they may have been the ancestors of some of those sturdy Gael who
have now the happiness to transport the belles of Edinburgh in their
sedan-chairs to ten routs in one evening. When Edward was elevated upon
their shoulders he could not help being gratified with the romantic
effect produced by the breaking up of this sylvan camp.[25]
[* On the morrow they made their biers
Of birch and hazel grey.
_Chevy Chase_.]
The various tribes assembled, each at the pibroch of their native clan,
and each headed by their patriarchal ruler. Some, who had already begun
to retire, were seen winding up the hills, or descending the passes
which led to the scene of action, the sound of their bagpipes dying
upon the ear. Others made still a moving picture upon the narrow plain,
forming various changeful groups, their feathers and loose plaids
waving in the morning breeze, and their arms glittering in the rising
sun. Most of the Chiefs came to take farewell of Waverley, and to
express their anxious hope they might again, and speedily, meet; but
the care of Fergus abridged the ceremony of taking leave. At length,
his own men being completely assembled and mustered, Mac-Ivor commenced
his march, but not towards the quarter from which they had come. He
gave Edward to understand that the greater part of his followers now on
the field were bound on a distant expedition, and that when he had
deposited him in the house of a gentleman, who he was sure would pay
him every attention, he himself should be under the necessity of
accompanying them the greater part of the way, but would lose no time
in rejoining his friend.
Waverley was rather surprised that Fergus had not mentioned this
ulterior destination when they set out upon the hunting-party; but his
situation did not admit of many interrogatories. The greater part of
the clansmen went forward under the guidance of old Ballenkeiroch and
Evan Dhu Maccombich, apparently in high spirits. A few remained for the
purpose of escorting the Chieftain, who walked by the side of Edward’s
litter, and attended him with the most affectionate assiduity. About
noon, after a journey which the nature of the conveyance, the pain of
his bruises, and the roughness of the way rendered inexpressibly
painful, Waverley was hospitably received into the house of a gentleman
related to Fergus, who had prepared for him every accommodation which
the simple habits of living then universal in the Highlands put in his
power. In this person, an old man about seventy, Edward admired a relic
of primitive simplicity. He wore no dress but what his estate afforded;
the cloth was the fleece of his own sheep, woven by his own servants,
and stained into tartan by the dyes produced from the herbs and lichens
of the hills around him. His linen was spun by his daughters and
maidservants, from his own flax; nor did his table, though plentiful,
and varied with game and fish, offer an article but what was of native
produce.
Claiming himself no rights of clanship or vassalage, he was fortunate
in the alliance and protection of Vich Ian Vohr and other bold and
enterprising Chieftains, who protected him in the quiet unambitious
life he loved. It is true, the youth born on his grounds were often
enticed to leave him for the service of his more active friends; but a
few old servants and tenants used to shake their grey locks when they
heard their master censured for want of spirit, and observed, “When the
wind is still, the shower falls soft.” This good old man, whose charity
and hospitality were unbounded, would have received Waverley with
kindness had he been the meanest Saxon peasant, since his situation
required assistance. But his attention to a friend and guest of Vich
Ian Vohr was anxious and unremitted. Other embrocations were applied to
the injured limb, and new spells were put in practice. At length, after
more solicitude than was perhaps for the advantage of his health,
Fergus took farewell of Edward for a few days, when, he said, he would
return to Tomanrait, and hoped by that time Waverley would be able to
ride one of the Highland ponies of his landlord, and in that manner
return to Glennaquoich.
The next day, when his good old host appeared, Edward learned that his
friend had departed with the dawn, leaving none of his followers except
Callum Beg, the sort of foot-page who used to attend his person, and
who had now in charge to wait upon Waverley. On asking his host if he
knew where the Chieftain was gone, the old man looked fixedly at him,
with something mysterious and sad in the smile which was his only
reply. Waverley repeated his question, to which his host answered in a
proverb,—
What sent the messengers to hell,
Was asking what they knew full well.[*]
[* Corresponding to the Lowland saying, “Mony ane speirs the gate they
ken fu’ weel.”]
He was about to proceed, but Callum Beg said, rather pertly, as Edward
thought, that “Ta Tighearnach (i.e. the Chief) did not like ta
Sassenagh _duinhé-wassel_ to be pingled wi’ mickle speaking, as she was
na tat weel.” From this Waverley concluded he should disoblige his
friend by inquiring of a stranger the object of a journey which he
himself had not communicated.
It is unnecessary to trace the progress of our hero’s recovery. The
sixth morning had arrived, and he was able to walk about with a staff,
when Fergus returned with about a score of his men. He seemed in the
highest spirits, congratulated Waverley on his progress towards
recovery, and finding he was able to sit on horseback, proposed their
immediate return to Glennaquoich. Waverley joyfully acceded, for the
form of its fair mistress had lived in his dreams during all the time
of his confinement.
Now he has ridden o’er moor and moss,
O’er hill and many a glen,
Fergus, all the while, with his myrmidons, striding stoutly by his
side, or diverging to get a shot at a roe or a heath-cock. Waverley’s
bosom beat thick when they approached the old tower of Ian nan
Chaistel, and could distinguish the fair form of its mistress advancing
to meet them.
Fergus began immediately, with his usual high spirits, to exclaim,
“Open your gates, incomparable princess, to the wounded Moor Abindarez,
whom Rodrigo de Narvez, constable of Antiquera, conveys to your castle;
or open them, if you like it better, to the renowned Marquis of Mantua,
the sad attendant of his half-slain friend Baldovinos of the Mountain.
Ah, long rest to thy soul, Cervantes! without quoting thy remnants, how
should I frame my language to befit romantic ears!”
Flora now advanced, and welcoming Waverley with much kindness,
expressed her regret for his accident, of which she had already heard
particulars, and her surprise that her brother should not have taken
better care to put a stranger on his guard against the perils of the
sport in which he engaged him. Edward easily exculpated the Chieftain,
who, indeed, at his own personal risk, had probably saved his life.
This greeting over, Fergus said three or four words to his sister in
Gaelic. The tears instantly sprung to her eyes, but they seemed to be
tears of devotion and joy, for she looked up to heaven and folded her
hands as in a solemn expression of prayer or gratitude. After the pause
of a minute, she presented to Edward some letters which had been
forwarded from Tully-Veolan during his absence, and at the same time
delivered some to her brother. To the latter she likewise gave three or
four numbers of the “Caledonian Mercury,” the only newspaper which was
then published to the north of the Tweed.
Both gentlemen retired to examine their despatches, and Edward speedily
found that those which he had received contained matters of very deep
interest.
CHAPTER XXV.
NEWS FROM ENGLAND
The letters which Waverley had hitherto received from his relations in
England were not such as required any particular notice in this
narrative. His father usually wrote to him with the pompous affectation
of one who was too much oppressed by public affairs to find leisure to
attend to those of his own family. Now and then he mentioned persons of
rank in Scotland to whom he wished his son should pay some attention;
but Waverley, hitherto occupied by the amusements which he had found at
Tully-Veolan and Glennaquoich, dispensed with paying any attention to
hints so coldly thrown out, especially as distance, shortness of leave
of absence, and so forth furnished a ready apology. But latterly the
burden of Mr. Richard Waverley’s paternal epistles consisted in certain
mysterious hints of greatness and influence which he was speedily to
attain, and which would ensure his son’s obtaining the most rapid
promotion, should he remain in the military service. Sir Everard’s
letters were of a different tenor. They were short; for the good
Baronet was none of your illimitable correspondents, whose manuscript
overflows the folds of their large post paper, and leaves no room for
the seal; but they were kind and affectionate, and seldom concluded
without some allusion to our hero’s stud, some question about the state
of his purse, and a special inquiry after such of his recruits as had
preceded him from Waverley-Honour. Aunt Rachel charged him to remember
his principles of religion, to take care of his health, to beware of
Scotch mists, which, she had heard, would wet an Englishman through and
through, never to go out at night without his great-coat, and, above
all, to wear flannel next to his skin.
Mr. Pembroke only wrote to our hero one letter, but it was of the bulk
of six epistles of these degenerate days, containing, in the moderate
compass of ten folio pages, closely written, a precis of a
supplementary quarto manuscript of _addenda, delenda, et corrigenda_ in
reference to the two tracts with which he had presented Waverley. This
he considered as a mere sop in the pan to stay the appetite of Edward’s
curiosity until he should find an opportunity of sending down the
volume itself, which was much too heavy for the post, and which he
proposed to accompany with certain interesting pamphlets, lately
published by his friend in Little Britain, with whom he had kept up a
sort of literary correspondence, in virtue of which the library shelves
of Waverley-Honour were loaded with much trash, and a good round bill,
seldom summed in fewer than three figures, was yearly transmitted, in
which Sir Everard Waverley of Waverley-Honour, Bart., was marked Dr. to
Jonathan Grubbet, bookseller and stationer, Little Britain. Such had
hitherto been the style of the letters which Edward had received from
England; but the packet delivered to him at Glennaquoich was of a
different and more interesting complexion. It would be impossible for
the reader, even were I to insert the letters at full length, to
comprehend the real cause of their being written, without a glance into
the interior of the British cabinet at the period in question.
The ministers of the day happened (no very singular event) to be
divided into two parties; the weakest of which, making up by assiduity
of intrigue their inferiority in real consequence, had of late acquired
some new proselytes, and with them the hope of superseding their rivals
in the favour of their sovereign, and overpowering them in the House of
Commons. Amongst others, they had thought it worth while to practise
upon Richard Waverley. This honest gentleman, by a grave mysterious
demeanour, an attention to the etiquette of business rather more than
to its essence, a facility in making long dull speeches, consisting of
truisms and commonplaces, hashed up with a technical jargon of office,
which prevented the inanity of his orations from being discovered, had
acquired a certain name and credit in public life, and even
established, with many, the character of a profound politician; none of
your shining orators, indeed, whose talents evaporate in tropes of
rhetoric and flashes of wit, but one possessed of steady parts for
business, which would wear well, as the ladies say in choosing their
silks, and ought in all reason to be good for common and every-day use,
since they were confessedly formed of no holiday texture.
This faith had become so general that the insurgent party in the
cabinet, of which we have made mention, after sounding Mr. Richard
Waverley, were so satisfied with his sentiments and abilities as to
propose that, in case of a certain revolution in the ministry, he
should take an ostensible place in the new order of things, not indeed
of the very first rank, but greatly higher, in point both of emolument
and influence, than that which he now enjoyed. There was no resisting
so tempting a proposal, notwithstanding that the Great Man under whose
patronage he had enlisted, and by whose banner he had hitherto stood
firm, was the principal object of the proposed attack by the new
allies. Unfortunately this fair scheme of ambition was blighted in the
very bud by a premature movement. All the official gentlemen concerned
in it who hesitated to take the part of a voluntary resignation were
informed that the king had no further occasion for their services; and
in Richard Waverley’s case, which the minister considered as aggravated
by ingratitude, dismissal was accompanied by something like personal
contempt and contumely. The public, and even the party of whom he
shared the fall, sympathised little in the disappointment of this
selfish and interested statesman; and he retired to the country under
the comfortable reflection that he had lost, at the same time,
character, credit, and,—what he at least equally deplored,—emolument.
