| By Author | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Title | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Language |
|
Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ] Look for this book on Amazon Tweet |
Title: Waverley; Or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since
Author: Scott, Walter
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Waverley; Or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since" ***
WAVERLEY
WAVERLEY, By Sir Walter Scott
WAVERLEY
OR
‘TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE
Complete
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, 1st 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
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
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 Caesar to the
Autobiography of Alexander the Corrector.
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, 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. [Footnote: See
Appendix No I.] 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.
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 Queenhoo
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 Regal 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 [Footnote: See Appendix No. II.] 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.
Queenhoo 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 QUEENHOO 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. [Footnote: Letters on
the Author of Waverley; Rodwell and Martin, London, 1822.] 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.
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 Brules 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 [Footnote: See Appendix No. III.] the simple anecdote on
which he proposed to found it.
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, 1st 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?”
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’Abbe,” 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 Abbe,
“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.--7th 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.--8th 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.--9th 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 L1000 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.--10th
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,--[Tailliers-hors; in modern phrase, Tally-ho]--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.”
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.
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 I “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.”--[Abbotsford Manuscripts.]--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.--[See Scott’s reply,
with the anecdote about Mrs. Aphra Behn’s novels, Lockhart, vi. 406
(edition of 1839).]--Thus Rousseau’s “Nouvelle Heloise,” 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.
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.
[A history of Scott’s Manuscripts, with good fac-similes, will be found
in the Catalogue of the Scott Exhibition, Edinburgh, 1872.]
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 tunes 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
stipples or niggler, but, as we shall see later, he often altered much in
his proof-sheets.
[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 callidae juncturae 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.”]
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 denouements he certainly was no more careful than Shakspeare or
Moliere.
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 ago 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.”
[Abbotsford Manuscripts. Hogg averred that nobody either read or wrote
poetry after Sir Walter took to prose.]
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 it, Miss
Edgeworth’s wonderful power of vivifying all her persons, and making
there 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.’”
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.”
[Scott reviewed “Frankenstein” in 1818. Mr. Shelley had sent it with a
brief note, it, 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 hook on to
Mr. Murritt, 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 Sheller’s disclaimer
as an innocent evasion; it was an age of literary superscheries.
--Abbotsford Manuscripts.]
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 torch which
renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting, from the
truth of the description and the sentiment.”
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 hint 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 Scudery, 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 Rurnev, 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 Ballantvne, 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 “Queenloo 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.
“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
plugged 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 terns 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
Chateau-Margaux sent in the wood from Bordeaux to Dundee in 1713 could
have been drinkable in 1741. “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, robber, 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 1811 the dead world of clannish localty was
fresh in many memories. Scott’s own usher 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 Erybyggja 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 it 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 Roubigne.’” 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.’
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. [Footnote: 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 fete, 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. [Footnote: 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.] 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.’
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. [Footnote: 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.] 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.
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.’ [Footnote: See Note I.
] 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 manoeuvre 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; [Footnote: See Note 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, [Footnote: See Hoppner’s tale of The Seven Lovers.] and
supply her richly, out of the stores of his own imagination, with
supernatural beauty, and all the properties of intellectual wealth.
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 both, 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 pisaller, 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.
[Footnote: 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 IV
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. [Footnote: See Note 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 L294, 13S.
6D. 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 [Footnote: See Note 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. [Footnote: See Note 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. [Footnote: See Note
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.
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 nourished
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, ‘Beware the Bear’, 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. [Footnote: See Note 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. [Footnote: Footnote: 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 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.
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.
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.
[Footnote: 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 conge
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. [Footnote: See
Note 8.] 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.
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 demele 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 a la
mode Francoise, 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 tems, as my Dutch acquaintance, Baron
Kikkitbroeck, said of the sagesse of Madame son epouse. 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 praedantur 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 Chateau 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 epulae lautiores of Waverley-Honour. I say epulae 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 deux oreilles, as Captain Vinsauf
used to say; vinum primae notae, 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 UNTILL 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. [Footnote: See Note 9.]
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. 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 eat 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.’ [Footnote:
Southey’s Madoc.] 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.
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, [Footnote 2: See Note 10] to the honour
of the Baron’s roof-tree.
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-a-boire, and spouted pieces of Latin;
Killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key, of top-dressing
and bottom-dressing, [Footnote: 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.] 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 Marechal Duc de Berwick’; then, imitating, as
well as he could, the manner and tone of a French musquetaire, he
immediately commenced,--
Mon coeur volage, dit elle,
N’est pas pour vous, garcon;
Est pour un homme de guerre,
Qui a barbe au menton.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.
Qui port chapeau a plume,
Soulier a rouge talon,
Qui joue de la flute,
Aussi du violon.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.
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.
[Footnote: 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 Lapithae.
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 gulce 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. [Footnote: 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.] But he will serve to show how
my dogs run; and therefore they shall attend us with David Gellatley.’
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 ordonnee 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 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 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 ‘Deliciae 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.’
[Footnote: 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, 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 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
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 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 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.
Saint 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 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.’ [Footnote: See Note 36]
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,
[Footnote: See Note 37] 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.’ 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.
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 ideal,
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 sorners, 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 Leslaeus 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
lan 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.’ [Footnote: See note 13.]
‘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.
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 aequiponderate
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 duinhe-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 lan Vohr?’
‘Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich lan 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 bill 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,
[Footnote: See Note 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 duinhe-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 bard, 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
corrie, 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 duinhe-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, [Footnote: 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.] bathed in the evening dew, was exquisitely fragrant.
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, shifting 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.
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. [Footnote: See Note 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, [Footnote: This was
the regale presented by Rob Roy to the Laird of Tullibody.] 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,’
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 en-browned 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, [Footnote: See Note 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 corrie, 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. [Footnote: See Note 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.’
[Footnote: 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 duinhe-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 AEneas. 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. [Footnote: See Note
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.
[Footnote: See Note 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.
[Footnote: See Note 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 lan 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, [Footnote: See Note 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. [Footnote: See Note 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 (i.e. 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 pleniere, 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 marechal’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 [Footnote: See Note 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. [Footnote: 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. [Footnote: See Note 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.
[Footnote: The young and daring adventurer, Charles Edward, landedat
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.]
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!
[Footnote: The Marquis of Tullibardine’s elder brother, who, long exiled,
returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745.]
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!
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!
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, a tasse pleine, A cette heureuse fontaine, Ou 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!
[Footnote:
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 (i.e. my dear), begin;
no apologies to the cean-kinne.’
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. [Footnote: 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 lan
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 aquavitae; with wheat-bread, main-bread, ginge-bread, beef, mutton,
lamb, veal, venison, goose, grice, capon, coney, crane, swan, partridge,
plover, duck, drake, brisselcock, 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
sate 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.
[Footnote: 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. [Footnote: This garb, which resembled the
dress often put on children in Scotland, called a polonie (i. e.
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.] 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, [Footnote: Old Highlanders
will still make the deasil around those whom they wish well to. To go
round a person in the opposite direction, or withershins (German
wider-shins), is unlucky, and a sort of incantation.] 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.
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 Gaspar-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.
[Footnote: 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 scandalised at the
excess of his acknowledgments, cut them short by exclaiming, Ceud mile
mhalloich ort! i.e. ‘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
pharmacopoeia.
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,’
[FOOTNOTE:
On the morrow they made their biers
Of birch and hazel grey. Chevy Chase.]
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.
[Footnote: See Note 25.]
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.
[Footnote: 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
duinhe-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, a 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 a 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?’
‘O 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 a 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 lan 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.
[Footnote: 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.
[Footnote: 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 (i.e. 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 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?’
[Footnote: 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 [Footnote: 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] 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.’
‘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.’ [Footnote: 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 [Footnote:
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.]--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.’
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 duinhe-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 duinhe-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 Church-Yard 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.
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.
[Footnote: 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.
CHAPTER II
AN EXAMINATION
Major Melville of Cairnvreckan, an elderly gentleman, who had spent his
youth in the military service, received Mr. Morton with great kindness,
and our hero with civility, which the equivocal circumstances wherein
Edward was placed rendered constrained and distant.
The nature of the smith’s hurt was inquired into, and, as the actual
injury was likely to prove trifling, and the circumstances in which it
was received rendered the infliction on Edward’s part a natural act of
self-defence, the Major conceived he might dismiss that matter on
Waverley’s depositing in his hands a small sum for the benefit of the
wounded person.
‘I could wish, sir,’ continued the Major, ‘that my duty terminated here;
but it is necessary that we should have some further inquiry into the
cause of your journey through the country at this unfortunate and
distracted time.’
Mr. Ebenezer Cruickshanks now stood forth, and communicated to the
magistrate all he knew or suspected from the reserve of Waverley and the
evasions of Callum Beg. The horse upon which Edward rode, he said, he
knew to belong to Vich Ian Vohr, though he dared not tax Edward’s former
attendant with the fact, lest he should have his house and stables burnt
over his head some night by that godless gang, the Mac-Ivors. He
concluded by exaggerating his own services to kirk and state, as having
been the means, under God (as he modestly qualified the assertion), of
attaching this suspicious and formidable delinquent. He intimated hopes
of future reward, and of instant reimbursement for loss of time, and even
of character, by travelling on the state business on the fast-day.
To this Major Melville answered, with great composure, that so far from
claiming any merit in this affair, Mr. Cruickshanks ought to deprecate
the imposition of a very heavy fine for neglecting to lodge, in terms of
the recent proclamation, an account with the nearest magistrate of any
stranger who came to his inn; that, as Mr. Cruickshanks boasted so much
of religion and loyalty, he should not impute this conduct to
disaffection, but only suppose that his zeal for kirk and state had been
lulled asleep by the opportunity of charging a stranger with double
horse-hire; that, however, feeling himself incompetent to decide singly
upon the conduct of a person of such importance, he should reserve it for
consideration of the next quarter-sessions. Now our history for the
present saith no more of him of the Candlestick, who wended dolorous and
malcontent back to his own dwelling.
Major Melville then commanded the villagers to return to their homes,
excepting two, who officiated as constables, and whom he directed to wait
below. The apartment was thus cleared of every person but Mr. Morton,
whom the Major invited to remain; a sort of factor, who acted as clerk;
and Waverley himself. There ensued a painful and embarrassed pause, till
Major Melville, looking upon Waverley with much compassion, and often
consulting a paper or memorandum which he held in his hand, requested to
know his name.
‘Edward Waverley.’
‘I thought so; late of the--dragoons, and nephew of Sir Everard Waverley
of Waverley-Honour?’
‘The same.’
‘Young gentleman, I am extremely sorry that this painful duty has fallen
to my lot.’
‘Duty, Major Melville, renders apologies superfluous.’
‘True, sir; permit me, therefore, to ask you how your time has been
disposed of since you obtained leave of absence from your regiment,
several weeks ago, until the present moment?’
‘My reply,’ said Waverley, ‘to so general a question must be guided by
the nature of the charge which renders it necessary. I request to know
what that charge is, and upon what authority I am forcibly detained to
reply to it?’
‘The charge, Mr. Waverley, I grieve to say, is of a very high nature, and
affects your character both as a soldier and a subject. In the former
capacity you are charged with spreading mutiny and rebellion among the
men you commanded, and setting them the example of desertion, by
prolonging your own absence from the regiment, contrary to the express
orders of your commanding officer. The civil crime of which you stand
accused is that of high treason and levying war against the king, the
highest delinquency of which a subject can be guilty.’
‘And by what authority am I detained to reply to such heinous calumnies?’
‘By one which you must not dispute, nor I disobey.’
He handed to Waverley a warrant from the Supreme Criminal Court of
Scotland, in full form, for apprehending and securing the person of
Edward Waverley, Esq., suspected of treasonable practices and other high
crimes and misdemeanours.
The astonishment which Waverley expressed at this communication was
imputed by Major Melville to conscious guilt, while Mr. Morton was rather
disposed to construe it into the surprise of innocence unjustly
suspected. There was something true in both conjectures; for although
Edward’s mind acquitted him of the crime with which he was charged, yet a
hasty review of his own conduct convinced him he might have great
difficulty in establishing his innocence to the satisfaction of others.
‘It is a very painful part of this painful business,’ said Major
Melville, after a pause, ‘that, under so grave a charge, I must
necessarily request to see such papers as you have on your person.’
‘You shall, sir, without reserve,’ said Edward, throwing his pocket-book
and memorandums upon the table; ‘there is but one with which I could wish
you would dispense.’
‘I am afraid, Mr. Waverley, I can indulge you with no reservation,’
‘You shall see it then, sir; and as it can be of no service, I beg it may
be returned.’
He took from his bosom the lines he had that morning received, and
presented them with the envelope. The Major perused them in silence, and
directed his clerk to make a copy of them. He then wrapped the copy in
the envelope, and placing it on the table before him, returned the
original to Waverley, with an air of melancholy gravity.
After indulging the prisoner, for such our hero must now be considered,
with what he thought a reasonable time for reflection, Major Melville
resumed his examination, premising that, as Mr. Waverley seemed to object
to general questions, his interrogatories should be as specific as his
information permitted. He then proceeded in his investigation, dictating,
as he went on, the import of the questions and answers to the amanuensis,
by whom it was written down.
‘Did Mr. Waverley know one Humphry Houghton, a non-commissioned officer
in Gardiner’s dragoons?’
‘Certainly; he was sergeant of my troop, and son of a tenant of my
uncle.’
‘Exactly--and had a considerable share of your confidence, and an
influence among his comrades?’
‘I had never occasion to repose confidence in a person of his
description,’ answered Waverley. ‘I favoured Sergeant Houghton as a
clever, active young fellow, and I believe his fellow-soldiers respected
him accordingly.’
‘But you used through this man,’ answered Major Melville, ‘to communicate
with such of your troop as were recruited upon Waverley-Honour?’
‘Certainly; the poor fellows, finding themselves in a regiment chiefly
composed of Scotch or Irish, looked up to me in any of their little
distresses, and naturally made their countryman and sergeant their
spokesman on such occasions.’
‘Sergeant Houghton’s influence,’ continued the Major, ‘extended, then,
particularly over those soldiers who followed you to the regiment from
your uncle’s estate?’
‘Surely; but what is that to the present purpose?’
‘To that I am just coming, and I beseech your candid reply. Have you,
since leaving the regiment, held any correspondence, direct or indirect,
with this Sergeant Houghton?’
‘I!--I hold correspondence with a man of his rank and situation! How, or
for what purpose?’
‘That you are to explain. But did you not, for example, send to him for
some books?’
‘You remind me of a trifling commission,’ said Waverley, ‘which I gave
Sergeant Houghton, because my servant could not read. I do recollect I
bade him, by letter, select some books, of which I sent him a list, and
send them to me at Tully-Veolan.’
‘And of what description were those books?’
‘They related almost entirely to elegant literature; they were designed
for a lady’s perusal.’
‘Were there not, Mr. Waverley, treasonable tracts and pamphlets among
them?’
‘There were some political treatises, into which I hardly looked. They
had been sent to me by the officiousness of a kind friend, whose heart is
more to be esteemed than his prudence or political sagacity; they seemed
to be dull compositions.’
‘That friend,’ continued the persevering inquirer, ‘was a Mr. Pembroke, a
nonjuring clergyman, the author of two treasonable works, of which the
manuscripts were found among your baggage?’
‘But of which, I give you my honour as a gentleman,’ replied Waverley, ‘I
never read six pages.’
‘I am not your judge, Mr. Waverley; your examination will be transmitted
elsewhere. And now to proceed. Do you know a person that passes by the
name of Wily Will, or Will Ruthven?’
‘I never heard of such a name till this moment.’
‘Did you never through such a person, or any other person, communicate
with Sergeant Humphry Houghton, instigating him to desert, with as many
of his comrades as he could seduce to join him, and unite with the
Highlanders and other rebels now in arms under the command of the Young
Pretender?’
‘I assure you I am not only entirely guiltless of the plot you have laid
to my charge, but I detest it from the very bottom of my soul, nor would
I be guilty of such treachery to gain a throne, either for myself or any
other man alive.’
‘Yet when I consider this envelope in the handwriting of one of those
misguided gentlemen who are now in arms against their country, and the
verses which it enclosed, I cannot but find some analogy between the
enterprise I have mentioned and the exploit of Wogan, which the writer
seems to expect you should imitate.’
Waverley was struck with the coincidence, but denied that the wishes or
expectations of the letter-writer were to be regarded as proofs of a
charge otherwise chimerical.
‘But, if I am rightly informed, your time was spent, during your absence
from the regiment, between the house of this Highland Chieftain and that
of Mr. Bradwardine of Bradwardine, also in arms for this unfortunate
cause?’
‘I do not mean to disguise it; but I do deny, most resolutely, being
privy to any of their designs against the government.’
‘You do not, however, I presume, intend to deny that you attended your
host Glennaquoich to a rendezvous, where, under a pretence of a general
hunting match, most of the accomplices of his treason were assembled to
concert measures for taking arms?’
‘I acknowledge having been at such a meeting,’ said Waverley; ‘but I
neither heard nor saw anything which could give it the character you
affix to it.’
‘From thence you proceeded,’ continued the magistrate, ‘with Glennaquoich
and a part of his clan to join the army of the Young Pretender, and
returned, after having paid your homage to him, to discipline and arm the
remainder, and unite them to his bands on their way southward?’
‘I never went with Glennaquoich on such an errand. I never so much as
heard that the person whom you mention was in the country.’
He then detailed the history of his misfortune at the hunting match, and
added, that on his return he found himself suddenly deprived of his
commission, and did not deny that he then, for the first time, observed
symptoms which indicated a disposition in the Highlanders to take arms;
but added that, having no inclination to join their cause, and no longer
any reason for remaining in Scotland, he was now on his return to his
native country, to which he had been summoned by those who had a right to
direct his motions, as Major Melville would perceive from the letters on
the table.
Major Melville accordingly perused the letters of Richard Waverley, of
Sir Everard, and of Aunt Rachel; but the inferences he drew from them
were different from what Waverley expected. They held the language of
discontent with government, threw out no obscure hints of revenge, and
that of poor Aunt Rachel, which plainly asserted the justice of the
Stuart cause, was held to contain the open avowal of what the others only
ventured to insinuate.
‘Permit me another question, Mr. Waverley,’ said Major Melville. ‘Did you
not receive repeated letters from your commanding officer, warning you
and commanding you to return to your post, and acquainting you with the
use made of your name to spread discontent among your soldiers?’
‘I never did, Major Melville. One letter, indeed, I received from him,
containing a civil intimation of his wish that I would employ my leave of
absence otherwise than in constant residence at Bradwardine, as to which,
I own, I thought he was not called on to interfere; and, finally, I
received, on the same day on which I observed myself superseded in the
“Gazette,” a second letter from Colonel Gardiner, commanding me to join
the regiment, an order which, owing to my absence, already mentioned and
accounted for, I received too late to be obeyed. If there were any
intermediate letters, and certainly from the Colonel’s high character I
think it probable that there were, they have never reached me.’
‘I have omitted, Mr. Waverley,’ continued Major Melville, ‘to inquire
after a matter of less consequence, but which has nevertheless been
publicly talked of to your disadvantage. It is said that a treasonable
toast having been proposed in your hearing and presence, you, holding his
Majesty’s commission, suffered the task of resenting it to devolve upon
another gentleman of the company. This, sir, cannot be charged against
you in a court of justice; but if, as I am informed, the officers of your
regiment requested an explanation of such a rumour, as a gentleman and
soldier I cannot but be surprised that you did not afford it to them.’
This was too much. Beset and pressed on every hand by accusations, in
which gross falsehoods were blended with such circumstances of truth as
could not fail to procure them credit,--alone, unfriended, and in a
strange land, Waverley almost gave up his life and honour for lost, and,
leaning his head upon his hand, resolutely refused to answer any further
questions, since the fair and candid statement he had already made had
only served to furnish arms against him.
Without expressing either surprise or displeasure at the change in
Waverley’s manner, Major Melville proceeded composedly to put several
other queries to him.
‘What does it avail me to answer you?’ said Edward sullenly. ‘You appear
convinced of my guilt, and wrest every reply I have made to support your
own preconceived opinion. Enjoy your supposed triumph, then, and torment
me no further. If I am capable of the cowardice and treachery your charge
burdens me with, I am not worthy to be believed in any reply I can make
to you. If I am not deserving of your suspicion--and God and my own
conscience bear evidence with me that it is so--then I do not see why I
should, by my candour, lend my accusers arms against my innocence. There
is no reason I should answer a word more, and I am determined to abide by
this resolution.’
And again he resumed his posture of sullen and determined silence.
‘Allow me,’ said the magistrate, ‘to remind you of one reason that may
suggest the propriety of a candid and open confession. The inexperience
of youth, Mr. Waverley, lays it open to the plans of the more designing
and artful; and one of your friends at least--I mean Mac-Ivor of
Glennaquoich--ranks high in the latter class, as, from your apparent
ingenuousness, youth, and unacquaintance with the manners of the
Highlands, I should be disposed to place you among the former. In such a
case, a false step or error like yours, which I shall be happy to
consider as involuntary, may be atoned for, and I would willingly act as
intercessor. But, as you must necessarily be acquainted with the strength
of the individuals in this country who have assumed arms, with their
means and with their plans, I must expect you will merit this mediation
on my part by a frank and candid avowal of all that has come to your
knowledge upon these heads; in which case, I think I can venture to
promise that a very short personal restraint will be the only ill
consequence that can arise from your accession to these unhappy
intrigues.’
Waverley listened with great composure until the end of this exhortation,
when, springing from his seat with an energy he had not yet displayed, he
replied, ‘Major Melville, since that is your name, I have hitherto
answered your questions with candour, or declined them with temper,
because their import concerned myself alone; but, as you presume to
esteem me mean enough to commence informer against others, who received
me, whatever may be their public misconduct, as a guest and friend, I
declare to you that I consider your questions as an insult infinitely
more offensive than your calumnious suspicions; and that, since my hard
fortune permits me no other mode of resenting them than by verbal
defiance, you should sooner have my heart out of my bosom than a single
syllable of information on subjects which I could only become acquainted
with in the full confidence of unsuspecting hospitality.’
Mr. Morton and the Major looked at each other; and the former, who, in
the course of the examination, had been repeatedly troubled with a sorry
rheum, had recourse to his snuff-box and his handkerchief.
‘Mr. Waverley,’ said the Major, ‘my present situation prohibits me alike
from giving or receiving offence, and I will not protract a discussion
which approaches to either. I am afraid I must sign a warrant for
detaining you in custody, but this house shall for the present be your
prison. I fear I cannot persuade you to accept a share of our
supper?--(Edward shook his head)--but I will order refreshments in your
apartment.’
Our hero bowed and withdrew, under guard of the officers of justice, to a
small but handsome room, where, declining all offers of food or wine, he
flung himself on the bed, and, stupified by the harassing events and
mental fatigue of this miserable day, he sunk into a deep and heavy
slumber. This was more than he himself could have expected; but it is
mentioned of the North-American Indians, when at the stake of torture,
that on the least intermission of agony they will sleep until the fire is
applied to awaken them.
CHAPTER III
A CONFERENCE AND THE CONSEQUENCE
Major Melville had detained Mr. Morton during his examination of
Waverley, both because he thought he might derive assistance from his
practical good sense and approved loyalty, and also because it was
agreeable to have a witness of unimpeached candour and veracity to
proceedings which touched the honour and safety of a young Englishman of
high rank and family, and the expectant heir of a large fortune. Every
step he knew would be rigorously canvassed, and it was his business to
place the justice and integrity of his own conduct beyond the limits of
question.
When Waverley retired, the laird and clergyman of Cairnvreckan sat down
in silence to their evening meal. While the servants were in attendance
neither chose to say anything on the circumstances which occupied their
minds, and neither felt it easy to speak upon any other. The youth and
apparent frankness of Waverley stood in strong contrast to the shades of
suspicion which darkened around him, and he had a sort of naivete and
openness of demeanour that seemed to belong to one unhackneyed in the
ways of intrigue, and which pleaded highly in his favour.
Each mused over the particulars of the examination, and each viewed it
through the medium of his own feelings. Both were men of ready and acute
talent, and both were equally competent to combine various parts of
evidence, and to deduce from them the necessary conclusions. But the wide
difference of their habits and education often occasioned a great
discrepancy in their respective deductions from admitted premises.
Major Melville had been versed in camps and cities; he was vigilant by
profession and cautious from experience, had met with much evil in the
world, and therefore, though himself an upright magistrate and an
honourable man, his opinions of others were always strict, and sometimes
unjustly severe. Mr. Morton, on the contrary, had passed from the
literary pursuits of a college, where he was beloved by his companions
and respected by his teachers, to the ease and simplicity of his present
charge, where his opportunities of witnessing evil were few, and never
dwelt upon but in order to encourage repentance and amendment; and where
the love and respect of his parishioners repaid his affectionate zeal in
their behalf by endeavouring to disguise from him what they knew would
give him the most acute pain, namely, their own occasional transgressions
of the duties which it was the business of his life to recommend. Thus it
was a common saying in the neighbourhood (though both were popular
characters), that the laird knew only the ill in the parish and the
minister only the good.
A love of letters, though kept in subordination to his clerical studies
and duties, also distinguished the pastor of Cairnvreckan, and had tinged
his mind in earlier days with a slight feeling of romance, which no after
incidents of real life had entirely dissipated. The early loss of an
amiable young woman whom he had married for love, and who was quickly
followed to the grave by an only child, had also served, even after the
lapse of many years, to soften a disposition naturally mild and
contemplative. His feelings on the present occasion were therefore likely
to differ from those of the severe disciplinarian, strict magistrate, and
distrustful man of the world.
When the servants had withdrawn, the silence of both parties continued,
until Major Melville, filling his glass and pushing the bottle to Mr.
Morton, commenced--
‘A distressing affair this, Mr. Morton. I fear this youngster has brought
himself within the compass of a halter.’
‘God forbid!’ answered the clergyman.
‘Marry, and amen,’ said the temporal magistrate; ‘but I think even your
merciful logic will hardly deny the conclusion.’
‘Surely, Major,’ answered the clergyman, ‘I should hope it might be
averted, for aught we have heard tonight?’
‘Indeed!’ replied Melville. ‘But, my good parson, you are one of those
who would communicate to every criminal the benefit of clergy.’
‘Unquestionably I would. Mercy and long-suffering are the grounds of the
doctrine I am called to teach.’
‘True, religiously speaking; but mercy to a criminal may be gross
injustice to the community. I don’t speak of this young fellow in
particular, who I heartily wish may be able to clear himself, for I like
both his modesty and his spirit. But I fear he has rushed upon his fate.’
‘And why? Hundreds of misguided gentlemen are now in arms against the
government, many, doubtless, upon principles which education and early
prejudice have gilded with the names of patriotism and heroism; Justice,
when she selects her victims from such a multitude (for surely all will
not be destroyed), must regard the moral motive. He whom ambition or hope
of personal advantage has led to disturb the peace of a well-ordered
government, let him fall a victim to the laws; but surely youth, misled
by the wild visions of chivalry and imaginary loyalty, may plead for
pardon.’
‘If visionary chivalry and imaginary loyalty come within the predicament
of high treason,’ replied the magistrate, ‘I know no court in
Christendom, my dear Mr. Morton, where they can sue out their Habeas
Corpus.’
‘But I cannot see that this youth’s guilt is at all established to my
satisfaction,’ said the clergyman.
‘Because your good-nature blinds your good sense,’ replied Major
Melville. ‘Observe now: This young man, descended of a family of
hereditary Jacobites, his uncle the leader of the Tory interest in the
county of ----, his father a disobliged and discontented courtier, his
tutor a nonjuror and the author of two treasonable volumes--this youth, I
say, enters into Gardiner’s dragoons, bringing with him a body of young
fellows from his uncle’s estate, who have not stickled at avowing in
their way the High-Church principles they learned at Waverley-Honour, in
their disputes with their comrades. To these young men Waverley is
unusually attentive; they are supplied with money beyond a soldier’s
wants and inconsistent with his discipline; and are under the management
of a favourite sergeant, through whom they hold an unusually close
communication with their captain, and affect to consider themselves as
independent of the other officers, and superior to their comrades.’
‘All this, my dear Major, is the natural consequence of their attachment
to their young landlord, and of their finding themselves in a regiment
levied chiefly in the north of Ireland and the west of Scotland, and of
course among comrades disposed to quarrel with them, both as Englishmen
and as members of the Church of England.’
‘Well said, parson!’ replied the magistrate. ‘I would some of your synod
heard you. But let me go on. This young man obtains leave of absence,
goes to Tully-Veolan--the principles of the Baron of Bradwardine are
pretty well known, not to mention that this lad’s uncle brought him off
in the year fifteen; he engages there in a brawl, in which he is said to
have disgraced the commission he bore; Colonel Gardiner writes to him,
first mildly, then more sharply--I think you will not doubt his having
done so, since he says so; the mess invite him to explain the quarrel in
which he is said to have been involved; he neither replies to his
commander nor his comrades. In the meanwhile his soldiers become mutinous
and disorderly, and at length, when the rumour of this unhappy rebellion
becomes general, his favourite Sergeant Houghton and another fellow are
detected in correspondence with a French emissary, accredited, as he
says, by Captain Waverley, who urges him, according to the men’s
confession, to desert with the troop and join their captain, who was with
Prince Charles. In the meanwhile this trusty captain is, by his own
admission, residing at Glennaquoich with the most active, subtle, and
desperate Jacobite in Scotland; he goes with him at least as far as their
famous hunting rendezvous, and I fear a little farther. Meanwhile two
other summonses are sent him; one warning him of the disturbances in his
troop, another peremptorily ordering him to repair to the regiment,
which, indeed, common sense might have dictated, when he observed
rebellion thickening all round him. He returns an absolute refusal, and
throws up his commission.’
‘He had been already deprived of it,’ said Mr. Morton.
‘But he regrets,’ replied Melville, ‘that the measure had anticipated his
resignation. His baggage is seized at his quarters and at Tully-Veolan,
and is found to contain a stock of pestilent Jacobitical pamphlets,
enough to poison a whole country, besides the unprinted lucubrations of
his worthy friend and tutor Mr. Pembroke.’
‘He says he never read them,’ answered the minister.
‘In an ordinary case I should believe him,’ replied the magistrate, ‘for
they are as stupid and pedantic in composition as mischievous in their
tenets. But can you suppose anything but value for the principles they
maintain would induce a young man of his age to lug such trash about with
him? Then, when news arrive of the approach of the rebels, he sets out in
a sort of disguise, refusing to tell his name; and, if yon old fanatic
tell truth, attended by a very suspicious character, and mounted on a
horse known to have belonged to Glennaquoich, and bearing on his person
letters from his family expressing high rancour against the house of
Brunswick, and a copy of verses in praise of one Wogan, who abjured the
service of the Parliament to join the Highland insurgents, when in arms
to restore the house of Stuart, with a body of English cavalry--the very
counterpart of his own plot--and summed up with a “Go thou and do
likewise” from that loyal subject, and most safe and peaceable character,
Fergus Mac-Ivor of Glennaquoich, Vich Ian Vohr, and so forth. And,
lastly,’ continued Major Melville, warming in the detail of his
arguments, ‘where do we find this second edition of Cavalier Wogan? Why,
truly, in the very track most proper for execution of his design, and
pistolling the first of the king’s subjects who ventures to question his
intentions.’
Mr. Morton prudently abstained from argument, which he perceived would
only harden the magistrate in his opinion, and merely asked how he
intended to dispose of the prisoner?
‘It is a question of some difficulty, considering the state of the
country,’ said Major Melville.
‘Could you not detain him (being such a gentleman-like young man) here in
your own house, out of harm’s way, till this storm blow over?’
‘My good friend,’ said Major Melville, ‘neither your house nor mine will
be long out of harm’s way, even were it legal to confine him here. I have
just learned that the commander-in-chief, who marched into the Highlands
to seek out and disperse the insurgents, has declined giving them battle
at Coryarrick, and marched on northward with all the disposable force of
government to Inverness, John-o’-Groat’s House, or the devil, for what I
know, leaving the road to the Low Country open and undefended to the
Highland army.’
‘Good God!’ said the clergyman. ‘Is the man a coward, a traitor, or an
idiot?’
‘None of the three, I believe,’ answered Melville. ‘Sir John has the
commonplace courage of a common soldier, is honest enough, does what he
is commanded, and understands what is told him, but is as fit to act for
himself in circumstances of importance as I, my dear parson, to occupy
your pulpit.’
This important public intelligence naturally diverted the discourse from
Waverley for some time; at length, however, the subject was resumed.
‘I believe,’ said Major Melville, ‘that I must give this young man in
charge to some of the detached parties of armed volunteers who were
lately sent out to overawe the disaffected districts. They are now
recalled towards Stirling, and a small body comes this way to-morrow or
next day, commanded by the westland man--what’s his name? You saw him,
and said he was the very model of one of Cromwell’s military saints.’
‘Gilfillan, the Cameronian,’ answered Mr. Morton. ‘I wish the young
gentleman may be safe with him. Strange things are done in the heat and
hurry of minds in so agitating a crisis, and I fear Gilfillan is of a
sect which has suffered persecution without learning mercy.’
‘He has only to lodge Mr. Waverley in Stirling Castle,’ said the Major;
‘I will give strict injunctions to treat him well. I really cannot devise
any better mode for securing him, and I fancy you would hardly advise me
to encounter the responsibility of setting him at liberty.’
‘But you will have no objection to my seeing him tomorrow in private?’
said the minister.
‘None, certainly; your loyalty and character are my warrant. But with
what view do you make the request?’
‘Simply,’ replied Mr. Morton, ‘to make the experiment whether he may not
be brought to communicate to me some circumstances which may hereafter be
useful to alleviate, if not to exculpate, his conduct.’
The friends now parted and retired to rest, each filled with the most
anxious reflections on the state of the country.
CHAPTER IV
A CONFIDANT
Waverley awoke in the morning from troubled dreams and unrefreshing
slumbers to a full consciousness of the horrors of his situation. How it
might terminate he knew not. He might be delivered up to military law,
which, in the midst of civil war, was not likely to be scrupulous in the
choice of its victims or the quality of the evidence. Nor did he feel
much more comfortable at the thoughts of a trial before a Scottish court
of justice, where he knew the laws and forms differed in many respects
from those of England, and had been taught to believe, however
erroneously, that the liberty and rights of the subject were less
carefully protected. A sentiment of bitterness rose in his mind against
the government, which he considered as the cause of his embarrassment and
peril, and he cursed internally his scrupulous rejection of Mac-Ivor’s
invitation to accompany him to the field.
‘Why did not I,’ he said to himself, ‘like other men of honour, take the
earliest opportunity to welcome to Britain the descendant of her ancient
kings and lineal heir of her throne? Why did not I--
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,
And welcome home again discarded faith,
Seek out Prince Charles, and fall before his feet?
All that has been recorded of excellence and worth in the house of
Waverley has been founded upon their loyal faith to the house of Stuart.
From the interpretation which this Scotch magistrate has put upon the
letters of my uncle and father, it is plain that I ought to have
understood them as marshalling me to the course of my ancestors; and it
has been my gross dulness, joined to the obscurity of expression which
they adopted for the sake of security, that has confounded my judgment.
Had I yielded to the first generous impulse of indignation when I learned
that my honour was practised upon, how different had been my present
situation! I had then been free and in arms fighting, like my
forefathers, for love, for loyalty, and for fame. And now I am here,
netted and in the toils, at the disposal of a suspicious, stern, and
cold-hearted man, perhaps to be turned over to the solitude of a dungeon
or the infamy of a public execution. O, Fergus! how true has your
prophecy proved; and how speedy, how very speedy, has been its
accomplishment!’
While Edward was ruminating on these painful subjects of contemplation,
and very naturally, though not quite so justly, bestowing upon the
reigning dynasty that blame which was due to chance, or, in part at
least, to his own unreflecting conduct, Mr. Morton availed himself of
Major Melville’s permission to pay him an early visit.
Waverley’s first impulse was to intimate a desire that he might not be
disturbed with questions or conversation; but he suppressed it upon
observing the benevolent and reverend appearance of the clergyman who had
rescued him from the immediate violence of the villagers.
‘I believe, sir,’ said the unfortunate young man, ‘that in any other
circumstances I should have had as much gratitude to express to you as
the safety of my life may be worth; but such is the present tumult of my
mind, and such is my anticipation of what I am yet likely to endure, that
I can hardly offer you thanks for your interposition.’
Mr. Morton replied, that, far from making any claim upon his good
opinion, his only wish and the sole purpose of his visit was to find out
the means of deserving it. ‘My excellent friend, Major Melville,’ he
continued, ‘has feelings and duties as a soldier and public functionary
by which I am not fettered; nor can I always coincide in opinions which
he forms, perhaps with too little allowance for the imperfections of
human nature.’ He paused and then proceeded: ‘I do not intrude myself on
your confidence, Mr. Waverley, for the purpose of learning any
circumstances the knowledge of which can be prejudicial either to
yourself or to others; but I own my earnest wish is that you would
intrust me with any particulars which could lead to your exculpation. I
can solemnly assure you they will be deposited with a faithful and, to
the extent of his limited powers, a zealous agent.’
‘You are, sir, I presume, a Presbyterian clergyman?’ Mr. Morton bowed.
‘Were I to be guided by the prepossessions of education, I might distrust
your friendly professions in my case; but I have observed that similar
prejudices are nourished in this country against your professional
brethren of the Episcopal persuasion, and I am willing to believe them
equally unfounded in both cases.’
‘Evil to him that thinks otherwise,’ said Mr. Morton; ‘or who holds
church government and ceremonies as the exclusive gage of Christian faith
or moral virtue.’
‘But,’ continued Waverley, ‘I cannot perceive why I should trouble you
with a detail of particulars, out of which, after revolving them as
carefully as possible in my recollection, I find myself unable to explain
much of what is charged against me. I know, indeed, that I am innocent,
but I hardly see how I can hope to prove myself so.’
‘It is for that very reason, Mr. Waverley,’ said the clergyman, ‘that I
venture to solicit your confidence. My knowledge of individuals in this
country is pretty general, and can upon occasion be extended. Your
situation will, I fear, preclude your taking those active steps for
recovering intelligence or tracing imposture which I would willingly
undertake in your behalf; and if you are not benefited by my exertions,
at least they cannot be prejudicial to you.’
Waverley, after a few minutes’ reflection, was convinced that his
reposing confidence in Mr. Morton, so far as he himself was concerned,
could hurt neither Mr. Bradwardine nor Fergus Mac-Ivor, both of whom had
openly assumed arms against the government, and that it might possibly,
if the professions of his new friend corresponded in sincerity with the
earnestness of his expression, be of some service to himself. He
therefore ran briefly over most of the events with which the reader is
already acquainted, suppressing his attachment to Flora, and indeed
neither mentioning her nor Rose Bradwardine in the course of his
narrative.
Mr. Morton seemed particularly struck with the account of Waverley’s
visit to Donald Bean Lean. ‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘you did not mention
this circumstance to the Major. It is capable of great misconstruction on
the part of those who do not consider the power of curiosity and the
influence of romance as motives of youthful conduct. When I was a young
man like you, Mr. Waverley, any such hair-brained expedition (I beg your
pardon for the expression) would have had inexpressible charms for me.
But there are men in the world who will not believe that danger and
fatigue are often incurred without any very adequate cause, and therefore
who are sometimes led to assign motives of action entirely foreign to the
truth. This man Bean Lean is renowned through the country as a sort of
Robin Hood, and the stories which are told of his address and enterprise
are the common tales of the winter fireside. He certainly possesses
talents beyond the rude sphere in which he moves; and, being neither
destitute of ambition nor encumbered with scruples, he will probably
attempt, by every means, to distinguish himself during the period of
these unhappy commotions.’ Mr. Morton then made a careful memorandum of
the various particulars of Waverley’s interview with Donald Bean Lean and
the other circumstances which he had communicated.
The interest which this good man seemed to take in his misfortunes, above
all, the full confidence he appeared to repose in his innocence, had the
natural effect of softening Edward’s heart, whom the coldness of Major
Melville had taught to believe that the world was leagued to oppress him.
He shook Mr. Morton warmly by the hand, and, assuring him that his
kindness and sympathy had relieved his mind of a heavy load, told him
that, whatever might be his own fate, he belonged to a family who had
both gratitude and the power of displaying it. The earnestness of his
thanks called drops to the eyes of the worthy clergyman, who was doubly
interested in the cause for which he had volunteered his services, by
observing the genuine and undissembled feelings of his young friend.
Edward now inquired if Mr. Morton knew what was likely to be his
destination.
‘Stirling Castle,’ replied his friend; ‘and so far I am well pleased for
your sake, for the governor is a man of honour and humanity. But I am
more doubtful of your treatment upon the road; Major Melville is
involuntarily obliged to intrust the custody of your person to another.’
‘I am glad of it,’ answered Waverley. ‘I detest that cold-blooded
calculating Scotch magistrate. I hope he and I shall never meet more. He
had neither sympathy with my innocence nor with my wretchedness; and the
petrifying accuracy with which he attended to every form of civility,
while he tortured me by his questions, his suspicions, and his
inferences, was as tormenting as the racks of the Inquisition. Do not
vindicate him, my dear sir, for that I cannot bear with patience; tell me
rather who is to have the charge of so important a state prisoner as I
am.’
‘I believe a person called Gilfillan, one of the sect who are termed
Cameronians.’
‘I never heard of them before.’
‘They claim,’ said the clergyman, ‘to represent the more strict and
severe Presbyterians, who, in Charles Second’s and James Second’s days,
refused to profit by the Toleration, or Indulgence, as it was called,
which was extended to others of that religion. They held conventicles in
the open fields, and, being treated with great violence and cruelty by
the Scottish government, more than once took arms during those reigns.
They take their name from their leader, Richard Cameron.’
‘I recollect,’ said Waverley; ‘but did not the triumph of Presbytery at
the Revolution extinguish that sect?’
‘By no means,’ replied Morton; ‘that great event fell yet far short of
what they proposed, which was nothing less than the complete
establishment of the Presbyterian Church upon the grounds of the old
Solemn League and Covenant. Indeed, I believe they scarce knew what they
wanted; but being a numerous body of men, and not unacquainted with the
use of arms, they kept themselves together as a separate party in the
state, and at the time of the Union had nearly formed a most unnatural
league with their old enemies the Jacobites to oppose that important
national measure. Since that time their numbers have gradually
diminished; but a good many are still to be found in the western
counties, and several, with a better temper than in 1707, have now taken
arms for government. This person, whom they call Gifted Gilfillan, has
been long a leader among them, and now heads a small party, which will
pass here to-day or to-morrow on their march towards Stirling, under
whose escort Major Melville proposes you shall travel. I would willingly
speak to Gilfillan in your behalf; but, having deeply imbibed all the
prejudices of his sect, and being of the same fierce disposition, he
would pay little regard to the remonstrances of an Erastian divine, as he
would politely term me. And now, farewell, my young friend; for the
present I must not weary out the Major’s indulgence, that I may obtain
his permission to visit you again in the course of the day.’
CHAPTER V
THINGS MEND A LITTLE
About noon Mr. Morton returned and brought an invitation from Major
Melville that Mr. Waverley would honour him with his company to dinner,
notwithstanding the unpleasant affair which detained him at Cairnvreckan,
from which he should heartily rejoice to see Mr. Waverley completely
extricated. The truth was that Mr. Morton’s favourable report and opinion
had somewhat staggered the preconceptions of the old soldier concerning
Edward’s supposed accession to the mutiny in the regiment; and in the
unfortunate state of the country the mere suspicion of disaffection or an
inclination to join the insurgent Jacobites might infer criminality
indeed, but certainly not dishonour. Besides, a person whom the Major
trusted had reported to him (though, as it proved, inaccurately) a
contradiction of the agitating news of the preceding evening. According
to this second edition of the intelligence, the Highlanders had withdrawn
from the Lowland frontier with the purpose of following the army in their
march to Inverness. The Major was at a loss, indeed, to reconcile his
information with the well-known abilities of some of the gentlemen in the
Highland army, yet it was the course which was likely to be most
agreeable to others. He remembered the same policy had detained them in
the north in the year 1715, and he anticipated a similar termination to
the insurrection as upon that occasion.
This news put him in such good-humour that he readily acquiesced in Mr.
Morton’s proposal to pay some hospitable attention to his unfortunate
guest, and voluntarily added, he hoped the whole affair would prove a
youthful escapade, which might be easily atoned by a short confinement.
The kind mediator had some trouble to prevail on his young friend to
accept the invitation. He dared not urge to him the real motive, which
was a good-natured wish to secure a favourable report of Waverley’s case
from Major Melville to Governor Blakeney. He remarked, from the flashes
of our hero’s spirit, that touching upon this topic would be sure to
defeat his purpose. He therefore pleaded that the invitation argued the
Major’s disbelief of any part of the accusation which was inconsistent
with Waverley’s conduct as a soldier and a man of honour, and that to
decline his courtesy might be interpreted into a consciousness that it
was unmerited. In short, he so far satisfied Edward that the manly and
proper course was to meet the Major on easy terms that, suppressing his
strong dislike again to encounter his cold and punctilious civility,
Waverley agreed to be guided by his new friend.
The meeting at first was stiff and formal enough. But Edward, having
accepted the invitation, and his mind being really soothed and relieved
by the kindness of Morton, held himself bound to behave with ease, though
he could not affect cordiality. The Major was somewhat of a bon vivant,
and his wine was excellent. He told his old campaign stories, and
displayed much knowledge of men and manners. Mr. Morton had an internal
fund of placid and quiet gaiety, which seldom failed to enliven any small
party in which he found himself pleasantly seated. Waverley, whose life
was a dream, gave ready way to the predominating impulse and became the
most lively of the party. He had at all times remarkable natural powers
of conversation, though easily silenced by discouragement. On the present
occasion he piqued himself upon leaving on the minds of his companions a
favourable impression of one who, under such disastrous circumstances,
could sustain his misfortunes with ease and gaiety. His spirits, though
not unyielding, were abundantly elastic, and soon seconded his efforts.
The trio were engaged in very lively discourse, apparently delighted with
each other, and the kind host was pressing a third bottle of Burgundy,
when the sound of a drum was heard at some distance. The Major, who, in
the glee of an old soldier, had forgot the duties of a magistrate,
cursed, with a muttered military oath, the circumstances which recalled
him to his official functions. He rose and went towards the window, which
commanded a very near view of the highroad, and he was followed by his
guests.
The drum advanced, beating no measured martial tune, but a kind of
rub-a-dub-dub, like that with which the fire-drum startles the slumbering
artizans of a Scotch burgh. It is the object of this history to do
justice to all men; I must therefore record, in justice to the drummer,
that he protested he could beat any known march or point of war known in
the British army, and had accordingly commenced with ‘Dumbarton’s Drums,’
when he was silenced by Gifted Gilfillan, the commander of the party, who
refused to permit his followers to move to this profane, and even, as he
said, persecutive tune, and commanded the drummer to beat the 119th
Psalm. As this was beyond the capacity of the drubber of sheepskin, he
was fain to have recourse to the inoffensive row-de-dow as a harmless
substitute for the sacred music which his instrument or skill were unable
to achieve. This may be held a trifling anecdote, but the drummer in
question was no less than town-drummer of Anderton. I remember his
successor in office, a member of that enlightened body, the British
Convention. Be his memory, therefore, treated with due respect.
CHAPTER VI
A VOLUNTEER SIXTY YEARS SINCE
On hearing the unwelcome sound of the drum, Major Melville hastily opened
a sashed door and stepped out upon a sort of terrace which divided his
house from the highroad from which the martial music proceeded. Waverley
and his new friend followed him, though probably he would have dispensed
with their attendance. They soon recognised in solemn march, first, the
performer upon the drum; secondly, a large flag of four compartments, on
which were inscribed the words, COVENANT, KIRK, KING, KINGDOMS. The
person who was honoured with this charge was followed by the commander of
the party, a thin, dark, rigid-looking man, about sixty years old. The
spiritual pride, which in mine host of the Candlestick mantled in a sort
of supercilious hypocrisy, was in this man’s face elevated and yet
darkened by genuine and undoubting fanaticism. It was impossible to
behold him without imagination placing him in some strange crisis, where
religious zeal was the ruling principle. A martyr at the stake, a soldier
in the field, a lonely and banished wanderer consoled by the intensity
and supposed purity of his faith under every earthly privation, perhaps a
persecuting inquisitor, as terrific in power as unyielding in adversity;
any of these seemed congenial characters to this personage. With these
high traits of energy, there was something in the affected precision and
solemnity of his deportment and discourse that bordered upon the
ludicrous; so that, according to the mood of the spectator’s mind and the
light under which Mr. Gilfillan presented himself, one might have feared,
admired, or laughed at him. His dress was that of a West-Country peasant,
of better materials indeed than that of the lower rank, but in no respect
affecting either the mode of the age or of the Scottish gentry at any
period. His arms were a broadsword and pistols, which, from the antiquity
of their appearance, might have seen the rout of Pentland or Bothwell
Brigg.
As he came up a few steps to meet Major Melville, and touched solemnly,
but slightly, his huge and over-brimmed blue bonnet, in answer to the
Major, who had courteously raised a small triangular gold-laced hat,
Waverley was irresistibly impressed with the idea that he beheld a leader
of the Roundheads of yore in conference with one of Marlborough’s
captains.
The group of about thirty armed men who followed this gifted commander
was of a motley description. They were in ordinary Lowland dresses, of
different colours, which, contrasted with the arms they bore, gave them
an irregular and mobbish appearance; so much is the eye accustomed to
connect uniformity of dress with the military character. In front were a
few who apparently partook of their leader’s enthusiasm, men obviously to
be feared in a combat, where their natural courage was exalted by
religious zeal. Others puffed and strutted, filled with the importance of
carrying arms and all the novelty of their situation, while the rest,
apparently fatigued with their march, dragged their limbs listlessly
along, or straggled from their companions to procure such refreshments as
the neighbouring cottages and alehouses afforded. Six grenadiers of
Ligonier’s, thought the Major to himself, as his mind reverted to his own
military experience, would have sent all these fellows to the right
about.
Greeting, however, Mr. Gilfillan civilly, he requested to know if he had
received the letter he had sent to him upon his march, and could
undertake the charge of the state prisoner whom he there mentioned as far
as Stirling Castle. ‘Yea,’ was the concise reply of the Cameronian
leader, in a voice which seemed to issue from the very penetralia of his
person.
‘But your escort, Mr. Gilfillan, is not so strong as I expected,’ said
Major Melville.
‘Some of the people,’ replied Gilfillan, ‘hungered and were athirst by
the way, and tarried until their poor souls were refreshed with the
word.’
‘I am sorry, sir,’ replied the Major, ‘you did not trust to your
refreshing your men at Cairnvreckan; whatever my house contains is at the
command of persons employed in the service.’
‘It was not of creature-comforts I spake,’ answered the Covenanter,
regarding Major Melville with something like a smile of contempt;
‘howbeit, I thank you; but the people remained waiting upon the precious
Mr. Jabesh Rentowel for the out-pouring of the afternoon exhortation.’
‘And have you, sir,’ said the Major, ‘when the rebels are about to spread
themselves through this country, actually left a great part of your
command at a fieldpreaching?’
Gilfillan again smiled scornfully as he made this indirect answer--‘Even
thus are the children of this world wiser in their generation than the
children of light!’
‘However, sir,’ said the Major, ‘as you are to take charge of this
gentleman to Stirling, and deliver him, with these papers, into the hands
of Governor Blakeney, I beseech you to observe some rules of military
discipline upon your march. For example, I would advise you to keep your
men more closely together, and that each in his march should cover his
file-leader, instead of straggling like geese upon a common; and, for
fear of surprise, I further recommend to you to form a small
advance-party of your best men, with a single vidette in front of the
whole march, so that when you approach a village or a wood’--(here the
Major interrupted himself)--‘But as I don’t observe you listen to me, Mr.
Gilfillan, I suppose I need not give myself the trouble to say more upon
the subject. You are a better judge, unquestionably, than I am of the
measures to be pursued; but one thing I would have you well aware of,
that you are to treat this gentleman, your prisoner, with no rigour nor
incivility, and are to subject him to no other restraint than is
necessary for his security.’
‘I have looked into my commission,’ said Mr. Gilfillan,’ subscribed by a
worthy and professing nobleman, William, Earl of Glencairn; nor do I find
it therein set down that I am to receive any charges or commands anent my
doings from Major William Melville of Cairnvreckan.’
Major Melville reddened even to the well-powdered ears which appeared
beneath his neat military sidecurls, the more so as he observed Mr.
Morton smile at the same moment. ‘Mr. Gilfillan,’ he answered, with some
asperity, ‘I beg ten thousand pardons for interfering with a person of
your importance. I thought, however, that as you have been bred a
grazier, if I mistake not, there might be occasion to remind you of the
difference between Highlanders and Highland cattle; and if you should
happen to meet with any gentleman who has seen service, and is disposed
to speak upon the subject, I should still imagine that listening to him
would do you no sort of harm. But I have done, and have only once more to
recommend this gentleman to your civility as well as to your custody. Mr.
Waverley, I am truly sorry we should part in this way; but I trust, when
you are again in this country, I may have an opportunity to render
Cairnvreckan more agreeable than circumstances have permitted on this
occasion.’
So saying, he shook our hero by the hand. Morton also took an
affectionate farewell, and Waverley, having mounted his horse, with a
musketeer leading it by the bridle and a file upon each side to prevent
his escape, set forward upon the march with Gilfillan and his party.
Through the little village they were accompanied with the shouts of the
children, who cried out, ‘Eh! see to the Southland gentleman that’s gaun
to be hanged for shooting lang John Mucklewrath, the smith!
CHAPTER VII
AN INCIDENT
The dinner hour of Scotland Sixty Years Since was two o’clock. It was
therefore about four o’clock of a delightful autumn afternoon that Mr.
Gilfillan commenced his march, in hopes, although Stirling was eighteen
miles distant, he might be able, by becoming a borrower of the night for
an hour or two, to reach it that evening. He therefore put forth his
strength, and marched stoutly along at the head of his followers, eyeing
our hero from time to time, as if he longed to enter into controversy
with him. At length, unable to resist the temptation, he slackened his
pace till he was alongside of his prisoner’s horse, and after marching a
few steps in silence abreast of him, he suddenly asked--‘Can ye say wha
the carle was wi’ the black coat and the mousted head, that was wi’ the
Laird of Cairnvreckan?’
‘A Presbyterian clergyman,’ answered Waverley.
‘Presbyterian!’ answered Gilfillan contemptuously; ‘a wretched Erastian,
or rather an obscure Prelatist, a favourer of the black indulgence, ane
of thae dumb dogs that canna bark; they tell ower a clash o’ terror and a
clatter o’ comfort in their sermons, without ony sense, or savour, or
life. Ye’ve been fed in siccan a fauld, belike?’
‘No; I am of the Church of England,’ said Waverley.
‘And they’re just neighbour-like,’ replied the Covenanter; ‘and nae
wonder they gree sae weel. Wha wad hae thought the goodly structure of
the Kirk of Scotland, built up by our fathers in 1642, wad hae been
defaced by carnal ends and the corruptions of the time;--ay, wha wad hae
thought the carved work of the sanctuary would hae been sae soon cut
down!’
To this lamentation, which one or two of the assistants chorussed with a
deep groan, our hero thought it unnecessary to make any reply. Whereupon
Mr. Gilfillan, resolving that he should be a hearer at least, if not a
disputant, proceeded in his Jeremiade.
‘And now is it wonderful, when, for lack of exercise anent the call to
the service of the altar and the duty of the day, ministers fall into
sinful compliances with patronage, and indemnities, and oaths, and bonds,
and other corruptions,--is it wonderful, I say, that you, sir, and other
sic-like unhappy persons, should labour to build up your auld Babel of
iniquity, as in the bluidy persecuting saint-killing times? I trow, gin
ye werena blinded wi’ the graces and favours, and services and
enjoyments, and employments and inheritances, of this wicked world, I
could prove to you, by the Scripture, in what a filthy rag ye put your
trust; and that your surplices, and your copes and vestments, are but
cast-off garments of the muckle harlot that sitteth upon seven hills and
drinketh of the cup of abomination. But, I trow, ye are deaf as adders
upon that side of the head; ay, ye are deceived with her enchantments,
and ye traffic with her merchandise, and ye are drunk with the cup of her
fornication!’
How much longer this military theologist might have continued his
invective, in which he spared nobody but the scattered remnant of
HILL-FOLK, as he called them, is absolutely uncertain. His matter was
copious, his voice powerful, and his memory strong; so that there was
little chance of his ending his exhortation till the party had reached
Stirling, had not his attention been attracted by a pedlar who had joined
the march from a cross-road, and who sighed or groaned with great
regularity at all fitting pauses of his homily.
‘And what may ye be, friend?’ said the Gifted Gilfillan.
‘A puir pedlar, that’s bound for Stirling, and craves the protection of
your honour’s party in these kittle times. Ah’ your honour has a notable
faculty in searching and explaining the secret,--ay, the secret and
obscure and incomprehensible causes of the backslidings of the land; ay,
your honour touches the root o’ the matter.’
‘Friend,’ said Gilfillan, with a more complacent voice than he had
hitherto used, ‘honour not me. I do not go out to park-dikes and to
steadings and to market-towns to have herds and cottars and burghers pull
off their bonnets to me as they do to Major Melville o’ Cairnvreckan, and
ca’ me laird or captain or honour. No; my sma’ means, whilk are not aboon
twenty thousand merk, have had the blessing of increase, but the pride of
my heart has not increased with them; nor do I delight to be called
captain, though I have the subscribed commission of that gospel-searching
nobleman, the Earl of Glencairn, fa whilk I am so designated. While I
live I am and will be called Habakkuk Gilfillan, who will stand up for
the standards of doctrine agreed on by the ance famous Kirk of Scotland,
before she trafficked with the accursed Achan, while he has a plack in
his purse or a drap o’ bluid in his body.’
‘Ah,’ said the pedlar, ‘I have seen your land about Mauchlin. A fertile
spot! your lines have fallen in pleasant places! And siccan a breed o’
cattle is not in ony laird’s land in Scotland.’
‘Ye say right,--ye say right, friend’ retorted Gilfillan eagerly, for he
was not inaccessible to flattery upon this subject,--‘ye say right; they
are the real Lancashire, and there’s no the like o’ them even at the
mains of Kilmaurs’; and he then entered into a discussion of their
excellences, to which our readers will probably be as indifferent as our
hero. After this excursion the leader returned to his theological
discussions, while the pedlar, less profound upon those mystic points,
contented himself with groaning and expressing his edification at
suitable intervals.
‘What a blessing it would be to the puir blinded popish nations among
whom I hae sojourned, to have siccan a light to their paths! I hae been
as far as Muscovia in my sma’ trading way, as a travelling merchant, and
I hae been through France, and the Low Countries, and a’ Poland, and
maist feck o’ Germany, and O! it would grieve your honour’s soul to see
the murmuring and the singing and massing that’s in the kirk, and the
piping that’s in the quire, and the heathenish dancing and dicing upon
the Sabbath!’
This set Gilfillan off upon the Book of Sports and the Covenant, and the
Engagers, and the Protesters, and the Whiggamore’s Raid, and the Assembly
of Divines at Westminster, and the Longer and Shorter Catechism, and the
Excommunication at Torwood, and the slaughter of Archbishop Sharp. This
last topic, again, led him into the lawfulness of defensive arms, on
which subject he uttered much more sense than could have been expected
from some other parts of his harangue, and attracted even Waverley’s
attention, who had hitherto been lost in his own sad reflections. Mr.
Gilfillan then considered the lawfulness of a private man’s standing
forth as the avenger of public oppression, and as he was labouring with
great earnestness the cause of Mas James Mitchell, who fired at the
Archbishop of Saint Andrews some years before the prelate’s assassination
on Magus Muir, an incident occurred which interrupted his harangue.
The rays of the sun were lingering on the very verge of the horizon as
the party ascended a hollow and somewhat steep path which led to the
summit of a rising ground. The country was uninclosed, being part of a
very extensive heath or common; but it was far from level, exhibiting in
many places hollows filled with furze and broom; in others, little
dingles of stunted brushwood. A thicket of the latter description crowned
the hill up which the party ascended. The foremost of the band, being the
stoutest and most active, had pushed on, and, having surmounted the
ascent, were out of ken for the present. Gilfillan, with the pedlar and
the small party who were Waverley’s more immediate guard, were near the
top of the ascent, and the remainder straggled after them at a
considerable interval.
Such was the situation of matters when the pedlar, missing, as he said, a
little doggie which belonged to him, began to halt and whistle for the
animal. This signal, repeated more than once, gave offence to the rigour
of his companion, the rather because it appeared to indicate inattention
to the treasures of theological and controversial knowledge which were
pouring out for his edification. He therefore signified gruffly that he
could not waste his time in waiting for an useless cur.
‘But if your honour wad consider the case of Tobit--’
‘Tobit!’ exclaimed Gilffflan, with great heat; ‘Tobit and his dog baith
are altogether heathenish and apocryphal, and none but a prelatist or a
papist would draw them into question. I doubt I hae been mista’en in you,
friend.’
‘Very likely,’ answered the pedlar, with great composure; ‘but
ne’ertheless, I shall take leave to whistle again upon puir Bawty.’
This last signal was answered in an unexpected manner; for six or eight
stout Highlanders, who lurked among the copse and brushwood, sprung into
the hollow way and began to lay about them with their claymores.
Gilfillan, unappalled at this undesirable apparition, cried out manfully,
‘The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!’ and, drawing his broadsword, would
probably have done as much credit to the good old cause as any of its
doughty champions at Drumclog, when, behold! the pedlar, snatching a
musket from the person who was next him bestowed the butt of it with such
emphasis on the head of his late instructor in the Cameronian creed that
he was forthwith levelled to the ground. In the confusion which ensued
the horse which bore our hero was shot by one of Gilfillan’s party, as he
discharged his firelock at random. Waverley fell with, and indeed under,
the animal, and sustained some severe contusions. But he was almost
instantly extricated from the fallen steed by two Highlanders, who, each
seizing him by the arm, hurried him away from the scuffle and from the
highroad. They ran with great speed, half supporting and half dragging
our hero, who could, however, distinguish a few dropping shots fired
about the spot which he had left. This, as he afterwards learned,
proceeded from Gilfillan’s party, who had now assembled, the stragglers
in front and rear having joined the others. At their approach the
Highlanders drew off, but not before they had rifled Gilfillan and two of
his people, who remained on the spot grievously wounded. A few shots were
exchanged betwixt them and the Westlanders; but the latter, now without a
commander, and apprehensive of a second ambush, did not make any serious
effort to recover their prisoner, judging it more wise to proceed on
their journey to Stirling, carrying with them their wounded captain and
comrades.
CHAPTER VIII
WAVERLEY IS STILL IN DISTRESS
The velocity, and indeed violence, with which Waverley was hurried along
nearly deprived him of sensation; for the injury he had received from his
fall prevented him from aiding himself so effectually as he might
otherwise have done. When this was observed by his conductors, they
called to their aid two or three others of the party, and, swathing our
hero’s body in one of their plaids, divided his weight by that means
among them, and transported him at the same rapid rate as before, without
any exertion of his own. They spoke little, and that in Gaelic; and did
not slacken their pace till they had run nearly two miles, when they
abated their extreme rapidity, but continued still to walk very fast,
relieving each other occasionally.
Our hero now endeavoured to address them, but was only answered with ‘Cha
n’eil Beurl agam’ i.e. ‘I have no English,’ being, as Waverley well knew,
the constant reply of a Highlander when he either does not understand or
does not choose to reply to an Englishman or Lowlander. He then mentioned
the name of Vich lan Vohr, concluding that he was indebted to his
friendship for his rescue from the clutches of Gifted Gilfillan, but
neither did this produce any mark of recognition from his escort.
The twilight had given place to moonshine when the party halted upon the
brink of a precipitous glen, which, as partly enlightened by the
moonbeams, seemed full of trees and tangled brushwood. Two of the
Highlanders dived into it by a small foot-path, as if to explore its
recesses, and one of them returning in a few minutes, said something to
his companions, who instantly raised their burden and bore him, with
great attention and care, down the narrow and abrupt descent.
Notwithstanding their precautions, however, Waverley’s person came more
than once into contact, rudely enough, with the projecting stumps and
branches which overhung the pathway.
At the bottom of the descent, and, as it seemed, by the side of a brook
(for Waverley heard the rushing of a considerable body of water, although
its stream was invisible in the darkness), the party again stopped before
a small and rudely-constructed hovel. The door was open, and the inside
of the premises appeared as uncomfortable and rude as its situation and
exterior foreboded. There was no appearance of a floor of any kind; the
roof seemed rent in several places; the walls were composed of loose
stones and turf, and the thatch of branches of trees. The fire was in the
centre, and filled the whole wigwam with smoke, which escaped as much
through the door as by means of a circular aperture in the roof. An old
Highland sibyl, the only inhabitant of this forlorn mansion, appeared
busy in the preparation of some food. By the light which the fire
afforded Waverley could discover that his attendants were not of the clan
of Ivor, for Fergus was particularly strict in requiring from his
followers that they should wear the tartan striped in the mode peculiar
to their race; a mark of distinction anciently general through the
Highlands, and still maintained by those Chiefs who were proud of their
lineage or jealous of their separate and exclusive authority.
Edward had lived at Glennaquoich long enough to be aware of a distinction
which he had repeatedly heard noticed, and now satisfied that he had no
interest with his attendants, he glanced a disconsolate eye around the
interior of the cabin. The only furniture, excepting a washing-tub and a
wooden press, called in Scotland an ambry, sorely decayed, was a large
wooden bed, planked, as is usual, all around, and opening by a sliding
panel. In this recess the Highlanders deposited Waverley, after he had by
signs declined any refreshment. His slumbers were broken and
unrefreshing; strange visions passed before his eyes, and it required
constant and reiterated efforts of mind to dispel them. Shivering,
violent headache, and shooting pains in his limbs succeeded these
symptoms; and in the morning it was evident to his Highland attendants or
guard, for he knew not in which light to consider them, that Waverley was
quite unfit to travel.
