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Waverley

OR
’TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE

by Sir Walter Scott, BART.

With Introductory Essay and Notes

By ANDREW LANG

With Illustrations

1893

THIS NEW EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS
IS DEDICATED TO THE HON. MRS. MAXWELL SCOTT OF
ABBOTSFORD AND HER CHILDREN,

Walter, Mary, Michael, Alice, Malcolm,
Margaret and Herbert

GREAT-GRANDDAUGHTER AND GREAT-GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN
OF THE AUTHOR,
BY THE PUBLISHERS

TO
THE KING’S MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY.

SIRE,

The Author of this collection of Works of Fiction would not have
presumed to solicit for them your Majesty’s august patronage, were it
not that the perusal has been supposed in some instances to have
succeeded in amusing hours of relaxation, or relieving those of
languor, pain, or anxiety, and therefore must have so far aided the
warmest wish of your Majesty’s heart, by contributing in however small
a degree to the happiness of your people.

They are therefore humbly dedicated to your Majesty, agreeably to your
gracious permission, by

Your Majesty’s Dutiful Subject,

WALTER SCOTT.

ABBOTSFORD, 1_st January_, 1829.


Contents

 EDITOR’S NOTE
 ADVERTISEMENT
 GENERAL PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF WAVERLEY
 APPENDIX
 No. I. Fragment of a Romance which was to have been entitled Thomas the Rhymer. Chapter I.
 No. II. Conclusion of Mr. Strutt’s Romance of Queen-Hoo Hall.
 Chapter IV.
 Chapter V.
 No. III. Anecdote of School Days
 EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO WAVERLEY
 INTRODUCTION
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION

 VOLUME I.
 I. INTRODUCTORY
 II. WAVERLEY HONOUR—A RETROSPECT
 III. EDUCATION
 IV. CASTLE-BUILDING
 V. CHOICE OF A PROFESSION
 VI. THE ADIEUS OF WAVERLEY
 VII. A HORSE-QUARTER IN SCOTLAND
 VIII. A SCOTTISH MANOR-HOUSE SIXTY YEARS SINCE
 IX. MORE OF THE MANOR-HOUSE AND ITS ENVIRONS
 X. ROSE BRADWARDINE AND HER FATHER
 XI. THE BANQUET
 XII. REPENTANCE AND A RECONCILIATION
 XIII. A MORE RATIONAL DAY THAN THE LAST
 XIV. WAVERLEY BECOMES DOMESTICATED AT TULLY-VEOLAN
 XV. A CREAGH, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
 XVI. AN UNEXPECTED ALLY APPEARS
 XVII. THE HOLD OF A HIGHLAND ROBBER
 XVIII. WAVERLEY PROCEEDS ON HIS JOURNEY
 XIX. THE CHIEF AND HIS MANSION
 XX. A HIGHLAND FEAST
 XXI. THE CHIEFTAIN’S SISTER
 XXII. HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY
 XXIII. WAVERLEY CONTINUES AT GLENNAQUOICH 
 XXIV. STAG-HUNT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
 XXV. NEWS FROM ENGLAND
 XXVI. AN ECLAIRCISSEMENT
 XXVII. UPON THE SAME SUBJECT
 XXVIII. A LETTER FROM TULLY-VEOLAN
 XXIX. WAVERLEY’S RECEPTION IN THE LOWLANDS AFTER HIS HIGHLAND TOUR
 AUTHOR’S NOTES—Volume I.
 GLOSSARY—Volume I.

 VOLUME II.
 I. LOSS OF A HORSE’S SHOE MAY BE A SERIOUS INCONVENIENCE
 II. AN EXAMINATION
 III. A CONFERENCE, AND THE CONSEQUENCE
 IV. A CONFIDANT
 V. THINGS MEND A LITTLE
 VI. A VOLUNTEER SIXTY YEARS SINCE
 VII. AN INCIDENT
 VIII. WAVERLEY IS STILL IN DISTRESS
 IX. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE
 X. THE JOURNEY IS CONTINUED
 XI. AN OLD AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
 XII. THE MYSTERY BEGINS TO BE CLEARED
 XIII. A SOLDIER’S DINNER
 XIV. THE BALL
 XV. THE MARCH
 XVI. AN INCIDENT GIVES RISE TO UNAVAILING REFLECTIONS
 XVII. THE EVE OF BATTLE
 XVIII. THE CONFLICT
 XIX. AN UNEXPECTED EMBARRASSMENT
 XX. THE ENGLISH PRISONER
 XXI. RATHER UNIMPORTANT
 XXII. INTRIGUES OF LOVE AND POLITICS
 XXIII. INTRIGUES OF SOCIETY AND LOVE
 XXIV. FERGUS A SUITOR
 XXV. “TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER”
 XXVI. A BRAVE MAN IN SORROW
 XXVII. EXERTION
 XXVIII. THE MARCH
 XXIX. THE CONFUSION OF KING AGRAMANT’S CAMP
 XXX. A SKIRMISH
 XXXI. CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
 XXXII. A JOURNEY TO LONDON
 XXXIII. WHAT’S TO BE DONE NEXT?
 XXXIV. DESOLATION
 XXXV. COMPARING OF NOTES
 XXXVI. MORE EXPLANATION
 XXXVII.
 XXXVIII.
 XXXIX.
 XL.
 XLI. DULCE DOMUM
 XLII.
 XLIII. A POSTSCRIPT WHICH SHOULD HAVE BEEN A PREFACE
 AUTHOR’S NOTES—Volume II.
 GLOSSARY—Volume II. 


List of Illustrations

 VOLUME I.
 PORTRAIT OF SIR WALTER SCOTT—_Painted by Raeburn, Etched by Batley_
 ABBOTSFORD (FROM THE TWEED)—_Etched by D. Y. Cameron_
 TULLY-VEOLAN—_Painted by W. J. Leitch, Etched by H. W. Batley_
 “EH, SIRS!”—_Original Etching by George Cruickshank_
 WAVERLEY AND ROSE BRADWARDINE—_Etched by Ben. Damman_
 THE HOLD OF A HIGHLAND ROBBER—_Original Etching by R. W. Macbeth_
 FLORA MAC-IVOR AT THE WATERFALL—_Original Etching by R. W. Macbeth_

 VOLUME II.
 PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD IN SHELTER—_Etched by H. M. Raeburn_
 STIRLING CASTLE—_Etched by John Andrew and Son_
 BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE—_Painted by Pettie, Etched by Raeburn_
 COLONEL GARDINER—_Original Etching by H. Macbeth Raeburn_
 DISBANDED—_Painted by John Pettie, Etched by F. Huth_
 BAILIE MACWHEEBLE—_Painted by J. Lauder, Etched by H. Lefort_
 “LADY WAUVERLEY! TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!”—_Etching by Cruickshank_
 WAVERLEY’S LAST VISIT TO FLORA MAC-IVOR—_Painted by Herdman_
 DOUNE CASTLE (FROM THE TEITH)—_Etched by John Andrew and Son_

[Illustration]




EDITOR’S NOTE.


The purpose of the added matter in this edition of the Waverley
Novels—a reprint of the _magnum opus_ of 1829–1832—is to give to the
stories their historical setting, by stating the circumstances in which
they were composed and made their first appearance.

Sir Walter’s own delightful Introductions, written hastily, as Lockhart
says, and with a failing memory, have occasionally been corrected by
Lockhart himself. His “Life of Scott” must always be our first and best
source, but fragments of information may be gleaned from Sir Walter’s
unpublished correspondence.

The Editor owes to the kindness of Mrs. Maxwell Scott permission to
examine the twenty-four large volumes of letters to Sir Walter, and
some other manuscripts, which are preserved at Abbotsford. These yield
but little of contemporary criticism or remark, as is natural, for
Scott shared his secret with few, and most topics were more grateful to
him than his own writings. Lockhart left little for his successors to
do, and the more any one studies the Abbotsford manuscripts, the more
must he admire the industry and tact of Scott’s biographer.

The Editor has also put together some examples of contemporary
published criticism which it is now not uninteresting to glance over.
In selecting these he has been aided by the kindness of Mrs. Ogilbie.
From the Abbotsford manuscripts and other sources he has added notes on
points which have become obscure by lapse of time. He has especially to
thank, for their courteous and ready assistance, Lady Napier and
Ettrick, who lent him Sir Walter’s letters to her kinswoman, the
Marchioness of Abercorn; Mr. David Douglas, the editor and publisher of
Scott’s “Journal,” who has generously given the help of his antiquarian
knowledge; and Mr. David MacRitchie, who permitted him to use the
corrected proofs of “Redgauntlet.”

ANDREW LANG




ADVERTISEMENT TO THE WAVERLEY NOVELS


It has been the occasional occupation of the Author of “Waverley”, for
several years past, to revise and correct the voluminous series of
Novels which pass under that name, in order that, if they should ever
appear as his avowed productions, he might render them in some degree
deserving of a continuance of the public favour with which they have
been honoured ever since their first appearance. For a long period,
however, it seemed likely that the improved and illustrated edition
which he meditated would be a posthumous publication. But the course of
the events which occasioned the disclosure of the Author’s name having,
in a great measure, restored to him a sort of parental control over
these Works, he is naturally induced to give them to the press in a
corrected, and, he hopes, an improved form, while life and health
permit the task of revising and illustrating them. Such being his
purpose, it is necessary to say a few words on the plan of the proposed
Edition.

In stating it to be revised and corrected, it is not to be inferred
that any attempt is made to alter the tenor of the stories, the
character of the actors, or the spirit of the dialogue. There is no
doubt ample room for emendation in all these points,—but where the tree
falls it must lie. Any attempt to obviate criticism, however just, by
altering a work already in the hands of the public is generally
unsuccessful. In the most improbable fiction, the reader still desires
some air of _vraisemblance_, and does not relish that the incidents of
a tale familiar to him should be altered to suit the taste of critics,
or the caprice of the Author himself. This process of feeling is so
natural, that it may be observed even in children, who cannot endure
that a nursery story should be repeated to them differently from the
manner in which it was first told.

But without altering, in the slightest degree, either the story or the
mode of telling it, the Author has taken this opportunity to correct
errors of the press and slips of the pen. That such should exist cannot
be wondered at, when it is considered that the Publishers found it
their interest to hurry through the press a succession of the early
editions of the various Novels, and that the Author had not the usual
opportunity of revision. It is hoped that the present edition will be
found free from errors of that accidental kind.

The Author has also ventured to make some emendations of a different
character, which, without being such apparent deviations from the
original stories as to disturb the reader’s old associations, will, he
thinks, add something to the spirit of the dialogue, narrative, or
description. These consist in occasional pruning where the language is
redundant, compression where the style is loose, infusion of vigour
where it is languid, the exchange of less forcible for more appropriate
epithets—slight alterations in short, like the last touches of an
artist, which contribute to heighten and finish the picture, though an
inexperienced eye can hardly detect in what they consist.

The General Preface to the new Edition, and the Introductory Notices to
each separate work, will contain an account of such circumstances
attending the first publication of the Novels and Tales as may appear
interesting in themselves, or proper to be communicated to the public.
The Author also proposes to publish, on this occasion, the various
legends, family traditions, or obscure historical facts which have
formed the ground-work of these Novels, and to give some account of the
places where the scenes are laid, when these are altogether, or in
part, real; as well as a statement of particular incidents founded on
fact; together with a more copious Glossary, and Notes explanatory of
the ancient customs and popular superstitions referred to in the
Romances.

Upon the whole, it is hoped that the Waverley Novels, in their new
dress, will not be found to have lost any part of their attractions in
consequence of receiving illustrations by the Author, and undergoing
his careful revision.

ABBOTSFORD, _January_, 1829.




GENERAL PREFACE TO THE WAVERLEY NOVELS


And must I ravel out
My weaved-up follies?
          Richard II, Act IV.


Having undertaken to give an Introductory Account of the compositions
which are here offered to the public, with Notes and Illustrations, the
Author, under whose name they are now for the first time collected,
feels that he has the delicate task of speaking more of himself and his
personal concerns than may perhaps be either graceful or prudent. In
this particular he runs the risk of presenting himself to the public in
the relation that the dumb wife in the jest-book held to her husband,
when, having spent half of his fortune to obtain the cure of her
imperfection, he was willing to have bestowed the other half to restore
her to her former condition. But this is a risk inseparable from the
task which the Author has undertaken, and he can only promise to be as
little of an egotist as the situation will permit. It is perhaps an
indifferent sign of a disposition to keep his word, that, having
introduced himself in the third person singular, he proceeds in the
second paragraph to make use of the first. But it appears to him that
the seeming modesty connected with the former mode of writing is
overbalanced by the inconvenience of stiffness and affectation which
attends it during a narrative of some length, and which may be observed
less or more in every work in which the third person is used, from the
Commentaries of Cæsar to the Autobiography of Alexander the
Corrector.(_a_)[*]

[* See Editor’s Notes at the end of the Volume. Wherever a similar
reference occurs, the reader will understand that the same direction
applies.]


I must refer to a very early period of my life, were I to point out my
first achievements as a tale-teller; but I believe some of my old
schoolfellows can still bear witness that I had a distinguished
character for that talent, at a time when the applause of my companions
was my recompense for the disgraces and punishments which the future
romance-writer incurred for being idle himself, and keeping others
idle, during hours that should have been employed on our tasks. The
chief enjoyment of my holidays was to escape with a chosen friend,
(_b_) who had the same taste with myself, and alternately to recite to
each other such wild adventures as we were able to devise. We told,
each in turn, interminable tales of knight-errantry and battles and
enchantments, which were continued from one day to another as
opportunity offered, without our ever thinking of bringing them to a
conclusion. As we observed a strict secrecy on the subject of this
intercourse, it acquired all the character of a concealed pleasure, and
we used to select for the scenes of our indulgence long walks through
the solitary and romantic environs of Arthur’s Seat, Salisbury Crags,
Braid Hills, and similar places in the vicinity of Edinburgh; and the
recollection of those holidays still forms an oasis in the pilgrimage
which I have to look back upon. I have only to add, that my friend
still lives, a prosperous gentleman, but too much occupied with graver
business to thank me for indicating him more plainly as a confidant of
my childish mystery.

When boyhood advancing into youth required more serious studies and
graver cares, a long illness threw me back on the kingdom of fiction,
as if it were by a species of fatality. My indisposition arose, in part
at least, from my having broken a blood-vessel; and motion and speech
were for a long time pronounced positively dangerous. For several weeks
I was confined strictly to my bed, during which time I was not allowed
to speak above a whisper, to eat more than a spoonful or two of boiled
rice, or to have more covering than one thin counterpane. When the
reader is informed that I was at this time a growing youth, with the
spirits, appetite, and impatience of fifteen, and suffered, of course,
greatly under this severe regimen, which the repeated return of my
disorder rendered indispensable, he will not be surprised that I was
abandoned to my own discretion, so far as reading (my almost sole
amusement) was concerned, and still less so, that I abused the
indulgence which left my time so much at my own disposal.