Richard Waverley’s letter to his son upon this occasion was a
masterpiece of its kind. Aristides himself could not have made out a
harder case. An unjust monarch and an ungrateful country were the
burden of each rounded paragraph. He spoke of long services and
unrequited sacrifices; though the former had been overpaid by his
salary, and nobody could guess in what the latter consisted, unless it
were in his deserting, not from conviction, but for the lucre of gain,
the Tory principles of his family. In the conclusion, his resentment
was wrought to such an excess by the force of his own oratory, that he
could not repress some threats of vengeance, however vague and
impotent, and finally acquainted his son with his pleasure that he
should testify his sense of the ill-treatment he had sustained by
throwing up his commission as soon as the letter reached him. This, he
said, was also his uncle’s desire, as he would himself intimate in due
course.
Accordingly, the next letter which Edward opened was from Sir Everard.
His brother’s disgrace seemed to have removed from his well-natured
bosom all recollection of their differences, and, remote as he was from
every means of learning that Richard’s disgrace was in reality only the
just as well as natural consequence of his own unsuccessful intrigues,
the good but credulous Baronet at once set it down as a new and
enormous instance of the injustice of the existing government. It was
true, he said, and he must not disguise it even from Edward, that his
father could not have sustained such an insult as was now, for the
first time, offered to one of his house, unless he had subjected
himself to it by accepting of an employment under the present system.
Sir Everard had no doubt that he now both saw and felt the magnitude of
this error, and it should be his (Sir Everard’s) business to take care
that the cause of his regret should not extend itself to pecuniary
consequences. It was enough for a Waverley to have sustained the public
disgrace; the patrimonial injury could easily be obviated by the head
of their family. But it was both the opinion of Mr. Richard Waverley
and his own that Edward, the representative of the family of
Waverley-Honour, should not remain in a situation which subjected him
also to such treatment as that with which his father had been
stigmatised. He requested his nephew therefore to take the fittest, and
at the same time the most speedy, opportunity of transmitting his
resignation to the War Office, and hinted, moreover, that little
ceremony was necessary where so little had been used to his father. He
sent multitudinous greetings to the Baron of Bradwardine.
A letter from Aunt Rachel spoke out even more plainly. She considered
the disgrace of brother Richard as the just reward of his forfeiting
his allegiance to a lawful though exiled sovereign, and taking the
oaths to an alien; a concession which her grandfather, Sir Nigel
Waverley, refused to make, either to the Roundhead Parliament or to
Cromwell, when his life and fortune stood in the utmost extremity. She
hoped her dear Edward would follow the footsteps of his ancestors, and
as speedily as possible get rid of the badge of servitude to the
usurping family, and regard the wrongs sustained by his father as an
admonition from Heaven that every desertion of the line of loyalty
becomes its own punishment. She also concluded with her respects to Mr.
Bradwardine, and begged Waverley would inform her whether his daughter,
Miss Rose, was old enough to wear a pair of very handsome ear-rings,
which she proposed to send as a token of her affection. The good lady
also desired to be informed whether Mr. Bradwardine took as much Scotch
snuff and danced as unweariedly as he did when he was at
Waverley-Honour about thirty years ago.
These letters, as might have been expected, highly excited Waverley’s
indignation. From the desultory style of his studies, he had not any
fixed political opinion to place in opposition to the movements of
indignation which he felt at his father’s supposed wrongs. Of the real
cause of his disgrace Edward was totally ignorant; nor had his habits
at all led him to investigate the politics of the period in which he
lived, or remark the intrigues in which his father had been so actively
engaged. Indeed, any impressions which he had accidentally adopted
concerning the parties of the times were (owing to the society in which
he had lived at Waverley-Honour) of a nature rather unfavourable to the
existing government and dynasty. He entered, therefore, without
hesitation into the resentful feeling of the relations who had the best
title to dictate his conduct, and not perhaps the less willingly when
he remembered the tedium of his quarters, and the inferior figure which
he had made among the officers of his regiment. If he could have had
any doubt upon the subject it would have been decided by the following
letter from his commanding officer, which, as it is very short, shall
be inserted _verbatim._
SIR,—Having carried somewhat beyond the line of my duty an indulgence
which even the lights of nature, and much more those of Christianity,
direct towards errors which may arise from youth and inexperience, and
that altogether without effect, I am reluctantly compelled, at the
present crisis, to use the only remaining remedy which is in my power.
You are, therefore, hereby commanded to repair to—, the headquarters of
the regiment, within three days after the date of this letter. If you
shall fail to do so, I must report you to the War Office as absent
without leave, and also take other steps, which will be disagreeable to
you as well as to,
Sir,
Your obedient Servant,
J. GARDINER,
_Lieut.-Col. Commanding the——Regt. Dragoons._
Edward’s blood boiled within him as he read this letter. He had been
accustomed from his very infancy to possess in a great measure the
disposal of his own time, and thus acquired habits which rendered the
rules of military discipline as unpleasing to him in this as they were
in some other respects. An idea that in his own case they would not be
enforced in a very rigid manner had also obtained full possession of
his mind, and had hitherto been sanctioned by the indulgent conduct of
his lieutenant-colonel. Neither had anything occurred, to his
knowledge, that should have induced his commanding officer, without any
other warning than the hints we noticed at the end of the fourteenth
chapter, so suddenly to assume a harsh and, as Edward deemed it, so
insolent a tone of dictatorial authority. Connecting it with the
letters he had just received from his family, he could not but suppose
that it was designed to make him feel, in his present situation, the
same pressure of authority which had been exercised in his father’s
case, and that the whole was a concerted scheme to depress and degrade
every member of the Waverley family.
Without a pause, therefore, Edward wrote a few cold lines, thanking his
lieutenant-colonel for past civilities, and expressing regret that he
should have chosen to efface the remembrance of them by assuming a
different tone towards him. The strain of his letter, as well as what
he (Edward) conceived to be his duty in the present crisis, called upon
him to lay down his commission; and he therefore inclosed the formal
resignation of a situation which subjected him to so unpleasant a
correspondence, and requested Colonel Gardiner would have the goodness
to forward it to the proper authorities.
Having finished this magnanimous epistle, he felt somewhat uncertain
concerning the terms in which his resignation ought to be expressed,
upon which subject he resolved to consult Fergus Mac-Ivor. It may be
observed in passing that the bold and prompt habits of thinking,
acting, and speaking which distinguished this young Chieftain had given
him a considerable ascendency over the mind of Waverley. Endowed with
at least equal powers of understanding, and with much finer genius,
Edward yet stooped to the bold and decisive activity of an intellect
which was sharpened by the habit of acting on a preconceived and
regular system, as well as by extensive knowledge of the world.
When Edward found his friend, the latter had still in his hand the
newspaper which he had perused, and advanced to meet him with the
embarrassment of one who has unpleasing news to communicate. “Do your
letters, Captain Waverley, confirm the unpleasing information which I
find in this paper?”
He put the paper into his hand, where his father’s disgrace was
registered in the most bitter terms, transferred probably from some
London journal. At the end of the paragraph was this remarkable
innuendo:—
“We understand that “this same _Richard_ who hath done all this” is not
the only example of the _Wavering Honour_ of W-v-r-ly H-n-r. See the
Gazette of this day.”
With hurried and feverish apprehension our hero turned to the place
referred to, and found therein recorded, “Edward Waverley, captain
in——regiment dragoons, superseded for absence without leave”; and in
the list of military promotions, referring to the same regiment, he
discovered this farther article, “Lieut. Julius Butler, to be captain,
_vice_ Edward Waverley, superseded.”
Our hero’s bosom glowed with the resentment which undeserved and
apparently premeditated insult was calculated to excite in the bosom of
one who had aspired after honour, and was thus wantonly held up to
public scorn and disgrace. Upon comparing the date of his colonel’s
letter with that of the article in the Gazette, he perceived that his
threat of making a report upon his absence had been literally
fulfilled, and without inquiry, as it seemed, whether Edward had either
received his summons or was disposed to comply with it. The whole,
therefore, appeared a formed plan to degrade him in the eyes of the
public; and the idea of its having succeeded filled him with such
bitter emotions that, after various attempts to conceal them, he at
length threw himself into Mac-Ivor’s arms, and gave vent to tears of
shame and indignation.
It was none of this Chieftain’s faults to be indifferent to the wrongs
of his friends; and for Edward, independent of certain plans with which
he was connected, he felt a deep and sincere interest. The proceeding
appeared as extraordinary to him as it had done to Edward. He indeed
knew of more motives than Waverley was privy to for the peremptory
order that he should join his regiment. But that, without further
inquiry into the circumstances of a necessary delay, the commanding
officer, in contradiction to his known and established character,
should have proceeded in so harsh and unusual a manner was a mystery
which he could not penetrate. He soothed our hero, however, to the best
of his power, and began to turn his thoughts on revenge for his
insulted honour.
Edward eagerly grasped at the idea. “Will you carry a message for me to
Colonel Gardiner, my dear Fergus, and oblige me for ever?”
Fergus paused. “It is an act of friendship which you should command,
could it be useful, or lead to the righting your honour; but in the
present case I doubt if your commanding officer would give you the
meeting on account of his having taken measures which, however harsh
and exasperating, were still within the strict bounds of his duty.
Besides, Gardiner is a precise Huguenot, and has adopted certain ideas
about the sinfulness of such _rencontres_, from which it would be
impossible to make him depart, especially as his courage is beyond all
suspicion. And besides, I—I, to say the truth—I dare not at this
moment, for some very weighty reasons, go near any of the military
quarters or garrisons belonging to this government.”
“And am I,” said Waverley, “to sit down quiet and contented under the
injury I have received?”
“That will I never advise my friend,” replied Mac-Ivor. “But I would
have vengeance to fall on the head, not on the hand, on the tyrannical
and oppressive government which designed and directed these
premeditated and reiterated insults, not on the tools of office which
they employed in the execution of the injuries they aimed at you.”
“On the government!” said Waverley.
“Yes,” replied the impetuous Highlander, “on the usurping House of
Hanover, whom your grandfather would no more have served than he would
have taken wages of red-hot gold from the great fiend of hell!”
“But since the time of my grandfather two generations of this dynasty
have possessed the throne,” said Edward coolly.
“True,” replied the Chieftain; “and because we have passively given
them so long the means of showing their native character,—because both
you and I myself have lived in quiet submission, have even truckled to
the times so far as to accept commissions under them, and thus have
given them an opportunity of disgracing us publicly by resuming them,
are we not on that account to resent injuries which our fathers only
apprehended, but which we have actually sustained? Or is the cause of
the unfortunate Stuart family become less just, because their title has
devolved upon an heir who is innocent of the charges of misgovernment
brought against his father? Do you remember the lines of your favourite
poet,—
Had Richard unconstrain’d resign’d the throne,
A king can give no more than is his own;
The title stood entail’d had Richard had a son.