After a long consultation among themselves, six of the party left the hut
with their arms, leaving behind an old and a young man. The former
addressed Waverley, and bathed the contusions, which swelling and livid
colour now made conspicuous. His own portmanteau, which the Highlanders
had not failed to bring off, supplied him with linen, and to his great
surprise was, with all its undiminished contents, freely resigned to his
use. The bedding of his couch seemed clean and comfortable, and his aged
attendant closed the door of the bed, for it had no curtain, after a few
words of Gaelic, from which Waverley gathered that he exhorted him to
repose. So behold our hero for a second time the patient of a Highland
Esculapius, but in a situation much more uncomfortable than when he was
the guest of the worthy Tomanrait.
The symptomatic fever which accompanied the injuries he had sustained did
not abate till the third day, when it gave way to the care of his
attendants and the strength of his constitution, and he could now raise
himself in his bed, though not without pain. He observed, however, that
there was a great disinclination on the part of the old woman who acted
as his nurse, as well as on that of the elderly Highlander, to permit the
door of the bed to be left open, so that he might amuse himself with
observing their motions; and at length, after Waverley had repeatedly
drawn open and they had as frequently shut the hatchway of his cage, the
old gentleman put an end to the contest by securing it on the outside
with a nail so effectually that the door could not be drawn till this
exterior impediment was removed.
While musing upon the cause of this contradictory spirit in persons whose
conduct intimated no purpose of plunder, and who, in all other points,
appeared to consult his welfare and his wishes, it occurred to our hero
that, during the worst crisis of his illness, a female figure, younger
than his old Highland nurse, had appeared to flit around his couch. Of
this, indeed, he had but a very indistinct recollection, but his
suspicions were confirmed when, attentively listening, he often heard, in
the course of the day, the voice of another female conversing in whispers
with his attendant. Who could it be? And why should she apparently desire
concealment? Fancy immediately aroused herself and turned to Flora
Mac-Ivor. But after a short conflict between his eager desire to believe
she was in his neighbourhood, guarding, like an angel of mercy, the couch
of his sickness, Waverley was compelled to conclude that his conjecture
was altogether improbable; since, to suppose she had left her
comparatively safe situation at Glennaquoich to descend into the Low
Country, now the seat of civil war, and to inhabit such a lurking-place
as this, was a thing hardly to be imagined. Yet his heart bounded as he
sometimes could distinctly hear the trip of a light female step glide to
or from the door of the hut, or the suppressed sounds of a female voice,
of softness and delicacy, hold dialogue with the hoarse inward croak of
old Janet, for so he understood his antiquated attendant was denominated.
Having nothing else to amuse his solitude, he employed himself in
contriving some plan to gratify his curiosity, in despite of the sedulous
caution of Janet and the old Highland janizary, for he had never seen the
young fellow since the first morning. At length, upon accurate
examination, the infirm state of his wooden prison-house appeared to
supply the means of gratifying his curiosity, for out of a spot which was
somewhat decayed he was able to extract a nail. Through this minute
aperture he could perceive a female form, wrapped in a plaid, in the act
of conversing with Janet. But, since the days of our grandmother Eve, the
gratification of inordinate curiosity has generally borne its penalty in
disappointment. The form was not that of Flora, nor was the face visible;
and, to crown his vexation, while he laboured with the nail to enlarge
the hole, that he might obtain a more complete view, a slight noise
betrayed his purpose, and the object of his curiosity instantly
disappeared, nor, so far as he could observe, did she again revisit the
cottage.
All precautions to blockade his view were from that time abandoned, and
he was not only permitted but assisted to rise, and quit what had been,
in a literal sense, his couch of confinement. But he was not allowed to
leave the hut; for the young Highlander had now rejoined his senior, and
one or other was constantly on the watch. Whenever Waverley approached
the cottage door the sentinel upon duty civilly, but resolutely, placed
himself against it and opposed his exit, accompanying his action with
signs which seemed to imply there was danger in the attempt and an enemy
in the neighbourhood. Old Janet appeared anxious and upon the watch; and
Waverley, who had not yet recovered strength enough to attempt to take
his departure in spite of the opposition of his hosts, was under the
necessity of remaining patient. His fare was, in every point of view,
better than he could have conceived, for poultry, and even wine, were no
strangers to his table. The Highlanders never presumed to eat with him,
and, unless in the circumstance of watching him, treated him with great
respect. His sole amusement was gazing from the window, or rather the
shapeless aperture which was meant to answer the purpose of a window,
upon a large and rough brook, which raged and foamed through a rocky
channel, closely canopied with trees and bushes, about ten feet beneath
the site of his house of captivity.
Upon the sixth day of his confinement Waverley found himself so well that
he began to meditate his escape from this dull and miserable
prison-house, thinking any risk which he might incur in the attempt
preferable to the stupefying and intolerable uniformity of Janet’s
retirement. The question indeed occurred, whither he was to direct his
course when again at his own disposal. Two schemes seemed practicable,
yet both attended with danger and difficulty. One was to go back to
Glennaquoich and join Fergus Mac-Ivor, by whom he was sure to be kindly
received; and in the present state of his mind, the rigour with which he
had been treated fully absolved him, in his own eyes, from his allegiance
to the existing government. The other project was to endeavour to attain
a Scottish seaport, and thence to take shipping for England. His mind
wavered between these plans, and probably, if he had effected his escape
in the manner he proposed, he would have been finally determined by the
comparative facility by which either might have been executed. But his
fortune had settled that he was not to be left to his option.
Upon the evening of the seventh day the door of the hut suddenly opened,
and two Highlanders entered, whom Waverley recognised as having been a
part of his original escort to this cottage. They conversed for a short
time with the old man and his companion, and then made Waverley
understand, by very significant signs, that he was to prepare to
accompany them. This was a joyful communication. What had already passed
during his confinement made it evident that no personal injury was
designed to him; and his romantic spirit, having recovered during his
repose much of that elasticity which anxiety, resentment, disappointment,
and the mixture of unpleasant feelings excited by his late adventures had
for a time subjugated, was now wearied with inaction. His passion for the
wonderful, although it is the nature of such dispositions to be excited
by that degree of danger which merely gives dignity to the feeling of the
individual exposed to it, had sunk under the extraordinary and apparently
insurmountable evils by which he appeared environed at Cairnvreckan. In
fact, this compound of intense curiosity and exalted imagination forms a
peculiar species of courage, which somewhat resembles the light usually
carried by a miner--sufficiently competent, indeed, to afford him
guidance and comfort during the ordinary perils of his labour, but
certain to be extinguished should he encounter the more formidable hazard
of earth damps or pestiferous vapours. It was now, however, once more
rekindled, and with a throbbing mixture of hope, awe, and anxiety,
Waverley watched the group before him, as those who were just arrived
snatched a hasty meal, and the others assumed their arms and made brief
preparations for their departure.
As he sat in the smoky hut, at some distance from the fire, around which
the others were crowded, he felt a gentle pressure upon his arm. He
looked round; it was Alice, the daughter of Donald Bean Lean. She showed
him a packet of papers in such a manner that the motion was remarked by
no one else, put her finger for a second to her lips, and passed on, as
if to assist old Janet in packing Waverley’s clothes in his portmanteau.
It was obviously her wish that he should not seem to recognise her, yet
she repeatedly looked back at him, as an opportunity occurred of doing so
unobserved, and when she saw that he remarked what she did, she folded
the packet with great address and speed in one of his shirts, which she
deposited in the portmanteau.
Here then was fresh food for conjecture. Was Alice his unknown warden,
and was this maiden of the cavern the tutelar genius that watched his bed
during his sickness? Was he in the hands of her father? and if so, what
was his purpose? Spoil, his usual object, seemed in this case neglected;
for not only Waverley’s property was restored, but his purse, which might
have tempted this professional plunderer, had been all along suffered to
remain in his possession. All this perhaps the packet might explain; but
it was plain from Alice’s manner that she desired he should consult it in
secret. Nor did she again seek his eye after she had satisfied herself
that her manoeuvre was observed and understood. On the contrary, she
shortly afterwards left the hut, and it was only as she tript out from
the door, that, favoured by the obscurity, she gave Waverley a parting
smile and nod of significance ere she vanished in the dark glen.
The young Highlander was repeatedly despatched by his comrades as if to
collect intelligence. At length, when he had returned for the third or
fourth time, the whole party arose and made signs to our hero to
accompany them. Before his departure, however, he shook hands with old
Janet, who had been so sedulous in his behalf, and added substantial
marks of his gratitude for her attendance.
‘God bless you! God prosper you, Captain Waverley!’ said Janet, in good
Lowland Scotch, though he had never hithero heard her utter a syllable,
save in Gaelic. But the impatience of his attendants prohibited his
asking any explanation.
CHAPTER IX
A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE
There was a moment’s pause when the whole party had got out of the hut;
and the Highlander who assumed the command, and who, in Waverley’s
awakened recollection, seemed to be the same tall figure who had acted as
Donald Bean Lean’s lieutenant, by whispers and signs imposed the
strictest silence. He delivered to Edward a sword and steel pistol, and,
pointing up the track, laid his hand on the hilt of his own claymore, as
if to make him sensible they might have occasion to use force to make
good their passage. He then placed himself at the head of the party, who
moved up the pathway in single or Indian file, Waverley being placed
nearest to their leader. He moved with great precaution, as if to avoid
giving any alarm, and halted as soon as he came to the verge of the
ascent. Waverley was soon sensible of the reason, for he heard at no
great distance an English sentinel call out ‘All’s well.’ The heavy sound
sunk on the night-wind down the woody glen, and was answered by the
echoes of its banks. A second, third, and fourth time the signal was
repeated fainter and fainter, as if at a greater and greater distance. It
was obvious that a party of soldiers were near, and upon their guard,
though not sufficiently so to detect men skilful in every art of
predatory warfare, like those with whom he now watched their ineffectual
precautions.
When these sounds had died upon the silence of the night, the Highlanders
began their march swiftly, yet with the most cautious silence. Waverley
had little time, or indeed disposition, for observation, and could only
discern that they passed at some distance from a large building, in the
windows of which a light or two yet seemed to twinkle. A little farther
on the leading Highlander snuffed the wind like a setting spaniel, and
then made a signal to his party again to halt. He stooped down upon all
fours, wrapped up in his plaid, so as to be scarce distinguishable from
the heathy ground on which he moved, and advanced in this posture to
reconnoitre. In a short time he returned, and dismissed his attendants
excepting one; and, intimating to Waverley that he must imitate his
cautious mode of proceeding, all three crept forward on hands and knees.
After proceeding a greater way in this inconvenient manner than was at
all comfortable to his knees and shins, Waverley perceived the smell of
smoke, which probably had been much sooner distinguished by the more
acute nasal organs of his guide. It proceeded from the corner of a low
and ruinous sheep-fold, the walls of which were made of loose stones, as
is usual in Scotland. Close by this low wall the Highlander guided
Waverley, and, in order probably to make him sensible of his danger, or
perhaps to obtain the full credit of his own dexterity, he intimated to
him, by sign and example, that he might raise his head so as to peep into
the sheep-fold. Waverley did so, and beheld an outpost of four or five
soldiers lying by their watch-fire. They were all asleep except the
sentinel, who paced backwards and forwards with his firelock on his
shoulder, which glanced red in the light of the fire as he crossed and
re-crossed before it in his short walk, casting his eye frequently to
that part of the heavens from which the moon, hitherto obscured by mist,
seemed now about to make her appearance.
In the course of a minute or two, by one of those sudden changes of
atmosphere incident to a mountainous country, a breeze arose and swept
before it the clouds which had covered the horizon, and the night planet
poured her full effulgence upon a wide and blighted heath, skirted indeed
with copse-wood and stunted trees in the quarter from which they had
come, but open and bare to the observation of the sentinel in that to
which their course tended. The wall of the sheep-fold indeed concealed
them as they lay, but any advance beyond its shelter seemed impossible
without certain discovery.
The Highlander eyed the blue vault, but far from blessing the useful
light with Homer’s, or rather Pope’s benighted peasant, he muttered a
Gaelic curse upon the unseasonable splendour of MacFarlane’s buat (i.e.
lantern) [Footnote: See Note 26]. He looked anxiously around for a few
minutes, and then apparently took his resolution. Leaving his attendant
with Waverley, after motioning to Edward to remain quiet, and giving his
comrade directions in a brief whisper, he retreated, favoured by the
irregularity of the ground, in the same direction and in the same manner
as they had advanced. Edward, turning his head after him, could perceive
him crawling on all fours with the dexterity of an Indian, availing
himself of every bush and inequality to escape observation, and never
passing over the more exposed parts of his track until the sentinel’s
back was turned from him. At length he reached the thickets and underwood
which partly covered the moor in that direction, and probably extended to
the verge of the glen where Waverley had been so long an inhabitant. The
Highlander disappeared, but it was only for a few minutes, for he
suddenly issued forth from a different part of the thicket, and,
advancing boldly upon the open heath as if to invite discovery, he
levelled his piece and fired at the sentinel. A wound in the arm proved a
disagreeable interruption to the poor fellow’s meteorological
observations, as well as to the tune of ‘Nancy Dawson,’ which he was
whistling. He returned the fire ineffectually, and his comrades, starting
up at the alarm, advanced alertly towards the spot from which the first
shot had issued. The Highlander, after giving them a full view of his
person, dived among the thickets, for his ruse de guerre had now
perfectly succeeded.
While the soldiers pursued the cause of their disturbance in one
direction, Waverley, adopting the hint of his remaining attendant, made
the best of his speed in that which his guide originally intended to
pursue, and which now (the attention of the soldiers being drawn to a
different quarter) was unobserved and unguarded. When they had run about
a quarter of a mile, the brow of a rising ground which they had
surmounted concealed them from further risk of observation. They still
heard, however, at a distance the shouts of the soldiers as they hallooed
to each other upon the heath, and they could also hear the distant roll
of a drum beating to arms in the same direction. But these hostile sounds
were now far in their rear, and died away upon the breeze as they rapidly
proceeded.
When they had walked about half an hour, still along open and waste
ground of the same description, they came to the stump of an ancient oak,
which, from its relics, appeared to have been at one time a tree of very
large size. In an adjacent hollow they found several Highlanders, with a
horse or two. They had not joined them above a few minutes, which
Waverley’s attendant employed, in all probability, in communicating the
cause of their delay (for the words ‘Duncan Duroch’ were often repeated),
when Duncan himself appeared, out of breath indeed, and with all the
symptoms of having run for his life, but laughing, and in high spirits at
the success of the stratagem by which he had baffled his pursuers. This
indeed Waverley could easily conceive might be a matter of no great
difficulty to the active mountaineer, who was perfectly acquainted with
the ground, and traced his course with a firmness and confidence to which
his pursuers must have been strangers. The alarm which he excited seemed
still to continue, for a dropping shot or two were heard at a great
distance, which seemed to serve as an addition to the mirth of Duncan and
his comrades.
The mountaineer now resumed the arms with which he had entrusted our
hero, giving him to understand that the dangers of the journey were
happily surmounted. Waverley was then mounted upon one of the horses, a
change which the fatigue of the night and his recent illness rendered
exceedingly acceptable. His portmanteau was placed on another pony,
Duncan mounted a third, and they set forward at a round pace, accompanied
by their escort. No other incident marked the course of that night’s
journey, and at the dawn of morning they attained the banks of a rapid
river. The country around was at once fertile and romantic. Steep banks
of wood were broken by corn-fields, which this year presented an abundant
harvest, already in a great measure cut down.
On the opposite bank of the river, and partly surrounded by a winding of
its stream, stood a large and massive castle, the half-ruined turrets of
which were already glittering in the first rays of the sun. [Footnote:
See Note 27.] It was in form an oblong square, of size sufficient to
contain a large court in the centre. The towers at each angle of the
square rose higher than the walls of the building, and were in their turn
surmounted by turrets, differing in height and irregular in shape. Upon
one of these a sentinel watched, whose bonnet and plaid, streaming in the
wind, declared him to be a Highlander, as a broad white ensign, which
floated from another tower, announced that the garrison was held by the
insurgent adherents of the House of Stuart.
Passing hastily through a small and mean town, where their appearance
excited neither surprise nor curiosity in the few peasants whom the
labours of the harvest began to summon from their repose, the party
crossed an ancient and narrow bridge of several arches, and, turning to
the left up an avenue of huge old sycamores, Waverley found himself in
front of the gloomy yet picturesque structure which he had admired at a
distance. A huge iron-grated door, which formed the exterior defence of
the gateway, was already thrown back to receive them; and a second,
heavily constructed of oak and studded thickly with iron nails, being
next opened, admitted them into the interior court-yard. A gentleman,
dressed in the Highland garb and having a white cockade in his bonnet,
assisted Waverley to dismount from his horse, and with much courtesy bid
him welcome to the castle.
The governor, for so we must term him, having conducted Waverley to a
half-ruinous apartment, where, however, there was a small camp-bed, and
having offered him any refreshment which he desired, was then about to
leave him.
‘Will you not add to your civilities,’ said Waverley, after having made
the usual acknowledgment, ‘by having the kindness to inform me where I
am, and whether or not I am to consider myself as a prisoner?’
‘I am not at liberty to be so explicit upon this subject as I could wish.
Briefly, however, you are in the Castle of Doune, in the district of
Menteith, and in no danger whatever.’
‘And how am I assured of that?’
‘By the honour of Donald Stewart, governor of the garrison, and
lieutenant-colonel in the service of his Royal Highness Prince Charles
Edward.’ So saying, he hastily left the apartment, as if to avoid further
discussion.
Exhausted by the fatigues of the night, our hero now threw himself upon
the bed, and was in a few minutes fast asleep.
CHAPTER X
THE JOURNEY IS CONTINUED
Before Waverley awakened from his repose, the day was far advanced, and
he began to feel that he had passed many hours without food. This was
soon supplied in form of a copious breakfast, but Colonel Stewart, as if
wishing to avoid the queries of his guest, did not again present himself.
His compliments were, however, delivered by a servant, with an offer to
provide anything in his power that could be useful to Captain Waverley on
his journey, which he intimated would be continued that evening. To
Waverley’s further inquiries, the servant opposed the impenetrable
barrier of real or affected ignorance and stupidity. He removed the table
and provisions, and Waverley was again consigned to his own meditations.
As he contemplated the strangeness of his fortune, which seemed to
delight in placing him at the disposal of others, without the power of
directing his own motions, Edward’s eye suddenly rested upon his
portmanteau, which had been deposited in his apartment during his sleep.
The mysterious appearance of Alice in the cottage of the glen immediately
rushed upon his mind, and he was about to secure and examine the packet
which she had deposited among his clothes, when the servant of Colonel
Stewart again made his appearance, and took up the portmanteau upon his
shoulders.
‘May I not take out a change of linen, my friend?’
‘Your honour sall get ane o’ the Colonel’s ain ruffled sarks, but this
maun gang in the baggage-cart.’
And so saying, he very coolly carried off the portmanteau, without
waiting further remonstrance, leaving our hero in a state where
disappointment and indignation struggled for the mastery. In a few
minutes he heard a cart rumble out of the rugged court-yard, and made no
doubt that he was now dispossessed, for a space at least, if not for
ever, of the only documents which seemed to promise some light upon the
dubious events which had of late influenced his destiny. With such
melancholy thoughts he had to beguile about four or five hours of
solitude.
When this space was elapsed, the trampling of horse was heard in the
court-yard, and Colonel Stewart soon after made his appearance to request
his guest to take some further refreshment before his departure. The
offer was accepted, for a late breakfast had by no means left our hero
incapable of doing honour to dinner, which was now presented. The
conversation of his host was that of a plain country gentleman, mixed
with some soldier-like sentiments and expressions. He cautiously avoided
any reference to the military operations or civil politics of the time;
and to Waverley’s direct inquiries concerning some of these points
replied, that he was not at liberty to speak upon such topics.
When dinner was finished the governor arose, and, wishing Edward a good
journey, said that, having been informed by Waverley’s servant that his
baggage had been sent forward, he had taken the freedom to supply him
with such changes of linen as he might find necessary till he was again
possessed of his own. With this compliment he disappeared. A servant
acquainted Waverley an instant afterwards that his horse was ready.
Upon this hint he descended into the court-yard, and found a trooper
holding a saddled horse, on which he mounted and sallied from the portal
of Doune Castle, attended by about a score of armed men on horseback.
These had less the appearance of regular soldiers than of individuals who
had suddenly assumed arms from some pressing motive of unexpected
emergency. Their uniform, which was blue and red, an affected imitation
of that of French chasseurs, was in many respects incomplete, and sate
awkwardly upon those who wore it. Waverley’s eye, accustomed to look at a
well-disciplined regiment, could easily discover that the motions and
habits of his escort were not those of trained soldiers, and that,
although expert enough in the management of their horses, their skill was
that of huntsmen or grooms rather than of troopers. The horses were not
trained to the regular pace so necessary to execute simultaneous and
combined movements and formations; nor did they seem bitted (as it is
technically expressed) for the use of the sword. The men, however, were
stout, hardy-looking fellows, and might be individually formidable as
irregular cavalry. The commander of this small party was mounted upon an
excellent hunter, and, although dressed in uniform, his change of apparel
did not prevent Waverley from recognising his old acquaintance, Mr.
Falconer of Balmawhapple.
Now, although the terms upon which Edward had parted with this gentleman
were none of the most friendly, he would have sacrificed every
recollection of their foolish quarrel for the pleasure of enjoying once
more the social intercourse of question and answer, from which he had
been so long secluded. But apparently the remembrance of his defeat by
the Baron of Bradwardine, of which Edward had been the unwilling cause,
still rankled in the mind of the low-bred and yet proud laird. He
carefully avoided giving the least sign of recognition, riding doggedly
at the head of his men, who, though scarce equal in numbers to a
sergeant’s party, were denominated Captain Falconer’s troop, being
preceded by a trumpet, which sounded from time to time, and a standard,
borne by Cornet Falconer, the laird’s younger brother. The lieutenant, an
elderly man, had much the air of a low sportsman and boon companion; an
expression of dry humour predominated in his countenance over features of
a vulgar cast, which indicated habitual intemperance. His cocked hat was
set knowingly upon one side of his head, and while he whistled the ‘Bob
of Dumblain,’ under the influence of half a mutchkin of brandy, he seemed
to trot merrily forward, with a happy indifference to the state of the
country, the conduct of the party, the end of the journey, and all other
sublunary matters whatever.
From this wight, who now and then dropped alongside of his horse,
Waverley hoped to acquire some information, or at least to beguile the
way with talk.
‘A fine evening, sir,’ was Edward’s salutation.
‘Ow, ay, sir! a bra’ night,’ replied the lieutenant, in broad Scotch of
the most vulgar description.
‘And a fine harvest, apparently,’ continued Waverley, following up his
first attack.
‘Ay, the aits will be got bravely in; but the farmers, deil burst them,
and the corn-mongers will make the auld price gude against them as has
horses till keep.’
‘You perhaps act as quartermaster, sir?’
‘Ay, quartermaster, riding-master, and lieutenant,’ answered this officer
of all work. ‘And, to be sure, wha’s fitter to look after the breaking
and the keeping of the poor beasts than mysell, that bought and sold
every ane o’ them?’
‘And pray, sir, if it be not too great a freedom, may I beg to know where
we are going just now?’
‘A fule’s errand, I fear,’ answered this communicative personage.
‘In that case,’ said Waverley, determined not to spare civility, ‘I
should have thought a person of your appearance would not have been found
on the road.’
‘Vera true, vera true, sir,’ replied the officer, ‘but every why has its
wherefore. Ye maun ken, the laird there bought a’ thir beasts frae me to
munt his troop, and agreed to pay for them according to the necessities
and prices of the time. But then he hadna the ready penny, and I hae been
advised his bond will not be worth a boddle against the estate, and then
I had a’ my dealers to settle wi’ at Martinmas; and so, as he very kindly
offered me this commission, and as the auld Fifteen [Footnote: The Judges
of the Supreme Court of Session in Scotland are proverbially termed among
the country people, The Fifteen.] wad never help me to my siller for
sending out naigs against the government, why, conscience! sir, I thought
my best chance for payment was e’en to GAE OUT [Footnote: See Note 28.]
mysell; and ye may judge, sir, as I hae dealt a’ my life in halters, I
think na mickle o’ putting my craig in peril of a Saint John-stone’s
tippet.’
‘You are not, then, by profession a soldier?’ said Waverley.
‘Na, na; thank God,’ answered this doughty partizan, ‘I wasna bred at sae
short a tether, I was brought up to hack and manger. I was bred a
horse-couper, sir; and if I might live to see you at Whitson-tryst, or at
Stagshawbank, or the winter fair at Hawick, and ye wanted a spanker that
would lead the field, I’se be caution I would serve ye easy; for Jamie
Jinker was ne’er the lad to impose upon a gentleman. Ye’re a gentleman,
sir, and should ken a horse’s points; ye see that through--ganging thing
that Balmawhapple’s on; I selled her till him. She was bred out of
Lick-the-ladle, that wan the king’s plate at Caverton-Edge, by Duke
Hamilton’s White-Foot,’ etc., etc., etc.
But as Jinker was entered full sail upon the pedigree of Balmawhapple’s
mare, having already got as far as great-grandsire and great-grand-dam,
and while Waverley was watching for an opportunity to obtain from him
intelligence of more interest, the noble captain checked his horse until
they came up, and then, without directly appearing to notice Edward, said
sternly to the genealogist, ‘I thought, lieutenant, my orders were
preceese, that no one should speak to the prisoner?’
The metamorphosed horse-dealer was silenced of course, and slunk to the
rear, where he consoled himself by entering into a vehement dispute upon
the price of hay with a farmer who had reluctantly followed his laird to
the field rather than give up his farm, whereof the lease had just
expired. Waverley was therefore once more consigned to silence,
foreseeing that further attempts at conversation with any of the party
would only give Balmawhapple a wished-for opportunity to display the
insolence of authority, and the sulky spite of a temper naturally dogged,
and rendered more so by habits of low indulgence and the incense of
servile adulation.
In about two hours’ time the party were near the Castle of Stirling, over
whose battlements the union flag was brightened as it waved in the
evening sun. To shorten his journey, or perhaps to display his importance
and insult the English garrison, Balmawhapple, inclining to the right,
took his route through the royal park, which reaches to and surrounds the
rock upon which the fortress is situated.
With a mind more at ease Waverley could not have failed to admire the
mixture of romance and beauty which renders interesting the scene through
which he was now passing--the field which had been the scene of the
tournaments of old--the rock from which the ladies beheld the contest,
while each made vows for the success of some favourite knight--the towers
of the Gothic church, where these vows might be paid--and, surmounting
all, the fortress itself, at once a castle and palace, where valour
received the prize from royalty, and knights and dames closed the evening
amid the revelry of the dance, the song, and the feast. All these were
objects fitted to arouse and interest a romantic imagination.
But Waverley had other objects of meditation, and an incident soon
occurred of a nature to disturb meditation of any kind. Balmawhapple, in
the pride of his heart, as he wheeled his little body of cavalry round
the base of the Castle, commanded his trumpet to sound a flourish and his
standard to be displayed. This insult produced apparently some sensation;
for when the cavalcade was at such distance from the southern battery as
to admit of a gun being depressed so as to bear upon them, a flash of
fire issued from one of the embrazures upon the rock; and ere the report
with which it was attended could be heard, the rushing sound of a
cannon-ball passed over Balmawhapple’s head, and the bullet, burying
itself in the ground at a few yards’ distance, covered him with the earth
which it drove up. There was no need to bid the party trudge. In fact,
every man, acting upon the impulse of the moment, soon brought Mr.
Jinker’s steeds to show their mettle, and the cavaliers, retreating with
more speed than regularity, never took to a trot, as the lieutenant
afterwards observed, until an intervening eminence had secured them from
any repetition of so undesirable a compliment on the part of Stirling
Castle. I must do Balmawhapple, however, the justice to say that he not
only kept the rear of his troop, and laboured to maintain some order
among them, but, in the height of his gallantry, answered the fire of the
Castle by discharging one of his horse-pistols at the battlements;
although, the distance being nearly half a mile, I could never learn that
this measure of retaliation was attended with any particular effect.
The travellers now passed the memorable field of Bannockburn and reached
the Torwood, a place glorious or terrible to the recollections of the
Scottish peasant, as the feats of Wallace or the cruelties of Wude Willie
Grime predominate in his recollection. At Falkirk, a town formerly famous
in Scottish history, and soon to be again distinguished as the scene of
military events of importance, Balmawhapple proposed to halt and repose
for the evening. This was performed with very little regard to military
discipline, his worthy quarter-master being chiefly solicitous to
discover where the best brandy might be come at. Sentinels were deemed
unnecessary, and the only vigils performed were those of such of the
party as could procure liquor. A few resolute men might easily have cut
off the detachment; but of the inhabitants some were favourable, many
indifferent, and the rest overawed. So nothing memorable occurred in the
course of the evening, except that Waverley’s rest was sorely interrupted
by the revellers hallooing forth their Jacobite songs, without remorse or
mitigation of voice.
Early in the morning they were again mounted and on the road to
Edinburgh, though the pallid visages of some of the troop betrayed that
they had spent a night of sleepless debauchery. They halted at
Linlithgow, distinguished by its ancient palace, which Sixty Years Since
was entire and habitable, and whose venerable ruins, NOT QUITE SIXTY
YEARS SINCE, very narrowly escaped the unworthy fate of being converted
into a barrack for French prisoners. May repose and blessings attend the
ashes of the patriotic statesman who, amongst his last services to
Scotland, interposed to prevent this profanation!
As they approached the metropolis of Scotland, through a champaign and
cultivated country, the sounds of war began to be heard. The distant yet
distinct report of heavy cannon, fired at intervals, apprized Waverley
that the work of destruction was going forward. Even Balmawhapple seemed
moved to take some precautions, by sending an advanced party in front of
his troop, keeping the main body in tolerable order, and moving steadily
forward.
Marching in this manner they speedily reached an eminence, from which
they could view Edinburgh stretching along the ridgy hill which slopes
eastward from the Castle. The latter, being in a state of siege, or
rather of blockade, by the northern insurgents, who had already occupied
the town for two or three days, fired at intervals upon such parties of
Highlanders as exposed themselves, either on the main street or elsewhere
in the vicinity of the fortress. The morning being calm and fair, the
effect of this dropping fire was to invest the Castle in wreaths of
smoke, the edges of which dissipated slowly in the air, while the central
veil was darkened ever and anon by fresh clouds poured forth from the
battlements; the whole giving, by the partial concealment, an appearance
of grandeur and gloom, rendered more terrific when Waverley reflected on
the cause by which it was produced, and that each explosion might ring
some brave man’s knell.
Ere they approached the city the partial cannonade had wholly ceased.
Balmawhapple, however, having in his recollection the unfriendly greeting
which his troop had received from the battery at Stirling, had apparently
no wish to tempt the forbearance of the artillery of the Castle. He
therefore left the direct road, and, sweeping considerably to the
southward so as to keep out of the range of the cannon, approached the
ancient palace of Holyrood without having entered the walls of the city.
He then drew up his men in front of that venerable pile, and delivered
Waverley to the custody of a guard of Highlanders, whose officer
conducted him into the interior of the building.
A long, low, and ill-proportioned gallery, hung with pictures, affirmed
to be the portraits of kings, who, if they ever flourished at all, lived
several hundred years before the invention of painting in oil colours,
served as a sort of guard chamber or vestibule to the apartments which
the adventurous Charles Edward now occupied in the palace of his
ancestors. Officers, both in the Highland and Lowland garb, passed and
repassed in haste, or loitered in the hall as if waiting for orders.
Secretaries were engaged in making out passes, musters, and returns. All
seemed busy, and earnestly intent upon something of importance; but
Waverley was suffered to remain seated in the recess of a window,
unnoticed by any one, in anxious reflection upon the crisis of his fate,
which seemed now rapidly approaching.
CHAPTER XI
AN OLD AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
While he was deep sunk in his reverie, the rustle of tartans was heard
behind him, a friendly arm clasped his shoulders, and a friendly voice
exclaimed,
‘Said the Highland prophet sooth? Or must second-sight go for nothing?’
Waverley turned, and was warmly embraced by Fergus Mac-Ivor. ‘A thousand
welcomes to Holyrood, once more possessed by her legitimate sovereign!
Did I not say we should prosper, and that you would fall into the hands
of the Philistines if you parted from us?’
‘Dear Fergus!’ said Waverley, eagerly returning his greeting. ‘It is long
since I have heard a friend’s voice. Where is Flora?’
‘Safe, and a triumphant spectator of our success.’
‘In this place?’ said Waverley.
‘Ay, in this city at least,’ answered his friend, ‘and you shall see her;
but first you must meet a friend whom you little think of, who has been
frequent in his inquiries after you.’
Thus saying, he dragged Waverley by the arm out of the guard chamber,
and, ere he knew where he was conducted, Edward found himself in a
presence room, fitted up with some attempt at royal state.
A young man, wearing his own fair hair, distinguished by the dignity of
his mien and the noble expression of his well-formed and regular
features, advanced out of a circle of military gentlemen and Highland
chiefs by whom he was surrounded. In his easy and graceful manners
Waverley afterwards thought he could have discovered his high birth and
rank, although the star on his breast and the embroidered garter at his
knee had not appeared as its indications.
‘Let me present to your Royal Highness,’ said Fergus, bowing profoundly--
‘The descendant of one of the most ancient and loyal families in
England,’ said the young Chevalier, interrupting him. ‘I beg your pardon
for interrupting you, my dear Mac-Ivor; but no master of ceremonies is
necessary to present a Waverley to a Stuart.’
Thus saying, he extended his hand to Edward with the utmost courtesy, who
could not, had he desired it, have avoided rendering him the homage which
seemed due to his rank, and was certainly the right of his birth. ‘I am
sorry to understand, Mr. Waverley, that, owing to circumstances which
have been as yet but ill explained, you have suffered some restraint
among my followers in Perthshire and on your march here; but we are in
such a situation that we hardly know our friends, and I am even at this
moment uncertain whether I can have the pleasure of considering Mr.
Waverley as among mine.’
He then paused for an instant; but before Edward could adjust a suitable
reply, or even arrange his ideas as to its purport, the Prince took out a
paper and then proceeded:--‘I should indeed have no doubts upon this
subject if I could trust to this proclamation, set forth by the friends
of the Elector of Hanover, in which they rank Mr. Waverley among the
nobility and gentry who are menaced with the pains of high-treason for
loyalty to their legitimate sovereign. But I desire to gain no adherents
save from affection and conviction; and if Mr. Waverley inclines to
prosecute his journey to the south, or to join the forces of the Elector,
he shall have my passport and free permission to do so; and I can only
regret that my present power will not extend to protect him against the
probable consequences of such a measure. But,’ continued Charles Edward,
after another short pause, ‘if Mr. Waverley should, like his ancestor,
Sir Nigel, determine to embrace a cause which has little to recommend it
but its justice, and follow a prince who throws himself upon the
affections of his people to recover the throne of his ancestors or perish
in the attempt, I can only say, that among these nobles and gentlemen he
will find worthy associates in a gallant enterprise, and will follow a
master who may be unfortunate, but, I trust, will never be ungrateful.’
The politic Chieftain of the race of Ivor knew his advantage in
introducing Waverley to this personal interview with the royal
adventurer. Unaccustomed to the address and manners of a polished court,
in which Charles was eminently skilful, his words and his kindness
penetrated the heart of our hero, and easily outweighed all prudential
motives. To be thus personally solicited for assistance by a prince whose
form and manners, as well as the spirit which he displayed in this
singular enterprise, answered his ideas of a hero of romance; to be
courted by him in the ancient halls of his paternal palace, recovered by
the sword which he was already bending towards other conquests, gave
Edward, in his own eyes, the dignity and importance which he had ceased
to consider as his attributes. Rejected, slandered, and threatened upon
the one side, he was irresistibly attracted to the cause which the
prejudices of education and the political principles of his family had
already recommended as the most just. These thoughts rushed through his
mind like a torrent, sweeping before them every consideration of an
opposite tendency,--the time, besides, admitted of no deliberation,--and
Waverley, kneeling to Charles Edward, devoted his heart and sword to the
vindication of his rights!
The Prince (for, although unfortunate in the faults and follies of his
forefathers, we shall here and elsewhere give him the title due to his
birth) raised Waverley from the ground and embraced him with an
expression of thanks too warm not to be genuine. He also thanked Fergus
Mac-Ivor repeatedly for having brought him such an adherent, and
presented Waverley to the various noblemen, chieftains, and officers who
were about his person as a young gentleman of the highest hopes and
prospects, in whose bold and enthusiastic avowal of his cause they might
see an evidence of the sentiments of the English families of rank at this
important crisis. [Footnote: See Note 29.] Indeed, this was a point much
doubted among the adherents of the house of Stuart; and as a well-founded
disbelief in the cooperation of the English Jacobites kept many Scottish
men of rank from his standard, and diminished the courage of those who
had joined it, nothing could be more seasonable for the Chevalier than
the open declaration in his favour of the representative of the house of
Waverley-Honour, so long known as Cavaliers and Royalists. This Fergus
had foreseen from the beginning. He really loved Waverley, because their
feelings and projects never thwarted each other; he hoped to see him
united with Flora, and he rejoiced that they were effectually engaged in
the same cause. But, as we before hinted, he also exulted as a politician
in beholding secured to his party a partizan of such consequence; and he
was far from being insensible to the personal importance which he himself
gained with the Prince from having so materially assisted in making the
acquisition.
Charles Edward, on his part, seemed eager to show his attendants the
value which he attached to his new adherent, by entering immediately, as
in confidence, upon the circumstances of his situation. ‘You have been
secluded so much from intelligence, Mr. Waverley, from causes of which I
am but indistinctly informed, that I presume you are even yet
unacquainted with the important particulars of my present situation. You
have, however, heard of my landing in the remote district of Moidart,
with only seven attendants, and of the numerous chiefs and clans whose
loyal enthusiasm at once placed a solitary adventurer at the head of a
gallant army. You must also, I think, have learned that the
commander-in-chief of the Hanoverian Elector, Sir John Cope, marched into
the Highlands at the head of a numerous and well-appointed military force
with the intention of giving us battle, but that his courage failed him
when we were within three hours’ march of each other, so that he fairly
gave us the slip and marched northward to Aberdeen, leaving the Low
Country open and undefended. Not to lose so favourable an opportunity, I
marched on to this metropolis, driving before me two regiments of horse,
Gardiner’s and Hamilton’s, who had threatened to cut to pieces every
Highlander that should venture to pass Stirling; and while discussions
were carrying forward among the magistracy and citizens of Edinburgh
whether they should defend themselves or surrender, my good friend
Lochiel (laying his hand on the shoulder of that gallant and accomplished
chieftain) saved them the trouble of farther deliberation by entering the
gates with five hundred Camerons. Thus far, therefore, we have done well;
but, in the meanwhile, this doughty general’s nerves being braced by the
keen air of Aberdeen, he has taken shipping for Dunbar, and I have just
received certain information that he landed there yesterday. His purpose
must unquestionably be to march towards us to recover possession of the
capital. Now there are two opinions in my council of war: one, that being
inferior probably in numbers, and certainly in discipline and military
appointments, not to mention our total want of artillery and the weakness
of our cavalry, it will be safest to fall back towards the mountains, and
there protract the war until fresh succours arrive from France, and the
whole body of the Highland clans shall have taken arms in our favour. The
opposite opinion maintains, that a retrograde movement, in our
circumstances, is certain to throw utter discredit on our arms and
undertaking; and, far from gaining us new partizans, will be the means of
disheartening those who have joined our standard. The officers who use
these last arguments, among whom is your friend Fergus Mac-Ivor, maintain
that, if the Highlanders are strangers to the usual military discipline
of Europe, the soldiers whom they are to encounter are no less strangers
to their peculiar and formidable mode of attack; that the attachment and
courage of the chiefs and gentlemen are not to be doubted; and that, as
they will be in the midst of the enemy, their clansmen will as surely
follow them; in fine, that having drawn the sword we should throw away
the scabbard, and trust our cause to battle and to the God of battles.
Will Mr. Waverley favour us with his opinion in these arduous
circumstances?’
Waverley coloured high betwixt pleasure and modesty at the distinction
implied in this question, and answered, with equal spirit and readiness,
that he could not venture to offer an opinion as derived from military
skill, but that the counsel would be far the most acceptable to him which
should first afford him an opportunity to evince his zeal in his Royal
Highness’s service.
‘Spoken like a Waverley!’ answered Charles Edward; ‘and that you may hold
a rank in some degree corresponding to your name, allow me, instead of
the captain’s commission which you have lost, to offer you the brevet
rank of major in my service, with the advantage of acting as one of my
aides-de-camp until you can be attached to a regiment, of which I hope
several will be speedily embodied.’
‘Your Royal Highness will forgive me,’ answered Waverley (for his
recollection turned to Balmawhapple and his scanty troop), ‘if I decline
accepting any rank until the time and place where I may have interest
enough to raise a sufficient body of men to make my command useful to
your Royal Highness’s service. In the meanwhile, I hope for your
permission to serve as a volunteer under my friend Fergus Mac-Ivor.’
‘At least,’ said the Prince, who was obviously pleased with this
proposal, ‘allow me the pleasure of arming you after the Highland
fashion.’ With these words, he unbuckled the broadsword which he wore,
the belt of which was plaited with silver, and the steel basket-hilt
richly and curiously inlaid. ‘The blade,’ said the Prince, ‘is a genuine
Andrea Ferrara; it has been a sort of heirloom in our family; but I am
convinced I put it into better hands than my own, and will add to it
pistols of the same workmanship. Colonel Mac-Ivor, you must have much to
say to your friend; I will detain you no longer from your private
conversation; but remember we expect you both to attend us in the
evening. It may be perhaps the last night we may enjoy in these halls,
and as we go to the field with a clear conscience, we will spend the eve
of battle merrily.’
Thus licensed, the Chief and Waverley left the presence-chamber.
CHAPTER XII
THE MYSTERY BEGINS TO BE CLEARED UP
‘How do you like him?’ was Fergus’s first question, as they descended the
large stone staircase.
‘A prince to live and die under’ was Waverley’s enthusiastic answer.
‘I knew you would think so when you saw him, and I intended you should
have met earlier, but was prevented by your sprain. And yet he has his
foibles, or rather he has difficult cards to play, and his Irish
officers, [Footnote: See Note 30.] who are much about him, are but sorry
advisers: they cannot discriminate among the numerous pretensions that
are set up. Would you think it--I have been obliged for the present to
suppress an earl’s patent, granted for services rendered ten years ago,
for fear of exciting the jealousy, forsooth, of C----and M----? But you
were very right, Edward, to refuse the situation of aide-de-camp. There
are two vacant, indeed, but Clanronald and Lochiel, and almost all of us,
have requested one for young Aberchallader, and the Lowlanders and the
Irish party are equally desirous to have the other for the master of F--.
Now, if either of these candidates were to be superseded in your favour,
you would make enemies. And then I am surprised that the Prince should
have offered you a majority, when he knows very well that nothing short
of lieutenant-colonel will satisfy others, who cannot bring one hundred
and fifty men to the field. “But patience, cousin, and shuffle the
cards!” It is all very well for the present, and we must have you
properly equipped for the evening in your new costume; for, to say truth,
your outward man is scarce fit for a court.’
‘Why,’ said Waverley, looking at his soiled dress, ‘my shooting jacket has
seen service since we parted; but that probably you, my friend, know as
well or better than I.’
‘You do my second-sight too much honour,’ said Fergus. ‘We were so busy,
first with the scheme of giving battle to Cope, and afterwards with our
operations in the Lowlands, that I could only give general directions to
such of our people as were left in Perthshire to respect and protect you,
should you come in their way. But let me hear the full story of your
adventures, for they have reached us in a very partial and mutilated
manner.’
Waverley then detailed at length the circumstances with which the reader
is already acquainted, to which Fergus listened with great attention. By
this time they had reached the door of his quarters, which he had taken
up in a small paved court, retiring from the street called the Canongate,
at the house of a buxom widow of forty, who seemed to smile very
graciously upon the handsome young Chief, she being a person with whom
good looks and good-humour were sure to secure an interest, whatever
might be the party’s “political opinions”. Here Callum Beg received them
with a smile of recognition. ‘Callum,’ said the Chief, ‘call Shemus an
Snachad’ (James of the Needle). This was the hereditary tailor of Vich
lan Vohr. ‘Shemus, Mr. Waverley is to wear the cath dath (battle colour,
or tartan); his trews must be ready in four hours. You know the measure
of a well-made man--two double nails to the small of the leg--’
‘Eleven from haunch to heel, seven round the waist. I give your honour
leave to hang Shemus, if there’s a pair of sheers in the Highlands that
has a baulder sneck than her’s ain at the cumadh an truais’ (shape of the
trews).
‘Get a plaid of Mac-Ivor tartan and sash,’ continued the Chieftain, ‘and
a blue bonnet of the Prince’s pattern, at Mr. Mouat’s in the Crames. My
short green coat, with silver lace and silver buttons, will fit him
exactly, and I have never worn it. Tell Ensign Maccombich to pick out a
handsome target from among mine. The Prince has given Mr. Waverley
broadsword and pistols, I will furnish him with a dirk and purse; add but
a pair of low-heeled shoes, and then, my dear Edward (turning to him),
you will be a complete son of Ivor.’
These necessary directions given, the Chieftain resumed the subject of
Waverley’s adventures. ‘It is plain,’ he said, ‘that you have been in the
custody of Donald Bean Lean. You must know that, when I marched away my
clan to join the Prince, I laid my injunctions on that worthy member of
society to perform a certain piece of service, which done, he was to join
me with all the force he could muster. But, instead of doing so, the
gentleman, finding the coast clear, thought it better to make war on his
own account, and has scoured the country, plundering, I believe, both
friend and foe, under pretence of levying blackmail, sometimes as if by
my authority, and sometimes (and be cursed to his consummate impudence)
in his own great name! Upon my honour, if I live to see the cairn of
Benmore again, I shall be tempted to hang that fellow! I recognise his
hand particularly in the mode of your rescue from that canting rascal
Gilfillan, and I have little doubt that Donald himself played the part of
the pedlar on that occasion; but how he should not have plundered you, or
put you to ransom, or availed himself in some way or other of your
captivity for his own advantage, passes my judgment.’
‘When and how did you hear the intelligence of my confinement?’ asked
Waverley.
‘The Prince himself told me,’ said Fergus, ‘and inquired very minutely
into your history. He then mentioned your being at that moment in the
power of one of our northern parties--you know I could not ask him to
explain particulars--and requested my opinion about disposing of you. I
recommended that you should be brought here as a prisoner, because I did
not wish to prejudice you farther with the English government, in case
you pursued your purpose of going southward. I knew nothing, you must
recollect, of the charge brought against you of aiding and abetting high
treason, which, I presume, had some share in changing your original plan.
That sullen, good-for-nothing brute, Balmawhapple, was sent to escort you
from Doune, with what he calls his troop of horse. As to his behaviour,
in addition to his natural antipathy to everything that resembles a
gentleman, I presume his adventure with Bradwardine rankles in his
recollection, the rather that I daresay his mode of telling that story
contributed to the evil reports which reached your quondam regiment.’
‘Very likely,’ said Waverley; ‘but now surely, my dear Fergus, you may
find time to tell me something of Flora.’
‘Why,’ replied Fergus, ‘I can only tell you that she is well, and
residing for the present with a relation in this city. I thought it
better she should come here, as since our success a good many ladies of
rank attend our military court; and I assure you that there is a sort of
consequence annexed to the near relative of such a person as Flora
Mac-Ivor, and where there is such a justling of claims and requests, a
man must use every fair means to enhance his importance.’
There was something in this last sentence which grated on Waverley’s
feelings. He could not bear that Flora should be considered as conducing
to her brother’s preferment by the admiration which she must
unquestionably attract; and although it was in strict correspondence with
many points of Fergus’s character, it shocked him as selfish, and
unworthy of his sister’s high mind and his own independent pride. Fergus,
to whom such manoeuvres were familiar, as to one brought up at the French
court, did not observe the unfavourable impression which he had unwarily
made upon his friend’s mind, and concluded by saying,’ that they could
hardly see Flora before the evening, when she would be at the concert and
ball with which the Prince’s party were to be entertained. She and I had
a quarrel about her not appearing to take leave of you. I am unwilling to
renew it by soliciting her to receive you this morning; and perhaps my
doing so might not only be ineffectual, but prevent your meeting this
evening.’
While thus conversing, Waverley heard in the court, before the windows of
the parlour, a well-known voice. ‘I aver to you, my worthy friend,’ said
the speaker, ‘that it is a total dereliction of military discipline; and
were you not as it were a tyro, your purpose would deserve strong
reprobation. For a prisoner of war is on no account to be coerced with
fetters, or debinded in ergastulo, as would have been the case had you
put this gentleman into the pit of the peel-house at Balmawhapple. I
grant, indeed, that such a prisoner may for security be coerced in
carcere, that is, in a public prison.’
The growling voice of Balmawhapple was heard as taking leave in
displeasure, but the word ‘land-louper’ alone was distinctly audible. He
had disappeared before Waverley reached the house in order to greet the
worthy Baron of Bradwardine. The uniform in which he was now attired, a
blue coat, namely, with gold lace, a scarlet waistcoat and breeches, and
immense jack-boots, seemed to have added fresh stiffness and rigidity to
his tall, perpendicular figure; and the consciousness of military command
and authority had increased, in the same proportion, the self-importance
of his demeanour and the dogmatism of his conversation.
He received Waverley with his usual kindness, and expressed immediate
anxiety to hear an explanation of the circumstances attending the loss of
his commission in Gardiner’s dragoons; ‘not,’ he said, ‘that he had the
least apprehension of his young friend having done aught which could
merit such ungenerous treatment as he had received from government, but
because it was right and seemly that the Baron of Bradwardine should be,
in point of trust and in point of power, fully able to refute all
calumnies against the heir of Waverley-Honour, whom he had so much right
to regard as his own son.’
Fergus Mac-Ivor, who had now joined them, went hastily over the
circumstances of Waverley’s story, and concluded with the flattering
reception he had met from the young Chevalier. The Baron listened in
silence, and at the conclusion shook Waverley heartily by the hand and
congratulated him upon entering the service of his lawful Prince. ‘For,’
continued he, ‘although it has been justly held in all nations a matter
of scandal and dishonour to infringe the sacramentum militare, and that
whether it was taken by each soldier singly, whilk the Romans denominated
per conjurationem, or by one soldier in name of the rest, yet no one ever
doubted that the allegiance so sworn was discharged by the dimissio, or
discharging of a soldier, whose case would be as hard as that of
colliers, salters, and other adscripti glebes, or slaves of the soil,
were it to be accounted otherwise. This is something like the brocard
expressed by the learned Sanchez in his work “De Jure-jurando” which you
have questionless consulted upon this occasion. As for those who have
calumniated you by leasing-making, I protest to Heaven I think they have
justly incurred the penalty of the “Memnonia Lex,” also called “Lex
Rhemnia,” which is prelected upon by Tullius in his oration “In Verrem.”
I should have deemed, however, Mr. Waverley, that before destining
yourself to any special service in the army of the Prince, ye might have
inquired what rank the old Bradwardine held there, and whether he would
not have been peculiarly happy to have had your services in the regiment
of horse which he is now about to levy.’ Edward eluded this reproach by
pleading the necessity of giving an immediate answer to the Prince’s
proposal, and his uncertainty at the moment whether his friend the Baron
was with the army or engaged upon service elsewhere.
This punctilio being settled, Waverley made inquiry after Miss
Bradwardine, and was informed she had come to Edinburgh with Flora
Mac-Ivor, under guard of a party of the Chieftain’s men. This step was
indeed necessary, Tully-Veolan having become a very unpleasant, and even
dangerous, place of residence for an unprotected young lady, on account
of its vicinity to the Highlands, and also to one or two large villages
which, from aversion as much to the caterans as zeal for presbytery, had
declared themselves on the side of government, and formed irregular
bodies of partizans, who had frequent skirmishes with the mountaineers,
and sometimes attacked the houses of the Jacobite gentry in the braes, or
frontier betwixt the mountain and plain.
‘I would propose to you,’ continued the Baron, ‘to walk as far as my
quarters in the Luckenbooths, and to admire in your passage the High
Street, whilk is, beyond a shadow of dubitation, finer than any street
whether in London or Paris. But Rose, poor thing, is sorely discomposed
with the firing of the Castle, though I have proved to her from Blondel
and Coehorn, that it is impossible a bullet can reach these buildings;
and, besides, I have it in charge from his Royal Highness to go to the
camp, or leaguer of our army, to see that the men do condamare vasa, that
is, truss up their bag and baggage for tomorrow’s march.’
‘That will be easily done by most of us,’ said Mac-Ivor, laughing.
‘Craving your pardon, Colonel Mac-Ivor, not quite so easily as ye seem to
opine. I grant most of your folk left the Highlands expedited as it were,
and free from the incumbrance of baggage; but it is unspeakable the
quantity of useless sprechery which they have collected on their march. I
saw one fellow of yours (craving your pardon once more) with a pier-glass
upon his back.’
‘Ay,’ said Fergus, still in good-humour, ‘he would have told you, if you
had questioned him, “a ganging foot is aye getting.” But come, my dear
Baron, you know as well as I that a hundred Uhlans, or a single troop of
Schmirschitz’s Pandours, would make more havoc in a country than the
knight of the mirror and all the rest of our clans put together.’
‘And that is very true likewise,’ replied the Baron; ‘they are, as the
heathen author says, ferociores in aspectu, mitiores in actu, of a horrid
and grim visage, but more benign in demeanour than their physiognomy or
aspect might infer. But I stand here talking to you two youngsters when I
should be in the King’s Park.’
‘But you will dine with Waverley and me on your return? I assure you,
Baron, though I can live like a Highlander when needs must, I remember my
Paris education, and understand perfectly faire la meilleure chere.’
‘And wha the deil doubts it,’ quoth the Baron, laughing, ‘when ye bring
only the cookery and the gude toun must furnish the materials? Weel, I
have some business in the toun too; but I’ll join you at three, if the
vivers can tarry so long.’
So saying, he took leave of his friends and went to look after the charge
which had been assigned him.
CHAPTER XIII
A SOLDIER’S DINNER
James of the Needle was a man of his word when whisky was no party to the
contract; and upon this occasion Callum Beg, who still thought himself in
Waverley’s debt, since he had declined accepting compensation at the
expense of mine host of the Candlestick’s person, took the opportunity of
discharging the obligation, by mounting guard over the hereditary tailor
of Sliochd nan Ivor; and, as he expressed himself, ‘targed him tightly’
till the finishing of the job. To rid himself of this restraint, Shemus’s
needle flew through the tartan like lightning; and as the artist kept
chanting some dreadful skirmish of Fin Macoul, he accomplished at least
three stitches to the death of every hero. The dress was, therefore, soon
ready, for the short coat fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel
required little adjustment.
Our hero having now fairly assumed the ‘garb of old Gaul,’ well
calculated as it was to give an appearance of strength to a figure which,
though tall and well-made, was rather elegant than robust, I hope my fair
readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the mirror more than
once, and could not help acknowledging that the reflection seemed that of
a very handsome young fellow. In fact, there was no disguising it. His
light-brown hair--for he wore no periwig, notwithstanding the universal
fashion of the time--became the bonnet which surmounted it. His person
promised firmness and agility, to which the ample folds of the tartan
added an air of dignity. His blue eye seemed of that kind,
Which melted in love, and which kindled in war;
and an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of
habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features,
without injuring their grace or intelligence.
‘He’s a pratty man, a very pratty man,’ said Evan Dhu (now Ensign
Maccombich) to Fergus’s buxom landlady.
‘He’s vera weel,’ said the Widow Flockhart, ‘but no naething sae
weel-far’d as your colonel, ensign.’
‘I wasna comparing them,’ quoth Evan, ‘nor was I speaking about his being
weel-favoured; but only that Mr. Waverley looks clean-made and deliver,
and like a proper lad o’ his quarters, that will not cry barley in a
brulzie. And, indeed, he’s gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target. I
hae played wi’ him mysell at Glennaquoich, and sae has Vich lan Vohr,
often of a Sunday afternoon.’
‘Lord forgie ye, Ensign Maccombich,’ said the alarmed Presbyterian; ‘I’m
sure the colonel wad never do the like o’ that!’
‘Hout! hout! Mrs. Flockhart,’ replied the ensign, ‘we’re young blude, ye
ken; and young saints, auld deils.’
‘But will ye fight wi’ Sir John Cope the morn, Ensign Maccombich?’
demanded Mrs. Flockhart of her guest.
‘Troth I’se ensure him, an he’ll bide us, Mrs. Flockhart,’ replied the
Gael.
‘And will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, Ensign Maccombich?’
again inquired the landlady.
‘Claw for claw, as Conan said to Satan, Mrs. Flockhart, and the deevil
tak the shortest nails.’
‘And will the colonel venture on the bagganets himsell?’
‘Ye may swear it, Mrs. Flockhart; the very first man will he be, by Saint
Phedar.’
‘Merciful goodness! and if he’s killed amang the redcoats!’ exclaimed the
soft-hearted widow.
‘Troth, if it should sae befall, Mrs. Flockhart, I ken ane that will no
be living to weep for him. But we maun a’ live the day, and have our
dinner; and there’s Vich lan Vohr has packed his dorlach, and Mr.
Waverley’s wearied wi’ majoring yonder afore the muckle pier-glass; and
that grey auld stoor carle, the Baron o’ Bradwardine that shot young
Ronald of Ballenkeiroch, he’s coming down the close wi’ that droghling
coghling bailie body they ca’ Macwhupple, just like the Laird o’
Kittlegab’s French cook, wi’ his turnspit doggie trindling ahint him, and
I am as hungry as a gled, my bonny dow; sae bid Kate set on the broo’,
and do ye put on your pinners, for ye ken Vich lan Vohr winna sit down
till ye be at the head o’ the table;--and dinna forget the pint bottle o’
brandy, my woman.’
This hint produced dinner. Mrs. Flockhart, smiling in her weeds like the
sun through a mist, took the head of the table, thinking within herself,
perhaps, that she cared not how long the rebellion lasted that brought
her into company so much above her usual associates. She was supported by
Waverley and the Baron, with the advantage of the Chieftain vis-a-vis.
The men of peace and of war, that is, Bailie Macwheeble and Ensign
Maccombich, after many profound conges to their superiors and each other,
took their places on each side of the Chieftain. Their fare was
excellent, time, place, and circumstances considered, and Fergus’s
spirits were extravagantly high. Regardless of danger, and sanguine from
temper, youth, and ambition, he saw in imagination all his prospects
crowned with success, and was totally indifferent to the probable
alternative of a soldier’s grave. The Baron apologized slightly for
bringing Macwheeble. They had been providing, he said, for the expenses
of the campaign. ‘And, by my faith,’ said the old man, ‘as I think this
will be my last, so I just end where I began: I hae evermore found the
sinews of war, as a learned author calls the caisse militaire, mair
difficult to come by than either its flesh, blood, or bones.’
‘What! have you raised our only efficient body of cavalry and got ye none
of the louis-d’or out of the Doutelle [Footnote: The Doutelle was an
armed vessel which brought a small supply of money and arms from France
for the use of the insurgents.] to help you?’
‘No, Glennaquoich; cleverer fellows have been before me.’
‘That’s a scandal,’ said the young Highlander; ‘but you will share what
is left of my subsidy; it will save you an anxious thought tonight, and
will be all one tomorrow, for we shall all be provided for, one way or
other, before the sun sets.’ Waverley, blushing deeply, but with great
earnestness, pressed the same request.
‘I thank ye baith, my good lads,’ said the Baron, ‘but I will not
infringe upon your peculium. Bailie Macwheeble has provided the sum which
is necessary.’
Here the Bailie shifted and fidgeted about in his seat, and appeared
extremely uneasy. At length, after several preliminary hems, and much
tautological expression of his devotion to his honour’s service, by night
or day, living or dead, he began to insinuate, ‘that the banks had
removed a’ their ready cash into the Castle; that, nae doubt, Sandie
Goldie, the silversmith, would do mickle for his honour; but there was
little time to get the wadset made out; and, doubtless, if his honour
Glennaquoich or Mr. Wauverley could accommodate--’
‘Let me hear of no such nonsense, sir,’ said the Baron, in a tone which
rendered Macwheeble mute, ‘but proceed as we accorded before dinner, if
it be your wish to remain in my service.’
To this peremptory order the Bailie, though he felt as if condemned to
suffer a transfusion of blood from his own veins into those of the Baron,
did not presume to make any reply. After fidgeting a little while longer,
however, he addressed himself to Glennaquoich, and told him, if his
honour had mair ready siller than was sufficient for his occasions in the
field, he could put it out at use for his honour in safe hands and at
great profit at this time.
At this proposal Fergus laughed heartily, and answered, when he had
recovered his breath--‘Many thanks, Bailie; but you must know, it is a
general custom among us soldiers to make our landlady our banker. Here,
Mrs. Flockhart,’ said he, taking four or five broad pieces out of a
well-filled purse and tossing the purse itself, with its remaining
contents, into her apron, ‘these will serve my occasions; do you take the
rest. Be my banker if I live, and my executor if I die; but take care to
give something to the Highland cailliachs [Footnote: Old women, on whom
devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead, which the Irish call
keening.] that shall cry the coronach loudest for the last Vich lan
Vohr.’
‘It is the testamentum militare,’ quoth the Baron, ‘whilk, amang the
Romans, was privilegiate to be nuncupative.’ But the soft heart of Mrs.
Flockhart was melted within her at the Chieftain’s speech; she set up a
lamentable blubbering, and positively refused to touch the bequest, which
Fergus was therefore obliged to resume.
‘Well, then,’ said the Chief, ‘if I fall, it will go to the grenadier
that knocks my brains out, and I shall take care he works hard for it.’
Bailie Macwheeble was again tempted to put in his oar; for where cash was
concerned he did not willingly remain silent. ‘Perhaps he had better
carry the gowd to Miss Mac-Ivor, in case of mortality or accidents of
war. It might tak the form of a mortis causa donation in the young
leddie’s favour, and--wad cost but the scrape of a pen to mak it out.’
‘The young lady,’ said Fergus, ‘should such an event happen, will have
other matters to think of than these wretched louis-d’or.’
‘True--undeniable--there’s nae doubt o’ that; but your honour kens that a
full sorrow--’
‘Is endurable by most folk more easily than a hungry one? True, Bailie,
very true; and I believe there may even be some who would be consoled by
such a reflection for the loss of the whole existing generation. But
there is a sorrow which knows neither hunger nor thirst; and poor
Flora--’ He paused, and the whole company sympathised in his emotion.
The Baron’s thoughts naturally reverted to the unprotected state of his
daughter, and the big tear came to the veteran’s eye. ‘If I fall,
Macwheeble, you have all my papers and know all my affairs; be just to
Rose.’
The Bailie was a man of earthly mould, after all; a good deal of dirt and
dross about him, undoubtedly, but some kindly and just feelings he had,
especially where the Baron or his young mistress were concerned. He set
up a lamentable howl. ‘If that doleful day should come, while Duncan
Macwheeble had a boddle it should be Miss Rose’s. He wald scroll for a
plack the sheet or she kenn’d what it was to want; if indeed a’ the
bonnie baronie o’ Bradwardine and Tully-Veolan, with the fortalice and
manor-place thereof (he kept sobbing and whining at every pause), tofts,
crofts, mosses, muirs--outfield, infield--buildings--orchards--dove-
cots--with the right of net and coble in the water and loch of Veolan--
teinds, parsonage and vicarage--annexis, connexis--rights of pasturage--
feul, feal and divot--parts, pendicles, and pertinents whatsoever--(here
he had recourse to the end of his long cravat to wipe his eyes, which
overflowed, in spite of him, at the ideas which this technical jargon
conjured up)--all as more fully described in the proper evidents and
titles thereof--and lying within the parish of Bradwardine and the shire
of Perth--if, as aforesaid, they must a’ pass from my master’s child to
Inch-Grabbit, wha’s a Whig and a Hanoverian, and be managed by his doer,
Jamie Howie, wha’s no fit to be a birlieman, let be a bailie--’
The beginning of this lamentation really had something affecting, but the
conclusion rendered laughter irresistible. ‘Never mind, Bailie,’ said
Ensign Maccombich, ‘for the gude auld times of rugging and riving
(pulling and tearing) are come back again, an’ Sneckus Mac-Snackus
(meaning, probably, annexis, connexis), and a’ the rest of your friends,
maun gie place to the langest claymore.’
‘And that claymore shall be ours, Bailie,’ said the Chieftain, who saw
that Macwheeble looked very blank at this intimation.
‘We’ll give them the metal our mountain affords,
Lillibulero, bullen a la,
And in place of broad-pieces, we’ll pay with broadswords,
Lero, lero, etc.
With duns and with debts we will soon clear our score,
Lillibulero, etc.
For the man that’s thus paid will crave payment no more,
Lero, lero, etc.
[Footnote: These lines, or something like them, occur in an old magazine
of the period.]
But come, Bailie, be not cast down; drink your wine with a joyous heart;
the Baron shall return safe and victorious to Tully-Veolan, and unite
Killancureit’s lairdship with his own, since the cowardly half-bred swine
will not turn out for the Prince like a gentleman.’
‘To be sure, they lie maist ewest,’ said the Bailie, wiping his eyes,
‘and should naturally fa’ under the same factory.’
‘And I,’ proceeded the Chieftain,‘shall take care of myself, too; for you
must know, I have to complete a good work here, by bringing Mrs.
Flockhart into the bosom of the Catholic church, or at least half way,
and that is to your Episcopal meeting-house. O Baron! if you heard her
fine counter-tenor admonishing Kate and Matty in the morning, you, who
understand music, would tremble at the idea of hearing her shriek in the
psalmody of Haddo’s Hole.’
‘Lord forgie you, colonel, how ye rin on! But I hope your honours will
tak tea before ye gang to the palace, and I maun gang and mask it for
you.’
So saying, Mrs. Flockhart left the gentlemen to their own conversation,
which, as might be supposed, turned chiefly upon the approaching events
of the campaign.