There was at this time a circulating library in Edinburgh, founded, I
believe, by the celebrated Allan Ramsay, which, besides containing a
most respectable collection of books of every description, was, as
might have been expected, peculiarly rich in works of fiction. It
exhibited specimens of every kind, from the romances of chivalry and
the ponderous folios of Cyrus and Cassandra, down to the most approved
works of later times. I was plunged into this great ocean of reading
without compass or pilot; and, unless when some one had the charity to
play at chess with me, I was allowed to do nothing save read from
morning to night. I was, in kindness and pity, which was perhaps
erroneous, however natural, permitted to select my subjects of study at
my own pleasure, upon the same principle that the humours of children
are indulged to keep them out of mischief. As my taste and appetite
were gratified in nothing else, I indemnified myself by becoming a
glutton of books. Accordingly, I believe I read almost all the
romances, old plays, and epic poetry in that formidable collection, and
no doubt was unconsciously amassing materials for the task in which it
has been my lot to be so much employed.

At the same time I did not in all respects abuse the license permitted
me. Familiar acquaintance with the specious miracles of fiction brought
with it some degree of satiety, and I began by degrees to seek in
histories, memoirs, voyages and travels, and the like, events nearly as
wonderful as those which were the work of imagination, with the
additional advantage that they were at least in a great measure true.
The lapse of nearly two years, during which I was left to the exercise
of my own free will, was followed by a temporary residence in the
country, where I was again very lonely but for the amusement which I
derived from a good though old-fashioned library. The vague and wild
use which I made of this advantage I cannot describe better than by
referring my reader to the desultory studies of Waverley in a similar
situation, the passages concerning whose course of reading were
imitated from recollections of my own. It must be understood that the
resemblance extends no farther.

Time, as it glided on, brought the blessings of confirmed health and
personal strength, to a degree which had never been expected or hoped
for. The severe studies necessary to render me fit for my profession
occupied the greater part of my time; and the society of my friends and
companions, who were about to enter life along with, me, filled up the
interval with the usual amusements of young men. I was in a situation
which rendered serious labour indispensable; for, neither possessing,
on the one hand, any of those peculiar advantages which are supposed to
favour a hasty advance in the profession of the law, nor being, on the
other hand, exposed to unusual obstacles to interrupt my progress, I
might reasonably expect to succeed according to the greater or less
degree of trouble which I should take to qualify myself as a pleader.

It makes no part of the present story to detail how the success of a
few ballads had the effect of changing all the purpose and tenor of my
life, and of converting a painstaking lawyer of some years’ standing
into a follower of literature. It is enough to say, that I had assumed
the latter character for several years before I seriously thought of
attempting a work of imagination in prose, although one or two of my
poetical attempts did not differ from romances otherwise than by being
written in verse. But yet I may observe, that about this time (now,
alas! thirty years since) I had nourished the ambitious desire of
composing a tale of chivalry, which was to be in the style of the
“Castle of Otranto”, with plenty of Border characters and supernatural
incident. Having found unexpectedly a chapter of this intended work
among some old papers, I have subjoined it to this introductory essay,
thinking some readers may account as curious the first attempts at
romantic composition by an author who has since written so much in that
department.[*] And those who complain, not unreasonably, of the
profusion of the Tales which have followed Waverley, may bless their
stars at the narrow escape they have made, by the commencement of the
inundation, which had so nearly taken place in the first year of the
century, being postponed for fifteen years later.

[* See the fragment alluded to, in the Appendix No I.]


This particular subject was never resumed, but I did not abandon the
idea of fictitious composition in prose, though I determined to give
another turn to the style of the work.

My early recollections of the Highland scenery and customs made so
favourable an impression in the poem called the “Lady of the Lake” that
I was induced to think of attempting something of the same kind in
prose. I had been a good deal in the Highlands at a time when they were
much less accessible and much less visited than they have been of late
years, and was acquainted with many of the old warriors of 1745, who
were, like most veterans, easily induced to fight their battles over
again for the benefit of a willing listener like myself. It naturally
occurred to me that the ancient traditions and high spirit of a people
who, living in a civilised age and country, retained so strong a
tincture of manners belonging to an early period of society, must
afford a subject favourable for romance, if it should not prove a
curious tale marred in the telling.

It was with some idea of this kind that, about the year 1805, I threw
together about one-third part of the first volume of “Waverley.” It was
advertised to be published by the late Mr. John Ballantyne, bookseller
in Edinburgh, under the name of “Waverley; or, ’Tis Fifty Years
Since,”—a title afterwards altered to ’Tis Sixty Years Since, that the
actual date of publication might be made to correspond with the period
in which the scene was laid. Having proceeded as far, I think, as the
seventh chapter, I showed my work to a critical friend, whose opinion
was unfavourable; and having then some poetical reputation, I was
unwilling to risk the loss of it by attempting a new style of
composition. I therefore threw aside the work I had commenced, without
either reluctance or remonstrance. I ought to add that, though my
ingenious friend’s sentence was afterwards reversed on an appeal to the
public, it cannot be considered as any imputation on his good taste;
for the specimen subjected to his criticism did not extend beyond the
departure of the hero for Scotland, and consequently had not entered
upon the part of the story which was finally found most interesting.

Be that as it may, this portion of the manuscript was laid aside in the
drawers of an old writing-desk, which, on my first coming to reside at
Abbotsford in 1811, was placed in a lumber garret and entirely
forgotten. Thus, though I sometimes, among other literary avocations,
turned my thoughts to the continuation of the romance which I had
commenced, yet, as I could not find what I had already written, after
searching such repositories as were within my reach, and was too
indolent to attempt to write it anew from memory, I as often laid aside
all thoughts of that nature.

Two circumstances in particular recalled my recollection of the mislaid
manuscript. The first was the extended and well-merited fame of Miss
Edgeworth, whose Irish characters have gone so far to make the English
familiar with the character of their gay and kind-hearted neighbours of
Ireland, that she may be truly said to have done more towards
completing the Union than perhaps all the legislative enactments by
which it has been followed up.

Without being so presumptuous as to hope to emulate the rich humour,
pathetic tenderness, and admirable tact which pervade the works of my
accomplished friend, I felt that something might be attempted for my
own country, of the same kind with that which Miss Edgeworth so
fortunately achieved for Ireland—something which might introduce her
natives to those of the sister kingdom in a more favourable light than
they had been placed hitherto, and tend to procure sympathy for their
virtues and indulgence for their foibles. I thought also, that much of
what I wanted in talent might be made up by the intimate acquaintance
with the subject which I could lay claim to possess, as having
travelled through most parts of Scotland, both Highland and Lowland,
having been familiar with the elder as well as more modern race, and
having had from my infancy free and unrestrained communication with all
ranks of my countrymen, from the Scottish peer to the Scottish
plough-man. Such ideas often occurred to me, and constituted an
ambitious branch of my theory, however far short I may have fallen of
it in practice.

But it was not only the triumphs of Miss Edgeworth which worked in me
emulation, and disturbed my indolence. I chanced actually to engage in
a work which formed a sort of essay piece, and gave me hope that I
might in time become free of the craft of romance-writing, and be
esteemed a tolerable workman.

In the year 1807–08 I undertook, at the request of John Murray, Esq.,
of Albemarle Street, to arrange for publication some posthumous
productions of the late Mr. Joseph Strutt, distinguished as an artist
and an antiquary, amongst which was an unfinished romance, entitled
“Queen-Hoo Hall.” The scene of the tale was laid in the reign of Henry
VI., and the work was written to illustrate the manners, customs, and
language of the people of England during that period. The extensive
acquaintance which Mr. Strutt had acquired with such subjects in
compiling his laborious “Horda Angel-Cynnan,” his “Royal and
Ecclesiastical Antiquities,” and his “Essay on the Sports and Pastimes
of the People of England,” had rendered him familiar with all the
antiquarian lore necessary for the purpose of composing the projected
romance; and although the manuscript bore the marks of hurry and
incoherence natural to the first rough draught of the author, it
evinced (in my opinion) considerable powers of imagination.

As the work was unfinished, I deemed it my duty, as editor, to supply
such a hasty and inartificial conclusion as could be shaped out from
the story, of which Mr. Strutt had laid the foundation. This concluding
chapter[*] is also added to the present Introduction, for the reason
already mentioned regarding the preceding fragment. It was a step in my
advance towards romantic composition; and to preserve the traces of
these is in a great measure the object of this Essay.

[* See Appendix, No. II.]


“Queen-Hoo Hall” was not, however, very successful. I thought I was
aware of the reason, and supposed that, by rendering his language too
ancient, and displaying his antiquarian knowledge too liberally, the
ingenious author had raised up an obstacle to his own success. Every
work designed for mere amusement must be expressed in language easily
comprehended; and when, as is sometimes the case in “Queen-Hoo Hall,”
the author addresses himself exclusively to the antiquary, he must be
content to be dismissed by the general reader with the criticism of
Mungo, in the “Padlock,” on the Mauritanian music, “What signifies me
hear, if me no understand?”

I conceived it possible to avoid this error; and, by rendering a
similar work more light and obvious to general comprehension, to escape
the rock on which my predecessor was shipwrecked. But I was, on the
other hand, so far discouraged by the indifferent reception of Mr.
Strutt’s romance as to become satisfied that the manners of the middle
ages did not possess the interest which I had conceived; and was led to
form the opinion that a romance founded on a Highland story and more
modern events would have a better chance of popularity than a tale of
chivalry. My thoughts, therefore, returned more than once to the tale
which I had actually commenced, and accident at length threw the lost
sheets in my way.

I happened to want some fishing-tackle for the use of a guest, when it
occurred to me to search the old writing-desk already mentioned, in
which I used to keep articles of that nature. I got access to it with
some difficulty; and, in looking for lines and flies, the long-lost
manuscript presented itself. I immediately set to work to complete it
according to my original purpose. And here I must frankly confess that
the mode in which I conducted the story scarcely deserved the success
which the romance afterwards attained.

The tale of “Waverley” was put together with so little care that I
cannot boast of having sketched any distinct plan of the work. The
whole adventures of Waverley, in his movements up and down the country
with the Highland cateran Bean Lean, are managed without much skill. It
suited best, however, the road I wanted to travel, and permitted me to
introduce some descriptions of scenery and manners, to which the
reality gave an interest which the powers of the Author might have
otherwise failed to attain for them. And though I have been in other
instances a sinner in this sort, I do not recollect any of these novels
in which I have transgressed so widely as in the first of the series.

Among other unfounded reports, it has been said that the copyright of
“Waverley” was, during the book’s progress through the press, offered
for sale to various book-sellers in London at a very inconsiderable
price. This was not the case. Messrs. Constable and Cadell, who
published the work, were the only persons acquainted with the contents
of the publication, and they offered a large sum for it while in the
course of printing, which, however, was declined, the Author not
choosing to part with the copyright.

The origin of the story of “Waverley,” and the particular facts on
which it is founded, are given in the separate introduction prefixed to
that romance in this edition, and require no notice in this place.

“Waverley” was published in 1814, and, as the title-page was without
the name of the Author, the work was left to win its way in the world
without any of the usual recommendations. Its progress was for some
time slow; but after the first two or three months its popularity had
increased in a degree which must have satisfied the expectations of the
Author, had these been far more sanguine than he ever entertained.

Great anxiety was expressed to learn the name of the Author, but on
this no authentic information could be attained. My original motive for
publishing the work anonymously was the consciousness that it was an
experiment on the public taste which might very probably fail, and
therefore there was no occasion to take on myself the personal risk of
discomfiture. For this purpose considerable precautions were used to
preserve secrecy. My old friend and schoolfellow, Mr. James Ballantyne,
who printed these Novels, had the exclusive task of corresponding with
the Author, who thus had not only the advantage of his professional
talents, but also of his critical abilities. The original manuscript,
or, as it is technically called, copy, was transcribed under Mr.
Ballantyne’s eye by confidential persons; nor was there an instance of
treachery during the many years in which these precautions were
resorted to, although various individuals were employed at different
times. Double proof-sheets were regularly printed off. One was
forwarded to the Author by Mr. Ballantyne, and the alterations which it
received were, by his own hand, copied upon the other proof-sheet for
the use of the printers, so that even the corrected proofs of the
Author were never seen in the printing office; and thus the curiosity
of such eager inquirers as made the most minute investigation was
entirely at fault.

But although the cause of concealing the Author’s name in the first
instance, when the reception of “Waverley” was doubtful, was natural
enough, it is more difficult, it may be thought, to account for the
same desire for secrecy during the subsequent editions, to the amount
of betwixt eleven and twelve thousand copies, which followed each other
close, and proved the success of the work. I am sorry I can give little
satisfaction to queries on this subject. I have already stated
elsewhere that I can render little better reason for choosing to remain
anonymous than by saying with Shylock, that such was my humour. It will
be observed that I had not the usual stimulus for desiring personal
reputation, the desire, namely, to float amidst the conversation of
men. Of literary fame, whether merited or undeserved, I had already as
much as might have contented a mind more ambitious than mine; and in
entering into this new contest for reputation I might be said rather to
endanger what I had than to have any considerable chance of acquiring
more. I was affected, too, by none of those motives which, at an
earlier period of life, would doubtless have operated upon me. My
friendships were formed, my place in society fixed, my life had
attained its middle course. My condition in society was higher perhaps
than I deserved, certainly as high as I wished, and there was scarce
any degree of literary success which could have greatly altered or
improved my personal condition.

I was not, therefore, touched by the spur of ambition, usually
stimulating on such occasions; and yet I ought to stand exculpated from
the charge of ungracious or unbecoming indifference to public applause.
I did not the less feel gratitude for the public favour, although I did
not proclaim it; as the lover who wears his mistress’s favour in his
bosom is as proud, though not so vain, of possessing it as another who
displays the token of her grace upon his bonnet. Far from such an
ungracious state of mind, I have seldom felt more satisfaction than
when, returning from a pleasure voyage, I found “Waverley” in the
zenith of popularity, and public curiosity in full cry after the name
of the Author. The knowledge that I had the public approbation was like
having the property of a hidden treasure, not less gratifying to the
owner than if all the world knew that it was his own. Another advantage
was connected with the secrecy which I observed. I could appear or
retreat from the stage at pleasure, without attracting any personal
notice or attention, other than what might be founded on suspicion
only. In my own person also, as a successful author in another
department of literature, I might have been charged with too frequent
intrusions on the public patience; but the Author of “Waverley” was in
this respect as impassible to the critic as the Ghost of Hamlet to the
partisan of Marcellus. Perhaps the curiosity of the public, irritated
by the existence of a secret, and kept afloat by the discussions which
took place on the subject from time to time, went a good way to
maintain an unabated interest in these frequent publications. There was
a mystery concerning the Author which each new novel was expected to
assist in unravelling, although it might in other respects rank lower
than its predecessors.