You see, my dear Waverley, I can quote poetry as well as Flora and you.
But come, clear your moody brow, and trust to me to show you an
honourable road to a speedy and glorious revenge. Let us seek Flora,
who perhaps has more news to tell us of what has occurred during our
absence. She will rejoice to hear that you are relieved of your
servitude. But first add a postscript to your letter, marking the time
when you received this calvinistical colonel’s first summons, and
express your regret that the hastiness of his proceedings prevented
your anticipating them by sending your resignation. Then let him blush
for his injustice.”
The letter was sealed accordingly, covering a formal resignation of the
commission, and Mac-Ivor despatched it with some letters of his own by
a special messenger, with charge to put them into the nearest
post-office in the Lowlands.
CHAPTER XXVI.
AN ECLAIRCISSEMENT
The hint which the Chieftain had thrown out respecting Flora was not
unpremeditated. He had observed with great satisfaction the growing
attachment of Waverley to his sister, nor did he see any bar to their
union, excepting the situation which Waverley’s father held in the
ministry, and Edward’s own commission in the army of George II. These
obstacles were now removed, and in a manner which apparently paved the
way for the son’s becoming reconciled to another allegiance. In every
other respect the match would be most eligible. The safety, happiness,
and honourable provision of his sister, whom he dearly loved, appeared
to be ensured by the proposed union; and his heart swelled when he
considered how his own interest would be exalted in the eyes of the
ex-monarch to whom he had dedicated his service, by an alliance with
one of those ancient, powerful, and wealthy English families of the
steady cavalier faith, to awaken whose decayed attachment to the Stuart
family was now a matter of such vital importance to the Stuart cause.
Nor could Fergus perceive any obstacle to such a scheme. Waverley’s
attachment was evident; and as his person was handsome, and his taste
apparently coincided with her own, he anticipated no opposition on the
part of Flora. Indeed, between his ideas of patriarchal power and those
which he had acquired in France respecting the disposal of females in
marriage, any opposition from his sister, dear as she was to him, would
have been the last obstacle on which he would have calculated, even had
the union been less eligible.
Influenced by these feelings, the Chief now led Waverley in quest of
Miss Mac-Ivor, not without the hope that the present agitation of his
guest’s spirits might give him courage to cut short what Fergus termed
the romance of the courtship. They found Flora, with her faithful
attendants, Una and Cathleen, busied in preparing what appeared to
Waverley to be white bridal favours. Disguising as well as he could the
agitation of his mind, Waverley asked for what joyful occasion Miss
Mac-Ivor made such ample preparation.
“It is for Fergus’s bridal,” she said, smiling.
“Indeed!” said Edward; “he has kept his secret well. I hope he will
allow me to be his bride’s-man.”
“That is a man’s office, but not yours, as Beatrice says,” retorted
Flora.
“And who is the fair lady, may I be permitted to ask, Miss Mac-Ivor?”
“Did not I tell you long since that Fergus wooed no bride but Honour?”
answered Flora.
“And am I then incapable of being his assistant and counsellor in the
pursuit of honour?” said our hero, colouring deeply. “Do I rank so low
in your opinion?”
“Far from it, Captain Waverley. I would to God you were of our
determination! and made use of the expression which displeased you,
solely
Because you are not of our quality,
But stand against us as an enemy.”
“That time is past, sister,” said Fergus; “and you may wish Edward
Waverley (no longer captain) joy of being freed from the slavery to an
usurper, implied in that sable and ill-omened emblem.”
“Yes,” said Waverley, undoing the cockade from his hat, “it has pleased
the king who bestowed this badge upon me to resume it in a manner which
leaves me little reason to regret his service.”
“Thank God for that!” cried the enthusiast; “and O that they may be
blind enough to treat every man of honour who serves them with the same
indignity, that I may have less to sigh for when the struggle
approaches!”
“And now, sister,” said the Chieftain, “replace his cockade with one of
a more lively colour. I think it was the fashion of the ladies of yore
to arm and send forth their knights to high achievement.”
“Not,” replied the lady, “till the knight adventurer had well weighed
the justice and the danger of the cause, Fergus. Mr. Waverley is just
now too much agitated by feelings of recent emotion for me to press
upon him a resolution of consequence.”
Waverley felt half alarmed at the thought of adopting the badge of what
was by the majority of the kingdom esteemed rebellion, yet he could not
disguise his chagrin at the coldness with which Flora parried her
brother’s hint. “Miss Mac-Ivor, I perceive, thinks the knight unworthy
of her encouragement and favour,” said he, somewhat bitterly.
“Not so, Mr. Waverley,” she replied, with great sweetness. “Why should
I refuse my brother’s valued friend a boon which I am distributing to
his whole clan? Most willingly would I enlist every man of honour in
the cause to which my brother has devoted himself. But Fergus has taken
his measures with his eyes open. His life has been devoted to this
cause from his cradle; with him its call is sacred, were it even a
summons to the tomb. But how can I wish you, Mr. Waverley, so new to
the world, so far from every friend who might advise and ought to
influence you,—in a moment, too, of sudden pique and indignation,—how
can I wish you to plunge yourself at once into so desperate an
enterprise?”
Fergus, who did not understand these delicacies, strode through the
apartment biting his lip, and then, with a constrained smile, said,
“Well, sister, I leave you to act your new character of mediator
between the Elector of Hanover and the subjects of your lawful
sovereign and benefactor,” and left the room.
There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by Miss Mac-Ivor.
“My brother is unjust,” she said, “because he can bear no interruption
that seems to thwart his loyal zeal.”
“And do you not share his ardour?” asked Waverley,
“Do I not?” answered Flora. “God knows mine exceeds his, if that be
possible. But I am not, like him, rapt by the bustle of military
preparation, and the infinite detail necessary to the present
undertaking, beyond consideration of the grand principles of justice
and truth, on which our enterprise is grounded; and these, I am
certain, can only be furthered by measures in themselves true and just.
To operate upon your present feelings, my dear Mr. Waverley, to induce
you to an irretrievable step, of which you have not considered either
the justice or the danger, is, in my poor judgment, neither the one nor
the other.”
“Incomparable Flora!” said Edward, taking her hand, “how much do I need
such a monitor!”
“A better one by far,” said Flora, gently withdrawing her hand, “Mr.
Waverley will always find in his own bosom, when he will give its small
still voice leisure to be heard.”
“No, Miss Mac-Ivor, I dare not hope it; a thousand circumstances of
fatal self-indulgence have made me the creature rather of imagination
than reason. Durst I but hope—could I but think—that you would deign to
be to me that affectionate, that condescending friend, who would
strengthen me to redeem my errors, my future life—”
“Hush, my dear sir! now you carry your joy at escaping the hands of a
Jacobite recruiting officer to an unparalleled excess of gratitude.”
“Nay, dear Flora, trifle with me no longer; you cannot mistake the
meaning of those feelings which I have almost involuntarily expressed;
and since I have broken the barrier of silence, let me profit by my
audacity. Or may I, with your permission, mention to your brother—”
“Not for the world, Mr. Waverley!”
“What am I to understand?” said Edward. “Is there any fatal bar—has any
prepossession—”
“None, sir,” answered Flora. “I owe it to myself to say that I never
yet saw the person on whom I thought with reference to the present
subject.”
“The shortness of our acquaintance, perhaps—If Miss Mac-Ivor will deign
to give me time—”
“I have not even that excuse. Captain Waverley’s character is so
open—is, in short, of that nature that it cannot be misconstrued,
either in its strength or its weakness.”
“And for that weakness you despise me?” said Edward.
“Forgive me, Mr. Waverley—and remember it is but within this half hour
that there existed between us a barrier of a nature to me
insurmountable, since I never could think of an officer in the service
of the Elector of Hanover in any other light than as a casual
acquaintance. Permit me then to arrange my ideas upon so unexpected a
topic, and in less than an hour I will be ready to give you such
reasons for the resolution I shall express as may be satisfactory at
least, if not pleasing to you.” So saying Flora withdrew, leaving
Waverley to meditate upon the manner in which she had received his
addresses.
Ere he could make up his mind whether to believe his suit had been
acceptable or no, Fergus re-entered the apartment. “What, _à la mort_,
Waverley?” he cried. “Come down with me to the court, and you shall see
a sight worth all the tirades of your romances. An hundred firelocks,
my friend, and as many broadswords, just arrived from good friends; and
two or three hundred stout fellows almost fighting which shall first
possess them. But let me look at you closer. Why, a true Highlander
would say you had been blighted by an evil eye. Or can it be this silly
girl that has thus blanked your spirit. Never mind her, dear Edward;
the wisest of her sex are fools in what regards the business of life.”
“Indeed, my good friend,” answered Waverley, “all that I can charge
against your sister is, that she is too sensible, too reasonable.”
“If that be all, I ensure you for a louis-d’or against the mood lasting
four-and-twenty hours. No woman was ever steadily sensible for that
period; and I will engage, if that will please you, Flora shall be as
unreasonable to-morrow as any of her sex. You must learn, my dear
Edward, to consider women _en mousquetaire_.” So saying, he seized
Waverley’s arm and dragged him off to review his military preparations.
CHAPTER XXVII.
UPON THE SAME SUBJECT
Fergus Mac-Ivor had too much tact and delicacy to renew the subject
which he had interrupted. His head was, or appeared to be, so full of
guns, broadswords, bonnets, canteens, and tartan hose that Waverley
could not for some time draw his attention to any other topic.
“Are you to take the field so soon, Fergus,” he asked, “that you are
making all these martial preparations?”
“When we have settled that you go with me, you shall know all; but
otherwise, the knowledge might rather be prejudicial to you.”
“But are you serious in your purpose, with such inferior forces, to
rise against an established government? It is mere frenzy.”
“_Laissez faire à Don Antoine_,—I shall take good care of myself. We
shall at least use the compliment of Conan, who never got a stroke but
he gave one. I would not, however,” continued the Chieftain, “have you
think me mad enough to stir till a favourable opportunity: I will not
slip my dog before the game’s afoot. But, once more, will you join with
us, and you shall know all?”
“How can I?” said Waverley; “I, who have so lately held that commission
which is now posting back to those that gave it? My accepting it
implied a promise of fidelity, and an acknowledgment of the legality of
the government.”
“A rash promise,” answered Fergus, “is not a steel handcuff, it may be
shaken off, especially when it was given under deception, and has been
repaid by insult. But if you cannot immediately make up your mind to a
glorious revenge, go to England, and ere you cross the Tweed you will
hear tidings that will make the world ring; and if Sir Everard be the
gallant old cavalier I have heard him described by some of our _honest_
gentlemen of the year one thousand seven hundred and fifteen, he will
find you a better horse-troop and a better cause than you have lost.”