CHAPTER XIV
THE BALL
Ensign MacCombich having gone to the Highland camp upon duty, and Bailie
Macwheeble having retired to digest his dinner and Evan Dhu’s intimation
of martial law in some blind change-house, Waverley, with the Baron and
the Chieftain, proceeded to Holyrood House. The two last were in full
tide of spirits, and the Baron rallied in his way our hero upon the
handsome figure which his new dress displayed to advantage. ‘If you have
any design upon the heart of a bonny Scotch lassie, I would premonish
you, when you address her, to remember and quote the words of
Virgilius:--
Nunc insanus amor duri me Martis in armis,
Tela inter media atque adversos detinet hostes;
whilk verses Robertson of Struan, Chief of the Clan Donnochy (unless the
claims of Lude ought to be preferred primo loco), has thus elegantly
rendered:--
For cruel love had gartan’d low my leg,
And clad my hurdies in a philabeg.
Although, indeed, ye wear the trews, a garment whilk I approve maist of
the twa, as mair ancient and seemly.’ ‘Or rather,’ said Fergus, ‘hear my
song:--
She wadna hae a Lowland laird,
Nor be an English lady;
But she’s away with Duncan Grame,
And he’s row’d her in his plaidy.’
By this time they reached the palace of Holyrood, and were announced
respectively as they entered the apartments.
It is but too well known how many gentlemen of rank, education, and
fortune took a concern in the ill-fated and desperate undertaking of
1745. The ladies, also, of Scotland very generally espoused the cause of
the gallant and handsome young Prince, who threw himself upon the mercy
of his countrymen rather like a hero of romance than a calculating
politician. It is not, therefore, to be wondered that Edward, who had
spent the greater part of his life in the solemn seclusion of
Waverley-Honour, should have been dazzled at the liveliness and elegance
of the scene now exhibited in the long deserted halls of the Scottish
palace. The accompaniments, indeed, fell short of splendour, being such
as the confusion and hurry of the time admitted; still, however, the
general effect was striking, and, the rank of the company considered,
might well be called brilliant.
It was not long before the lover’s eye discovered the object of his
attachment. Flora Mac-Ivor was in the act of returning to her seat, near
the top of the room, with Rose Bradwardine by her side. Among much
elegance and beauty, they had attracted a great degree of the public
attention, being certainly two of the handsomest women present. The
Prince took much notice of both, particularly of Flora, with whom he
danced, a preference which she probably owed to her foreign education and
command of the French and Italian languages.
When the bustle attending the conclusion of the dance permitted, Edward
almost intuitively followed Fergus to the place where Miss Mac-Ivor was
seated. The sensation of hope with which he had nursed his affection in
absence of the beloved object seemed to vanish in her presence, and, like
one striving to recover the particulars of a forgotten dream, he would
have given the world at that moment to have recollected the grounds on
which he had founded expectations which now seemed so delusive. He
accompanied Fergus with downcast eyes, tingling ears, and the feelings of
the criminal who, while the melancholy cart moves slowly through the
crowds that have assembled to behold his execution, receives no clear
sensation either from the noise which fills his ears or the tumult on
which he casts his wandering look. Flora seemed a little--a very
little--affected and discomposed at his approach. ‘I bring you an adopted
son of Ivor,’ said Fergus.
‘And I receive him as a second brother,’ replied Flora.
There was a slight emphasis on the word, which would have escaped every
ear but one that was feverish with apprehension. It was, however,
distinctly marked, and, combined with her whole tone and manner, plainly
intimated, ‘I will never think of Mr. Waverley as a more intimate
connexion.’ Edward stopped, bowed, and looked at Fergus, who bit his lip,
a movement of anger which proved that he also had put a sinister
interpretation on the reception which his sister had given his friend.
‘This, then, is an end of my day-dream!’ Such was Waverley’s first
thought, and it was so exquisitely painful as to banish from his cheek
every drop of blood.
‘Good God!’ said Rose Bradwardine, ‘he is not yet recovered!’
These words, which she uttered with great emotion, were overheard by the
Chevalier himself, who stepped hastily forward, and, taking Waverley by
the hand, inquired kindly after his health, and added that he wished to
speak with him. By a strong and sudden effort; which the circumstances
rendered indispensable, Waverley recovered himself so far as to follow
the Chevalier in silence to a recess in the apartment.
Here the Prince detained him some time, asking various questions about
the great Tory and Catholic families of England, their connexions, their
influence, and the state of their affections towards the house of Stuart.
To these queries Edward could not at any time have given more than
general answers, and it may be supposed that, in the present state of his
feelings, his responses were indistinct even to confusion. The Chevalier
smiled once or twice at the incongruity of his replies, but continued the
same style of conversation, although he found himself obliged to occupy
the principal share of it, until he perceived that Waverley had recovered
his presence of mind. It is probable that this long audience was partly
meant to further the idea which the Prince desired should be entertained
among his followers, that Waverley was a character of political
influence. But it appeared, from his concluding expressions, that he had
a different and good-natured motive, personal to our hero, for prolonging
the conference. ‘I cannot resist the temptation,’ he said, ‘of boasting
of my own discretion as a lady’s confidant. You see, Mr. Waverley, that I
know all, and I assure you I am deeply interested in the affair. But, my
good young friend, you must put a more severe restraint upon your
feelings. There are many here whose eyes can see as clearly as mine, but
the prudence of whose tongues may not be equally trusted,’
So saying, he turned easily away and joined a circle of officers at a few
paces’ distance, leaving Waverley to meditate upon his parting
expression, which, though not intelligible to him in its whole purport,
was sufficiently so in the caution which the last word recommended.
Making, therefore, an effort to show himself worthy of the interest which
his new master had expressed, by instant obedience to his recommendation,
he walked up to the spot where Flora and Miss Bradwardine were still
seated, and having made his compliments to the latter, he succeeded, even
beyond his own expectation, in entering into conversation upon general
topics.
If, my dear reader, thou hast ever happened to take post-horses at----or
at----(one at least of which blanks, or more probably both, you will be
able to fill up from an inn near your own residence), you must have
observed, and doubtless with sympathetic pain, the reluctant agony with
which the poor jades at first apply their galled necks to the collars of
the harness. But when the irresistible arguments of the post-boy have
prevailed upon them to proceed a mile or two, they will become callous to
the first sensation; and being warm in the harness, as the said post-boy
may term it, proceed as if their withers were altogether unwrung. This
simile so much corresponds with the state of Waverley’s feelings in the
course of this memorable evening, that I prefer it (especially as being,
I trust, wholly original) to any more splendid illustration with which
Byshe’s ‘Art of Poetry’ might supply me.
Exertion, like virtue, is its own reward; and our hero had, moreover,
other stimulating motives for persevering in a display of affected
composure and indifference to Flora’s obvious unkindness. Pride, which
supplies its caustic as an useful, though severe, remedy for the wounds
of affection, came rapidly to his aid. Distinguished by the favour of a
prince; destined, he had room to hope, to play a conspicuous part in the
revolution which awaited a mighty kingdom; excelling, probably, in mental
acquirements, and equalling at least in personal accomplishments, most of
the noble and distinguished persons with whom he was now ranked; young,
wealthy, and high-born,--could he, or ought he, to droop beneath the
frown of a capricious beauty?
O nymph, unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My bosom is proud as thine own.
With the feeling expressed in these beautiful lines (which, however, were
not then written), [Footnote: They occur in Miss Seward’s fine verses,
beginning--‘To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu.’] Waverley determined
upon convincing Flora that he was not to be depressed by a rejection in
which his vanity whispered that perhaps she did her own prospects as much
injustice as his. And, to aid this change of feeling, there lurked the
secret and unacknowledged hope that she might learn to prize his
affection more highly, when she did not conceive it to be altogether
within her own choice to attract or repulse it. There was a mystic tone
of encouragement, also, in the Chevalier’s words, though he feared they
only referred to the wishes of Fergus in favour of an union between him
and his sister. But the whole circumstances of time, place, and incident
combined at once to awaken his imagination and to call upon him for a
manly and decisive tone of conduct, leaving to fate to dispose of the
issue. Should he appear to be the only one sad and disheartened on the
eve of battle, how greedily would the tale be commented upon by the
slander which had been already but too busy with his fame! Never, never,
he internally resolved, shall my unprovoked enemies possess such an
advantage over my reputation.
Under the influence of these mixed sensations, and cheered at times by a
smile of intelligence and approbation from the Prince as he passed the
group, Waverley exerted his powers of fancy, animation, and eloquence,
and attracted the general admiration of the company. The conversation
gradually assumed the tone best qualified for the display of his talents
and acquisitions. The gaiety of the evening was exalted in character,
rather than checked, by the approaching dangers of the morrow. All nerves
were strung for the future, and prepared to enjoy the present. This mood
of mind is highly favourable for the exercise of the powers of
imagination, for poetry, and for that eloquence which is allied to
poetry. Waverley, as we have elsewhere observed, possessed at times a
wonderful flow of rhetoric; and on the present occasion, he touched more
than once the higher notes of feeling, and then again ran off in a wild
voluntary of fanciful mirth. He was supported and excited by kindred
spirits, who felt the same impulse of mood and time; and even those of
more cold and calculating habits were hurried along by the torrent. Many
ladies declined the dance, which still went forward, and under various
pretences joined the party to which the ‘handsome young Englishman’
seemed to have attached himself. He was presented to several of the first
rank, and his manners, which for the present were altogether free from
the bashful restraint by which, in a moment of less excitation, they were
usually clouded, gave universal delight.
Flora Mac-Ivor appeared to be the only female present who regarded him
with a degree of coldness and reserve; yet even she could not suppress a
sort of wonder at talents which, in the course of their acquaintance, she
had never seen displayed with equal brilliancy and impressive effect. I
do not know whether she might not feel a momentary regret at having taken
so decisive a resolution upon the addresses of a lover who seemed fitted
so well to fill a high place in the highest stations of society.
Certainly she had hitherto accounted among the incurable deficiencies of
Edward’s disposition the mauvaise honte which, as she had been educated
in the first foreign circles, and was little acquainted with the shyness
of English manners, was in her opinion too nearly related to timidity and
imbecility of disposition. But if a passing wish occurred that Waverley
could have rendered himself uniformly thus amiable and attractive, its
influence was momentary; for circumstances had arisen since they met
which rendered in her eyes the resolution she had formed respecting him
final and irrevocable.
With opposite feelings Rose Bradwardine bent her whole soul to listen.
She felt a secret triumph at the public tribute paid to one whose merit
she had learned to prize too early and too fondly. Without a thought of
jealousy, without a feeling of fear, pain, or doubt, and undisturbed by a
single selfish consideration, she resigned herself to the pleasure of
observing the general murmur of applause. When Waverley spoke, her ear
was exclusively filled with his voice, when others answered, her eye took
its turn of observation, and seemed to watch his reply. Perhaps the
delight which she experienced in the course of that evening, though
transient, and followed by much sorrow, was in its nature the most pure
and disinterested which the human mind is capable of enjoying.
‘Baron,’ said the Chevalier, ‘I would not trust my mistress in the
company of your young friend. He is really, though perhaps somewhat
romantic, one of the most fascinating young men whom I have ever seen.’
‘And by my honour, sir,’ replied the Baron, ‘the lad can sometimes be as
dowff as a sexagenary like myself. If your Royal Highness had seen him
dreaming and dozing about the banks of Tully-Veolan like an hypochondriac
person, or, as Burton’s “Anatomia” hath it, a phrenesiac or lethargic
patient, you would wonder where he hath sae suddenly acquired all this
fine sprack festivity and jocularity.’
‘Truly,’ said Fergus Mac-Ivor, ‘I think it can only be the inspiration of
the tartans; for, though Waverley be always a young fellow of sense and
honour, I have hitherto often found him a very absent and inattentive
companion.’
‘We are the more obliged to him,’ said the Prince, ‘for having reserved
for this evening qualities which even such intimate friends had not
discovered. But come, gentlemen, the night advances, and the business of
tomorrow must be early thought upon. Each take charge of his fair
partner, and honour a small refreshment with your company.’
He led the way to another suite of apartments, and assumed the seat and
canopy at the head of a long range of tables with an air of dignity,
mingled with courtesy, which well became his high birth and lofty
pretensions. An hour had hardly flown away when the musicians played the
signal for parting so well known in Scotland. [Footnote: Which is, or was
wont to be, the old air of ‘Good-night and joy be wi’ you a’.]
‘Good-night, then,’ said the Chevalier, rising; ‘goodnight, and joy be
with you! Good-night, fair ladies, who have so highly honoured a
proscribed and banished Prince! Good-night, my brave friends; may the
happiness we have this evening experienced be an omen of our return to
these our paternal halls, speedily and in triumph, and of many and many
future meetings of mirth and pleasure in the palace of Holyrood!’
When the Baron of Bradwardine afterwards mentioned this adieu of the
Chevalier, he never failed to repeat, in a melancholy tone,
‘Audiit, et voti Phoebus succedere partem
Mente dedit; partem volucres dispersit in auras;
which,’ as he added, ‘is weel rendered into English metre by my friend
Bangour:--
Ae half the prayer wi’ Phoebus grace did find,
The t’other half he whistled down the wind.’
CHAPTER XV
THE MARCH
The conflicting passions and exhausted feelings of Waverley had resigned
him to late but sound repose. He was dreaming of Glennaquoich, and had
transferred to the halls of lan nan Chaistel the festal train which so
lately graced those of Holyrood. The pibroch too was distinctly heard;
and this at least was no delusion, for the ‘proud step of the chief
piper’ of the ‘chlain Mac-Ivor’ was perambulating the court before the
door of his Chieftain’s quarters, and as Mrs. Flockhart, apparently no
friend to his minstrelsy, was pleased to observe, ‘garring the very
stane-and-lime wa’s dingle wi’ his screeching.’ Of course it soon became
too powerful for Waverley’s dream, with which it had at first rather
harmonised.
The sound of Callum’s brogues in his apartment (for Mac-Ivor had again
assigned Waverley to his care) was the next note of parting. ‘Winna yer
honour bang up? Vich lan Vohr and ta Prince are awa to the lang green
glen ahint the clachan, tat they ca’ the King’s Park, [Footnote: The main
body of the Highland army encamped, or rather bivouacked, in that part of
the King’s Park which lies towards the village of Duddingston.] and mony
ane’s on his ain shanks the day that will be carried on ither folk’s ere
night.’
Waverley sprung up, and, with Callum’s assistance and instructions,
adjusted his tartans in proper costume. Callum told him also,’ tat his
leather dorlach wi’ the lock on her was come frae Doune, and she was awa
again in the wain wi’ Vich Ian Vohr’s walise.’
By this periphrasis Waverley readily apprehended his portmanteau was
intended. He thought upon the mysterious packet of the maid of the
cavern, which seemed always to escape him when within his very grasp. But
this was no time for indulgence of curiosity; and having declined Mrs.
Flockhart’s compliment of a MORNING, i.e. a matutinal dram, being
probably the only man in the Chevalier’s army by whom such a courtesy
would have been rejected, he made his adieus and departed with Callum.
‘Callum,’ said he, as they proceeded down a dirty close to gain the
southern skirts of the Canongate, ‘what shall I do for a horse?’
‘Ta deil ane ye maun think o’,’ said Callum. ‘Vich Ian Vohr’s marching on
foot at the head o’ his kin (not to say ta Prince, wha does the like),
wi’ his target on his shoulder; and ye maun e’en be neighbour-like.’
‘And so I will, Callum, give me my target; so, there we are fixed. How
does it look?’
‘Like the bra’ Highlander tat’s painted on the board afore the mickle
change-house they ca’ Luckie Middlemass’s,’ answered Callum; meaning, I
must observe, a high compliment, for in his opinion Luckie Middlemass’s
sign was an exquisite specimen of art. Waverley, however, not feeling the
full force of this polite simile, asked him no further questions.
Upon extricating themselves from the mean and dirty suburbs of the
metropolis, and emerging into the open air, Waverley felt a renewal of
both health and spirits, and turned his recollection with firmness upon
the events of the preceding evening, and with hope and resolution towards
those of the approaching day.
When he had surmounted a small craggy eminence called St. Leonard’s Hill,
the King’s Park, or the hollow between the mountain of Arthur’s Seat and
the rising grounds on which the southern part of Edinburgh is now built,
lay beneath him, and displayed a singular and animating prospect. It was
occupied by the army of the Highlanders, now in the act of preparing for
their march. Waverley had already seen something of the kind at the
hunting-match which he attended with Fergus Mac-Ivor; but this was on a
scale of much greater magnitude, and incomparably deeper interest. The
rocks, which formed the background of the scene, and the very sky itself,
rang with the clang of the bagpipers, summoning forth, each with his
appropriate pibroch, his chieftain and clan. The mountaineers, rousing
themselves from their couch under the canopy of heaven with the hum and
bustle of a confused and irregular multitude, like bees alarmed and
arming in their hives, seemed to possess all the pliability of movement
fitted to execute military manoeuvres. Their motions appeared spontaneous
and confused, but the result was order and regularity; so that a general
must have praised the conclusion, though a martinet might have ridiculed
the method by which it was attained.
The sort of complicated medley created by the hasty arrangements of the
various clans under their respective banners, for the purpose of getting
into the order of march, was in itself a gay and lively spectacle. They
had no tents to strike having generally, and by choice, slept upon the
open field, although the autumn was now waning and the nights began to be
frosty. For a little space, while they were getting into order, there was
exhibited a changing, fluctuating, and confused appearance of waving
tartans and floating plumes, and of banners displaying the proud
gathering word of Clanronald, Ganion Coheriga (Gainsay who dares),
Loch-Sloy, the watchword of the MacFarlanes; Forth, fortune, and fill the
fetters, the motto of the Marquis of Tullibardine; Bydand, that of Lord
Lewis Gordon, and the appropriate signal words and emblems of many other
chieftains and clans.
At length the mixed and wavering multitude arranged themselves into a
narrow and dusky column of great length, stretching through the whole
extent of the valley. In the front of the column the standard of the
Chevalier was displayed, bearing a red cross upon a white ground, with
the motto Tandem Triumphans. The few cavalry, being chiefly Lowland
gentry, with their domestic servants and retainers, formed the advanced
guard of the army; and their standards, of which they had rather too many
in respect of their numbers, were seen waving upon the extreme verge of
the horizon. Many horsemen of this body, among whom Waverley accidentally
remarked Balmawhapple and his lieutenant, Jinker (which last, however,
had been reduced, with several others, by the advice of the Baron of
Bradwardine, to the situation of what he called reformed officers, or
reformadoes), added to the liveliness, though by no means to the
regularity, of the scene, by galloping their horses as fast forward as
the press would permit, to join their proper station in the van. The
fascinations of the Circes of the High Street, and the potations of
strength with which they had been drenched over night, had probably
detained these heroes within the walls of Edinburgh somewhat later than
was consistent with their morning duty. Of such loiterers, the prudent
took the longer and circuitous, but more open, route to attain their
place in the march, by keeping at some distance from the infantry, and
making their way through the inclosures to the right, at the expense of
leaping over or pulling down the drystone fences. The irregular
appearance and vanishing of these small parties of horsemen, as well as
the confusion occasioned by those who endeavoured, though generally
without effect, to press to the front through the crowd of Highlanders,
maugre their curses, oaths, and opposition, added to the picturesque
wildness what it took from the military regularity of the scene.
While Waverley gazed upon this remarkable spectacle, rendered yet more
impressive by the occasional discharge of cannon-shot from the Castle at
the Highland guards as they were withdrawn from its vicinity to join
their main body, Callum, with his usual freedom of interference, reminded
him that Vich lan Vohr’s folk were nearly at the head of the column of
march which was still distant, and that ‘they would gang very fast after
the cannon fired.’ Thus admonished, Waverley walked briskly forward, yet
often casting a glance upon the darksome clouds of warriors who were
collected before and beneath him. A nearer view, indeed, rather
diminished the effect impressed on the mind by the more distant
appearance of the army. The leading men of each clan were well armed with
broad-sword, target, and fusee, to which all added the dirk, and most the
steel pistol. But these consisted of gentlemen, that is, relations of the
chief, however distant, and who had an immediate title to his countenance
and protection. Finer and hardier men could not have been selected out of
any army in Christendom; while the free and independent habits which each
possessed, and which each was yet so well taught to subject to the
command of his chief, and the peculiar mode of discipline adopted in
Highland warfare, rendered them equally formidable by their individual
courage and high spirit, and from their rational conviction of the
necessity of acting in unison, and of giving their national mode of
attack the fullest opportunity of success.
But, in a lower rank to these, there were found individuals of an
inferior description, the common peasantry of the Highland country, who,
although they did not allow themselves to be so called, and claimed
often, with apparent truth, to be of more ancient descent than the
masters whom they served, bore, nevertheless, the livery of extreme
penury, being indifferently accoutred, and worse armed, half naked,
stinted in growth, and miserable in aspect. Each important clan had some
of those Helots attached to them: thus, the MacCouls, though tracing
their descent from Comhal, the father of Finn or Fingal, were a sort of
Gibeonites, or hereditary servants to the Stewarts of Appin; the
Macbeths, descended from the unhappy monarch of that name, were subjects
to the Morays and clan Donnochy, or Robertsons of Athole; and many other
examples might be given, were it not for the risk of hurting any pride of
clanship which may yet be left, and thereby drawing a Highland tempest
into the shop of my publisher. Now these same Helots, though forced into
the field by the arbitrary authority of the chieftains under whom they
hewed wood and drew water, were in general very sparingly fed, ill
dressed, and worse armed. The latter circumstance was indeed owing
chiefly to the general disarming act, which had been carried into effect
ostensibly through the whole Highlands, although most of the chieftains
contrived to elude its influence by retaining the weapons of their own
immediate clansmen, and delivering up those of less value, which they
collected from these inferior satellites. It followed, as a matter of
course, that, as we have already hinted, many of these poor fellows were
brought to the field in a very wretched condition.
From this it happened that, in bodies, the van of which were admirably
well armed in their own fashion, the rear resembled actual banditti. Here
was a pole-axe, there a sword without a scabbard; here a gun without a
lock, there a scythe set straight upon a pole; and some had only their
dirks, and bludgeons or stakes pulled out of hedges. The grim, uncombed,
and wild appearance of these men, most of whom gazed with all the
admiration of ignorance upon the most ordinary productions of domestic
art, created surprise in the Lowlands, but it also created terror. So
little was the condition of the Highlands known at that late period that
the character and appearance of their population, while thus sallying
forth as military adventurers, conveyed to the South-Country Lowlanders
as much surprise as if an invasion of African Negroes or Esquimaux
Indians had issued forth from the northern mountains of their own native
country. It cannot therefore be wondered if Waverley, who had hitherto
judged of the Highlanders generally from the samples which the policy of
Fergus had from time to time exhibited, should have felt damped and
astonished at the daring attempt of a body not then exceeding four
thousand men, and of whom not above half the number, at the utmost, were
armed, to change the fate and alter the dynasty of the British kingdoms.
As he moved along the column, which still remained stationary, an iron
gun, the only piece of artillery possessed by the army which meditated so
important a revolution, was fired as the signal of march. The Chevalier
had expressed a wish to leave this useless piece of ordnance behind him;
but, to his surprise, the Highland chiefs interposed to solicit that it
might accompany their march, pleading the prejudices of their followers,
who, little accustomed to artillery, attached a degree of absurd
importance to this field-piece, and expected it would contribute
essentially to a victory which they could only owe to their own muskets
and broadswords. Two or three French artillerymen were therefore
appointed to the management of this military engine, which was drawn
along by a string of Highland ponies, and was, after all, only used for
the purpose of firing signals. [Footnote: See Note 31.]
No sooner was its voice heard upon the present occasion than the whole
line was in motion. A wild cry of joy from the advancing batallions rent
the air, and was then lost in the shrill clangour of the bagpipes, as the
sound of these, in their turn, was partially drowned by the heavy tread
of so many men put at once into motion. The banners glittered and shook
as they moved forward, and the horse hastened to occupy their station as
the advanced guard, and to push on reconnoitring parties to ascertain and
report the motions of the enemy. They vanished from Waverley’s eye as
they wheeled round the base of Arthur’s Seat, under the remarkable ridge
of basaltic rocks which fronts the little lake of Duddingston.
The infantry followed in the same direction, regulating their pace by
another body which occupied a road more to the southward. It cost Edward
some exertion of activity to attain the place which Fergus’s followers
occupied in the line of march.
CHAPTER XVI
AN INCIDENT GIVES RISE TO UNAVAILING REFLECTIONS
When Waverley reached that part of the column which was filled by the
clan of Mac-Ivor, they halted, formed, and received him with a triumphant
flourish upon the bagpipes and a loud shout of the men, most of whom knew
him personally, and were delighted to see him in the dress of their
country and of their sept. ‘You shout,’ said a Highlander of a
neighbouring clan to Evan Dhu, ‘as if the Chieftain were just come to
your head.’
‘Mar e Bran is e a brathair, If it be not Bran, it is Bran’s brother,’
was the proverbial reply of Maccombich. [Footnote: Bran, the well-known
dog of Fingal, is often the theme of Highland proverb as well as song.]
‘O, then, it is the handsome Sassenach duinhe-wassel that is to be
married to Lady Flora?’
‘That may be, or it may not be; and it is neither your matter nor mine,
Gregor.’
Fergus advanced to embrace the volunteer, and afford him a warm and
hearty welcome; but he thought it necessary to apologize for the
diminished numbers of his battalion (which did not exceed three hundred
men) by observing he had sent a good many out upon parties.
The real fact, however, was, that the defection of Donald Bean Lean had
deprived him of at least thirty hardy fellows, whose services he had
fully reckoned upon, and that many of his occasional adherents had been
recalled by their several chiefs to the standards to which they most
properly owed their allegiance. The rival chief of the great northern
branch, also, of his own clan had mustered his people, although he had
not yet declared either for the government or for the Chevalier, and by
his intrigues had in some degree diminished the force with which Fergus
took the field. To make amends for these disappointments, it was
universally admitted that the followers of Vich Ian Vohr, in point of
appearance, equipment, arms, and dexterity in using them, equalled the
most choice troops which followed the standard of Charles Edward. Old
Ballenkeiroch acted as his major; and, with the other officers who had
known Waverley when at Glennaquoich, gave our hero a cordial reception,
as the sharer of their future dangers and expected honours.
The route pursued by the Highland army, after leaving the village of
Duddingston, was for some time the common post-road betwixt Edinburgh and
Haddington, until they crossed the Esk at Musselburgh, when, instead of
keeping the low grounds towards the sea, they turned more inland, and
occupied the brow of the eminence called Carberry Hill, a place already
distinguished in Scottish history as the spot where the lovely Mary
surrendered herself to her insurgent subjects. This direction was chosen
because the Chevalier had received notice that the army of the
government, arriving by sea from Aberdeen, had landed at Dunbar, and
quartered the night before to the west of Haddington, with the intention
of falling down towards the sea-side, and approaching Edinburgh by the
lower coast-road. By keeping the height, which overhung that road in many
places, it was hoped the Highlanders might find an opportunity of
attacking them to advantage. The army therefore halted upon the ridge of
Carberry Hill, both to refresh the soldiers and as a central situation
from which their march could be directed to any point that the motions of
the enemy might render most advisable. While they remained in this
position a messenger arrived in haste to desire Mac-Ivor to come to the
Prince, adding that their advanced post had had a skirmish with some of
the enemy’s cavalry, and that the Baron of Bradwardine had sent in a few
prisoners.
Waverley walked forward out of the line to satisfy his curiosity, and
soon observed five or six of the troopers who, covered with dust, had
galloped in to announce that the enemy were in full march westward along
the coast. Passing still a little farther on, he was struck with a groan
which issued from a hovel. He approached the spot, and heard a voice, in
the provincial English of his native county, which endeavoured, though
frequently interrupted by pain, to repeat the Lord’s Prayer. The voice of
distress always found a ready answer in our hero’s bosom. He entered the
hovel, which seemed to be intended for what is called, in the pastoral
counties of Scotland, a smearing-house; and in its obscurity Edward could
only at first discern a sort of red bundle; for those who had stripped
the wounded man of his arms and part of his clothes had left him the
dragoon-cloak in which he was enveloped.
‘For the love of God,’ said the wounded man, as he heard Waverley’s step,
‘give me a single drop of water!’
‘You shall have it,’ answered Waverley, at the same time raising him in
his arms, bearing him to the door of the hut, and giving him some drink
from his flask.
‘I should know that voice,’ said the man; but looking on Waverley’s dress
with a bewildered look--‘no, this is not the young squire!’
This was the common phrase by which Edward was distinguished on the
estate of Waverley-Honour, and the sound now thrilled to his heart with
the thousand recollections which the well-known accents of his native
country had already contributed to awaken. ‘Houghton!’ he said, gazing on
the ghastly features which death was fast disfiguring, ‘can this be you?’
‘I never thought to hear an English voice again,’ said the wounded
man; ‘they left me to live or die here as I could, when they found I would
say nothing about the strength of the regiment. But, O squire! how could
you stay from us so long, and let us be tempted by that fiend of the pit,
Ruffin? we should have followed you through flood and fire, to be sure.’
‘Ruffin! I assure you, Houghton, you have been vilely imposed upon.’
‘I often thought so,’ said Houghton, ‘though they showed us your very
seal; and so Tims was shot and I was reduced to the ranks.’
‘Do not exhaust your strength in speaking,’ said Edward; ‘I will get you
a surgeon presently.’
He saw Mac-Ivor approaching, who was now returning from headquarters,
where he had attended a council of war, and hastened to meet him. ‘Brave
news!’ shouted the Chief; ‘we shall be at it in less than two hours. The
Prince has put himself at the head of the advance, and, as he drew his
sword, called out, “My friends, I have thrown away the scabbard.” Come,
Waverley, we move instantly.’
‘A moment--a moment; this poor prisoner is dying; where shall I find a
surgeon?’
‘Why, where should you? We have none, you know, but two or three French
fellows, who, I believe, are little better than _garcons apothecaires_.’
‘But the man will bleed to death.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Fergus, in a momentary fit of compassion; then
instantly added, ‘But it will be a thousand men’s fate before night; so
come along.’
‘I cannot; I tell you he is a son of a tenant of my uncle’s.’
‘O, if he’s a follower of yours he must be looked to; I’ll send Callum to
you; but _diaoul! ceade millia mottigheart_,’ continued the impatient
Chieftain, ‘what made an old soldier like Bradwardine send dying men here
to cumber us?’
Callum came with his usual alertness; and, indeed, Waverley rather gained
than lost in the opinion of the Highlanders by his anxiety about the
wounded man. They would not have understood the general philanthropy
which rendered it almost impossible for Waverley to have passed any
person in such distress; but, as apprehending that the sufferer was one
of his _following_ they unanimously allowed that Waverley’s conduct was
that of a kind and considerate chieftain, who merited the attachment of his
people. In about a quarter of an hour poor Humphrey breathed his last,
praying his young master, when he returned to Waverley-Honour, to be kind
to old Job Houghton and his dame, and conjuring him not to fight with
these wild petticoat-men against old England.
When his last breath was drawn, Waverley, who had beheld with sincere
sorrow, and no slight tinge of remorse, the final agonies of mortality,
now witnessed for the first time, commanded Callum to remove the body
into the hut. This the young Highlander performed, not without examining
the pockets of the defunct, which, however, he remarked had been pretty
well spunged. He took the cloak, however, and proceeding with the
provident caution of a spaniel hiding a bone, concealed it among some
furze and carefully marked the spot, observing that, if he chanced to
return that way, it would be an excellent rokelay for his auld mother
Elspat.
It was by a considerable exertion that they regained their place in the
marching column, which was now moving rapidly forward to occupy the high
grounds above the village of Tranent, between which and the sea lay the
purposed march of the opposite army.
This melancholy interview with his late sergeant forced many unavailing
and painful reflections upon Waverley’s mind. It was clear from the
confession of the man that Colonel Gardiner’s proceedings had been
strictly warranted, and even rendered indispensable, by the steps taken
in Edward’s name to induce the soldiers of his troop to mutiny. The
circumstance of the seal he now, for the first time, recollected, and
that he had lost it in the cavern of the robber, Bean Lean. That the
artful villain had secured it, and used it as the means of carrying on an
intrigue in the regiment for his own purposes, was sufficiently evident;
and Edward had now little doubt that in the packet placed in his
portmanteau by his daughter he should find farther light upon his
proceedings. In the meanwhile the repeated expostulation of
Houghton--‘Ah, squire, why did you leave us?’ rung like a knell in his
ears.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have indeed acted towards you with thoughtless
cruelty. I brought you from your paternal fields, and the protection of a
generous and kind landlord, and when I had subjected you to all the
rigour of military discipline, I shunned to bear my own share of the
burden, and wandered from the duties I had undertaken, leaving alike
those whom it was my business to protect, and my own reputation, to
suffer under the artifices of villainy. O, indolence and indecision of
mind, if not in yourselves vices--to how much exquisite misery and
mischief do you frequently prepare the way!’
CHAPTER XVII
THE EVE OF BATTLE
Although the Highlanders marched on very fast, the sun was declining when
they arrived upon the brow of those high grounds which command an open
and extensive plain stretching northward to the sea, on which are
situated, but at a considerable distance from each other, the small
villages of Seaton and Cockenzie, and the larger one of Preston. One of
the low coastroads to Edinburgh passed through this plain, issuing upon
it from the enclosures of Seaton House, and at the town or village of
Preston again entering the denies of an enclosed country. By this way the
English general had chosen to approach the metropolis, both as most
commodious for his cavalry, and being probably of opinion that by doing
so he would meet in front with the Highlanders advancing from Edinburgh
in the opposite direction. In this he was mistaken; for the sound
judgment of the Chevalier, or of those to whose advice he listened, left
the direct passage free, but occupied the strong ground by which it was
overlooked and commanded.
When the Highlanders reached the heights above the plain described, they
were immediately formed in array of battle along the brow of the hill.
Almost at the same instant the van of the English appeared issuing from
among the trees and enclosures of Seaton, with the purpose of occupying
the level plain between the high ground and the sea; the space which
divided the armies being only about half a mile in breadth. Waverley
could plainly see the squadrons of dragoons issue, one after another,
from the defiles, with their videttes in front, and form upon the plain,
with their front opposed to that of the Prince’s army. They were followed
by a train of field-pieces, which, when they reached the flank of the
dragoons, were also brought into line and pointed against the heights.
The march was continued by three or four regiments of infantry marching
in open column, their fixed bayonets showing like successive hedges of
steel, and their arms glancing like lightning, as, at a signal given,
they also at once wheeled up, and were placed in direct opposition to the
Highlanders. A second train of artillery, with another regiment of horse,
closed the long march, and formed on the left flank of the infantry, the
whole line facing southward.
While the English army went through these evolutions, the Highlanders
showed equal promptitude and zeal for battle. As fast as the clans came
upon the ridge which fronted their enemy, they were formed into line, so
that both armies got into complete order of battle at the same moment.
When this was accomplished, the Highlanders set up a tremendous yell,
which was re-echoed by the heights behind them. The regulars, who were in
high spirits, returned a loud shout of defiance, and fired one or two of
their cannon upon an advanced post of the Highlanders. The latter
displayed great earnestness to proceed instantly to the attack, Evan Dhu
urging to Fergus, by way of argument, that ‘the SIDIER ROY was tottering
like an egg upon a staff, and that they had a’ the vantage of the onset,
for even a haggis (God bless her!) could charge down hill.’
But the ground through which the mountaineers must have descended,
although not of great extent, was impracticable in its character, being
not only marshy but intersected with walls of dry stone, and traversed in
its whole length by a very broad and deep ditch, circumstances which must
have given the musketry of the regulars dreadful advantages before the
mountaineers could have used their swords, on which they were taught to
rely. The authority of the commanders was therefore interposed to curb
the impetuosity of the Highlanders, and only a few marksmen were sent
down the descent to skirmish with the enemy’s advanced posts and to
reconnoitre the ground.
Here, then, was a military spectacle of no ordinary interest or usual
occurrence. The two armies, so different in aspect and discipline, yet
each admirably trained in its own peculiar mode of war, upon whose
conflict the temporary fate at least of Scotland appeared to depend, now
faced each other like two gladiators in the arena, each meditating upon
the mode of attacking their enemy. The leading officers and the general’s
staff of each army could be distinguished in front of their lines, busied
with spy-glasses to watch each other’s motions, and occupied in
despatching the orders and receiving the intelligence conveyed by the
aides-de-camp and orderly men, who gave life to the scene by galloping
along in different directions, as if the fate of the day depended upon
the speed of their horses. The space between the armies was at times
occupied by the partial and irregular contest of individual
sharp-shooters, and a hat or bonnet was occasionally seen to fall, as a
wounded man was borne off by his comrades. These, however, were but
trifling skirmishes, for it suited the views of neither party to advance
in that direction. From the neighbouring hamlets the peasantry cautiously
showed themselves, as if watching the issue of the expected engagement;
and at no great distance in the bay were two square-rigged vessels,
bearing the English flag, whose tops and yards were crowded with less
timid spectators.
When this awful pause had lasted for a short time, Fergus, with another
chieftain, received orders to detach their clans towards the village of
Preston, in order to threaten the right flank of Cope’s army and compel
him to a change of position. To enable him to execute these orders, the
Chief of Glennaquoich occupied the church-yard of Tranent, a commanding
situation, and a convenient place, as Evan Dhu remarked, ‘for any
gentleman who might have the misfortune to be killed, and chanced to be
curious about Christian burial.’ To check or dislodge this party, the
English general detached two guns, escorted by a strong party of cavalry.
They approached so near that Waverley could plainly recognise the
standard of the troop he had formerly commanded, and hear the trumpets
and kettle-drums sound the signal of advance which he had so often
obeyed. He could hear, too, the well-known word given in the English
dialect by the equally well-distinguished voice of the commanding
officer, for whom he had once felt so much respect. It was at that
instant, that, looking around him, he saw the wild dress and appearance
of his Highland associates, heard their whispers in an uncouth and
unknown language, looked upon his own dress, so unlike that which he had
worn from his infancy, and wished to awake from what seemed at the moment
a dream, strange, horrible, and unnatural. ‘Good God!’ he muttered, ‘am I
then a traitor to my country, a renegade to my standard, and a foe, as
that poor dying wretch expressed himself, to my native England!’
Ere he could digest or smother the recollection, the tall military form
of his late commander came full in view, for the purpose of
reconnoitring. ‘I can hit him now,’ said Callum, cautiously raising his
fusee over the wall under which he lay couched, at scarce sixty yards’
distance.
Edward felt as if he was about to see a parricide committed in his
presence; for the venerable grey hair and striking countenance of the
veteran recalled the almost paternal respect with which his officers
universally regarded him. But ere he could say ‘Hold!’ an aged Highlander
who lay beside Callum Beg stopped his arm. ‘Spare your shot,’ said the
seer, ‘his hour is not yet come. But let him beware of to-morrow; I see
his winding-sheet high upon his breast.’
Callum, flint to other considerations, was penetrable to superstition. He
turned pale at the words of the _taishatr_, and recovered his piece.
Colonel Gardiner, unconscious of the danger he had escaped, turned his
horse round and rode slowly back to the front of his regiment.
By this time the regular army had assumed a new line, with one flank
inclined towards the sea and the other resting upon the village of
Preston; and, as similar difficulties occurred in attacking their new
position, Fergus and the rest of the detachment were recalled to their
former post. This alteration created the necessity of a corresponding
change in General Cope’s army, which was again brought into a line
parallel with that of the Highlanders. In these manoeuvres on both sides
the daylight was nearly consumed, and both armies prepared to rest upon
their arms for the night in the lines which they respectively occupied.
‘There will be nothing done to-night,’ said Fergus to his friend
Waverley; ‘ere we wrap ourselves in our plaids, let us go see what the
Baron is doing in the rear of the line.’
When they approached his post, they found the good old careful officer,
after having sent out his night patrols and posted his sentinels, engaged
in reading the Evening Service of the Episcopal Church to the remainder
of his troop. His voice was loud and sonorous, and though his spectacles
upon his nose, and the appearance of Saunders Saunderson, in military
array, performing the functions of clerk, had something ludicrous, yet
the circumstances of danger in which they stood, the military costume of
the audience, and the appearance of their horses saddled and picqueted
behind them, gave an impressive and solemn effect to the office of
devotion.
‘I have confessed to-day, ere you were awake,’ whispered Fergus to
Waverley; ‘yet I am not so strict a Catholic as to refuse to join in this
good man’s prayers.’
Edward assented, and they remained till the Baron had concluded the
service.
As he shut the book, ‘Now, lads,’ said he, ‘have at them in the morning
with heavy hands and light consciences.’ He then kindly greeted Mac-Ivor
and Waverley, who requested to know his opinion of their situation. Why,
you know Tacitus saith, “In rebus bellicis maxime dominalur Fortuna,”
which is equiponderate with our vernacular adage, “Luck can maist in the
mellee.” But credit me, gentlemen, yon man is not a deacon o’ his craft.
He damps the spirits of the poor lads he commands by keeping them on the
defensive, whilk of itself implies inferiority or fear. Now will they lie
on their arms yonder as anxious and as ill at ease as a toad under a
harrow, while our men will be quite fresh and blithe for action in the
morning. Well, good-night. One thing troubles me, but if to-morrow goes
well off, I will consult you about it, Glennaquoich.’
‘I could almost apply to Mr. Bradwardine the character which Henry gives
of Fluellen,’ said Waverley, as his friend and he walked towards their
bivouac:
‘Though it appears a little out of fashion,
There is much care and valour in this “Scotchman.”’
‘He has seen much service,’ answered Fergus, ‘and one is sometimes
astonished to find how much nonsense and reason are mingled in his
composition. I wonder what can be troubling his mind; probably something
about Rose. Hark! the English are setting their watch.’
The roll of the drum and shrill accompaniment of the fifes swelled up the
hill--died away--resumed its thunder--and was at length hushed. The
trumpets and kettle-drums of the cavalry were next heard to perform the
beautiful and wild point of war appropriated as a signal for that piece
of nocturnal duty, and then finally sunk upon the wind with a shrill and
mournful cadence.
The friends, who had now reached their post, stood and looked round them
ere they lay down to rest. The western sky twinkled with stars, but a
frost-mist, rising from the ocean, covered the eastern horizon, and
rolled in white wreaths along the plain where the adverse army lay
couched upon their arms. Their advanced posts were pushed as far as the
side of the great ditch at the bottom of the descent, and had kindled
large fires at different intervals, gleaming with obscure and hazy lustre
through the heavy fog which encircled them with a doubtful halo.
The Highlanders, ‘thick as leaves in Vallombrosa,’ lay stretched upon the
ridge of the hill, buried (excepting their sentinels) in the most
profound repose. ‘How many of these brave fellows will sleep more soundly
before to-morrow night, Fergus!’ said Waverley, with an involuntary sigh.
‘You must not think of that,’ answered Fergus, whose ideas were entirely
military. ‘You must only think of your sword, and by whom it was given.
All other reflections are now TOO LATE.’
With the opiate contained in this undeniable remark Edward endeavoured to
lull the tumult of his conflicting feelings. The Chieftain and he,
combining their plaids, made a comfortable and warm couch. Callum,
sitting down at their head (for it was his duty to watch upon the
immediate person of the Chief), began a long mournful song in Gaelic, to
a low and uniform tune, which, like the sound of the wind at a distance,
soon lulled them to sleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE CONFLICT
When Fergus Mac-Ivor and his friend had slept for a few hours, they were
awakened and summoned to attend the Prince. The distant village clock was
heard to toll three as they hastened to the place where he lay. He was
already surrounded by his principal officers and the chiefs of clans. A
bundle of pease-straw, which had been lately his couch, now served for
his seat. Just as Fergus reached the circle, the consultation had broken
up. ‘Courage, my brave friends!’ said the Chevalier, ‘and each one put
himself instantly at the head of his command; a faithful friend
[Footnote: See Note 32.] has offered to guide us by a practicable, though
narrow and circuitous, route, which, sweeping to our right, traverses the
broken ground and morass, and enables us to gain the firm and open plain
upon which the enemy are lying. This difficulty surmounted, Heaven and
your good swords must do the rest.’
The proposal spread unanimous joy, and each leader hastened to get his
men into order with as little noise as possible. The army, moving by its
right from off the ground on which they had rested, soon entered the path
through the morass, conducting their march with astonishing silence and
great rapidity. The mist had not risen to the higher grounds, so that for
some time they had the advantage of star-light. But this was lost as the
stars faded before approaching day, and the head of the marching column,
continuing its descent, plunged as it were into the heavy ocean of fog,
which rolled its white waves over the whole plain, and over the sea by
which it was bounded. Some difficulties were now to be encountered,
inseparable from darkness, a narrow, broken, and marshy path, and the
necessity of preserving union in the march. These, however, were less
inconvenient to Highlanders, from their habits of life, than they would
have been to any other troops, and they continued a steady and swift
movement.
As the clan of Ivor approached the firm ground, following the track of
those who preceded them, the challenge of a patrol was heard through the
mist, though they could not see the dragoon by whom it was made--‘Who
goes there?’
‘Hush!’ cried Fergus, ‘hush! let none answer, as he values his life;
press forward’; and they continued their march with silence and rapidity.
The patrol fired his carabine upon the body, and the report was instantly
followed by the clang of his horse’s feet as he galloped off. ‘Hylax in
limine latrat,’ said the Baron of Bradwardine, who heard the shot; ‘that
loon will give the alarm.’
The clan of Fergus had now gained the firm plain, which had lately borne
a large crop of corn. But the harvest was gathered in, and the expanse
was unbroken by tree, bush, or interruption of any kind. The rest of the
army were following fast, when they heard the drums of the enemy beat the
general. Surprise, however, had made no part of their plan, so they were
not disconcerted by this intimation that the foe was upon his guard and
prepared to receive them. It only hastened their dispositions for the
combat, which were very simple.
The Highland army, which now occupied the eastern end of the wide plain,
or stubble field, so often referred to, was drawn up in two lines,
extending from the morass towards the sea. The first was destined to
charge the enemy, the second to act as a reserve. The few horse, whom the
Prince headed in person, remained between the two lines. The adventurer
had intimated a resolution to charge in person at the head of his first
line; but his purpose was deprecated by all around him, and he was with
difficulty induced to abandon it.
Both lines were now moving forward, the first prepared for instant
combat. The clans of which it was composed formed each a sort of separate
phalanx, narrow in front, and in depth ten, twelve, or fifteen files,
according to the strength of the following. The best-armed and best-born,
for the words were synonymous, were placed in front of each of these
irregular subdivisions. The others in the rear shouldered forward the
front, and by their pressure added both physical impulse and additional
ardour and confidence to those who were first to encounter the danger.
‘Down with your plaid, Waverley,’ cried Fergus, throwing off his own;
‘we’ll win silks for our tartans before the sun is above the sea.’
The clansmen on every side stript their plaids, prepared their arms, and
there was an awful pause of about three minutes, during which the men,
pulling off their bonnets, raised their faces to heaven and uttered a
short prayer; then pulled their bonnets over their brows and began to
move forward, at first slowly. Waverley felt his heart at that moment
throb as it would have burst from his bosom. It was not fear, it was not
ardour: it was a compound of both, a new and deeply energetic impulse
that with its first emotion chilled and astounded, then fevered and
maddened his mind. The sounds around him combined to exalt his
enthusiasm; the pipes played, and the clans rushed forward, each in its
own dark column. As they advanced they mended their pace, and the
muttering sounds of the men to each other began to swell into a wild cry.
At this moment the sun, which was now risen above the horizon, dispelled
the mist. The vapours rose like a curtain, and showed the two armies in
the act of closing. The line of the regulars was formed directly fronting
the attack of the Highlanders; it glittered with the appointments of a
complete army, and was flanked by cavalry and artillery. But the sight
impressed no terror on the assailants.
‘Forward, sons of Ivor,’ cried their Chief, ‘or the Camerons will draw
the first blood!’ They rushed on with a tremendous yell.
The rest is well known. The horse, who were commanded to charge the
advancing Highlanders in the flank, received an irregular fire from their
fusees as they ran on and, seized with a disgraceful panic, wavered,
halted, disbanded, and galloped from the field. The artillery men,
deserted by the cavalry, fled after discharging their pieces, and the
Highlanders, who dropped their guns when fired and drew their
broadswords, rushed with headlong fury against the infantry.
It was at this moment of confusion and terror that Waverley remarked an
English officer, apparently of high rank, standing, alone and
unsupported, by a fieldpiece, which, after the flight of the men by whom
it was wrought, he had himself levelled and discharged against the clan
of Mac-Ivor, the nearest group of Highlanders within his aim. Struck with
his tall, martial figure, and eager to save him from inevitable
destruction, Waverley outstripped for an instant even the speediest of
the warriors, and, reaching the spot first, called to him to surrender.
The officer replied by a thrust with his sword, which Waverley received
in his target, and in turning it aside the Englishman’s weapon broke. At
the same time the battle-axe of Dugald Mahony was in the act of
descending upon the officer’s head. Waverley intercepted and prevented
the blow, and the officer, perceiving further resistance unavailing, and
struck with Edward’s generous anxiety for his safety, resigned the
fragment of his sword, and was committed by Waverley to Dugald, with
strict charge to use him well, and not to pillage his person, promising
him, at the same time, full indemnification for the spoil.
On Edward’s right the battle for a few minutes raged fierce and thick.
The English infantry, trained in the wars in Flanders, stood their ground
with great courage. But their extended files were pierced and broken in
many places by the close masses of the clans; and in the personal
struggle which ensued the nature of the Highlanders’ weapons, and their
extraordinary fierceness and activity, gave them a decided superiority
over those who had been accustomed to trust much to their array and
discipline, and felt that the one was broken and the other useless.
Waverley, as he cast his eyes towards this scene of smoke and slaughter,
observed Colonel Gardiner, deserted by his own soldiers in spite of all
his attempts to rally them, yet spurring his horse through the field to
take the command of a small body of infantry, who, with their backs
arranged against the wall of his own park (for his house was close by the
field of battle), continued a desperate and unavailing resistance.
Waverley could perceive that he had already received many wounds, his
clothes and saddle being marked with blood. To save this good and brave
man became the instant object of his most anxious exertions. But he could
only witness his fall. Ere Edward could make his way among the
Highlanders, who, furious and eager for spoil, now thronged upon each
other, he saw his former commander brought from his horse by the blow of
a scythe, and beheld him receive, while on the ground, more wounds than
would have let out twenty lives. When Waverley came up, however,
perception had not entirely fled. The dying warrior seemed to recognize
Edward, for he fixed his eye upon him with an upbraiding, yet sorrowful,
look, and appeared to struggle, for utterance. But he felt that death was
dealing closely with him, and resigning his purpose, and folding his
hands as if in devotion, he gave up his soul to his Creator. The look
with which he regarded Waverley in his dying moments did not strike him
so deeply at that crisis of hurry and confusion as when it recurred to
his imagination at the distance of some time. [Footnote: See Note 33.]
Loud shouts of triumph now echoed over the whole field. The battle was
fought and won, and the whole baggage, artillery, and military stores of
the regular army remained in possession of the victors. Never was a
victory more complete. Scarce any escaped from the battle, excepting the
cavalry, who had left it at the very onset, and even these were broken
into different parties and scattered all over the country. So far as our
tale is concerned, we have only to relate the fate of Balmawhapple, who,
mounted on a horse as headstrong and stiff-necked as his rider, pursued
the flight of the dragoons above four miles from the field of battle,
when some dozen of the fugitives took heart of grace, turned round, and
cleaving his skull with their broadswords, satisfied the world that the
unfortunate gentleman had actually brains, the end of his life thus
giving proof of a fact greatly doubted during its progress. His death was
lamented by few. Most of those who knew him agreed in the pithy
observation of Ensign Maccombich, that there ‘was mair tint (lost) at
Sheriff-Muir.’ His friend, Lieutenant Jinker, bent his eloquence only to
exculpate his favourite mare from any share in contributing to the
catastrophe. ‘He had tauld the laird a thousand times,’ he said, ‘that it
was a burning shame to put a martingale upon the puir thing, when he
would needs ride her wi’ a curb of half a yard lang; and that he could na
but bring himsell (not to say her) to some mischief, by flinging her
down, or otherwise; whereas, if he had had a wee bit rinnin ring on the
snaffle, she wad ha’ rein’d as cannily as a cadger’s pownie.’
Such was the elegy of the Laird of Balmawhapple. [Footnote: See Note 34.]
CHAPTER XIX
AN UNEXPECTED EMBARRASSMENT
When the battle was over, and all things coming into order, the Baron of
Bradwardine, returning from the duty of the day, and having disposed
those under his command in their proper stations, sought the Chieftain of
Glennaquoich and his friend Edward Waverley. He found the former busied
in determining disputes among his clansmen about points of precedence and
deeds of valour, besides sundry high and doubtful questions concerning
plunder. The most important of the last respected the property of a gold
watch, which had once belonged to some unfortunate English officer. The
party against whom judgment was awarded consoled himself by observing,
‘She (i.e. the watch, which he took for a living animal) died the very
night Vich lan Vohr gave her to Murdoch’; the machine, having, in fact,
stopped for want of winding up.
It was just when this important question was decided that the Baron of
Bradwardine, with a careful and yet important expression of countenance,
joined the two young men. He descended from his reeking charger, the care
of which he recommended to one of his grooms. ‘I seldom ban, sir,’ said
he to the man; ‘but if you play any of your hound’s-foot tricks, and
leave puir Berwick before he’s sorted, to rin after spuilzie, deil be wi’
me if I do not give your craig a thraw.’ He then stroked with great
complacency the animal which had borne him through the fatigues of the
day, and having taken a tender leave of him--’ Weel, my good young
friends, a glorious and decisive victory,’ said he; ‘but these loons of
troopers fled ower soon. I should have liked to have shown you the true
points of the pralium equestre, or equestrian combat, whilk their
cowardice has postponed, and which I hold to be the pride and terror of
warfare. Weel--I have fought once more in this old quarrel, though I
admit I could not be so far BEN as you lads, being that it was my point
of duty to keep together our handful of horse. And no cavalier ought in
any wise to begrudge honour that befalls his companions, even though they
are ordered upon thrice his danger, whilk, another time, by the blessing
of God, may be his own case. But, Glennaquoich, and you, Mr. Waverley, I
pray ye to give me your best advice on a matter of mickle weight, and
which deeply affects the honour of the house of Bradwardine. I crave your
pardon, Ensign Maccombich, and yours, Inveraughlin, and yours,
Edderalshendrach, and yours, sir.’
The last person he addressed was Ballenkeiroch, who, remembering the
death of his son, loured on him with a look of savage defiance. The
Baron, quick as lightning at taking umbrage, had already bent his brow
when Glennaquoich dragged his major from the spot, and remonstrated with
him, in the authoritative tone of a chieftain, on the madness of reviving
a quarrel in such a moment.
‘The ground is cumbered with carcasses,’ said the old mountaineer,
turning sullenly away; ‘ONE MORE would hardly have been kenn’d upon it;
and if it wasna for yoursell, Vich lan Vohr, that one should be
Bradwardine’s or mine.’
The Chief soothed while he hurried him away; and then returned to the
Baron. ‘It is Ballenkeiroch,’ he said, in an under and confidential
voice, ‘father of the young man who fell eight years since in the unlucky
affair at the mains.’
‘Ah!’ said the Baron, instantly relaxing the doubtful sternness of his
features, ‘I can take mickle frae a man to whom I have unhappily
rendered sic a displeasure as that. Ye were right to apprise me,
Glennaquoich; he may look as black as midnight at Martinmas ere Cosmo
Comyne Bradwardine shall say he does him wrang. Ah! I have nae male
lineage, and I should bear with one I have made childless, though you are
aware the blood-wit was made up to your ain satisfaction by assythment,
and that I have since expedited letters of slains. Weel, as I have said,
I have no male issue, and yet it is needful that I maintain the honour of
my house; and it is on that score I prayed ye for your peculiar and
private attention.’
The two young men awaited to hear him, in anxious curiosity.
‘I doubt na, lads,’ he proceeded, ‘but your education has been sae seen
to that ye understand the true nature of the feudal tenures?’
Fergus, afraid of an endless dissertation, answered, ‘Intimately, Baron,’
and touched Waverley as a signal to express no ignorance.
‘And ye are aware, I doubt not, that the holding of the barony of
Bradwardine is of a nature alike honourable and peculiar, being blanch
(which Craig opines ought to be Latinated blancum, or rather francum, a
free holding) pro servitio detrahendi, seu exuendi, caligas regis post
battalliam.’ Here Fergus turned his falcon eye upon Edward, with an
almost imperceptible rise of his eyebrow, to which his shoulders
corresponded in the same degree of elevation. ‘Now, twa points of
dubitation occur to me upon this topic. First, whether this service, or
feudal homage, be at any event due to the person of the Prince, the words
being, per expressum, caligas REGIS, the boots of the king himself; and I
pray your opinion anent that particular before we proceed farther.’
‘Why, he is Prince Regent,’ answered Mac-Ivor, with laudable composure of
countenance; ‘and in the court of France all the honours are rendered to
the person of the Regent which are due to that of the King. Besides, were
I to pull off either of their boots, I would render that service to the
young Chevalier ten times more willingly than to his father.’
‘Ay, but I talk not of personal predilections. However, your authority
is of great weight as to the usages of the court of France; and doubtless
the Prince, as alter ego, may have a right to claim the homagium of the
great tenants of the crown, since all faithful subjects are commanded, in
the commission of regency, to respect him as the King’s own person. Far,
therefore, be it from me to diminish the lustre of his authority by
withholding this act of homage, so peculiarly calculated to give it
splendour; for I question if the Emperor of Germany hath his boots taken
off by a free baron of the empire. But here lieth the second
difficulty--the Prince wears no boots, but simply brogues and trews.’
This last dilemma had almost disturbed Fergus’s gravity.
‘Why,’ said he, ‘you know, Baron, the proverb tells us, “It’s ill taking
the breeks off a Highlandman,” and the boots are here in the same
predicament.’
‘The word caligae, however,’ continued the Baron, ‘though I admit that,
by family tradition, and even in our ancient evidents, it is explained
“lie-boots,” means, in its primitive sense, rather sandals; and Caius
Caesar, the nephew and successor of Caius Tiberius, received the agnomen
of Caligula, a caligulis sine caligis levioribus, quibus adolescentior
usus fuerat in exercitu Germanici patris sui. And the caligae were also
proper to the monastic bodies; for we read in an ancient glossarium upon
the rule of Saint Benedict, in the Abbey of Saint Amand, that caligae
were tied with latchets.’
‘That will apply to the brogues,’ said Fergus.
‘It will so, my dear Glennaquoich, and the words are express: Caligae,
dicta sunt quia ligantur; nam socci non ligantur, sed tantum
intromittuntur; that is, caligae are denominated from the ligatures
wherewith they are bound; whereas socci, which may be analogous to our
mules, whilk the English denominate slippers, are only slipped upon the
feet. The words of the charter are also alternative, exuere seu
detrahere; that is, to undo, as in the case of sandals or brogues, and to
pull of, as we say vernacularly concerning boots. Yet I would we had more
light; but I fear there is little chance of finding hereabout any erudite
author de re vestiaria.’
‘I should doubt it very much,’ said the Chieftain, looking around on the
straggling Highlanders, who were returning loaded with spoils of the
slain, ‘though the res vestiaria itself seems to be in some request at
present.’
This remark coming within the Baron’s idea of jocularity, he honoured it
with a smile, but immediately resumed what to him appeared very serious
business.
‘Bailie Macwheeble indeed holds an opinion that this honorary service is
due, from its very nature, si petatur tantum; only if his Royal Highness
shall require of the great tenant of the crown to perform that personal
duty; and indeed he pointed out the case in Dirleton’s Doubts and
Queries, Grippit versus Spicer, anent the eviction of an estate ob non
solutum canonem; that is, for non-payment of a feu-duty of three
pepper-corns a year, whilk were taxt to be worth seven-eighths of a penny
Scots, in whilk the defender was assoilzied. But I deem it safest, wi’
your good favour, to place myself in the way of rendering the Prince this
service, and to proffer performance thereof; and I shall cause the Bailie
to attend with a schedule of a protest, whilk he has here prepared
(taking out a paper), intimating, that if it shall be his Royal
Highness’s pleasure to accept of other assistance at pulling off his
caligae (whether the same shall be rendered boots or brogues) save that
of the said Baron of Bradwardine, who is in presence ready and willing to
perform the same, it shall in no wise impinge upon or prejudice the right
of the said Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine to perform the said service in
future; nor shall it give any esquire, valet of the chamber, squire, or
page, whose assistance it may please his Royal Highness to employ, any
right, title, or ground for evicting from the said Cosmo Comyne
Bradwardine the estate and barony of Bradwardine, and others held as
aforesaid, by the due and faithful performance thereof.’
Fergus highly applauded this arrangement; and the Baron took a friendly
leave of them, with a smile of contented importance upon his visage.
‘Long live our dear friend the Baron,’ exclaimed the Chief, as soon as he
was out of hearing, ‘for the most absurd original that exists north of
the Tweed! I wish to heaven I had recommended him to attend the circle
this evening with a boot-ketch under his arm. I think he might have
adopted the suggestion if it had been made with suitable gravity.’
‘And how can you take pleasure in making a man of his worth so
ridiculous?’
‘Begging pardon, my dear Waverley, you are as ridiculous as he. Why, do
you not see that the man’s whole mind is wrapped up in this ceremony? He
has heard and thought of it since infancy as the most august privilege
and ceremony in the world; and I doubt not but the expected pleasure of
performing it was a principal motive with him for taking up arms. Depend
upon it, had I endeavoured to divert him from exposing himself he would
have treated me as an ignorant, conceited coxcomb, or perhaps might have
taken a fancy to cut my throat; a pleasure which he once proposed to
himself upon some point of etiquette not half so important, in his eyes,
as this matter of boots or brogues, or whatever the caliga shall finally
be pronounced by the learned. But I must go to headquarters, to prepare
the Prince for this extraordinary scene. My information will be well
taken, for it will give him a hearty laugh at present, and put him on his
guard against laughing when it might be very mal-a-propos. So, au revoir,
my dear Waverley.’
CHAPTER VII
THE ENGLISH PRISONER
The first occupation of Waverley, after he departed from the Chieftain,
was to go in quest of the officer whose life he had saved. He was
guarded, along with his companions in misfortune, who were very numerous,
in a gentleman’s house near the field of battle.
On entering the room where they stood crowded together, Waverley easily
recognised the object of his visit, not only by the peculiar dignity of
his appearance, but by the appendage of Dugald Mahony, with his
battleaxe, who had stuck to him from the moment of his captivity as if he
had been skewered to his side. This close attendance was perhaps for the
purpose of securing his promised reward from Edward, but it also operated
to save the English gentleman from being plundered in the scene of
general confusion; for Dugald sagaciously argued that the amount of the
salvage which he might be allowed would be regulated by the state of the
prisoner when he should deliver him over to Waverley. He hastened to
assure Waverley, therefore, with more words than he usually employed,
that he had ‘keepit ta sidier roy haill, and that he wasna a plack the
waur since the fery moment when his honour forbad her to gie him a bit
clamhewit wi’ her Lochaber-axe.’
Waverley assured Dugald of a liberal recompense, and, approaching the
English officer, expressed his anxiety to do anything which might
contribute to his convenience under his present unpleasant circumstances.
‘I am not so inexperienced a soldier, sir,’ answered the Englishman, ‘as
to complain of the fortune of war. I am only grieved to see those scenes
acted in our own island which I have often witnessed elsewhere with
comparative indifference.’
‘Another such day as this,’ said Waverley, ‘and I trust the cause of your
regrets will be removed, and all will again return to peace and order.’
The officer smiled and shook his head. ‘I must not forget my situation so
far as to attempt a formal confutation of that opinion; but,
notwithstanding your success and the valour which achieved it, you have
undertaken a task to which your strength appears wholly inadequate.’
At this moment Fergus pushed into the press.
‘Come, Edward, come along; the Prince has gone to Pinkie House for the
night; and we must follow, or lose the whole ceremony of the caligae.
Your friend, the Baron, has been guilty of a great piece of cruelty; he
has insisted upon dragging Bailie Macwheeble out to the field of battle.
Now, you must know, the Bailie’s greatest horror is an armed Highlander
or a loaded gun; and there he stands, listening to the Baron’s
instructions concerning the protest, ducking his head like a sea-gull at
the report of every gun and pistol that our idle boys are firing upon the
fields, and undergoing, by way of penance, at every symptom of flinching
a severe rebuke from his patron, who would not admit the discharge of a
whole battery of cannon, within point-blank distance, as an apology for
neglecting a discourse in which the honour of his family is interested.’
‘But how has Mr. Bradwardine got him to venture so far?’ said Edward.
‘Why, he had come as far as Musselburgh, I fancy, in hopes of making some
of our wills; and the peremptory commands of the Baron dragged him
forward to Preston after the battle was over. He complains of one or two
of our ragamuffins having put him in peril of his life by presenting
their pieces at him; but as they limited his ransom to an English penny,
I don’t think we need trouble the provost-marshal upon that subject. So
come along, Waverley.’
‘Waverley!’ said the English officer, with great emotion;’ the nephew of
Sir Everard Waverley, of----shire?’
‘The same, sir,’ replied our hero, somewhat surprised at the tone in
which he was addressed.
‘I am at once happy and grieved,’ said the prisoner, ‘to have met with
you.’
‘I am ignorant, sir,’ answered Waverley, ‘how I have deserved so much
interest.’
‘Did your uncle never mention a friend called Talbot?’
‘I have heard him talk with great regard of such a person,’ replied
Edward; ‘a colonel, I believe, in the army, and the husband of Lady Emily
Blandeville; but I thought Colonel Talbot had been abroad.’
‘I am just returned,’ answered the officer; ‘and being in Scotland,
thought it my duty to act where my services promised to be useful. Yes,
Mr. Waverley, I am that Colonel Talbot, the husband of the lady you have
named; and I am proud to acknowledge that I owe alike my professional
rank and my domestic happiness to your generous and noble-minded
relative. Good God! that I should find his nephew in such a dress, and
engaged in such a cause!’