I may perhaps be thought guilty of affectation, should I allege as one
reason of my silence a secret dislike to enter on personal discussions
concerning my own literary labours. It is in every case a dangerous
intercourse for an author to be dwelling continually among those who
make his writings a frequent and familiar subject of conversation, but
who must necessarily be partial judges of works composed in their own
society. The habits of self-importance which are thus acquired by
authors are highly injurious to a well-regulated mind; for the cup of
flattery, if it does not, like that of Circe, reduce men to the level
of beasts, is sure, if eagerly drained, to bring the best and the
ablest down to that of fools. This risk was in some degree prevented by
the mask which I wore; and my own stores of self-conceit were left to
their natural course, without being enhanced by the partiality of
friends or adulation of flatterers.

If I am asked further reasons for the conduct I have long observed, I
can only resort to the explanation supplied by a critic as friendly as
he is intelligent; namely, that the mental organisation of the novelist
must be characterised, to speak craniologically, by an extraordinary
development of the passion for delitescency! I the rather suspect some
natural disposition of this kind; for, from the instant I perceived the
extreme curiosity manifested on the subject, I felt a secret
satisfaction in baffling it, for which, when its unimportance is
considered, I do not well know how to account.

My desire to remain concealed, in the character of the Author of these
Novels, subjected me occasionally to awkward embarrassments, as it
sometimes happened that those who were sufficiently intimate with me
would put the question in direct terms. In this case, only one of three
courses could be followed. Either I must have surrendered my secret, or
have returned an equivocating answer, or, finally, must have stoutly
and boldly denied the fact. The first was a sacrifice which I conceive
no one had a right to force from me, since I alone was concerned in the
matter. The alternative of rendering a doubtful answer must have left
me open to the degrading suspicion that I was not unwilling to assume
the merit (if there was any) which I dared not absolutely lay claim to;
or those who might think more justly of me must have received such an
equivocal answer as an indirect avowal. I therefore considered myself
entitled, like an accused person put upon trial, to refuse giving my
own evidence to my own conviction, and flatly to deny all that could
not be proved against me. At the same time I usually qualified my
denial by stating that, had I been the Author of these works, I would
have felt myself quite entitled to protect my secret by refusing my own
evidence, when it was asked for to accomplish a discovery of what I
desired to conceal.

The real truth is, that I never expected or hoped to disguise my
connection with these Novels from any one who lived on terms of
intimacy with me. The number of coincidences which necessarily existed
between narratives recounted, modes of expression, and opinions
broached in these Tales and such as were used by their Author in the
intercourse of private life must have been far too great to permit any
of my familiar acquaintances to doubt the identity betwixt their friend
and the Author of “Waverley;” and I believe they were all morally
convinced of it. But while I was myself silent, their belief could not
weigh much more with the world than that of others; their opinions and
reasoning were liable to be taxed with partiality, or confronted with
opposing arguments and opinions; and the question was not so much
whether I should be generally acknowledged to be the Author, in spite
of my own denial, as whether even my own avowal of the works, if such
should be made, would be sufficient to put me in undisputed possession
of that character.

I have been often asked concerning supposed cases, in which I was said
to have been placed on the verge of discovery; but, as I maintained my
point with the composure of a lawyer of thirty years’ standing, I never
recollect being in pain or confusion on the subject. In Captain
Medwyn’s “Conversations of Lord Byron” the reporter states himself to
have asked my noble and highly gifted friend, “If he was certain about
these Novels being Sir Walter Scott’s?” To which Lord Byron replied,
“Scott as much as owned himself the Author of ‘Waverley’ to me in
Murray’s shop. I was talking to him about that Novel, and lamented that
its Author had not carried back the story nearer to the time of the
Revolution. Scott, entirely off his guard, replied, ‘Ay, I might have
done so; but—’ there he stopped. It was in vain to attempt to correct
himself; he looked confused, and relieved his embarrassment by a
precipitate retreat.” I have no recollection whatever of this scene
taking place, and I should have thought that I was more likely to have
laughed than to appear confused, for I certainly never hoped to impose
upon Lord Byron in a case of the kind; and from the manner in which he
uniformly expressed himself, I knew his opinion was entirely formed,
and that any disclamations of mine would only have savoured of
affectation. I do not mean to insinuate that the incident did not
happen, but only that it could hardly have occurred exactly under the
circumstances narrated, without my recollecting something positive on
the subject. In another part of the same volume Lord Byron is reported
to have expressed a supposition that the cause of my not avowing myself
the Author of “Waverley” may have been some surmise that the reigning
family would have been displeased with the work. I can only say, it is
the last apprehension I should have entertained, as indeed the
inscription to these volumes sufficiently proves. The sufferers of that
melancholy period have, during the last and present reign, been
honoured both with the sympathy and protection of the reigning family,
whose magnanimity can well pardon a sigh from others, and bestow one
themselves, to the memory of brave opponents, who did nothing in hate,
but all in honour.

While those who were in habitual intercourse with the real author had
little hesitation in assigning the literary property to him, others,
and those critics of no mean rank, employed themselves in investigating
with persevering patience any characteristic features which might seem
to betray the origin of these Novels. Amongst these, one gentleman,
equally remarkable for the kind and liberal tone of his criticism, the
acuteness of his reasoning, and the very gentlemanlike manner in which
he conducted his inquiries, displayed not only powers of accurate
investigation, but a temper of mind deserving to be employed on a
subject of much greater importance; and I have no doubt made converts
to his opinion of almost all who thought the point worthy of
consideration.[*] Of those letters, and other attempts of the same
kind, the Author could not complain, though his incognito was
endangered. He had challenged the public to a game at bo-peep, and if
he was discovered in his “hiding-hole,” he must submit to the shame of
detection.

[* Letters on the Author of Waverley; Rodwell and Martin, London,
1822.(_d_)]


Various reports were of course circulated in various ways; some founded
on an inaccurate rehearsal of what may have been partly real, some on
circumstances having no concern whatever with the subject, and others
on the invention of some importunate persons, who might perhaps imagine
that the readiest mode of forcing the Author to disclose himself was to
assign some dishonourable and discreditable cause for his silence.

It may be easily supposed that this sort of inquisition was treated
with contempt by the person whom it principally regarded; as, among all
the rumours that were current, there was only one, and that as
unfounded as the others, which had nevertheless some alliance to
probability, and indeed might have proved in some degree true.

I allude to a report which ascribed a great part, or the whole, of
these Novels to the late Thomas Scott, Esq., of the 70th Regiment, then
stationed in Canada. Those who remember that gentleman will readily
grant that, with general talents at least equal to those of his elder
brother, he added a power of social humour and a deep insight into
human character which rendered him an universally delightful member of
society, and that the habit of composition alone was wanting to render
him equally successful as a writer. The Author of “Waverley” was so
persuaded of the truth of this, that he warmly pressed his brother to
make such an experiment, and willingly undertook all the trouble of
correcting and superintending the press. Mr. Thomas Scott seemed at
first very well disposed to embrace the proposal, and had even fixed on
a subject and a hero. The latter was a person well known to both of us
in our boyish years, from having displayed some strong traits of
character. Mr. T. Scott had determined to represent his youthful
acquaintance as emigrating to America, and encountering the dangers and
hardships of the New World, with the same dauntless spirit which he had
displayed when a boy in his native country. Mr. Scott would probably
have been highly successful, being familiarly acquainted with the
manners of the native Indians, of the old French settlers in Canada,
and of the Brulés, or Woodsmen, and having the power of observing with
accuracy what I have no doubt he could have sketched with force and
expression. In short, the Author believes his brother would have made
himself distinguished in that striking field in which, since that
period, Mr. Cooper has achieved so many triumphs. But Mr. T. Scott was
already affected by bad health, which wholly unfitted him for literary
labour, even if he could have reconciled his patience to the task. He
never, I believe, wrote a single line of the projected work; and I only
have the melancholy pleasure of preserving in the Appendix[*] the
simple anecdote on which he proposed to found it.

[* See Appendix, No. III.]


To this I may add, I can easily conceive that there may have been
circumstances which gave a colour to the general report of my brother
being interested in these works; and in particular that it might derive
strength from my having occasion to remit to him, in consequence of
certain family transactions, some considerable sums of money about that
period. To which it is to be added that if any person chanced to evince
particular curiosity on such a subject, my brother was likely enough to
divert himself with practising on their credulity.

It may be mentioned that, while the paternity of these Novels was from
time to time warmly disputed in Britain, the foreign booksellers
expressed no hesitation on the matter, but affixed my name to the whole
of the Novels, and to some besides to which I had no claim.

The volumes, therefore, to which the present pages form a Preface are
entirely the composition of the Author by whom they are now
acknowledged, with the exception, always, of avowed quotations, and
such unpremeditated and involuntary plagiarisms as can scarce be
guarded against by any one who has read and written a great deal. The
original manuscripts are all in existence, and entirely written
(_horresco referens_) in the Author’s own hand, excepting during the
years 1818 and 1819, when, being affected with severe illness, he was
obliged to employ the assistance of a friendly amanuensis.

The number of persons to whom the secret was necessarily entrusted, or
communicated by chance, amounted, I should think, to twenty at least,
to whom I am greatly obliged for the fidelity with which they observed
their trust, until the derangement of the affairs of my publishers,
Messrs. Constable and Co., and the exposure of their account books,
which was the necessary consequence, rendered secrecy no longer
possible. The particulars attending the avowal have been laid before
the public in the Introduction to the “Chronicles of the Canongate.”

The preliminary advertisement has given a sketch of the purpose of this
edition. I have some reason to fear that the notes which accompany the
tales, as now published, may be thought too miscellaneous and too
egotistical. It maybe some apology for this, that the publication was
intended to be posthumous, and still more, that old men may be
permitted to speak long, because they cannot in the course of nature
have long time to speak. In preparing the present edition, I have done
all that I can do to explain the nature of my materials, and the use I
have made of them; nor is it probable that I shall again revise or even
read these tales. I was therefore desirous rather to exceed in the
portion of new and explanatory matter which is added to this edition
than that the reader should have reason to complain that the
information communicated was of a general and merely nominal character.
It remains to be tried whether the public (like a child to whom a watch
is shown) will, after having been satiated with looking at the outside,
acquire some new interest in the object when it is opened and the
internal machinery displayed to them.

That “Waverley” and its successors have had their day of favour and
popularity must be admitted with sincere gratitude; and the Author has
studied (with the prudence of a beauty whose reign has been rather
long) to supply, by the assistance of art, the charms which novelty no
longer affords. The publishers have endeavoured to gratify the
honourable partiality of the public for the encouragement of British
art, by illustrating this edition with designs by the most eminent
living artists.

[Footnote: The illustrations here referred to were made for the edition
of 1829]


To my distinguished countryman, David Wilkie, to Edwin Landseer, who
has exercised his talents so much on Scottish subjects and scenery, to
Messrs. Leslie and Newton, my thanks are due, from a friend as well as
an author. Nor am I less obliged to Messrs. Cooper, Kidd, and other
artists of distinction to whom I am less personally known, for the
ready zeal with which they have devoted their talents to the same
purpose.

Farther explanation respecting the Edition is the business of the
publishers, not of the Author; and here, therefore, the latter has
accomplished his task of introduction and explanation. If, like a
spoiled child, he has sometimes abused or trifled with the indulgence
of the public, he feels himself entitled to full belief when he
exculpates himself from the charge of having been at any time
insensible of their kindness.

ABBOTSFORD,
1_st January_, 1829.




APPENDIX
No. I.[*]

FRAGMENT OF A ROMANCE WHICH WAS TO HAVE BEEN ENTITLED

THOMAS THE RHYMER.

[* It is not to be supposed that these fragments are given as
possessing any intrinsic value of themselves; but there may be some
curiosity attached to them, as to the first etchings of a plate, which
are accounted interesting by those who have, in any degree, been
interested in the more finished works of the artist.]

CHAPTER I.

The sun was nearly set behind the distant mountains of Liddesdale, when
a few of the scattered and terrified inhabitants of the village of
Hersildoun, which had four days before been burned by a predatory band
of English Borderers, were now busied in repairing their ruined
dwellings. One high tower in the centre of the village alone exhibited
no appearance of devastation. It was surrounded with court walls, and
the outer gate was barred and bolted. The bushes and brambles which
grew around, and had even insinuated their branches beneath the gate,
plainly showed that it must have been many years since it had been
opened. While the cottages around lay in smoking ruins, this pile,
deserted and desolate as it seemed to be, had suffered nothing from the
violence of the invaders; and the wretched beings who were endeavouring
to repair their miserable huts against nightfall, seemed to neglect the
preferable shelter which it might have afforded them, without the
necessity of labour.

Before the day had quite gone down, a knight, richly armed, and mounted
upon an ambling hackney, rode slowly into the village. His attendants
were a lady, apparently young and beautiful, who rode by his side upon
a dappled palfrey; his squire, who carried his helmet and lance, and
led his battle-horse, a noble steed, richly caparisoned. A page and
four yeomen, bearing bows and quivers, short swords, and targets of a
span breadth, completed his equipage, which, though small, denoted him
to be a man of high rank.

He stopped and addressed several of the inhabitants whom curiosity had
withdrawn from their labour to gaze at him; but at the sound of his
voice, and still more on perceiving the St. George’s Cross in the caps
of his followers, they fled, with a loud cry that the Southrons were
returned. The knight endeavoured to expostulate with the fugitives, who
were chiefly aged men, women, and children; but their dread of the
English name accelerated their flight, and in a few minutes, excepting
the knight and his attendants, the place was deserted by all. He paced
through the village to seek a shelter for the night, and despairing to
find one either in the inaccessible tower or the plundered huts of the
peasantry, he directed his course to the left hand, where he spied a
small, decent habitation, apparently the abode of a man considerably
above the common rank. After much knocking, the proprietor at length
showed himself at the window, and speaking in the English dialect, with
great signs of apprehension, demanded their business. The warrior
replied that his quality was an English knight and baron, and that he
was travelling to the court of the king of Scotland on affairs of
consequence to both kingdoms.