“But your sister, Fergus?”
“Out, hyperbolical fiend!” replied the Chief, laughing; “how vexest
thou this man! Speak’st thou of nothing but of ladies?”
“Nay, be serious, my dear friend,” said Waverley; “I feel that the
happiness of my future life must depend upon the answer which Miss
Mac-Ivor shall make to what I ventured to tell her this morning.”
“And is this your very sober earnest,” said Fergus, more gravely, “or
are we in the land of romance and fiction?”
“My earnest, undoubtedly. How could you suppose me jesting on such a
subject?”
“Then, in very sober earnest,” answered his friend, “I am very glad to
hear it; and so highly do I think of Flora, that you are the only man
in England for whom I would say so much. But before you shake my hand
so warmly, there is more to be considered. Your own family—will they
approve your connecting yourself with the sister of a high-born
Highland beggar?”
“My uncle’s situation,” said Waverley, “his general opinions, and his
uniform indulgence, entitle me to say, that birth and personal
qualities are all he would look to in such a connection. And where can
I find both united in such excellence as in your sister?”
“Oh, nowhere! _cela va sans dire_,” replied Fergus, with a smile. “But
your father will expect a father’s prerogative in being consulted.”
“Surely; but his late breach with the ruling powers removes all
apprehension of objection on his part, especially as I am convinced
that my uncle will be warm in my cause.”
“Religion perhaps,” said Fergus, “may make obstacles, though we are not
bigotted Catholics.”
“My grandmother was of the Church of Rome, and her religion was never
objected to by my family. Do not think of _my_ friends, dear Fergus;
let me rather have your influence where it may be more necessary to
remove obstacles—I mean with your lovely sister.”
“My lovely sister,” replied Fergus, “like her loving brother, is very
apt to have a pretty decisive will of her own, by which, in this case,
you must be ruled; but you shall not want my interest, nor my counsel.
And, in the first place, I will give you one hint—Loyalty is her ruling
passion; and since she could spell an English book she has been in love
with the memory of the gallant Captain Wogan, who renounced the service
of the usurper Cromwell to join the standard of Charles II, marched a
handful of cavalry from London to the Highlands to join Middleton, then
in arms for the king, and at length died gloriously in the royal cause.
Ask her to show you some verses she made on his history and fate; they
have been much admired, I assure you. The next point is—I think I saw
Flora go up towards the waterfall a short time since; follow, man,
follow! don’t allow the garrison time to strengthen its purposes of
resistance. _Alerte à la muraille!_ Seek Flora out, and learn her
decision as soon as you can, and Cupid go with you, while I go to look
over belts and cartouch-boxes.”
Waverley ascended the glen with an anxious and throbbing heart. Love,
with all its romantic train of hopes, fears, and wishes, was mingled
with other feelings of a nature less easily defined. He could not but
remember how much this morning had changed his fate, and into what a
complication of perplexity it was likely to plunge him. Sunrise had
seen him possessed of an esteemed rank in the honourable profession of
arms, his father to all appearance rapidly rising in the favour of his
sovereign. All this had passed away like a dream: he himself was
dishonoured, his father disgraced, and he had become involuntarily the
confidant at least, if not the accomplice, of plans, dark, deep, and
dangerous, which must infer either the subversion of the government he
had so lately served or the destruction of all who had participated in
them. Should Flora even listen to his suit favourably, what prospect
was there of its being brought to a happy termination amid the tumult
of an impending insurrection? Or how could he make the selfish request
that she should leave Fergus, to whom she was so much attached, and,
retiring with him to England, wait, as a distant spectator, the success
of her brother’s undertaking, or the ruin of all his hopes and
fortunes? Or, on the other hand, to engage himself, with no other aid
than his single arm, in the dangerous and precipitate counsels of the
Chieftain, to be whirled along by him, the partaker of all his
desperate and impetuous motions, renouncing almost the power of
judging, or deciding upon the rectitude or prudence of his actions,
this was no pleasing prospect for the secret pride of Waverley to stoop
to. And yet what other conclusion remained, saving the rejection of his
addresses by Flora, an alternative not to be thought of in the present
high-wrought state of his feelings with anything short of mental agony.
Pondering the doubtful and dangerous prospect before him, he at length
arrived near the cascade, where, as Fergus had augured, he found Flora
seated.
She was quite alone, and as soon as she observed his approach she rose
and came to meet him. Edward attempted to say something within the
verge of ordinary compliment and conversation, but found himself
unequal to the task. Flora seemed at first equally embarrassed, but
recovered herself more speedily, and (an unfavourable augury for
Waverley’s suit) was the first to enter upon the subject of their last
interview. “It is too important, in every point of view, Mr. Waverley,
to permit me to leave you in doubt on my sentiments.”
“Do not speak them speedily,” said Waverley, much agitated, “unless
they are such as I fear, from your manner, I must not dare to
anticipate. Let time—let my future conduct—let your brother’s
influence—”
“Forgive me, Mr. Waverley,” said Flora, her complexion a little
heightened, but her voice firm and composed. “I should incur my own
heavy censure did I delay expressing my sincere conviction that I can
never regard you otherwise than as a valued friend. I should do you the
highest injustice did I conceal my sentiments for a moment. I see I
distress you, and I grieve for it, but better now than later; and O,
better a thousand times, Mr. Waverley, that you should feel a present
momentary disappointment than the long and heart-sickening griefs which
attend a rash and ill-assorted marriage!”
“Good God!” exclaimed Waverley, “why should you anticipate such
consequences from a union where birth is equal, where fortune is
favourable, where, if I may venture to say so, the tastes are similar,
where you allege no preference for another, where you even express a
favourable opinion of him whom you reject?”
“Mr. Waverley, I _have_ that favourable opinion,” answered Flora; “and
so strongly that, though I would rather have been silent on the grounds
of my resolution, you shall command them, if you exact such a mark of
my esteem and confidence.”
She sat down upon a fragment of rock, and Waverley, placing himself
near her, anxiously pressed for the explanation she offered.
“I dare hardly,” she said, “tell you the situation of my feelings, they
are so different from those usually ascribed to young women at my
period of life; and I dare hardly touch upon what I conjecture to be
the nature of yours, lest I should give offence where I would willingly
administer consolation. For myself, from my infancy till this day I
have had but one wish—the restoration of my royal benefactors to their
rightful throne. It is impossible to express to you the devotion of my
feelings to this single subject; and I will frankly confess that it has
so occupied my mind as to exclude every thought respecting what is
called my own settlement in life. Let me but live to see the day of
that happy restoration, and a Highland cottage, a French convent, or an
English palace will be alike indifferent to me.”
“But, dearest Flora, how is your enthusiastic zeal for the exiled
family inconsistent with my happiness?”
“Because you seek, or ought to seek, in the object of your attachment a
heart whose principal delight should be in augmenting your domestic
felicity and returning your affection, even to the height of romance.
To a man of less keen sensibility, and less enthusiastic tenderness of
disposition, Flora Mac-Ivor might give content, if not happiness; for,
were the irrevocable words spoken, never would she be deficient in the
duties which she vowed.”
“And why,—why, Miss Mac-Ivor, should you think yourself a more valuable
treasure to one who is less capable of loving, of admiring you, than to
me?”
“Simply because the tone of our affections would be more in unison, and
because his more blunted sensibility would not require the return of
enthusiasm which I have not to bestow. But you, Mr. Waverley, would for
ever refer to the idea of domestic happiness which your imagination is
capable of painting, and whatever fell short of that ideal
representation would be construed into coolness and indifference, while
you might consider the enthusiasm with which I regarded the success of
the royal family as defrauding your affection of its due return.”
“In other words, Miss Mac-Ivor, you cannot love me?” said her suitor
dejectedly.
“I could esteem you, Mr. Waverley, as much, perhaps more, than any man
I have ever seen; but I cannot love you as you ought to be loved. O! do
not, for your own sake, desire so hazardous an experiment! The woman
whom you marry ought to have affections and opinions moulded upon
yours. Her studies ought to be your studies; her wishes, her feelings,
her hopes, her fears, should all mingle with yours. She should enhance
your pleasures, share your sorrows, and cheer your melancholy.”
“And why will not you, Miss Mac-Ivor, who can so well describe a happy
union, why will not you be yourself the person you describe?”
“Is it possible you do not yet comprehend me?” answered Flora. “Have I
not told you that every keener sensation of my mind is bent exclusively
towards an event upon which, indeed, I have no power but those of my
earnest prayers?”
“And might not the granting the suit I solicit,” said Waverley, too
earnest on his purpose to consider what he was about to say, “even
advance the interest to which you have devoted yourself? My family is
wealthy and powerful, inclined in principles to the Stuart race, and
should a favourable opportunity—”
“A favourable opportunity!” said Flora—somewhat scornfully. “Inclined
in principles! Can such lukewarm adherence be honourable to yourselves,
or gratifying to your lawful sovereign? Think, from my present
feelings, what I should suffer when I held the place of member in a
family where the rights which I hold most sacred are subjected to cold
discussion, and only deemed worthy of support when they shall appear on
the point of triumphing without it!”
“Your doubts,” quickly replied Waverley, “are unjust as far as concerns
myself. The cause that I shall assert, I dare support through every
danger, as undauntedly as the boldest who draws sword in its behalf.”
“Of that,” answered Flora, “I cannot doubt for a moment. But consult
your own good sense and reason rather than a prepossession hastily
adopted, probably only because you have met a young woman possessed of
the usual accomplishments in a sequestered and romantic situation. Let
your part in this great and perilous drama rest upon conviction, and
not on a hurried and probably a temporary feeling.”
Waverley attempted to reply, but his words failed him. Every sentiment
that Flora had uttered vindicated the strength of his attachment; for
even her loyalty, although wildly enthusiastic, was generous and noble,
and disdained to avail itself of any indirect means of supporting the
cause to which she was devoted.
After walking a little way in silence down the path, Flora thus resumed
the conversation.—“One word more, Mr. Waverley, ere we bid farewell to
this topic for ever; and forgive my boldness if that word have the air
of advice. My brother Fergus is anxious that you should join him in his
present enterprise. But do not consent to this; you could not, by your
single exertions, further his success, and you would inevitably share
his fall, if it be God’s pleasure that fall he must. Your character
would also suffer irretrievably. Let me beg you will return to your own
country; and, having publicly freed yourself from every tie to the
usurping government, I trust you will see cause, and find opportunity,
to serve your injured sovereign with effect, and stand forth, as your
loyal ancestors, at the head of your natural followers and adherents, a
worthy representative of the house of Waverley.”
“And should I be so happy as thus to distinguish myself, might I not
hope—”
“Forgive my interruption,” said Flora. “The present time only is ours,
and I can but explain to you with candour the feelings which I now
entertain; how they might be altered by a train of events too
favourable perhaps to be hoped for, it were in vain even to conjecture.
Only be assured, Mr. Waverley, that, after my brother’s honour and
happiness, there is none which I shall more sincerely pray for than for
yours.”