‘Sir,’ said Fergus, haughtily, ‘the dress and cause are those of men of
birth and honour.’
‘My situation forbids me to dispute your assertion,’ said Colonel Talbot;
‘otherwise it were no difficult matter to show that neither courage nor
pride of lineage can gild a bad cause. But, with Mr. Waverley’s
permission and yours, sir, if yours also must be asked, I would willingly
speak a few words with him on affairs connected with his own family.’
‘Mr. Waverley, sir, regulates his own motions. You will follow me, I
suppose, to Pinkie,’ said Fergus, turning to Edward, ‘when you have
finished your discourse with this new acquaintance?’ So saying, the Chief
of Glennaquoich adjusted his plaid with rather more than his usual air of
haughty assumption and left the apartment.
The interest of Waverley readily procured for Colonel Talbot the freedom
of adjourning to a large garden belonging to his place of confinement.
They walked a few paces in silence, Colonel Talbot apparently studying
how to open what he had to say; at length he addressed Edward.
‘Mr. Waverley, you have this day saved my life; and yet I would to God
that I had lost it, ere I had found you wearing the uniform and cockade
of these men.’
‘I forgive your reproach, Colonel Talbot; it is well meant, and your
education and prejudices render it natural. But there is nothing
extraordinary in finding a man whose honour has been publicly and
unjustly assailed in the situation which promised most fair to afford him
satisfaction on his calumniators.’
‘I should rather say, in the situation most likely to confirm the reports
which they have circulated,’ said Colonel Talbot, ‘by following the very
line of conduct ascribed to you. Are you aware, Mr. Waverley, of the
infinite distress, and even danger, which your present conduct has
occasioned to your nearest relatives?’
‘Danger!’
‘Yes, sir, danger. When I left England your uncle and father had been
obliged to find bail to answer a charge of treason, to which they were
only admitted by the exertion of the most powerful interest. I came down
to Scotland with the sole purpose of rescuing you from the gulf into
which you have precipitated yourself; nor can I estimate the consequences
to your family of your having openly joined the rebellion, since the very
suspicion of your intention was so perilous to them. Most deeply do I
regret that I did not meet you before this last and fatal error.’
‘I am really ignorant,’ said Waverley, in a tone of reserve, ‘why Colonel
Talbot should have taken so much trouble on my account.’
‘Mr. Waverley,’ answered Talbot, ‘I am dull at apprehending irony; and
therefore I shall answer your words according to their plain meaning. I
am indebted to your uncle for benefits greater than those which a son
owes to a father. I acknowledge to him the duty of a son; and as I know
there is no manner in which I can requite his kindness so well as by
serving you, I will serve you, if possible, whether you will permit me or
no. The personal obligation which you have this day laid me under
(although, in common estimation, as great as one human being can bestow
on another) adds nothing to my zeal on your behalf; nor can that zeal be
abated by any coolness with which you may please to receive it.’
‘Your intentions may be kind, sir,’ said Waverley, drily; ‘but your
language is harsh, or at least peremptory.’
‘On my return to England,’ continued Colonel Talbot, ‘after long absence,
I found your uncle, Sir Everard Waverley, in the custody of a king’s
messenger, in consequence of the suspicion brought upon him by your
conduct. He is my oldest friend--how often shall I repeat it?--my best
benefactor! he sacrificed his own views of happiness to mine; he never
uttered a word, he never harboured a thought, that benevolence itself
might not have thought or spoken. I found this man in confinement,
rendered harsher to him by his habits of life, his natural dignity of
feeling, and--forgive me, Mr. Waverley--by the cause through which this
calamity had come upon him. I cannot disguise from you my feelings upon
this occasion; they were most painfully unfavorable to you. Having by my
family interest, which you probably know is not inconsiderable, succeeded
in obtaining Sir Everard’s release, I set out for Scotland. I saw Colonel
Gardiner, a man whose fate alone is sufficient to render this
insurrection for ever execrable. In the course of conversation with him I
found that, from late circumstances, from a reexamination of the persons
engaged in the mutiny, and from his original good opinion of your
character, he was much softened towards you; and I doubted not that, if I
could be so fortunate as to discover you, all might yet be well. But this
unnatural rebellion has ruined all. I have, for the first time in a long
and active military life, seen Britons disgrace themselves by a panic
flight, and that before a foe without either arms or discipline. And now
I find the heir of my dearest friend--the son, I may say, of his
affections--sharing a triumph for which he ought the first to have
blushed. Why should I lament Gardiner? his lot was happy compared to
mine!’
There was so much dignity in Colonel Talbot’s manner, such a mixture of
military pride and manly sorrow, and the news of Sir Everard’s
imprisonment was told in so deep a tone of feeling, that Edward stood
mortified, abashed, and distressed in presence of the prisoner who owed
to him his life not many hours before. He was not sorry when Fergus
interrupted their conference a second time.
‘His Royal Highness commands Mr. Waverley’s attendance.’ Colonel Talbot
threw upon Edward a reproachful glance, which did not escape the quick
eye of the Highland Chief. ‘His immediate attendance,’ he repeated, with
considerable emphasis. Waverley turned again towards the Colonel.
‘We shall meet again,’ he said; ‘in the meanwhile, every possible
accommodation--’
‘I desire none,’ said the Colonel; ‘let me fare like the meanest of those
brave men who, on this day of calamity, have preferred wounds and
captivity to flight; I would almost exchange places with one of those who
have fallen to know that my words have made a suitable impression on your
mind.’
‘Let Colonel Talbot be carefully secured,’ said Fergus to the Highland
officer who commanded the guard over the prisoners; ‘it is the Prince’s
particular command; he is a prisoner of the utmost importance.’
‘But let him want no accommodation suitable to his rank,’ said Waverley.
‘Consistent always with secure custody,’ reiterated Fergus. The officer
signified his acquiescence in both commands, and Edward followed Fergus
to the garden-gate, where Callum Beg, with three saddle-horses, awaited
them. Turning his head, he saw Colonel Talbot reconducted to his place of
confinement by a file of Highlanders; he lingered on the threshold of the
door and made a signal with his hand towards Waverley, as if enforcing
the language he had held towards him.
‘Horses,’ said Fergus, as he mounted, ‘are now as plenty as blackberries;
every man may have them for the catching. Come, let Callum adjust your
stirrups and let us to Pinkie House [Footnote: Charles Edward took up his
quarters after the battle at Pinkie House, adjoining to Musselburgh.] as
fast as these ci-devant dragoon-horses choose to carry us.’
CHAPTER XXI
RATHER UNIMPORTANT
‘I was turned back,’ said Fergus to Edward, as they galloped from Preston
to Pinkie House, ‘by a message from the Prince. But I suppose you know
the value of this most noble Colonel Talbot as a prisoner. He is held one
of the best officers among the red-coats, a special friend and favourite
of the Elector himself, and of that dreadful hero, the Duke of
Cumberland, who has been summoned from his triumphs at Fontenoy to come
over and devour us poor Highlanders alive. Has he been telling you how
the bells of St. James’s ring? Not “turn again, Whittington,” like those
of Bow, in the days of yore?’
‘Fergus!’ said Waverley, with a reproachful look.
‘Nay, I cannot tell what to make of you,’ answered the Chief of Mac-Ivor,
‘you are blown about with every wind of doctrine. Here have we gained a
victory unparalleled in history, and your behaviour is praised by every
living mortal to the skies, and the Prince is eager to thank you in
person, and all our beauties of the White Rose are pulling caps for
you;--and you, the preux chevalier of the day, are stooping on your
horse’s neck like a butter-woman riding to market, and looking as black
as a funeral!’
‘I am sorry for poor Colonel Gardiner’s death; he was once very kind to
me.’
‘Why, then, be sorry for five minutes, and then be glad again; his chance
to-day may be ours to-morrow; and what does it signify? The next best
thing to victory is honourable death; but it is a PIS-ALLER, and one
would rather a foe had it than one’s self.’
‘But Colonel Talbot has informed me that my father and uncle are both
imprisoned by government on my account.’
‘We’ll put in bail, my boy; old Andrew Ferrara [Footnote: See Note 10.]
shall lodge his security; and I should like to see him put to justify it
in Westminster Hall!’
‘Nay, they are already at liberty, upon bail of a more civic
disposition.’
‘Then why is thy noble spirit cast down, Edward? Dost think that the
Elector’s ministers are such doves as to set their enemies at liberty at
this critical moment if they could or durst confine and punish them?
Assure thyself that either they have no charge against your relations on
which they can continue their imprisonment, or else they are afraid of
our friends, the jolly Cavaliers of old England. At any rate, you need
not be apprehensive upon their account; and we will find some means of
conveying to them assurances of your safety.’
Edward was silenced but not satisfied with these reasons. He had now been
more than once shocked at the small degree of sympathy which Fergus
exhibited for the feelings even of those whom he loved, if they did not
correspond with his own mood at the time, and more especially if they
thwarted him while earnest in a favourite pursuit. Fergus sometimes
indeed observed that he had offended Waverley, but, always intent upon
some favourite plan or project of his own, he was never sufficiently
aware of the extent or duration of his displeasure, so that the
reiteration of these petty offences somewhat cooled the volunteer’s
extreme attachment to his officer.
The Chevalier received Waverley with his usual favour, and paid him many
compliments on his distinguished bravery. He then took him apart, made
many inquiries concerning Colonel Talbot, and when he had received all
the information which Edward was able to give concerning him and his
connexions, he proceeded--‘I cannot but think, Mr. Waverley, that since
this gentleman is so particularly connected with our worthy and excellent
friend, Sir Everard Waverley, and since his lady is of the house of
Blandeville, whose devotion to the true and loyal principles of the
Church of England is so generally known, the Colonel’s own private
sentiments cannot be unfavorable to us, whatever mask he may have assumed
to accommodate himself to the times.’
‘If I am to judge from the language he this day held to me, I am under
the necessity of differing widely from your Royal Highness.’
‘Well, it is worth making a trial at least. I therefore entrust you with
the charge of Colonel Talbot, with power to act concerning him as you
think most advisable; and I hope you will find means of ascertaining what
are his real dispositions towards our Royal Father’s restoration.’
‘I am convinced,’ said Waverley, bowing, ‘that if Colonel Talbot chooses
to grant his parole, it may be securely depended upon; but if he refuses
it, I trust your Royal Highness will devolve on some other person than
the nephew of his friend the task of laying him under the necessary
restraint.’
‘I will trust him with no person but you,’ said the Prince, smiling, but
peremptorily repeating his mandate; ‘it is of importance to my service
that there should appear to be a good intelligence between you, even if
you are unable to gain his confidence in earnest. You will therefore
receive him into your quarters, and in case he declines giving his
parole, you must apply for a proper guard. I beg you will go about this
directly. We return to Edinburgh tomorrow.’
Being thus remanded to the vicinity of Preston, Waverley lost the Baron
of Bradwardine’s solemn act of homage. So little, however, was he at this
time in love with vanity, that he had quite forgotten the ceremony in
which Fergus had laboured to engage his curiosity. But next day a formal
‘Gazette’ was circulated, containing a detailed account of the battle of
Gladsmuir, as the Highlanders chose to denominate their victory. It
concluded with an account of the court afterwards held by the Chevalier
at Pinkie House, which contained this among other high-flown descriptive
paragraphs:--
‘Since that fatal treaty which annihilates Scotland as an independent
nation, it has not been our happiness to see her princes receive, and her
nobles discharge, those acts of feudal homage which, founded upon the
splendid actions of Scottish valour, recall the memory of her early
history, with the manly and chivalrous simplicity of the ties which
united to the Crown the homage of the warriors by whom it was repeatedly
upheld and defended. But on the evening of the 20th our memories were
refreshed with one of those ceremonies which belong to the ancient days
of Scotland’s glory. After the circle was formed, Cosmo Comyne
Bradwardine of that ilk, colonel in the service, etc., etc., etc., came
before the Prince, attended by Mr. D. Macwheeble, the Bailie of his
ancient barony of Bradwardine (who, we understand, has been lately named
a commissary), and, under form of instrument, claimed permission to
perform to the person of his Royal Highness, as representing his father,
the service used and wont, for which, under a charter of Robert Bruce (of
which the original was produced and inspected by the Masters of his Royal
Highness’s Chancery for the time being), the claimant held the barony of
Bradwardine and lands of Tully-Veolan. His claim being admitted and
registered, his Royal Highness having placed his foot upon a cushion, the
Baron of Bradwardine, kneeling upon his right knee, proceeded to undo the
latchet of the brogue, or low-heeled Highland shoe, which our gallant
young hero wears in compliment to his brave followers. When this was
performed, his Royal Highness declared the ceremony completed; and,
embracing the gallant veteran, protested that nothing but compliance with
an ordinance of Robert Bruce could have induced him to receive even the
symbolical performance of a menial office from hands which had fought so
bravely to put the crown upon the head of his father. The Baron of
Bradwardine then took instruments in the hands of Mr. Commissary
Macwheeble, bearing that all points and circumstances of the act of
homage had been rite et solenniter acta et peracta; and a corresponding
entry was made in the protocol of the Lord High Chamberlain and in the
record of Chancery. We understand that it is in contemplation of his
Royal Highness, when his Majesty’s pleasure can be known, to raise
Colonel Bradwardine to the peerage, by the title of Viscount Bradwardine
of Bradwardine and Tully-Veolan, and that, in the meanwhile, his Royal
Highness, in his father’s name and authority, has been pleased to grant
him an honourable augmentation to his paternal coat of arms, being a
budget or boot-jack, disposed saltier-wise with a naked broadsword, to be
borne in the dexter cantle of the shield; and, as an additional motto, on
a scroll beneath, the words, “Draw and draw off.”’
‘Were it not for the recollection of Fergus’s raillery,’ thought Waverley
to himself, when he had perused this long and grave document, how very
tolerably would all this sound, and how little should I have thought of
connecting it with any ludicrous idea! Well, after all, everything has
its fair as well as its seamy side; and truly I do not see why the
Baron’s boot-jack may not stand as fair in heraldry as the water-buckets,
waggons, cart-wheels, plough-socks, shuttles, candlesticks, and other
ordinaries, conveying ideas of anything save chivalry, which appear in
the arms of some of our most ancient gentry.’
This, however, is an episode in respect to the principal story.
When Waverley returned to Preston and rejoined Colonel Talbot, he found
him recovered from the strong and obvious emotions with which a
concurrence of unpleasing events had affected him. He had regained his
natural manner, which was that of an English gentleman and soldier,
manly, open and generous, but not unsusceptible of prejudice against
those of a different country, or who opposed him in political tenets.
When Waverley acquainted Colonel Talbot with the Chevalier’s purpose to
commit him to his charge, ‘I did not think to have owed so much
obligation to that young gentleman,’ he said, ‘as is implied in this
destination. I can at least cheerfully join in the prayer of the honest
Presbyterian clergyman, that, as he has come among us seeking an earthly
crown, his labours may be speedily rewarded with a heavenly one.
[Footnote: The clergyman’s name was Mac-Vicar. Protected by the cannon of
the Castle, he preached every Sunday in the West Kirk while the
Highlanders were in possession of Edinburgh, and it was in presence of
some of the Jacobites that he prayed for Prince Charles Edward in the
terms quoted in the text.] I shall willingly give my parole not to
attempt an escape without your knowledge, since, in fact, it was to meet
you that I came to Scotland; and I am glad it has happened even under
this predicament. But I suppose we shall be but a short time together.
Your Chevalier (that is a name we may both give to him), with his plaids
and blue caps, will, I presume, be continuing his crusade southward?’
‘Not as I hear; I believe the army makes some stay in Edinburgh to
collect reinforcements.’
‘And to besiege the Castle?’ said Talbot, smiling sarcastically. ‘Well,
unless my old commander, General Preston, turn false metal, or the Castle
sink into the North Loch, events which I deem equally probable, I think
we shall have some time to make up our acquaintance. I have a guess that
this gallant Chevalier has a design that I should be your proselyte; and,
as I wish you to be mine, there cannot be a more fair proposal than to
afford us fair conference together. But, as I spoke today under the
influence of feelings I rarely give way to, I hope you will excuse my
entering again upon controversy till we are somewhat better acquainted.’
CHAPTER XXII
INTRIGUES OF LOVE AND POLITICS
It is not necessary to record in these pages the triumphant entrance of
the Chevalier into Edinburgh after the decisive affair at Preston. One
circumstance, however, may be noticed, because it illustrates the high
spirit of Flora Mac-Ivor. The Highlanders by whom the Prince was
surrounded, in the license and extravagance of this joyful moment, fired
their pieces repeatedly, and one of these having been accidentally loaded
with ball, the bullet grazed the young lady’s temple as she waved her
handkerchief from a balcony. [Footnote: See Note 11.] Fergus, who beheld
the accident, was at her side in an instant; and, on seeing that the
wound was trifling, he drew his broadsword with the purpose of rushing
down upon the man by whose carelessness she had incurred so much danger,
when, holding him by the plaid, ‘Do not harm the poor fellow,’ she cried;
‘for Heaven’s sake, do not harm him! but thank God with me that the
accident happened to Flora Mac-Ivor; for had it befallen a Whig, they
would have pretended that the shot was fired on purpose.’
Waverley escaped the alarm which this accident would have occasioned to
him, as he was unavoidably delayed by the necessity of accompanying
Colonel Talbot to Edinburgh.
They performed the journey together on horseback, and for some time, as
if to sound each other’s feelings and sentiments, they conversed upon
general and ordinary topics.
When Waverley again entered upon the subject which he had most at heart,
the situation, namely, of his father and his uncle, Colonel Talbot seemed
now rather desirous to alleviate than to aggravate his anxiety. This
appeared particularly to be the case when he heard Waverley’s history,
which he did not scruple to confide to him.
‘And so,’ said the Colonel, ‘there has been no malice prepense, as
lawyers, I think, term it, in this rash step of yours; and you have been
trepanned into the service of this Italian knight-errant by a few civil
speeches from him and one or two of his Highland recruiting sergeants? It
is sadly foolish, to be sure, but not nearly so bad as I was led to
expect. However, you cannot desert, even from the Pretender, at the
present moment; that seems impossible. But I have little doubt that, in
the dissensions incident to this heterogeneous mass of wild and desperate
men, some opportunity may arise, by availing yourself of which you may
extricate yourself honourably from your rash engagement before the bubble
burst. If this can be managed, I would have you go to a place of safety
in Flanders which I shall point out. And I think I can secure your pardon
from government after a few months’ residence abroad.’
‘I cannot permit you, Colonel Talbot,’ answered Waverley, ‘to speak of
any plan which turns on my deserting an enterprise in which I may have
engaged hastily, but certainly voluntarily, and with the purpose of
abiding the issue.’
‘Well,’ said Colonel Talbot, smiling, ‘leave me my thoughts and hopes at
least at liberty, if not my speech. But have you never examined your
mysterious packet?’
‘It is in my baggage,’ replied Edward; ‘we shall find it in Edinburgh.’
In Edinburgh they soon arrived. Waverley’s quarters had been assigned to
him, by the Prince’s express orders, in a handsome lodging, where there
was accommodation for Colonel Talbot. His first business was to examine
his portmanteau, and, after a very short search, out tumbled the expected
packet. Waverley opened it eagerly. Under a blank cover, simply addressed
to E. Waverley, Esq., he found a number of open letters. The uppermost
were two from Colonel Gardiner addressed to himself. The earliest in date
was a kind and gentle remonstrance for neglect of the writer’s advice
respecting the disposal of his time during his leave of absence, the
renewal of which, he reminded Captain Waverley, would speedily expire.
‘Indeed,’ the letter proceeded, ‘had it been otherwise, the news from
abroad and my instructions from the War Office must have compelled me to
recall it, as there is great danger, since the disaster in Flanders, both
of foreign invasion and insurrection among the disaffected at home. I
therefore entreat you will repair as soon as possible to the headquarters
of the regiment; and I am concerned to add that this is still the more
necessary as there is some discontent in your troop, and I postpone
inquiry into particulars until I can have the advantage of your
assistance.’
The second letter, dated eight days later, was in such a style as might
have been expected from the Colonel’s receiving no answer to the first.
It reminded Waverley of his duty as a man of honour, an officer, and a
Briton; took notice of the increasing dissatisfaction of his men, and
that some of them had been heard to hint that their Captain encouraged
and approved of their mutinous behaviour; and, finally, the writer
expressed the utmost regret and surprise that he had not obeyed his
commands by repairing to headquarters, reminded him that his leave of
absence had been recalled, and conjured him, in a style in which paternal
remonstrance was mingled with military authority, to redeem his error by
immediately joining his regiment. ‘That I may be certain,’ concluded the
letter, ‘that this actually reaches you, I despatch it by Corporal Tims
of your troop, with orders to deliver it into your own hand.’
Upon reading these letters Waverley, with great bitterness of feeling,
was compelled to make the amende honorable to the memory of the brave and
excellent writer; for surely, as Colonel Gardiner must have had every
reason to conclude they had come safely to hand, less could not follow,
on their being neglected, than that third and final summons, which
Waverley actually received at Glennaquoich, though too late to obey it.
And his being superseded, in consequence of his apparent neglect of this
last command, was so far from being a harsh or severe proceeding, that it
was plainly inevitable. The next letter he unfolded was from the major of
the regiment, acquainting him that a report to the disadvantage of his
reputation was public in the country, stating, that one Mr. Falconer of
Ballihopple, or some such name, had proposed in his presence a
treasonable toast, which he permitted to pass in silence, although it was
so gross an affront to the royal family that a gentleman in company, not
remarkable for his zeal for government, had never-the-less taken the
matter up, and that, supposing the account true, Captain Waverley had
thus suffered another, comparatively unconcerned, to resent an affront
directed against him personally as an officer, and to go out with the
person by whom it was offered. The major concluded that no one of Captain
Waverley’s brother officers could believe this scandalous story, but that
it was necessarily their joint opinion that his own honour, equally with
that of the regiment, depended upon its being instantly contradicted by
his authority, etc. etc. etc.
‘What do you think of all this?’ said Colonel Talbot, to whom Waverley
handed the letters after he had perused them.
‘Think! it renders thought impossible. It is enough to drive me mad.’
‘Be calm, my young friend; let us see what are these dirty scrawls that
follow.’
The first was addressed,--
‘For Master W. Ruffin, These.’--
‘Dear sur, sum of our yong gulpins will not bite, thof I tuold them you
shoed me the squoire’s own seel. But Tims will deliver you the lettrs as
desired, and tell ould Addem he gave them to squoir’s bond, as to be sure
yours is the same, and shall be ready for signal, and hoy for Hoy Church
and Sachefrel, as fadur sings at harvestwhome. Yours, deer Sur,
‘H. H.
‘Poscriff.--Do’e tell squoire we longs to heer from him, and has dootings
about his not writing himself, and Lifetenant Bottler is smoky.’
‘This Ruffin, I suppose, then, is your Donald of the Cavern, who has
intercepted your letters, and carried on a correspondence with the poor
devil Houghton, as if under your authority?’
‘It seems too true. But who can Addem be?’
‘Possibly Adam, for poor Gardiner, a sort of pun on his name.’
The other letters were to the same purpose; and they soon received yet
more complete light upon Donald Bean’s machinations.
John Hodges, one of Waverley’s servants, who had remained with the
regiment and had been taken at Preston, now made his appearance. He had
sought out his master with the purpose of again entering his service.
From this fellow they learned that some time after Waverley had gone from
the headquarters of the regiment, a pedlar, called Ruthven, Rufnn, or
Rivane, known among the soldiers by the name of Wily Will, had made
frequent visits to the town of Dundee. He appeared to possess plenty of
money, sold his commodities very cheap, seemed always willing to treat
his friends at the ale-house, and easily ingratiated himself with many of
Waverley’s troop, particularly Sergeant Houghton and one Tims, also a
non-commissioned officer. To these he unfolded, in Waverley’s name, a
plan for leaving the regiment and joining him in the Highlands, where
report said the clans had already taken arms in great numbers. The men,
who had been educated as Jacobites, so far as they had any opinion at
all, and who knew their landlord, Sir Everard, had always been supposed
to hold such tenets, easily fell into the snare. That Waverley was at a
distance in the Highlands was received as a sufficient excuse for
transmitting his letters through the medium of the pedlar; and the sight
of his well-known seal seemed to authenticate the negotiations in his
name, where writing might have been dangerous. The cabal, however, began
to take air, from the premature mutinous language of those concerned.
Wily Will justified his appellative; for, after suspicion arose, he was
seen no more. When the ‘Gazette’ appeared in which Waverley was
superseded, great part of his troop broke out into actual mutiny, but
were surrounded and disarmed by the rest of the regiment. In consequence
of the sentence of a court-martial, Houghton and Tims were condemned to
be shot, but afterwards permitted to cast lots for life. Houghton, the
survivor, showed much penitence, being convinced, from the rebukes and
explanations of Colonel Gardiner, that he had really engaged in a very
heinous crime. It is remarkable that, as soon as the poor fellow was
satisfied of this, he became also convinced that the instigator had acted
without authority from Edward, saying, ‘If it was dishonourable and
against Old England, the squire could know nought about it; he never did,
or thought to do, anything dishonourable, no more didn’t Sir Everard, nor
none of them afore him, and in that belief he would live and die that
Ruffin had done it all of his own head.’
The strength of conviction with which he expressed himself upon this
subject, as well as his assurances that the letters intended for Waverley
had been delivered to Ruthven, made that revolution in Colonel Gardiner’s
opinion which he expressed to Talbot.
The reader has long since understood that Donald Bean Lean played the
part of tempter on this occasion. His motives were shortly these. Of an
active and intriguing spirit, he had been long employed as a subaltern
agent and spy by those in the confidence of the Chevalier, to an extent
beyond what was suspected even by Fergus Mac-Ivor, whom, though obliged
to him for protection, he regarded with fear and dislike. To success in
this political department he naturally looked for raising himself by some
bold stroke above his present hazardous and precarious trade of rapine.
He was particularly employed in learning the strength of the regiments in
Scotland, the character of the officers, etc., and had long had his eye
upon Waverley’s troop as open to temptation. Donald even believed that
Waverley himself was at bottom in the Stuart interest, which seemed
confirmed by his long visit to the Jacobite Baron of Bradwardine. When,
therefore, he came to his cave with one of Glennaquoich’s attendants, the
robber, who could never appreciate his real motive, which was mere
curiosity, was so sanguine as to hope that his own talents were to be
employed in some intrigue of consequence, under the auspices of this
wealthy young Englishman. Nor was he undeceived by Waverley’s neglecting
all hints and openings afforded for explanation. His conduct passed for
prudent reserve, and somewhat piqued Donald Bean, who, supposing himself
left out of a secret where confidence promised to be advantageous,
determined to have his share in the drama, whether a regular part were
assigned him or not. For this purpose during Waverley’s sleep he
possessed himself of his seal, as a token to be used to any of the
troopers whom he might discover to be possessed of the captain’s
confidence. His first journey to Dundee, the town where the regiment was
quartered, undeceived him in his original supposition, but opened to him
a new field of action. He knew there would be no service so well rewarded
by the friends of the Chevalier as seducing a part of the regular army to
his standard. For this purpose he opened the machinations with which the
reader is already acquainted, and which form a clue to all the
intricacies and obscurities of the narrative previous to Waverley’s
leaving Glennaquoich.
By Colonel Talbot’s advice, Waverley declined detaining in his service
the lad whose evidence had thrown additional light on these intrigues. He
represented to him, that it would be doing the man an injury to engage
him in a desperate undertaking, and that, whatever should happen, his
evidence would go some length at least in explaining the circumstances
under which Waverley himself had embarked in it. Waverley therefore wrote
a short state of what had happened to his uncle and his father,
cautioning them, however, in the present circumstances, not to attempt to
answer his letter. Talbot then gave the young man a letter to the
commander of one of the English vessels of war cruising in the frith,
requesting him to put the bearer ashore at Berwick, with a pass to
proceed to ----shire. He was then furnished with money to make an
expeditious journey, and directed to get on board the ship by means of
bribing a fishing-boat, which, as they afterwards learned, he easily
effected.
Tired of the attendance of Callum Beg, who, he thought, had some
disposition to act as a spy on his motions, Waverley hired as a servant a
simple Edinburgh swain, who had mounted the white cockade in a fit of
spleen and jealousy, because Jenny Jop had danced a whole night with
Corporal Bullock of the Fusileers.
CHAPTER XXIII
INTRIGUES OF SOCIETY AND LOVE
Colonel Talbot became more kindly in his demeanour towards Waverley after
the confidence he had reposed in him, and, as they were necessarily much
together, the character of the Colonel rose in Waverley’s estimation.
There seemed at first something harsh in his strong expressions of
dislike and censure, although no one was in the general case more open to
conviction. The habit of authority had also given his manners some
peremptory hardness, notwithstanding the polish which they had received
from his intimate acquaintance with the higher circles. As a specimen of
the military character, he differed from all whom Waverley had as yet
seen. The soldiership of the Baron of Bradwardine was marked by pedantry;
that of Major Melville by a sort of martinet attention to the minutiae
and technicalities of discipline, rather suitable to one who was to
manoeuvre a battalion than to him who was to command an army; the
military spirit of Fergus was so much warped and blended with his plans
and political views, that it was less that of a soldier than of a petty
sovereign. But Colonel Talbot was in every point the English soldier. His
whole soul was devoted to the service of his king and country, without
feeling any pride in knowing the theory of his art with the Baron, or its
practical minutiae with the Major, or in applying his science to his own
particular plans of ambition, like the Chieftain of Glennaquoich. Added
to this, he was a man of extended knowledge and cultivated taste,
although strongly tinged, as we have already observed, with those
prejudices which are peculiarly English.
The character of Colonel Talbot dawned upon Edward by degrees; for the
delay of the Highlanders in the fruitless siege of Edinburgh Castle
occupied several weeks, during which Waverley had little to do excepting
to seek such amusement as society afforded. He would willingly have
persuaded his new friend to become acquainted with some of his former
intimates. But the Colonel, after one or two visits, shook his head, and
declined farther experiment. Indeed he went farther, and characterised
the Baron as the most intolerable formal pedant he had ever had the
misfortune to meet with, and the Chief of Glennaquoich as a Frenchified
Scotchman, possessing all the cunning and plausibility of the nation
where he was educated, with the proud, vindictive, and turbulent humour
of that of his birth. ‘If the devil,’ he said, ‘had sought out an agent
expressly for the purpose of embroiling this miserable country, I do not
think he could find a better than such a fellow as this, whose temper
seems equally active, supple, and mischievous, and who is followed, and
implicitly obeyed, by a gang of such cut-throats as those whom you are
pleased to admire so much.’
The ladies of the party did not escape his censure. He allowed that Flora
Mac-Ivor was a fine woman, and Rose Bradwardine a pretty girl. But he
alleged that the former destroyed the effect of her beauty by an
affectation of the grand airs which she had probably seen practised in
the mock court of St. Germains. As for Rose Bradwardine, he said it was
impossible for any mortal to admire such a little uninformed thing, whose
small portion of education was as ill adapted to her sex or youth as if
she had appeared with one of her father’s old campaign-coats upon her
person for her sole garment. Now much of this was mere spleen and
prejudice in the excellent Colonel, with whom the white cockade on the
breast, the white rose in the hair, and the Mac at the beginning of a
name would have made a devil out of an angel; and indeed he himself
jocularly allowed that he could not have endured Venus herself if she had
been announced in a drawing-room by the name of Miss Mac-Jupiter.
Waverley, it may easily be believed, looked upon these young ladies with
very different eyes. During the period of the siege he paid them almost
daily visits, although he observed with regret that his suit made as
little progress in the affections of the former as the arms of the
Chevalier in subduing the fortress. She maintained with rigour the rule
she had laid down of treating him with indifference, without either
affecting to avoid him or to shun intercourse with him. Every word, every
look, was strictly regulated to accord with her system, and neither the
dejection of Waverley nor the anger which Fergus scarcely suppressed
could extend Flora’s attention to Edward beyond that which the most
ordinary politeness demanded. On the other hand, Rose Bradwardine
gradually rose in Waverley’s opinion. He had several opportunities of
remarking that, as her extreme timidity wore off, her manners assumed a
higher character; that the agitating circumstances of the stormy time
seemed to call forth a certain dignity of feeling and expression which he
had not formerly observed; and that she omitted no opportunity within her
reach to extend her knowledge and refine her taste.
Flora Mac-Ivor called Rose her pupil, and was attentive to assist her in
her studies, and to fashion both her taste and understanding. It might
have been remarked by a very close observer that in the presence of
Waverley she was much more desirous to exhibit her friend’s excellences
than her own. But I must request of the reader to suppose that this kind
and disinterested purpose was concealed by the most cautious delicacy,
studiously shunning the most distant approach to affectation. So that it
was as unlike the usual exhibition of one pretty woman affecting to
proner another as the friendship of David and Jonathan might be to the
intimacy of two Bond Street loungers. The fact is that, though the effect
was felt, the cause could hardly be observed. Each of the ladies, like
two excellent actresses, were perfect in their parts, and performed them
to the delight of the audience; and such being the case, it was almost
impossible to discover that the elder constantly ceded to her friend that
which was most suitable to her talents.
But to Waverley Rose Bradwardine possessed an attraction which few men
can resist, from the marked interest which she took in everything that
affected him. She was too young and too inexperienced to estimate the
full force of the constant attention which she paid to him. Her father
was too abstractedly immersed in learned and military discussions to
observe her partiality, and Flora Mac-Ivor did not alarm her by
remonstrance, because she saw in this line of conduct the most probable
chance of her friend securing at length a return of affection.
The truth is, that in her first conversation after their meeting Rose had
discovered the state of her mind to that acute and intelligent friend,
although she was not herself aware of it. From that time Flora was not
only determined upon the final rejection of Waverley’s addresses, but
became anxious that they should, if possible, be transferred to her
friend. Nor was she less interested in this plan, though her brother had
from time to time talked, as between jest and earnest, of paying his suit
to Miss Bradwardine. She knew that Fergus had the true continental
latitude of opinion respecting the institution of marriage, and would not
have given his hand to an angel unless for the purpose of strengthening
his alliances and increasing his influence and wealth. The Baron’s whim
of transferring his estate to the distant heir-male, instead of his own
daughter, was therefore likely to be an insurmountable obstacle to his
entertaining any serious thoughts of Rose Bradwardine. Indeed, Fergus’s
brain was a perpetual workshop of scheme and intrigue, of every possible
kind and description; while, like many a mechanic of more ingenuity than
steadiness, he would often unexpectedly, and without any apparent motive,
abandon one plan and go earnestly to work upon another, which was either
fresh from the forge of his imagination or had at some former period been
flung aside half finished. It was therefore often difficult to guess what
line of conduct he might finally adopt upon any given occasion.
Although Flora was sincerely attached to her brother, whose high energies
might indeed have commanded her admiration even without the ties which
bound them together, she was by no means blind to his faults, which she
considered as dangerous to the hopes of any woman who should found her
ideas of a happy marriage in the peaceful enjoyment of domestic society
and the exchange of mutual and engrossing affection. The real disposition
of Waverley, on the other hand, notwithstanding his dreams of tented
fields and military honour, seemed exclusively domestic. He asked and
received no share in the busy scenes which were constantly going on
around him, and was rather annoyed than interested by the discussion of
contending claims, rights, and interests which often passed in his
presence. All this pointed him out as the person formed to make happy a
spirit like that of Rose, which corresponded with his own.
She remarked this point in Waverley’s character one day while she sat
with Miss Bradwardine. ‘His genius and elegant taste,’ answered Rose,
‘cannot be interested in such trifling discussions. What is it to him,
for example, whether the Chief of the Macindallaghers, who has brought
out only fifty men, should be a colonel or a captain? and how could Mr.
Waverley be supposed to interest himself in the violent altercation
between your brother and young Corrinaschian whether the post of honour
is due to the eldest cadet of a clan or the youngest?’
‘My dear Rose, if he were the hero you suppose him he would interest
himself in these matters, not indeed as important in themselves, but for
the purpose of mediating between the ardent spirits who actually do make
them the subject of discord. You saw when Corrinaschian raised his voice
in great passion, and laid his hand upon his sword, Waverley lifted his
head as if he had just awaked from a dream, and asked with great
composure what the matter was.’
‘Well, and did not the laughter they fell into at his absence of mind
serve better to break off the dispute than anything he could have said to
them?’
‘True, my dear,’ answered Flora; ‘but not quite so creditably for
Waverley as if he had brought them to their senses by force of reason.’
‘Would you have him peacemaker general between all the gunpowder
Highlanders in the army? I beg your pardon, Flora, your brother, you
know, is out of the question; he has more sense than half of them. But
can you think the fierce, hot, furious spirits of whose brawls we see
much and hear more, and who terrify me out of my life every day in the
world, are at all to be compared to Waverley?’
‘I do not compare him with those uneducated men, my dear Rose. I only
lament that, with his talents and genius, he does not assume that place
in society for which they eminently fit him, and that he does not lend
their full impulse to the noble cause in which he has enlisted. Are there
not Lochiel, and P--, and M--, and G--, all men of the highest education
as well as the first talents,--why will he not stoop like them to be
alive and useful? I often believe his zeal is frozen by that proud
cold-blooded Englishman whom he now lives with so much.’
‘Colonel Talbot? he is a very disagreeable person, to be sure. He looks
as if he thought no Scottish woman worth the trouble of handing her a cup
of tea. But Waverley is so gentle, so well informed--’
‘Yes,’ said Flora, smiling, ‘he can admire the moon and quote a stanza
from Tasso.’
‘Besides, you know how he fought,’ added Miss Bradwardine.
‘For mere fighting,’ answered Flora,’ I believe all men (that is, who
deserve the name) are pretty much alike; there is generally more courage
required to run away. They have besides, when confronted with each other,
a certain instinct for strife, as we see in other male animals, such as
dogs, bulls, and so forth. But high and perilous enterprise is not
Waverley’s forte. He would never have been his celebrated ancestor Sir
Nigel, but only Sir Nigel’s eulogist and poet. I will tell you where he
will be at home, my dear, and in his place--in the quiet circle of
domestic happiness, lettered indolence, and elegant enjoyments of
Waverley-Honour. And he will refit the old library in the most exquisite
Gothic taste, and garnish its shelves with the rarest and most valuable
volumes; and he will draw plans and landscapes, and write verses, and
rear temples, and dig grottoes; and he will stand in a clear summer night
in the colonnade before the hall, and gaze on the deer as they stray in
the moonlight, or lie shadowed by the boughs of the huge old fantastic
oaks; and he will repeat verses to his beautiful wife, who will hang upon
his arm;--and he will be a happy man.’
And she will be a happy woman, thought poor Rose. But she only sighed and
dropped the conversation.
CHAPTER XXIV
FERGUS A SUITOR
Waverley had, indeed, as he looked closer into the state of the
Chevalier’s court, less reason to be satisfied with it. It contained, as
they say an acorn includes all the ramifications of the future oak, as
many seeds of tracasserie and intrigue as might have done honour to the
court of a large empire. Every person of consequence had some separate
object, which he pursued with a fury that Waverley considered as
altogether disproportioned to its importance. Almost all had their
reasons for discontent, although the most legitimate was that of the
worthy old Baron, who was only distressed on account of the common cause.
‘We shall hardly,’ said he one morning to Waverley when they had been
viewing the Castle--‘we shall hardly gain the obsidional crown, which you
wot well was made of the roots or grain which takes root within the place
besieged, or it may be of the herb woodbind, parietaria, or pellitory; we
shall not, I say, gain it by this same blockade or leaguer of Edinburgh
Castle.’ For this opinion he gave most learned and satisfactory reasons,
that the reader may not care to hear repeated.
Having escaped from the old gentleman, Waverley went to Fergus’s lodgings
by appointment, to await his return from Holyrood House. ‘I am to have a
particular audience to-morrow,’ said Fergus to Waverley overnight, ‘and
you must meet me to wish me joy of the success which I securely
anticipate.’
The morrow came, and in the Chief’s apartment he found Ensign Maccombich
waiting to make report of his turn of duty in a sort of ditch which they
had dug across the Castle-hill and called a trench. In a short time the
Chief’s voice was heard on the stair in a tone of impatient fury:
‘Callum! why, Callum Beg! Diaoul!’ He entered the room with all the marks
of a man agitated by a towering passion; and there were few upon whose
features rage produced a more violent effect. The veins of his forehead
swelled when he was in such agitation; his nostril became dilated; his
cheek and eye inflamed; and his look that of a demoniac. These
appearances of half-suppressed rage were the more frightful because they
were obviously caused by a strong effort to temper with discretion an
almost ungovernable paroxysm of passion, and resulted from an internal
conflict of the most dreadful kind, which agitated his whole frame of
mortality.
As he entered the apartment he unbuckled his broadsword, and throwing it
down with such violence that the weapon rolled to the other end of the
room, ‘I know not what,’ he exclaimed, ‘withholds me from taking a solemn
oath that I will never more draw it in his cause. Load my pistols,
Callum, and bring them hither instantly--instantly!’ Callum, whom nothing
ever startled, dismayed, or disconcerted, obeyed very coolly. Evan Dhu,
upon whose brow the suspicion that his Chief had been insulted called up
a corresponding storm, swelled in sullen silence, awaiting to learn where
or upon whom vengeance was to descend.
‘So, Waverley, you are there,’ said the Chief, after a moment’s
recollection. ‘Yes, I remember I asked you to share my triumph, and you
have come to witness my disappointment we shall call it.’ Evan now
presented the written report he had in his hand, which Fergus threw from
him with great passion. ‘I wish to God,’ he said, ‘the old den would
tumble down upon the heads of the fools who attack and the knaves who
defend it! I see, Waverley, you think I am mad. Leave us, Evan, but be
within call.’
‘The Colonel’s in an unco kippage,’ said Mrs. Flockhart to Evan as he
descended; ‘I wish he may be weel,--the very veins on his brent brow are
swelled like whipcord; wad he no tak something?’
‘He usually lets blood for these fits,’ answered the Highland ancient
with great composure.
When this officer left the room, the Chieftain gradually reassumed some
degree of composure. ‘I know, Waverley,’ he said, ‘that Colonel Talbot
has persuaded you to curse ten times a day your engagement with us; nay,
never deny it, for I am at this moment tempted to curse my own. Would you
believe it, I made this very morning two suits to the Prince, and he has
rejected them both; what do you think of it?’
‘What can I think,’ answered Waverley, ‘till I know what your requests
were?’ ‘Why, what signifies what they were, man? I tell you it was I that
made them--I to whom he owes more than to any three who have joined the
standard; for I negotiated the whole business, and brought in all the
Perthshire men when not one would have stirred. I am not likely, I think,
to ask anything very unreasonable, and if I did, they might have
stretched a point. Well, but you shall know all, now that I can draw my
breath again with some freedom. You remember my earl’s patent; it is
dated some years back, for services then rendered; and certainly my merit
has not been diminished, to say the least, by my subsequent behaviour.
Now, sir, I value this bauble of a coronet as little as you can, or any
philosopher on earth; for I hold that the chief of such a clan as the
Sliochd nan Ivor is superior in rank to any earl in Scotland. But I had a
particular reason for assuming this cursed title at this time. You must
know that I learned accidentally that the Prince has been pressing that
old foolish Baron of Bradwardine to disinherit his male heir, or
nineteenth or twentieth cousin, who has taken a command in the Elector of
Hanover’s militia, and to settle his estate upon your pretty little
friend Rose; and this, as being the command of his king and overlord, who
may alter the destination of a fief at pleasure, the old gentleman seems
well reconciled to.’
‘And what becomes of the homage?’
‘Curse the homage! I believe Rose is to pull off the queen’s slipper on
her coronation-day, or some such trash. Well, sir, as Rose Bradwardine
would always have made a suitable match for me but for this idiotical
predilection of her father for the heir-male, it occurred to me there now
remained no obstacle unless that the Baron might expect his daughter’s
husband to take the name of Bradwardine (which you know would be
impossible in my case), and that this might be evaded by my assuming the
title to which I had so good a right, and which, of course, would
supersede that difficulty. If she was to be also Viscountess Bradwardine
in her own right after her father’s demise, so much the better; I could
have no objection.’
‘But, Fergus,’ said Waverley, ‘I had no idea that you had any affection
for Miss Bradwardine, and you are always sneering at her father.’
‘I have as much affection for Miss Bradwardine, my good friend, as I
think it necessary to have for the future mistress of my family and the
mother of my children. She is a very pretty, intelligent girl, and is
certainly of one of the very first Lowland families; and, with a little
of Flora’s instructions and forming, will make a very good figure. As to
her father, he is an original, it is true, and an absurd one enough; but
he has given such severe lessons to Sir Hew Halbert, that dear defunct
the Laird of Balmawhapple, and others, that nobody dare laugh at him, so
his absurdity goes for nothing. I tell you there could have been no
earthly objection--none. I had settled the thing entirely in my own
mind.’
‘But had you asked the Baron’s consent,’ said Waverley, ‘or Rose’s?’
‘To what purpose? To have spoke to the Baron before I had assumed my
title would have only provoked a premature and irritating discussion on
the subject of the change of name, when, as Earl of Glennaquoich, I had
only to propose to him to carry his d--d bear and bootjack party per
pale, or in a scutcheon of pretence, or in a separate shield perhaps--any
way that would not blemish my own coat of arms. And as to Rose, I don’t
see what objection she could have made if her father was satisfied.’
‘Perhaps the same that your sister makes to me, you being satisfied.’
Fergus gave a broad stare at the comparison which this supposition
implied, but cautiously suppressed the answer which rose to his tongue.
‘O, we should easily have arranged all that. So, sir, I craved a private
interview, and this morning was assigned; and I asked you to meet me
here, thinking, like a fool, that I should want your countenance as
bride’s-man. Well, I state my pretension--they are not denied; the
promises so repeatedly made and the patent granted--they are
acknowledged. But I propose, as a natural consequence, to assume the rank
which the patent bestowed. I have the old story of the jealousy of
C----and M----trumped up against me. I resist this pretext, and offer to
procure their written acquiescence, in virtue of the date of my patent as
prior to their silly claims; I assure you I would have had such a consent
from them, if it had been at the point of the sword. And then out comes
the real truth; and he dares to tell me to my face that my patent must be
suppressed for the present, for fear of disgusting that rascally coward
and faineant (naming the rival chief of his own clan), who has no better
title to be a chieftain than I to be Emperor of China, and who is pleased
to shelter his dastardly reluctance to come out, agreeable to his promise
twenty times pledged, under a pretended jealousy of the Prince’s
partiality to me. And, to leave this miserable driveller without a
pretence for his cowardice, the Prince asks it as a personal favour of
me, forsooth, not to press my just and reasonable request at this moment.
After this, put your faith in princes!’
‘And did your audience end here?’
‘End? O no! I was determined to leave him no pretence for his
ingratitude, and I therefore stated, with all the composure I could
muster,--for I promise you I trembled with passion,--the particular
reasons I had for wishing that his Royal Highness would impose upon me
any other mode of exhibiting my duty and devotion, as my views in life
made what at any other time would have been a mere trifle at this crisis
a severe sacrifice; and then I explained to him my full plan.’
‘And what did the Prince answer?’
‘Answer? why--it is well it is written, “Curse not the king, no, not in
thy thought!”--why, he answered that truly he was glad I had made him my
confidant, to prevent more grievous disappointment, for he could assure
me, upon the word of a prince, that Miss Bradwardine’s affections were
engaged, and he was under a particular promise to favour them. “So, my
dear Fergus,” said he, with his most gracious cast of smile, “as the
marriage is utterly out of question, there need be no hurry, you know,
about the earldom.” And so he glided off and left me plante la.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I’ll tell you what I COULD have done at that moment--sold myself to the
devil or the Elector, whichever offered the dearest revenge. However, I
am now cool. I know he intends to marry her to some of his rascally
Frenchmen or his Irish officers, but I will watch them close; and let the
man that would supplant me look well to himself. Bisogna coprirsi,
Signor.’
After some further conversation, unnecessary to be detailed, Waverley
took leave of the Chieftain, whose fury had now subsided into a deep and
strong desire of vengeance, and returned home, scarce able to analyse the
mixture of feelings which the narrative had awakened in his own bosom.
CHAPTER XXV
‘TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER’
‘I am the very child of caprice,’ said Waverley to himself, as he bolted
the door of his apartment and paced it with hasty steps. ‘What is it to
me that Fergus Mac-Ivor should wish to marry Rose Bradwardine? I love her
not; I might have been loved by her perhaps; but rejected her simple,
natural, and affecting attachment, instead of cherishing it into
tenderness, and dedicated myself to one who will never love mortal man,
unless old Warwick, the King-maker, should arise from the dead. The Baron
too--I would not have cared about his estate, and so the name would have
been no stumbling-block. The devil might have taken the barren moors and
drawn off the royal caligae for anything I would have minded. But, framed
as she is for domestic affection and tenderness, for giving and receiving
all those kind and quiet attentions which sweeten life to those who pass
it together, she is sought by Fergus Mac-Ivor. He will not use her ill,
to be sure; of that he is incapable. But he will neglect her after the
first month; he will be too intent on subduing some rival chieftain or
circumventing some favourite at court, on gaining some heathy hill and
lake or adding to his bands some new troop of caterans, to inquire what
she does, or how she amuses herself.
And then will canker sorrow eat her bud,
And chase the native beauty from her cheek;
And she will look as hollow as a ghost,
And dim and meagre as an ague fit,
And so she’ll die.
And such a catastrophe of the most gentle creature on earth might have
been prevented if Mr. Edward Waverley had had his eyes! Upon my word, I
cannot understand how I thought Flora so much, that is, so very much,
handsomer than Rose. She is taller indeed, and her manner more formed;
but many people think Miss Bradwardine’s more natural; and she is
certainly much younger. I should think Flora is two years older than I
am. I will look at them particularly this evening.’
And with this resolution Waverley went to drink tea (as the fashion was
Sixty Years Since) at the house of a lady of quality attached to the
cause of the Chevalier, where he found, as he expected, both the ladies.
All rose as he entered, but Flora immediately resumed her place and the
conversation in which she was engaged. Rose, on the contrary, almost
imperceptibly made a little way in the crowded circle for his advancing
the corner of a chair. ‘Her manner, upon the whole, is most engaging,’
said Waverley to himself.
A dispute occurred whether the Gaelic or Italian language was most
liquid, and best adapted for poetry; the opinion for the Gaelic, which
probably might not have found supporters elsewhere, was here fiercely
defended by seven Highland ladies, who talked at the top of their lungs,
and screamed the company deaf with examples of Celtic euphonia. Flora,
observing the Lowland ladies sneer at the comparison, produced some
reasons to show that it was not altogether so absurd; but Rose, when
asked for her opinion, gave it with animation in praise of Italian, which
she had studied with Waverley’s assistance. “She has a more correct ear
than Flora, though a less accomplished musician,” said Waverley to
himself. ‘I suppose Miss Mac-Ivor will next compare Mac-Murrough nan Fonn
to Ariosto!’
Lastly, it so befell that the company differed whether Fergus should be
asked to perform on the flute, at which he was an adept, or Waverley
invited to read a play of Shakspeare; and the lady of the house
good-humouredly undertook to collect the votes of the company for poetry
or music, under the condition that the gentleman whose talents were not
laid under contribution that evening should contribute them to enliven
the next. It chanced that Rose had the casting vote. Now Flora, who
seemed to impose it as a rule upon herself never to countenance any
proposal which might seem to encourage Waverley, had voted for music,
providing the Baron would take his violin to accompany Fergus. ‘I wish
you joy of your taste, Miss Mac-Ivor,’ thought Edward, as they sought for
his book. ‘I thought it better when we were at Glennaquoich; but
certainly the Baron is no great performer, and Shakspeare is worth
listening to.’
‘Romeo and Juliet’ was selected, and Edward read with taste, feeling, and
spirit several scenes from that play. All the company applauded with
their hands, and many with their tears. Flora, to whom the drama was well
known, was among the former; Rose, to whom it was altogether new,
belonged to the latter class of admirers. ‘She has more feeling too,’
said Waverley, internally.
The conversation turning upon the incidents of the play and upon the
characters, Fergus declared that the only one worth naming, as a man of
fashion and spirit, was Mercutio. ‘I could not,’ he said, ‘quite follow
all his old-fashioned wit, but he must have been a very pretty fellow,
according to the ideas of his time.’
‘And it was a shame,’ said Ensign Maccombich, who usually followed his
Colonel everywhere, ‘for that Tibbert, or Taggart, or whatever was his
name, to stick him under the other gentleman’s arm while he was redding
the fray.’
The ladies, of course, declared loudly in favour of Romeo, but this
opinion did not go undisputed. The mistress of the house and several
other ladies severely reprobated the levity with which the hero transfers
his affections from Rosalind to Juliet. Flora remained silent until her
opinion was repeatedly requested, and then answered, she thought the
circumstance objected to not only reconcilable to nature, but such as in
the highest degree evinced the art of the poet. ‘Romeo is described,’
said she, ‘as a young man peculiarly susceptible of the softer passions;
his love is at first fixed upon a woman who could afford it no return;
this he repeatedly tells you,--
From love’s weak, childish bow she lives unharmed,
and again--
She hath forsworn to love.
Now, as it was impossible that Romeo’s love, supposing him a reasonable
being, could continue to subsist without hope, the poet has, with great
art, seized the moment when he was reduced actually to despair to throw
in his way an object more accomplished than her by whom he had been
rejected, and who is disposed to repay his attachment. I can scarce
conceive a situation more calculated to enhance the ardour of Romeo’s
affection for Juliet than his being at once raised by her from the state
of drooping melancholy in which he appears first upon the scene to the
ecstatic state in which he exclaims--
--come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short moment gives me in her sight.’
‘Good now, Miss Mac-Ivor,’ said a young lady of quality, ‘do you mean to
cheat us out of our prerogative? will you persuade us love cannot subsist
without hope, or that the lover must become fickle if the lady is cruel?
O fie! I did not expect such an unsentimental conclusion.’
‘A lover, my dear Lady Betty,’ said Flora, ‘may, I conceive, persevere in
his suit under very discouraging circumstances. Affection can (now and
then) withstand very severe storms of rigour, but not a long polar frost
of downright indifference. Don’t, even with YOUR attractions, try the
experiment upon any lover whose faith you value. Love will subsist on
wonderfully little hope, but not altogether without it.’
‘It will be just like Duncan Mac-Girdie’s mare,’ said Evan, ‘if your
ladyships please, he wanted to use her by degrees to live without meat,
and just as he had put her on a straw a day the poor thing died!’
Evan’s illustration set the company a-laughing, and the discourse took a
different turn. Shortly afterwards the party broke up, and Edward
returned home, musing on what Flora had said. ‘I will love my Rosalind no
more,’ said he; ‘she has given me a broad enough hint for that; and I
will speak to her brother and resign my suit. But for a Juliet--would it
be handsome to interfere with Fergus’s pretensions? though it is
impossible they can ever succeed; and should they miscarry, what then?
why then alors comme alors.’ And with this resolution of being guided by
circumstances did our hero commit himself to repose.
CHAPTER XXVI
A BRAVE MAN IN SORROW
If my fair readers should be of opinion that my hero’s levity in love is
altogether unpardonable, I must remind them that all his griefs and
difficulties did not arise from that sentimental source. Even the lyric
poet who complains so feelingly of the pains of love could not forget,
that at the same time he was ‘in debt and in drink,’ which, doubtless,
were great aggravations of his distress. There were, indeed, whole days
in which Waverley thought neither of Flora nor Rose Bradwardine, but
which were spent in melancholy conjectures on the probable state of
matters at Waverley-Honour, and the dubious issue of the civil contest in
which he was pledged. Colonel Talbot often engaged him in discussions
upon the justice of the cause he had espoused. ‘Not,’ he said, ‘that it
is possible for you to quit it at this present moment, for, come what
will, you must stand by your rash engagement. But I wish you to be aware
that the right is not with you; that you are fighting against the real
interests of your country; and that you ought, as an Englishman and a
patriot, to take the first opportunity to leave this unhappy expedition
before the snowball melts.’
In such political disputes Waverley usually opposed the common arguments
of his party, with which it is unnecessary to trouble the reader. But he
had little to say when the Colonel urged him to compare the strength by
which they had undertaken to overthrow the government with that which was
now assembling very rapidly for its support. To this statement Waverley
had but one answer: ‘If the cause I have undertaken be perilous, there
would be the greater disgrace in abandoning it.’ And in his turn he
generally silenced Colonel Talbot, and succeeded in changing the subject.
One night, when, after a long dispute of this nature, the friends had
separated and our hero had retired to bed, he was awakened about midnight
by a suppressed groan. He started up and listened; it came from the
apartment of Colonel Talbot, which was divided from his own by a
wainscotted partition, with a door of communication. Waverley approached
this door and distinctly heard one or two deep-drawn sighs. What could be
the matter? The Colonel had parted from him apparently in his usual state
of spirits. He must have been taken suddenly ill. Under this impression
he opened the door of communication very gently, and perceived the
Colonel, in his night-gown, seated by a table, on which lay a letter and
a picture. He raised his head hastily, as Edward stood uncertain whether
to advance or retire, and Waverley perceived that his cheeks were stained
with tears.
As if ashamed at being found giving way to such emotion, Colonel Talbot
rose with apparent displeasure and said, with some sternness, ‘I think,
Mr. Waverley, my own apartment and the hour might have secured even a
prisoner against--’
‘Do not say INTRUSION, Colonel Talbot; I heard you breathe hard and
feared you were ill; that alone could have induced me to break in upon
you.’
‘I am well,’ said the Colonel, ‘perfectly well.’
‘But you are distressed,’ said Edward; ‘is there anything can be done?’
‘Nothing, Mr. Waverley; I was only thinking of home, and some unpleasant
occurrences there.’
‘Good God, my uncle!’ exclaimed Waverley.
‘No, it is a grief entirely my own. I am ashamed you should have seen it
disarm me so much; but it must have its course at times, that it may be
at others more decently supported. I would have kept it secret from you;
for I think it will grieve you, and yet you can administer no
consolation. But you have surprised me,--I see you are surprised
yourself,--and I hate mystery. Read that letter.’
The letter was from Colonel Talbot’s sister, and in these words:--
‘I received yours, my dearest brother, by Hodges. Sir E. W. and Mr. R.
are still at large, but are not permitted to leave London. I wish to
Heaven I could give you as good an account of matters in the square. But
the news of the unhappy affair at Preston came upon us, with the dreadful
addition that you were among the fallen. You know Lady Emily’s state of
health, when your friendship for Sir E. induced you to leave her. She was
much harassed with the sad accounts from Scotland of the rebellion having
broken out; but kept up her spirits, as, she said, it became your wife,
and for the sake of the future heir, so long hoped for in vain. Alas, my
dear brother, these hopes are now ended! Notwithstanding all my watchful
care, this unhappy rumour reached her without preparation. She was taken
ill immediately; and the poor infant scarce survived its birth. Would to
God this were all! But although the contradiction of the horrible report
by your own letter has greatly revived her spirits, yet Dr.
----apprehends, I grieve to say, serious, and even dangerous,
consequences to her health, especially from the uncertainty in which she
must necessarily remain for some time, aggravated by the ideas she has
formed of the ferocity of those with whom you are a prisoner.
‘Do therefore, my dear brother, as soon as this reaches you, endeavour to
gain your release, by parole, by ransom, or any way that is practicable.
I do not exaggerate Lady Emily’s state of health; but I must not--dare
not--suppress the truth. Ever, my dear Philip, your most affectionate
sister,
‘Lucy TALBOT.’
Edward stood motionless when he had perused this letter; for the
conclusion was inevitable, that, by the Colonel’s journey in quest of
him, he had incurred this heavy calamity. It was severe enough, even in
its irremediable part; for Colonel Talbot and Lady Emily, long without a
family, had fondly exulted in the hopes which were now blasted. But this
disappointment was nothing to the extent of the threatened evil; and
Edward, with horror, regarded himself as the original cause of both.
Ere he could collect himself sufficiently to speak, Colonel Talbot had
recovered his usual composure of manner, though his troubled eye denoted
his mental agony.
‘She is a woman, my young friend, who may justify even a soldier’s
tears.’ He reached him the miniature, exhibiting features which fully
justified the eulogium; ‘and yet, God knows, what you see of her there is
the least of the charms she possesses--possessed, I should perhaps
say--but God’s will be done.’
‘You must fly--you must fly instantly to her relief. It is not--it shall
not be too late.’
‘Fly? how is it possible? I am a prisoner, upon parole.’
‘I am your keeper; I restore your parole; I am to answer for you.’
‘You cannot do so consistently with your duty; nor can I accept a
discharge from you, with due regard to my own honour; you would be made
responsible.’
‘I will answer it with my head, if necessary,’ said Waverley impetuously.
‘I have been the unhappy cause of the loss of your child, make me not the
murderer of your wife.’
‘No, my dear Edward,’ said Talbot, taking him kindly by the hand, ‘you
are in no respect to blame; and if I concealed this domestic distress for
two days, it was lest your sensibility should view it in that light. You
could not think of me, hardly knew of my existence, when I left England
in quest of you. It is a responsibility, Heaven knows, sufficiently heavy
for mortality, that we must answer for the foreseen and direct result of
our actions; for their indirect and consequential operation the great and
good Being, who alone can foresee the dependence of human events on each
other, hath not pronounced his frail creatures liable.’
‘But that you should have left Lady Emily,’ said Waverley, with much
emotion, ‘in the situation of all others the most interesting to a
husband, to seek a--’
‘I only did my duty,’ answered Colonel Talbot, calmly, ‘and I do not,
ought not, to regret it. If the path of gratitude and honour were always
smooth and easy, there would be little merit in following it; but it
moves often in contradiction to our interest and passions, and sometimes
to our better affections. These are the trials of life, and this, though
not the least bitter’ (the tears came unbidden to his eyes), ‘is not the
first which it has been my fate to encounter. But we will talk of this
to-morrow,’ he said, wringing Waverley’s hands. ‘Good-night; strive to
forget it for a few hours. It will dawn, I think, by six, and it is now
past two. Good-night.’
Edward retired, without trusting his voice with a reply.
CHAPTER XXVII
EXERTION
When Colonel Talbot entered the breakfast-parlour next morning, he
learned from Waverley’s servant that our hero had been abroad at an early
hour and was not yet returned. The morning was well advanced before he
again appeared. He arrived out of breath, but with an air of joy that
astonished Colonel Talbot.
‘There,’ said he, throwing a paper on the table, ‘there is my morning’s
work. Alick, pack up the Colonel’s clothes. Make haste, make haste.’
The Colonel examined the paper with astonishment. It was a pass from the
Chevalier to Colonel Talbot, to repair to Leith, or any other port in
possession of his Royal Highness’s troops, and there to embark for
England or elsewhere, at his free pleasure; he only giving his parole of
honour not to bear arms against the house of Stuart for the space of a
twelve-month.
‘In the name of God,’ said the Colonel, his eyes sparkling with
eagerness, ‘how did you obtain this?’
‘I was at the Chevalier’s levee as soon as he usually rises. He was gone
to the camp at Duddingston. I pursued him thither, asked and obtained an
audience--but I will tell you not a word more, unless I see you begin to
pack.’
‘Before I know whether I can avail myself of this passport, or how it was
obtained?’
‘O, you can take out the things again, you know. Now I see you busy, I
will go on. When I first mentioned your name, his eyes sparkled almost as
bright as yours did two minutes since. “Had you,” he earnestly asked,
“shown any sentiments favourable to his cause?” “Not in the least, nor
was there any hope you would do so.” His countenance fell. I requested
your freedom. “Impossible,” he said; “your importance as a friend and
confidant of such and such personages made my request altogether
extravagant.” I told him my own story and yours; and asked him to judge
what my feelings must be by his own. He has a heart, and a kind one,
Colonel Talbot, you may say what you please. He took a sheet of paper and
wrote the pass with his own hand. “I will not trust myself with my
council,” he said; “they will argue me out of what is right. I will not
endure that a friend, valued as I value you, should be loaded with the
painful reflections which must afflict you in case of further misfortune
in Colonel Talbot’s family; nor will I keep a brave enemy a prisoner
under such circumstances. Besides,” said he, “I think I can justify
myself to my prudent advisers by pleading the good effect such lenity
will produce on the minds of the great English families with whom Colonel
Talbot is connected.”’
‘There the politician peeped out,’ said the Colonel.
‘Well, at least he concluded like a king’s son: “Take the passport; I
have added a condition for form’s sake; but if the Colonel objects to it,
let him depart without giving any parole whatever. I come here to war
with men, but not to distress or endanger women.”’
‘Well, I never thought to have been so much indebted to the Pretend--’
‘To the Prince,’ said Waverley, smiling.
‘To the Chevalier,’ said the Colonel; ‘it is a good travelling name, and
which we may both freely use. Did he say anything more?’
‘Only asked if there was anything else he could oblige me in; and when I
replied in the negative, he shook me by the hand, and wished all his
followers were as considerate, since some friends of mine not only asked
all he had to bestow, but many things which were entirely out of his
power, or that of the greatest sovereign upon earth. Indeed, he said, no
prince seemed, in the eyes of his followers, so like the Deity as
himself, if you were to judge from the extravagant requests which they
daily preferred to him.’
‘Poor young gentleman,’ said the Colonel, ‘I suppose he begins to feel
the difficulties of his situation. Well, dear Waverley, this is more than
kind, and shall not be forgotten while Philip Talbot can remember
anything. My life--pshaw--let Emily thank you for that; this is a favour
worth fifty lives. I cannot hesitate on giving my parole in the
circumstances; there it is (he wrote it out in form). And now, how am I
to get off?’
‘All that is settled: your baggage is packed, my horses wait, and a boat
has been engaged, by the Prince’s permission, to put you on board the Fox
frigate. I sent a messenger down to Leith on purpose.’
‘That will do excellently well. Captain Beaver is my particular friend;
he will put me ashore at Berwick or Shields, from whence I can ride post
to London; and you must entrust me with the packet of papers which you
recovered by means of your Miss Bean Lean. I may have an opportunity of
using them to your advantage. But I see your Highland friend, Glen ----
what do you call his barbarous name? and his orderly with him; I must not
call him his orderly cut-throat any more, I suppose. See how he walks as
if the world were his own, with the bonnet on one side of his head and
his plaid puffed out across his breast! I should like now to meet that
youth where my hands were not tied: I would tame his pride, or he should
tame mine.’