“Pardon my hesitation, noble Sir Knight,” said the old man, as he
unbolted and unbarred his doors,—

“Pardon my hesitation, but we are here exposed to too many intrusions
to admit of our exercising unlimited and unsuspicious hospitality. What
I have is yours; and God send your mission may bring back peace and the
good days of our old Queen Margaret!”

“Amen, worthy franklin,” quoth the knight,—“Did you know her?”

“I came to this country in her train,” said the franklin; “and the care
of some of her jointure lands, which she devolved on me, occasioned my
settling here.”

“And how do you, being an Englishman,” said the knight, “protect your
life and property here, when one of your nation cannot obtain a single
night’s lodging, or a draught of water, were he thirsty?”

“Marry, noble sir,” answered the franklin, “use, as they say, will make
a man live in a lion’s den; and as I settled here in a quiet time, and
have never given cause of offence, I am respected by my neighbours, and
even, as you see, by our _forayers_ from England.”

“I rejoice to hear it, and accept your hospitality. Isabella, my love,
our worthy host will provide you a bed. My daughter, good franklin, is
ill at ease. We will occupy your house till the Scottish king shall
return from his Northern expedition. Meanwhile call me Lord Lacy of
Chester.”

The attendants of the baron, assisted by the franklin, were now busied
in disposing of the horses and arranging the table for some refreshment
for Lord Lacy and his fair companion. While they sat down to it, they
were attended by their host and his daughter, whom custom did not
permit to eat in their presence, and who afterwards withdrew to an
outer chamber, where the squire and page (both young men of noble
birth) partook of supper, and were accommodated with beds. The yeomen,
after doing honour to the rustic cheer of Queen Margaret’s bailiff,
withdrew to the stable, and each, beside his favourite horse, snored
away the fatigues of their journey. Early on the following morning the
travellers were roused by a thundering knocking at the door of the
house, accompanied with many demands for instant admission, in the
roughest tone. The squire and page, of Lord Lacy, after buckling on
their arms, were about to sally out to chastise these intruders, when
the old host, after looking out at a private casement, contrived for
reconnoitring his visitors, entreated them, with great signs of terror,
to be quiet, if they did not mean that all in the house should be
murdered.

He then hastened to the apartment of Lord Lacy, whom he met dressed in
a long furred gown and the knightly cap called a _mortier_, irritated
at the noise, and demanding to know the cause which had disturbed the
repose of the household.

“Noble sir,” said the franklin, “one of the most formidable and bloody
of the Scottish Border riders is at hand. He is never seen,” added he,
faltering with terror, “so far from the hills, but with some bad
purpose, and the power of accomplishing it; so hold yourself to your
guard, for—”

A loud crash here announced that the door was broken down, and the
knight just descended the stair in time to prevent bloodshed betwixt
his attendants and the intruders. They were three in number. Their
chief was tall, bony, and athletic, his spare and muscular frame, as
well as the hardness of his features, marked the course of his life to
have been fatiguing and perilous. The effect of his appearance was
aggravated by his dress, which consisted of a jack, or jacket, composed
of thick buff leather, on which small plates of iron of a lozenge form
were stitched, in such a manner as to overlap each other and form a
coat of mail, which swayed with every motion of the wearer’s body. This
defensive armour covered a doublet of coarse gray cloth, and the
Borderer had a few half-rusted plates of steel on his shoulders, a
two-edged sword, with a dagger hanging beside it, in a buff belt; a
helmet, with a few iron bars, to cover the face instead of a visor, and
a lance of tremendous and uncommon length, completed his appointments.
The looks of the man were as wild and rude as his attire; his keen
black eyes never rested one moment fixed upon a single object, but
constantly traversed all around, as if they ever sought some danger to
oppose, some plunder to seize, or some insult to revenge. The latter
seemed to be his present object, for, regardless of the dignified
presence of Lord Lacy, he uttered the most incoherent threats against
the owner of the house and his guests.

“We shall see—ay, marry shall we—if an English hound is to harbour and
reset the Southrons here. Thank the Abbot of Melrose and the good
Knight of Coldingnow that have so long kept me from your skirts. But
those days are gone, by St. Mary, and you shall find it!”

It is probable the enraged Borderer would not have long continued to
vent his rage in empty menaces, had not the entrance of the four
yeomen, with their bows bent, convinced him that the force was not at
this moment on his own side.

Lord Lacy now advanced towards him. “You intrude upon my privacy,
soldier; withdraw yourself and Your followers. There is peace betwixt
our nations, or my servants should chastise thy presumption.”

“Such peace as ye give such shall you have,” answered the moss-trooper,
first pointing with his lance towards the burned village, and then
almost instantly levelling it against Lord Lacy. The squire drew his
sword, and severed at one blow the steel head from the truncheon of the
spear.

“Arthur Fitzherbert,” said the baron, “that stroke has deferred thy
knighthood for one year; never must that squire wear the spurs whose
unbridled impetuosity can draw unbidden his sword in the presence of
his master. Go hence, and think on what I have said.”

The squire left the chamber abashed.

“It were vain,” continued Lord Lacy, “to expect that courtesy from a
mountain churl which even my own followers can forget. Yet before thou
drawest thy brand,” for the intruder laid his hand upon the hilt of his
sword, “thou wilt do well to reflect that I came with a safe-conduct
from thy king, and have no time to waste in brawls with such as thou.”

“From _my_ king,—from my king!” re-echoed the mountaineer. “I care not
that rotten truncheon,” striking the shattered spear furiously on the
ground, “for the king of Fife and Lothian. But Habby of Cessford will
be here belive; and we shall soon know if he will permit an English
churl to occupy his hostelry.”

Having uttered these words, accompanied with a lowering glance from
under his shaggy black eyebrows, he turned on his heel and left the
house with his two followers; they mounted their horses, which they had
tied to an outer fence, and vanished in an instant.

“Who is this discourteous ruffian?” said Lord Lacy to the franklin, who
had stood in the most violent agitation during this whole scene.

“His name, noble lord, is Adam Kerr of the Moat, but he is commonly
called by his companions the Black Rider of Cheviot. I fear, I fear, he
comes hither for no good; but if the Lord of Cessford be near, he will
not dare offer any unprovoked outrage.”

“I have heard of that chief,” said the baron; “let me know when he
approaches. And do thou, Rodulph,” to the eldest yeoman, “keep a strict
watch. Adelbert,” to the page, “attend to arm me.” The page bowed, and
the baron withdrew to the chamber of the lady Isabella, to explain the
cause of the disturbance.


No more of the proposed tale was ever written; but the Author’s purpose
was that it should turn upon a fine legend of superstition which is
current in the part of the Borders where he had his residence, where,
in the reign of Alexander III. of Scotland, that renowned person,
Thomas of Hersildoune, called the Rhymer, actually flourished. This
personage, the Merlin of Scotland, and to whom some of the adventures
which the British bards assigned to Merlin Caledonius, or the Wild,
have been transferred by tradition, was, as is well known, a magician,
as well as a poet and prophet. He is alleged still to live in the land
of Faery, and is expected to return at some great convulsion of
society, in which he is to act a distinguished part,—a tradition common
to all nations, as the belief of the Mahomedans respecting their
twelfth Imaum demonstrates.

Now, it chanced many years since that there lived on the Borders a
jolly, rattling horse-cowper, who was remarkable for a reckless and
fearless temper, which made him much admired, and a little dreaded,
amongst his neighbours. One moonlight night, as he rode over Bowden
Moor, on the west side of the Eildon Hills, the scene of Thomas the
Rhymer’s prophecies, and often mentioned in his story, having a brace
of horses along with him which he had not been able to dispose of, he
met a man of venerable appearance and singularly antique dress, who, to
his great surprise, asked the price of his horses, and began to chaffer
with him on the subject. To Canobie Dick—(for so shall we call our
Border dealer)—a chap was a chap, and he would have sold a liaise to
the devil himself, without minding his cloven hoof, and would have
probably cheated Old Nick into the bargain. The stranger paid the price
they agreed on; and all that puzzled Dick in the transaction was that
the gild which he received was in unicorns, bonnet-pieces, and other
ancient coins, which would have been invaluable to collectors, but were
rather troublesome, in modern currency.

It was gold, however, and therefore Dick contrived to get better value
for the coin than he perhaps gave to his customer. By the command of so
good a merchant, he brought horses to the same slot more than once; the
purchaser only stipulating that he should always come by night, and
alone. I do not know whether it was from mere curiosity, or whether
some hope of gain mixed with it, but after Dick had sold several horses
in this way, he began to complain that dry-bargains were unlucky, and
to hint that since his chap must live in the neighbourhood, he ought,
in the courtesy of dealing, to treat him to half a mutchkin.

“You may see my dwelling if you will,” said the stranger; “but if you
lose courage at what you see there, you will rue it all your life.”

Dicken, however, laughed the warning to scorn, and having alighted to
secure his horse, he followed the stranger up a narrow foot-path, which
led them up the hills to the singular eminence stuck betwixt the most
southern and the centre peaks, and called, from its resemblance to such
an animal in its form, the Lucken Hare. At the foot of this eminence,
which is almost as famous for witch meetings as the neighbouring
wind-mill of Kippilaw, Dick was somewhat startled to observe that his
conductor entered the hill-side by a passage or cavern, of which he
himself, though well acquainted with the spot, had never seen or heard.

“You may still return,” said his guide, looking ominously back upon
him; but Dick scorned to show the white feather, and on they went. They
entered a very long range of stables; in every stall stood a coal-black
horse; by every horse lay a knight in coal-black armour, with a drawn
sword in his hand; but all were as silent, hoof and limb, as if they
had been cut out of marble. A great number of torches lent a gloomy
lustre to the hall, which, like those of the Caliph Vathek, was of
large dimensions. At the upper end, however, they at length arrived,
where a sword and horn lay on an antique table.

“He that shall sound that horn and draw that sword,” said the stranger,
who now intimated that he was the famous Thomas of Hersildoune, “shall,
if his heart fail him not, be king over all broad Britain. So speaks
the tongue that cannot lie. But all depends on courage, and much on
your taking the sword or the horn first.” Dick was much disposed to
take the sword; but his bold spirit was quailed by the supernatural
terrors of the hall, and he thought to unsheathe the sword first, might
be construed into defiance, and give offence to the powers of the
Mountain. He took the bugle with a trembling hand, and a feeble note,
but loud enough to produce a terrible answer. Thunder rolled in
stunning peals through the immense hall; horses and men started to
life; the steeds snorted, stamped, grinned their bits, and tossed on
high their heads; the warriors sprung to their feet, clashed their
armour, and brandished their swords. Dick’s terror was extreme at
seeing the whole army, which had been so lately silent as the grave, in
uproar, and about to rush on him. He dropped the horn, and made a
feeble attempt to seize the enchanted sword; but at the same moment a
voice pronounced aloud the mysterious words,—

“Woe to the coward, that ever he was born,
Who did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!”


At the same time a whirlwind of irresistible fury howled through the
long hall, bore the unfortunate horse-jockey clear out of the mouth of
the cavern, and precipitated him over a steep bank of loose stones,
where the shepherds found him the next morning with just breath
sufficient to tell his fearful tale, after concluding which he expired.

This legend, with several variations, is found in many parts of
Scotland and England. The scene is sometimes laid in some favourite
glen of the Highlands, sometimes in the deep coal-mines of
Northumberland and Cumberland, which rim so far beneath the ocean. It
is also to be found in Reginald Scott’s book on Witchcraft, which was
written in the sixteenth century. It would be in vain to ask what was
the original of the tradition. The choice between the horn and sword
may, perhaps, include as a moral that it is foolhardy to awaken danger
before we have arms in our hands to resist it.

Although admitting of much poetical ornament, it is clear that this
legend would have formed but an unhappy foundation for a prose story,
and must have degenerated into a mere fairy tale. Dr. John Leyden has
beautifully introduced the tradition in his “Scenes of Infancy”:—

“Mysterious Rhymer, doomed by fate’s decree
Still to revisit Eildon’s fated tree,
Where oft the swain, at dawn of Hallow-day,
Hears thy fleet barb with wild impatience neigh,—
Say, who is he, with summons long and high,
Shall bid the charmed sleep of ages fly,
Roll the long sound through Eildon’s caverns vast,
While each dark warrior kindles at the blast,
The horn, the falchion, grasp with mighty hand,
And peal proud Arthur’s march from Fairy-land?”[*]


[* Scenes of Infancy, Part I.]


In the same cabinet with the preceding fragment, the following occurred
among other _disjecta membra_. It seems to be an attempt at a tale of a
different description from the last, but was almost instantly
abandoned. The introduction points out the time of the composition to
have been about the end of the eighteenth century.

THE LORD OF ENNERDALE.

IN A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM JOHN B______, ESQ., OF THAT ILK, TO
WILLIAM G______, F.R.S.E.


“Fill a bumper,” said the knight; “the ladies may spare us a little
longer. Fill a bumper to the Archduke Charles.”

The company did due honour to the toast of their landlord.

“The success of the archduke,” said the muddy vicar, “will tend to
further our negotiation at Paris; and if—”

“Pardon the interruption, Doctor,” quoth a thin, emaciated figure, with
somewhat of a foreign accent; “but why should you connect those events,
unless to hope that the bravery and victories of our allies may
supersede the necessity of a degrading treaty?”

“We begin to feel, Monsieur L’Abbé,” answered the vicar, with some
asperity, “that a Continental war entered into for the defence of an
ally who was unwilling to defend himself, and for the restoration of a
royal family, nobility, and priesthood who tamely abandoned their own
rights, is a burden too much even for the resources of this country.”

“And was the war, then, on the part of Great Britain,” rejoined the
Abbé, “a gratuitous exertion of generosity? Was there no fear of the
wide-wasting spirit of innovation which had gone abroad? Did not the
laity tremble for their property, the clergy for their religion, and
every loyal heart for the Constitution? Was it not thought necessary to
destroy the building which was on fire, ere the conflagration spread
around the vicinity?”

“Yet if upon trial,” said the doctor, “the walls were found to resist
our utmost efforts, I see no great prudence in persevering in our
labour amid the smouldering ruins.”

“What, Doctor,” said the baronet, “must I call to your recollection
your own sermon on the late general fast? Did you not encourage us to
hope that the Lord of Hosts would go forth with our armies, and that
our enemies, who blasphemed him, should be put to shame?”

“It may please a kind father to chasten even his beloved children,”
answered the vicar.

“I think,” said a gentleman near the foot of the table, “that the
Covenanters made some apology of the same kind for the failure of their
prophecies at the battle of Danbar, when their mutinous preachers
compelled the prudent Lesley to go down against the Philistines in
Gilgal.”