With these words she parted from him, for they were now arrived where
two paths separated. Waverley reached the castle amidst a medley of
conflicting passions. He avoided any private interview with Fergus, as
he did not find himself able either to encounter his raillery or reply
to his solicitations. The wild revelry of the feast, for Mac-Ivor kept
open table for his clan, served in some degree to stun reflection. When
their festivity was ended, he began to consider how he should again
meet Miss Mac-Ivor after the painful and interesting explanation of the
morning. But Flora did not appear. Fergus, whose eyes flashed when he
was told by Cathleen that her mistress designed to keep her apartment
that evening, went himself in quest of her; but apparently his
remonstrances were in vain, for he returned with a heightened
complexion and manifest symptoms of displeasure. The rest of the
evening passed on without any allusion, on the part either of Fergus or
Waverley, to the subject which engrossed the reflections of the latter,
and perhaps of both.
When retired to his own apartment, Edward endeavoured to sum up the
business of the day. That the repulse he had received from Flora would
be persisted in for the present, there was no doubt. But could he hope
for ultimate success in case circumstances permitted the renewal of his
suit? Would the enthusiastic loyalty, which at this animating moment
left no room for a softer passion, survive, at least in its engrossing
force, the success or the failure of the present political
machinations? And if so, could he hope that the interest which she had
acknowledged him to possess in her favour might be improved into a
warmer attachment? He taxed his memory to recall every word she had
used, with the appropriate looks and gestures which had enforced them,
and ended by finding himself in the same state of uncertainty. It was
very late before sleep brought relief to the tumult of his mind, after
the most painful and agitating day which he had ever passed.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A LETTER FROM TULLY-VEOLAN
In the morning, when Waverley’s troubled reflections had for some time
given way to repose, there came music to his dreams, but not the voice
of Selma. He imagined himself transported back to Tully-Veolan, and
that he heard Davie Gellatley singing in the court those matins which
used generally to be the first sounds that disturbed his repose while a
guest of the Baron of Bradwardine. The notes which suggested this
vision continued, and waxed louder, until Edward awoke in earnest. The
illusion, however, did not seem entirely dispelled. The apartment was
in the fortress of Ian nan Chaistel, but it was still the voice of
Davie Gellatley that made the following lines resound under the
window:—
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.[*]
[* These lines form the burden of an old song to which Burns wrote
additional verses.]
Curious to know what could have determined Mr. Gellatley on an
excursion of such unwonted extent, Edward began to dress himself in all
haste, during which operation the minstrelsy of Davie changed its tune
more than once:—
There’s nought in the Highlands but syboes and leeks,
And lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks,
Wanting the breeks, and without hose and shoon,
But we’ll a’win the breeks when King Jamie comes hame.[*]
[* These lines are also ancient, and I believe to the tune of “We’ll
never hae peace till Jamie comes hame,” to which Burns likewise wrote
some verses.]
By the time Waverley was dressed and had issued forth, David had
associated himself with two or three of the numerous Highland loungers
who always graced the gates of the castle with their presence, and was
capering and dancing full merrily in the doubles and full career of a
Scotch foursome reel, to the music of his own whistling. In this double
capacity of dancer and musician he continued, until an idle piper, who
observed his zeal, obeyed the unanimous call of“seid suas” (that is
blow up), and relieved him from the latter part of his trouble. Young
and old then mingled in the dance as they could find partners. The
appearance of Waverley did not interrupt David’s exercise, though he
contrived, by grinning, nodding, and throwing one or two inclinations
of the body into the graces with which he performed the Highland fling,
to convey to our hero symptoms of recognition. Then, while busily
employed in setting, whooping all the while, and snapping his fingers
over his head, he of a sudden prolonged his side-step until it brought
him to the place where Edward was standing, and, still keeping time to
the music like Harlequin in a pantomime, he thrust a letter into our
hero’s hand, and continued his saltation without pause or intermission.
Edward, who perceived that the address was in Rose’s hand-writing,
retired to peruse it, leaving the faithful bearer to continue his
exercise until the piper or he should be tired out.
The contents of the letter greatly surprised him. It had originally
commenced with “Dear Sir”; but these words had been carefully erased,
and the monosyllable “Sir” substituted in their place. The rest of the
contents shall be given in Rose’s own language.
I fear I am using an improper freedom by intruding upon you, yet I
cannot trust to any one else to let you know some things which have
happened here, with which it seems necessary you should be acquainted.
Forgive me, if I am wrong in what I am doing; for, alas! Mr. Waverley,
I have no better advice than that of my own feelings; my dear father is
gone from this place, and when he can return to my assistance and
protection, God alone knows. You have probably heard that, in
consequence of some troublesome news from the Highlands, warrants were
sent out for apprehending several gentlemen in these parts, and, among
others, my dear father. In spite of all my tears and entreaties that he
would surrender himself to the government, he joined with Mr. Falconer
and some other gentlemen, and they have all gone northwards, with a
body of about forty horsemen. So I am not so anxious concerning his
immediate safety as about what may follow afterwards, for these
troubles are only beginning. But all this is nothing to you, Mr.
Waverley, only I thought you would be glad to learn that my father has
escaped, in case you happen to have heard that he was in danger.
The day after my father went off there came a party of soldiers to
Tully-Veolan, and behaved very rudely to Bailie Macwheeble; but the
officer was very civil to me, only said his duty obliged him to
search for arms and papers. My father had provided against this by
taking away all the arms except the old useless things which hung
in the hall, and he had put all his papers out of the way. But O!
Mr. Waverley, how shall I tell you, that they made strict inquiry
after you, and asked when you had been at Tully-Veolan, and where
you now were. The officer is gone back with his party, but a
non-commissioned officer and four men remain as a sort of garrison
in the house. They have hitherto behaved very well, as we are
forced to keep them in good-humour. But these soldiers have hinted
as if, on your falling into their hands, you would be in great
danger; I cannot prevail on myself to write what wicked falsehoods
they said, for I am sure they are falsehoods; but you will best
judge what you ought to do. The party that returned carried off
your servant prisoner, with your two horses, and everything that
you left at Tully-Veolan. I hope God will protect you, and that you
will get safe home to England, where you used to tell me there was
no military violence nor fighting among clans permitted, but
everything was done according to an equal law that protected all
who were harmless and innocent. I hope you will exert your
indulgence as to my boldness in writing to you, where it seems to
me, though perhaps erroneously, that your safety and honour are
concerned. I am sure—at least I think, my father would approve of
my writing; for Mr. Rubrick is fled to his cousin’s at the Duchran,
to be out of danger from the soldiers and the Whigs, and Bailie
Macwheeble does not like to meddle (he says) in other men’s
concerns, though I hope what may serve my father’s friend at such a
time as this cannot be termed improper interference. Farewell,
Captain Waverley! I shall probably never see you more; for it would
be very improper to wish you to call at Tully-Veolan just now, even
if these men were gone; but I will always remember with gratitude
your kindness in assisting so poor a scholar as myself, and your
attentions to my dear, dear father.
I remain, your obliged servant,
ROSE COMYNE BRADWARDINE.
P.S.—I hope you will send me a line by David Gellatley, just to say you
have received this and that you will take care of yourself; and forgive
me if I entreat you, for your own sake, to join none of these unhappy
cabals, but escape, as fast as possible, to your own fortunate country.
My compliments to my dear Flora and to Glennaquoich. Is she not as
handsome and accomplished as I have described her?
Thus concluded the letter of Rose Bradwardine, the contents of which
both surprised and affected Waverley. That the Baron should fall under
the suspicions of government, in consequence of the present stir among
the partisans of the house of Stuart, seemed only the natural
consequence of his political predilections; but how _he_ himself should
have been involved in such suspicions, conscious that until yesterday
he had been free from harbouring a thought against the prosperity of
the reigning family, seemed inexplicable. Both at Tully-Veolan and
Glennaquoich his hosts had respected his engagements with the existing
government, and though enough passed by accidental innuendo that might
induce him to reckon the Baron and the Chief among those disaffected
gentlemen who were still numerous in Scotland, yet until his own
connection with the army had been broken off by the resumption of his
commission, he had no reason to suppose that they nourished any
immediate or hostile attempts against the present establishment. Still
he was aware that, unless he meant at once to embrace the proposal of
Fergus Mac-Ivor, it would deeply concern him to leave the suspicious
neighbourhood without delay, and repair where his conduct might undergo
a satisfactory examination. Upon this he the rather determined, as
Flora’s advice favoured his doing so, and because he felt inexpressible
repugnance at the idea of being accessary to the plague of civil war.
Whatever were the original rights of the Stuarts, calm reflection told
him that, omitting the question how far James the Second could forfeit
those of his posterity, he had, according to the united voice of the
whole nation, justly forfeited his own. Since that period four monarchs
had reigned in peace and glory over Britain, sustaining and exalting
the character of the nation abroad and its liberties at home. Reason
asked, was it worth while to disturb a government so long settled and
established, and to plunge a kingdom into all the miseries of civil
war, for the purpose of replacing upon the throne the descendants of a
monarch by whom it had been wilfully forfeited? If, on the other hand,
his own final conviction of the goodness of their cause, or the
commands of his father or uncle, should recommend to him allegiance to
the Stuarts, still it was necessary to clear his own character by
showing that he had not, as seemed to be falsely insinuated, taken any
step to this purpose during his holding the commission of the reigning
monarch.
The affectionate simplicity of Rose and her anxiety for his safety, his
sense too of her unprotected state, and of the terror and actual
dangers to which she might be exposed, made an impression upon his
mind, and he instantly wrote to thank her in the kindest terms for her
solicitude on his account, to express his earnest good wishes for her
welfare and that of her father, and to assure her of his own safety.
The feelings which this task excited were speedily lost in the
necessity which he now saw of bidding farewell to Flora Mac-Ivor,
perhaps for ever. The pang attending this reflection was inexpressible;
for her high-minded elevation of character, her self-devotion to the
cause which she had embraced, united to her scrupulous rectitude as to
the means of serving it, had vindicated to his judgment the choice
adopted by his passions. But time pressed, calumny was busy with his
fame, and every hour’s delay increased the power to injure it. His
departure must be instant.
With this determination he sought out Fergus, and communicated to him
the contents of Rose’s letter, with his own resolution instantly to go
to Edinburgh, and put into the hands of some one or other of those
persons of influence to whom he had letters from his father his
exculpation from any charge which might be preferred against him.
“You run your head into the lion’s mouth,” answered Mac-Ivor. “You do
not know the severity of a government harassed by just apprehensions,
and a consciousness of their own illegality and insecurity. I shall
have to deliver you from some dungeon in Stirling or Edinburgh Castle.”
“My innocence, my rank, my father’s intimacy with Lord M——, General
G——, etc., will be a sufficient protection,” said Waverley.