‘For shame, Colonel Talbot! you swell at sight of tartan as the bull is
said to do at scarlet. You and Mac-Ivor have some points not much unlike,
so far as national prejudice is concerned.’
The latter part of this discourse took place in the street. They passed
the Chief, the Colonel and he sternly and punctiliously greeting each
other, like two duellists before they take their ground. It was evident
the dislike was mutual. ‘I never see that surly fellow that dogs his
heels,’ said the Colonel, after he had mounted his horse, ‘but he reminds
me of lines I have somewhere heard--upon the stage, I think:--
Close behind him
Stalks sullen Bertram, like a sorcerer’s fiend,
Pressing to be employed.
‘I assure you, Colonel,’ said Waverley, ‘that you judge too harshly of the
Highlanders.’
‘Not a whit, not a whit; I cannot spare them a jot; I cannot bate them an
ace. Let them stay in their own barren mountains, and puff and swell, and
hang their bonnets on the horns of the moon, if they have a mind; but
what business have they to come where people wear breeches, and speak an
intelligible language? I mean intelligible in comparison to their
gibberish, for even the Lowlanders talk a kind of English little better
than the Negroes in Jamaica. I could pity the Pr----, I mean the,
Chevalier himself, for having so many desperadoes about him. And they
learn their trade so early. There is a kind of subaltern imp, for
example, a sort of sucking devil, whom your friend Glena----Glenamuck
there, has sometimes in his train. To look at him, he is about fifteen
years; but he is a century old in mischief and villainy. He was playing
at quoits the other day in the court; a gentleman, a decent-looking
person enough, came past, and as a quoit hit his shin, he lifted his
cane; but my young bravo whips out his pistol, like Beau Clincher in the
“Trip to the Jubilee,” and had not a scream of Gardez l’eau from an upper
window set all parties a-scampering for fear of the inevitable
consequences, the poor gentleman would have lost his life by the hands of
that little cockatrice.’
‘A fine character you’ll give of Scotland upon your return, Colonel
Talbot.’
‘O, Justice Shallow,’ said the Colonel, ‘will save me the
trouble--“Barren, barren, beggars all, beggars all. Marry, good
air,”--and that only when you are fairly out of Edinburgh, and not yet
come to Leith, as is our case at present.’
In a short time they arrived at the seaport.
The boat rock’d at the pier of Leith, Full loud the wind blew down the
ferry; The ship rode at the Berwick Law.
‘Farewell, Colonel; may you find all as you would wish it! Perhaps we may
meet sooner than you expect; they talk of an immediate route to England.’
‘Tell me nothing of that,’ said Talbot; ‘I wish to carry no news of your
motions.’
‘Simply, then, adieu. Say, with a thousand kind greetings, all that is
dutiful and affectionate to Sir Everard and Aunt Rachel. Think of me as
kindly as you can, speak of me as indulgently as your conscience will
permit, and once more adieu.’
‘And adieu, my dear Waverley; many, many thanks for your kindness.
Unplaid yourself on the first opportunity. I shall ever think on you with
gratitude, and the worst of my censure shall be, Que diable alloit-il
faire dans cette galere?’
And thus they parted, Colonel Talbot going on board of the boat and
Waverley returning to Edinburgh.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE MARCH
It is not our purpose to intrude upon the province of history. We shall
therefore only remind our readers that about the beginning of November
the Young Chevalier, at the head of about six thousand men at the utmost,
resolved to peril his cause on an attempt to penetrate into the centre of
England, although aware of the mighty preparations which were made for
his reception. They set forward on this crusade in weather which would
have rendered any other troops incapable of marching, but which in
reality gave these active mountaineers advantages over a less hardy
enemy. In defiance of a superior army lying upon the Borders, under
Field-Marshal Wade, they besieged and took Carlisle, and soon afterwards
prosecuted their daring march to the southward.
As Colonel Mac-Ivor’s regiment marched in the van of the clans, he and
Waverley, who now equalled any Highlander in the endurance of fatigue,
and was become somewhat acquainted with their language, were perpetually
at its head. They marked the progress of the army, however, with very
different eyes. Fergus, all air and fire, and confident against the world
in arms, measured nothing but that every step was a yard nearer London.
He neither asked, expected, nor desired any aid except that of the clans
to place the Stuarts once more on the throne; and when by chance a few
adherents joined the standard, he always considered them in the light of
new claimants upon the favours of the future monarch, who, he concluded,
must therefore subtract for their gratification so much of the bounty
which ought to be shared among his Highland followers.
Edward’s views were very different. He could not but observe that in
those towns in which they proclaimed James the Third, ‘no man cried, God
bless him.’ The mob stared and listened, heartless, stupefied, and dull,
but gave few signs even of that boisterous spirit which induces them to
shout upon all occasions for the mere exercise of their most sweet
voices. The Jacobites had been taught to believe that the north-western
counties abounded with wealthy squires and hardy yeomen, devoted to the
cause of the White Rose. But of the wealthier Tories they saw little.
Some fled from their houses, some feigned themselves sick, some
surrendered themselves to the government as suspected persons. Of such as
remained, the ignorant gazed with astonishment, mixed with horror and
aversion, at the wild appearance, unknown language, and singular garb of
the Scottish clans. And to the more prudent their scanty numbers,
apparent deficiency in discipline, and poverty of equipment seemed
certain tokens of the calamitous termination of their rash undertaking.
Thus the few who joined them were such as bigotry of political principle
blinded to consequences, or whose broken fortunes induced them to hazard
all on a risk so desperate.
The Baron of Bradwardine, being asked what he thought of these recruits,
took a long pinch of snuff, and answered drily, ‘that he could not but
have an excellent opinion of them, since they resembled precisely the
followers who attached themselves to the good King David at the cave of
Adullam--videlicet, every one that was in distress, and every one that
was in debt, and every one that was discontented, which the vulgate
renders bitter of soul; and doubtless,’ he said, ‘they will prove mighty
men of their hands, and there is much need that they should, for I have
seen many a sour look cast upon us.’
But none of these considerations moved Fergus. He admired the luxuriant
beauty of the country, and the situation of many of the seats which they
passed. ‘Is Waverley-Honour like that house, Edward?’
‘It is one-half larger.’
‘Is your uncle’s park as fine a one as that?’
‘It is three times as extensive, and rather resembles a forest than a
mere park.’
‘Flora will be a happy woman.’
‘I hope Miss Mac-Ivor will have much reason for happiness unconnected
with Waverley-Honour.’
‘I hope so too; but to be mistress of such a place will be a pretty
addition to the sum total.’
‘An addition, the want of which, I trust, will be amply supplied by some
other means.’
‘How,’ said Fergus, stopping short and turning upon Waverley--‘how am I
to understand that, Mr. Waverley? Had I the pleasure to hear you aright?’
‘Perfectly right, Fergus.’
‘And am I to understand that you no longer desire my alliance and my
sister’s hand?’
‘Your sister has refused mine,’ said Waverley, ‘both directly and by all
the usual means by which ladies repress undesired attentions.’
‘I have no idea,’ answered the Chieftain, ‘of a lady dismissing or a
gentleman withdrawing his suit, after it has been approved of by her
legal guardian, without giving him an opportunity of talking the matter
over with the lady. You did not, I suppose, expect my sister to drop into
your mouth like a ripe plum the first moment you chose to open it?’
‘As to the lady’s title to dismiss her lover, Colonel,’ replied Edward,
‘it is a point which you must argue with her, as I am ignorant of the
customs of the Highlands in that particular. But as to my title to
acquiesce in a rejection from her without an appeal to your interest, I
will tell you plainly, without meaning to undervalue Miss Mac-Ivor’s
admitted beauty and accomplishments, that I would not take the hand of an
angel, with an empire for her dowry, if her consent were extorted by the
importunity of friends and guardians, and did not flow from her own free
inclination.’
‘An angel, with the dowry of an empire,’ repeated Fergus, in a tone of
bitter irony, ‘is not very likely to be pressed upon a ----shire squire.
But, sir,’ changing his tone, ‘if Flora Mac-Ivor have not the dowry of an
empire, she is MY sister; and that is sufficient at least to secure her
against being treated with anything approaching to levity.’
‘She is Flora Mac-Ivor, sir,’ said Waverley, with firmness, ‘which to me,
were I capable of treating ANY woman with levity, would be a more
effectual protection.’
The brow of the Chieftain was now fully clouded; but Edward felt too
indignant at the unreasonable tone which he had adopted to avert the
storm by the least concession. They both stood still while this short
dialogue passed, and Fergus seemed half disposed to say something more
violent, but, by a strong effort, suppressed his passion, and, turning
his face forward, walked sullenly on. As they had always hitherto walked
together, and almost constantly side by side, Waverley pursued his course
silently in the same direction, determined to let the Chief take his own
time in recovering the good-humour which he had so unreasonably
discarded, and firm in his resolution not to bate him an inch of dignity.
After they had marched on in this sullen manner about a mile, Fergus
resumed the discourse in a different tone. ‘I believe I was warm, my dear
Edward, but you provoke me with your want of knowledge of the world. You
have taken pet at some of Flora’s prudery, or high-flying notions of
loyalty, and now, like a child, you quarrel with the plaything you have
been crying for, and beat me, your faithful keeper, because my arm cannot
reach to Edinburgh to hand it to you. I am sure, if I was passionate, the
mortification of losing the alliance of such a friend, after your
arrangement had been the talk of both Highlands and Lowlands, and that
without so much as knowing why or wherefore, might well provoke calmer
blood than mine. I shall write to Edinburgh and put all to rights; that
is, if you desire I should do so; as indeed I cannot suppose that your
good opinion of Flora, it being such as you have often expressed to me,
can be at once laid aside.’
‘Colonel Mac-Ivor,’ said Edward, who had no mind to be hurried farther or
faster than he chose in a matter which he had already considered as
broken off, ‘I am fully sensible of the value of your good offices; and
certainly, by your zeal on my behalf in such an affair, you do me no
small honour. But as Miss Mac-Ivor has made her election freely and
voluntarily, and as all my attentions in Edinburgh were received with
more than coldness, I cannot, in justice either to her or myself, consent
that she should again be harassed upon this topic. I would have mentioned
this to you some time since, but you saw the footing upon which we stood
together, and must have understood it. Had I thought otherwise I would
have earlier spoken; but I had a natural reluctance to enter upon a
subject so painful to us both.’
‘O, very well, Mr. Waverley,’ said Fergus, haughtily, ‘the thing is at an
end. I have no occasion to press my sister upon any man.’
‘Nor have I any occasion to court repeated rejection from the same young
lady,’ answered Edward, in the same tone.
‘I shall make due inquiry, however,’ said the Chieftain, without noticing
the interruption, ‘and learn what my sister thinks of all this, we will
then see whether it is to end here.’
‘Respecting such inquiries, you will of course be guided by your own
judgment,’ said Waverley. ‘It is, I am aware, impossible Miss Mac-Ivor
can change her mind; and were such an unsupposable case to happen, it is
certain I will not change mine. I only mention this to prevent any
possibility of future misconstruction.’
Gladly at this moment would Mac-Ivor have put their quarrel to a personal
arbitrement, his eye flashed fire, and he measured Edward as if to choose
where he might best plant a mortal wound. But although we do not now
quarrel according to the modes and figures of Caranza or Vincent Saviola,
no one knew better than Fergus that there must be some decent pretext for
a mortal duel. For instance, you may challenge a man for treading on your
corn in a crowd, or for pushing you up to the wall, or for taking your
seat in the theatre; but the modern code of honour will not permit you to
found a quarrel upon your right of compelling a man to continue addresses
to a female relative which the fair lady has already refused. So that
Fergus was compelled to stomach this supposed affront until the whirligig
of time, whose motion he promised himself he would watch most sedulously,
should bring about an opportunity of revenge.
Waverley’s servant always led a saddle-horse for him in the rear of the
battalion to which he was attached, though his master seldom rode. But
now, incensed at the domineering and unreasonable conduct of his late
friend, he fell behind the column and mounted his horse, resolving to
seek the Baron of Bradwardine, and request permission to volunteer in his
troop instead of the Mac-Ivor regiment.
‘A happy time of it I should have had,’ thought he, after he was mounted,
‘to have been so closely allied to this superb specimen of pride and
self-opinion and passion. A colonel! why, he should have been a
generalissimo. A petty chief of three or four hundred men! his pride
might suffice for the Cham of Tartary--the Grand Seignior--the Great
Mogul! I am well free of him. Were Flora an angel, she would bring with
her a second Lucifer of ambition and wrath for a brother-in-law.’
The Baron, whose learning (like Sancho’s jests while in the Sierra
Morena) seemed to grow mouldy for want of exercise, joyfully embraced the
opportunity of Waverley’s offering his service in his regiment, to bring
it into some exertion. The good-natured old gentleman, however, laboured
to effect a reconciliation between the two quondam friends. Fergus turned
a cold ear to his remonstrances, though he gave them a respectful
hearing; and as for Waverley, he saw no reason why he should be the first
in courting a renewal of the intimacy which the Chieftain had so
unreasonably disturbed. The Baron then mentioned the matter to the
Prince, who, anxious to prevent quarrels in his little army, declared he
would himself remonstrate with Colonel Mac-Ivor on the unreasonableness
of his conduct. But, in the hurry of their march, it was a day or two
before he had an opportunity to exert his influence in the manner
proposed.
In the meanwhile Waverley turned the instructions he had received while
in Gardiner’s dragoons to some account, and assisted the Baron in his
command as a sort of adjutant. ‘Parmi les aveugles un borgne est roi,’
says the French proverb; and the cavalry, which consisted chiefly of
Lowland gentlemen, their tenants and servants, formed a high opinion of
Waverley’s skill and a great attachment to his person. This was indeed
partly owing to the satisfaction which they felt at the distinguished
English volunteer’s leaving the Highlanders to rank among them; for there
was a latent grudge between the horse and foot, not only owing to the
difference of the services, but because most of the gentlemen, living
near the Highlands, had at one time or other had quarrels with the tribes
in their vicinity, and all of them looked with a jealous eye on the
Highlanders’ avowed pretensions to superior valour and utility in the
Prince’s service.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE CONFUSION OF KING AGRAMANT’S CAMP
Itwas Waverley’s custom sometimes to ride a little apart from the main
body, to look at any object of curiosity which occurred on the march.
They were now in Lancashire, when, attracted by a castellated old hall,
he left the squadron for half an hour to take a survey and slight sketch
of it. As he returned down the avenue he was met by Ensign Maccombich.
This man had contracted a sort of regard for Edward since the day of his
first seeing him at Tully-Veolan and introducing him to the Highlands. He
seemed to loiter, as if on purpose to meet with our hero. Yet, as he
passed him, he only approached his stirrup and pronounced the single word
‘Beware!’ and then walked swiftly on, shunning all further communication.
Edward, somewhat surprised at this hint, followed with his eyes the
course of Evan, who speedily disappeared among the trees. His servant,
Alick Polwarth, who was in attendance, also looked after the Highlander,
and then riding up close to his master, said,--
‘The ne’er be in me, sir, if I think you’re safe amang thae Highland
rinthereouts.’
‘What do you mean, Alick?’ said Waverley.
‘The Mac-Ivors, sir, hae gotten it into their heads that ye hae affronted
their young leddy, Miss Flora; and I hae heard mae than ane say, they
wadna tak muckle to mak a black-cock o’ ye; and ye ken weel eneugh
there’s mony o’ them wadna mind a bawbee the weising a ball through the
Prince himsell, an the Chief gae them the wink, or whether he did or no,
if they thought it a thing that would please him when it was dune.’
Waverley, though confident that Fergus Mac-Ivor was incapable of such
treachery, was by no means equally sure of the forbearance of his
followers. He knew that, where the honour of the Chief or his family was
supposed to be touched, the happiest man would be he that could first
avenge the stigma; and he had often heard them quote a proverb, ‘That the
best revenge was the most speedy and most safe.’ Coupling this with the
hint of Evan, he judged it most prudent to set spurs to his horse and
ride briskly back to the squadron. Ere he reached the end of the long
avenue, however, a ball whistled past him, and the report of a pistol was
heard.
‘It was that deevil’s buckle, Callum Beg,’ said Alick; ‘I saw him whisk
away through amang the reises.’
Edward, justly incensed at this act of treachery, galloped out of the
avenue, and observed the battalion of Mac-Ivor at some distance moving
along the common in which it terminated. He also saw an individual
running very fast to join the party; this he concluded was the intended
assassin, who, by leaping an enclosure, might easily make a much shorter
path to the main body than he could find on horseback. Unable to contain
himself, he commanded Alick to go to the Baron of Bradwardine, who was at
the head of his regiment about half a mile in front, and acquaint him
with what had happened. He himself immediately rode up to Fergus’s
regiment. The Chief himself was in the act of joining them. He was on
horseback, having returned from waiting on the Prince. On perceiving
Edward approaching, he put his horse in motion towards him.
‘Colonel Mac-Ivor,’ said Waverley, without any farther salutation, ‘I
have to inform you that one of your people has this instant fired at me
from a lurking-place.’
‘As that,’ answered Mac-Ivor, ‘excepting the circumstance of a
lurking-place, is a pleasure which I presently propose to myself, I
should be glad to know which of my clansmen dared to anticipate me.’
‘I shall certainly be at your command whenever you please; the gentleman
who took your office upon himself is your page there, Callum Beg.’
‘Stand forth from the ranks, Callum! Did you fire at Mr. Waverley?’
‘No,’ answered the unblushing Callum.
‘You did,’ said Alick Polwarth, who was already returned, having met a
trooper by whom he despatched an account of what was going forward to the
Baron of Bradwardine, while he himself returned to his master at full
gallop, neither sparing the rowels of his spurs nor the sides of his
horse. ‘You did; I saw you as plainly as I ever saw the auld kirk at
Coudingham.’
‘You lie,’ replied Callum, with his usual impenetrable obstinacy. The
combat between the knights would certainly, as in the days of chivalry,
have been preceded by an encounter between the squires (for Alick was a
stout-hearted Merseman, and feared the bow of Cupid far more than a
Highlander’s dirk or claymore), but Fergus, with his usual tone of
decision, demanded Callum’s pistol. The cock was down, the pan and muzzle
were black with the smoke; it had been that instant fired.
‘Take that,’ said Fergus, striking the boy upon the head with the heavy
pistol-butt with his whole force--‘take that for acting without orders,
and lying to disguise it.’ Callum received the blow without appearing to
flinch from it, and fell without sign of life. ‘Stand still, upon your
lives!’ said Fergus to the rest of the clan; ‘I blow out the brains of
the first man who interferes between Mr. Waverley and me.’ They stood
motionless; Evan Dhu alone showed symptoms of vexation and anxiety.
Callum lay on the ground bleeding copiously, but no one ventured to give
him any assistance. It seemed as if he had gotten his death-blow.
‘And now for you, Mr. Waverley; please to turn your horse twenty yards
with me upon the common.’ Waverley complied; and Fergus, confronting him
when they were a little way from the line of march, said, with great
affected coolness, ‘I could not but wonder, sir, at the fickleness of
taste which you were pleased to express the other day. But it was not an
angel, as you justly observed, who had charms for you, unless she brought
an empire for her fortune. I have now an excellent commentary upon that
obscure text.’
‘I am at a loss even to guess at your meaning, Colonel Mac-Ivor, unless
it seems plain that you intend to fasten a quarrel upon me.’
‘Your affected ignorance shall not serve you, sir. The Prince--the Prince
himself has acquainted me with your manoeuvres. I little thought that
your engagements with Miss Bradwardine were the reason of your breaking
off your intended match with my sister. I suppose the information that
the Baron had altered the destination of his estate was quite a
sufficient reason for slighting your friend’s sister and carrying off
your friend’s mistress.’
‘Did the Prince tell you I was engaged to Miss Bradwardine?’ said
Waverley. ‘Impossible.’
‘He did, sir,’ answered Mac-Ivor; ‘so, either draw and defend yourself or
resign your pretensions to the lady.’ ‘This is absolute madness,’
exclaimed Waverley, ‘or some strange mistake!’
‘O! no evasion! draw your sword!’ said the infuriated Chieftain, his own
already unsheathed.
‘Must I fight in a madman’s quarrel?’
‘Then give up now, and forever, all pretensions to Miss Bradwardine’s
hand.’
‘What title have you,’ cried Waverley, utterly losing command of
himself--‘what title have you, or any man living, to dictate such terms
to me?’ And he also drew his sword.
At this moment the Baron of Bradwardine, followed by several of his
troop, came up on the spur, some from curiosity, others to take part in
the quarrel which they indistinctly understood had broken out between the
Mac-Ivors and their corps. The clan, seeing them approach, put themselves
in motion to support their Chieftain, and a scene of confusion commenced
which seamed likely to terminate in bloodshed. A hundred tongues were in
motion at once. The Baron lectured, the Chieftain stormed, the
Highlanders screamed in Gaelic, the horsemen cursed and swore in Lowland
Scotch. At length matters came to such a pass that the Baron threatened
to charge the Mac-Ivors unless they resumed their ranks, and many of
them, in return, presented their firearms at him and the other troopers.
The confusion was privately fostered by old Ballenkeiroch, who made no
doubt that his own day of vengeance was arrived, when, behold! a cry
arose of ‘Room! make way! place a Monseigneur! place a Monseigneur!’ This
announced the approach of the Prince, who came up with a party of
Fitz-James’s foreign dragoons that acted as his body-guard. His arrival
produced some degree of order. The Highlanders reassumed their ranks, the
cavalry fell in and formed squadron, and the Baron and Chieftain were
silent.
The Prince called them and Waverley before him. Having heard the original
cause of the quarrel through the villainy of Callum Beg, he ordered him
into custody of the provost-marshal for immediate execution, in the event
of his surviving the chastisement inflicted by his Chieftain. Fergus,
however, in a tone betwixt claiming a right and asking a favour,
requested he might be left to his disposal, and promised his punishment
should be exemplary. To deny this might have seemed to encroach on the
patriarchal authority of the Chieftains, of which they were very jealous,
and they were not persons to be disobliged. Callum was therefore left to
the justice of his own tribe.
The Prince next demanded to know the new cause of quarrel between Colonel
Mac-Ivor and Waverley. There was a pause. Both gentlemen found the
presence of the Baron of Bradwardine (for by this time all three had
approached the Chevalier by his command) an insurmountable barrier
against entering upon a subject where the name of his daughter must
unavoidably be mentioned. They turned their eyes on the ground, with
looks in which shame and embarrassment were mingled with displeasure. The
Prince, who had been educated amongst the discontented and mutinous
spirits of the court of St. Germains, where feuds of every kind were the
daily subject of solicitude to the dethroned sovereign, had served his
apprenticeship, as old Frederick of Prussia would have said, to the trade
of royalty. To promote or restore concord among his followers was
indispensable. Accordingly he took his measures.
‘Monsieur de Beaujeu!’
‘Monseigneur!’ said a very handsome French cavalry officer who was in
attendance.
‘Ayez la bonte d’aligner ces montagnards la, ainsi que la cavalerie, s’il
vous plait, et de les remettre a la marche. Vous parlez si bien
l’Anglois, cela ne vous donneroit pas beaucoup de peine.’
‘Ah! pas du tout, Monseigneur,’ replied Mons. le Comte de Beaujeu, his
head bending down to the neck of his little prancing highly-managed
charger. Accordingly he piaffed away, in high spirits and confidence, to
the head of Fergus’s regiment, although understanding not a word of
Gaelic and very little English.
‘Messieurs les sauvages Ecossois--dat is, gentilmans savages, have the
goodness d’arranger vous.’
The clan, comprehending the order more from the gesture than the words,
and seeing the Prince himself present, hastened to dress their ranks.
‘Ah! ver well! dat is fort bien!’ said the Count de Beaujeu. ‘Gentilmans
sauvages! mais, tres bien. Eh bien! Qu’est ce que vous appelez visage,
Monsieur?’ (to a lounging trooper who stood by him). ‘Ah, oui! face. Je
vous remercie, Monsieur. Gentilshommes, have de goodness to make de face
to de right par file, dat is, by files. Marsh! Mais, tres bien; encore,
Messieurs; il faut vous mettre a la marche. ... Marchez done, au nom de
Dieu, parceque j’ai oublie le mot Anglois; mais vous etes des braves
gens, et me comprenez tres bien.’
The Count next hastened to put the cavalry in motion. ‘Gentilmans
cavalry, you must fall in. Ah! par ma foi, I did not say fall off! I am a
fear de little gross fat gentilman is moche hurt. Ah, mon Dieu! c’est le
Commissaire qui nous a apporte les premieres nouvelles de ce maudit
fracas. Je suis trop fache, Monsieur!’
But poor Macwheeble, who, with a sword stuck across him, and a white
cockade as large as a pancake, now figured in the character of a
commissary, being overturned in the bustle occasioned by the troopers
hastening to get themselves in order in the Prince’s presence, before he
could rally his galloway, slunk to the rear amid the unrestrained
laughter of the spectators.
‘Eh bien, Messieurs, wheel to de right. Ah! dat is it! Eh, Monsieur de
Bradwardine, ayez la bonte de vous mettre a la tete de votre regiment,
car, par Dieu, je n’en puis plus!’
The Baron of Bradwardine was obliged to go to the assistance of Monsieur
de Beaujeu, after he had fairly expended his few English military
phrases. One purpose of the Chevalier was thus answered. The other he
proposed was, that in the eagerness to hear and comprehend commands
issued through such an indistinct medium in his own presence, the
thoughts of the soldiers in both corps might get a current different from
the angry channel in which they were flowing at the time.
Charles Edward was no sooner left with the Chieftain and Waverley, the
rest of his attendants being at some distance, than he said, ‘If I owed
less to your disinterested friendship, I could be most seriously angry
with both of you for this very extraordinary and causeless broil, at a
moment when my father’s service so decidedly demands the most perfect
unanimity. But the worst of my situation is, that my very best friends
hold they have liberty to ruin themselves, as well as the cause they are
engaged in, upon the slightest caprice.’
Both the young men protested their resolution to submit every difference
to his arbitration. ‘Indeed,’ said Edward, ‘I hardly know of what I am
accused. I sought Colonel Mac-Ivor merely to mention to him that I had
narrowly escaped assassination at the hand of his immediate dependent, a
dastardly revenge which I knew him to be incapable of authorising. As to
the cause for which he is disposed to fasten a quarrel upon me, I am
ignorant of it, unless it be that he accuses me, most unjustly, of having
engaged the affections of a young lady in prejudice of his pretensions.’
‘If there is an error,’ said the Chieftain, ‘it arises from a
conversation which I held this morning with his Royal Highness himself.’
‘With me?’ said the Chevalier; ‘how can Colonel Mac-Ivor have so far
misunderstood me?’
He then led Fergus aside, and, after five minutes’ earnest conversation,
spurred his horse towards Edward. ‘Is it possible--nay, ride up, Colonel,
for I desire no secrets--is it possible, Mr. Waverley, that I am mistaken
in supposing that you are an accepted lover of Miss Bradwardine? a fact
of which I was by circumstances, though not by communication from you, so
absolutely convinced that I alleged it to Vich Ian Vohr this morning as a
reason why, without offence to him, you might not continue to be
ambitious of an alliance which, to an unengaged person, even though once
repulsed, holds out too many charms to be lightly laid aside.’
‘Your Royal Highness,’ said Waverley, ‘must have founded on circumstances
altogether unknown to me, when you did me the distinguished honour of
supposing me an accepted lover of Miss Bradwardine. I feel the
distinction implied in the supposition, but I have no title to it. For
the rest, my confidence in my own merit is too justly slight to admit of
my hoping for success in any quarter after positive rejection.’
The Chevalier was silent for a moment, looking steadily at them both, and
then said, ‘Upon my word, Mr. Waverley, you are a less happy man than I
conceived I had very good reason to believe you. But now, gentlemen,
allow me to be umpire in this matter, not as Prince Regent but as Charles
Stuart, a brother adventurer with you in the same gallant cause. Lay my
pretensions to be obeyed by you entirely out of view, and consider your
own honour, and how far it is well or becoming to give our enemies the
advantage and our friends the scandal of showing that, few as we are, we
are not united. And forgive me if I add, that the names of the ladies who
have been mentioned crave more respect from us all than to be made themes
of discord.’
He took Fergus a little apart and spoke to him very earnestly for two or
three minutes, and then returning to Waverley, said, ‘I believe I have
satisfied Colonel Mac-Ivor that his resentment was founded upon a
misconception, to which, indeed, I myself gave rise; and I trust Mr.
Waverley is too generous to harbour any recollection of what is past when
I assure him that such is the case. You must state this matter properly
to your clan, Vich Ian Vohr, to prevent a recurrence of their precipitate
violence.’ Fergus bowed. ‘And now, gentlemen, let me have the pleasure to
see you shake hands.’
They advanced coldly, and with measured steps, each apparently reluctant
to appear most forward in concession. They did, however, shake hands, and
parted, taking a respectful leave of the Chevalier.
Charles Edward [Footnote: See Note 12.] then rode to the head of the
Mac-Ivors, threw himself from his horse, begged a drink out of old
Ballenkeiroch’s cantine, and marched about half a mile along with them,
inquiring into the history and connexions of Sliochd nan Ivor, adroitly
using the few words of Gaelic he possessed, and affecting a great desire
to learn it more thoroughly. He then mounted his horse once more, and
galloped to the Baron’s cavalry, which was in front, halted them, and
examined their accoutrements and state of discipline; took notice of the
principal gentlemen, and even of the cadets; inquired after their ladies,
and commended their horses; rode about an hour with the Baron of
Bradwardine, and endured three long stories about Field-Marshal the Duke
of Berwick.
‘Ah, Beaujeu, mon cher ami,’ said he, as he returned to his usual place
in the line of march, ‘que mon metier de prince errant est ennuyant, par
fois. Mais, courage! c’est le grand jeu, apres tout.’
CHAPTER XXX
A SKIRMISH
The reader need hardly be reminded that, after a council of war held at
Derby on the 5th of December, the Highlanders relinquished their
desperate attempt to penetrate farther into England, and, greatly to the
dissatisfaction of their young and daring leader, positively determined
to return northward. They commenced their retreat accordingly, and, by
the extreme celerity of their movements, outstripped the motions of the
Duke of Cumberland, who now pursued them with a very large body of
cavalry.
This retreat was a virtual resignation of their towering hopes. None had
been so sanguine as Fergus Mac-Ivor; none, consequently, was so cruelly
mortified at the change of measures. He argued, or rather remonstrated,
with the utmost vehemence at the council of war; and, when his opinion
was rejected, shed tears of grief and indignation. From that moment his
whole manner was so much altered that he could scarcely have been
recognised for the same soaring and ardent spirit, for whom the whole
earth seemed too narrow but a week before. The retreat had continued for
several days, when Edward, to his surprise, early on the 12th of
December, received a visit from the Chieftain in his quarters, in a
hamlet about half-way between Shap and Penrith.
Having had no intercourse with the Chieftain since their rupture, Edward
waited with some anxiety an explanation of this unexpected visit; nor
could he help being surprised, and somewhat shocked, with the change in
his appearance. His eye had lost much of its fire; his cheek was hollow,
his voice was languid, even his gait seemed less firm and elastic than it
was wont; and his dress, to which he used to be particularly attentive,
was now carelessly flung about him. He invited Edward to walk out with
him by the little river in the vicinity; and smiled in a melancholy
manner when he observed him take down and buckle on his sword.
As soon as they were in a wild sequestered path by the side of the
stream, the Chief broke out--‘Our fine adventure is now totally ruined,
Waverley, and I wish to know what you intend to do;--nay, never stare at
me, man. I tell you I received a packet from my sister yesterday, and,
had I got the information it contains sooner, it would have prevented a
quarrel which I am always vexed when I think of. In a letter written
after our dispute, I acquainted her with the cause of it; and she now
replies to me that she never had, nor could have, any purpose of giving
you encouragement; so that it seems I have acted like a madman. Poor
Flora! she writes in high spirits; what a change will the news of this
unhappy retreat make in her state of mind!’
Waverley, who was really much affected by the deep tone of melancholy
with which Fergus spoke, affectionately entreated him to banish from his
remembrance any unkindness which had arisen between them, and they once
more shook hands, but now with sincere cordiality. Fergus again inquired
of Waverley what he intended to do. ‘Had you not better leave this
luckless army, and get down before us into Scotland, and embark for the
Continent from some of the eastern ports that are still in our
possession? When you are out of the kingdom, your friends will easily
negotiate your pardon; and, to tell you the truth, I wish you would carry
Rose Bradwardine with you as your wife, and take Flora also under your
joint protection.’--Edward looked surprised.--‘She loves you, and I
believe you love her, though, perhaps, you have not found it out, for you
are not celebrated for knowing your own mind very pointedly.’ He said
this with a sort of smile.
‘How,’ answered Edward, ‘can you advise me to desert the expedition in
which we are all embarked?’
‘Embarked?’ said Fergus; ‘the vessel is going to pieces, and it is full
time for all who can to get into the long-boat and leave her.’
‘Why, what will other gentlemen do?’ answered Waverley, ‘and why did the
Highland Chiefs consent to this retreat if it is so ruinous?’
‘O,’ replied Mac-Ivor, ‘they think that, as on former occasions, the
heading, hanging, and forfeiting will chiefly fall to the lot of the
Lowland gentry; that they will be left secure in their poverty and their
fastnesses, there, according to their proverb, “to listen to the wind
upon the hill till the waters abate.” But they will be disappointed; they
have been too often troublesome to be so repeatedly passed over, and this
time John Bull has been too heartily frightened to recover his
good-humour for some time. The Hanoverian ministers always deserved to be
hanged for rascals; but now, if they get the power in their hands,--as,
sooner or later, they must, since there is neither rising in England nor
assistance from France,--they will deserve the gallows as fools if they
leave a single clan in the Highlands in a situation to be again
troublesome to government. Ay, they will make root-and-branch-work, I
warrant them.’
‘And while you recommend flight to me,’ said Edward,--‘a counsel which I
would rather die than embrace,--what are your own views?’
‘O,’ answered Fergus, with a melancholy air, ‘my fate is settled. Dead or
captive I must be before tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean by that, my friend?’ said Edward. ‘The enemy is still a
day’s march in our rear, and if he comes up, we are still strong enough
to keep him in check. Remember Gladsmuir.’
‘What I tell you is true notwithstanding, so far as I am individually
concerned.’
‘Upon what authority can you found so melancholy a prediction?’ asked
Waverley.
‘On one which never failed a person of my house. I have seen,’ he said,
lowering his voice, ‘I have seen the Bodach Glas.’
‘Bodach Glas?’
‘Yes; have you been so long at Glennaquoich, and never heard of the Grey
Spectre? though indeed there is a certain reluctance among us to mention
him.’
‘No, never.’
‘Ah! it would have been a tale for poor Flora to have told you. Or, if
that hill were Benmore, and that long blue lake, which you see just
winding towards yon mountainous country, were Loch Tay, or my own Loch an
Ri, the tale would be better suited with scenery. However, let us sit
down on this knoll; even Saddleback and Ulswater will suit what I have to
say better than the English hedgerows, enclosures, and farmhouses. You
must know, then, that when my ancestor, Ian nan Chaistel, wasted
Northumberland, there was associated with him in the expedition a sort of
Southland Chief, or captain of a band of Lowlanders, called Halbert Hall.
In their return through the Cheviots they quarrelled about the division
of the great booty they had acquired, and came from words to blows. The
Lowlanders were cut off to a man, and their chief fell the last, covered
with wounds by the sword of my ancestor. Since that time his spirit has
crossed the Vich Ian Vohr of the day when any great disaster was
impending, but especially before approaching death. My father saw him
twice, once before he was made prisoner at Sheriff-Muir, another time on
the morning of the day on which he died.’
‘How can you, my dear Fergus, tell such nonsense with a grave face?’
‘I do not ask you to believe it; but I tell you the truth, ascertained
by three hundred years’ experience at least, and last night by my own
eyes.’
‘The particulars, for heaven’s sake!’ said Waverley, with eagerness.
‘I will, on condition you will not attempt a jest on the subject. Since
this unhappy retreat commenced I have scarce ever been able to sleep for
thinking of my clan, and of this poor Prince, whom they are leading back
like a dog in a string, whether he will or no, and of the downfall of my
family. Last night I felt so feverish that I left my quarters and walked
out, in hopes the keen frosty air would brace my nerves--I cannot tell
how much I dislike going on, for I know you will hardly believe me.
However--I crossed a small footbridge, and kept walking backwards and
forwards, when I observed with surprise by the clear moonlight a tall
figure in a grey plaid, such as shepherds wear in the south of Scotland,
which, move at what pace I would, kept regularly about four yards before
me.’
‘You saw a Cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress, probably.’
‘No; I thought so at first, and was astonished at the man’s audacity in
daring to dog me. I called to him, but received no answer. I felt an
anxious throbbing at my heart, and to ascertain what I dreaded, I stood
still and turned myself on the same spot successively to the four points
of the compass. By Heaven, Edward, turn where I would, the figure was
instantly before my eyes, at precisely the same distance! I was then
convinced it was the Bodach Glas. My hair bristled and my knees shook. I
manned myself, however, and determined to return to my quarters. My
ghastly visitant glided before me (for I cannot say he walked) until he
reached the footbridge; there he stopped and turned full round. I must
either wade the river or pass him as close as I am to you. A desperate
courage, founded on the belief that my death was near, made me resolve to
make my way in despite of him. I made the sign of the cross, drew my
sword, and uttered, “In the name of God, Evil Spirit, give place!” “Vich
Ian Vohr,” it said, in a voice that made my very blood curdle, “beware of
to-morrow!” It seemed at that moment not half a yard from my sword’s
point; but the words were no sooner spoken than it was gone, and nothing
appeared further to obstruct my passage. I got home and threw myself on
my bed, where I spent a few hours heavily enough; and this morning, as no
enemy was reported to be near us, I took my horse and rode forward to
make up matters with you. I would not willingly fall until I am in
charity with a wronged friend.’
Edward had little doubt that this phantom was the operation of an
exhausted frame and depressed spirits, working on the belief common to
all Highlanders in such superstitions. He did not the less pity Fergus,
for whom, in his present distress, he felt all his former regard revive.
With the view of diverting his mind from these gloomy images, he offered,
with the Baron’s permission, which he knew he could readily obtain, to
remain in his quarters till Fergus’s corps should come up, and then to
march with them as usual. The Chief seemed much pleased, yet hesitated to
accept the offer.
‘We are, you know, in the rear, the post of danger in a retreat.’
‘And therefore the post of honour.’
‘Well,’ replied the Chieftain, ‘let Alick have your horse in readiness,
in case we should be overmatched, and I shall be delighted to have your
company once more.’
The rear-guard were late in making their appearance, having been delayed
by various accidents and by the badness of the roads. At length they
entered the hamlet. When Waverley joined the clan Mac-Ivor, arm-in-arm
with their Chieftain, all the resentment they had entertained against him
seemed blown off at once. Evan Dhu received him with a grin of
congratulation; and even Callum, who was running about as active as ever,
pale indeed, and with a great patch on his head, appeared delighted to
see him.
‘That gallows-bird’s skull,’ said Fergus, ‘must be harder than marble;
the lock of the pistol was actually broken.’
‘How could you strike so young a lad so hard?’ said Waverley, with some
interest.
‘Why, if I did not strike hard sometimes, the rascals would forget
themselves.’
They were now in full march, every caution being taken to prevent
surprise. Fergus’s people, and a fine clan regiment from Badenoch,
commanded by Cluny Mac-Pherson, had the rear. They had passed a large
open moor, and were entering into the enclosures which surround a small
village called Clifton. The winter sun had set, and Edward began to rally
Fergus upon the false predictions of the Grey Spirit. ‘The ides of March
are not past,’ said Mac-Ivor, with a smile; when, suddenly casting his
eyes back on the moor, a large body of cavalry was indistinctly seen to
hover upon its brown and dark surface. To line the enclosures facing the
open ground and the road by which the enemy must move from it upon the
village was the work of a short time. While these manoeuvres were
accomplishing, night sunk down, dark and gloomy, though the moon was at
full. Sometimes, however, she gleamed forth a dubious light upon the
scene of action.
The Highlanders did not long remain undisturbed in the defensive position
they had adopted. Favoured by the night, one large body of dismounted
dragoons attempted to force the enclosures, while another, equally
strong, strove to penetrate by the highroad. Both were received by such a
heavy fire as disconcerted their ranks and effectually checked their
progress. Unsatisfied with the advantage thus gained, Fergus, to whose
ardent spirit the approach of danger seemed to restore all its
elasticity, drawing his sword and calling out ‘Claymore!’ encouraged his
men, by voice and example, to break through the hedge which divided them
and rush down upon the enemy. Mingling with the dismounted dragoons, they
forced them, at the sword-point, to fly to the open moor, where a
considerable number were cut to pieces. But the moon, which suddenly
shone out, showed to the English the small number of assailants,
disordered by their own success. Two squadrons of horse moving to the
support of their companions, the Highlanders endeavoured to recover the
enclosures. But several of them, amongst others their brave Chieftain,
were cut off and surrounded before they could effect their purpose.
Waverley, looking eagerly for Fergus, from whom, as well as from the
retreating body of his followers, he had been separated in the darkness
and tumult, saw him, with Evan Dhu and Callum, defending themselves
desperately against a dozen of horsemen, who were hewing at them with
their long broadswords. The moon was again at that moment totally
overclouded, and Edward, in the obscurity, could neither bring aid to his
friends nor discover which way lay his own road to rejoin the rear-guard.
After once or twice narrowly escaping being slain or made prisoner by
parties of the cavalry whom he encountered in the darkness, he at length
reached an enclosure, and, clambering over it, concluded himself in
safety and on the way to the Highland forces, whose pipes he heard at
some distance. For Fergus hardly a hope remained, unless that he might be
made prisoner. Revolving his fate with sorrow and anxiety, the
superstition of the Bodach Glas recurred to Edward’s recollection, and he
said to himself, with internal surprise ‘What, can the devil speak
truth?’ [Footnote: See Note 13.]
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
Edward was in a most unpleasant and dangerous situation. He soon lost the
sound of the bagpipes; and, what was yet more unpleasant, when, after
searching long in vain and scrambling through many enclosures, he at
length approached the highroad, he learned, from the unwelcome noise of
kettledrums and trumpets, that the English cavalry now occupied it, and
consequently were between him and the Highlanders. Precluded, therefore,
from advancing in a straight direction, he resolved to avoid the English
military and endeavour to join his friends by making a circuit to the
left, for which a beaten path, deviating from the main road in that
direction, seemed to afford facilities. The path was muddy and the night
dark and cold; but even these inconveniences were hardly felt amidst the
apprehensions which falling into the hands of the King’s forces
reasonably excited in his bosom.
After walking about three miles, he at length reached a hamlet. Conscious
that the common people were in general unfavourable to the cause he had
espoused, yet desirous, if possible, to procure a horse and guide to
Penrith, where he hoped to find the rear, if not the main body, of the
Chevalier’s army, he approached the alehouse of the place. There was a
great noise within; he paused to listen. A round English oath or two, and
the burden of a campaign song, convinced him the hamlet also was occupied
by the Duke of Cumberland’s soldiers. Endeavouring to retire from it as
softly as possible, and blessing the obscurity which hitherto he had
murmured against, Waverley groped his way the best he could along a small
paling, which seemed the boundary of some cottage garden. As he reached
the gate of this little enclosure, his outstretched hand was grasped by
that of a female, whose voice at the same time uttered, ‘Edward, is’t
thou, man?’
‘Here is some unlucky mistake,’ thought Edward, struggling, but gently,
to disengage himself.
‘Naen o’ thy foun, now, man, or the red cwoats will hear thee; they hae
been houlerying and poulerying every ane that past alehouse door this
noight to make them drive their waggons and sick loike. Come into
feyther’s, or they’ll do ho a mischief.’
‘A good hint,’ thought Waverley, following the girl through the little
garden into a brick-paved kitchen, where she set herself to kindle a
match at an expiring fire, and with the match to light a candle. She had
no sooner looked on Edward than she dropped the light, with a shrill
scream of ‘O feyther, feyther!’
The father, thus invoked, speedily appeared--a sturdy old farmer, in a
pair of leather breeches, and boots pulled on without stockings, having
just started from his bed; the rest of his dress was only a Westmoreland
statesman’s robe-de-chambre--that is, his shirt. His figure was displayed
to advantage by a candle which he bore in his left hand; in his right he
brandished a poker.
‘What hast ho here, wench?’
‘O!’ cried the poor girl, almost going off in hysterics, ‘I thought it
was Ned Williams, and it is one of the plaid-men.’
‘And what was thee ganging to do wi’ Ned Williams at this time o’
noight?’ To this, which was, perhaps, one of the numerous class of
questions more easily asked than answered, the rosy-cheeked damsel made
no reply, but continued sobbing and wringing her hands.
‘And thee, lad, dost ho know that the dragoons be a town? dost ho know
that, mon? ad, they’ll sliver thee loike a turnip, mon.’
‘I know my life is in great danger,’ said Waverley, ‘but if you can
assist me, I will reward you handsomely. I am no Scotchman, but an
unfortunate English gentleman.’
‘Be ho Scot or no,’ said the honest farmer, ‘I wish thou hadst kept the
other side of the hallan. But since thou art here, Jacob Jopson will
betray no man’s bluid; and the plaids were gay canny, and did not do so
much mischief when they were here yesterday.’ Accordingly, he set
seriously about sheltering and refreshing our hero for the night. The
fire was speedily rekindled, but with precaution against its light being
seen from without. The jolly yeoman cut a rasher of bacon, which Cicely
soon broiled, and her father added a swingeing tankard of his best ale.
It was settled that Edward should remain there till the troops marched in
the morning, then hire or buy a horse from the farmer, and, with the best
directions that could be obtained, endeavour to overtake his friends. A
clean, though coarse, bed received him after the fatigues of this unhappy
day.
With the morning arrived the news that the Highlanders had evacuated
Penrith, and marched off towards Carlisle; that the Duke of Cumberland
was in possession of Penrith, and that detachments of his army covered
the roads in every direction. To attempt to get through undiscovered
would be an act of the most frantic temerity. Ned Williams (the right
Edward) was now called to council by Cicely and her father. Ned, who
perhaps did not care that his handsome namesake should remain too long in
the same house with his sweetheart, for fear of fresh mistakes, proposed
that Waverley, exchanging his uniform and plaid for the dress of the
country, should go with him to his father’s farm near Ullswater, and
remain in that undisturbed retirement until the military movements in the
country should have ceased to render his departure hazardous. A price was
also agreed upon, at which the stranger might board with Farmer Williams
if he thought proper, till he could depart with safety. It was of
moderate amount; the distress of his situation, among this honest and
simple-hearted race, being considered as no reason for increasing their
demand.
The necessary articles of dress were accordingly procured, and, by
following by-paths known to the young farmer, they hoped to escape any
unpleasant rencontre. A recompense for their hospitality was refused
peremptorily by old Jopson and his cherry-cheeked daughter; a kiss paid
the one and a hearty shake of the hand the other. Both seemed anxious for
their guest’s safety, and took leave of him with kind wishes.
In the course of their route Edward, with his guide, traversed those
fields which the night before had been the scene of action. A brief gleam
of December’s sun shone sadly on the broad heath, which, towards the spot
where the great north-west road entered the enclosures of Lord Lonsdale’s
property, exhibited dead bodies of men and horses, and the usual
companions of war, a number of carrion-crows, hawks, and ravens.
‘And this, then, was thy last field,’ said Waverley to himself, his eye
filling at the recollection of the many splendid points of Fergus’s
character, and of their former intimacy, all his passions and
imperfections forgotten--‘here fell the last Vich Ian Vohr, on a nameless
heath; and in an obscure night-skirmish was quenched that ardent spirit,
who thought it little to cut a way for his master to the British throne!
Ambition, policy, bravery, all far beyond their sphere, here learned the
fate of mortals. The sole support, too, of a sister whose spirit, as
proud and unbending, was even more exalted than thine own; here ended all
thy hopes for Flora, and the long and valued line which it was thy boast
to raise yet more highly by thy adventurous valour!’
As these ideas pressed on Waverley’s mind, he resolved to go upon the
open heath and search if, among the slain, he could discover the body of
his friend, with the pious intention of procuring for him the last rites
of sepulture. The timorous young man who accompanied him remonstrated
upon the danger of the attempt, but Edward was determined. The followers
of the camp had already stripped the dead of all they could carry away;
but the country people, unused to scenes of blood, had not yet approached
the field of action, though some stood fearfully gazing at a distance.
About sixty or seventy dragoons lay slain within the first enclosure,
upon the highroad, and on the open moor. Of the Highlanders, not above a
dozen had fallen, chiefly those who, venturing too far on the moor, could
not regain the strong ground. He could not find the body of Fergus among
the slain. On a little knoll, separated from the others, lay the
carcasses of three English dragoons, two horses, and the page Callum Beg,
whose hard skull a trooper’s broadsword had, at length, effectually
cloven. It was possible his clan had carried off the body of Fergus; but
it was also possible he had escaped, especially as Evan Dhu, who would
never leave his Chief, was not found among the dead; or he might be
prisoner, and the less formidable denunciation inferred from the
appearance of the Bodach Glas might have proved the true one. The
approach of a party sent for the purpose of compelling the country people
to bury the dead, and who had already assembled several peasants for that
purpose, now obliged Edward to rejoin his guide, who awaited him in great
anxiety and fear under shade of the plantations.
After leaving this field of death, the rest of their journey was happily
accomplished. At the house of Farmer Williams, Edward passed for a young
kinsman, educated for the church, who was come to reside there till the
civil tumults permitted him to pass through the country. This silenced
suspicion among the kind and simple yeomanry of Cumberland, and accounted
sufficiently for the grave manners and retired habits of the new guest.
The precaution became more necessary than Waverley had anticipated, as a
variety of incidents prolonged his stay at Fasthwaite, as the farm was
called.
A tremendous fall of snow rendered his departure impossible for more than
ten days. When the roads began to become a little practicable, they
successively received news of the retreat of the Chevalier into Scotland;
then, that he had abandoned the frontiers, retiring upon Glasgow; and
that the Duke of Cumberland had formed the siege of Carlisle. His army,
therefore, cut off all possibility of Waverley’s escaping into Scotland
in that direction. On the eastern border Marshal Wade, with a large
force, was advancing upon Edinburgh; and all along the frontier, parties
of militia, volunteers, and partizans were in arms to suppress
insurrection, and apprehend such stragglers from the Highland army as had
been left in England. The surrender of Carlisle, and the severity with
which the rebel garrison were threatened, soon formed an additional
reason against venturing upon a solitary and hopeless journey through a
hostile country and a large army, to carry the assistance of a single
sword to a cause which seemed altogether desperate. In this lonely and
secluded situation, without the advantage of company or conversation with
men of cultivated minds, the arguments of Colonel Talbot often recurred
to the mind of our hero. A still more anxious recollection haunted his
slumbers--it was the dying look and gesture of Colonel Gardiner. Most
devoutly did he hope, as the rarely occurring post brought news of
skirmishes with various success, that it might never again be his lot to
draw his sword in civil conflict. Then his mind turned to the supposed
death of Fergus, to the desolate situation of Flora, and, with yet more
tender recollection, to that of Rose Bradwardine, who was destitute of
the devoted enthusiasm of loyalty, which to her friend hallowed and
exalted misfortune. These reveries he was permitted to enjoy, undisturbed
by queries or interruption; and it was in many a winter walk by the
shores of Ullswater that he acquired a more complete mastery of a spirit
tamed by adversity than his former experience had given him; and that he
felt himself entitled to say firmly, though perhaps with a sigh, that the
romance of his life was ended, and that its real history had now
commenced. He was soon called upon to justify his pretensions by reason
and philosophy.
CHAPTER XXXII
A JOURNEY TO LONDON
The family at Fasthwaite were soon attached to Edward. He had, indeed, that
gentleness and urbanity which almost universally attracts corresponding
kindness; and to their simple ideas his learning gave him consequence,
and his sorrows interest. The last he ascribed, evasively, to the loss of
a brother in the skirmish near Clifton; and in that primitive state of
society, where the ties of affection were highly deemed of, his continued
depression excited sympathy, but not surprise.
In the end of January his more lively powers were called out by the happy
union of Edward Williams, the son of his host, with Cicely Jopson. Our
hero would not cloud with sorrow the festivity attending the wedding of
two persons to whom he was so highly obliged. He therefore exerted
himself, danced, sung, played at the various games of the day, and was
the blithest of the company. The next morning, however, he had more
serious matters to think of.
The clergyman who had married the young couple was so much pleased with
the supposed student of divinity, that he came next day from Penrith on
purpose to pay him a visit. This might have been a puzzling chapter had
he entered into any examination of our hero’s supposed theological
studies; but fortunately he loved better to hear and communicate the news
of the day. He brought with him two or three old newspapers, in one of
which Edward found a piece of intelligence that soon rendered him deaf to
every word which the Reverend Mr. Twigtythe was saying upon the news from
the north, and the prospect of the Duke’s speedily overtaking and
crushing the rebels. This was an article in these, or nearly these
words:--
‘Died at his house, in Hill Street, Berkeley Square, upon the 10th inst.,
Richard Waverley, Esq., second son of Sir Giles Waverley of
Waverley-Honour, etc. etc. He died of a lingering disorder, augmented by
the unpleasant predicament of suspicion in which he stood, having been
obliged to find bail to a high amount to meet an impending accusation of
high-treason. An accusation of the same grave crime hangs over his elder
brother, Sir Everard Waverley, the representative of that ancient family;
and we understand the day of his trial will be fixed early in the next
month, unless Edward Waverley, son of the deceased Richard, and heir to
the Baronet, shall surrender himself to justice. In that case we are
assured it is his Majesty’s gracious purpose to drop further proceedings
upon the charge against Sir Everard. This unfortunate young gentleman is
ascertained to have been in arms in the Pretender’s service, and to have
marched along with the Highland troops into England. But he has not been
heard of since the skirmish at Clifton, on the 18th December last.’
Such was this distracting paragraph. ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Waverley, ‘am
I then a parricide? Impossible! My father, who never showed the affection
of a father while he lived, cannot have been so much affected by my
supposed death as to hasten his own; no, I will not believe it, it were
distraction to entertain for a moment such a horrible idea. But it were,
if possible, worse than parricide to suffer any danger to hang over my
noble and generous uncle, who has ever been more to me than a father, if
such evil can be averted by any sacrifice on my part!’
While these reflections passed like the stings of scorpions through
Waverley’s sensorium, the worthy divine was startled in a long
disquisition on the battle of Falkirk by the ghastliness which they
communicated to his looks, and asked him if he was ill? Fortunately the
bride, all smirk and blush, had just entered the room. Mrs. Williams was
none of the brightest of women, but she was good-natured, and readily
concluding that Edward had been shocked by disagreeable news in the
papers, interfered so judiciously, that, without exciting suspicion, she
drew off Mr. Twigtythe’s attention, and engaged it until he soon after
took his leave. Waverley then explained to his friends that he was under
the necessity of going to London with as little delay as possible.
One cause of delay, however, did occur, to which Waverley had been very
little accustomed. His purse, though well stocked when he first went to
Tully-Veolan, had not been reinforced since that period; and although his
life since had not been of a nature to exhaust it hastily, for he had
lived chiefly with his friends or with the army, yet he found that, after
settling with his kind landlord, he should be too poor to encounter the
expense of travelling post. The best course, therefore, seemed to be to
get into the great north road about Boroughbridge, and there take a place
in the northern diligence, a huge old-fashioned tub, drawn by three
horses, which completed the journey from Edinburgh to London (God
willing, as the advertisement expressed it) in three weeks. Our hero,
therefore, took an affectionate farewell of his Cumberland friends, whose
kindness he promised never to forget, and tacitly hoped one day to
acknowledge by substantial proofs of gratitude. After some petty
difficulties and vexatious delays, and after putting his dress into a
shape better befitting his rank, though perfectly plain and simple, he
accomplished crossing the country, and found himself in the desired
vehicle vis-a-vis to Mrs. Nosebag, the lady of Lieutenant Nosebag,
adjutant and riding-master of the--dragoons, a jolly woman of about
fifty, wearing a blue habit, faced with scarlet, and grasping a
silver-mounted horse-whip.
This lady was one of those active members of society who take upon them
faire le frais de la conversation. She had just returned from the north,
and informed Edward how nearly her regiment had cut the petticoat people
into ribands at Falkirk, ‘only somehow there was one of those nasty,
awkward marshes, that they are never without in Scotland, I think, and so
our poor dear little regiment suffered something, as my Nosebag says, in
that unsatisfactory affair. You, sir, have served in the dragoons?’
Waverley was taken so much at unawares that he acquiesced.
‘O, I knew it at once; I saw you were military from your air, and I was
sure you could be none of the foot-wobblers, as my Nosebag calls them.
What regiment, pray?’ Here was a delightful question. Waverley, however,
justly concluded that this good lady had the whole army-list by heart;
and, to avoid detection by adhering to truth, answered, ‘Gardiner’s
dragoons, ma’am; but I have retired some time.’
‘O aye, those as won the race at the battle of Preston, as my Nosebag
says. Pray, sir, were you there?’
‘I was so unfortunate, madam,’ he replied, ‘as to witness that
engagement.’
‘And that was a misfortune that few of Gardiner’s stood to witness, I
believe, sir--ha! ha! ha! I beg your pardon; but a soldier’s wife loves a
joke.’
‘Devil confound you,’ thought Waverley: ‘what infernal luck has penned me
up with this inquisitive hag!’
Fortunately the good lady did not stick long to one subject. ‘We are
coming to Ferrybridge now,’ she said, ‘where there was a party of OURS
left to support the beadles, and constables, and justices, and these sort
of creatures that are examining papers and stopping rebels, and all
that.’ They were hardly in the inn before she dragged Waverley to the
window, exclaiming, ‘Yonder comes Corporal Bridoon, of our poor dear
troop; he’s coming with the constable man. Bridoon’s one of my lambs, as
Nosebag calls ‘ern. Come, Mr.--a--a--pray, what’s your name, sir?’
‘Butler, ma’am,’ said Waverley, resolved rather to make free with the
name of a former fellow-officer than run the risk of detection by
inventing one not to be found in the regiment.
‘O, you got a troop lately, when that shabby fellow, Waverley, went over
to the rebels? Lord, I wish our old cross Captain Crump would go over to
the rebels, that Nosebag might get the troop! Lord, what can Bridoon be
standing swinging on the bridge for? I’ll be hanged if he a’nt hazy, as
Nosebag says. Come, sir, as you and I belong to the service, we’ll go put
the rascal in mind of his duty.’
Waverley, with feelings more easily conceived than described, saw himself
obliged to follow this doughty female commander. The gallant trooper was
as like a lamb as a drunk corporal of dragoons, about six feet high, with
very broad shoulders, and very thin legs, not to mention a great scar
across his nose, could well be. Mrs. Nosebag addressed him with something
which, if not an oath, sounded very like one, and commanded him to attend
to his duty. ‘You be d--d for a----,’ commenced the gallant cavalier;
but, looking up in order to suit the action to the words, and also to
enforce the epithet which he meditated with an adjective applicable to
the party, he recognised the speaker, made his military salaam, and
altered his tone. ‘Lord love your handsome face, Madam Nosebag, is it
you? Why, if a poor fellow does happen to fire a slug of a morning, I am
sure you were never the lady to bring him to harm.’
‘Well, you rascallion, go, mind your duty; this gentleman and I belong to
the service; but be sure you look after that shy cock in the slouched hat
that sits in the corner of the coach. I believe he’s one of the rebels in
disguise.’
‘D--n her gooseberry wig,’ said the corporal, when she was out of
hearing, ‘that gimlet-eyed jade--mother adjutant, as we call her--is a
greater plague to the regiment than provost-marshal, sergeant-major, and
old Hubble-de-Shuff, the colonel, into the bargain. Come, Master
Constable, let’s see if this shy cock, as she calls him (who, by the way,
was a Quaker from Leeds, with whom Mrs. Nosebag had had some tart
argument on the legality of bearing arms), will stand godfather to a sup
of brandy, for your Yorkshire ale is cold on my stomach.’
The vivacity of this good lady, as it helped Edward out of this scrape,
was like to have drawn him into one or two others. In every town where
they stopped she wished to examine the corps de garde, if there was one,
and once very narrowly missed introducing Waverley to a
recruiting-sergeant of his own regiment. Then she Captain’d and Butler’d
him till he was almost mad with vexation and anxiety; and never was he
more rejoiced in his life at the termination of a journey than when the
arrival of the coach in London freed him from the attentions of Madam
Nosebag.
CHAPTER XXXIII
WHAT’S TO BE DONE NEXT?
Itwas twilight when they arrived in town; and having shaken off his
companions, and walked through a good many streets to avoid the
possibility of being traced by them, Edward took a hackney-coach and
drove to Colonel Talbot’s house, in one of the principal squares at the
west end of the town. That gentleman, by the death of relations, had
succeeded since his marriage to a large fortune, possessed considerable
political interest, and lived in what is called great style.
When Waverley knocked at his door he found it at first difficult to
procure admittance, but at length was shown into an apartment where the
Colonel was at table. Lady Emily, whose very beautiful features were
still pallid from indisposition, sate opposite to him. The instant he
heard Waverley’s voice, he started up and embraced him. ‘Frank Stanley,
my dear boy, how d’ye do? Emily, my love, this is young Stanley.’
The blood started to the lady’s cheek as she gave Waverley a reception in
which courtesy was mingled with kindness, while her trembling hand and
faltering voice showed how much she was startled and discomposed. Dinner
was hastily replaced, and while Waverley was engaged in refreshing
himself, the Colonel proceeded--‘I wonder you have come here, Frank; the
Doctors tell me the air of London is very bad for your complaints. You
should not have risked it. But I am delighted to see you, and so is
Emily, though I fear we must not reckon upon your staying long.’
‘Some particular business brought me up,’ muttered Waverley.
‘I supposed so, but I shan’t allow you to stay long. Spontoon’ (to an
elderly military-looking servant out of livery), ‘take away these things,
and answer the bell yourself, if I ring. Don’t let any of the other
fellows disturb us. My nephew and I have business to talk of.’
When the servants had retired, ‘In the name of God, Waverley, what has
brought you here? It may be as much as your life is worth.’
‘Dear Mr. Waverley,’ said Lady Emily, ‘to whom I owe so much more than
acknowledgments can ever pay, how could you be so rash?’
‘My father--my uncle--this paragraph,’--he handed the paper to Colonel
Talbot.
‘I wish to Heaven these scoundrels were condemned to be squeezed to death
in their own presses,’ said Talbot. ‘I am told there are not less than a
dozen of their papers now published in town, and no wonder that they are
obliged to invent lies to find sale for their journals. It is true,
however, my dear Edward, that you have lost your father; but as to this
flourish of his unpleasant situation having grated upon his spirits and
hurt his health--the truth is--for though it is harsh to say so now, yet
it will relieve your mind from the idea of weighty responsibility--the
truth then is, that Mr. Richard Waverley, through this whole business,
showed great want of sensibility, both to your situation and that of your
uncle; and the last time I saw him, he told me, with great glee, that, as
I was so good as to take charge of your interests, he had thought it best
to patch up a separate negotiation for himself, and make his peace with
government through some channels which former connexions left still open
to him.’
‘And my uncle, my dear uncle?’
‘Is in no danger whatever. It is true (looking at the date of the paper)
there was a foolish report some time ago to the purport here quoted, but
it is entirely false. Sir Everard is gone down to Waverley-Honour, freed
from all uneasiness, unless upon your own account. But you are in peril
yourself; your name is in every proclamation; warrants are out to
apprehend you. How and when did you come here?’
Edward told his story at length, suppressing his quarrel with Fergus;
for, being himself partial to Highlanders, he did not wish to give any
advantage to the Colonel’s national prejudice against them.
‘Are you sure it was your friend Glen’s foot-boy you saw dead in Clifton
Moor?’
‘Quite positive.’
‘Then that little limb of the devil has cheated the gallows, for
cut-throat was written in his face; though (turning to Lady Emily) it was
a very handsome face too. But for you, Edward, I wish you would go down
again to Cumberland, or rather I wish you had never stirred from thence,
for there is an embargo in all the seaports, and a strict search for the
adherents of the Pretender; and the tongue of that confounded woman will
wag in her head like the clack of a mill, till somehow or other she will
detect Captain Butler to be a feigned personage.’
‘Do you know anything,’ asked Waverley, ‘of my fellow-traveller?’
‘Her husband was my sergeant-major for six years; she was a buxom widow,
with a little money; he married her, was steady, and got on by being a
good drill. I must send Spontoon to see what she is about; he will find
her out among the old regimental connections. To-morrow you must be
indisposed, and keep your room from fatigue. Lady Emily is to be your
nurse, and Spontoon and I your attendants. You bear the name of a near
relation of mine, whom none of my present people ever saw, except
Spontoon, so there will be no immediate danger. So pray feel your head
ache and your eyes grow heavy as soon as possible, that you may be put
upon the sick-list; and, Emily, do you order an apartment for Frank
Stanley, with all the attentions which an invalid may require.’
In the morning the Colonel visited his guest. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘I have
some good news for you. Your reputation as a gentleman and officer is
effectually cleared of neglect of duty and accession to the mutiny in
Gardiner’s regiment. I have had a correspondence on this subject with a
very zealous friend of yours, your Scottish parson, Morton; his first
letter was addressed to Sir Everard; but I relieved the good Baronet of
the trouble of answering it. You must know, that your free-booting
acquaintance, Donald of the Cave, has at length fallen into the hands of
the Philistines. He was driving off the cattle of a certain proprietor,
called Killan--something or other--’
‘Killancureit?’
‘The same. Now the gentleman being, it seems, a great farmer, and having
a special value for his breed of cattle, being, moreover, rather of a
timid disposition, had got a party of soldiers to protect his property.