The vicar fixed a scrutinizing and not a very complacent eye upon this
intruder. He was a young man, of mean stature and rather a reserved
appearance. Early and severe study had quenched in his features the
gaiety peculiar to his age, and impressed upon them a premature cast of
thoughtfulness. His eve had, however, retained its fire, and his
gesture its animation. Had he remained silent, he would have been long
unnoticed; but when he spoke, there was something in his manner which
arrested attention.

“Who is this young man?” said the vicar, in a low voice, to his
neighbour.

“A Scotchman called Maxwell, on a visit to Sir Henry,” was the answer.

“I thought so, from his accent and his manner,” said the vicar. It may
be here observed that the Northern English retain rather more of the
ancient hereditary aversion to their neighbors than their countrymen of
the South. The interference of other disputants, each of whom urged his
opinion with all the vehemence of wine and politics, rendered the
summons to the drawing-room agreeable to the more sober part of the
company.

The company dispersed by degrees, and at length the vicar and the young
Scotchman alone remained, besides the baronet, his lady, daughters, and
myself. The clergyman had not, it would seem, forgot the observation
which ranked him with the false prophets of Dunbar, for he addressed
Mr. Maxwell upon the first opportunity.

“Hem! I think, sir, you mentioned something about the civil wars of
last century. You must be deeply skilled in them indeed, if you can
draw any parallel betwixt those and the present evil days,—davs which I
am ready to maintain are the most gloomy that ever darkened the
prospects of Britain.”

“God forbid, Doctor, that I should draw a comparison between the
present times and those you mention; I am too sensible of the
advantages we enjoy over our ancestors. Faction and ambition have
introduced division among us; but we are still free from the guilt of
civil bloodshed, and from all the evils which flow from it. Our foes,
sir, are not those of our own household; and while we continue united
and firm, from the attacks of a foreign enemy, however artful, or
however inveterate, we have, I hope, little to dread.”

“Have you found anything curious, Mr. Maxwell, among the dusty papers?”
said Sir Henry, who seemed to dread a revival of political discussion.

“My investigation amongst them led to reflection’s which I have just
now hinted,” said Maxwell; “and I think they are pretty strongly
exemplified by a story which I have been endeavouring to arrange from
some of your family manuscripts.”

“You are welcome to make what use of them you please,” said Sir Henry;
“they have been undisturbed for many a day, and I have often wished for
some person as well skilled as you in these old pothooks, to tell me
their meaning.”

“Those I just mentioned,” answered Maxwell, “relate to a piece of
private history savouring not a little of the marvellous, and
intimately connected with your family; if it is agreeable, I can read
to you the anecdotes in the modern shape into which I have been
endeavouring to throw them, and you can then judge of the value of the
originals.”

There was something in this proposal agreeable to all parties. Sir
Henry had family pride, which prepared him to take an interest in
whatever related to his ancestors. The ladies had dipped deeply into
the fashionable reading of the present day. Lady Ratcliff and her fair
daughters had climbed every pass, viewed every pine-shrouded ruin,
heard every groan, and lifted every trap-door, in company with the
noted heroine of “Udolpho.” They had been heard, however, to observe
that the famous incident of the Black Veil singularly resembled the
ancient apologue of the Mountain in labour, so that they were
unquestionably critics, as well as admirers. Besides all this, they had
valorously mounted _en croupe_ behind the ghostly horseman of Prague,
through all his seven translators, and followed the footsteps of Moor
through the forest of Bohemia. Moreover, it was even hinted (but this
was a greater mystery than all the rest) that a certain performance,
called the “Monk,” in three neat volumes, had been seen by a prying
eye, in the right-hand drawer of the Indian cabinet of Lady Ratcliff’s
dressing-room. Thus predisposed for wonders and signs, Lady Ratcliff
and her nymphs drew their chairs round a large blazing wood-fire, and
arranged themselves to listen to the tale. To that fire I also
approached, moved thereunto partly by the inclemency of the season, and
partly that my deafness, which you know, cousin, I acquired during my
campaign under Prince Charles Edward, might be no obstacle to the
gratification of my curiosity, which was awakened by what had any
reference to the fate of such faithful followers of royalty as you well
know the house of Ratcliff have ever been. To this wood-fire the vicar
likewise drew near, and reclined himself conveniently in his chair,
seemingly disposed to testify his disrespect for the narration and
narrator by falling asleep as soon as he conveniently could. By the
side of Maxwell (by the way, I cannot learn that he is in the least
related to the Nithsdale family) was placed a small table and a couple
of lights, by the assistance of which he read as follows:—

“Journal of Jan Von Eulen.


“On the 6th November, 1645, I, Jan Von Enlen, merchant in Rotterdam,
embarked with my only daughter on board of the good vessel ‘Vryheid,’
of Amsterdam, in order to pass into the unhappy and disturbed kingdom
of England.—7_th November_. A brisk gale; daughter sea-sick; myself
unable to complete the calculation which I have begun, of the
inheritance left by Jane Lansache, of Carlisle, my late dear wife’s
sister, the collection of which is the object of my voyage.—8_th
November_. Wind still stormy and adverse; a horrid disaster nearly
happened,—my dear child washed overboard as the vessel lurched to
leeward.—Memorandum, to reward the young sailor who saved her, out of
the first moneys which I can recover from the inheritance of her aunt
Lansache.—9_th November_. Calm P.M. light breezes front N. N. W. I
talked with the captain about the inheritance of my sister-in-law, Jane
Lansache. He says he knows the principal subject, which will not exceed
£1000 in value.—N. B. He is a cousin to a family of Petersons, which
was the name of the husband of my sister-in-law; so there is room to
hope it may be worth more than be reports.—10_th November_, 10 A.M. May
God pardon all our sins! An English frigate, bearing the Parliament
flag, has appeared in the offing, and gives chase.—11 A. M. She nears
us every moment, and the captain of our vessel prepares to clear for
action. May God again have mercy upon us!”


“Here,” said Maxwell, “the journal with which I have opened the
narration ends somewhat abruptly.”

“I am glad of it,” said Lady Ratcliff.

“But, Mr. Maxwell,” said young Frank, Sir Henry’s grandchild, “shall we
not hear how the battle ended?”

I do not know, cousin, whether I have not formerly made you acquainted
with the abilities of Frank Ratcliff. There is not a battle fought
between the troops of the Prince and of the government, during the
years 1745–46, of which he is not able to give an account. It is true,
I have taken particular pains to fix the events of this important
period upon his memory by frequent repetition.

“No, my dear,” said Maxwell, in answer to young Frank Itatcliff,—“No,
my dear, I cannot tell you the exact particulars of the engagement, but
its consequences appear from the following letter, despatched by
Garbonete Von Enlen, daughter of our journalist, to a relation in
England, from whom she implored assistance. After some general account
of the purpose of the voyage, and of the engagement, her narrative
proceeds thus:—

“The noise of the cannon had hardly ceased, before the sounds of a
language to me but half known, and the confusion on board our vessel,
informed me that the captors had boarded us and taken possession of our
vessel. I went on deck, where the first spectacle that met my eyes was
a young man, mate of our vessel, who, though disfigured and covered
with blood, was loaded with irons, and whom they were forcing over the
side of the vessel into a boat. The two principal persons among our
enemies appeared to be a man of a tall, thin figure, with a
high-crowned hat and long neck band, and short-cropped head of hair,
accompanied by a bluff, open-looking elderly man in a naval uniform.
‘Yarely! yarely! pull away, my hearts,’ said the latter, and the boat
bearing the unlucky young man soon carried him on board the frigate.
Perhaps you will blame me for mentioning this circumstance; but
consider, my dear cousin, this man saved my life, and his fate, even
when my own and my father’s were in the balance, could not but affect
me nearly.

“‘In the name of him who is jealous, even to slaying,’ said the first—”


_Cetera desunt_.




No. II.

CONCLUSION OF MR. STRUTT’S ROMANCE OF
QUEEN-HOO HALL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.

CHAPTER IV.

A HUNTING PARTY.—AN ADVENTURE.—A DELIVERANCE.


The next morning the bugles were sounded by daybreak in the court of
Lord Boteler’s mansion, to call the inhabitants from their slumbers, to
assist in a splendid chase, with which the baron had resolved to
entertain his neighbour Fitzallen and his noble visitor St. Clere.
Peter Lanaret the falconer was in attendance, with falcons for the
knights, and tiercelets for the ladies, if they should choose to vary
their sport from hunting to hawking. Five stout yeomen keepers, with
their attendants, called Bagged Robins, all meetly arrayed in Kendal
green, with bugles and short hangers by their sides, and quarterstaffs
in their hands, led the slow-hounds, or brackets, by which the deer
were to be put up. Ten brace of gallant greyhounds, each of which was
fit to pluck down, singly, the tallest red deer, were led in leashes by
as many of Lord Boteler’s foresters. The pages, squires, and other
attendants of feudal splendour, well attired in their best
hunting-gear, upon horseback or foot, according to their rank,—with
their boar-spears, long bows, and cross-bows, were in seemly waiting.

A numerous train of yeomen, called in the language of the times
retainers, who yearly received a livery coat and a small pension for
their attendance on such solemn occasions, appeared in cassocks of
blue, bearing upon their arms the cognizance of the house of Boteler as
a badge of their adherence. They were the tallest men of their hands
that the neighbouring villages could supply, with every man his good
buckler on his shoulder, and a bright burnished broadsword dangling
from his leathern belt. On this occasion they acted as rangers for
beating up the thickets and rousing the game. These attendants filled
up the court of the castle, spacious as it was. On the green without,
you might have seen the motley assemblage of peasantry convened by
report of the splendid hunting, including most of our old acquaintances
from Tewin, as well as the jolly partakers of good cheer at Hob
Filcher’s. Gregory the jester, it may well be guessed, had no great
mind to exhibit himself in public after his recent disaster; but Oswald
the steward, a great formalist in whatever concerned the public
exhibition of his master’s household state, had positively enjoined his
attendance. “What,” quoth he, “shall the house of the brave Lord
Boteler, or such a brave day as this, be without a fool? Certes, the
good Lord St. Clere and his fair lady sister might think our
housekeeping as niggardly as that of their churlish kinsman at Gay
Bowers, who sent his father’s jester to the hospital, sold the poor
sot’s bells for hawk-jesses, and made a nightcap of his long-eared
bonnet. And, sirrah, let me see thee fool handsomely,—speak squibs and
crackers, instead of that dry, barren, musty gibing which thou hast
used of late; or, by the bones! the porter shall have thee to his
lodge, and cob thee with thine own wooden sword till thy skin is as
motley as thy doublet.”

To this stern injunction, Gregory made no reply, any more than to the
courteous offer of old Albert Drawslot, the chief park-keeper, who
proposed to blow vinegar in his nose, to sharpen his wit, as he had
done that blessed morning to Bragger, the old hound, whose scent was
failing. There was, indeed, little time for reply, for the bugles,
after a lively flourish, were now silent, and Peretto, with his two
attendant minstrels, stepping beneath the windows of the strangers’
apartments, joined in the following roundelay, the deep voices of the
rangers and falconers making up a chorus that caused the very
battlements to ring again.

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray;
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay:
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When ’gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Louder, louder chant the lay,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay;”
Tell them, youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we.
Time, stern huntsman, who can baulk,
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.


By the time this lay was finished, Lord Boteler, with his daughter and
kinsman, Fitzallen of Harden, and other noble guests had mounted their
palfreys, and the hunt set forward in due order. The huntsmen, having
carefully observed the traces of a large stag on the preceding evening,
were able, without loss of time, to conduct the company, by the marks
which they had made upon the trees, to the side of the thicket in
which, by the report of Drawslot, he had harboured all night. The
horsemen spreading themselves along the side of the cover, waited until
the keeper entered, leading his bandog, a large blood-hound tied in a
leam or band, from which he takes his name.

But it befell this. A hart of the second year, which was in the same
cover with the proper object of their pursuit, chanced to be
unharboured first, and broke cover very near where the Lady Emma and
her brother were stationed. An inexperienced varlet, who was nearer to
them, instantly unloosed two tall greyhounds, who sprung after the
fugitive with all the fleetness of the north wind. Gregory, restored a
little to spirits by the enlivening scene around him, followed,
encouraging the hounds with a loud tayout,[*] for which he had the
hearty curses of the huntsman, as well as of the baron, who entered
into the spirit of the chase with all the juvenile ardour of twenty.
“May the foul fiend, booted and spurred, ride down his bawling throat,
with a scythe at his girdle,” quoth Albert Drawslot; “here have I been
telling him that all the marks were those of a buck of the first head,
and he has hollowed the hounds upon a velvet-headed knobbler! By Saint
Hubert, if I break not his pate with my cross-bow, may I never cast off
hound more! But to it, my lords and masters! the noble beast is here
yet, and, thank the saints, we have enough of hounds.”

[* _Tailliers-hors;_ in modern phrase, Tally-ho]


The cover being now thoroughly beat by the attendants, the stag was
compelled to abandon it, and trust to his speed for his safety. Three
greyhounds were slipped upon him, whom he threw out, after running a
couple of miles, by entering an extensive furzy brake which extended
along the side of a hill. The horsemen soon came up, and casting off a
sufficient number of slowhounds, sent them, with the prickers, into the
cover, in order to chive the game from his strength. This object being
accomplished, afforded another severe chase of several miles, in a
direction almost circular, during which the poor animal tried every
wile to get rid of his persecutors. He crossed and traversed all such
dusty paths as were likely to retain the least scent of his footsteps;
he laid himself close to the ground, drawing his feet under his belly,
and clapping his nose close to the earth, lest he should be betrayed to
the hounds by his breath and hoofs. When all was in vain, and he found
the hounds coming fast in upon him, his own strength failing, his mouth
embossed with foam, and the tears dropping from his eyes, he turned in
despair upon his pursuers, who then stood at gaze, making an hideous
clamour, and awaiting their two-footed auxiliaries. Of these, it
chanced that the Lady Eleanor, taking more pleasure in the sport than
Matilda, and being a less burden to her palfrey than the Lord Boteler,
was the first who arrived at the spot, and taking a cross-bow from an
attendant, discharged a bolt at the stag. When the infuriated animal
felt himself wounded, he pushed franticly towards her from whom he had
received the shaft, and Lady Eleanor might have had occasion to repent
of her enterprise had not young Fitzallen, who had kept near her during
the whole day, at that instant galloped briskly in, and ere the stag
could change his object of assault, despatched him with his short
hunting-sword.

Albert Drawslot, who had just come up in terror for the young lady’s
safety, broke out into loud encomiums upon Fitzallen’s strength and
gallantry. “By ’r Lady,” said he, taking off his cap, and wiping his
sun-burnt face with his sleeve, “well struck, and in good time! But
now, boys, doff your bonnets, and sound the mort.”