“You will find the contrary,” replied the Chieftain, “these gentlemen
will have enough to do about their own matters. Once more, will you
take the plaid, and stay a little while with us among the mists and the
crows, in the bravest cause ever sword was drawn in?”[*]
[* A Highland rhyme on Glencairn’s Expedition, in 1650, has these
lines—
We’ll bide a while amang ta crows,
We’ll wiske ta sword and bend ta bows]
“For many reasons, my dear Fergus, you must hold me excused.”
“Well then,” said Mac-Ivor, “I shall certainly find you exerting your
poetical talents in elegies upon a prison, or your antiquarian
researches in detecting the Oggam[*] character or some Punic
hieroglyphic upon the keystones of a vault, curiously arched. Or what
say you to _un petit pendement bien joli?_ against which awkward
ceremony I don’t warrant you, should you meet a body of the armed
West-Country Whigs.”
[* The Oggam is a species of the old Irish character. The idea of the
correspondence betwixt the Celtic and Punic, founded on a scene in
Plautus, was not started till General Vallancey set up his theory, long
after the date of Fergus Mac-Ivor]
“And why should they use me so?” said Waverley.
“For a hundred good reasons,” answered Fergus. “First, you are an
Englishman; secondly, a gentleman; thirdly, a prelatist abjured; and,
fourthly, they have not had an opportunity to exercise their talents on
such a subject this long while. But don’t be cast down, beloved; all
will be done in the fear of the Lord.”
“Well, I must run my hazard.”
“You are determined, then?”
“I am.”
“Wilful will do’t” said Fergus. “But you cannot go on foot, and I shall
want no horse, as I must march on foot at the head of the children of
Ivor; you shall have brown Dermid.”
“If you will sell him, I shall certainly be much obliged.”
“If your proud English heart cannot be obliged by a gift or loan, I
will not refuse money at the entrance of a campaign: his price is
twenty guineas. [Remember, reader, it was Sixty Years Since.] And when
do you propose to depart?”
“The sooner the better,” answered Waverley.
“You are right, since go you must, or rather, since go you will. I will
take Flora’s pony and ride with you as far as Bally-Brough. Callum Beg,
see that our horses are ready, with a pony for yourself, to attend and
carry Mr. Waverley’s baggage as far as —— (naming a small town), where
he can have a horse and guide to Edinburgh. Put on a Lowland dress,
Callum, and see you keep your tongue close, if you would not have me
cut it out. Mr. Waverley rides Dermid.” Then turning to Edward, “You
will take leave of my sister?”
“Surely—that is, if Miss Mac-Ivor will honour me so far.”
“Cathleen, let my sister know Mr. Waverley wishes to bid her farewell
before he leaves us. But Rose Bradwardine, her situation must be
thought of; I wish she were here. And why should she not? There are but
four red-coats at Tully-Veolan, and their muskets would be very useful
to us.”
To these broken remarks Edward made no answer; his ear indeed received
them, but his soul was intent upon the expected entrance of Flora. The
door opened. It was but Cathleen, with her lady’s excuse, and wishes
for Captain Waverley’s health and happiness.
CHAPTER XXIX.
WAVERLEY’S RECEPTION IN THE LOWLANDS AFTER HIS HIGHLAND TOUR
It was noon when the two friends stood at the top of the pass of
Bally-Brough. “I must go no farther,” said Fergus Mac-Ivor, who during
the journey had in vain endeavoured to raise his friend’s spirits. “If
my cross-grained sister has any share in your dejection, trust me she
thinks highly of you, though her present anxiety about the public cause
prevents her listening to any other subject. Confide your interest to
me; I will not betray it, providing you do not again assume that vile
cockade.”
“No fear of that, considering the manner in which it has been recalled.
Adieu, Fergus; do not permit your sister to forget me.”
“And adieu, Waverley; you may soon hear of her with a prouder title.
Get home, write letters, and make friends as many and as fast as you
can; there will speedily be unexpected guests on the coast of Suffolk,
or my news from France has deceived me.”[*]
[* The sanguine Jacobites, during the eventful years 1745–46, kept up
the spirits of their party by the rumour of descents from France on
behalf of the Chevalier St. George.]
Thus parted the friends; Fergus returning back to his castle, while
Edward, followed by Callum Beg, the latter transformed from point to
point into a Low-Country groom, proceeded to the little town of ——.
Edward paced on under the painful and yet not altogether embittered
feelings which separation and uncertainty produce in the mind of a
youthful lover. I am not sure if the ladies understand the full value
of the influence of absence, nor do I think it wise to teach it them,
lest, like the Clelias and Mandanes of yore, they should resume the
humour of sending their lovers into banishment. Distance, in truth,
produces in idea the same effect as in real perspective. Objects are
softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and
more ordinary points of character are mellowed down, and those by which
it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity,
grace, or beauty. There are mists too in the mental as well as the
natural horizon, to conceal what is less pleasing in distant objects,
and there are happy lights, to stream in full glory upon those points
which can profit by brilliant illumination.
Waverley forgot Flora Mac-Ivor’s prejudices in her magnanimity, and
almost pardoned her indifference towards his affection when he
recollected the grand and decisive object which seemed to fill her
whole soul. She, whose sense of duty so wholly engrossed her in the
cause of a benefactor, what would be her feelings in favour of the
happy individual who should be so fortunate as to awaken them? Then
came the doubtful question, whether he might not be that happy man,—a
question which fancy endeavoured to answer in the affirmative, by
conjuring up all she had said in his praise, with the addition of a
comment much more flattering than the text warranted. All that was
commonplace, all that belonged to the every-day world, was melted away
and obliterated in those dreams of imagination, which only remembered
with advantage the points of grace and dignity that distinguished Flora
from the generality of her sex, not the particulars which she held in
common with them. Edward was, in short, in the fair way of creating a
goddess out of a high-spirited, accomplished, and beautiful young
woman; and the time was wasted in castle-building until, at the descent
of a steep hill, he saw beneath him the market-town of ——.
The Highland politeness of Callum Beg—there are few nations, by the
way, who can boast of so much natural politeness as the
Highlanders[*]—the Highland civility of his attendant had not permitted
him to disturb the reveries of our hero. But observing him rouse
himself at the sight of the village, Callum pressed closer to his side,
and hoped “when they cam to the public, his honour wad not say nothing
about Vich Ian Vohr, for ta people were bitter Whigs, deil burst tem.”
[* The Highlander, in former times, had always a high idea of his own
gentility, and was anxious to impress the same upon those with whom he
conversed. His language abounded in the phrases of courtesy and
compliment; and the habit of carrying arms, and mixing with those who
did so, made it particularly desirable they should use cautious
politeness in their intercourse with each other.]
Waverley assured the prudent page that he would be cautious; and as he
now distinguished, not indeed the ringing of bells, but the tinkling of
something like a hammer against the side of an old mossy, green,
inverted porridge-pot that hung in an open booth, of the size and shape
of a parrot’s cage, erected to grace the east end of a building
resembling an old barn, he asked Callum Beg if it were Sunday.
“Could na say just preceesely; Sunday seldom cam aboon the pass of
Bally-Brough.”
On entering the town, however, and advancing towards the most apparent
public-house which presented itself, the numbers of old women, in
tartan screens and red cloaks, who streamed from the barn-resembling
building, debating as they went the comparative merits of the blessed
youth Jabesh Rentowel and that chosen vessel Maister Goukthrapple,
induced Callum to assure his temporary master “that it was either ta
muckle Sunday hersell, or ta little government Sunday that they ca’d ta
fast.”
On alighting at the sign of the Seven-branched Golden Candlestick,
which, for the further delectation of the guests, was graced with a
short Hebrew motto, they were received by mine host, a tall thin
puritanical figure, who seemed to debate with himself whether he ought
to give shelter to those who travelled on such a day. Reflecting,
however, in all probability, that he possessed the power of mulcting
them for this irregularity, a penalty which they might escape by
passing into Gregor Duncanson’s, at the sign of the Highlander and the
Hawick Gill, Mr. Ebenezer Cruickshanks condescended to admit them into
his dwelling.
To this sanctified person Waverley addressed his request that he would
procure him a guide, with a saddle-horse, to carry his portmanteau to
Edinburgh.
“And whar may ye be coming from?” demanded mine host of the
Candlestick.
“I have told you where I wish to go; I do not conceive any further
information necessary either for the guide or his saddle-horse.”
“Hem! Ahem!” returned he of the Candlestick, somewhat disconcerted at
this rebuff. “It’s the general fast, sir, and I cannot enter into ony
carnal transactions on sic a day, when the people should be humbled and
the backsliders should return, as worthy Mr. Goukthrapple said; and
moreover when, as the precious Mr. Jabesh Rentowel did weel observe,
the land was mourning for covenants burnt, broken, and buried.”
“My good friend,” said Waverley, “if you cannot let me have a horse and
guide, my servant shall seek them elsewhere.”
“Aweel! Your servant? and what for gangs he not forward wi’ you
himsell?”
Waverley had but very little of a captain of horse’s spirit within
him—I mean of that sort of spirit which I have been obliged to when I
happened, in a mail coach or diligence, to meet some military man who
has kindly taken upon him the disciplining of the waiters and the
taxing of reckonings. Some of this useful talent our hero had, however,
acquired during his military service, and on this gross provocation it
began seriously to arise. “Look ye, sir; I came here for my own
accommodation, and not to answer impertinent questions. Either say you
can, or cannot, get me what I want; I shall pursue my course in either
case.”
Mr. Ebenezer Cruickshanks left the room with some indistinct
mutterings; but whether negative or acquiescent, Edward could not well
distinguish. The hostess, a civil, quiet, laborious drudge, came to
take his orders for dinner, but declined to make answer on the subject
of the horse and guide; for the Salique law, it seems, extended to the
stables of the Golden Candlestick.
From a window which overlooked the dark and narrow court in which
Callum Beg rubbed down the horses after their journey, Waverley heard
the following dialogue betwixt the subtle foot-page of Vich Ian Vohr
and his landlord:—
“Ye’ll be frae the north, young man?” began the latter.
“And ye may say that,” answered Callum.
“And ye’ll hae ridden a lang way the day, it may weel be?”
“Sae lang, that I could weel tak a dram.”
“Gudewife, bring the gill stoup.”
Here some compliments passed fitting the occasion, when my host of the
Golden Candlestick, having, as he thought, opened his guest’s heart by
this hospitable propitiation, resumed his scrutiny.
“Ye’ll no hae mickle better whisky than that aboon the Pass?”
“I am nae frae aboon the Pass.”
“Ye’re a Highlandman by your tongue?”
“Na; I am but just Aberdeen-a-way.”
“And did your master come frae Aberdeen wi’ you?”
“Ay; that’s when I left it mysell,” answered the cool and impenetrable
Callum Beg.
“And what kind of a gentleman is he?”
“I believe he is ane o’ King George’s state officers; at least he’s aye
for ganging on to the south, and he has a hantle siller, and never
grudges onything till a poor body, or in the way of a lawing.”
“He wants a guide and a horse frae hence to Edinburgh?”