So Donald ran his head unawares into the lion’s mouth, and was defeated
and made prisoner. Being ordered for execution, his conscience was
assailed on the one hand by a Catholic priest, on the other by your
friend Morton. He repulsed the Catholic chiefly on account of the
doctrine of extreme unction, which this economical gentleman considered
as an excessive waste of oil. So his conversion from a state of
impenitence fell to Mr. Morton’s share, who, I daresay, acquitted himself
excellently, though I suppose Donald made but a queer kind of Christian
after all. He confessed, however, before a magistrate, one Major
Melville, who seems to have been a correct, friendly sort of person, his
full intrigue with Houghton, explaining particularly how it was carried
on, and fully acquitting you of the least accession to it. He also
mentioned his rescuing you from the hands of the volunteer officer, and
sending you, by orders of the Pret--Chevalier, I mean--as a prisoner to
Doune, from whence he understood you were carried prisoner to Edinburgh.
These are particulars which cannot but tell in your favour. He hinted
that he had been employed to deliver and protect you, and rewarded for
doing so; but he would not confess by whom, alleging that, though he
would not have minded breaking any ordinary oath to satisfy the curiosity
of Mr. Morton, to whose pious admonitions he owed so much, yet, in the
present case he had been sworn to silence upon the edge of his dirk,
[Footnote: See Note 38.] which, it seems, constituted, in his opinion, an
inviolable obligation.’
‘And what is become of him?’
‘Oh, he was hanged at Stirling after the rebels raised the siege, with
his lieutenant and four plaids besides; he having the advantage of a
gallows more lofty than his friends.’
‘Well, I have little cause either to regret or rejoice at his death; and
yet he has done me both good and harm to a very considerable extent.’
‘His confession, at least, will serve you materially, since it wipes from
your character all those suspicions which gave the accusation against you
a complexion of a nature different from that with which so many
unfortunate gentlemen, now or lately in arms against the government, may
be justly charged. Their treason--I must give it its name, though you
participate in its guilt--is an action arising from mistaken virtue, and
therefore cannot be classed as a disgrace, though it be doubtless highly
criminal. Where the guilty are so numerous, clemency must be extended to
far the greater number; and I have little doubt of procuring a remission
for you, providing we can keep you out of the claws of justice till she
has selected and gorged upon her victims; for in this, as in other cases,
it will be according to the vulgar proverb, “First come, first served.”
Besides, government are desirous at present to intimidate the English
Jacobites, among whom they can find few examples for punishment. This is
a vindictive and timid feeling which will soon wear off, for of all
nations the English are least blood-thirsty by nature. But it exists at
present, and you must therefore be kept out of the way in the mean-time.’
Now entered Spontoon with an anxious countenance. By his regimental
acquaintances he had traced out Madam Nosebag, and found her full of ire,
fuss, and fidget at discovery of an impostor who had travelled from the
north with her under the assumed name of Captain Butler of Gardiner’s
dragoons. She was going to lodge an information on the subject, to have
him sought for as an emissary of the Pretender; but Spontoon (an old
soldier), while he pretended to approve, contrived to make her delay her
intention. No time, however, was to be lost: the accuracy of this good
dame’s description might probably lead to the discovery that Waverley was
the pretended Captain Butler, an identification fraught with danger to
Edward, perhaps to his uncle, and even to Colonel Talbot. Which way to
direct his course was now, therefore, the question.
‘To Scotland,’ said Waverley.
‘To Scotland?’ said the Colonel; ‘with what purpose? not to engage again
with the rebels, I hope?’
‘No; I considered my campaign ended when, after all my efforts, I could
not rejoin them; and now, by all accounts, they are gone to make a winter
campaign in the Highlands, where such adherents as I am would rather be
burdensome than useful. Indeed, it seems likely that they only prolong
the war to place the Chevalier’s person out of danger, and then to make
some terms for themselves. To burden them with my presence would merely
add another party, whom they would not give up and could not defend. I
understand they left almost all their English adherents in garrison at
Carlisle, for that very reason. And on a more general view, Colonel, to
confess the truth, though it may lower me in your opinion, I am heartly
tired of the trade of war, and am, as Fletcher’s Humorous Lieutenant
says, “even as weary of this fighting-’”
‘Fighting! pooh, what have you seen but a skirmish or two? Ah! if you saw
war on the grand scale--sixty or a hundred thousand men in the field on
each side!’
‘I am not at all curious, Colonel. “Enough,” says our homely proverb, “is
as good as a feast.” The plumed troops and the big war used to enchant me
in poetry, but the night marches, vigils, couches under the wintry sky,
and such accompaniments of the glorious trade, are not at all to my taste
in practice; then for dry blows, I had MY fill of fighting at Clifton,
where I escaped by a hair’s-breadth half a dozen times; and you, I should
think--’ He stopped.
‘Had enough of it at Preston? you mean to say,’ answered the Colonel,
laughing; ‘but ‘tis my vocation, Hal.’
‘It is not mine, though,’ said Waverley; ‘and having honourably got rid
of the sword, which I drew only as a volunteer, I am quite satisfied with
my military experience, and shall be in no hurry to take it up again.’
‘I am very glad you are of that mind; but then what would you do in the
north?’
‘In the first place, there are some seaports on the eastern coast of
Scotland still in the hands of the Chevalier’s friends; should I gain any
of them, I can easily embark for the Continent.’
‘Good, your second reason?’
‘Why, to speak the very truth, there is a person in Scotland upon whom I
now find my happiness depends more than I was always aware, and about
whose situation I am very anxious.’
‘Then Emily was right, and there is a love affair in the case after all?
And which of these two pretty Scotchwomen, whom you insisted upon my
admiring, is the distinguished fair? not Miss Glen--I hope.’
‘No.’
‘Ah, pass for the other; simplicity may be improved, but pride and
conceit never. Well, I don’t discourage you; I think it will please Sir
Everard, from what he said when I jested with him about it; only I hope
that intolerable papa, with his brogue, and his snuff, and his Latin, and
his insufferable long stories about the Duke of Berwick, will find it
necessary hereafter to be an inhabitant of foreign parts. But as to the
daughter, though I think you might find as fitting a match in England,
yet if your heart be really set upon this Scotch rosebud, why the Baronet
has a great opinion of her father and of his family, and he wishes much
to see you married and settled, both for your own sake and for that of
the three ermines passant, which may otherwise pass away altogether. But
I will bring you his mind fully upon the subject, since you are debarred
correspondence for the present, for I think you will not be long in
Scotland before me.’
‘Indeed! and what can induce you to think of returning to Scotland? No
relenting longings towards the land of mountains and floods, I am
afraid.’
‘None, on my word; but Emily’s health is now, thank God, reestablished,
and, to tell you the truth, I have little hopes of concluding the
business which I have at present most at heart until I can have a
personal interview with his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief; for,
as Fluellen says, “the duke doth love me well, and I thank heaven I have
deserved some love at his hands.” I am now going out for an hour or two
to arrange matters for your departure; your liberty extends to the next
room, Lady Emily’s parlour, where you will find her when you are disposed
for music, reading, or conversation. We have taken measures to exclude
all servants but Spontoon, who is as true as steel.’
In about two hours Colonel Talbot returned, and found his young friend
conversing with his lady; she pleased with his manners and information,
and he delighted at being restored, though but for a moment, to the
society of his own rank, from which he had been for some time excluded.
‘And now,’ said the Colonel, ‘hear my arrangements, for there is little
time to lose. This youngster, Edward Waverley, alias Williams, alias
Captain Butler, must continue to pass by his fourth ALIAS of Francis
Stanley, my nephew; he shall set out to-morrow for the North, and the
chariot shall take him the first two stages. Spontoon shall then attend
him; and they shall ride post as far as Huntingdon; and the presence of
Spontoon, well known on the road as my servant, will check all
disposition to inquiry. At Huntingdon you will meet the real Frank
Stanley. He is studying at Cambridge; but, a little while ago, doubtful
if Emily’s health would permit me to go down to the North myself, I
procured him a passport from the secretary of state’s office to go in my
stead. As he went chiefly to look after you, his journey is now
unnecessary. He knows your story; you will dine together at Huntingdon;
and perhaps your wise heads may hit upon some plan for removing or
diminishing the danger of your farther progress north-ward. And now
(taking out a morocco case), let me put you in funds for the campaign.’
‘I am ashamed, my dear Colonel--’
‘Nay,’ said Colonel Talbot, ‘you should command my purse in any event;
but this money is your own. Your father, considering the chance of your
being attainted, left me his trustee for your advantage. So that you are
worth above L15,000, besides Brere-Wood Lodge--a very independent person,
I promise you. There are bills here for L200; any larger sum you may
have, or credit abroad, as soon as your motions require it.’
The first use which occurred to Waverley of his newly acquired wealth was
to write to honest Farmer Jopson, requesting his acceptance of a silver
tankard on the part of his friend Williams, who had not forgotten the
night of the eighteenth December last. He begged him at the same time
carefully to preserve for him his Highland garb and accoutrements,
particularly the arms, curious in themselves, and to which the friendship
of the donors gave additional value. Lady Emily undertook to find some
suitable token of remembrance likely to flatter the vanity and please the
taste of Mrs. Williams; and the Colonel, who was a kind of farmer,
promised to send the Ullswater patriarch an excellent team of horses for
cart and plough.
One happy day Waverley spent in London; and, travelling in the manner
projected, he met with Frank Stanley at Huntingdon. The two young men
were acquainted in a minute.
‘I can read my uncle’s riddle,’ said Stanley; ‘the cautious old soldier
did not care to hint to me that I might hand over to you this passport,
which I have no occasion for; but if it should afterwards come out as the
rattle-pated trick of a young Cantab, cela ne tire a rien. You are
therefore to be Francis Stanley, with this passport.’ This proposal
appeared in effect to alleviate a great part of the difficulties which
Edward must otherwise have encountered at every turn; and accordingly he
scrupled not to avail himself of it, the more especially as he had
discarded all political purposes from his present journey, and could not
be accused of furthering machinations against the government while
travelling under protection of the secretary’s passport.
The day passed merrily away. The young student was inquisitive about
Waverley’s campaigns, and the manners of the Highlands, and Edward was
obliged to satisfy his curiosity by whistling a pibroch, dancing a
strathspey, and singing a Highland song. The next morning Stanley rode a
stage northward with his new friend, and parted from him with great
reluctance, upon the remonstrances of Spontoon, who, accustomed to submit
to discipline, was rigid in enforcing it.
CHAPTER XXXIV
DESOLATION
Waverley riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without any
adventure save one or two queries, which the talisman of his passport
sufficiently answered, reached the borders of Scotland. Here he heard the
tidings of the decisive battle of Culloden. It was no more than he had
long expected, though the success at Falkirk had thrown a faint and
setting gleam over the arms of the Chevalier. Yet it came upon him like a
shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. The generous, the
courteous, the noble-minded adventurer was then a fugitive, with a price
upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, so faithful,
were dead, imprisoned, or exiled. Where, now, was the exalted and
high-souled Fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night at Clifton?
Where the pure-hearted and primitive Baron of Bradwardine, whose foibles
seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness of his disposition, the
genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshaken courage? Those who clung
for support to these fallen columns, Rose and Flora, where were they to
be sought, and in what distress must not the loss of their natural
protectors have involved them? Of Flora he thought with the regard of a
brother for a sister; of Rose with a sensation yet more deep and tender.
It might be still his fate to supply the want of those guardians they had
lost. Agitated by these thoughts he precipitated his journey.
When he arrived in Edinburgh, where his inquiries must necessarily
commence, he felt the full difficulty of his situation. Many inhabitants
of that city had seen and known him as Edward Waverley; how, then, could
he avail himself of a passport as Francis Stanley? He resolved,
therefore, to avoid all company, and to move northward as soon as
possible. He was, however, obliged to wait a day or two in expectation of
a letter from Colonel Talbot, and he was also to leave his own address,
under his feigned character, at a place agreed upon. With this latter
purpose he sallied out in the dusk through the well-known streets,
carefully shunning observation, but in vain: one of the first persons
whom he met at once recognised him. It was Mrs. Flockhart, Fergus
Mac-Ivor’s good-humoured landlady.
‘Gude guide us, Mr. Waverley, is this you? na, ye needna be feared for
me. I wad betray nae gentleman in your circumstances. Eh, lack-a-day!
lack-a-day! here’s a change o’ markets; how merry Colonel Mac-Ivor and
you used to be in our house!’ And the good-natured widow shed a few
natural tears. As there was no resisting her claim of acquaintance,
Waverley acknowledged it with a good grace, as well as the danger of his
own situation. ‘As it’s near the darkening, sir, wad ye just step in by
to our house and tak a dish o’ tea? and I am sure if ye like to sleep in
the little room, I wad tak care ye are no disturbed, and naebody wad ken
ye; for Kate and Matty, the limmers, gaed aff wi’ twa o’ Hawley’s
dragoons, and I hae twa new queans instead o’ them.’
Waverley accepted her invitation, and engaged her lodging for a night or
two, satisfied he should be safer in the house of this simple creature
than anywhere else. When he entered the parlour his heart swelled to see
Fergus’s bonnet, with the white cockade, hanging beside the little
mirror.
‘Ay,’ said Mrs. Flockhart, sighing, as she observed the direction of his
eyes, ‘the puir Colonel bought a new ane just the day before they
marched, and I winna let them tak that ane doun, but just to brush it
ilka day mysell; and whiles I look at it till I just think I hear him cry
to Callum to bring him his bonnet, as he used to do when he was ganging
out. It’s unco silly--the neighbours ca’ me a Jacobite, but they may say
their say--I am sure it’s no for that--but he was as kind-hearted a
gentleman as ever lived, and as weel-fa’rd too. Oh, d’ye ken, sir, when
he is to suffer?’
‘Suffer! Good heaven! Why, where is he?’
‘Eh, Lord’s sake! d’ye no ken? The poor Hieland body, Dugald Mahony, cam
here a while syne, wi’ ane o’ his arms cuttit off, and a sair clour in
the head--ye’ll mind Dugald, he carried aye an axe on his shouther--and
he cam here just begging, as I may say, for something to eat. Aweel, he
tauld us the Chief, as they ca’d him (but I aye ca’ him the Colonel), and
Ensign Maccombich, that ye mind weel, were ta’en somewhere beside the
English border, when it was sae dark that his folk never missed him till
it was ower late, and they were like to gang clean daft. And he said that
little Callum Beg (he was a bauld mischievous callant that) and your
honour were killed that same night in the tuilzie, and mony mae braw men.
But he grat when he spak o’ the Colonel, ye never saw the like. And now
the word gangs the Colonel is to be tried, and to suffer wi’ them that
were ta’en at Carlisle.’
‘And his sister?’
‘Ay, that they ca’d the Lady Flora--weel, she’s away up to Carlisle to
him, and lives wi’ some grand Papist lady thereabouts to be near him.’
‘And,’ said Edward, ‘the other young lady?’
‘Whilk other? I ken only of ae sister the Colonel had.’
‘I mean Miss Bradwardine,’ said Edward.
‘Ou, ay; the laird’s daughter’ said his landlady. ‘She was a very bonny
lassie, poor thing, but far shyer than Lady Flora.’
‘Where is she, for God’s sake?’
‘Ou, wha kens where ony o’ them is now? puir things, they’re sair ta’en
doun for their white cockades and their white roses; but she gaed north
to her father’s in Perthshire, when the government troops cam back to
Edinbro’. There was some prettymen amang them, and ane Major Whacker was
quartered on me, a very ceevil gentleman,--but O, Mr. Waverley, he was
naething sae weel fa’rd as the puir Colonel.’
‘Do you know what is become of Miss Bradwardine’s father?’
‘The auld laird? na, naebody kens that. But they say he fought very hard
in that bluidy battle at Inverness; and Deacon Clank, the whit-iron
smith, says that the government folk are sair agane him for having been
out twice; and troth he might hae ta’en warning, but there’s nae Me like
an auld fule. The puir Colonel was only out ance.’
Such conversation contained almost all the good-natured widow knew of the
fate of her late lodgers and acquaintances; but it was enough to
determine Edward, at all hazards, to proceed instantly to Tully-Veolan,
where he concluded he should see, or at least hear, something of Rose. He
therefore left a letter for Colonel Talbot at the place agreed upon,
signed by his assumed name, and giving for his address the post-town next
to the Baron’s residence.
From Edinburgh to Perth he took post-horses, resolving to make the rest
of his journey on foot; a mode of travelling to which he was partial, and
which had the advantage of permitting a deviation from the road when he
saw parties of military at a distance. His campaign had considerably
strengthened his constitution and improved his habits of enduring
fatigue. His baggage he sent before him as opportunity occurred.
As he advanced northward, the traces of war became visible. Broken
carriages, dead horses, unroofed cottages, trees felled for palisades,
and bridges destroyed or only partially repaired--all indicated the
movements of hostile armies. In those places where the gentry were
attached to the Stuart cause, their houses seemed dismantled or deserted,
the usual course of what may be called ornamental labour was totally
interrupted, and the inhabitants were seen gliding about, with fear,
sorrow, and dejection on their faces.
It was evening when he approached the village of Tully-Veolan, with
feelings and sentiments--how different from those which attended his
first entrance! Then, life was so new to him that a dull or disagreeable
day was one of the greatest misfortunes which his imagination
anticipated, and it seemed to him that his time ought only to be
consecrated to elegant or amusing study, and relieved by social or
youthful frolic. Now, how changed! how saddened, yet how elevated was his
character, within the course of a very few months! Danger and misfortune
are rapid, though severe teachers. ‘A sadder and a wiser man,’ he felt in
internal confidence and mental dignity a compensation for the gay dreams
which in his case experience had so rapidly dissolved.
As he approached the village he saw, with surprise and anxiety, that a
party of soldiers were quartered near it, and, what was worse, that they
seemed stationary there. This he conjectured from a few tents which he
beheld glimmering upon what was called the Common Moor. To avoid the risk
of being stopped and questioned in a place where he was so likely to be
recognised, he made a large circuit, altogether avoiding the hamlet, and
approaching the upper gate of the avenue by a by-path well known to him.
A single glance announced that great changes had taken place. One half of
the gate, entirely destroyed and split up for firewood, lay in piles,
ready to be taken away; the other swung uselessly about upon its loosened
hinges. The battlements above the gate were broken and thrown down, and
the carved bears, which were said to have done sentinel’s duty upon the
top for centuries, now, hurled from their posts, lay among the rubbish.
The avenue was cruelly wasted. Several large trees were felled and left
lying across the path; and the cattle of the villagers, and the more rude
hoofs of dragoon horses, had poached into black mud the verdant turf
which Waverley had so much admired.
Upon entering the court-yard, Edward saw the fears realised which these
circumstances had excited. The place had been sacked by the King’s
troops, who, in wanton mischief, had even attempted to burn it; and
though the thickness of the walls had resisted the fire, unless to a
partial extent, the stables and out-houses were totally consumed. The
towers and pinnacles of the main building were scorched and blackened;
the pavement of the court broken and shattered, the doors torn down
entirely, or hanging by a single hinge, the windows dashed in and
demolished, and the court strewed with articles of furniture broken into
fragments. The accessaries of ancient distinction, to which the Baron, in
the pride of his heart, had attached so much importance and veneration,
were treated with peculiar contumely. The fountain was demolished, and
the spring which had supplied it now flooded the court-yard. The stone
basin seemed to be destined for a drinking-trough for cattle, from the
manner in which it was arranged upon the ground. The whole tribe of
bears, large and small, had experienced as little favour as those at the
head of the avenue, and one or two of the family pictures, which seemed
to have served as targets for the soldiers, lay on the ground in tatters.
With an aching heart, as may well be imagined, Edward viewed this wreck
of a mansion so respected. But his anxiety to learn the fate of the
proprietors, and his fears as to what that fate might be, increased with
every step. When he entered upon the terrace new scenes of desolation
were visible. The balustrade was broken down, the walls destroyed, the
borders overgrown with weeds, and the fruit-trees cut down or grubbed up.
In one compartment of this old-fashioned garden were two immense
horse-chestnut trees, of whose size the Baron was particularly vain; too
lazy, perhaps, to cut them down, the spoilers, with malevolent ingenuity,
had mined them and placed a quantity of gunpowder in the cavity. One had
been shivered to pieces by the explosion, and the fragments lay scattered
around, encumbering the ground it had so long shadowed. The other mine
had been more partial in its effect. About one-fourth of the trunk of the
tree was torn from the mass, which, mutilated and defaced on the one
side, still spread on the other its ample and undiminished boughs.
[Footnote: A pair of chestnut trees, destroyed, the one entirely and the
other in part, by such a mischievous and wanton act of revenge, grew at
Invergarry Castle, the fastness of MacDonald of Glengarry.]
Amid these general marks of ravage, there were some which more
particularly addressed the feelings of Waverley. Viewing the front of the
building thus wasted and defaced, his eyes naturally sought the little
balcony which more properly belonged to Rose’s apartment, her troisieme,
or rather cinquieme, etage. It was easily discovered, for beneath it lay
the stage-flowers and shrubs with which it was her pride to decorate it,
and which had been hurled from the bartizan; several of her books were
mingled with broken flower-pots and other remnants. Among these Waverley
distinguished one of his own, a small copy of Ariosto, and gathered it as
a treasure, though wasted by the wind and rain.
While, plunged in the sad reflections which the scene excited, he was
looking around for some one who might explain the fate of the
inhabitants, he heard a voice from the interior of the building singing,
in well-remembered accents, an old Scottish song:--
They came upon us in the night,
And brake my bower and slew my knight;
My servants a’ for life did flee,
And left us in extremitie.
They slew my knight, to me sae dear;
They slew my knight, and drave his gear;
The moon may set, the sun may rise,
But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes.
[Footnote: The first three couplets are from an old ballad, called the
Border Widow’s Lament.]
‘Alas,’ thought Edward, ‘is it thou? Poor helpless being, art thou alone
left, to gibber and moan, and fill with thy wild and unconnected scraps
of minstrelsy the halls that protected thee?’ He then called, first low,
and then louder, ‘Davie--Davie Gellatley!’
The poor simpleton showed himself from among the ruins of a sort of
greenhouse, that once terminated what was called the terrace-walk, but at
first sight of a stranger retreated, as if in terror. Waverley,
remembering his habits, began to whistle a tune to which he was partial,
which Davie had expressed great pleasure in listening to, and had picked
up from him by the ear. Our hero’s minstrelsy no more equalled that of
Blondel than poor Davie resembled Coeur de Lion; but the melody had the
same effect of producing recognition. Davie again stole from his
lurking-place, but timidly, while Waverley, afraid of frightening him,
stood making the most encouraging signals he could devise. ‘It’s his
ghaist,’ muttered Davie; yet, coming nearer, he seemed to acknowledge his
living acquaintance. The poor fool himself appeared the ghost of what he
had been. The peculiar dress in which he had been attired in better days
showed only miserable rags of its whimsical finery, the lack of which was
oddly supplied by the remnants of tapestried hangings, window-curtains,
and shreds of pictures with which he had bedizened his tatters. His face,
too, had lost its vacant and careless air, and the poor creature looked
hollow-eyed, meagre, half-starved, and nervous to a pitiable degree.
After long hesitation, he at length approached Waverley with some
confidence, stared him sadly in the face, and said, ‘A’ dead and gane--a’
dead and gane.’
‘Who are dead?’ said Waverley, forgetting the incapacity of Davie to hold
any connected discourse.
‘Baron, and Bailie, and Saunders Saunderson, and Lady Rose that sang sae
sweet--a’ dead and gane--dead and gane;
But follow, follow me,
While glowworms light the lea,
I’ll show ye where the dead should be--
Each in his shroud,
While winds pipe loud,
And the red moon peeps dim through the cloud.
Follow, follow me;
Brave should he be
That treads by night the dead man’s lea.’
With these words, chanted in a wild and earnest tone, he made a sign to
Waverley to follow him, and walked rapidly towards the bottom of the
garden, tracing the bank of the stream which, it may be remembered, was
its eastern boundary. Edward, over whom an involuntary shuddering stole
at the import of his words, followed him in some hope of an explanation.
As the house was evidently deserted, he could not expect to find among
the ruins any more rational informer.
Davie, walking very fast, soon reached the extremity of the garden, and
scrambled over the ruins of the wall that once had divided it from the
wooded glen in which the old tower of Tully-Veolan was situated. He then
jumped down into the bed of the stream, and, followed by Waverley,
proceeded at a great pace, climbing over some fragments of rock and
turning with difficulty round others. They passed beneath the ruins of
the castle; Waverley followed, keeping up with his guide with difficulty,
for the twilight began to fall. Following the descent of the stream a
little lower, he totally lost him, but a twinkling light which he now
discovered among the tangled copse-wood and bushes seemed a surer guide.
He soon pursued a very uncouth path; and by its guidance at length
reached the door of a wretched hut. A fierce barking of dogs was at first
heard, but it stilled at his approach. A voice sounded from within, and
he held it most prudent to listen before he advanced.
‘Wha hast thou brought here, thou unsonsy villain, thou?’ said an old
woman, apparently in great indignation. He heard Davie Gellatley in
answer whistle a part of the tune by which he had recalled himself to the
simpleton’s memory, and had now no hesitation to knock at the door. There
was a dead silence instantly within, except the deep growling of the
dogs; and he next heard the mistress of the hut approach the door, not
probably for the sake of undoing a latch, but of fastening a bolt. To
prevent this Waverley lifted the latch himself.
In front was an old wretched-looking woman, exclaiming, ‘Wha comes into
folk’s houses in this gate, at this time o’ the night?’ On one side, two
grim and half-starved deer greyhounds laid aside their ferocity at his
appearance, and seemed to recognise him. On the other side, half
concealed by the open door, yet apparently seeking that concealment
reluctantly, with a cocked pistol in his right hand and his left in the
act of drawing another from his belt, stood a tall bony gaunt figure in
the remnants of a faded uniform and a beard of three weeks’ growth. It
was the Baron of Bradwardine. It is unnecessary to add, that he threw
aside his weapon and greeted Waverley with a hearty embrace.
CHAPTER XXXV
COMPARING OF NOTES
Thearon’s story was short, when divested of the adages and commonplaces,
Latin, English, and Scotch, with which his erudition garnished it. He
insisted much upon his grief at the loss of Edward and of Glennaquoich,
fought the fields of Falkirk and Culloden, and related how, after all was
lost in the last battle, he had returned home, under the idea of more
easily finding shelter among his own tenants and on his own estate than
elsewhere. A party of soldiers had been sent to lay waste his property,
for clemency was not the order of the day. Their proceedings, however,
were checked by an order from the civil court. The estate, it was found,
might not be forfeited to the crown to the prejudice of Malcolm
Bradwardine of Inch-Grabbit, the heir-male, whose claim could not be
prejudiced by the Baron’s attainder, as deriving no right through him,
and who, therefore, like other heirs of entail in the same situation,
entered upon possession. But, unlike many in similar circumstances, the
new laird speedily showed that he intended utterly to exclude his
predecessor from all benefit or advantage in the estate, and that it was
his purpose to avail himself of the old Baron’s evil fortune to the full
extent. This was the more ungenerous, as it was generally known that,
from a romantic idea of not prejudicing this young man’s right as
heir-male, the Baron had refrained from settling his estate on his
daughter.
This selfish injustice was resented by the country people, who were
partial to their old master, and irritated against his successor. In the
Baron’s own words, ‘The matter did not coincide with the feelings of the
commons of Bradwardine, Mr. Waverley; and the tenants were slack and
repugnant in payment of their mails and duties; and when my kinsman came
to the village wi’ the new factor, Mr. James Howie, to lift the rents,
some wanchancy person--I suspect John Heatherblutter, the auld
gamekeeper, that was out wi’ me in the year fifteen--fired a shot at him
in the gloaming, whereby he was so affrighted, that I may say with
Tullius In Catilinam, “Abiit, evasit, erupit, effugit.” He fled, sir, as
one may say, incontinent to Stirling. And now he hath advertised the
estate for sale, being himself the last substitute in the entail. And if
I were to lament about sic matters, this would grieve me mair than its
passing from my immediate possession, whilk, by the course of nature,
must have happened in a few years; whereas now it passes from the lineage
that should have possessed it in scecula saculorum. But God’s will be
done, humana perpessi sumus. Sir John of Bradwardine--Black Sir John, as
he is called--who was the common ancestor of our house and the
Inch-Grabbits, little thought such a person would have sprung from his
loins. Mean time, he has accused me to some of the primates, the rulers
for the time, as if I were a cut-throat, and an abettor of bravoes and
assassinates and coupe-jarrets. And they have sent soldiers here to abide
on the estate, and hunt me like a partridge upon the mountains, as
Scripture says of good King David, or like our valiant Sir William
Wallace--not that I bring myself into comparison with either. I thought,
when I heard you at the door, they had driven the auld deer to his den at
last; and so I e’en proposed to die at bay, like a buck of the first
head. But now, Janet, canna ye gie us something for supper?’ ‘Ou ay, sir,
I’ll brander the moor-fowl that John Heatherblutter brought in this
morning; and ye see puir Davie’s roasting the black hen’s eggs. I daur
say, Mr. Wauverley, ye never kend that a’ the eggs that were sae weel
roasted at supper in the Ha’-house were aye turned by our Davie? there’s
no the like o’ him ony gate for powtering wi’ his fingers amang the het
peat-ashes and roasting eggs.’ Davie all this while lay with his nose
almost in the fire, nuzzling among the ashes, kicking his heels, mumbling
to himself, turning the eggs as they lay in the hot embers, as if to
confute the proverb, that ‘there goes reason to roasting of eggs,’ and
justify the eulogium which poor Janet poured out upon
Him whom she loved, her idiot boy.
‘Davie’s no sae silly as folk tak him for, Mr. Wauverley; he wadna hae
brought you here unless he had kend ye was a friend to his Honour; indeed
the very dogs kend ye, Mr. Wauverley, for ye was aye kind to beast and
body. I can tell you a story o’ Davie, wi’ his Honour’s leave. His
Honour, ye see, being under hiding in thae sair times--the mair’s the
pity--he lies a’ day, and whiles a’ night, in the cove in the dern hag;
but though it’s a bieldy eneugh bit, and the auld gudeman o’ Corse-Cleugh
has panged it wi’ a kemple o’ strae amaist, yet when the country’s quiet,
and the night very cauld, his Honour whiles creeps doun here to get a
warm at the ingle and a sleep amang the blankets, and gangs awa in the
morning. And so, ae morning, siccan a fright as I got! Twa unlucky
red-coats were up for black-fishing, or some siccan ploy--for the neb o’
them’s never out o’ mischief--and they just got a glisk o’ his Honour as
he gaed into the wood, and banged aff a gun at him. I out like a
jer-falcon, and cried--“Wad they shoot an honest woman’s poor innocent
bairn?” And I fleyt at them, and threepit it was my son; and they damned
and swuir at me that it was the auld rebel, as the villains ca’d his
Honour; and Davie was in the wood, and heard the tuilzie, and he, just
out o’ his ain head, got up the auld grey mantle that his Honour had
flung off him to gang the faster, and he cam out o’ the very same bit o’
the wood, majoring and looking about sae like his Honour, that they were
clean beguiled, and thought they had letten aff their gun at
crack-brained Sawney, as they ca’ him; and they gae me saxpence, and twa
saumon fish, to say naething about it. Na, na, Davie’s no just like other
folk, puir fallow; but he’s no sae silly as folk tak him for. But, to be
sure, how can we do eneugh for his Honour, when we and ours have lived on
his ground this twa hundred years; and when he keepit my puir Jamie at
school and college, and even at the Ha’-house, till he gaed to a better
place; and when he saved me frae being ta’en to Perth as a witch--Lord
forgi’e them that would touch sic a puir silly auld body!--and has
maintained puir Davie at heck and manger maist feck o’ his life?’
Waverley at length found an opportunity to interrupt Janet’s narrative by
an inquiry after Miss Bradwardine.
‘She’s weel and safe, thank God! at the Duchran,’ answered the Baron;
‘the laird’s distantly related to us, and more nearly to my chaplain, Mr.
Rubrick; and, though he be of Whig principles, yet he’s not forgetful of
auld friendship at this time. The Bailie’s doing what he can to save
something out of the wreck for puir Rose; but I doubt, I doubt, I shall
never see her again, for I maun lay my banes in some far country.’
‘Hout na, your Honour,’ said old Janet, ‘ye were just as ill aff in the
feifteen, and got the bonnie baronie back, an’ a’. And now the eggs is
ready, and the muir-cock’s brandered, and there’s ilk ane a trencher and
some saut, and the heel o’ the white loaf that cam frae the Bailie’s, and
there’s plenty o’ brandy in the greybeard that Luckie Maclearie sent
doun, and winna ye be suppered like princes?’
‘I wish one Prince, at least, of our acquaintance may be no worse off,’
said the Baron to Waverley, who joined him in cordial hopes for the
safety of the unfortunate Chevalier.
They then began to talk of their future prospects. The Baron’s plan was
very simple. It was, to escape to France, where, by the interest of his
old friends, he hoped to get some military employment, of which he still
conceived himself capable. He invited Waverley to go with him, a proposal
in which he acquiesced, providing the interest of Colonel Talbot should
fail in procuring his pardon. Tacitly he hoped the Baron would sanction
his addresses to Rose, and give him a right to assist him in his exile;
but he forbore to speak on this subject until his own fate should be
decided. They then talked of Glennaquoich, for whom the Baron expressed
great anxiety, although, he observed, he was ‘the very Achilles of
Horatius Flaccus,--
Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer; which,’ he continued, ‘has been
thus rendered (vernacularly) by Struan Robertson:--
A fiery etter-cap, a fractious chiel,
As het as ginger, and as stieve as steel.’
Flora had a large and unqualified share of the good old man’s sympathy.
It was now wearing late. Old Janet got into some kind of kennel behind
the hallan; Davie had been long asleep and snoring between Ban and
Buscar. These dogs had followed him to the hut after the mansion-house
was deserted, and there constantly resided; and their ferocity, with the
old woman’s reputation of being a witch, contributed a good deal to keep
visitors from the glen. With this view, Bailie Macwheeble provided Janet
underhand with meal for their maintenance, and also with little articles
of luxury for his patron’s use, in supplying which much precaution was
necessarily used. After some compliments, the Baron occupied his usual
couch, and Waverley reclined in an easy chair of tattered velvet, which
had once garnished the state bed-room of Tully-Veolan (for the furniture
of this mansion was now scattered through all the cottages in the
vicinity), and went to sleep as comfortably as if he had been in a bed of
down.
CHAPTER XXXVI
MORE EXPLANATION
With the first dawn of day, old Janet was scuttling about the house to
wake the Baron, who usually slept sound and heavily.
‘I must go back,’ he said to Waverley, ‘to my cove; will you walk down the
glen wi’ me?’ They went out together, and followed a narrow and entangled
foot-path, which the occasional passage of anglers or wood-cutters had
traced by the side of the stream. On their way the Baron explained to
Waverley that he would be under no danger in remaining a day or two at
Tully-Veolan, and even in being seen walking about, if he used the
precaution of pretending that he was looking at the estate as agent or
surveyor for an English gentleman who designed to be purchaser. With this
view he recommended to him to visit the Bailie, who still lived at the
factor’s house, called Little Veolan, about a mile from the village,
though he was to remove at next term. Stanley’s passport would be an
answer to the officer who commanded the military; and as to any of the
country people who might recognise Waverley, the Baron assured him he was
in no danger of being betrayed by them.
‘I believe,’ said the old man, ‘half the people of the barony know that
their poor auld laird is somewhere hereabout; for I see they do not
suffer a single bairn to come here a bird-nesting; a practice whilk, when
I was in full possession of my power as baron, I was unable totally to
inhibit. Nay, I often find bits of things in my way, that the poor
bodies, God help them! leave there, because they think they may be useful
to me. I hope they will get a wiser master, and as kind a one as I was.’
A natural sigh closed the sentence; but the quiet equanimity with which
the Baron endured his misfortunes had something in it venerable and even
sublime. There was no fruitless repining, no turbid melancholy; he bore
his lot, and the hardships which it involved, with a good-humored, though
serious composure, and used no violent language against the prevailing
party.
‘I did what I thought my duty,’ said the good old man, ‘and questionless
they are doing what they think theirs. It grieves me sometimes to look
upon these blackened walls of the house of my ancestors; but doubtless
officers cannot always keep the soldier’s hand from depredation and
spuilzie, and Gustavus Adolphus himself, as ye may read in Colonel Munro
his “Expedition with the Worthy Scotch Regiment called Mackay’s Regiment”
did often permit it. Indeed I have myself seen as sad sights as
Tully-Veolan now is when I served with the Marechal Duke of Berwick. 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; and now I hae
gotten a house that is not unlike a domus ultima’--they were now standing
below a steep rock. ‘We poor Jacobites,’ continued the Baron, looking up,
‘are now like the conies in Holy Scripture (which the great traveller
Pococke calleth Jerboa), a feeble people, that make our abode in the
rocks. So, fare you well, my good lad, till we meet at Janet’s in the
even; for I must get into my Patmos, which is no easy matter for my auld
stiff limbs.’
With that he began to ascend the rock, striding, with the help of his
hands, from one precarious footstep to another, till he got about
half-way up, where two or three bushes concealed the mouth of a hole,
resembling an oven, into which the Baron insinuated, first his head and
shoulders, and then, by slow gradation, the rest of his l ong body; his
legs and feet finally disappearing, coiled up like a huge snake entering
his retreat, or a long pedigree introduced with care and difficulty into
the narrow pigeon-hole of an old cabinet. Waverley had the curiosity to
clamber up and look in upon him in his den, as the lurking-place might
well be termed. Upon the whole, he looked not unlike that ingenious
puzzle called ‘a reel in a bottle,’ the marvel of children (and of some
grown people too, myself for one), who can neither comprehend the
mysteryhowit has got in or how it is to be taken out. The cave was very
narrow, too low in the roof to admit of his standing, or almost of his
sitting up, though he made some awkward attempts at the latter posture.
His sole amusement was the perusal of his old friend Titus Livius, varied
by occasionally scratching Latin proverbs and texts of Scripture with his
knife on the roof and walls of his fortalice, which were of sandstone. As
the cave was dry, and filled with clean straw and withered fern, ‘it
made,’ as he said, coiling himself up with an air of snugness and comfort
which contrasted strangely with his situation, ‘unless when the wind was
due north, a very passable gite for an old soldier.’ Neither, as he
observed, was he without sentries for the purpose of reconnoitring. Davie
and his mother were constantly on the watch to discover and avert danger;
and it was singular what instances of address seemed dictated by the
instinctive attachment of the poor simpleton when his patron’s safety was
concerned.
With Janet, Edward now sought an interview. He had recognised her at
first sight as the old woman who had nursed him during his sickness after
his delivery from Gifted Gilfillan. The hut also, although a little
repaired and somewhat better furnished, was certainly the place of his
confinement; and he now recollected on the common moor of Tully-Veolan
the trunk of a large decayed tree, called the try sting-tree, which he
had no doubt was the same at which the Highlanders rendezvoused on that
memorable night. All this he had combined in his imagination the night
before; but reasons which may probably occur to the reader prevented him
from catechising Janet in the presence of the Baron.
He now commenced the task in good earnest; and the first question was,
Who was the young lady that visited the hut during his illness? Janet
paused for a little; and then observed, that to keep the secret now would
neither do good nor ill to anybody.
‘It was just a leddy that hasna her equal in the world--Miss Rose
Bradwardine!’
‘Then Miss Rose was probably also the author of my deliverance,’ inferred
Waverley, delighted at the confirmation of an idea which local
circumstances had already induced him to entertain.
‘I wot weel, Mr. Wauverley, and that was she e’en; but sair, sair angry
and affronted wad she hae been, puir thing, if she had thought ye had
been ever to ken a word about the matter; for she gar’d me speak aye
Gaelic when ye was in hearing, to mak ye trow we were in the Hielands. I
can speak it weil eneugh, for my mother was a Hieland woman.’
A few more questions now brought out the whole mystery respecting
Waverley’s deliverance from the bondage in which he left Cairnvreckan.
Never did music sound sweeter to an amateur than the drowsy tautology
with which old Janet detailed every circumstance thrilled upon the ears
of Waverley. But my reader is not a lover and I must spare his patience,
by attempting to condense within reasonable compass the narrative which
old Janet spread through a harangue of nearly two hours.
When Waverley communicated to Fergus the letter he had received from Rose
Bradwardine by Davie Gellatley, giving an account of Tully-Veolan being
occupied by a small party of soldiers, that circumstance had struck upon
the busy and active mind of the Chieftain. Eager to distress and narrow
the posts of the enemy, desirous to prevent their establishing a garrison
so near him, and willing also to oblige the Baron--for he often had the
idea of marriage with Rose floating through his brain--he resolved to
send some of his people to drive out the red-coats and to bring Rose to
Glennaquoich. But just as he had ordered Evan with a small party on this
duty, the news of Cope’s having marched into the Highlands, to meet and
disperse the forces of the Chevalier ere they came to a head, obliged him
to join the standard with his whole forces.
He sent to order Donald Bean to attend him; but that cautious freebooter,
who well understood the value of a separate command, instead of joining,
sent various apologies which the pressure of the times compelled Fergus
to admit as current, though not without the internal resolution of being
revenged on him for his procrastination, time and place convenient.
However, as he could not amend the matter, he issued orders to Donald to
descend into the Low Country, drive the soldiers from Tully-Veolan, and,
paying all respect to the mansion of the Baron, to take his abode
somewhere near it, for protection of his daughter and family, and to
harass and drive away any of the armed volunteers or small parties of
military which he might find moving about the vicinity. As this charge
formed a sort of roving commission, which Donald proposed to interpret in
the way most advantageous to himself, as he was relieved from the
immediate terrors of Fergus, and as he had, from former secret services,
some interest in the councils of the Chevalier, he resolved to make hay
while the sun shone. He achieved without difficulty the task of driving
the soldiers from Tully-Veolan; but, although he did not venture to
encroach upon the interior of the family, or to disturb Miss Rose, being
unwilling to make himself a powerful enemy in the Chevalier’s army,
For well he knew the Baron’s wrath was deadly;
yet he set about to raise contributions and exactions upon the tenantry,
and otherwise to turn the war to his own advantage. Meanwhile he mounted
the white cockade, and waited upon Rose with a pretext of great devotion
for the service in which her father was engaged, and many apologies for
the freedom he must necessarily use for the support of his people. It was
at this moment that Rose learned, by open-mouthed fame, with all sorts of
exaggeration, that Waverley had killed the smith at Cairnvreckan, in an
attempt to arrest him; had been cast into a dungeon by Major Melville of
Cairnvreckan, and was to be executed by martial law within three days. In
the agony which these tidings excited she proposed to Donald Bean the
rescue of the prisoner. It was the very sort of service which he was
desirous to undertake, judging it might constitute a merit of such a
nature as would make amends for any peccadilloes which he might be guilty
of in the country. He had the art, however, pleading all the while duty
and discipline, to hold off, until poor Rose, in the extremity of her
distress, offered to bribe him to the enterprise with some valuable
jewels which had been her mother’s.
Donald Bean, who had served in France, knew, and perhaps over-estimated,
the value of these trinkets. But he also perceived Rose’s apprehensions
of its being discovered that she had parted with her jewels for
Waverley’s liberation. Resolved this scruple should not part him and the
treasure, he voluntarily offered to take an oath that he would never
mention Miss Rose’s share in the transaction; and, foreseeing convenience
in keeping the oath and no probable advantage in breaking it, he took the
engagement--in order, as he told his lieutenant, to deal handsomely by
the young lady--in the only mode and form which, by a mental paction with
himself, he considered as binding: he swore secrecy upon his drawn dirk.
He was the more especially moved to this act of good faith by some
attentions that Miss Bradwardine showed to his daughter Alice, which,
while they gained the heart of the mountain damsel, highly gratified the
pride of her father. Alice, who could now speak a little English, was
very communicative in return for Rose’s kindness, readily confided to her
the whole papers respecting the intrigue with Gardiner’s regiment, of
which she was the depositary, and as readily undertook, at her instance,
to restore them to Waverley without her father’s knowledge. For ‘they may
oblige the bonnie young lady and the handsome young gentleman,’ said
Alice, ‘and what use has my father for a whin bits o’ scarted paper?’
The reader is aware that she took an opportunity of executing this
purpose on the eve of Waverley’s leaving the glen.
How Donald executed his enterprise the reader is aware. But the expulsion
of the military from Tully-Veolan had given alarm, and while he was lying
in wait for Gilfillan, a strong party, such as Donald did not care to
face, was sent to drive back the insurgents in their turn, to encamp
there, and to protect the country. The officer, a gentleman and a
disciplinarian, neither intruded himself on Miss Bradwardine, whose
unprotected situation he respected, nor permitted his soldiers to commit
any breach of discipline. He formed a little camp upon an eminence near
the house of Tully-Veolan, and placed proper guards at the passes in the
vicinity. This unwelcome news reached Donald Bean Lean as he was
returning to Tully-Veolan. Determined, however, to obtain the guerdon of
his labour, he resolved, since approach to Tully-Veolan was impossible,
to deposit his prisoner in Janet’s cottage, a place the very existence of
which could hardly have been suspected even by those who had long lived
in the vicinity, unless they had been guided thither, and which was
utterly unknown to Waverley himself. This effected, he claimed and
received his reward. Waverley’s illness was an event which deranged all
their calculations. Donald was obliged to leave the neighbourhood with
his people, and to seek more free course for his adventures elsewhere. At
Rose’s entreaty, he left an old man, a herbalist, who was supposed to
understand a little of medicine, to attend Waverley during his illness.
In the meanwhile, new and fearful doubts started in Rose’s mind. They
were suggested by old Janet, who insisted that, a reward having been
offered for the apprehension of Waverley, and his own personal effects
being so valuable, there was no saying to what breach of faith Donald
might be tempted. In an agony of grief and terror, Rose took the daring
resolution of explaining to the Prince himself the danger in which Mr.
Waverley stood, judging that, both as a politician and a man of honour
and humanity, Charles Edward would interest himself to prevent his
falling into the hands of the opposite party. This letter she at first
thought of sending anonymously, but naturally feared it would not in that
case be credited. She therefore subscribed her name, though with
reluctance and terror, and consigned it in charge to a young man, who at
leaving his farm to join the Chevalier’s army, made it his petition to
her to have some sort of credentials to the adventurer, from whom he
hoped to obtain a commission.
The letter reached Charles Edward on his descent to the Lowlands, and,
aware of the political importance of having it supposed that he was in
correspondence with the English Jacobites, he caused the most positive
orders to be transmitted to Donald Bean Lean to transmit Waverley, safe
and uninjured, in person or effects, to the governor of Doune Castle. The
freebooter durst not disobey, for the army of the Prince was now so near
him that punishment might have followed; besides, he was a politician as
well as a robber, and was unwilling to cancel the interest created
through former secret services by being refractory on this occasion. He
therefore made a virtue of necessity, and transmitted orders to his
lieutenant to convey Edward to Doune, which was safely accomplished in
the mode mentioned in a former chapter. The governor of Doune was
directed to send him to Edinburgh as a prisoner, because the Prince was
apprehensive that Waverley, if set at liberty, might have resumed his
purpose of returning to England, without affording him an opportunity of
a personal interview. In this, indeed, he acted by the advice of the
Chieftain of Glennaquoich, with whom it may be remembered the Chevalier
communicated upon the mode of disposing of Edward, though without telling
him how he came to learn the place of his confinement.
This, indeed, Charles Edward considered as a lady’s secret; for although
Rose’s letter was couched in the most cautious and general terms, and
professed to be written merely from motives of humanity and zeal for the
Prince’s service, yet she expressed so anxious a wish that she should not
be known to have interfered, that the Chevalier was induced to suspect
the deep interest which she took in Waverley’s safety. This conjecture,
which was well founded, led, however, to false inferences. For the
emotion which Edward displayed on approaching Flora and Rose at the ball
of Holyrood was placed by the Chevalier to the account of the latter; and
he concluded that the Baron’s views about the settlement of his property,
or some such obstacle, thwarted their mutual inclinations. Common fame,
it is true, frequently gave Waverley to Miss Mac-Ivor; but the Prince
knew that common fame is very prodigal in such gifts; and, watching
attentively the behaviour of the ladies towards Waverley, he had no doubt
that the young Englishman had no interest with Flora, and was beloved by
Rose Bradwardine. Desirous to bind Waverley to his service, and wishing
also to do a kind and friendly action, the Prince next assailed the Baron
on the subject of settling his estate upon his daughter. Mr. Bradwardine
acquiesced; but the consequence was that Fergus was immediately induced
to prefer his double suit for a wife and an earldom, which the Prince
rejected in the manner we have seen. The Chevalier, constantly engaged in
his own multiplied affairs, had not hitherto sought any explanation with
Waverley, though often meaning to do so. But after Fergus’s declaration
he saw the necessity of appearing neutral between the rivals, devoutly
hoping that the matter, which now seemed fraught with the seeds of
strife, might be permitted to lie over till the termination of the
expedition. When, on the march to Derby, Fergus, being questioned
concerning his quarrel with Waverley, alleged as the cause that Edward
was desirous of retracting the suit he had made to his sister, the
Chevalier plainly told him that he had himself observed Miss Mac-Ivor’s
behaviour to Waverley, and that he was convinced Fergus was under the
influence of a mistake in judging of Waverley’s conduct, who, he had
every reason to believe, was engaged to Miss Bradwardine. The quarrel
which ensued between Edward and the Chieftain is, I hope, still in the
remembrance of the reader. These circumstances will serve to explain such
points of our narrative as, according to the custom of story-tellers, we
deemed it fit to leave unexplained, for the purpose of exciting the
reader’s curiosity.
When Janet had once finished the leading facts of this narrative,
Waverley was easily enabled to apply the clue which they afforded to
other mazes of the labyrinth in which he had been engaged. To Rose
Bradwardine, then, he owed the life which he now thought he could
willingly have laid down to serve her. A little reflection convinced him,
however, that to live for her sake was more convenient and agreeable, and
that, being possessed of independence, she might share it with him either
in foreign countries or in his own. The pleasure of being allied to a man
of the Baron’s high worth, and who was so much valued by his uncle Sir
Everard, was also an agreeable consideration, had anything been wanting
to recommend the match. His absurdities, which had appeared grotesquely
ludicrous during his prosperity, seemed, in the sunset of his fortune, to
be harmonised and assimilated with the noble features of his character,
so as to add peculiarity without exciting ridicule. His mind occupied
with such projects of future happiness, Edward sought Little Veolan, the
habitation of Mr. Duncan Macwheeble.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Now is Cupid a child of conscience--he makes restitution.--SHAKSPEARE
Mr. Duncan MacWheeble, no longer Commissary or Bailie, though still
enjoying the empty name of the latter dignity, had escaped proscription
by an early secession from the insurgent party and by his insignificance.
Edward found him in his office, immersed among papers and accounts.
Before him was a large bicker of oatmeal porridge, and at the side
thereof a horn spoon and a bottle of two-penny. Eagerly running his eye
over a voluminous law-paper, he from time to time shovelled an immense
spoonful of these nutritive viands into his capacious mouth. A
pot-bellied Dutch bottle of brandy which stood by intimated either that
this honest limb of the law had taken his morning already, or that he
meant to season his porridge with such digestive; or perhaps both
circumstances might reasonably be inferred. His night-cap and
morning-gown, had whilome been of tartan, but, equally cautious and
frugal, the honest Bailie had got them dyed black, lest their original
ill-omened colour might remind his visitors of his unlucky excursion to
Derby. To sum up the picture, his face was daubed with snuff up to the
eyes, and his fingers with ink up to the knuckles. He looked dubiously at
Waverley as he approached the little green rail which fenced his desk and
stool from the approach of the vulgar. Nothing could give the Bailie more
annoyance than the idea of his acquaintance being claimed by any of the
unfortunate gentlemen who were now so much more likely to need assistance
than to afford profit. But this was the rich young Englishman; who knew
what might be his situation? He was the Baron’s friend too; what was to
be done?
While these reflections gave an air of absurd perplexity to the poor
man’s visage, Waverley, reflecting on the communication he was about to
make to him, of a nature so ridiculously contrasted with the appearance
of the individual, could not help bursting out a-laughing, as he checked
the propensity to exclaim with Syphax--
Cato’s a proper person to intrust
A love-tale with.
As Mr. Macwheeble had no idea of any person laughing heartily who was
either encircled by peril or oppressed by poverty, the hilarity of
Edward’s countenance greatly relieved the embarrassment of his own, and,
giving him a tolerably hearty welcome to Little Veolan, he asked what he
would choose for breakfast. His visitor had, in the first place,
something for his private ear, and begged leave to bolt the door. Duncan
by no means liked this precaution, which savoured of danger to be
apprehended; but he could not now draw back.
Convinced he might trust this man, as he could make it his interest to be
faithful, Edward communicated his present situation and future schemes to
Macwheeble. The wily agent listened with apprehension when he found
Waverley was still in a state of proscription; was somewhat comforted by
learning that he had a passport; rubbed his hands with glee when he
mentioned the amount of his present fortune; opened huge eyes when he
heard the brilliancy of his future expectations; but when he expressed
his intention to share them with Miss Rose Bradwardine, ecstasy had
almost deprived the honest man of his senses. The Bailie started from his
three-footed stool like the Pythoness from her tripod; flung his best wig
out of the window, because the block on which it was placed stood in the
way of his career; chucked his cap to the ceiling, caught it as it fell;
whistled ‘Tullochgorum’; danced a Highland fling with inimitable grace
and agility, and then threw himself exhausted into a chair, exclaiming,
‘Lady Wauverley! ten thousand a year the least penny! Lord preserve my
poor understanding!’
‘Amen with all my heart,’ said Waverley; ‘but now, Mr. Macwheeble, let us
proceed to business.’ This word had somewhat a sedative effect, but the
Bailie’s head, as he expressed himself, was still ‘in the bees.’ He
mended his pen, however, marked half a dozen sheets of paper with an
ample marginal fold, whipped down Dallas of St. Martin’s ‘Styles’ from a
shelf, where that venerable work roosted with Stair’s ‘Institutions,’
Dirleton’s ‘Doubts,’ Balfour’s ‘Practiques,’ and a parcel of old
account-books, opened the volume at the article Contract of Marriage, and
prepared to make what he called a’sma’ minute to prevent parties frae
resiling.’
With some difficulty Waverley made him comprehend that he was going a
little too fast. He explained to him that he should want his assistance,
in the first place, to make his residence safe for the time, by writing
to the officer at Tully-Veolan that Mr. Stanley, an English gentleman
nearly related to Colonel Talbot, was upon a visit of business at Mr.
Macwheeble’s, and, knowing the state of the country, had sent his
passport for Captain Foster’s inspection. This produced a polite answer
from the officer, with an invitation to Mr. Stanley to dine with him,
which was declined (as may easily be supposed) under pretence of
business.
Waverley’s next request was, that Mr. Macwheeble would despatch a man and
horse to----, the post-town at which Colonel Talbot was to address him,
with directions to wait there until the post should bring a letter for
Mr. Stanley, and then to forward it to Little Veolan with all speed. In a
moment the Bailie was in search of his apprentice (or servitor, as he was
called Sixty Years Since), Jock Scriever, and in not much greater space
of time Jock was on the back of the white pony. ‘Tak care ye guide him
weel, sir, for he’s aye been short in the wind since--ahem--Lord be gude
to me! (in a low voice), I was gaun to come out wi’--since I rode whip
and spur to fetch the Chevalier to redd Mr. Wauverley and Vich lan Vohr;
and an uncanny coup I gat for my pains. Lord forgie your honour! I might
hae broken my neck; but troth it was in a venture, mae ways nor ane; but
this maks amends for a’. Lady Wauverley! ten thousand a year! Lord be
gude unto me!’
‘But you forget, Mr. Macwheeble, we want the Baron’s consent--the
lady’s--’
‘Never fear, I’se be caution for them; I’se gie you my personal
warrandice. Ten thousand a year! it dings Balmawhapple out and out--a
year’s rent’s worth a’ Balmawhapple, fee and life-rent! Lord make us
thankful!’
To turn the current of his feelings, Edward inquired if he had heard
anything lately of the Chieftain of Glennaquoich.
‘Not one word,’ answered Macwheeble, ‘but that he was still in Carlisle
Castle, and was soon to be panelled for his life. I dinna wish the young
gentleman ill,’ he said, ‘but I hope that they that hae got him will keep
him, and no let him back to this Hieland border to plague us wi’
black-mail and a’ manner o’ violent, wrongous, and masterfu’ oppression
and spoliation, both by himself and others of his causing, sending, and
hounding out; and he couldna tak care o’ the siller when he had gotten it
neither, but flung it a’ into yon idle quean’s lap at Edinburgh; but
light come light gane. For my part, I never wish to see a kilt in the
country again, nor a red-coat, nor a gun, for that matter, unless it were
to shoot a paitrick; they’re a’ tarr’d wi’ ae stick. And when they have
done ye wrang, even when ye hae gotten decreet of spuilzie, oppression,
and violent profits against them, what better are ye? They hae na a plack
to pay ye; ye need never extract it.’
With such discourse, and the intervening topics of business, the time
passed until dinner, Macwheeble meanwhile promising to devise some mode
of introducing Edward at the Duchran, where Rose at present resided,
without risk of danger or suspicion; which seemed no very easy task,
since the laird was a very zealous friend to government. The poultry-yard
had been laid under requisition, and cockyleeky and Scotch collops soon
reeked in the Bailie’s little parlour. The landlord’s cork-screw was just
introduced into the muzzle of a pint bottle of claret (cribbed possibly
from the cellars of Tully-Veolan), when the sight of the grey pony
passing the window at full trot induced the Bailie, but with due
precaution, to place it aside for the moment. Enter Jock Scriever with a
packet for Mr. Stanley; it is Colonel Talbot’s seal, and Edward’s ringers
tremble as he undoes it. Two official papers, folded, signed, and sealed
in all formality, drop out. They were hastily picked up by the Bailie,
who had a natural respect for everything resembling a deed, and, glancing
slily on their titles, his eyes, or rather spectacles, are greeted with
‘Protection by his Royal Highness to the person of Cosmo Comyne
Bradwardine, Esq., of that ilk, commonly called Baron of Bradwardine,
forfeited for his accession to the late rebellion.’ The other proves to
be a protection of the same tenor in favour of Edward Waverley, Esq.
Colonel Talbot’s letter was in these words:--
‘My DEAR EDWARD,
‘I am just arrived here, and yet I have finished my business; it has cost
me some trouble though, as you shall hear. I waited upon his Royal
Highness immediately on my arrival, and found him in no very good humour
for my purpose. Three or four Scotch gentlemen were just leaving his
levee. After he had expressed himself to me very courteously; “Would you
think it,” he said, “Talbot, here have been half a dozen of the most
respectable gentlemen and best friends to government north of the Forth,
Major Melville of Cairnvreckan, Rubrick of Duchran, and others, who have
fairly wrung from me, by their downright importunity, a present
protection and the promise of a future pardon for that stubborn old rebel
whom they call Baron of Bradwardine. They allege that his high personal
character, and the clemency which he showed to such of our people as fell
into the rebels’ hands, should weigh in his favour, especially as the
loss of his estate is likely to be a severe enough punishment. Rubrick
has undertaken to keep him at his own house till things are settled in
the country; but it’s a little hard to be forced in a manner to pardon
such a mortal enemy to the House of Brunswick.” This was no favourable
moment for opening my business; however, I said I was rejoiced to learn
that his Royal Highness was in the course of granting such requests, as
it emboldened me to present one of the like nature in my own name. He was
very angry, but I persisted; I mentioned the uniform support of our three
votes in, the house, touched modestly on services abroad, though valuable
only in his Royal Highness’s having been pleased kindly to accept them,
and founded pretty strongly on his own expressions of friendship and
good-will. He was embarrassed, but obstinate. I hinted the policy of
detaching, on all future occasions, the heir of such a fortune as your
uncle’s from the machinations of the disaffected. But I made no
impression. I mentioned the obligations which I lay under to Sir Everard
and to you personally, and claimed, as the sole reward of my services,
that he would be pleased to afford me the means of evincing my gratitude.
I perceived that he still meditated a refusal, and, taking my commission
from my pocket, I said (as a last resource) that, as his Royal Highness
did not, under these pressing circumstances, think me worthy of a favour
which he had not scrupled to grant to other gentlemen whose services I
could hardly judge more important than my own, I must beg leave to
deposit, with all humility, my commission in his Royal Highness’s hands,
and to retire from the service. He was not prepared for this; he told me
to take up my commission, said some handsome things of my services, and
granted my request. You are therefore once more a free man, and I have
promised for you that you will be a good boy in future, and remember what
you owe to the lenity of government. Thus you see my prince can be as
generous as yours. I do not pretend, indeed, that he confers a favour
with all the foreign graces and compliments of your Chevalier errant; but
he has a plain English manner, and the evident reluctance with which he
grants your request indicates the sacrifice which he makes of his own
inclination to your wishes. My friend, the adjutant-general, has procured
me a duplicate of the Baron’s protection (the original being in Major
Melville’s possession), which I send to you, as I know that if you can
find him you will have pleasure in being the first to communicate the
joyful intelligence. He will of course repair to the Duchran without loss
of time, there to ride quarantine for a few weeks. As for you, I give you
leave to escort him thither, and to stay a week there, as I understand a
certain fair lady is in that quarter. And I have the pleasure to tell you
that whatever progress you can make in her good graces will be highly
agreeable to Sir Everard and Mrs. Rachel, who will never believe your
views and prospects settled, and the three ermines passant in actual
safety, until you present them with a Mrs. Edward Waverley. Now, certain
love-affairs of my own--a good many years since--interrupted some
measures which were then proposed in favour of the three ermines passant;
so I am bound in honour to make them amends. Therefore make good use of
your time, for, when your week is expired, it will be necessary that you
go to London to plead your pardon in the law courts.
‘Ever, dear Waverley, yours most truly, ‘PHILIP TALBOT.’
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Happy’s the wooing
That’s not long a doing.
When the first rapturous sensation occasioned by these excellent tidings
had somewhat subsided, Edward proposed instantly to go down to the glen
to acquaint the Baron with their import. But the cautious Bailie justly
observed that, if the Baron were to appear instantly in public, the
tenantry and villagers might become riotous in expressing their joy, and
give offence to ‘the powers that be,’ a sort of persons for whom the
Bailie always had unlimited respect. He therefore proposed that Mr.
Waverley should go to Janet Gellatley’s and bring the Baron up under
cloud of night to Little Veolan, where he might once more enjoy the
luxury of a good bed. In the meanwhile, he said, he himself would go to
Captain Foster and show him the Baron’s protection, and obtain his
countenance for harbouring him that night, and he would have horses ready
on the morrow to set him on his way to the Duchran along with Mr.
Stanley, ‘whilk denomination, I apprehend, your honour will for the
present retain,’ said the Bailie.
‘Certainly, Mr. Macwheeble; but will you not go down to the glen yourself
in the evening to meet your patron?’
‘That I wad wi’ a’ my heart; and mickle obliged to your honour for
putting me in mind o’ my bounden duty. But it will be past sunset afore I
get back frae the Captain’s, and at these unsonsy hours the glen has a
bad name; there’s something no that canny about auld Janet Gellatley. The
Laird he’ll no believe thae things, but he was aye ower rash and
venturesome, and feared neither man nor deevil, an sae’s seen o’t. But
right sure am I Sir George Mackenyie says, that no divine can doubt there
are witches, since the Bible says thou shalt not suffer them to live; and
that no lawyer in Scotland can doubt it, since it is punishable with
death by our law. So there’s baith law and gospel for it. An his honour
winna believe the Leviticus, he might aye believe the Statute-book; but
he may tak his ain way o’t; it’s a’ ane to Duncan Macwheeble. However, I
shall send to ask up auld Janet this e’en; it’s best no to lightly them
that have that character; and we’ll want Davie to turn the spit, for I’ll
gar Eppie put down a fat goose to the fire for your honours to your
supper.’
When it was near sunset Waverley hastened to the hut; and he could not
but allow that superstition had chosen no improper locality, or unfit
object, for the foundation of her fantastic terrors. It resembled exactly
the description of Spenser:--
There, in a gloomy hollow glen, she found
A little cottage built of sticks and reeds,
In homely wise, and wall’d with sods around,
In which a witch did dwell in loathly weeds,
And wilful want, all careless of her needs,
So choosing solitary to abide
Far from all neighbours, that her devilish deeds,
And hellish arts, from people she might hide,
And hurt far off, unknown, whomsoever she espied.
He entered the cottage with these verses in his memory. Poor old Janet,
bent double with age and bleared with peat-smoke, was tottering about the
hut with a birch broom, muttering to herself as she endeavoured to make
her hearth and floor a little clean for the reception of her expected
guests. Waverley’s step made her start, look up, and fall a-trembling, so
much had her nerves been on the rack for her patron’s safety. With
difficulty Waverley made her comprehend that the Baron was now safe from
personal danger; and when her mind had admitted that joyful news, it was
equally hard to make her believe that he was not to enter again upon
possession of his estate. ‘It behoved to be,’ she said, ‘he wad get it
back again; naebody wad be sae gripple as to tak his gear after they had
gi’en him a pardon: and for that Inch-Grabbit, I could whiles wish mysell
a witch for his sake, if I werena feared the Enemy wad tak me at my
word.’ Waverley then gave her some money, and promised that her fidelity
should be rewarded. ‘How can I be rewarded, sir, sae weel as just to see
my auld maister and Miss Rose come back and bruik their ain?’
Waverley now took leave of Janet, and soon stood beneath the Baron’s
Patmos. At a low whistle he observed the veteran peeping out to
reconnoitre, like an old badger with his head out of his hole. ‘Ye hae
come rather early, my good lad,’ said he, descending; ‘I question if the
red-coats hae beat the tattoo yet, and we’re not safe till then.’
‘Good news cannot be told too soon,’ said Waverley; and with infinite joy
communicated to him the happy tidings. The old man stood for a moment in
silent devotion, then exclaimed, ‘Praise be to God! I shall see my bairn
again.’
‘And never, I hope, to part with her more,’ said Waverley.