The sportsmen then sounded a treble mort and set up a general whoop,
which, mingled with the yelping of the dogs, made the welkin ring
again. The huntsman then offered his knife to Lord Boteler, that he
might take the say of the deer; but the baron courteously insisted upon
Fitzallen going through that ceremony. The Lady Matilda was now come
up, with most of the attendants; and the interest of the chase being
ended, it excited some surprise that neither St. Clere nor his sister
made their appearance. The Lord Boteler commanded the horns again to
sound the recheat, in hopes to call in the stragglers, and said to
Fitzallen: “Methinks St. Clere, so distinguished for service in war,
should have been more forward in the chase.”

“I trow,” said Peter Lanaret, “I know the reason of the noble lord’s
absence; for when that moon-calf, Gregory, hallooed the dogs upon the
knobbler, and galloped like a green hilding, as he is, after them, I
saw the Lady Emma’s palfrey follow apace after that varlet, who should
be trashed for overrunning, and I think her noble brother has followed
her, lest she should come to harm. But here, by the rood, is Gregory to
answer for himself.”

At this moment Gregory entered the circle which had been formed round
the deer, out of breath, and his face covered with blood. He kept for
some time uttering inarticulate cries of “Harrow!” and “Wellaway!” and
other exclamations of distress and terror, pointing all the while to a
thicket at some distance from the spot where the deer had been killed.

“By my honour,” said the baron, “I would gladly know who has dared to
array the poor knave thus; and I trust he should dearly aby his
_outrecuidance_, were he the best, save one, in England.”

Gregory, who had now found more breath, cried, “Help, an ye be men!
Save Lady Emma and her brother, whom they are murdering in Brockenhurst
thicket.”

This put all in motion. Lord Boteler hastily commanded a small party of
his men to abide for the defence of the ladies, while he himself,
Fitzallen, and the rest made what speed they could towards the thicket,
guided by Gregory, who for that purpose was mounted behind Fabian.
Pushing through a narrow path, the first object they encountered was a
man of small stature lying on the ground, mastered and almost strangled
by two dogs, which were instantly recognized to be those that had
accompanied Gregory. A little farther was an open space, where lay
three bodies of dead or wounded men; beside these was Lady Emma,
apparently lifeless, her brother and a young forester bending over and
endeavouring to recover her. By employing the usual remedies, this was
soon accomplished; while Lord Boteler, astonished at such a scene,
anxiously inquired at St. Clere the meaning of what he saw, and whether
more danger was to be expected?

“For the present, I trust not,” said the young warrior, who they now
observed was slightly wounded; “but I pray you, of your nobleness, let
the woods here be searched; for we were assaulted by four of these base
assassins, and I see three only on the sward.”

The attendants now brought forward the person whom they had rescued
from the dogs, and Henry, with disgust, shame, and astonishment,
recognized his kinsman, Gaston St. Clere. This discovery he
communicated in a whisper to Lord Boteler, who commanded the prisoner
to be conveyed to Queen-Hoo Hall and closely guarded; meanwhile he
anxiously inquired of young St. Clere about his wound. “A scratch, a
trifle!” cried Henry; “I am in less haste to bind it than to introduce
to you one without whose aid that of the leech would have come too
late. Where is he? Where is my brave deliverer?”

“Here, most noble lord,” said Gregory, sliding from his palfrey and
stepping forward, “ready to receive the guerdon which your bounty would
heap on him.”

“Truly, friend Gregory,” answered the young warrior, “thou shalt not be
forgotten; for thou didst run speedily and roar manfully for aid,
without which, I think verily, we had not received it. But the brave
forester who came to my rescue when these three ruffians had nigh
overpowered me, where is he?”

Every one looked around; but though all had seen him on entering the
thicket, he was not now to be found. They could only conjecture that he
had retired during the confusion occasioned by the detention of Gaston.

“Seek not for him,” said the Lady Emma, who had now in some degree
recovered her composure; “he will not be found of mortal, unless at his
own season.”

The baron, convinced from this answer that her terror had, for the
time, somewhat disturbed her reason, forebore to question her; and
Matilda and Eleanor, to whom a message had been despatched with the
result of this strange adventure, arriving, they took the Lady Emma
between them, and all in a body returned to the castle.

The distance was, however, considerable, and before reaching it they
had another alarm. The prickers, who rode foremost in the troop,
halted, and announced to the Lord Boteler, that they perceived
advancing towards them a body of armed men. The followers of the baron
were numerous, but they were arrayed for the chase, not for battle; and
it was with great pleasure that he discerned, on the pennon of the
advancing body of men-at-arms, instead of the cognizance of Gaston, as
he had some reason to expect, the friendly bearings of Fitzosborne of
Diggswell, the same young lord who was present at the May-games with
Fitzallen of Marden. The knight himself advanced, sheathed in armour,
and, without raising his visor, informed Lord Boteler, that having
heard of a base attempt made upon a part of his train by ruffianly
assassins, he had mounted and armed a small party of his retainers, to
escort them to Queen-Hoo Hall. Having received and accepted an
invitation to attend them thither, they prosecuted their journey in
confidence and security, and arrived safe at home without any further
accident.


[Illustration]


CHAPTER V.

INVESTIGATION OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE HUNTING.—A DISCOVERY.
—GREGORY’S MANHOOD.—FATE OF GASTON ST. CLERE.—CONCLUSION.

So soon as they arrived at the princely mansion of Boteler, the Lady
Emma craved permission to retire to her chamber, that she might compose
her spirits after the terror she had undergone. Henry St. Clere, in a
few words, proceeded to explain the adventure to the curious audience.
“I had no sooner seen my sister’s palfrey, in spite of her endeavours
to the contrary, entering with spirit into the chase set on foot by the
worshipful Gregory than I rode after to give her assistance. So long
was the chase that when the greyhounds pulled down the knobbler, we
were out of hearing of your bugles; and having rewarded and coupled the
dogs, I gave them to be led by the jester, and we wandered in quest of
our company, whom, it would seem, the sport had led in a different
direction. At length, passing through the thicket where you found us, I
was surprised by a cross-bow bolt whizzing past mine head. I drew my
sword and rushed into the thicket, but was instantly assailed by two
ruffians, while other two made towards my sister and Gregory. The poor
knave fled, crying for help, pursued by my false kinsman, now your
prisoner; and the designs of the other on my poor Emma (murderous no
doubt) were prevented by the sudden apparition of a brave woodsman,
who, after a short encounter, stretched the miscreant at his feet and
came to my assistance. I was already slightly wounded, and nearly
overlaid with odds. The combat lasted some time, for the caitiffs were
both well armed, strong, and desperate; at length, however, we had each
mastered our antagonist, when your retinue, my Lord Boteler, arrived to
my relief. So ends in my story; but, on my knighthood, I would give an
earl’s ransom for an opportunity of thanking the gallant forester by
whose aid I live to tell it.”

“Fear not,” said Lord Boteler; “he shall be found if this or the four
adjacent counties hold him. And now Lord Fitzosborne will be pleased to
doff the armour he has so kindly assumed for our sakes, and we will all
bowne ourselves for the banquet.”

When the hour of dinner approached, the Lady Matilda and her cousin
visited the chamber of the fair Darcy. They found her in a composed but
melancholy posture. She turned the discourse upon the misfortunes of
her life, and hinted that having recovered her brother, and seeing him
look forward to the society of one who would amply repay to him the
loss of hers, she had thoughts of dedicating her remaining life to
Heaven, by whose providential interference it had been so often
preserved.

Matilda coloured deeply at something in this speech, and her cousin
inveighed loudly against Emma’s resolution. “Ah, my dear Lady Eleanor,”
replied she, “I have to-day witnessed what I cannot but judge a
supernatural visitation, and to what end can it call me but to give
myself to the altar? That peasant who guided me, to Baddow through the
Park of Danbury, the same who appeared before me at different times and
in different forms during that eventful journey,—that youth, whose
features are imprinted on my memory, is the very individual forester
who this day rescued us in the forest. I cannot be mistaken; and
connecting these marvellous appearances with the spectre which I saw
while at Gay Bowers, I cannot resist the conviction that Heaven has
permitted my guardian angel to assume mortal shape for my relief and
protection.”

The fair cousins, after exchanging looks which implied a fear that her
mind was wandering, answered her in soothing terms, and finally
prevailed upon her to accompany them to the banqueting-hall. Here the
first person they encountered was the Baron Fitzosborne of Diggswell,
now divested of his armour; at the sight of whom the Lady Emma changed
colour, and exclaiming, “It is the same!” sunk senseless into the arms
of Matilda.

“She is bewildered by the terrors of the day,” said Eleanor; “and we
have done ill in obliging her to descend.”

“And I,” said Fitzosborne, “have done madly in presenting before her
one whose presence must recall moments the most alarming in her life.”

While the ladies supported Emma from the hall, Lord Boteler and St.
Clere requested an explanation from Fitzosborne of the words he had
used.

“Trust me, gentle lords,” said the Baron of Diggswell, “ye shall have
what ye demand, when I learn that Lady Emma Darcy has not suffered from
my imprudence.”

At this moment Lady Matilda, returning, said that her fair friend, on
her recovery, had calmly and deliberately insisted that she had seen
Fitzosborne before, in the most dangerous crisis of her life.

“I dread,” said she, “her disordered mind connects all that her eye
beholds with the terrible passages that she has witnessed.”

“Nay,” said Fitzosborne, “if noble St. Clere can pardon the
unauthorized interest which, with the purest and most honourable
intentions, I have taken in his sister’s fate, it is easy for me to
explain this mysterious impression.”

He proceeded to say that, happening to be in the hostelry called the
Griffin, near Baddow, while upon a journey in that country, he had met
with the old nurse of the Lady Emma Darcy, who, being just expelled
front Gay Bowers, was in the height of her grief and indignation, and
made loud and public proclamation of Lady Emma’s wrongs. From the
description she gave of the beauty of her foster-child, as well as from
the spirit of chivalry, Fitzosborne became interested in her fate. This
interest was deeply enhanced when, by a bribe to Old Gaunt the Reve, he
procured a view of the Lady Emma as she walked near the castle of Gay
Bowers. The aged churl refused to give him access to the castle, yet
dropped some hints, as if he thought the lady in danger, and wished she
were well out of it. His master, he said, had heard she had a brother
in life, and since that deprived him of all chance of gaining her
domains by purchase, he, in short, Gaunt wished they were safely
separated. “If any injury,” quoth he, “should happen to the damsel
here, it were ill for us all. I tried, by an innocent stratagem, to
frighten her from the castle by introducing a figure through a
trap-door and warning her, as if by a voice from the dead, to retreat
from thence; but the giglet is wilful, and is running upon her fate.”

Finding Gaunt, although covetous and communicative, too faithful a
servant to his wicked master to take any active steps against his
commands, Fitzosborne applied himself to old Ursely, whom he found more
tractable. Through her he learned the dreadful plot Gaston had laid to
rid himself of his kinswoman, and resolved to effect her deliverance.
But aware of the delicacy of Emma’s situation, he charged Ursely to
conceal from her the interest he took in her distress, resolving to
watch over her in disguise until he saw her in a place of safety. Hence
the appearance he made before her in various dresses during her
journey, in the course of which he was never far distant; and he had
always four stout yeomen within hearing of his bugle, had assistance
been necessary. When she was placed in safety at the lodge, it was
Fitzosborne’s intention to have prevailed upon his sisters to visit,
and take her under their protection; but he found them absent from
Diggswell, having gone to attend an aged relation who lay dangerously
ill in a distant county. They did not return until the day before the
May-games; and the other events followed too rapidly to permit
Fitzosborne to lay any plan for introducing them to Lady Emma Darcy. On
the day of the chase he resolved to preserve his romantic disguise and
attend the Lady Emma as a forester, partly to have the pleasure of
being near her, and partly to judge whether, according to an idle
report in the country, she favoured his friend and comrade Fitzallen of
Marden. This last motive, it may easily be believed, he did not declare
to the company. After the skirmish with the ruffians, he waited till
the baron and the hunters arrived, and then, still doubting the further
designs of Gaston, hastened to his castle to arm the band which had
escorted them to Queen-Hoo Hall.

Fitzosborne’s story being finished, he received the thanks of all the
company, particularly of St. Clere, who felt deeply the respectful
delicacy with which he had conducted himself towards his sister. The
lady was carefully informed of her obligations to him; and it is left
to the well-judging reader whether even the raillery of Lady Eleanor
made her regret that Heaven had only employed natural means for her
security, and that the guardian angel was converted into a handsome,
gallant, and enamoured knight.

The joy of the company in the hall extended itself to the buttery,
where Gregory the jester narrated such feats of arms done by himself in
the fray of the morning as might have shamed Bevis and Guy of Warwick.
He was, according to his narrative, singled out for destruction by the
gigantic baron himself, while he abandoned to meaner hands the
destruction of St. Clere and Fitzosborne.

“But, certes,” said he, “the foul paynim met his match; for, ever as he
foined at me with his brand, I parried his blows with my bauble, and
closing with him upon the third veny, threw him to the ground, and made
him cryrecreant to an unarmed man.”

“Tush, man!” said Drawslot, “thou forgettest thy best auxiliaries, the
good greyhounds, Help and Holdfast! I warrant thee that when the
humpbacked baron caught thee by the cowl, which he hath almost torn
off, thou hadst been in a fair plight, had they not remembered an old
friend and come in to the rescue. Why, man, I found them fastened on
him myself; and there was odd staving and stickling to make them ‘ware
haunch!’ Their mouths were full of the flex, for I pulled a piece of
the garment from their jaws. I warrant thee that when they brought him
to ground, thou fledst like a frighted pricket.”

“And as for Gregory’s gigantic paynim,” said Fabian, “why, he lies
yonder in the guard-room, the very size, shape, and colour of a spider
in a yewhedge.”

“It is false!” said Gregory; “Colbrand the Dane was a dwarf to him.”

“It is as true,” returned Fabian, “as that the Tasker is to be married
on Tuesday to pretty Margery. Gregory, thy sheet hath brought them
between a pair of blankets.”

“I care no more for such a gillflirt,” said the Jester, “than I do for
thy leasings. Marry, thou hop-o’-my-thumb, happy wouldst thou be could
thy head reach the captive baron’s girdle.”