“Ay, and ye maun find it him forthwith.”
“Ahem! It will be chargeable.”
“He cares na for that a bodle.”
“Aweel, Duncan—did ye say your name was Duncan, or Donald?”
“Na, man—Jamie—Jamie Steenson—I telt ye before.”
This last undaunted parry altogether foiled Mr. Cruickshanks, who,
though not quite satisfied either with the reserve of the master or the
extreme readiness of the man, was contented to lay a tax on the
reckoning and horse-hire that might compound for his ungratified
curiosity. The circumstance of its being the fast day was not forgotten
in the charge, which, on the whole, did not, however, amount to much
more than double what in fairness it should have been.
Callum Beg soon after announced in person the ratification of this
treaty, adding, “Ta auld deevil was ganging to ride wi’ ta
_duinhé-wassel_ hersell.”
“That will not be very pleasant, Callum, nor altogether safe, for our
host seems a person of great curiosity; but a traveller must submit to
these inconveniences. Meanwhile, my good lad, here is a trifle for you
to drink Vich Ian Vohr’s health.”
The hawk’s eye of Callum flashed delight upon a golden guinea, with
which these last words were accompanied. He hastened, not without a
curse on the intricacies of a Saxon breeches pocket, or “spleuchan,” as
he called it, to deposit the treasure in his fob; and then, as if he
conceived the benevolence called for some requital on his part, he
gathered close up to Edward, with an expression of countenance
peculiarly knowing, and spoke in an undertone, “If his honour thought
ta auld deevil Whig carle was a bit dangerous, she could easily provide
for him, and teil ane ta wiser.”
“How, and in what manner?”
“Her ain sell,” replied Callum, “could wait for him a wee bit frae the
toun, and kittle his quarters wi’her _skene-occle_.”
“‘Skene-occle!’ what’s that?”
Callum unbuttoned his coat, raised his left arm, and, with an emphatic
nod, pointed to the hilt of a small dirk, snugly deposited under it, in
the lining of his jacket. Waverley thought he had misunderstood his
meaning; he gazed in his face, and discovered in Callum’s very handsome
though embrowned features just the degree of roguish malice with which
a lad of the same age in England would have brought forward a plan for
robbing an orchard.
“Good God, Callum, would you take the man’s life?”
“Indeed,” answered the young desperado, “and I think he has had just a
lang enough lease o ’t, when he’s for betraying honest folk that come
to spend siller at his public.”
Edward saw nothing was to be gained by argument, and therefore
contented himself with enjoining Callum to lay aside all practices
against the person of Mr. Ebenezer Cruickshanks; in which injunction
the page seemed to acquiesce with an air of great indifference.
“Ta _duinhé-wassel_ might please himsell; ta auld rudas loon had never
done Callum nae ill. But here’s a bit line frae ta Tighearna, tat he
bade me gie your honour ere I came back.”
The letter from the Chief contained Flora’s lines on the fate of
Captain Wogan, whose enterprising character is so well drawn by
Clarendon. He had originally engaged in the service of the Parliament,
but had abjured that party upon the execution of Charles I; and upon
hearing that the royal standard was set up by the Earl of Glencairn and
General Middleton in the Highlands of Scotland, took leave of Charles
II, who was then at Paris, passed into England, assembled a body of
Cavaliers in the neighbourhood of London, and traversed the kingdom,
which had been so long under domination of the usurper, by marches
conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit that he safely united
his handful of horsemen with the body of Highlanders then in arms.
After several months of desultory warfare, in which Wogan’s skill and
courage gained him the highest reputation, he had the misfortune to be
wounded in a dangerous manner, and no surgical assistance being within
reach he terminated his short but glorious career.
There were obvious reasons why the politic Chieftain was desirous to
place the example of this young hero under the eye of Waverley, with
whose romantic disposition it coincided so peculiarly. But his letter
turned chiefly upon some trifling commissions which Waverley had
promised to execute for him in England, and it was only toward the
conclusion that Edward found these words: “I owe Flora a grudge for
refusing us her company yesterday; and, as I am giving you the trouble
of reading these lines, in order to keep in your memory your promise to
procure me the fishing-tackle and cross-bow from London, I will enclose
her verses on the Grave of Wogan. This I know will tease her; for, to
tell you the truth, I think her more in love with the memory of that
dead hero than she is likely to be with any living one, unless he shall
tread a similar path. But English squires of our day keep their
oak-trees to shelter their deer parks, or repair the losses of an
evening at White’s, and neither invoke them to wreathe their brows nor
shelter their graves. Let me hope for one brilliant exception in a dear
friend, to whom I would most gladly give a dearer title.”
The verses were inscribed,
TO AN OAK TREE
_In the Churchyard of ——, in the Highlands of Scotland, said to mark
the Grave of Captain Wogan, killed in_ 1649.
Emblem of England’s ancient faith,
Full proudly may thy branches wave,
Where loyalty lies low in death,
And valour fills a timeless grave.
And thou, brave tenant of the tomb!
Repine not if our clime deny,
Above thine honour’d sod to bloom
The flowerets of a milder sky.
These owe their birth to genial May;
Beneath a fiercer sun they pine,
Before the winter storm decay;
And can their worth be type of thine?
No! for, ’mid storms of Fate opposing,
Still higher swell’d thy dauntless heart,
And, while Despair the scene was closing,
Commenced thy brief but brilliant part.
’T was then thou sought’st on Albyn’s hill,
(When England’s sons the strife resign’d)
A rugged race resisting still,
And unsubdued though unrefined.
Thy death’s hour heard no kindred wail,
No holy knell thy requiem rung;
Thy mourners were the plaided Gael,
Thy dirge the clamourous pibroch sung.
Yet who, in Fortune’s summer-shine
To waste life’s longest term away,
Would change that glorious dawn of thine,
Though darken’d ere its noontide day!
Be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs
Brave summer’s drought and winter’s gloom.
Rome bound with oak her patriots’ brows,
As Albyn shadows Wogan’s tomb.
Whatever might be the real merit of Flora Mac-Ivor’s poetry, the
enthusiasm which it intimated was well calculated to make a
corresponding impression upon her lover. The lines were read—read
again, then deposited in Waverley’s bosom, then again drawn out, and
read line by line, in a low and smothered voice, and with frequent
pauses which prolonged the mental treat, as an epicure protracts, by
sipping slowly, the enjoyment of a delicious beverage. The entrance of
Mrs. Cruickshanks with the sublunary articles of dinner and wine hardly
interrupted this pantomime of affectionate enthusiasm.
At length the tall ungainly figure and ungracious visage of Ebenezer
presented themselves. The upper part of his form, notwithstanding the
season required no such defence, was shrouded in a large great-coat,
belted over his under habiliments, and crested with a huge cowl of the
same stuff, which, when drawn over the head and hat, completely
overshadowed both, and, being buttoned beneath the chin, was called a
trot-cozy. His hand grasped a huge jockey-whip, garnished with
brassmounting. His thin legs tenanted a pair of gambadoes, fastened at
the sides with rusty clasps. Thus accoutred, he stalked into the midst
of the apartment, and announced his errand in brief phrase: “Yer horses
are ready.”
“You go with me yourself then, landlord?”
“I do, as far as Perth; where ye may be supplied with a guide to
Embro’, as your occasions shall require.”
Thus saying, he placed under Waverley’s eye the bill which he held in
his hand; and at the same time, self-invited, filled a glass of wine
and drank devoutly to a blessing on their journey. Waverley stared at
the man’s impudence, but, as their connection was to be short and
promised to be convenient, he made no observation upon it; and, having
paid his reckoning, expressed his intention to depart immediately. He
mounted Dermid accordingly and sallied forth from the Golden
Candlestick, followed by the puritanical figure we have described,
after he had, at the expense of some time and difficulty, and by the
assistance of a “louping-on-stane,” or structure of masonry erected for
the traveller’s convenience in front of the house, elevated his person
to the back of a long-backed, raw-boned, thin-gutted phantom of a
broken-down blood-horse, on which Waverley’s portmanteau was deposited.
Our hero, though not in a very gay humour, could hardly help laughing
at the appearance of his new squire, and at imagining the astonishment
which his person and equipage would have excited at Waverley-Honour.
Edward’s tendency to mirth did not escape mine host of the Candlestick,
who, conscious of the cause, infused a double portion of souring into
the pharisaical leaven of his countenance, and resolved internally
that, in one way or other, the young _Englisher_ should pay dearly for
the contempt with which he seemed to regard him. Callum also stood at
the gate and enjoyed, with undissembled glee, the ridiculous figure of
Mr. Cruickshanks. As Waverley passed him he pulled off his hat
respectfully, and, approaching his stirrup, bade him “Tak heed the auld
whig deevil played him nae cantrip.”
Waverley once more thanked and bade him farewell, and then rode briskly
onward, not sorry to be out of hearing of the shouts of the children,
as they beheld old Ebenezer rise and sink in his stirrups to avoid the
concussions occasioned by a hard trot upon a half-paved street. The
village of —— was soon several miles behind him.
WAVERLEY
OR
’TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE
VOLUME II.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
SHOWS THAT THE LOSS OF A HORSE’S SHOE MAY BE A SERIOUS INCONVENIENCE
The manner and air of Waverley, but, above all, the glittering contents
of his purse, and the indifference with which he seemed to regard them,
somewhat overawed his companion, and deterred him from making any
attempts to enter upon conversation. His own reflections were moreover
agitated by various surmises, and by plans of self-interest with which
these were intimately connected. The travellers journeyed, therefore,
in silence, until it was interrupted by the annunciation, on the part
of the guide, that his “naig had lost a fore-foot shoe, which,
doubtless, his honour would consider it was his part to replace.”
This was what lawyers call a fishing question, calculated to ascertain
how far Waverley was disposed to submit to petty imposition. “My part
to replace your horse’s shoe, you rascal!” said Waverley, mistaking the
purport of the intimation.
“Indubitably,” answered Mr. Cruickshanks; “though there was no preceese
clause to that effect, it canna be expected that I am to pay for the
casualties whilk may befall the puir naig while in your honour’s
service. Nathless, if your honour—”
“O, you mean I am to pay the farrier; but where shall we find one?”
Rejoiced at discerning there would be no objection made on the part of
his temporary master, Mr. Cruickshanks assured him that Cairnvreckan, a
village which they were about to enter, was happy in an excellent
blacksmith; “but as he was a professor, he would drive a nail for no
man on the Sabbath or kirk-fast, unless it were in a case of absolute
necessity, for which he always charged sixpence each shoe.” The most
important part of this communication, in the opinion of the speaker,
made a very slight impression on the hearer, who only internally
wondered what college this veterinary professor belonged to, not aware
that the word was used to denote any person who pretended to uncommon
sanctity of faith and manner.