‘I trust in God not, unless it be to win the means of supporting her; for
my things are but in a bruckle state;--but what signifies warld’s gear?’
‘And if,’ said Waverley modestly, ‘there were a situation in life which
would put Miss Bradwardine beyond the uncertainty of fortune, and in the
rank to which she was born, would you object to it, my dear Baron,
because it would make one of your friends the happiest man in the world?’
The Baron turned and looked at him with great earnestness. ‘Yes,’
continued Edward, ‘I shall not consider my sentence of banishment as
repealed unless you will give me permission to accompany you to the
Duchran, and--’
The Baron seemed collecting all his dignity to make a suitable reply to
what, at another time, he would have treated as the propounding a treaty
of alliance between the houses of Bradwardine and Waverley. But his
efforts were in vain; the father was too mighty for the Baron; the pride
of birth and rank were swept away; in the joyful surprise a slight
convulsion passed rapidly over his features, as he gave way to the
feelings of nature, threw his arms around Waverley’s neck, and sobbed
out--‘My son, my son! if I had been to search the world, I would have
made my choice here.’ Edward returned the embrace with great sympathy of
feeling, and for a little while they both kept silence. At length it was
broken by Edward. ‘But Miss Bradwardine?’
‘She had never a will but her old father’s; besides, you are a likely
youth, of honest principles and high birth; no, she never had any other
will than mine, and in my proudest days I could not have wished a mair
eligible espousal for her than the nephew of my excellent old friend, Sir
Everard. But I hope, young man, ye deal na rashly in this matter? I hope
ye hae secured the approbation of your ain friends and allies,
particularly of your uncle, who is in loco parentis? Ah! we maun tak heed
o’ that.’ Edward assured him that Sir Everard would think himself highly
honoured in the flattering reception his proposal had met with, and that
it had his entire approbation; in evidence of which he put Colonel
Talbot’s letter into the Baron’s hand. The Baron read it with great
attention. ‘Sir Everard,’ he said, ‘always despised wealth in comparison
of honour and birth; and indeed he hath no occasion to court the Diva
Pecunia. Yet I now wish, since this Malcolm turns out such a parricide,
for I can call him no better, as to think of alienating the family
inheritance--I now wish (his eyes fixed on a part of the roof which was
visible above the trees) that I could have left Rose the auld
hurley-house and the riggs belanging to it. And yet,’ said he, resuming
more cheerfully, ‘it’s maybe as weel as it is; for, as Baron of
Bradwardine, I might have thought it my duty to insist upon certain
compliances respecting name and bearings, whilk now, as a landless laird
wi’ a tocherless daughter, no one can blame me for departing from.’
‘Now, Heaven be praised!’ thought Edward, ‘that Sir Everard does not hear
these scruples! The three ermines passant and rampant bear would
certainly have gone together by the ears.’ He then, with all the ardour
of a young lover, assured the Baron that he sought for his happiness only
in Rose’s heart and hand, and thought himself as happy in her father’s
simple approbation as if he had settled an earldom upon his daughter.
They now reached Little Veolan. The goose was smoking on the table, and
the Bailie brandished his knife and fork. A joyous greeting took place
between him and his patron. The kitchen, too, had its company. Auld Janet
was established at the ingle-nook; Davie had turned the spit to his
immortal honour; and even Ban and Buscar, in the liberality of
Macwheeble’s joy, had been stuffed to the throat with food, and now lay
snoring on the floor.
The next day conducted the Baron and his young friend to the Duchran,
where the former was expected, in consequence of the success of the
nearly unanimous application of the Scottish friends of government in his
favour. This had been so general and so powerful that it was almost
thought his estate might have been saved, had it not passed into the
rapacious hands of his unworthy kinsman, whose right, arising out of the
Baron’s attainder, could not be affected by a pardon from the crown. The
old gentleman, however, said, with his usual spirit, he was more
gratified by the hold he possessed in the good opinion of his neighbours
than he would have been in being rehabilitated and restored in integrum,
had it been found practicable.’
We shall not attempt to describe the meeting of the father and daughter,
loving each other so affectionately, and separated under such perilous
circumstances. Still less shall we attempt to analyse the deep blush of
Rose at receiving the compliments of Waverley, or stop to inquire whether
she had any curiosity respecting the particular cause of his journey to
Scotland at that period. We shall not even trouble the reader with the
humdrum details of a courtship Sixty Years Since. It is enough to say
that, under so strict a martinet as the Baron, all things were conducted
in due form. He took upon himself, the morning after their arrival, the
task of announcing the proposal of Waverley to Rose, which she heard with
a proper degree of maiden timidity. Fame does, however, say that Waverley
had the evening before found five minutes to apprise her of what was
coming, while the rest of the company were looking at three twisted
serpents which formed a jet d’eau in the garden.
My fair readers will judge for themselves; but, for my part, I cannot
conceive how so important an affair could be communicated in so short a
space of time; at least, it certainly took a full hour in the Baron’s
mode of conveying it.
Waverley was now considered as a received lover in all the forms. He was
made, by dint of smirking and nodding on the part of the lady of the
house, to sit next Miss Bradwardine at dinner, to be Miss Bradwardine’s
partner at cards. If he came into the room, she of the four Miss Rubricks
who chanced to be next Rose was sure to recollect that her thimble or her
scissors were at the other end of the room, in order to leave the seat
nearest to Miss Bradwardine vacant for his occupation. And sometimes, if
papa and mamma were not in the way to keep them on their good behaviour,
the misses would titter a little. The old Laird of Duchran would also
have his occasional jest, and the old lady her remark. Even the Baron
could not refrain; but here Rose escaped every embarrassment but that of
conjecture, for his wit was usually couched in a Latin quotation. The
very footmen sometimes grinned too broadly, the maidservants giggled
mayhap too loud, and a provoking air of intelligence seemed to pervade
the whole family. Alice Bean, the pretty maid of the cavern, who, after
her father’s misfortune, as she called it, had attended Rose as
fille-de-chambre, smiled and smirked with the best of them. Rose and
Edward, however, endured all these little vexatious circumstances as
other folks have done before and since, and probably contrived to obtain
some indemnification, since they are not supposed, on the whole, to have
been particularly unhappy during Waverley’s six days’ stay at the
Duchran.
It was finally arranged that Edward should go to Waverley-Honour to make
the necessary arrangements for his marriage, thence to London to take the
proper measures for pleading his pardon, and return as soon as possible
to claim the hand of his plighted bride. He also intended in his journey
to visit Colonel Talbot; but, above all, it was his most important object
to learn the fate of the unfortunate Chief of Glennaquoich; to visit him
at Carlisle, and to try whether anything could be done for procuring, if
not a pardon, a commutation at least, or alleviation, of the punishment
to which he was almost certain of being condemned; and, in case of the
worst, to offer the miserable Flora an asylum with Rose, or otherwise to
assist her views in any mode which might seem possible. The fate of
Fergus seemed hard to be averted. Edward had already striven to interest
his friend, Colonel Talbot, in his behalf; but had been given distinctly
to understand by his reply that his credit in matters of that nature was
totally exhausted.
The Colonel was still in Edinburgh, and proposed to wait there for some
months upon business confided to him by the Duke of Cumberland. He was to
be joined by Lady Emily, to whom easy travelling and goat’s whey were
recommended, and who was to journey northward under the escort of Francis
Stanley. Edward, therefore, met the Colonel at Edinburgh, who wished him
joy in the kindest manner on his approaching happiness, and cheerfully
undertook many commissions which our hero was necessarily obliged to
delegate to his charge. But on the subject of Fergus he was inexorable.
He satisfied Edward, indeed, that his interference would be unavailing;
but, besides, Colonel Talbot owned that he could not conscientiously use
any influence in favour of that unfortunate gentleman. ‘Justice,’ he
said, ‘which demanded some penalty of those who had wrapped the whole
nation in fear and in mourning, could not perhaps have selected a fitter
victim. He came to the field with the fullest light upon the nature of
his attempt. He had studied and understood the subject. His father’s fate
could not intimidate him; the lenity of the laws which had restored to
him his father’s property and rights could not melt him. That he was
brave, generous, and possessed many good qualities only rendered him the
more dangerous; that he was enlightened and accomplished made his crime
the less excusable; that he was an enthusiast in a wrong cause only made
him the more fit to be its martyr. Above all, he had been the means of
bringing many hundreds of men into the field who, without him, would
never have broken the peace of the country.
‘I repeat it,’ said the Colonel, ‘though Heaven knows with a heart
distressed for him as an individual, that this young gentleman has
studied and fully understood the desperate game which he has played. He
threw for life or death, a coronet or a coffin; and he cannot now be
permitted, with justice to the country, to draw stakes because the dice
have gone against him.’
Such was the reasoning of those times, held even by brave and humane men
towards a vanquished enemy. Let us devoutly hope that, in this respect at
least, we shall never see the scenes or hold the sentiments that were
general in Britain Sixty Years Since.
CHAPTER XXXIX
To morrow? O that’s sudden!--Spare him, spare him’--SHAKSPEARE
Edward, attended by his former servant Alick Polwarth, who had reentered
his service at Edinburgh, reached Carlisle while the commission of Oyer
and Terminer on his unfortunate associates was yet sitting. He had pushed
forward in haste, not, alas! with the most distant hope of saving Fergus,
but to see him for the last time. I ought to have mentioned that he had
furnished funds for the defence of the prisoners in the most liberal
manner, as soon as he heard that the day of trial was fixed. A solicitor
and the first counsel accordingly attended; but it was upon the same
footing on which the first physicians are usually summoned to the bedside
of some dying man of rank--the doctors to take the advantage of some
incalculable chance of an exertion of nature, the lawyers to avail
themselves of the barely possible occurrence of some legal flaw. Edward
pressed into the court, which was extremely crowded; but by his arriving
from the north, and his extreme eagerness and agitation, it was supposed
he was a relation of the prisoners, and people made way for him. It was
the third sitting of the court, and there were two men at the bar. The
verdict of GUILTY was already pronounced. Edward just glanced at the bar
during the momentous pause which ensued. There was no mistaking the
stately form and noble features of Fergus Mac-Ivor, although his dress
was squalid and his countenance tinged with the sickly yellow hue of long
and close imprisonment. By his side was Evan Maccombich. Edward felt sick
and dizzy as he gazed on them; but he was recalled to himself as the
Clerk of Arraigns pronounced the solemn words: ‘Fergus Mac-Ivor of
Glennaquoich, otherwise called Vich Ian Vohr, and Evan Mac-Ivor, in the
Dhu of Tarrascleugh, otherwise called Evan Dhu, otherwise called Evan
Maccombich, or Evan Dhu MacCombich--you, and each of you, stand attainted
of high treason. What have you to say for yourselves why the Court should
not pronounce judgment against you, that you die according to law?’
Fergus, as the presiding Judge was putting on the fatal cap of judgment,
placed his own bonnet upon his head, regarded him with a steadfast and
stern look, and replied in a firm voice, ‘I cannot let this numerous
audience suppose that to such an appeal I have no answer to make. But
what I have to say you would not bear to hear, for my defence would be
your condemnation. Proceed, then, in the name of God, to do what is
permitted to you. Yesterday and the day before you have condemned loyal
and honourable blood to be poured forth like water. Spare not mine. Were
that of all my ancestors in my veins, I would have perilled it in this
quarrel.’ He resumed his seat and refused again to rise.
Evan Maccombich looked at him with great earnestness, and, rising up,
seemed anxious to speak; but the confusion of the court, and the
perplexity arising from thinking in a language different from that in
which he was to express himself, kept him silent. There was a murmur of
compassion among the spectators, from the idea that the poor fellow
intended to plead the influence of his superior as an excuse for his
crime. The Judge commanded silence, and encouraged Evan to proceed. ‘I
was only ganging to say, my lord,’ said Evan, in what he meant to be an
insinuating manner, ‘that if your excellent honour and the honourable
Court would let Vich Ian Vohr go free just this once, and let him gae
back to France, and no to trouble King George’s government again, that
ony six o’ the very best of his clan will be willing to be justified in
his stead; and if you’ll just let me gae down to Glennaquoich, I’ll fetch
them up to ye mysell, to head or hang, and you may begin wi’ me the very
first man.’
Notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion, a sort of laugh was heard
in the court at the extraordinary nature of the proposal. The Judge
checked this indecency, and Evan, looking sternly around, when the murmur
abated, ‘If the Saxon gentlemen are laughing,’ he said, ‘because a poor
man, such as me, thinks my life, or the life of six of my degree, is
worth that of Vich Ian Vohr, it’s like enough they may be very right; but
if they laugh because they think I would not keep my word and come back
to redeem him, I can tell them they ken neither the heart of a Hielandman
nor the honour of a gentleman.’
There was no farther inclination to laugh among the audience, and a dead
silence ensued.
The Judge then pronounced upon both prisoners the sentence of the law of
high treason, with all its horrible accompaniments. The execution was
appointed for the ensuing day. ‘For you, Fergus Mac-Ivor,’ continued the
Judge, ‘I can hold out no hope of mercy. You must prepare against
to-morrow for your last sufferings here, and your great audit hereafter.’
‘I desire nothing else, my lord,’ answered Fergus, in the same manly and
firm tone.
The hard eyes of Evan, which had been perpetually bent on his Chief, were
moistened with a tear. ‘For you, poor ignorant man,’ continued the Judge,
‘who, following the ideas in which you have been educated, have this day
given us a striking example how the loyalty due to the king and state
alone is, from your unhappy ideas of clanship, transferred to some
ambitious individual who ends by making you the tool of his crimes--for
you, I say, I feel so much compassion that, if you can make up your mind
to petition for grace, I will endeavour to procure it for you.
Otherwise--’
‘Grace me no grace,’ said Evan; ‘since you are to shed Vich Ian Vohr’s
blood, the only favour I would accept from you is to bid them loose my
hands and gie me my claymore, and bide you just a minute sitting where
you are!’
‘Remove the prisoners,’ said the Judge; ‘his blood be upon his own head.’
Almost stupefied with his feelings, Edward found that the rush of the
crowd had conveyed him out into the street ere he knew what he was doing.
His immediate wish was to see and speak with Fergus once more. He applied
at the Castle where his unfortunate friend was confined, but was refused
admittance. ‘The High Sheriff,’ a non-commissioned officer said, ‘had
requested of the governor that none should be admitted to see the
prisoner excepting his confessor and his sister.’
‘And where was Miss Mac-Ivor?’ They gave him the direction. It was the
house of a respectable Catholic family near Carlisle.
Repulsed from the gate of the Castle, and not venturing to make
application to the High Sheriff or Judges in his own unpopular name, he
had recourse to the solicitor who came down in Fergus’s behalf. This
gentleman told him that it was thought the public mind was in danger of
being debauched by the account of the last moments of these persons, as
given by the friends of the Pretender; that there had been a resolution,
therefore, to exclude all such persons as had not the plea of near
kindred for attending upon them. Yet he promised (to oblige the heir of
Waverley-Honour) to get him an order for admittance to the prisoner the
next morning, before his irons were knocked off for execution.
‘Is it of Fergus Mac-Ivor they speak thus,’ thought Waverley, ‘or do I
dream? Of Fergus, the bold, the chivalrous, the free-minded, the lofty
chieftain of a tribe devoted to him? Is it he, that I have seen lead the
chase and head the attack, the brave, the active, the young, the noble,
the love of ladies, and the theme of song,--is it he who is ironed like a
malefactor, who is to be dragged on a hurdle to the common gallows, to
die a lingering and cruel death, and to be mangled by the hand of the
most outcast of wretches? Evil indeed was the spectre that boded such a
fate as this to the brave Chief of Glennaquoich!’
With a faltering voice he requested the solicitor to find means to warn
Fergus of his intended visit, should he obtain permission to make it. He
then turned away from him, and, returning to the inn, wrote a scarcely
intelligible note to Flora Mac-Ivor, intimating his purpose to wait upon
her that evening. The messenger brought back a letter in Flora’s
beautiful Italian hand, which seemed scarce to tremble even under this
load of misery. ‘Miss Flora Mac-Ivor,’ the letter bore, ‘could not refuse
to see the dearest friend of her dear brother, even in her present
circumstances of unparalleled distress.’
When Edward reached Miss Mac-Ivor’s present place of abode he was
instantly admitted. In a large and gloomy tapestried apartment Flora was
seated by a latticed window, sewing what seemed to be a garment of white
flannel. At a little distance sat an elderly woman, apparently a
foreigner, and of a religious order. She was reading in a book of
Catholic devotion, but when Waverley entered laid it on the table and
left the room. Flora rose to receive him, and stretched out her hand, but
neither ventured to attempt speech. Her fine complexion was totally gone;
her person considerably emaciated; and her face and hands as white as the
purest statuary marble, forming a strong contrast with her sable dress
and jet-black hair. Yet, amid these marks of distress there was nothing
negligent or ill-arranged about her attire; even her hair, though totally
without ornament, was disposed with her usual attention to neatness. The
first words she uttered were, ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Alas, no,’ answered Waverley, ‘I have been refused admittance.’
‘It accords with the rest,’ she said; ‘but we must submit. Shall you
obtain leave, do you suppose?’
‘For--for--tomorrow,’ said Waverley; but muttering the last word so
faintly that it was almost unintelligible.
‘Ay, then or never,’ said Flora, ‘until’--she added, looking upward--‘the
time when, I trust, we shall all meet. But I hope you will see him while
earth yet bears him. He always loved you at his heart, though--but it is
vain to talk of the past.’
‘Vain indeed!’ echoed Waverley.
‘Or even of the future, my good friend,’ said Flora, ‘so far as earthly
events are concerned; for how often have I pictured to myself the strong
possibility of this horrid issue, and tasked myself to consider how I
could support my part; and yet how far has all my anticipation fallen
short of the unimaginable bitterness of this hour!’
‘Dear Flora, if your strength of mind--’
‘Ay, there it is,’ she answered, somewhat wildly; ‘there is, Mr.
Waverley, there is a busy devil at my heart that whispers--but it were
madness to listen to it--that the strength of mind on which Flora prided
herself has murdered her brother!’
‘Good God! how can you give utterance to a thought so shocking?’
‘Ay, is it not so? but yet it haunts me like a phantom; I know it is
unsubstantial and vain; but it will be present; will intrude its horrors
on my mind; will whisper that my brother, as volatile as ardent, would
have divided his energies amid a hundred objects. It was I who taught him
to concentrate them and to gage all on this dreadful and desperate cast.
Oh that I could recollect that I had but once said to him, “He that
striketh with the sword shall die by the sword”; that I had but once
said, “Remain at home; reserve yourself, your vassals, your life, for
enterprises within the reach of man.” But O, Mr. Waverley, I spurred his
fiery temper, and half of his ruin at least lies with his sister!’
The horrid idea which she had intimated, Edward endeavoured to combat by
every incoherent argument that occurred to him. He recalled to her the
principles on which both thought it their duty to act, and in which they
had been educated.
‘Do not think I have forgotten them,’ she said, looking up with eager
quickness; ‘I do not regret his attempt because it was wrong!--O no! on
that point I am armed--but because it was impossible it could end
otherwise than thus.’
‘Yet it did not always seem so desperate and hazardous as it was; and it
would have been chosen by the bold spirit of Fergus whether you had
approved it or no; your counsels only served to give unity and
consistence to his conduct; to dignify, but not to precipitate, his
resolution.’ Flora had soon ceased to listen to Edward, and was again
intent upon her needlework.
‘Do you remember,’ she said, looking up with a ghastly smile, ‘you once
found me making Fergus’s bride-favours, and now I am sewing his bridal
garment. Our friends here,’ she continued, with suppressed emotion, ‘are
to give hallowed earth in their chapel to the bloody relics of the last
Vich Ian Vohr. But they will not all rest together; no--his head!--I
shall not have the last miserable consolation of kissing the cold lips of
my dear, dear Fergus!’
The unfortunate Flora here, after one or two hysterical sobs, fainted in
her chair. The lady, who had been attending in the ante-room, now entered
hastily, and begged Edward to leave the room, but not the house.
When he was recalled, after the space of nearly half an hour, he found
that, by a strong effort, Miss Mac-Ivor had greatly composed herself. It
was then he ventured to urge Miss Bradwardine’s claim to be considered as
an adopted sister, and empowered to assist her plans for the future.
‘I have had a letter from my dear Rose,’ she replied, ‘to the same
purpose. Sorrow is selfish and engrossing, or I would have written to
express that, even in my own despair, I felt a gleam of pleasure at
learning her happy prospects, and at hearing that the good old Baron has
escaped the general wreck. Give this to my dearest Rose; it is her poor
Flora’s only ornament of value, and was the gift of a princess.’ She put
into his hands a case containing the chain of diamonds with which she
used to decorate her hair. ‘To me it is in future useless. The kindness
of my friends has secured me a retreat in the convent of the Scottish
Benedictine nuns in Paris. Tomorrow--if indeed I can survive tomorrow--I
set forward on my journey with this venerable sister. And now, Mr.
Waverley, adieu! May you be as happy with Rose as your amiable
dispositions deserve; and think sometimes on the friends you have lost.
Do not attempt to see me again; it would be mistaken kindness.’
She gave him her hand, on which Edward shed a torrent of tears, and with
a faltering step withdrew from the apartment, and returned to the town of
Carlisle. At the inn he found a letter from his law friend intimating
that he would be admitted to Fergus next morning as soon as the Castle
gates were opened, and permitted to remain with him till the arrival of
the Sheriff gave signal for the fatal procession.
CHAPTER XL
A darker departure is near,
The death drum is muffled, and sable the bier--CAMPBELL
After a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found Waverley on the
esplanade in front of the old Gothic gate of Carlisle Castle. But he
paced it long in every direction before the hour when, according to the
rules of the garrison, the gates were opened and the draw-bridge lowered.
He produced his order to the sergeant of the guard and was admitted.
The place of Fergus’s confinement was a gloomy and vaulted apartment in
the central part of the Castle; a huge old tower, supposed to be of great
antiquity, and surrounded by outworks, seemingly of Henry VIII’s time, or
somewhat later. The grating of the large old-fashioned bars and bolts,
withdrawn for the purpose of admitting Edward, was answered by the clash
of chains, as the unfortunate Chieftain, strongly and heavily fettered,
shuffled along the stone floor of his prison to fling himself into his
friend’s arms.
‘My dear Edward,’ he said, in a firm and even cheerful voice, ‘this is
truly kind. I heard of your approaching happiness with the highest
pleasure. And how does Rose? and how is our old whimsical friend the
Baron? Well, I trust, since I see you at freedom. And how will you settle
precedence between the three ermines passant and the bear and boot-jack?’
‘How, O how, my dear Fergus, can you talk of such things at such a
moment!’
‘Why, we have entered Carlisle with happier auspices, to be sure; on the
16th of November last, for example, when we marched in side by side, and
hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. But I am no boy, to sit
down and weep because the luck has gone against me. I knew the stake
which I risked; we played the game boldly and the forfeit shall be paid
manfully. And now, since my time is short, let me come to the questions
that interest me most--the Prince? has he escaped the bloodhounds?’
‘He has, and is in safety.’
‘Praised be God for that! Tell me the particulars of his escape.’
Waverley communicated that remarkable history, so far as it had then
transpired, to which Fergus listened with deep interest. He then asked
after several other friends; and made many minute inquiries concerning
the fate of his own clansmen. They had suffered less than other tribes
who had been engaged in the affair; for, having in a great measure
dispersed and returned home after the captivity of their Chieftain,
according to the universal custom of the Highlanders, they were not in
arms when the insurrection was finally suppressed, and consequently were
treated with less rigour. This Fergus heard with great satisfaction.
‘You are rich,’ he said, ‘Waverley, and you are generous. When you hear
of these poor Mac-Ivors being distressed about their miserable
possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember you
have worn their tartan and are an adopted son of their race, The Baron,
who knows our manners and lives near our country, will apprise you of the
time and means to be their protector. Will you promise this to the last
Vich Ian Vohr?’
Edward, as may well be believed, pledged his word; which he afterwards so
amply redeemed that his memory still lives in these glens by the name of
the Friend of the Sons of Ivor.
‘Would to God,’ continued the Chieftain, ‘I could bequeath to you my
rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and brave race; or at
least, as I have striven to do, persuade poor Evan to accept of his life
upon their terms, and be to you what he has been to me, the kindest, the
bravest, the most devoted--’
The tears which his own fate could not draw forth fell fast for that of
his foster-brother.
‘But,’ said he, drying them, ‘that cannot be. You cannot be to them Vich
Ian Vohr; and these three magic words,’ said he, half smiling, ‘are the
only Open Sesame to their feelings and sympathies, and poor Evan must
attend his foster-brother in death, as he has done through his whole
life.’
‘And I am sure,’ said Maccombich, raising himself from the floor, on
which, for fear of interrupting their conversation, he had lain so still
that, in the obscurity of the apartment, Edward was not aware of his
presence--‘I am sure Evan never desired or deserved a better end than
just to die with his Chieftain.’
‘And now,’ said Fergus, ‘while we are upon the subject of clanship--what
think you now of the prediction of the Bodach Glas?’ Then, before Edward
could answer, ‘I saw him again last night: he stood in the slip of
moonshine which fell from that high and narrow window towards my bed.
“Why should I fear him?” I thought; “to-morrow, long ere this time, I
shall be as immaterial as he.” “False spirit,” I said, “art thou come to
close thy walks on earth and to enjoy thy triumph in the fall of the last
descendant of thine enemy?” The spectre seemed to beckon and to smile as
he faded from my sight. What do you think of it? I asked the same
question of the priest, who is a good and sensible man; he admitted that
the church allowed that such apparitions were possible, but urged me not
to permit my mind to dwell upon it, as imagination plays us such strange
tricks. What do you think of it?’
‘Much as your confessor,’ said Waverley, willing to avoid dispute upon
such a point at such a moment. A tap at the door now announced that good
man, and Edward retired while he administered to both prisoners the last
rites of religion, in the mode which the Church of Rome prescribes.
In about an hour he was re-admitted; soon after, a file of soldiers
entered with a blacksmith, who struck the fetters from the legs of the
prisoners.
‘You see the compliment they pay to our Highland strength and courage; we
have lain chained here like wild beasts, till our legs are cramped into
palsy, and when they free us they send six soldiers with loaded muskets
to prevent our taking the castle by storm!’
Edward afterwards learned that these severe precautions had been taken in
consequence of a desperate attempt of the prisoners to escape, in which
they had very nearly succeeded.
Shortly afterwards the drums of the garrison beat to arms. ‘This is the
last turn-out,’ said Fergus, ‘that I shall hear and obey. And now, my
dear, dear Edward, ere we part let us speak of Flora--a subject which
awakes the tenderest feeling that yet thrills within me.’
‘We part not here!’ said Waverley.
‘O yes, we do; you must come no farther. Not that I fear what is to
follow for myself,’ he said proudly. ‘Nature has her tortures as well as
art, and how happy should we think the man who escapes from the throes of
a mortal and painful disorder in the space of a short half hour? And this
matter, spin it out as they will, cannot last longer. But what a dying
man can suffer firmly may kill a living friend to look upon. This same
law of high treason,’ he continued, with astonishing firmness and
composure, ‘is one of the blessings, Edward, with which your free country
has accommodated poor old Scotland; her own jurisprudence, as I have
heard, was much milder. But I suppose one day or other--when there are no
longer any wild Highlanders to benefit by its tender mercies--they will
blot it from their records as levelling them with a nation of cannibals.
The mummery, too, of exposing the senseless head--they have not the wit
to grace mine with a paper coronet; there would be some satire in that,
Edward. I hope they will set it on the Scotch gate though, that I may
look, even after death, to the blue hills of my own country, which I love
so dearly. The Baron would have added,
Moritur, et moriens dukes reminiscitur Argos.’
A bustle, and the sound of wheels and horses’ feet, was now heard in the
court-yard of the Castle. ‘As I have told you why you must not follow me,
and these sounds admonish me that my time flies fast, tell me how you
found poor Flora.’
Waverley, with a voice interrupted by suffocating sensations, gave some
account of the state of her mind.
‘Poor Flora!’ answered the Chief, ‘she could have borne her own sentence
of death, but not mine. You, Waverley, will soon know the happiness of
mutual affection in the married state--long, long may Rose and you enjoy
it!--but you can never know the purity of feeling which combines two
orphans like Flora and me, left alone as it were in the world, and being
all in all to each other from our very infancy. But her strong sense of
duty and predominant feeling of loyalty will give new nerve to her mind
after the immediate and acute sensation of this parting has passed away.
She will then think of Fergus as of the heroes of our race, upon whose
deeds she loved to dwell.’
‘Shall she not see you then?’ asked Waverley. ‘She seemed to expect it.’
‘A necessary deceit will spare her the last dreadful parting. I could not
part with her without tears, and I cannot bear that these men should
think they have power to extort them. She was made to believe she would
see me at a later hour, and this letter, which my confessor will deliver,
will apprise her that all is over.’
An officer now appeared and intimated that the High Sheriff and his
attendants waited before the gate of the Castle to claim the bodies of
Fergus Mac-Ivor and Evan Maccombich. ‘I come,’ said Fergus. Accordingly,
supporting Edward by the arm and followed by Evan Dhu and the priest, he
moved down the stairs of the tower, the soldiers bringing up the rear.
The court was occupied by a squadron of dragoons and a battalion of
infantry, drawn up in hollow square. Within their ranks was the sledge or
hurdle on which the prisoners were to be drawn to the place of execution,
about a mile distant from Carlisle. It was painted black, and drawn by a
white horse. At one end of the vehicle sat the executioner, a
horrid-looking fellow, as beseemed his trade, with the broad axe in his
hand; at the other end, next the horse, was an empty seat for two
persons. Through the deep and dark Gothic archway that opened on the
drawbridge were seen on horseback the High Sheriff and his attendants,
whom the etiquette betwixt the civil and military powers did not permit
to come farther. ‘This is well GOT UP for a closing scene,’ said Fergus,
smiling disdainfully as he gazed around upon the apparatus of terror.
Evan Dhu exclaimed with some eagerness, after looking at the dragoons,’
These are the very chields that galloped off at Gladsmuir, before we
could kill a dozen o’ them. They look bold enough now, however.’ The
priest entreated him to be silent.
The sledge now approached, and Fergus, turning round, embraced Waverley,
kissed him on each side of the face, and stepped nimbly into his place.
Evan sat down by his side. The priest was to follow in a carriage
belonging to his patron, the Catholic gentleman at whose house Flora
resided. As Fergus waved his hand to Edward the ranks closed around the
sledge, and the whole procession began to move forward. There was a
momentary stop at the gateway, while the governor of the Castle and the
High Sheriff went through a short ceremony, the military officer there
delivering over the persons of the criminals to the civil power. ‘God
save King George!’ said the High Sheriff. When the formality concluded,
Fergus stood erect in the sledge, and, with a firm and steady voice,
replied,’ God save King JAMES!’ These were the last words which Waverley
heard him speak.
The procession resumed its march, and the sledge vanished from beneath
the portal, under which it had stopped for an instant. The dead march was
then heard, and its melancholy sounds were mingled with those of a
muffled peal tolled from the neighbouring cathedral. The sound of
military music died away as the procession moved on; the sullen clang of
the bells was soon heard to sound alone.
The last of the soldiers had now disappeared from under the vaulted
archway through which they had been filing for several minutes; the
court-yard was now totally empty, but Waverley still stood there as if
stupefied, his eyes fixed upon the dark pass where he had so lately seen
the last glimpse of his friend. At length a female servant of the
governor’s, struck with compassion, at the stupefied misery which his
countenance expressed, asked him if he would not walk into her master’s
house and sit down? She was obliged to repeat her question twice ere he
comprehended her, but at length it recalled him to himself. Declining the
courtesy by a hasty gesture, he pulled his hat over his eyes, and,
leaving the Castle, walked as swiftly as he could through the empty
streets till he regained his inn, then rushed into an apartment and
bolted the door.
In about an hour and a half, which seemed an age of unutterable suspense,
the sound of the drums and fifes performing a lively air, and the
confused murmur of the crowd which now filled the streets, so lately
deserted, apprised him that all was finished, and that the military and
populace were returning from the dreadful scene. I will not attempt to
describe his sensations.
In the evening the priest made him a visit, and informed him that he did
so by directions of his deceased friend, to assure him that Fergus
Mac-Ivor had died as he lived, and remembered his friendship to the last.
He added, he had also seen Flora, whose state of mind seemed more
composed since all was over. With her and sister Theresa the priest
proposed next day to leave Carlisle for the nearest seaport from which
they could embark for France. Waverley forced on this good man a ring of
some value and a sum of money to be employed (as he thought might gratify
Flora) in the services of the Catholic church for the memory of his
friend. ‘Fun-garque inani munere,’ he repeated, as the ecclesiastic
retired. ‘Yet why not class these acts of remembrance with other honours,
with which affection in all sects pursues the memory of the dead?’
The next morning ere daylight he took leave of the town of Carlisle,
promising to himself never again to enter its walls. He dared hardly look
back towards the Gothic battlements of the fortified gate under which he
passed, for the place is surrounded with an old wall. ‘They’re no there,’
said Alick Polwarth, who guessed the cause of the dubious look which
Waverley cast backward, and who, with the vulgar appetite for the
horrible, was master of each detail of the butchery--‘the heads are ower
the Scotch yate, as they ca’ it. It’s a great pity of Evan Dhu, who was a
very weel-meaning, good-natured man, to be a Hielandman; and indeed so
was the Laird o’ Glennaquoich too, for that matter, when he wasna in ane
o’ his tirrivies.’
CHAPTER XLI
DULCE DOMUM
The impression of horror with which Waverley left Carlisle softened by
degrees into melancholy, a gradation which was accelerated by the painful
yet soothing task of writing to Rose; and, while he could not suppress
his own feelings of the calamity, he endeavoured to place it in a light
which might grieve her without shocking her imagination. The picture
which he drew for her benefit he gradually familiarised to his own mind,
and his next letters were more cheerful, and referred to the prospects of
peace and happiness which lay before them. Yet, though his first horrible
sensations had sunk into melancholy, Edward had reached his native
country before he could, as usual on former occasions, look round for
enjoyment upon the face of nature.
He then, for the first time since leaving Edinburgh, began to experience
that pleasure which almost all feel who return to a verdant, populous,
and highly cultivated country from scenes of waste desolation or of
solitary and melancholy grandeur. But how were those feelings enhanced
when he entered on the domain so long possessed by his forefathers;
recognised the old oaks of Waverley-Chace; thought with what delight he
should introduce Rose to all his favourite haunts; beheld at length the
towers of the venerable hall arise above the woods which embowered it,
and finally threw himself into the arms of the venerable relations to
whom he owed so much duty and affection!
The happiness of their meeting was not tarnished by a single word of
reproach. On the contrary, whatever pain Sir Everard and Mrs. Rachel had
felt during Waverley’s perilous engagement with the young Chevalier, it
assorted too well with the principles in which they had been brought up
to incur reprobation, or even censure. Colonel Talbot also had smoothed
the way with great address for Edward’s favourable reception by dwelling
upon his gallant behaviour in the military character, particularly his
bravery and generosity at Preston; until, warmed at the idea of their
nephew’s engaging in single combat, making prisoner, and saving from
slaughter so distinguished an officer as the Colonel himself, the
imagination of the Baronet and his sister ranked the exploits of Edward
with those of Wilibert, Hildebrand, and Nigel, the vaunted heroes of
their line.
The appearance of Waverley, embrowned by exercise and dignified by the
habits of military discipline, had acquired an athletic and hardy
character, which not only verified the Colonel’s narration, but surprised
and delighted all the inhabitants of Waverley-Honour. They crowded to
see, to hear him, and to sing his praises. Mr. Pembroke, who secretly
extolled his spirit and courage in embracing the genuine cause of the
Church of England, censured his pupil gently, nevertheless, for being so
careless of his manuscripts, which indeed, he said, had occasioned him
some personal inconvenience, as, upon the Baronet’s being arrested by a
king’s messenger, he had deemed it prudent to retire to a concealment
called ‘The Priest’s Hole,’ from the use it had been put to in former
days; where, he assured our hero, the butler had thought it safe to
venture with food only once in the day, so that he had been repeatedly
compelled to dine upon victuals either absolutely cold or, what was
worse, only half warm, not to mention that sometimes his bed had not been
arranged for two days together. Waverley’s mind involuntarily turned to
the Patmos of the Baron of Bradwardine, who was well pleased with Janet’s
fare and a few bunches of straw stowed in a cleft in the front of a
sand-cliff; but he made no remarks upon a contrast which could only
mortify his worthy tutor.
All was now in a bustle to prepare for the nuptials of Edward, an event
to which the good old Baronet and Mrs. Rachel looked forward as if to the
renewal of their own youth. The match, as Colonel Talbot had intimated,
had seemed to them in the highest degree eligible, having every
recommendation but wealth, of which they themselves had more than enough.
Mr. Clippurse was therefore summoned to Waverley-Honour, under better
auspices than at the commencement of our story. But Mr. Clippurse came
not alone; for, being now stricken in years, he had associated with him a
nephew, a younger vulture (as our English Juvenal, who tells the tale of
Swallow the attorney, might have called him), and they now carried on
business as Messrs. Clippurse and Hookem. These worthy gentlemen had
directions to make the necessary settlements on the most splendid scale
of liberality, as if Edward were to wed a peeress in her own right, with
her paternal estate tacked to the fringe of her ermine.
But before entering upon a subject of proverbial delay, I must remind my
reader of the progress of a stone rolled downhill by an idle truant boy
(a pastime at which I was myself expert in my more juvenile years), it
moves at first slowly, avoiding by inflection every obstacle of the least
importance; but when it has attained its full impulse, and draws near the
conclusion of its career, it smokes and thunders down, taking a rood at
every spring, clearing hedge and ditch like a Yorkshire huntsman, and
becoming most furiously rapid in its course when it is nearest to being
consigned to rest for ever. Even such is the course of a narrative like
that which you are perusing. The earlier events are studiously dwelt
upon, that you, kind reader, may be introduced to the character rather by
narrative than by the duller medium of direct description; but when the
story draws near its close, we hurry over the circumstances, however
important, which your imagination must have forestalled, and leave you to
suppose those things which it would be abusing your patience to relate at
length.
We are, therefore, so far from attempting to trace the dull progress of
Messrs. Clippurse and Hookem, or that of their worthy official brethren
who had the charge of suing out the pardons of Edward Waverley and his
intended father-in-law, that we can but touch upon matters more
attractive. The mutual epistles, for example, which were exchanged
between Sir Everard and the Baron upon this occasion, though matchless
specimens of eloquence in their way, must be consigned to merciless
oblivion. Nor can I tell you at length how worthy Aunt Rachel, not
without a delicate and affectionate allusion to the circumstances which
had transferred Rose’s maternal diamonds to the hands of Donald Bean
Lean, stocked her casket with a set of jewels that a duchess might have
envied. Moreover, the reader will have the goodness to imagine that Job
Houghton and his dame were suitably provided for, although they could
never be persuaded that their son fell otherwise than fighting by the
young squire’s side; so that Alick, who, as a lover of truth, had made
many needless attempts to expound the real circumstances to them, was
finally ordered to say not a word more upon the subject. He indemnified
himself, however, by the liberal allowance of desperate battles, grisly
executions, and raw-head and bloody-bone stories with which he astonished
the servants’ hall.
But although these important matters may be briefly told in narrative,
like a newspaper report of a Chancery suit, yet, with all the urgency
which Waverley could use, the real time which the law proceedings
occupied, joined to the delay occasioned by the mode of travelling at
that period, rendered it considerably more than two months ere Waverley,
having left England, alighted once more at the mansion of the Laird of
Duchran to claim the hand of his plighted bride.
The day of his marriage was fixed for the sixth after his arrival. The
Baron of Bradwardine, with whom bridals, christenings, and funerals were
festivals of high and solemn import, felt a little hurt that, including
the family of the Duchran and all the immediate vicinity who had title to
be present on such an occasion, there could not be above thirty persons
collected. ‘When he was married,’ he observed, ‘three hundred horse of
gentlemen born, besides servants, and some score or two of Highland
lairds, who never got on horseback, were present on the occasion.’
But his pride found some consolation in reflecting that, he and his
son-in-law having been so lately in arms against government, it might
give matter of reasonable fear and offence to the ruling powers if they
were to collect together the kith, kin, and allies of their houses,
arrayed in effeir of war, as was the ancient custom of Scotland on these
occasions--‘And, without dubitation,’ he concluded with a sigh, ‘many of
those who would have rejoiced most freely upon these joyful espousals are
either gone to a better place or are now exiles from their native land.’
The marriage took place on the appointed day. The Reverend Mr. Rubrick,
kinsman to the proprietor of the hospitable mansion where it was
solemnised, and chaplain to the Baron of Bradwardine, had the
satisfaction to unite their hands; and Frank Stanley acted as bridesman,
having joined Edward with that view soon after his arrival. Lady Emily
and Colonel Talbot had proposed being present; but Lady Emily’s health,
when the day approached, was found inadequate to the journey. In amends
it was arranged that Edward Waverley and his lady, who, with the Baron,
proposed an immediate journey to Waverley-Honour, should in their way
spend a few days at an estate which Colonel Talbot had been tempted to
purchase in Scotland as a very great bargain, and at which he proposed to
reside for some time.
CHAPTER XLII
This is no mine ain house, I ken by the bigging o’t--Old Song.
The nuptial party travelled in great style. There was a coach and six
after the newest pattern, which Sir Everard had presented to his nephew,
that dazzled with its splendour the eyes of one half of Scotland; there
was the family coach of Mr. Rubrick;--both these were crowded with
ladies,--and there were gentlemen on horseback, with their servants, to
the number of a round score. Nevertheless, without having the fear of
famine before his eyes, Bailie Macwheeble met them in the road to entreat
that they would pass by his house at Little Veolan. The Baron stared, and
said his son and he would certainly ride by Little Veolan and pay their
compliments to the Bailie, but could not think of bringing with them the
‘haill comitatus nuptialis, or matrimonial procession.’ He added, ‘that,
as he understood that the barony had been sold by its unworthy possessor,
he was glad to see his old friend Duncan had regained his situation under
the new Dominus, or proprietor.’ The Bailie ducked, bowed, and fidgeted,
and then again insisted upon his invitation; until the Baron, though
rather piqued at the pertinacity of his instances, could not nevertheless
refuse to consent without making evident sensations which he was anxious
to conceal.
He fell into a deep study as they approached the top of the avenue, and
was only startled from it by observing that the battlements were
replaced, the ruins cleared away, and (most wonderful of all) that the
two great stone bears, those mutilated Dagons of his idolatry, had
resumed their posts over the gateway. ‘Now this new proprietor,’ said he
to Edward, ‘has shown mair gusto, as the Italians call it, in the short
time he has had this domain, than that hound Malcolm, though I bred him
here mysell, has acquired vita adhuc durante. And now I talk of hounds,
is not yon Ban and Buscar who come scouping up the avenue with Davie
Gellatley?’
‘I vote we should go to meet them, sir,’ said Waverley, ‘for I believe
the present master of the house is Colonel Talbot, who will expect to see
us. We hesitated to mention to you at first that he had purchased your
ancient patrimonial property, and even yet, if you do not incline to
visit him, we can pass on to the Bailie’s.’
The Baron had occasion for all his magnanimity. However, he drew a long
breath, took a long snuff, and observed, since they had brought him so
far, he could not pass the Colonel’s gate, and he would be happy to see
the new master of his old tenants. He alighted accordingly, as did the
other gentlemen and ladies; he gave his arm to his daughter, and as they
descended the avenue pointed out to her how speedily the ‘Diva Pecunia of
the Southron--their tutelary deity, he might call her--had removed the
marks of spoliation.’
In truth, not only had the felled trees been removed, but, their stumps
being grubbed up and the earth round them levelled and sown with grass,
every mark of devastation, unless to an eye intimately acquainted with
the spot, was already totally obliterated. There was a similar
reformation in the outward man of Davie Gellatley, who met them, every
now and then stopping to admire the new suit which graced his person, in
the same colours as formerly, but bedizened fine enough to have served
Touchstone himself. He danced up with his usual ungainly frolics, first
to the Baron and then to Rose, passing his hands over his clothes,
crying, ‘Bra’, bra’ Davie,’ and scarce able to sing a bar to an end of
his thousand-and-one songs for the breathless extravagance of his joy.
The dogs also acknowledged their old master with a thousand gambols.
‘Upon my conscience, Rose,’ ejaculated the Baron, ‘the gratitude o’ thae
dumb brutes and of that puir innocent brings the tears into my auld een,
while that schellum Malcolm--but I’m obliged to Colonel Talbot for
putting my hounds into such good condition, and likewise for puir Davie.
But, Rose, my dear, we must not permit them to be a life-rent burden upon
the estate.’
As he spoke, Lady Emily, leaning upon the arm of her husband, met the
party at the lower gate with a thousand welcomes. After the ceremony of
introduction had been gone through, much abridged by the ease and
excellent breeding of Lady Emily, she apologised for having used a little
art to wile them back to a place which might awaken some painful
reflections--‘But as it was to change masters, we were very desirous that
the Baron--’
‘Mr. Bradwardine, madam, if you please,’ said the old gentleman.
‘--Mr. Bradwardine, then, and Mr. Waverley should see what we have done
towards restoring the mansion of your fathers to its former state.’
The Baron answered with a low bow. Indeed, when he entered the court,
excepting that the heavy stables, which had been burnt down, were
replaced by buildings of a lighter and more picturesque appearance, all
seemed as much as possible restored to the state in which he had left it
when he assumed arms some months before. The pigeon-house was
replenished; the fountain played with its usual activity, and not only
the bear who predominated over its basin, but all the other bears
whatsoever, were replaced on their several stations, and renewed or
repaired with so much care that they bore no tokens of the violence which
had so lately descended upon them. While these minutiae had been so
needfully attended to, it is scarce necessary to add that the house
itself had been thoroughly repaired, as well as the gardens, with the
strictest attention to maintain the original character of both, and to
remove as far as possible all appearance of the ravage they had
sustained. The Baron gazed in silent wonder; at length he addressed
Colonel Talbot--
‘While I acknowledge my obligation to you, sir, for the restoration of
the badge of our family, I cannot but marvel that you have nowhere
established your own crest, whilk is, I believe, a mastiff, anciently
called a talbot; as the poet has it,
A talbot strong, a sturdy tyke.
At least such a dog is the crest of the martial and renowned Earls of
Shrewsbury, to whom your family are probably blood-relations.’
‘I believe,’ said the Colonel, smiling, ‘our dogs are whelps of the same
litter; for my part, if crests were to dispute precedence, I should be
apt to let them, as the proverb says, “fight dog, fight bear.”’
As he made this speech, at which the Baron took another long pinch of
snuff, they had entered the house, that is, the Baron, Rose, and Lady
Emily, with young Stanley and the Bailie, for Edward and the rest of the
party remained on the terrace to examine a new greenhouse stocked with
the finest plants. The Baron resumed his favourite topic--‘However it may
please you to derogate from the honour of your burgonet, Colonel Talbot,
which is doubtless your humour, as I have seen in other gentlemen of
birth and honour in your country, I must again repeat it as a most
ancient and distinguished bearing, as well as that of my young friend
Francis Stanley, which is the eagle and child.’
‘The bird and bantling they call it in Derbyshire, sir,’ said Stanley.
‘Ye’re a daft callant, sir,’ said the Baron, who had a great liking to
this young man, perhaps because he sometimes teased him--‘Ye’re a daft
callant, and I must correct you some of these days,’ shaking his great
brown fist at him. ‘But what I meant to say, Colonel Talbot, is, that
yours is an ancient prosapia, or descent, and since you have lawfully and
justly acquired the estate for you and yours which I have lost for me and
mine, I wish it may remain in your name as many centuries as it has done
in that of the late proprietor’s.’
‘That,’ answered the Colonel, ‘is very handsome, Mr. Bradwardine,
indeed.’
‘And yet, sir, I cannot but marvel that you, Colonel, whom I noted to
have so much of the amor patritz when we met in Edinburgh as even to
vilipend other countries, should have chosen to establish your Lares, or
household gods, procul a patrice finibus, and in a manner to expatriate
yourself.’
‘Why really, Baron, I do not see why, to keep the secret of these foolish
boys, Waverley and Stanley, and of my wife, who is no wiser, one old
soldier should continue to impose upon another. You must know, then, that
I have so much of that same prejudice in favour of my native country,
that the sum of money which I advanced to the seller of this extensive
barony has only purchased for me a box in----shire, called Brere-wood
Lodge, with about two hundred and fifty acres of land, the chief merit of
which is, that it is within a very few miles of Waverley-Honour.’
‘And who, then, in the name of Heaven, has bought this property?’
‘That,’ said the Colonel, ‘it is this gentleman’s profession to explain.’
The Bailie, whom this reference regarded, and who had all this while
shifted from one foot to another with great impatience, ‘like a hen,’ as
he afterwards said, ‘upon a het girdle’; and chuckling, he might have
added, like the said hen in all the glory of laying an egg, now pushed
forward. ‘That I can, that I can, your honour,’ drawing from his pocket a
budget of papers, and untying the red tape with a hand trembling with
eagerness. ‘Here is the disposition and assignation by Malcolm
Bradwardine of Inch-Grabbit, regularly signed and tested in terms of the
statute, whereby, for a certain sum of sterling money presently contented
and paid to him, he has disponed, alienated, and conveyed the whole
estate and barony of Bradwardine, Tully-Veolan, and others, with the
fortalice and manor-place--’
‘For God’s sake, to the point, sir; I have all that by heart,’ said the
Colonel.
‘--To Cosmo Comyne Bradwardme, Esq.,’ pursued the Bailie, ‘his heirs and
assignees, simply and irredeemably, to be held either a me vel de me--’
‘Pray read short, sir.’
‘On the conscience of an honest man, Colonel, I read as short as is
consistent with style--under the burden and reservation always--’
‘Mr. Macwheeble, this would outlast a Russian winter; give me leave. In
short, Mr. Bradwardine, your family estate is your own once more in full
property, and at your absolute disposal, but only burdened with the sum
advanced to re-purchase it, which I understand is utterly disproportioned
to its value.’
‘An auld sang--an auld sang, if it please your honours,’ cried the
Bailie, rubbing his hands; ‘look at the rental book.’
‘--Which sum being advanced, by Mr. Edward Waverley, chiefly from the
price of his father’s property which I bought from him, is secured to his
lady your daughter and her family by this marriage.’
‘It is a catholic security,’ shouted the Bailie,’ to Rose Comyne
Bradwardine, alias Wauverley, in life-rent, and the children of the said
marriage in fee; and I made up a wee bit minute of an antenuptial
contract, intuitu matrimonij, so it cannot be subject to reduction
hereafter, as a donation inter virum et uxorem.’
It is difficult to say whether the worthy Baron was most delighted with
the restitution of his family property or with the delicacy and
generosity that left him unfettered to pursue his purpose in disposing of
it after his death, and which avoided as much as possible even the
appearance of laying him under pecuniary obligation. When his first pause
of joy and astonishment was over, his thoughts turned to the unworthy
heir-male, who, he pronounced, had sold his birthright, like Esau, for a
mess o’ pottage.
‘But wha cookit the parritch for him?’ exclaimed the Bailie; ‘I wad like
to ken that;--wha but your honour’s to command, Duncan Macwheeble? His
honour, young Mr. Wauverley, put it a’ into my hand frae the
beginning--frae the first calling o’ the summons, as I may say. I
circumvented them--I played at bogle about the bush wi’ them--I cajolled
them; and if I havena gien Inch-Grabbit and Jamie Howie a bonnie begunk,
they ken themselves. Him a writer! I didna gae slapdash to them wi’ our
young bra’ bridegroom, to gar them baud up the market. Na, na; I scared
them wi’ our wild tenantry, and the Mac-Ivors, that are but ill settled
yet, till they durstna on ony errand whatsoever gang ower the doorstane
after gloaming, for fear John Heatherblutter, or some siccan
dare-the-deil, should tak a baff at them; then, on the other hand, I
beflummed them wi’ Colonel Talbot; wad they offer to keep up the price
again’ the Duke’s friend? did they na ken wha was master? had they na
seen eneugh, by the sad example of mony a puir misguided unhappy body--’
‘Who went to Derby, for example, Mr. Macwheeble?’ said the Colonel to him
aside.
‘O whisht, Colonel, for the love o’ God! let that flee stick i’ the wa’.
There were mony good folk at Derby; and it’s ill speaking of
halters’--with a sly cast of his eye toward the Baron, who was in a deep
reverie.
Starting out of it at once, he took Macwheeble by the button and led him
into one of the deep window recesses, whence only fragments of their
conversation reached the rest of the party. It certainly related to
stamp-paper and parchment; for no other subject, even from the mouth of
his patron, and he once more an efficient one, could have arrested so
deeply the Bailie’s reverent and absorbed attention.
‘I understand your honour perfectly; it can be dune as easy as taking out
a decreet in absence.’
‘To her and him, after my demise, and to their heirs-male, but preferring
the second son, if God shall bless them with two, who is to carry the
name and arms of Bradwardine of that ilk, without any other name or
armorial bearings whatsoever.’
‘Tut, your honour!’ whispered the Bailie, ‘I’ll mak a slight jotting the
morn; it will cost but a charter of resignation in favorem; and I’ll hae
it ready for the next term in Exchequer.’
Their private conversation ended, the Baron was now summoned to do the
honours of Tully-Veolan to new guests. These were Major Melville of
Cairnvreckan and the Reverend Mr. Morton, followed by two or three others
of the Baron’s acquaintances, who had been made privy to his having again
acquired the estate of his fathers. The shouts of the villagers were also
heard beneath in the courtyard; for Saunders Saunderson, who had kept the
secret for several days with laudable prudence, had unloosed his tongue
upon beholding the arrival of the carriages.
But, while Edward received Major Melville with politeness and the
clergyman with the most affectionate and grateful kindness, his
father-in-law looked a little awkward, as uncertain how he should answer
the necessary claims of hospitality to his guests, and forward the
festivity of his tenants. Lady Emily relieved him by intimating that,
though she must be an indifferent representative of Mrs. Edward Waverley
in many respects, she hoped the Baron would approve of the entertainment
she had ordered in expectation of so many guests; and that they would
find such other accommodations provided as might in some degree support
the ancient hospitality of Tully-Veolan. It is impossible to describe the
pleasure which this assurance gave the Baron, who, with an air of
gallantry half appertaining to the stiff Scottish laird and half to the
officer in the French service, offered his arm to the fair speaker, and
led the way, in something between a stride and a minuet step, into the
large dining parlour, followed by all the rest of the good company.
By dint of Saunderson’s directions and exertions, all here, as well as in
the other apartments, had been disposed as much as possible according to
the old arrangement; and where new movables had been necessary, they had
been selected in the same character with the old furniture. There was one
addition to this fine old apartment, however, which drew tears into the
Baron’s eyes. It was a large and spirited painting, representing Fergus
Mac-Ivor and Waverley in their Highland dress, the scene a wild, rocky,
and mountainous pass, down which the clan were descending in the
background. It was taken from a spirited sketch, drawn while they were in
Edinburgh by a young man of high genius, and had been painted on a
full-length scale by an eminent London artist. Raeburn himself (whose
‘Highland Chiefs’ do all but walk out of the canvas) could not have done
more justice to the subject; and the ardent, fiery, and impetuous
character of the unfortunate Chief of Glennaquoich was finely contrasted
with the contemplative, fanciful, and enthusiastic expression of his
happier friend. Beside this painting hung the arms which Waverley had
borne in the unfortunate civil war. The whole piece was beheld with
admiration and deeper feelings.
Men must, however, eat, in spite both of sentiment and vertu; and the
Baron, while he assumed the lower end of the table, insisted that Lady
Emily should do the honours of the head, that they might, he said, set a
meet example to the YOUNG FOLK. After a pause of deliberation, employed
in adjusting in his own brain the precedence between the Presbyterian
kirk and Episcopal church of Scotland, he requested Mr. Morton, as the
stranger, would crave a blessing, observing that Mr. Rubrick, who was at
HOME, would return thanks for the distinguished mercies it had been his
lot to experience. The dinner was excellent. Saunderson attended in full
costume, with all the former domestics, who had been collected, excepting
one or two, that had not been heard of since the affair of Culloden. The
cellars were stocked with wine which was pronounced to be superb, and it
had been contrived that the Bear of the Fountain, in the courtyard,
should (for that night only) play excellent brandy punch for the benefit
of the lower orders.
When the dinner was over the Baron, about to propose a toast, cast a
somewhat sorrowful look upon the sideboard, which, however, exhibited
much of his plate, that had either been secreted or purchased by
neighbouring gentlemen from the soldiery, and by them gladly restored to
the original owner.
“In the late times,” he said, “those must be thankful who have saved life
and land; yet when I am about to pronounce this toast, I cannot but
regret an old heirloom, Lady Emily, a POCULUM POTATORIUM, Colonel
Talbot--”
Here the Baron’s elbow was gently touched by his major-domo, and, turning
round, he beheld in the hands of Alexander ab Alexandro the celebrated
cup of Saint Duthac, the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine! I question if the
recovery of his estate afforded him more rapture. “By my honour,” he
said, “one might almost believe in brownies and fairies, Lady Emily, when
your ladyship is in presence!”
“I am truly happy,” said Colonel Talbot, “that, by the recovery of this
piece of family antiquity, it has fallen within my power to give you some
token of my deep interest in all that concerns my young friend Edward.
But that you may not suspect Lady Emily for a sorceress, or me for a
conjuror, which is no joke in Scotland, I must tell you that Frank
Stanley, your friend, who has been seized with a tartan fever ever since
he heard Edward’s tales of old Scottish manners, happened to describe to
us at second-hand this remarkable cup. My servant, Spontoon, who, like a
true old soldier, observes everything and says little, gave me afterwards
to understand that he thought he had seen the piece of plate Mr. Stanley
mentioned in the possession of a certain Mrs. Nosebag, who, having been
originally the helpmate of a pawnbroker, had found opportunity during the
late unpleasant scenes in Scotland to trade a little in her old line, and
so became the depositary of the more valuable part of the spoil of half
the army. You may believe the cup was speedily recovered; and it will
give me very great pleasure if you allow me to suppose that its value is
not diminished by having been restored through my means.”
A tear mingled with the wine which the Baron filled, as he proposed a cup
of gratitude to Colonel Talbot, and ‘The Prosperity of the united Houses
of Waverley-Honour and Bradwardine!’
It only remains for me to say that, as no wish was ever uttered with more
affectionate sincerity, there are few which, allowing for the necessary
mutability of human events, have been upon the whole more happily
fulfilled.
CHAPTER XLIII
A POSTSCRIPT WHICH SHOULD HAVE BEEN A PREFACE
Our journey is now finished, gentle reader; and if your patience has
accompanied me through these sheets, the contract is, on your part,
strictly fulfilled. Yet, like the driver who has received his full hire,
I still linger near you, and make, with becoming diffidence, a trifling
additional claim upon your bounty and good nature. You are as free,
however, to shut the volume of the one petitioner as to close your door
in the face of the other.
This should have been a prefatory chapter, but for two reasons: First,
that most novel readers, as my own conscience reminds me, are apt to be
guilty of the sin of omission respecting that same matter of prefaces;
Secondly, that it is a general custom with that class of students to
begin with the last chapter of a work; so that, after all, these remarks,
being introduced last in order, have still the best chance to be read in
their proper place.
There is no European nation which, within the course of half a century or
little more, has undergone so complete a change as this kingdom of
Scotland. The effects of the insurrection of 1745,--the destruction of
the patriarchal power of the Highland chiefs,--the abolition of the
heritable jurisdictions of the Lowland nobility and barons,--the total
eradication of the Jacobite party, which, averse to intermingle with the
English, or adopt their customs, long continued to pride themselves upon
maintaining ancient Scottish manners and customs,--commenced this
innovation. The gradual influx of wealth and extension of commerce have
since united to render the present people of Scotland a class of beings
as different from their grandfathers as the existing English are from
those of Queen Elizabeth’s time.
The political and economical effects of these changes have been traced by
Lord Selkirk with great precision and accuracy. But the change, though
steadily and rapidly progressive, has nevertheless been gradual; and,
like those who drift down the stream of a deep and smooth river, we are
not aware of the progress we have made until we fix our eye on the now
distant point from which we have been drifted. Such of the present
generation as can recollect the last twenty or twenty-five years of the
eighteenth century will be fully sensible of the truth of this statement;
especially if their acquaintance and connexions lay among those who in my
younger time were facetiously called ‘folks of the old leaven,’ who still
cherished a lingering, though hopeless, attachment to the house of
Stuart.
This race has now almost entirely vanished from the land, and with it,
doubtless, much absurd political prejudice; but also many living examples
of singular and disinterested attachment to the principles of loyalty
which they received from their fathers, and of old Scottish faith,
hospitality, worth, and honour.
It was my accidental lot, though not born a Highlander (which may be an
apology for much bad Gaelic), to reside during my childhood and youth
among persons of the above description; and now, for the purpose of
preserving some idea of the ancient manners of which I have witnessed the
almost total extinction, I have embodied in imaginary scenes, and
ascribed to fictitious characters, a part of the incidents which I then
received from those who were actors in them. Indeed, the most romantic
parts of this narrative are precisely those which have a foundation in
fact.
The exchange of mutual protection between a Highland gentleman and an
officer of rank in the king’s service, together with the spirited manner
in which the latter asserted his right to return the favour he had
received, is literally true. The accident by a musket shot, and the
heroic reply imputed to Flora, relate to a lady of rank not long
deceased. And scarce a gentleman who was ‘in hiding’ after the battle of
Culloden but could tell a tale of strange concealments and of wild and
hair’sbreadth’scapes as extraordinary as any which I have ascribed to my
heroes. Of this, the escape of Charles Edward himself, as the most
prominent, is the most striking example. The accounts of the battle of
Preston and skirmish at Clifton are taken from the narrative of
intelligent eye-witnesses, and corrected from the ‘History of the
Rebellion’ by the late venerable author of ‘Douglas.’ The Lowland
Scottish gentlemen and the subordinate characters are not given as
individual portraits, but are drawn from the general habits of the
period, of which I have witnessed some remnants in my younger days, and
partly gathered from tradition.
It has been my object to describe these persons, not by a caricatured and
exaggerated use of the national dialect, but by their habits, manners,
and feelings, so as in some distant degree to emulate the admirable Irish
portraits drawn by Miss Edgeworth, so different from the ‘Teagues’ and
‘dear joys’ who so long, with the most perfect family resemblance to each
other, occupied the drama and the novel.
I feel no confidence, however, in the manner in which I have executed my
purpose. Indeed, so little was I satisfied with my production, that I
laid it aside in an unfinished state, and only found it again by mere
accident among other waste papers in an old cabinet, the drawers of which
I was rummaging in order to accommodate a friend with some
fishing-tackle, after it had been mislaid for several years.
Two works upon similar subjects, by female authors whose genius is highly
creditable to their country, have appeared in the interval; I mean Mrs.
Hamilton’s ‘Glenburnie’ and the late account of ‘Highland Superstitions.’
But the first is confined to the rural habits of Scotland, of which it
has given a picture with striking and impressive fidelity; and the
traditional records of the respectable and ingenious Mrs. Grant of Laggan
are of a nature distinct from the fictitious narrative which I have here
attempted.
I would willingly persuade myself that the preceding work will not be
found altogether uninteresting. To elder persons it will recall scenes
and characters familiar to their youth; and to the rising generation the
tale may present some idea of the manners of their forefathers.
Yet I heartily wish that the task of tracing the evanescent manners of
his own country had employed the pen of the only man in Scotland who
could have done it justice--of him so eminently distinguished in elegant
literature, and whose sketches of Colonel Caustic and Umphraville are
perfectly blended with the finer traits of national character. I should
in that case have had more pleasure as a reader than I shall ever feel in
the pride of a successful author, should these sheets confer upon me that
envied distinction. And, as I have inverted the usual arrangement,
placing these remarks at the end of the work to which they refer, I will
venture on a second violation of form, by closing the whole with a
Dedication--
THESE VOLUMES BEING RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO OUR SCOTTISH ADDISON, HENRY
MACKENZIE, BY AN UNKNOWN ADMIRER OF HIS GENIUS.
THE END
NOTES--Volume I.
NOTE 1
LONG the oracle of the country gentlemen of the high Tory party. The
ancient News-Letter was written in manuscript and copied by clerks, who
addressed the copies to the subscribers. The politician by whom they were
compiled picked up his intelligence at coffee-houses, and often pleaded
for an additional gratuity in consideration of the extra expense attached
to frequenting such places of fashionable resort.
NOTE 2
There is a family legend to this purpose, belonging to the knightly
family of Bradshaigh, the proprietors of Haigh Hall, in Lancashire,
where, I have been told, the event is recorded on a painted glass window.
The German ballad of the Noble Moringer turns upon a similar topic. But
undoubtedly many such incidents may have taken place, where, the distance
being great and the intercourse infrequent, false reports concerning the
fate of the absent Crusaders must have been commonly circulated, and
sometimes perhaps rather hastily credited at home.
NOTE 3
The attachment to this classic was, it is said, actually displayed in the
manner mentioned in the text by an unfortunate Jacobite in that unhappy
period. He escaped from the jail in which he was confined for a hasty
trial and certain condemnation, and was retaken as he hovered around the
place in which he had been imprisoned, for which he could give no better
reason than the hope of recovering his favourite Titus Livius. I am sorry
to add that the simplicity of such a character was found to form no
apology for his guilt as a rebel, and that he was condemned and executed.
NOTE 4
Nicholas Amhurst, a noted political writer, who conducted for many years
a paper called the Craftsman, under the assumed name of Caleb D’Anvers.
He was devoted to the Tory interest, and seconded with much ability the
attacks of Pulteney on Sir Robert Walpole. He died in 1742, neglected by
his great patrons and in the most miserable circumstances.
‘Amhurst survived the downfall of Walpole’s power, and had reason to
expect a reward for his labours. If we excuse Bolingbroke, who had only
saved the shipwreck of his fortunes, we shall be at a loss to justify
Pulteney, who could with ease have given this man a considerable income.