“By the Mass,” said Peter Lanaret, “I will have one peep at this burly
gallant;” and leaving the buttery, he went to the guard-room where
Gaston St. Clere was confined. A man-at-arms, who kept sentinel on the
strong studded door of the apartment, said he believed he slept; for
that after raging, stamping, and uttering the most horrid imprecations,
he had been of late perfectly still. The falconer gently drew back a
sliding board, of a foot square, towards the top of the door, which
covered a hole of the same size, strongly latticed, through which the
warder, without opening the door, could look in upon his prisoner. From
this aperture he beheld the wretched Gaston suspended by the neck, by
his own girdle, to an iron ring in the side of his prison. He had
clambered to it by means of the table on which his food had been
placed; and in the agonies of shame and disappointed malice, had
adopted this mode of ridding himself of a wretched life. He was found
yet warm, but totally lifeless. A proper account of the manner of his
death was drawn up and certified. He was buried that evening in the
chapel of the castle, out of respect to his high birth; and the
chaplain of Fitzallen of Marden, who said the service upon the
occasion, preached, the next Sunday, an excellent sermon upon the text,
“Radix malorum est cupiditas,” which we have here transcribed.


[Here the manuscript from which we have painfully transcribed, and
frequently, as it were, translated this tale, for the reader’s
edification, is so indistinct and defaced that, excepting certain
“howbeits,” “nathlesses,” “lo ye’s!” etc. we can pick out little that
is intelligible, saving that avarice is defined “a likourishness of
heart after earthly things.”] A little farther there seems to have been
a gay account of Margery’s wedding with Ralph the Tasker, the running
at the quintain, and other rural games practised on the occasion. There
are also fragments of a mock sermon preached by Gregory upon that
occasion, as for example:—

“Mv dear cursed caitiffs, there was once a king, and he wedded a young
old queen, and she had a child; and this child was sent to Solomon the
Sage, praying he would give it the same blessing which he got from the
witch of Endor when she bit him by the heel. Hereof speaks the worthy
Dr. Radigundus Potator. Why should not Mass be said for all the roasted
shoe souls served up in the king’s dish on Saturday? For true it is
that Saint Peter asked father Adam, as they journeyed to Camelot, an
high, great, and doubtful question: ‘Adam, Adam, why eated’st thou the
apple without paring?’”[*]

[* This tirade of gibberish is literally taken or selected from a mock
discourse pronounced by a professed jester, which occurs in an ancient
manuscript in the Advocates’ Library, the same from which the late
ingenious Mr. Weber published the curious comic romance of the
“Limiting of the Hare.” It was introduced in compliance with Mr.
Strutt’s plan of rendering his tale an illustration of ancient manners.
A similar burlesque sermon is pronounced by the Fool in Sir David
Lindesay’s satire of the “Three Estates.” The nonsense and vulgar
burlesque of that composition illustrate the ground of Sir Andrew,
Aguecheek’s eulogy on the exploits of the jester in “Twelfth Night,”
who, reserving his sharper jests for Sir Toby, had doubtless enough of
the jargon of his calling to captivate the imbecility of his brother
knight, who is made to exclaim: “In sooth, thou wast in very gracious
fooling last night when thou spokest of Pigrogremitus, and of the
vapours passing the equinoctials of Quenbus; ’t was very good, i’
faith!” It is entertaining to find commentators seeking to discover
some meaning in the professional jargon of such a passage as this.]


With much goodly gibberish to the same effect, which display of
Gregory’s ready wit not only threw the whole company into convulsions
of laughter, but made such an impression on Rose, the Potter’s
daughter, that it was thought it would be the jester’s own fault if
Jack was long without his Jill. Much pithy matter concerning the
bringing the bride to bed, the loosing the bridegroom’s points, the
scramble which ensued for them, and the casting of the stocking, is
also omitted, from its obscurity.

The following song, which has been since borrowed by the worshipful
author of the famous “History of Fryar Bacon,” has been with difficulty
deciphered. It seems to have been sung on occasion of carrying home the
bride.

BRIDAL SONG.


_To the tune of “I have been a Fiddler,” etc._


And did you not hear of a mirth befell
    The morrow after a wedding-day,
And carrying a bride at home to dwell?
    And away to Tewin, away, away!

The quintain was set, and the garlands were made,—
    ’T is pity old customs should ever decay;
And woe be to him that was horsed on a jade,
    For he carried no credit away, away.

We met a consort of fiddle-de-dees;
    We set them a cockhorse, and made them play
The winning of Bullen, and Upsey-fires,
    And away to Tewin, away, away!

There was ne’er a lad in all the parish
    That would go to the plough that day;
But on his fore-horse his wench he carries,
    And away to Tewin, away, away!

The butler was quick, and the ale he did tap,
    The maidens did make the chamber full gay;
The servants did give me a fuddling cup,
    And I did carry ’t away, away.

The smith of the town his liquor so took
    That he was persuaded that the ground looked blue;
And I dare boldly be sworn on a book
    Such smiths as he there’s but a few.

A posset was made, and the women did sip,
    And simpering said they could eat no more;
Full many a maiden was laid on the lip,—
    I’ll say no more, but give o’er (give o’er).


But what our fair readers will chiefly regret is the loss of three
declarations of love: the first by St. Clore to Matilda, which, with
the lady’s answer, occupies fifteen closely written pages of
manuscript. That of Fitzosborne to Emma is not much shorter; but the
amours of Fitzallen and Eleanor, being of a less romantic cast, are
closed in three pages only. The three noble couples were married in
Queen-Hoo Hall upon the same day, being the twentieth Sunday after
Easter. There is a prolix account of the marriage-feast, of which we
can pick out the names of a few dishes, such as peterel, crane,
sturgeon, swan, etc., with a profusion of wild-fowl and venison. We
also see that a suitable song was produced by Peretto on the occasion,
and that the bishop, who blessed the bridal beds which received the
happy couples, was no niggard of his holy water, bestowing half a
gallon upon each of the couches. We regret we cannot give these
curiosities to the reader in detail, but we hope to expose the
manuscript to abler antiquaries, so soon as it shall be framed and
glazed by the ingenious artist who rendered that service to Mr.
Ireland’s Shakspeare manuscripts. And so (being unable to lay aside the
style to which our pen is habituated), gentle reader, we bid thee
heartily farewell.




No. III.

ANECDOTE OF SCHOOL DAYS,
UPON WHICH MR. THOMAS SCOTT PROPOSED TO FOUND A TALE OF FICTION.

It is well known in the South that there is little or no boxing at the
Scottish schools. About forty or fifty years ago, however, a far more
dangerous mode of fighting, in parties or factions, was permitted in
the streets of Edinburgh, to the great disgrace of the police, and
danger of the parties concerned. These parties were generally formed
from the quarters of the town in which the combatants resided, those of
a particular square or district fighting against those of an adjoining
one. Hence it happened that the children of the higher classes were
often pitted against those of the lower, each taking their side
according to the residence of their friends. So far as I recollect,
however, it was unmingled either with feelings of democracy or
aristocracy, or, indeed, with malice or ill-will of any kind towards
the opposite party. In fact, it was only a rough mode of play. Such
contests were, however, maintained with great vigour with stones and
sticks and fisticuffs, when one party dared to charge, and the other
stood their ground. Of course mischief sometimes happened; boys are
said to have been killed at these “bickers,” as they were called, and
serious accidents certainly took place, as many contemporaries can bear
witness.

The Author’s father residing in George Square, in the southern side of
Edinburgh, the boys belonging to that family, with others in the
square, were arranged into a sort of company, to which a lady of
distinction presented a handsome set of colours. Now this company, or
regiment, as a matter of course, was engaged in weekly warfare with the
boys inhabiting the Crosscauseway, Bristo Street, the Potter Row,—in
short, the neighbouring suburbs. These last were chiefly of the lower
rank, but hardy loons, who threw stones to a hair’s-breadth, and were
very rugged antagonists at close quarters. The skirmish sometimes
lasted for a whole evening, until one party or the other was
victorious, when, if ours were successful, we drove the enemy to their
quarters, and were usually chased back by the reinforcement of bigger
lads who came to their assistance. If, on the contrary, we were
pursued, as was often the case, into the precincts of our square, we
were in our turn supported by our elder brothers, domestic servants,
and similar auxiliaries.

It followed, from our frequent opposition to each other, that though
not knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet well acquainted with
their appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them.
One very active and spirited boy might be considered as the principal
leader in the cohort of the suburbs. He was, I suppose, thirteen or
fourteen years old, finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair,
the very picture of a youthful Goth. This lad was always first in the
charge, and last in the retreat,—the Achilles, at once, and Ajax of the
Crosscauseway. He was too formidable to us not to have a cognomen, and,
like that of a knight of old, it was taken from the most remarkable
part of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which was
the principal part of his clothing; for, like Pentapolin, according to
Don Quixote’s account, Green-Breeks, as we called him, always entered
the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet.

It fell that once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest,
this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge so rapid and furious that
all fled before him. He was several paces before his comrades, and had
actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of our
party, whom some misjudging friend had intrusted with a _couteau de
chasse_, or hanger, inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corps
worthy of Major Sturgeon himself, struck poor Green-Breeks over the
head with strength sufficient to cut him down. When this was seen, the
casualty was so far beyond what had ever taken place before that both
parties fled different ways, leaving poor Green-Breeks, with his bright
hair plentifully dabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who
(honest man) took care not to know who had done the mischief. The
bloody hanger was flung into one of the Meadow ditches, and solemn
secrecy was sworn on all hands; but the remorse and terror of the actor
were beyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadful
character. The wounded hero was for a few days in the Infirmary, the
case being only a trifling one. But though inquiry was strongly pressed
on him, no argument could make him indicate the person from whom he had
received the wound, though he must have been perfectly well known to
him. When he recovered, and was dismissed, the author and his brothers
opened a communication with him, through the medium of a popular
gingerbread baker, of whom both parties were customers, in order to
tender a subsidy in name of smart-money. The sum would excite ridicule
were I to name it; but sure I am that the pockets of the noted
Green-Breeks never held as much money of his own. He declined the
remittance, saying that he would not sell his blood, but at the same
time reprobated the idea of being an informer, which, he said, was
“clam,” i.e., base or mean. With much urgency, he accepted a pound of
snuff for the use of some old woman—aunt, grandmother, or the like—with
whom he lived. We did not become friends, for the _bickers_ were more
agreeable to both parties than any more pacific amusement; but we
conducted them ever after under mutual assurances of the highest
consideration for each other.

Such was the hero whom Mr. Thomas Scott proposed to carry to Canada and
involve in adventures with the natives and colonists of that country.
Perhaps the youthful generosity of the lad will not seem so great in
the eyes of others as to those whom it was the means of screening from
severe rebuke and punishment. But it seemed, to those concerned, to
argue a nobleness of sentiment far beyond the pitch of most minds; and
however obscurely the lad, who showed such a frame of noble spirit, may
have lived or died, I cannot help being of opinion, that if fortune had
placed him in circumstances calling for gallantry or generosity, the
man would have fulfilled the promises of the boy. Long afterwards, when
the story was told to my father, he censured us severely for not
telling the truth at the time, that he might have attempted to be of
use to the young man in entering on life. But our alarms for the
consequences of the drawn sword, and the wound inflicted with such a
weapon, were far too predominant at the time for such a pitch of
generosity.

Perhaps I ought not to have inserted this schoolboy tale; but besides
the strong impression made by the incident at the time, the whole
accompaniments of the story are matters to me of solemn and sad
recollection. Of all the little band who were concerned in those
juvenile sports or brawls, I can scarce recollect a single survivor.
Some left the ranks of mimic war to die in the active service of their
country. Many sought distant lands, to return no more. Others,
dispersed in different paths of life, “my dim eyes now seek for in
vain.” Of five brothers, all healthy and promising in a degree far
beyond one whose infancy was visited by personal infirmity, and whose
health after this period seemed long very precarious, I am,
nevertheless, the only survivor. The best loved, and the best deserving
to be loved, who had destined this incident to be the foundation of
literary composition, died “before his day,” in a distant and foreign
land; and trifles assume an importance not their own, when connected
with those who have been loved and lost.




WAVERLEY;

OR,

’T IS SIXTY YEARS SINCE.


“Under which King, Bezonian? Speak, or die!”
Henry IV., Part II.




EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION TO WAVERLEY.


“What is the value of a reputation that probably will not last above
one or two generations?” Sir Walter Scott once asked Ballantyne. Two
generations, according to the usual reckoning, have passed; “’T is
Sixty Years since” the “wondrous Potentate” of Wordsworth’s sonnet
died, yet the reputation on which he set so little store survives. A
constant tide of new editions of his novels flows from the press; his
plots give materials for operas and plays; he has been criticised,
praised, condemned: but his romances endure amid the changes of taste,
remaining the delight of mankind, while new schools and little masters
of fiction come and go.

Scott himself believed that even great works usually suffer periods of
temporary occultation. His own, no doubt, have not always been in their
primitive vogue. Even at first, English readers complained of the
difficulty caused by his Scotch, and now many make his “dialect” an
excuse for not reading books which their taste, debauched by third-rate
fiction, is incapable of enjoying. But Scott has never disappeared in
one of those irregular changes of public opinion remarked on by his
friend Lady Louisa Stuart. In 1821 she informed him that she had tried
the experiment of reading Mackenzie’s “Man of Feeling” aloud: “Nobody
cried, and at some of the touches I used to think so exquisite, they
laughed.”[*] His correspondent requested Scott to write something on
such variations of taste, which actually seem to be in the air and
epidemic, for they affect, as she remarked, young people who have not
heard the criticisms of their elders.[**] Thus Rousseau’s “Nouvelle
Héloïse,” once so fascinating to girls, and reputed so dangerous, had
become tedious to the young, Lady Louisa says, even in 1821. But to the
young, if they have any fancy and intelligence, Scott is not tedious
even now; and probably his most devoted readers are boys, girls, and
men of matured appreciation and considerable knowledge of literature.
The unformed and the cultivated tastes are still at one about Scott. He
holds us yet with his unpremeditated art, his natural qualities of
friendliness, of humour, of sympathy. Even the carelessness with which
his earliest and his kindest critics—Ellis, Erskine, and Lady Louisa
Stuart—reproached him has not succeeded in killing his work and
diminishing his renown.

[* Abbotsford Manuscripts.]


[** See Scott’s reply, with the anecdote about Mrs. Aphra Behn’s
novels, Lockhart, vi. 406 (edition of 1839).]