As they entered the village of Cairnvreckan, they speedily
distinguished the smith’s house. Being also a public, it was two
stories high, and proudly reared its crest, covered with grey slate,
above the thatched hovels by which it was surrounded. The adjoining
smithy betokened none of the Sabbatical silence and repose which
Ebenezer had augured from the sanctity of his friend. On the contrary,
hammer clashed and anvil rang, the bellows groaned, and the whole
apparatus of Vulcan appeared to be in full activity. Nor was the labour
of a rural and pacific nature. The master smith, benempt, as his sign
intimated, John Mucklewrath, with two assistants, toiled busily in
arranging, repairing, and furbishing old muskets, pistols, and swords,
which lay scattered around his workshop in military confusion. The open
shed, containing the forge, was crowded with persons who came and went
as if receiving and communicating important news, and a single glance
at the aspect of the people who traversed the street in haste, or stood
assembled in groups, with eyes elevated and hands uplifted, announced
that some extraordinary intelligence was agitating the public mind of
the municipality of Cairnvreckan. “There is some news,” said mine host
of the Candlestick, pushing his lantern-jawed visage and bare-boned nag
rudely forward into the crowd—“there is some news; and, if it please my
Creator, I will forthwith obtain speirings thereof.”
Waverley, with better regulated curiosity than his attendant’s,
dismounted and gave his horse to a boy who stood idling near. It arose,
perhaps, from the shyness of his character in early youth, that he felt
dislike at applying to a stranger even for casual information, without
previously glancing at his physiognomy and appearance. While he looked
about in order to select the person with whom he would most willingly
hold communication, the buzz around saved him in some degree the
trouble of interrogatories. The names of Lochiel, Clanronald,
Glengarry, and other distinguished Highland Chiefs, among whom Vich Ian
Vohr was repeatedly mentioned, were as familiar in men’s mouths as
household words; and from the alarm generally expressed, he easily
conceived that their descent into the Lowlands, at the head of their
armed tribes, had either already taken place or was instantly
apprehended.
Ere Waverley could ask particulars, a strong, large-boned,
hard-featured woman, about forty, dressed as if her clothes had been
flung on with a pitchfork, her cheeks flushed with a scarlet red where
they were not smutted with soot and lamp-black, jostled through the
crowd, and, brandishing high a child of two years old, which she danced
in her arms without regard to its screams of terror, sang forth with
all her might,—
Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling,
Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier!
“D’ ye hear what’s come ower ye now,” continued the virago, “ye
whingeing Whig carles? D’ye hear wha’s coming to cow yer cracks?
Little wot ye wha’s coming,
Little wot ye wha’s coming,
A’ the wild Macraws are coming.”
The Vulcan of Cairnvreckan, who acknowledged his Venus in this exulting
Bacchante, regarded her with a grim and ire-foreboding countenance,
while some of the senators of the village hastened to interpose.
“Whisht, gudewife; is this a time or is this a day to be singing your
ranting fule sangs in?—a time when the wine of wrath is poured out
without mixture in the cup of indignation, and a day when the land
should give testimony against popery, and prelacy, and quakerism, and
independency, and supremacy, and erastianism, and antinomianism, and a’
the errors of the church?”
“And that’s a’ your Whiggery,” reechoed the Jacobite heroine; “that’s
a’ your Whiggery, and your presbytery, ye cut-lugged, graning carles!
What! d’ ye think the lads wi’ the kilts will care for yer synods and
yer presbyteries, and yer buttock-mail, and yer stool o’ repentance?
Vengeance on the black face o’t! mony an honester woman’s been set upon
it than streeks doon beside ony Whig in the country. I mysell—”
Here John Mucklewrath, who dreaded her entering upon a detail of
personal experience, interposed his matrimonial authority. “Gae hame,
and be d—— (that I should say sae), and put on the sowens for supper.”
“And you, ye doil’d dotard,” replied his gentle helpmate, her wrath,
which had hitherto wandered abroad over the whole assembly, being at
once and violently impelled into its natural channel, “_ye_ stand there
hammering dog-heads for fules that will never snap them at a
Highlandman, instead of earning bread for your family and shoeing this
winsome young gentleman’s horse that’s just come frae the north! I’se
warrant him nane of your whingeing King George folk, but a gallant
Gordon, at the least o’ him.”
The eyes of the assembly were now turned upon Waverley, who took the
opportunity to beg the smith to shoe his guide’s horse with all speed,
as he wished to proceed on his journey; for he had heard enough to make
him sensible that there would be danger in delaying long in this place.
The smith’s eyes rested on him with a look of displeasure and
suspicion, not lessened by the eagerness with which his wife enforced
Waverley’s mandate. “D’ye hear what the weel-favoured young gentleman
says, ye drunken ne’er-do-good?”
“And what may your name be, sir?” quoth Mucklewrath.
“It is of no consequence to you, my friend, provided I pay your
labour.”
“But it may be of consequence to the state, sir,” replied an old
farmer, smelling strongly of whisky and peat-smoke; “and I doubt we
maun delay your journey till you have seen the Laird.”
“You certainly,” said Waverley, haughtily, “will find it both difficult
and dangerous to detain me, unless you can produce some proper
authority.”
There was a pause and a whisper among the crowd,—“Secretary
Murray;” “Lord Lewis Gordon;” “Maybe the Chevalier himsell!” Such were
the surmises that passed hurriedly among them, and there was obviously
an increased disposition to resist Waverley’s departure. He attempted
to argue mildly with them, but his voluntary ally, Mrs. Mucklewrath,
broke in upon and drowned his expostulations, taking his part with an
abusive violence which was all set down to Edward’s account by those on
whom it was bestowed. “_Ye’ll_ stop ony gentleman that’s the Prince’s
freend?” for she too, though with other feelings, had adopted the
general opinion respecting Waverley. “I daur ye to touch him,”
spreading abroad her long and muscular fingers, garnished with claws
which a vulture might have envied. “I’ll set my ten commandments in the
face o’ the first loon that lays a finger on him.”
“Gae hame, gudewife,” quoth the farmer aforesaid; “it wad better set
you to be nursing the gudeman’s bairns than to be deaving us here.”
“_His_ bairns?” retorted the Amazon, regarding her husband with a grin
of ineffable contempt—“_His_ bairns!
O gin ye were dead, gudeman,
And a green turf on your head, gudeman!
Then I wad ware my widowhood
Upon a ranting Highlandman
This canticle, which excited a suppressed titter among the younger part
of the audience, totally overcame the patience of the taunted man of
the anvil. “Deil be in me but I’ll put this het gad down her throat!”
cried he in an ecstasy of wrath, snatching a bar from the forge; and he
might have executed his threat, had he not been withheld by a part of
the mob, while the rest endeavoured to force the termagant out of his
presence.
Waverley meditated a retreat in the confusion, but his horse was
nowhere to be seen. At length he observed at some distance his faithful
attendant, Ebenezer, who, as soon as he had perceived the turn matters
were likely to take, had withdrawn both horses from the press, and,
mounted on the one and holding the other, answered the loud and
repeated calls of Waverley for his horse. “Na, na! if ye are nae friend
to kirk and the king, and are detained as siccan a person, ye maun
answer to honest men of the country for breach of contract; and I maun
keep the naig and the walise for damage and expense, in respect my
horse and mysell will lose to-morrow’s day’s wark, besides the
afternoon preaching.”
Edward, out of patience, hemmed in and hustled by the rabble on every
side, and every moment expecting personal violence, resolved to try
measures of intimidation, and at length drew a pocket-pistol,
threatening, on the one hand, to shoot whomsoever dared to stop him,
and, on the other, menacing Ebenezer with a similar doom if he stirred
a foot with the horses. The sapient Partridge says that one man with a
pistol is equal to a hundred unarmed, because, though he can shoot but
one of the multitude, yet no one knows but that he himself may be that
luckless individual. The _levy en masse_ of Cairnvreckan would
therefore probably have given way, nor would Ebenezer, whose natural
paleness had waxed three shades more cadaverous, have ventured to
dispute a mandate so enforced, had not the Vulcan of the village, eager
to discharge upon some more worthy object the fury which his helpmate
had provoked, and not ill satisfied to find such an object in Waverley,
rushed at him with the red-hot bar of iron with such determination as
made the discharge of his pistol an act of self-defence. The
unfortunate man fell; and while Edward, thrilled with a natural horror
at the incident, neither had presence of mind to unsheathe his sword
nor to draw his remaining pistol, the populace threw themselves upon
him, disarmed him, and were about to use him with great violence, when
the appearance of a venerable clergyman, the pastor of the parish, put
a curb on their fury.
This worthy man (none of the Goukthrapples or Rentowels) maintained his
character with the common people, although he preached the practical
fruits of Christian faith as well as its abstract tenets, and was
respected by the higher orders, notwithstanding he declined soothing
their speculative errors by converting the pulpit of the gospel into a
school of heathen morality. Perhaps it is owing to this mixture of
faith and practice in his doctrine that, although his memory has formed
a sort of era in the annals of Cairnvreckan, so that the parishioners,
to denote what befell Sixty Years Since, still say it happened “in good
Mr. Morton’s time,” I have never been able to discover which he
belonged to, the evangelical or the moderate party in the kirk. Nor do
I hold the circumstance of much moment, since, in my own remembrance,
the one was headed by an Erskine, the other by a Robertson.[*]
[* The Reverend John Erskine, D. D, an eminent Scottish divine and a
most excellent man, headed the Evangelical party in the Church of
Scotland at the time when the celebrated Doctor Robertson, the
historian, was the leader of the Moderate party. These two
distinguished persons were colleagues in the Old Grey Friars’ Church,
Edinburgh; and, however much they differed in church politics,
preserved the most perfect harmony as private friends and as clergymen
serving the same cure]
Mr. Morton had been alarmed by the discharge of the pistol and the
increasing hubbub around the smithy. His first attention, after he had
directed the bystanders to detain Waverley, but to abstain from
injuring him, was turned to the body of Mucklewrath, over which his
wife, in a revulsion of feeling, was weeping, howling, and tearing her
elf-locks in a state little short of distraction. On raising up the
smith, the first discovery was that he was alive; and the next that he
was likely to live as long as if he had never heard the report of a
pistol in his life. He had made a narrow escape, however; the bullet
had grazed his head and stunned him for a moment or two, which trance
terror and confusion of spirit had prolonged somewhat longer. He now
arose to demand vengeance on the person of Waverley, and with
difficulty acquiesced in the proposal of Mr. Morton that he should be
carried before the Laird, as a justice of peace, and placed at his
disposal. The rest of the assistants unanimously agreed to the measure
recommended; even Mrs. Mucklewrath, who had begun to recover from her
hysterics, whimpered forth, “She wadna say naething against what the
minister proposed; he was e’en ower gude for his trade, and she hoped
to see him wi’ a dainty decent bishop’s gown on his back; a comelier
sight than your Geneva cloaks and bands, I wis.”
All controversy being thus laid aside, Waverley, escorted by the whole
inhabitants of the village who were not bed-ridden, was conducted to
the house of Cairnvreckan, which was about half a mile distant.