The utmost of his generosity to Amhurst that I ever heard of was a
hogshead of claret! He died, it is supposed, of a broken heart; and was
buried at the charge of his honest printer, Richard Francklin.’--Lord
Chesterfield’s Characters Reviewed, p. 42.
NOTE 5
I have now given in the text the full name of this gallant and excellent
man, and proceed to copy the account of his remarkable conversion, as
related by Doctor Doddridge.
‘This memorable event,’ says the pious writer, ‘happened towards the
middle of July 1719. The major had spent the evening (and, if I mistake
not, it was the Sabbath) in some gay company, and had an unhappy
assignation with a married woman, whom he was to attend exactly at
twelve. The company broke up about eleven, and, not judging it convenient
to anticipate the time appointed, he went into his chamber to kill the
tedious hour, perhaps with some amusing book, or some other way. But it
very accidentally happened that he took up a religious book, which his
good mother or aunt had, without his knowledge, slipped into his
portmanteau. It was called, if I remember the title exactly, The
Christian Soldier, or Heaven taken by Storm, and it was written by Mr.
Thomas Watson. Guessing by the title of it that he would find some
phrases of his own profession spiritualised in a manner which he thought
might afford him some diversion, he resolved to dip into it, but he took
no serious notice of anything it had in it; and yet, while this book was
in his hand, an impression was made upon his mind (perhaps God only knows
how) which drew after it a train of the most important and happy
consequences. He thought he saw an unusual blaze of light fall upon the
book which he was reading, which he at first imagined might happen by
some accident in the candle, but, lifting up his eyes, he apprehended to
his extreme amazement that there was before him, as it were suspended in
the air, a visible representation of the Lord Jesus Christ upon the
cross, surrounded on all sides with a glory; and was impressed as if a
voice, or something equivalent to a voice, had come to him, to this
effect (for he was not confident as to the words), “Oh, sinner! did I
suffer this for thee, and are these thy returns?” Struck with so amazing
a phenomenon as this, there remained hardly any life in him, so that he
sunk down in the arm-chair in which he sat, and continued, he knew not
how long, insensible.’
‘With regard to this vision,’ says the ingenious Dr. Hibbert, ‘the
appearance of our Saviour on the cross, and the awful words repeated, can
be considered in no other light than as so many recollected images of the
mind, which probably had their origin in the language of some urgent
appeal to repentance that the colonel might have casually read or heard
delivered. From what cause, however, such ideas were rendered as vivid as
actual impressions, we have no information to be depended upon. This
vision was certainly attended with one of the most important of
consequences connected with the Christian dispensation--the conversion of
a sinner. And hence no single narrative has, perhaps, done more to
confirm the superstitious opinion that apparitions of this awful kind
cannot arise without a divine fiat.’ Doctor Hibbert adds in a note--‘A
short time before the vision, Colonel Gardiner had received a severe fall
from his horse. Did the brain receive some slight degree of injury from
the accident, so as to predispose him to this spiritual
illusion?’--Hibbert’s Philosophy of Apparitions, Edinburgh, 1824, p. 190.
NOTE 6
The courtesy of an invitation to partake a traveller’s meal, or at least
that of being invited to share whatever liquor the guest called for, was
expected by certain old landlords in Scotland even in the youth of the
author. In requital mine host was always furnished with the news of the
country, and was probably a little of a humorist to boot. The devolution
of the whole actual business and drudgery of the inn upon the poor
gudewife was very common among the Scottish Bonifaces. There was in
ancient times, in the city of Edinburgh, a gentleman of good family who
condescended, in order to gain a livelihood, to become the nominal keeper
of a coffee-house, one of the first places of the kind which had been
opened in the Scottish metropolis. As usual, it was entirely managed by
the careful and industrious Mrs. B--; while her husband amused himself
with field sports, without troubling his head about the matter. Once upon
a time, the premises having taken fire, the husband was met walking up
the High Street loaded with his guns and fishing-rods, and replied calmly
to someone who inquired after his wife, ‘that the poor woman was trying
to save a parcel of crockery and some trumpery books’; the last being
those which served her to conduct the business of the house.
There were many elderly gentlemen in the author’s younger days who still
held it part of the amusement of a journey ‘to parley with mine host,’
who often resembled, in his quaint humour, mine Host of the Garter in the
Merry Wives of Windsor; or Blague of the George in the Merry Devil of
Edmonton. Sometimes the landlady took her share of entertaining the
company. In either case the omitting to pay them due attention gave
displeasure, and perhaps brought down a smart jest, as on the following
occasion:
A jolly dame who, not ‘Sixty Years Since,’ kept the principal caravansary
at Greenlaw, in Berwickshire, had the honour to receive under her roof a
very worthy clergyman, with three sons of the same profession, each
having a cure of souls; be it said in passing, none of the reverend party
were reckoned powerful in the pulpit. After dinner was over, the worthy
senior, in the pride of his heart, asked Mrs. Buchan whether she ever had
had such a party in her house before. ‘Here sit I,’ he said, ‘a placed
minister of the Kirk of Scotland, and here sit my three sons, each a
placed minister of the same kirk. Confess, Luckie Buchan, you never had
such a party in your house before.’ The question was not premised by any
invitation to sit down and take a glass of wine or the like, so Mrs. B.
answered drily, ‘Indeed, sir, I cannot just say that ever I had such a
party in my house before, except once in the forty-five, when I had a
Highland piper here, with his three sons, all Highland pipers; and deil a
spring they could play amang them.’
NOTE 7
There is no particular mansion described under the name of Tully-Veolan;
but the peculiarities of the description occur in various old Scottish
seats. The House of Warrender upon Bruntsfield Links and that of Old
Ravelston, belonging, the former to Sir George Warrender, the latter to
Sir Alexander Keith, have both contributed several hints to the
description in the text. The House of Dean, near Edinburgh, has also some
points of resemblance with Tully-Veolan. The author has, however, been
informed that the House of Grandtully resembles that of the Baron of
Bradwardine still more than any of the above.
NOTE 8
I am ignorant how long the ancient and established custom of keeping
fools has been disused in England. Swift writes an epitaph on the Earl of
Suffolk’s fool--
Whose name was Dickie Pearce
In Scotland, the custom subsisted till late in the last century; at
Glamis Castle is preserved the dress of one of the jesters, very
handsome, and ornamented with many bells. It is not above thirty years
since such a character stood by the sideboard of a nobleman of the first
rank in Scotland, and occasionally mixed in the conversation, till he
carried the joke rather too far, in making proposals to one of the young
ladies of the family, and publishing the bans betwixt her and himself in
the public church.
NOTE 9
After the Revolution of 1688, and on some occasions when the spirit of
the Presbyterians had been unusually animated against their opponents,
the Episcopal clergymen, who were chiefly nonjurors, were exposed to be
mobbed, as we should now say, or rabbled, as the phrase then went, to
expiate their political heresies. But notwithstanding that the
Presbyterians had the persecution in Charles II and his brother’s time to
exasperate them, there was little mischief done beyond the kind of petty
violence mentioned in the text.
NOTE 10
I may here mention that the fashion of compotation described in the text
was still occasionally practised in Scotland in the author’s youth. A
company, after having taken leave of their host, often went to finish the
evening at the clachan or village, in ‘womb of tavern.’ Their entertainer
always accompanied them to take the stirrup-cup, which often occasioned a
long and late revel.
The poculum potatorium of the valiant Baron, his blessed Bear, has a
prototype at the fine old Castle of Glamis, so rich in memorials of
ancient times; it is a massive beaker of silver, double gilt, moulded
into the shape of a lion, and holding about an English pint of wine. The
form alludes to the family name of Strathmore, which is Lyon, and, when
exhibited, the cup must necessarily be emptied to the Earl’s health. The
author ought perhaps to be ashamed of recording that he has had the
honour of swallowing the contents of the Lion; and the recollection of
the feat served to suggest the story of the Bear of Bradwardine. In the
family of Scott of Thirlestane (not Thirlestane in the Forest, but the
place of the same name in Roxburghshire) was long preserved a cup of the
same kind, in the form of a jack-boot. Each guest was obliged to empty
this at his departure. If the guest’s name was Scott, the necessity was
doubly imperative.
When the landlord of an inn presented his guests with deoch an doruis,
that is, the drink at the door, or the stirrup-cup, the draught was not
charged in the reckoning. On this point a learned bailie of the town of
Forfar pronounced a very sound judgment.
A., an ale-wife in Forfar, had brewed her ‘peck of malt’ and set the
liquor out of doors to cool; the cow of B., a neighbour of A., chanced to
come by, and seeing the good beverage, was allured to taste it, and
finally to drink it up. When A. came to take in her liquor, she found her
tub empty, and from the cow’s staggering and staring, so as to betray her
intemperance, she easily divined the mode in which her ‘browst’ had
disappeared. To take vengeance on Crummie’s ribs with a stick was her
first effort. The roaring of the cow brought B., her master, who
remonstrated with his angry neighbour, and received in reply a demand for
the value of the ale which Crummie had drunk up. B. refused payment, and
was conveyed before C., the bailie, or sitting magistrate. He heard the
case patiently; and then demanded of the plaintiff A. whether the cow had
sat down to her potation or taken it standing. The plaintiff answered,
she had not seen the deed committed, but she supposed the cow drank the
ale while standing on her feet, adding, that had she been near she would
have made her use them to some purpose. The bailie, on this admission,
solemnly adjudged the cow’s drink to be deoch an doruis, a stirrup-cup,
for which no charge could be made without violating the ancient
hospitality of Scotland.
NOTE 11
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.
NOTE 12
Although canting heraldry is generally reprobated, it seems nevertheless
to have been adopted in the arms and mottos of many honourable families.
Thus the motto of the Vernons, Ver non semper viret, is a perfect pun,
and so is that of the Onslows, Festina lente. The Periissem ni per-iissem
of the Anstruthers is liable to a similar objection. One of that ancient
race, finding that an antagonist, with whom he had fixed a friendly
meeting, was determined to take the opportunity of assassinating him,
prevented the hazard by dashing out his brains with a battle-axe. Two
sturdy arms, brandishing such a weapon, form the usual crest of the
family, with the above motto, Periissem ni per-iissem--I had died, unless
I had gone through with it.
NOTE 13
Mac-Donald of Barrisdale, one of the very last Highland gentlemen who
carried on the plundering system to any great extent, was a scholar and a
well-bred gentleman. He engraved on his broadswords the well-known
lines--
Hae tibi erunt artes pacisque imponere morem, Parcere subjectis, et
debellare superbos.
Indeed, the levying of black-mail was, before 1745, practised by several
chiefs of very high rank, who, in doing so, contended that they were
lending the laws the assistance of their arms and swords, and affording a
protection which could not be obtained from the magistracy in the
disturbed state of the country. The author has seen a Memoir of
Mac-Pherson of Cluny, chief of that ancient clan, from which it appears
that he levied protection-money to a very large amount, which was
willingly paid even by some of his most powerful neighbours. A gentleman
of this clan, hearing a clergyman hold forth to his congregation on the
crime of theft, interrupted the preacher to assure him, he might leave
the enforcement of such doctrines to Cluny Mac-Pherson, whose broadsword
would put a stop to theft sooner than all the sermons of all the
ministers of the synod.
NOTE 14
The Town-guard of Edinburgh were, till a late period, armed with this
weapon when on their police-duty. There was a hook at the back of the
axe, which the ancient Highlanders used to assist them to climb over
walls, fixing the hook upon it and raising themselves by the handle. The
axe, which was also much used by the natives of Ireland, is supposed to
have been introduced into both countries from Scandinavia.
NOTE 15
An adventure very similar to what is here stated actually befell the late
Mr. Abercromby of Tullibody, grandfather of the present Lord Abercromby,
and father of the celebrated Sir Ralph. When this gentleman, who lived to
a very advanced period of life, first settled in Stirlingshire, his
cattle were repeatedly driven off by the celebrated Rob Roy, or some of
his gang; and at length he was obliged, after obtaining a proper
safe-conduct, to make the cateran such a visit as that of Waverley to
Bean Lean in the text. Rob received him with much courtesy, and made many
apologies for the accident, which must have happened, he said, through
some mistake. Mr. Abercromby was regaled with collops from two of his own
cattle, which were hung up by the heels in the cavern, and was dismissed
in perfect safety, after having agreed to pay in future a small sum of
black-mail, in consideration of which Rob Roy not only undertook to
forbear his herds in future, but to replace any that should be stolen
from him by other freebooters. Mr. Abercromby said Rob Roy affected to
consider him as a friend to the Jacobite interest and a sincere enemy to
the Union. Neither of these circumstances were true; but the laird
thought it quite unnecessary to undeceive his Highland host at the risk
of bringing on a political dispute in such a situation. This anecdote I
received many years since (about 1792) from the mouth of the venerable
gentleman who was concerned in it.
NOTE 16
This celebrated gibbet was, in the memory of the last generation, still
standing at the western end of the town of Crieff, in Perthshire. Why it
was called the kind gallows we are unable to inform the reader with
certainty; but it is alleged that the Highlanders used to touch their
bonnets as they passed a place which had been fatal to many of their
countrymen, with the ejaculation ‘God bless her nain sell, and the Teil
tamn you!’ It may therefore have been called kind, as being a sort of
native or kindred place of doom to those who suffered there, as in
fulfilment of a natural destiny.
NOTE 17
The story of the bridegroom carried off by caterans on his bridal-day is
taken from one which was told to the author by the late Laird of Mac-Nab
many years since. To carry off persons from the Lowlands, and to put them
to ransom, was a common practice with the wild Highlanders, as it is said
to be at the present day with the banditti in the south of Italy. Upon
the occasion alluded to, a party of caterans carried off the bridegroom
and secreted him in some cave near the mountain of Schiehallion. The
young man caught the small-pox before his ransom could be agreed on; and
whether it was the fine cool air of the place, or the want of medical
attendance, Mac-Nab did not pretend to be positive; but so it was, that
the prisoner recovered, his ransom was paid, and he was restored to his
friends and bride, but always considered the Highland robbers as having
saved his life by their treatment of his malady.
NOTE 18
This happened on many occasions. Indeed, it was not till after the total
destruction of the clan influence, after 1745, that purchasers could be
found who offered a fair price for the estates forfeited in 1715, which
were then brought to sale by the creditors of the York Buildings Company,
who had purchased the whole, or greater part, from government at a very
small price. Even so late as the period first mentioned, the prejudices
of the public in favour of the heirs of the forfeited families threw
various impediments in the way of intending purchasers of such property.
NOTE 19
This sort of political game ascribed to Mac-Ivor was in reality played by
several Highland chiefs, the celebrated Lord Lovat in particular, who
used that kind of finesse to the uttermost. The Laird of Mac---was also
captain of an independent company, but valued the sweets of present pay
too well to incur the risk of losing them in the Jacobite cause. His
martial consort raised his clan and headed it in 1745. But the chief
himself would have nothing to do with king-making, declaring himself for
that monarch, and no other, who gave the Laird of Mac ---- ‘half-a-guinea
the day and half-a-guinea the morn.’
NOTE 20
In explanation of the military exercise observed at the Castle of
Glennaquoich, the author begs to remark that the Highlanders were not
only well practised in the use of the broadsword, firelock, and most of
the manly sports and trials of strength common throughout Scotland, but
also used a peculiar sort of drill, suited to their own dress and mode of
warfare. There were, for instance, different modes of disposing the
plaid, one when on a peaceful journey, another when danger was
apprehended; one way of enveloping themselves in it when expecting
undisturbed repose, and another which enabled them to start up with sword
and pistol in hand on the slightest alarm.
Previous to 1720 or thereabouts, the belted plaid was universally worn,
in which the portion which surrounded the middle of the wearer and that
which was flung around his shoulders were all of the same piece of
tartan. In a desperate onset all was thrown away, and the clan charged
bare beneath the doublet, save for an artificial arrangement of the
shirt, which, like that of the Irish, was always ample, and for the
sporran-mollach, or goat’s-skin purse.
The manner of handling the pistol and dirk was also part of the Highland
manual exercise, which the author has seen gone through by men who had
learned it in their youth.
NOTE 21
Pork or swine’s flesh, in any shape, was, till of late years, much
abominated by the Scotch, nor is it yet a favourite food amongst them.
King Jamie carried this prejudice to England, and is known to have
abhorred pork almost as much as he did tobacco. Ben Jonson has recorded
this peculiarity, where the gipsy in a masque, examining the king’s hand,
says--
You should, by this line,
Love a horse and a hound, but no part of a swine.
The Gipsies Metamorphosed.
James’s own proposed banquet for the Devil was a loin of pork and a poll
of ling, with a pipe of tobacco for digestion.
NOTE 22
In the number of persons of all ranks who assembled at the same table,
though by no means to discuss the same fare, the Highland chiefs only
retained a custom which had been formerly universally observed throughout
Scotland. ‘I myself,’ says the traveller, Fynes Morrison, in the end of
Queen Elizabeth’s reign, the scene being the Lowlands of Scotland, ‘was
at a knight’s house, who had many servants to attend him, that brought in
his meat with their heads covered with blue caps, the table being more
than half furnished with great platters of porridge, each having a little
piece of sodden meat. And when the table was served, the servants did sit
down with us; but the upper mess, instead of porridge, had a pullet, with
some prunes in the broth.’--Travels, p. 155.
Till within this last century the farmers, even of a respectable
condition, dined with their work-people. The difference betwixt those of
high degree was ascertained by the place of the party above or below the
salt, or sometimes by a line drawn with chalk on the dining-table. Lord
Lovat, who knew well how to feed the vanity and restrain the appetites of
his clansmen, allowed each sturdy Fraser who had the slightest
pretensions to be a Duinhewassel the full honour of the sitting, but at
the same time took care that his young kinsmen did not acquire at his
table any taste for outlandish luxuries. His lordship was always ready
with some honourable apology why foreign wines and French brandy,
delicacies which he conceived might sap the hardy habits of his cousins,
should not circulate past an assigned point on the table.
NOTE 23
In the Irish ballads relating to Fion (the Fingal of Mac-Pherson) there
occurs, as in the primitive poetry of most nations, a cycle of heroes,
each of whom has some distinguishing attribute; upon these qualities, and
the adventures of those possessing them, many proverbs are formed, which
are still current in the Highlands. Among other characters, Conan is
distinguished as in some respects a kind of Thersites, but brave and
daring even to rashness. He had made a vow that he would never take a
blow without returning it; and having, like other heroes of antiquity,
descended to the infernal regions, he received a cuff from the Arch-fiend
who presided there, which he instantly returned, using the expression in
the text. Sometimes the proverb is worded thus--‘Claw for claw, and the
devil take the shortest nails, as Conan said to the devil.’
NOTE 24
The description of the waterfall mentioned in this chapter is taken from
that of Ledeard, at the farm so called, on the northern side of Lochard,
and near the head of the lake, four or five miles from Aberfoyle. It is
upon a small scale, but otherwise one of the most exquisite cascades it
is possible to behold. The appearance of Flora with the harp, as
described, has been justly censured as too theatrical and affected for
the lady-like simplicity of her character. But something may be allowed
to her French education, in which point and striking effect always make a
considerable object.
NOTE 25
The author has been sometimes accused of confounding fiction with
reality. He therefore thinks it necessary to state that the circumstance
of the hunting described in the text as preparatory to the insurrection
of 1745 is, so far as he knows, entirely imaginary. But it is well known
such a great hunting was held in the Forest of Brae-Mar, under the
auspices of the Earl of Mar, as preparatory to the Rebellion of 1715; and
most of the Highland chieftains who afterwards engaged in that civil
commotion were present on this occasion.
GLOSSARY--Volume I.
A’, all.
ABOON, abune, above.
ABY, abye, endure, suffer.
ACCOLADE, the salutation marking the bestowal of knighthood.
AIN, own.
ALANE, alone.
AN, if.
ANE, one.
ARRAY, annoy, trouble.
AULD, old.
AWEEL, well.
AYE, always.
BAILIE, a city magistrate in Scotland.
BAN, curse.
BAWTY, sly, cunning.
BAXTER, a baker.
BEES, in the, stupefied, bewildered.
BELIVE, belyve, by and by.
BEN, in, inside.
BENT, an open field.
BHAIRD, a bard.
BLACK-FISHING, fishing by torchlight poaching.
BLINKED, glanced.
BLUDE, braid, blood.
BLYTHE, gay, glad.
BODLE, a copper coin worth a third of an English penny.
BOLE, a bowl.
BOOT-KETCH, a boot-jack.
BRAE, the side of a hill.
BRISSEL-COCK, a turkey cock.
BREEKS, breeches.
BROGUES, Highland shoes.
BROKEN MEN, outlaws.
BROUGHT FAR BEN, held in special favor
BROWST, a brewing.
BRUIK, enjoy.
BUCKIE, a perverse or refractory person.
BULLSEGG, a gelded bull.
BURD, bird, a term of familiarity.
BURN, a brook.
BUSKING, dress, decoration.
BUTTOCK-MAIL, a fine for fornication.
BYDAND, awaiting.
CAILLIACHS, old women on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the
dead, which the Irish call keening.
CALLANT, a young lad, a fine fellow.
CANNY, prudent, skillful, lucky.
CANTER, a canting, whining beggar.
CANTRIP, a trick.
CARLE, a churl, an old man.
CATERAN, a Highland irregular soldier, a freebooter.
CHAP, a customer.
CLACHAN, a hamlet.
CLAW FAVOUR, curry favour.
CLAYMORE, a broad sword.
CLEEK, a hook.
CLEIK the cunzie, steal the silver.
COB, beat.
COBLE, a small fishing boat.
COGS, wooden vessels.
COGUE, a round wooden vessel.
CONCUSSED, violently shaken, disturbed, forced.
CORONACH, a dirge.
CORRIE, a mountain hollow.
COVE, a cave.
CRAME, a booth, a merchant’s shop.
CREAGH, an incursion for plunder, termed on the Borders a raid.
CROUSE, bold, courageous.
CRUMMY, a cow with crooked horns.
CUITTLE, tickle.
CURRAGH, a Highland boat.
DAFT, mad, foolish.
DEBINDED, bound down.
DECREET, an order of decree.
DEOCH AN DORUIS, the stirrup-cup or parting drink.
DERN, concealed, secret.
DINMONTS, wethers in the second year.
DOER, an agent, a manager.
DOON, doun, down.
DOVERING, dozing.
DUINHE-WASSEL, dunniewassal, a Highland gentleman, usually the cadet of a
family of rank.
EANARUICH, the regalia presented by Rob Roy to the Laird of Tullibody.
ENEUGH, eneuch, enough.
ERGASTULO, in a penitentiary.
EXEEMED, exempt.
FACTORY, stewardship.
FEAL AND DIVOT, turf and thatch.
FECK, a quantity.
FEIFTEEN, the Jacobite rebellion of 1715.
FENDY, good at making a shift.
FIRE-RAISING, setting an incendiary fire.
FLEMIT, frightened,
FRAE, from.
FU, full.
FULE, fool.
GABERLUNZIE, a kind of professional beggar.
GANE, gone.
GANG, go.
GAR, make.
GATE, gait, way.
GAUN, going.
GAY, gey, very.
GEAR, goods, property.
GILLFLIRT, a flirty girl.
GILLIE, a servant, an attendant.
GILLIE-WET-FOOT, a barefooted Highland lad.
GIMMER, a ewe from one to two years old.
GLISKED, glimpsed.
GRIPPLE, rapacious, niggardly.
GULPIN, a simpleton.
HA’, hall.
HAG, a portion of copse marked off for cutting.
HAIL, whole.
HALLAN, a partition, a screen.
HAME, home.
HANTLE, a great deal.
HARST, harvest.
HERSHIPS, plunder.
HILDING, a coward.
HIRSTS, knolls.
HORNING, charge of, a summons to pay a debt, on pain of being pronounced
a rebel, to the sound of a horn.
HOWE, a hollow.
HOULERYING AND POULERYING, hustling and pulling.
HURLEY-HOUSE, a brokendown manor house.
ILK, same; of that ilk, of the same name or place.
ILKA, each, every.
IN THE BEES, stupefied.
INTROMIT, meddle with.
KEN, know.
KITTLE, tickle, ticklish.
KNOBBLER, a male deer in its second year.
KYLOE, a small Highland cow.
LAIRD, squire, lord of the manor.
LANG-LEGGIT, long-legged.
LAWING, a tavern reckoning.
LEE LAND, pasture land.
LIE, a word used in old Scottish legal documents to call attention to the
following word or phrase.
LIFT, capture, carry off by theft.
LIMMER, a jade.
LOCH, a lake.
LOON, an idle fellow, a lout, a rogue.
LUCKIE, an elderly woman.
LUG, an ear, a handle.
LUNZIE, the loins, the waist.
MAE, mair, more.
MAINS, the chief farm of an estate.
MALT ABUNE THE MEAL, the drink above the food, half-seas over.
MAUN, must.
MEAL ARK, a meal chest.
MERK, 13 1/3 pence in English money.
MICKLE, much, great.
MISGUGGLED, mangled, rumpled.
MONY, many.
MORN, the morn, tomorrow.
MORNING, a morning dram.
MUCKLE, much, great.
MUIR, moor.
NA, nae, no, not.
NAINSELL, own self.
NICE, simple.
NOLT, black cattle. ony, any.
ORRA, odd, unemployed.
ORRA-TIME, occasionally.
OWER, over.
PEEL-HOUSE, a fortified tower.
PENDICLE, a small piece of ground.
PINGLE, a fuss, trouble.
PLENISHING, furnishings.
PLOY, sport, entertainment.
PRETTY MEN, stout, warlike fellows.
REIFS, robberies.
REIVERS, robbers.
RIGGS, ridges, ploughed ground.
ROKELAY, a short cloak.
RUDAS, coarse, hag-like.
SAIN, mark with the sign of the cross, bless.
SAIR, sore, very.
SAUMON, salmon.
SAUT, salt.
SAY, a sample.
SCHELLUM, a rascal.
SCOUPING, scowping, skipping, leaping, running.
SEANNACHIE, a Highland antiquary.
SHEARING, reaping, harvest.
SHILPIT, weak, sickly.
SHOON, shoes.
SIC, siccan, such.
SIDIER DHU, black soldiers, independent companies raised to keep peace in
the Highlands; named from the tartans they wore.
SIDIER ROY, red soldiers, King George’s men.
SIKES, small brooks.
SILLER, silver, money.
SIMMER, summer.
SLIVER, slice, slit.
SMOKY, suspicious.
SNECK, cut.
SNOOD, a fillet worn by young women.
SOPITE, quiet a brawl.
SORNERS, sornars, sojourners, sturdy beggars, especially those unwelcome
visitors who exact lodgings and victuals by force.
SORTED, arranged, adjusted.
SPEIR, ask, investigate.
SPORRAN-MOLLACH, a Highland purse of goatskin.
SPRACK, animated, lively.
SPRING, a cheerful tune.
SPURRZIE, spoil.
STIEVE, stiff, firm.
STIRK, a young steer or heifer.
STOT, a bullock.
STOUP, a jug, a pitcher.
STOUTHREEF, robbery.
STRAE, straw.
STRATH, a valley through which a river runs.
SYBOES, onions.
TA, the. TAIGLIT, harassed, loitered.
TAILZIE, taillie, a deed of entail.
TAPPIT-HEN, a pewter pot that holds three English quarts.
TAYOUT, tailliers-hors; in modern phrase, Tally-ho!
TEIL, the devil.
TEINDS, tithes.
TELT, told.
TILL, to. TOUN, a hamlet, a farm.
TREWS, trousers.
TROW, believe, suppose.
TWA, two.
TYKE, a dog, a snarling fellow.
UNCO, strange, very.
UNKENN’D, unknown.
USQUEBAUGH, whiskey.
WA’, wall.
WARE, spend.
WEEL, well.
WHA, who.
WHAR, where.
WHAT FOR, why.
WHILK, which.
WISKE, whisk, brandish.
NOTES--Volume II.
NOTE 26
The clan of Mac-Farlane, occupying the fastnesses of the western side of
Loch Lomond, were great depredators on the Low Country, and as their
excursions were made usually by night, the moon was proverbially called
their lantern. Their celebrated pibroch of Hoggil nam Bo, which is the
name of their gathering tune, intimates similar practices, the sense
being:--
We are bound to drive the bullocks,
All by hollows, hirsts, and hillocks,
Through the sleet, and through the rain.
When the moon is beaming low
On frozen lake and hills of snow,
Bold and heartily we go;
And all for little gain.
NOTE 27
This noble ruin is dear to my recollection, from associations which have
been long and painfully broken. It holds a commanding station on the
banks of the river Teith, and has been one of the largest castles in
Scotland. Murdoch, Duke of Albany, the founder of this stately pile, was
beheaded on the Castle-hill of Stirling, from which he might see the
towers of Doune, the monument of his fallen greatness.
In 1745-46, as stated in the text, a garrison on the part of the
Chevalier was put into the castle, then less ruinous than at present. It
was commanded by Mr. Stewart of Balloch, as governor for Prince Charles;
he was a man of property near Callander. This castle became at that time
the actual scene of a romantic escape made by John Home, the author of
Douglas, and some other prisoners, who, having been taken at the battle
of Falkirk, were confined there by the insurgents. The poet, who had in
his own mind a large stock of that romantic and enthusiastic spirit of
adventure which he has described as animating the youthful hero of his
drama, devised and undertook the perilous enterprise of escaping from his
prison. He inspired his companions with his sentiments, and when every
attempt at open force was deemed hopeless, they resolved to twist their
bed-clothes into ropes and thus to descend. Four persons, with Home
himself, reached the ground in safety. But the rope broke with the fifth,
who was a tall, lusty man. The sixth was Thomas Barrow, a brave young
Englishman, a particular friend of Home’s. Determined to take the risk,
even in such unfavourable circumstances, Barrow committed himself to the
broken rope, slid down on it as far as it could assist him, and then let
himself drop. His friends beneath succeeded in breaking his fall.
Nevertheless, he dislocated his ankle and had several of his ribs broken.
His companions, however, were able to bear him off in safety.
The Highlanders next morning sought for their prisoners with great
activity. An old gentleman told the author he remembered seeing the
commandant Stewart
Bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste,
riding furiously through the country in quest of the fugitives.
NOTE 28
To go out, or to have been out, in Scotland was a conventional phrase
similar to that of the Irish respecting a man having been up, both having
reference to an individual who had been engaged in insurrection. It was
accounted ill-breeding in Scotland about forty years since to use the
phrase rebellion or rebel, which might be interpreted by some of the
parties present as a personal insult. It was also esteemed more polite,
even for stanch Whigs, to denominate Charles Edward the Chevalier than to
speak of him as the Pretender; and this kind of accommodating courtesy
was usually observed in society where individuals of each party mixed on
friendly terms.
NOTE 29
The Jacobite sentiments were general among the western counties and in
Wales. But although the great families of the Wynnes, the Wyndhams, and
others had come under an actual obligation to join Prince Charles if he
should land, they had done so under the express stipulation that he
should be assisted by an auxiliary army of French, without which they
foresaw the enterprise would be desperate. Wishing well to his cause,
therefore, and watching an opportunity to join him, they did not,
nevertheless, think themselves bound in honour to do so, as he was only
supported by a body of wild mountaineers, speaking an uncouth dialect,
and wearing a singular dress. The race up to Derby struck them with more
dread than admiration. But it is difficult to say what the effect might
have been had either the battle of Preston or Falkirk been fought and won
during the advance into England.
NOTE 30
Divisions early showed themselves in the Chevalier’s little army, not
only amongst the independent chieftains, who were far too proud to brook
subjection to each other, but betwixt the Scotch and Charles’s governor
O’Sullivan, an Irishman by birth, who, with some of his countrymen bred
in the Irish Brigade in the service of the King of France, had an
influence with the Adventurer much resented by the Highlanders, who were
sensible that their own clans made the chief or rather the only strength
of his enterprise. There was a feud, also, between Lord George Murray and
John Murray of Broughton, the Prince’s secretary, whose disunion greatly
embarrassed the affairs of the Adventurer. In general, a thousand
different pretensions divided their little army, and finally contributed
in no small degree to its overthrow.
NOTE 31
This circumstance, which is historical, as well as the description that
precedes it, will remind the reader of the war of La Vendee, in which the
royalists, consisting chiefly of insurgent peasantry, attached a
prodigious and even superstitious interest to the possession of a piece
of brass ordnance, which they called Marie Jeanne.
The Highlanders of an early period were afraid of cannon, with the noise
and effect of which they were totally unacquainted. It was by means of
three or four small pieces of artillery that the Earls of Huntly and
Errol, in James VI’s time, gained a great victory at Glenlivat, over a
numerous Highland army, commanded by the Earl of Argyle. At the battle of
the Bridge of Dee, General Middleton obtained by his artillery a similar
success, the Highlanders not being able to stand the discharge of
Musket’s Mother, which was the name they bestowed on great guns. In an
old ballad on the battle of the Bridge of Dee these verses occur:--
The Highlandmen are pretty men
For handling sword and shield,
But yet they are but simple men
To stand a stricken field.
The Highlandmen are pretty men
For target and claymore,
But yet they are but naked men
To face the cannon’s roar.
For the cannons roar on a summer night
Like thunder in the air;
Was never man in Highland garb
Would face the cannon fair
But the Highlanders of 1745 had got far beyond the simplicity of their
forefathers, and showed throughout the whole war how little they dreaded
artillery, although the common people still attached some consequence to
the possession of the field-piece which led to this disquisition.
NOTE 32
The faithful friend who pointed out the pass by which the Highlanders
moved from Tranent to Seaton was Robert Anderson, junior, of Whitburgh, a
gentleman of property in East Lothian. He had been interrogated by the
Lord George Murray concerning the possibility of crossing the uncouth and
marshy piece of ground which divided the armies, and which he described
as impracticable. When dismissed, he recollected that there was a
circuitous path leading eastward through the marsh into the plain, by
which the Highlanders might turn the flank of Sir John Cope’s position
without being exposed to the enemy’s fire. Having mentioned his opinion
to Mr. Hepburn of Keith, who instantly saw its importance, he was
encouraged by that gentleman to awake Lord George Murray and communicate
the idea to him. Lord George received the information with grateful
thanks, and instantly awakened Prince Charles, who was sleeping in the
field with a bunch of pease under his head. The Adventurer received with
alacrity the news that there was a possibility of bringing an excellently
provided army to a decisive battle with his own irregular forces. His joy
on the occasion was not very consistent with the charge of cowardice
brought against him by Chevalier Johnstone, a discontented follower,
whose Memoirs possess at least as much of a romantic as a historical
character. Even by the account of the Chevalier himself, the Prince was
at the head of the second line of the Highland army during the battle, of
which he says, ‘It was gained with such rapidity that in the second line,
where I was still by the side of the Prince, we saw no other enemy than
those who were lying on the ground killed and wounded, though we were not
more than fifty paces behind our first line, running always as fast as we
could to overtake them.’
This passage in the Chevalier’s Memoirs places the Prince within fifty
paces of the heat of the battle, a position which would never have been
the choice of one unwilling to take a share of its dangers. Indeed,
unless the chiefs had complied with the young Adventurer’s proposal to
lead the van in person, it does not appear that he could have been deeper
in the action.
NOTE 33
The death of this good Christian and gallant man is thus given by his
affectionate biographer, Doctor Doddridge, from the evidence of
eye-witnesses:--
‘He continued all night under arms, wrapped up in his cloak, and
generally sheltered under a rick of barley which happened to be in the
field. About three in the morning he called his domestic servants to him,
of which there were four in waiting. He dismissed three of them with most
affectionate Christian advice, and such solemn charges relating to the
performance of their duty, and the care of their souls, as seemed plainly
to intimate that he apprehended it was at least very probable he was
taking his last farewell of them. There is great reason to believe that
he spent the little remainder of the time, which could not be much above
an hour, in those devout exercises of soul which had been so long
habitual to him, and to which so many circumstances did then concur to
call him. The army was alarmed by break of day by the noise of the
rebels’ approach, and the attack was made before sunrise, yet when it was
light enough to discern what passed. As soon as the enemy came within
gun-shot they made a furious fire; and it is said that the dragoons which
constituted the left wing immediately fled. The Colonel at the beginning
of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a few minutes, received a
wound by a bullet in his left breast, which made him give a sudden spring
in his saddle; upon which his servant, who led the horse, would have
persuaded him to retreat, but he said it was only a wound in the flesh,
and fought on, though he presently after received a shot in his right
thigh. In the mean time, it was discerned that some of the enemy fell by
him, and particularly one man who had made him a treacherous visit but a
few days before, with great professions of zeal for the present
establishment.
‘Events of this kind pass in less time than the description of them can
be written, or than it can be read. The Colonel was for a few moments
supported by his men, and particularly by that worthy person
Lieutenant-Colonel Whitney, who was shot through the arm here, and a few
months after fell nobly at the battle of Falkirk, and by Lieutenant West,
a man of distinguished bravery, as also by about fifteen dragoons, who
stood by him to the last. But after a faint fire, the regiment in general
was seized with a panic; and though their Colonel and some other gallant
officers did what they could to rally them once or twice, they at last
took a precipitate flight. And just in the moment when Colonel Gardiner
seemed to be making a pause to deliberate what duty required him to do in
such circumstances, an accident happened, which must, I think, in the
judgment of every worthy and generous man, be allowed a sufficient
apology for exposing his life to so great hazard, when his regiment had
left him. He saw a party of the foot, who were then bravely fighting near
him, and whom he was ordered to support, had no officer to head them;
upon which he said eagerly, in the hearing of the person from whom I had
this account, “These brave fellows will be cut to pieces for want of a
commander,” or words to that effect; which while he was speaking he rode
up to them and cried out, “Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing.” But just
as the words were out of his mouth, a Highlander advanced towards him
with a scythe fastened to a long pole, with which he gave him so dreadful
a wound on his right arm, that his sword dropped out of his hand; and at
the same time several others coming about him while he was thus
dreadfully entangled with that cruel weapon, he was dragged off from his
horse. The moment he fell, another Highlander, who, if the king’s
evidence at Carlisle may be credited (as I know not why they should not,
though the unhappy creature died denying it), was one Mac-Naught, who was
executed about a year after, gave him a stroke either with a broadsword
or a Lochaber-axe (for my informant could not exactly distinguish) on the
hinder part of his head, which was the mortal blow. All that his faithful
attendant saw farther at this time was that, as his hat was fallen off,
he took it in his left hand and waved it as a signal to him to retreat,
and added, what were the last words he ever heard him speak, “Take care
of yourself”; upon which the servant retired.’--Some Remarkable Passages
in the Life of Colonel James Gardiner. By P. Doddridge, D.D. London,
1747, P.187.
I may remark on this extract, that it confirms the account given in the
text of the resistance offered by some of the English infantry. Surprised
by a force of a peculiar and unusual description, their opposition could
not be long or formidable, especially as they were deserted by the
cavalry, and those who undertook to manage the artillery. But, although
the affair was soon decided, I have always understood that many of the
infantry showed an inclination to do their duty.
NOTE 34
It is scarcely necessary to say that the character of this brutal young
Laird is entirely imaginary. A gentleman, however, who resembled
Balmawhapple in the article of courage only, fell at Preston in the
manner described. A Perthshire gentleman of high honour and
respectability, one of the handful of cavalry who followed the fortunes
of Charles Edward, pursued the fugitive dragoons almost alone till near
Saint Clement’s Wells, where the efforts of some of the officers had
prevailed on a few of them to make a momentary stand. Perceiving at this
moment that they were pursued by only one man and a couple of servants,
they turned upon him and cut him down with their swords. I remember when
a child, sitting on his grave, where the grass long grew rank and green,
distinguishing it from the rest of the field. A female of the family then
residing at Saint Clement’s Wells used to tell me the tragedy, of which
she had been an eye-witness, and showed me in evidence one of the silver
clasps of the unfortunate gentleman’s waistcoat.
NOTE 35
The name of Andrea de Ferrara is inscribed on all the Scottish
broadswords which are accounted of peculiar excellence. Who this artist
was, what were his fortunes, and when he flourished, have hitherto defied
the research of antiquaries; only it is in general believed that Andrea
de Ferrara was a Spanish or Italian artificer, brought over by James IV
or V to instruct the Scots in the manufacture of sword blades. Most
barbarous nations excel in the fabrication of arms; and the Scots had
attained great proficiency in forging swords so early as the field of
Pinkie; at which period the historian Patten describes them as ‘all
notably broad and thin, universally made to slice, and of such exceeding
good temper that, as I never saw any so good, so I think it hard to
devise better.’--Account of Somerset’s Expedition.
It may be observed that the best and most genuine Andrea Ferraras have a
crown marked on the blade.
NOTE 36
The incident here said to have happened to Flora Mac-Ivor actually befell
Miss Nairne, a lady with whom the author had the pleasure of being
acquainted. As the Highland army rushed into Edinburgh, Miss Nairne, like
other ladies who approved of their cause, stood waving her handkerchief
from a balcony, when a ball from a Highlander’s musket, which was
discharged by accident, grazed her forehead. ‘Thank God,’ said she, the
instant she recovered, ‘that the accident happened to me, whose principles
are known. Had it befallen a Whig, they would have said it was done on
purpose.’
NOTE 37, p. 185
The Author of Waverley has been charged with painting the young
Adventurer in colours more amiable than his character deserved. But
having known many individuals who were near his person, he has been
described according to the light in which those eye-witnesses saw his
temper and qualifications. Something must be allowed, no doubt, to the
natural exaggerations of those who remembered him as the bold and
adventurous Prince in whose cause they had braved death and ruin; but is
their evidence to give place entirely to that of a single malcontent?
I have already noticed the imputations thrown by the Chevalier Johnstone
on the Prince’s courage. But some part at least of that gentleman’s tale
is purely romantic. It would not, for instance, be supposed that at the
time he is favouring us with the highly wrought account of his amour with
the adorable Peggie, the Chevalier Johnstone was a married man, whose
grandchild is now alive; or that the whole circumstantial story
concerning the outrageous vengeance taken by Gordon of Abbachie on a
Presbyterian clergyman is entirely apocryphal. At the same time it may be
admitted that the Prince, like others of his family, did not esteem the
services done him by his adherents so highly as he ought. Educated in
high ideas of his hereditary right, he has been supposed to have held
every exertion and sacrifice made in his cause as too much the duty of
the person making it to merit extravagant gratitude on his part. Dr.
King’s evidence (which his leaving the Jacobite interest renders somewhat
doubtful) goes to strengthen this opinion.
The ingenious editor of Johnstone’s Memoirs has quoted a story said to be
told by Helvetius, stating that Prince Charles Edward, far from
voluntarily embarking on his daring expedition, was, literally bound hand
and foot, and to which he seems disposed to yield credit. Now, it being a
fact as well known as any in his history, and, so far as I know, entirely
undisputed, that the Prince’s personal entreaties and urgency positively
forced Boisdale and Lochiel into insurrection, when they were earnestly
desirous that he would put off his attempt until he could obtain a
sufficient force from France, it will be very difficult to reconcile his
alleged reluctance to undertake the expedition with his desperately
insisting upon carrying the rising into effect against the advice and
entreaty of his most powerful and most sage partizans. Surely a man who
had been carried bound on board the vessel which brought him to so
desperate an enterprise would have taken the opportunity afforded by the
reluctance of his partizans to return to France in safety.
It is averred in Johnstone’s Memoirs that Charles Edward left the field
of Culloden without doing the utmost to dispute the victory; and, to give
the evidence on both sides, there is in existence the more trustworthy
testimony of Lord Elcho, who states that he himself earnestly exhorted
the Prince to charge at the head of the left wing, which was entire, and
retrieve the day or die with honour. And on his counsel being declined,
Lord Elcho took leave of him with a bitter execration, swearing he would
never look on his face again, and kept his word.
On the other hand, it seems to have been the opinion of almost all the
other officers that the day was irretrievably lost, one wing of the
Highlanders being entirely routed, the rest of the army outnumbered,
outflanked, and in a condition totally hopeless. In this situation of
things the Irish officers who surrounded Charles’s person interfered to
force him off the field. A cornet who was close to the Prince left a
strong attestation that he had seen Sir Thomas Sheridan seize the bridle
of his horse and turn him round. There is some discrepancy of evidence;
but the opinion of Lord Elcho, a man of fiery temper and desperate at the
ruin which he beheld impending, cannot fairly be taken in prejudice of a
character for courage which is intimated by the nature of the enterprise
itself, by the Prince’s eagerness to fight on all occasions, by his
determination to advance from Derby to London, and by the presence of
mind which he manifested during the romantic perils of his escape. The
author is far from claiming for this unfortunate person the praise due to
splendid talents; but he continues to be of opinion that at the period of
his enterprise he had a mind capable of facing danger and aspiring to
fame.
That Charles Edward had the advantages of a graceful presence, courtesy,
and an address and manner becoming his station, the author never heard
disputed by any who approached his person, nor does he conceive that
these qualities are overcharged in the present attempt to sketch his
portrait.
The following extracts corroborative of the general opinion respecting
the Prince’s amiable disposition are taken from a manuscript account of
his romantic expedition, by James Maxwell of Kirkconnell, of which I
possess a copy, by the friendship of J. Menzies, Esq., of Pitfoddells.
The author, though partial to the Prince, whom he faithfully followed,
seems to have been a fair and candid man, and well acquainted with the
intrigues among the adventurer’s council:--
‘Everybody was mightily taken with the Prince’s figure and personal
behaviour. There was but one voice about them. Those whom interest or
prejudice made a runaway to his cause could not help acknowledging that
they wished him well in all other respects, and could hardly blame him
for his present undertaking. Sundry things had concurred to raise his
character to the highest pitch, besides the greatness of the enterprise
and the conduct that had hitherto appeared in the execution of it.
‘There were several instances of good nature and humanity that had made a
great impression on people’s minds. I shall confine myself to two or
three.
‘Immediately after the battle, as the Prince was riding along the ground
that Cope’s army had occupied a few minutes before, one of the officers
came up to congratulate him, and said, pointing to the killed, “Sir,
there are your enemies at your feet.” The Prince, far from exulting,
expressed a great deal of compassion for his father’s deluded subjects,
whom he declared he was heartily sorry to see in that posture.
‘Next day, while the Prince was at Pinkie House, a citizen of Edinburgh
came to make some representation to Secretary Murray about the tents that
city was ordered to furnish against a certain day. Murray happened to be
out of the way, which the Prince hearing of called to have the gentleman
brought to him, saying, he would rather despatch the business, whatever
it was, himself than have the gentleman wait, which he did, by granting
everything that was asked. So much affability in a young prince flushed
with victory drew encomiums even from his enemies.
‘But what gave the people the highest idea of him was the negative he
gave to a thing that very nearly concerned his interest, and upon which
the success of his enterprise perhaps depended. It was proposed to send
one of the prisoners to London to demand of that court a cartel for the
exchange of prisoners taken, and to be taken, during this war, and to
intimate that a refusal would be looked upon as a resolution on their
part to give no quarter. It was visible a cartel would be of great
advantage to the Prince’s affairs; his friends would be more ready to
declare for him if they had nothing to fear but the chance of war in the
field; and if the court of London refused to settle a cartel, the Prince
was authorised to treat his prisoners in the same manner the Elector of
Hanover was determined to treat such of the Prince’s friends as might
fall into his hands; it was urged that a few examples would compel the
court of London to comply. It was to be presumed that the officers of the
English army would make a point of it. They had never engaged in the
service but upon such terms as are in use among all civilised nations,
and it could be no stain upon their honour to lay down their commissions
if these terms were not observed, and that owing to the obstinacy of
their own Prince. Though this scheme was plausible, and represented as
very important, the Prince could never be brought into it, it was below
him, he said, to make empty threats, and he would never put such as those
into execution; he would never in cold blood take away lives which he had
saved in heat of action at the peril of his own. These were not the only
proofs of good nature the Prince gave about this time. Every day produced
something new of this kind. These things softened the rigour of a
military government which was only imputed to the necessity of his
affairs, and which he endeavoured to make as gentle and easy as
possible.’
It has been said that the Prince sometimes exacted more state and
ceremonial than seemed to suit his condition; but, on the other hand,
some strictness of etiquette was altogether indispensable where he must
otherwise have been exposed to general intrusion. He could also endure,
with a good grace, the retorts which his affectation of ceremony
sometimes exposed him to. It is said, for example, that Grant of
Glenmoriston having made a hasty march to join Charles, at the head of
his clan, rushed into the Prince’s presence at Holyrood with
unceremonious haste, without having attended to the duties of the toilet.
The Prince received him kindly, but not without a hint that a previous
interview with the barber might not have been wholly unnecessary. ‘It is
not beardless boys,’ answered the displeased Chief, ‘who are to do your
Royal Highness’s turn.’ The Chevalier took the rebuke in good part.
On the whole, if Prince Charles had concluded his life soon after his
miraculous escape, his character in history must have stood very high. As
it was, his station is amongst those a certain brilliant portion of whose
life forms a remarkable contrast to all which precedes and all which
follows it.
NOTE 38
The following account of the skirmish at Clifton is extracted from the
manuscript Memoirs of Evan Macpherson of Cluny, Chief of the clan
Macpherson, who had the merit of supporting the principal brunt of that
spirited affair. The Memoirs appear to have been composed about 1755,
only ten years after the action had taken place. They were written in
France, where that gallant chief resided in exile, which accounts for
some Gallicisms which occur in the narrative.
‘In the Prince’s return from Derby back towards Scotland, my Lord George
Murray, Lieutenant-General, cheerfully charg’d himself with the command
of the rear, a post which, altho’ honourable, was attended with great
danger, many difficulties, and no small fatigue; for the Prince, being
apprehensive that his retreat to Scotland might be cut off by Marischall
Wade, who lay to the northward of him with an armie much superior to what
H.R.H. had, while the Duke of Comberland with his whole cavalrie followed
hard in the rear, was obliged to hasten his marches. It was not,
therefore, possible for the artilirie to march so fast as the Prince’s
army, in the depth of winter, extremely bad weather, and the worst roads
in England; so Lord George Murray was obliged often to continue his
marches long after it was dark almost every night, while at the same time
he had frequent alarms and disturbances from the Duke of Comberland’s
advanc’d parties.
‘Towards the evening of the twentie-eight December 1745 the Prince
entered the town of Penrith, in the Province of Comberland. But as Lord
George Murray could not bring up the artilirie so fast as he wou’d have
wish’d, he was oblig’d to pass the night six miles short of that town,
together with the regiment of MacDonel of Glengarrie, which that day
happened to have the arrear guard. The Prince, in order to refresh his
armie, and to give My Lord George and the artilirie time to come up,
resolved to sejour the 29th at Penrith; so ordered his little army to
appear in the morning under arms, in order to be reviewed, and to know in
what manner the numbers stood from his haveing entered England. It did
not at that time amount to 5000 foot in all, with about 400 cavalrie,
compos’d of the noblesse who serv’d as volunteers, part of whom form’d a
first troop of guards for the Prince, under the command of My Lord
Elchoe, now Comte de Weems, who, being proscribed, is presently in
France. Another part formed a second troup of guards under the command of
My Lord Balmirino, who was beheaded at the Tower of London. A third part
serv’d under My Lord le Comte de Kilmarnock, who was likewise beheaded at
the Tower. A fourth part serv’d under My Lord Pitsligow, who is also
proscribed; which cavalrie, tho’ very few in numbers, being all noblesse,
were very brave, and of infinite advantage to the foot, not only in the
day of battle, but in serving as advanced guards on the several marches,
and in patroling dureing the night on the different roads which led
towards the towns where the army happened to quarter.
‘While this small army was out in a body on the 20th December, upon a
riseing ground to the northward of Penrith, passing review, Mons. de
Cluny, with his tribe, was ordered to the Bridge of Clifton, about a mile
to southward of Penrith, after having pass’d in review before Mons.
Pattullo, who was charged with the inspection of the troops, and was
likeways Quarter-Master-General of the army, and is now in France. They
remained under arms at the bridge, waiting the arrival of My Lord George
Murray with the artilirie, whom Mons. de Cluny had orders to cover in
passing the bridge. They arrived about sunset closly pursued by the Duke
of Comberland with the whole body of his cavalrie, reckoned upwards of
3000 strong, about a thousand of whom, as near as might be computed,
dismounted, in order to cut off the passage of the artilirie towards the
bridge, while the Duke and the others remained on horseback in order to
attack the rear.
‘My Lord George Murray advanced, and although he found Mons. de Cluny and
his tribe in good spirits under arms, yet the circumstance appear’d
extremely delicate. The numbers were vastly unequall, and the attack
seem’d very dangerous; so My Lord George declin’d giving orders to such
time as he ask’d Mons. de Cluny’s opinion. “I will attack them with all
my heart,” says Mons. de Cluny, “if you order me.” “I do order it then,”
answered My Lord George, and immediately went on himself along with Mons.
de Cluny, and fought sword in hand on foot at the head of the single
tribe of Macphersons. They in a moment made their way through a strong
hedge of thorns, under the cover whereof the cavalrie had taken their
station, in the struggle of passing which hedge My Lord George Murray,
being dressed en montagnard, as all the army were, lost his bonet and
wig; so continued to fight bare-headed during the action. They at first
made a brisk discharge of their firearms on the enemy, then attacked them
with their sabres, and made a great slaughter a considerable time, which
obliged Comberland and his cavalrie to fly with precipitation and in
great confusion; in so much that, if the Prince had been provided in a
sufficient number of cavalrie to have taken advantage of the disorder, it
is beyond question that the Duke of Comberland and the bulk of his
cavalrie had been taken prisoners.
‘By this time it was so dark that it was not possible to view or number
the slain who filled all the ditches which happened to be on the ground
where they stood. But it was computed that, besides those who went off
wounded, upwards of a hundred at least were left on the spot, among whom
was Colonel Honywood, who commanded the dismounted cavalrie, whose sabre
of considerable value Mons. de Cluny brought off and still preserves; and
his tribe lykeways brought off many arms;--the Colonel was afterwards
taken up, and, his wounds being dress’d, with great difficultie
recovered. Mons. de Cluny lost only in the action twelve men, of whom
some haveing been only wounded, fell afterwards into the hands of the
enemy, and were sent as slaves to America, whence several of them
returned, and one of them is now in France, a sergeant in the Regiment of
Royal Scots. How soon the accounts of the enemies approach had reached
the Prince, H.R.H. had immediately ordered Mi-Lord le Comte de Nairne,
Brigadier, who, being proscribed, is now in France, with the three
batalions of the Duke of Athol, the batalion of the Duke of Perth, and
some other troups under his command, in order to support Cluny, and to
bring off the artilirie. But the action was entirely over before the
Comte de Nairne, with his command, cou’d reach nigh to the place. They
therefore return’d all to Penrith, and the artilirie marched up in good
order.
‘Nor did the Duke of Comberland ever afterwards dare to come within a
day’s march of the Prince and his army dureing the course of all that
retreat, which was conducted with great prudence and safety when in some
manner surrounded by enemies.’
NOTE 39
As the heathen deities contracted an indelible obligation if they swore
by Styx, the Scottish Highlanders had usually some peculiar solemnity
attached to an oath which they intended should be binding on them. Very
frequently it consisted in laying their hand, as they swore, on their own
drawn dirk; which dagger, becoming a party to the transaction, was
invoked to punish any breach of faith. But by whatever ritual the oath
was sanctioned, the party was extremely desirous to keep secret what the
especial oath was which he considered as irrevocable. This was a matter
of great convenience, as he felt no scruple in breaking his asseveration
when made in any other form than that which he accounted as peculiarly
solemn; and therefore readily granted any engagement which bound him no
longer than he inclined. Whereas, if the oath which he accounted
inviolable was once publicly known, no party with whom he might have
occasion to contract would have rested satisfied with any other.
Louis XI of France practised the same sophistry, for he also had a
peculiar species of oath, the only one which he was ever known to
respect, and which, therefore, he was very unwilling to pledge. The only
engagement which that wily tyrant accounted binding upon him was an oath
by the Holy Cross of Saint Lo d’Angers, which contained a portion of the
True Cross. If he prevaricated after taking this oath Louis believed he
should die within the year. The Constable Saint Paul, being invited to a
personal conference with Louis, refused to meet the king unless he would
agree to ensure him safe conduct under sanction of this oath. But, says
Comines, the king replied, he would never again pledge that engagement to
mortal man, though he was willing to take any other oath which could be
devised. The treaty broke oft, therefore, after much chaffering
concerning the nature of the vow which Louis was to take. Such is the
difference between the dictates of superstition and those of conscience.
GLOSSARY--Volume II.
A’, all.
ABOON, abune, above.
AE, one.
AFF, off.
AFORE, before.
AHINT, behind.
AIN, own.
AITS, oats.
AMAIST, almost.
AMBRY, a cupboard, a pantry.
AN, if.
ANE, one.
ANEUCH, enough.
ARRAY, annoy, trouble.
ASSOILZIED, absolved, acquitted.
ASSYTHMENT, satisfaction.
AULD, old.
BAFF, a blow.
BAGGANET, a bayonet.
BAILIE, a city magistrate in Scotland.
BAIRN, a child.
BAITH, both.
BANES, bones.
BANG-UP, get up quickly, bounce.
BARLEY, a parley, a truce.
BAULD, bold.
BAULDER, bolder.
BAWBEE, a halfpenny.
BAWTY, sly, cunning.
BEES, in the, bewildered, stupefied.
BEFLUMM’D, flattered, cajoled.
BEGUNK, a trick, a cheat.
BEN, within, inside.
BENEMPT, named.
BICKER, a wooden dish.
BIDE, stay, endure.
BIELDY, affording shelter.
BIGGING, building.
BIRLIEMAN, a peace officer.
BLACK-COCK, the black grouse.
BLACK-FISHING, ashing by torchlight, poaching.
BLUDE, bluid, blood.
BODDLE, bodle, a copper coin, worth one third of an English penny.
BOGLE ABOUT THE BUSH, beat about the bush, a children’s game.
BONNIE, beautiful, comely, fine.
BOUNE, prepared.
BRA’, fine, handsome, showy.
BRANDER, broil.
BREEKS, breeches.
BRENT, smooth, unwrinkled.
BROGUES, Highland shoes.
BROO, brew, broth.
BRUCKLE, brittle, infirm.
BRUIK, enjoy.
BRULZIE, bruilzie, a broil, a fray.
BUCKIE, a perverse or refractory person.
BUTTOCK-MAIL, a fine for fornication.
BYDAND, awaiting.
CA’, call.
CADGER, a country carrier.
CAILLIACHS, old women on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the
dead, which the Irish call keening.
CALLANT, a stripling, a fine fellow.
CANNILY, prudently.
CANNY, cautious, lucky.
CARLE, a churl, an old man.
CATERAN, a freebooter.
CHIEL, a young man.
CLACHAN, a village, a hamlet.
CLAMYHEWIT, a blow, a drubbing.
CLASH, chatter, gossip.
CLATTER, tattle, noisy talk.
CLOSE, a narrow passage.
CLOUR, a bump, a bruise.
COCKY-LEEKY, a soup made of a cock, seasoned with leeks.
COGHLING AND DROGHLING, wheezing and blowing.
CORONACH, a dirge.
CORRIE, a mountain hollow.
COUP, fall.
COW YER CRACKS, cut short your talk, hold your tongues.
CRACK, boast.
CRAIG, the neck, the throat.
CRAMES, merchants’ shops, booths.
CUT-LUGGED, crop-eared.
DAFT, foolish, mad, crazy.
DAUR, dare.
DEAVING, deafening.
DECREET, an order of decree.
DELIVER, light, agile.
DERN, hidden, concealed, secret.
DING, knock, beat, surpass.
DINGLE, dinnle, tingle, vibrate with sound.
DOER, an agent, a manager.
DOG-HEAD, the hammer of a gun.
DOILED, crazed, silly.
DOITED, having the faculties impaired.
DORLACH, a bundle.
DOW, a dove.
DOWF, dowff, dull, spiritless.
DRAPPIE, a little drop, a small quantity of drink.
EFFEIR, what is becoming.
ENEUGH, enough.
ETTER-CAP, a spider, an ill-natured person.
EVITE, avoid, escape.
EWEST, ewast, contiguous.
FALLOW, a fellow.
FAULD, fold.
FEARED, afraid.
FECK, a quantity.
FLEYT, frightened, shy.
FRAE, from.
GAD, a goad, a rod.
GANE, gone; gang, go.
GAR, make.
GATE, way.
GAUN, going.
GEAR, goods.
GHAIST, a ghost.
GIN, if.
GITE, crazy, a noodle.
GLED, a kite.
GLEG, quick, clever.
GLISK, a glimpse.
GOWD, gold.
GRANING, groaning.
GRAT, wept.
GREE, agree.
GREYBEARD, a stone bottle or jug.
GRICE, gryce, gris, a pig.
GRIPPLE, griping, niggardly.
GUDE, guid, good.
GULPIN, a simpleton.
HA’, hall.
HAG, a portion of copse marked off for cutting.
HAGGIS, a pudding peculiar to Scotland, containing oatmeal, suet, minced
sheep’s liver, heart, etc., seasoned with onions, pepper, and salt, the
whole mixture boiled in a sheep’s stomach.
HAIL, whole.
HECK, a hay rack; at heck and manger, in plenty.
HET, hot.
HOG, a young sheep before its first shearing.
HORSE-COUPER, horse-cowper, a horse-dealer.
HURDLES, the buttocks.
HURLEY-HOUSE, a large house fallen into disrepair.
ILK, same; of that ilk, of the same name or place.
ILKA, every.
INGLE, a fire burning upon the hearth.
IN THE BEES, stupefied.
KEEPIT, kept.
KEMPLE, a Scotch measure of straw or hay.
KEN, know.
KIPPAGE, disorder, confusion.
KIRK, church.
KITTLE, tickle, ticklish.
LAIRD, lord of the manor.
LANDLOUPER, a wanderer, a vagabond.
LEDDY, a lady.
LIGHTLY, make light of, disparage.
LIMMER, a hussy, a jade.
LOON, a worthless fellow, a lout.
LOUP, leap, start.
LUG, an ear.
LUNZIE, the loins, the waist.
MAE, more.
MAINS, the chief farm of an estate.
MAIR, more.
MAIST, most, almost. MART, beef salted down for winter.
MASK, mash, infuse.
MAUN, must.
MERK, an old silver coin worth 13 1/3 pence, English.
MICKLE, large, much.
MORN, tomorrow.
MOUSTED, powdered.
MUCKLE, great, much.
MUNT, mount.
MUTCHKIN, a measure equal to about three quarters of an imperial pint.
NA, nae, no, not.
NAIGS, horses.
NAIL, the sixteenth part of a yard.
NATHELESS, nevertheless.
NEB, nose, tip.
NE’ER BE IN ME, devil be in me.
OLD TO DO, great doings.
OWER, over.
PAITRICK, a partridge.
PANGED, crammed.
PARRITCH, oatmeal porridge.
PAUNIE, a peacock.
PECULIUM, private property.
PINNERS, a headdress for women.
PLACK, a copper coin worth one third of a penny.
PLAIDY, an outer covering for the body.
PLENISH, furnish.
PLOY, an entertainment, a pastime.
POTTINGER, an apothecary.
POWNIE, a pony.
POWTERING, poking, stirring.
PRETTY MAN, a stout, warlike fellow.
QUEAN, a young woman.
REDD, part, separate.
REISES, twigs, branches.
RESILING, retracting, withdrawing.
RIGGS, ridges, ploughed ground.
RINTHEROUT, a roving person, a vagabond.
ROW, roll.
ROWED, rolled.
ROWT, cried out, bellowed.
ROYNISH, scurvy, coarse.
SAE, so.
ST. JOHNSTONE’S TIPPET, a rope or halter for hanging.
SAIR, sore, very.
SALL, shall.
SARK, a shirt.
SAUMON, a salmon.
SAUT, salt.
SCARTED, scratched, scribbled over.
SCHELLUM, a rascal.
SCROLL, engross, copy.
SHANKS, legs.
SHEERS, shears.
SHOUTHER, the shoulder.
SICCAN, sic, such.
SILLER, money.
SILLY, weak.
SKIG, the least quantity of anything.
SMA’, small.
SMOKY, suspicious.
SNECK, cut.
SORTED, put in proper order, adjusted.
SOWENS, the seeds of oatmeal soured.
SPEER, ask, investigate.
SPENCE, the place where provisions are kept.
SPRACK, lively.
SPRECHERY, movables of an unimportant sort.
SPUILZIE, spoil.
SPUNG, pick one’s pocket.
STIEVE, firm.
STOOR, rough, harsh.
STRAE, straw.
STREEKS, stretches, lies.
SWAIR, swore.
SYNE, before, now, ago.
TAIGLIT, harassed, encumbered, loitered.
TAULD, told.
THAE, those.
THIR, these.
THOLE, bear, suffer.
THRAW, twist, wrench.
THREEPIT, maintained obstinately.
THROSTLE, the thrush.
TILL, to.
TIRRIVIES, hasty fits of passion.
TOCHERLESS, without dowry.
TOUN, a town, a hamlet, a farm.
TOY, an old-fashioned cap for women.
TREWS, trousers.
TRINDLING, rolling.
TROW, believe.
TUILZIE, a quarrel
TUME, toom, empty.
TURNSPIT DOGGIE, a kind of dog, long-bodied and short-legged, formerly
used in turning a treadmill.
TYKE, a dog, a rough fellow.
UMQUHILE, formerly, late.
UNCO, strange, very.
UNSONSY, unlucky.
USQUEBAUGH, whiskey.
VENY, venue, a bout.
VIVERS, victuals.
WA’, wall
WAD, would.
WADSET, a deed conveying property to a creditor
WAIN, a wagon; to remove.
WALISE, a portmanteau, saddlebags.
WAN, won.
WANCHANCY, unlucky.
WARE, spend.
WEEL-FARD, weel-faur’d, having a good appearance.
WEISING, inclining, directing.
WHA, who.
WHAR, where.
WHAT FOR, why.
WHEEN, a few.
WHILE SYNE, a while ago.
WHILES, sometimes.
WHILK, which.
WHIN, a few.
WHINGEING, whining.
WINNA, will not.
WISKE, whisk.
YATE, gate.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Waverley; Or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since" ***
Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.