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 farmyard which they passed in their progress, till, 'low down in
a grassy vale,' they found Davie 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 booted 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 bare-legged 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, [A bare-footed Highland lad is called a
gillie-wet-foot. Gillie, in general, means servant or attendant.] 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 CUREE) 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.
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 old
Hardyknute--
Stately stepped he east the wa',
And stately stepped 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 DELICIAE POETARUM SCOTORUM, and Sir David Lindsay's
WORKS, and Barbour's BRUCE, 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 periwig-maker.'
[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 COELO, 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) BONAE SPEI ET
MAGNAE 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, harmonized 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 TROISIEME ETAGE. 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 ante-room 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-checked, 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 sat for my pourtraicture but once since
that was painted, and it was at the special and reiterated request of
the Marechal 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 further 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 sang 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 St. 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 blessed;
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 swathed in the cloud.
The Lady she sat in St. Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night has damped her hair:
Her cheek was pale--but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.
She muttered the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopped the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.
He that dare sit on St. 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 ceased to flow;
The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,
Then 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 sparingly 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 conjurers 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 TABULAE,' said the Baron: 'when they recovered their
panic trepidation, they were too much ashamed to bring any wakening of
the process against Janet Gellatley.' [The story last told was said to
have happened in the south of Scotland; but--CEDANT ARMA TOGAE--and
let the gown have its dues. It was an old clergyman, who had wisdom and
firmness enough to resist the panic which seized his brethren, who was
the means of rescuing a poor insane creature from the cruel fate which
would otherwise have overtaken her. The accounts of the trials for
witchcraft form one of the most deplorable chapters in Scottish story.]
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 produced,
closed our hero's second evening in the house of Tully-Veolan.