It is style, as critics remind us, it is perfection of form, no doubt,
that secure the permanence of literature; but Scott did not overstate
his own defects when he wrote in his Journal (April 22, 1826): “A
solecism in point of composition, like a Scotch word, is indifferent to
me. I never learned grammar. . . . I believe the bailiff in ‘The
Goodnatured Man’ is not far wrong when he says: ‘One man has one way of
expressing himself, and another another; and that is all the difference
between them.’” The difference between Scott and Thackeray or Flaubert
among good writers, and a crowd of self-conscious and mannered
“stylists” among writers not so very good, is essential. About
Shakspeare it was said that he “never blotted a line.” The observation
is almost literally true about Sir Walter. The pages of his manuscript
novels show scarcely a retouch or an erasure, whether in the “Waverley”
fragment of 1805 or the unpublished “Siege of Malta” of 1832.[*] The
handwriting becomes closer and smaller; from thirty-eight lines to the
page in “Waverley,” he advances to between fifty and sixty in
“Ivanhoe.” The few alterations are usually additions. For example, a
fresh pedantry of the Baron of Bradwardine’s is occasionally set down
on the opposite page. Nothing can be less like the method of Flaubert
or the method of Mr. Ruskin, who tells us that “a sentence of ‘Modern
Painters’ was often written four or five times over in my own hand, and
tried in every word for perhaps an hour,—perhaps a forenoon,—before it
was passed for the printer.” Each writer has his method; Scott was no
stippler or niggler, but, as we shall see later, he often altered much
in his proof-sheets.[**] As long as he was understood, he was almost
reckless of well-constructed sentences, of the one best word for his
meaning, of rounded periods. This indifference is not to be praised,
but it is only a proof of his greatness that his style, never
distinguished, and often lax, has not impaired the vitality of his
prose. The heart which beats in his works, the knowledge of human
nature, the dramatic vigour of his character, the nobility of his whole
being win the day against the looseness of his manner, the negligence
of his composition, against the haste of fatigue which set him, as Lady
Louisa Stuart often told him, on “huddling up a conclusion anyhow, and
so kicking the book out of his way.” In this matter of _dénouements_ he
certainly was no more careful than Shakspeare or Molière.

[* A history of Scott’s Manuscripts, with good fac-similes, will be
found in the Catalogue of the Scott Exhibition, Edinburgh, 1872.]


[** While speaking of correction, it may be noted that Scott, in his
“Advertisement” prefixed to the issue of 1829, speaks of changes made
in that collected edition. In “Waverley” these emendations are very
rare, and are unimportant. A few _callidæ juncturæ_ are added, a very
few lines are deleted. The postscript of the first edition did not
contain the anecdote about the hiding-place of the manuscript among the
fishing tackle. The first line of Flora Macdonald’s battle-song
(chapter xxii.) originally ran, “Mist darkens the mountain, night
darkens the vale,” in place of “There is mist on the mountain and mist
on the vale.” For the rest, as Scott says, “where the tree falls it
must lie.”]


The permanence of Sir Walter’s romances is proved, as we said, by their
survival among all the changes of fashion in the art of fiction. When
he took up his pen to begin “Waverley,” fiction had not absorbed, as it
does to-day, almost all the best imaginative energy of English or
foreign writers. Now we hear of “art” on every side, and every novelist
must give the world his opinion about schools and methods. Scott, on
the other hand, lived in the greatest poetical age since that of
Elizabeth. Poetry or the drama (in which, to be sure, few succeeded)
occupied Wordsworth, Byron, Coleridge, Shelley, Crabbe, Campbell, and
Keats. Then, as Joanna Baillie hyperbolically declared, “The Scotch
novels put poetry out of fashion.”[*] Till they appeared, novels seem
to have been left to readers like the plaintive lady’s-maid whom Scott
met at Dalkeith, when he beheld “the fair one descend from the carriage
with three half-bound volumes of a novel in her hand.” Mr. Morritt,
writing to Scott in March, 1815, hopes he will “restore pure narrative
to the dignity from which it gradually slipped before it dwindled into
a manufactory for the circulating library.” “Waverley,” he asserted,
“would prevail over people otherwise averse to blue-backed volumes.”
Thus it was an unconsidered art which Scott took up and revived. Half a
century had passed since Fielding gave us in “Tom Jones” his own and
very different picture of life in the “’forty-five,”—of life with all
the romance of the “Race to Derby” cut down to a sentence or two. Since
the age of the great English novelists, Richardson and Fielding and
Miss Burney, the art of fiction had been spasmodically alive in the
hands of Mrs. Radcliffe, had been sentimental with Henry Mackenzie, and
now was all but moribund, save for the humorous Irish sketches of Miss
Edgeworth. As Scott always insisted, it was mainly “the extended and
well-merited fame of Miss Edgeworth” which induced him to try his hand
on a novel containing pictures of Scottish life and character. Nothing
was more remarkable in his own novels than the blending of close and
humorous observation of common life with pleasure in adventurous
narratives about “what is not so, and was not so, and Heaven forbid
that it ever should be so,” as the girl says in the nursery tale.
Through his whole life he remained the dreamer of dreams and teller of
wild legends, who had held the lads of the High School entranced round
Luckie Brown’s fireside, and had fleeted the summer days in interchange
of romances with a schoolboy friend, Mr. Irving, among the hills that
girdle Edinburgh. He ever had a passion for “knights and ladies and
dragons and giants,” and “God only knows,” he says, “how delighted I
was to find myself in such society.” But with all this delight, his
imagination had other pleasures than the fantastic: the humours and
passions of ordinary existence were as clearly visible to him as the
battles, the castles, and the giants. True, he was more fastidious in
his choice of novels of real life than in his romantic reading. “The
whole Jemmy and Jessamy tribe I abhorred,” he said; “and it required
the art of Burney or the feeling of Mackenzie to fix my attention upon
a domestic tale.” But when the domestic tale was good and true, no man
appreciated it more than he. None has more vigorously applauded Miss
Austen than Scott, and it was thus that as the “Author of ‘Waverley’”
he addressed Miss Edgeworth, through James Ballantyne: “If I could but
hit Miss Edgeworth’s wonderful power of vivifying all her persons, and
making them live as _beings_ in your mind, I should not be afraid.”
“Often,” Ballantyne goes on, “has the Author of ‘Waverley’ used such
language to me; and I knew that I gratified him most when I could say,
‘Positively, this _is_ equal to Miss Edgeworth.’”

[* Abbotsford Manuscripts. Hogg averred that nobody either read or
wrote poetry after Sir Walter took to prose.]


Thus Scott’s own taste was catholic: and in this he was particularly
unlike the modern novelists, who proclaim, from both sides of the
Atlantic, that only in their own methods, and in sharing their own
exclusive tastes, is literary salvation. The prince of Romance was no
one-sided _romanticiste;_ his ear was open to all fiction good in its
kind. His generosity made him think Miss Edgeworth’s persons more alive
than his own. To his own romances he preferred Mrs. Shelley’s
“Frankenstein.”[*] As a critic, of course, he was mistaken; but his was
the generous error of the heart, and it is the heart in Walter Scott,
even more than the brain, that lends its own vitality to his creations.
Equipped as he was with a taste truly catholic, capable in old age of
admiring “Pelham,” he had the power to do what he calls “the big
bow-wow strain;” yet he was not, as in his modesty he supposed, denied
“the exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and
characters interesting, from the truth of the description and the
sentiment.”[**]

[* Scott reviewed “Frankenstein” in 1818. Mr. Shelley had sent it with
a brief note, in which he said that it was the work of a friend, and
that he had only seen it through the press. Sir Walter passed the book
on to Mr. Morritt, who, in reply, gave Scott a brief and not very
accurate history of Shelley. Sir Walter then wrote a most favourable
review of “Frankenstein” in “Blackwood’s Magazine,” observing that it
was attributed to Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley, a son-in-law of Mr. Godwin.
Mrs. Shelley presently wrote thanking him for the review, and assuring
him that it was her own work. Scott had apparently taken Shelley’s
disclaimer as an innocent evasion; it was an age of literary
superscheries.—_Abbotsford Manuscripts_.]


[** Journal, March 14, 1826.]


The letter of Rose Bradwardine to Waverley is alone enough to disprove
Scott’s disparagement of himself, his belief that he had been denied
exquisiteness of touch. Nothing human is more delicate, nothing should
be more delicately handled, than the first love of a girl. What the
“analytical” modern novelist would pass over and dissect and place
beneath his microscope till a student of any manliness blushes with
shame and annoyance, Scott suffers Rose Bradwardine to reveal with a
sensitive shyness. But Scott, of course, had even less in common with
the peeper and botanizer on maidens’ hearts than with the wildest
romanticist. He considered that “a want of story is always fatal to a
book the first reading, and it is well if it gets a chance of a
second.” From him “Pride and Prejudice” got a chance of three readings
at least. This generous universality of taste, in addition to all his
other qualities of humour and poetry, enabled Scott to raise the novel
from its decadence, and to make the dry bones of history live again in
his tales. With Charles Edward at Holyrood, as Mr. Senior wrote in the
“Quarterly Review,” “we are in the lofty region of romance. In any
other hands than those of Sir Walter Scott, the language and conduct of
those great people would have been as dignified as their situations. We
should have heard nothing of the hero in his new costume ‘majoring
afore the muckle pier-glass,’ of his arrest by the host of the
Candlestick, of his examination by the well-powdered Major Melville, or
of his fears of being informed against by Mrs. Nosebag.” In short,
“while the leading persons and events are as remote from ordinary life
as the inventions of Scudéry, the picture of human nature is as
faithful as could have been given by Fielding or Le Sage.” Though this
criticism has not the advantage of being new, it is true; and when we
have added that Scott’s novels are the novels of the poet who, next to
Shakspeare, knew mankind most widely and well, we have the secret of
his triumph.

For the first time in literature, it was a poet who held the pen of the
romancer in prose. Fielding, Richardson, De Foe, Miss Burney, were none
of them made by the gods poetical. Scott himself, with his habitual
generosity, would have hailed his own predecessor in Mrs. Radcliffe.
“The praise may be claimed for Mrs. Radcliffe of having been the first
to introduce into her prose fictions a beautiful and fanciful tone of
natural description and impressive narrative, which had hitherto been
exclusively applied to poetry. . . . Mrs. Radcliffe has a title to be
considered the first poetess of romantic fiction.” When “Guy Mannering”
appeared, Wordsworth sneered at it as a work of the Radcliffe school.
The slight difference produced by the introduction of humour could
scarcely be visible to Wordsworth. But Scott would not have been hurt
by his judgment. He had the literary courage to recognize merit even
when obscured by extravagance, and to applaud that in which people of
culture could find neither excellence nor charm. Like Thackeray, he had
been thrilled by Vivaidi in the Inquisition, and he was not the man to
hide his gratitude because his author was now out of fashion.

Thus we see that Scott, when he began “Waverley” in 1805, brought to
his labour no hard-and-fast theory of the art of fiction, but a kindly
readiness to be pleased, and to find good in everything. He brought his
wide knowledge of contemporary Scottish life “from the peer to the
ploughman;” he brought his well-digested wealth of antiquarian lore,
and the poetic skill which had just been busied with the “Lay of the
Last Minstrel,” and was still to be occupied, ere he finished his
interrupted novel, with “Marmion,” “The Lady of the Lake,” “Rokeby,”
and “The Lord of the Isles.” The comparative failure of the last-named
no doubt strengthened his determination to try prose romance. He had
never cared much for his own poems, he says, Byron had outdone him in
popularity, and the Muse—“the Good Demon” who once deserted
Herrick—came now less eagerly to his call.

It is curiously difficult to disentangle the statements about the
composition of “Waverley.” Our first authority, of course, is Scott’s
own account, given in the General Preface to the Edition of 1829.
Lockhart, however, remarks on the haste with which Sir Walter wrote the
Introductions to the _magnum opus;_ and the lapse of fifteen years, the
effects of disease, and his habitual carelessness about his own works
and mode of working may certainly to some extent have clouded his
memory. “About the year 1805,” as he says, he “threw together about one
third part of the first volume of ‘Waverley.’” It was advertised to be
published, he goes on, by Ballantyne, with the second title, “’T is
Fifty Years since.” This, obviously, would have made 1755 the date of
the events, just as the title “’T is Sixty Years since” in 1814 brought
the date of the events to 1754. By inspecting the water-mark of the
paper Lockhart discovered that 1805 was the period in which the first
few chapters were composed; the rest of the paper was marked 1814.
Scott next observes that the unfavourable opinion of a critical friend
on the first seven chapters induced him to lay the manuscript aside.
Who was this friend? Lockhart thinks it was Erskine. It is certain,
from a letter of Ballantyne’s at Abbotsford,—a letter printed by
Lockhart, September 15, 1810,—that Ballantyne in 1810 saw at least the
earlier portions of “Waverley,” and it is clear enough that he had seen
none of it before. If any friend did read it in 1805, it cannot have
been Ballantyne, and may have been Erskine. But none of the paper bears
a water-mark between 1805 and 1813, so Scott must merely have taken it
up, in 1810, as it had been for five years. Now Scott says that the
success of “The Lady of the Lake,” with its Highland pictures, induced
him “to attempt something of the same sort in prose.” This, as Lockhart
notes, cannot refer to 1805, as the “Lady of the Lake” did not appear
till 1810. But the good fortune of the “Lady” may very well have
induced him in 1810 to reconsider his Highland prose romance. In 1808,
as appears from an undated letter to Surtees of Mainsforth (Abbotsford
Manuscripts), he was contemplating a poem on “that wandering knight so
fair,” Charles Edward, and on the adventures of his flight, on Lochiel,
Flora Macdonald, the Kennedys, and the rest. Earlier still, on June 9,
1806, Scott wrote to Lady Abercorn that he had “a great work in
contemplation, a Highland romance of love, magic, and war.” “The Lady
of the Lake” took the place of that poem in his “century of
inventions,” and, stimulated by the popularity of his Highland romance
in verse, he disinterred the last seven chapters of “Waverley” from
their five years of repose. Very probably, as he himself hints, the
exercise of fitting a conclusion to Strutt’s “Queenhoo Hall” may have
helped to bring his fancy back to his own half-forgotten story of
“Waverley.” In 1811 Scott went to Abbotsford, and there, as he tells
us, he lost sight of his “Waverley” fragment.[*] Often looked for, it
was never found, till the accident of a search for fishing-tackle led
him to discover it in the drawer of an old bureau in a lumber-garret.
This cabinet afterwards came into the possession of Mr. William
Laidlaw, Scott’s friend and amanuensis, and it is still, the Editor
understands, in the hands of Miss Laidlaw. The fishing-tackle, Miss
Laidlaw tells the Editor (mainly red hackles, tied on hair, not gut),
still occupies the drawer, except a few flies which were given, as
relics, to the late Mr. Thomas Tod Stoddart. In 1813, then, volume i.
of “Waverley” was finished. Then Scott undertook some articles for
Constable, and laid the novel aside. The printing, at last, must have
been very speedy. Dining in Edinburgh, in June, 1814, Lockhart saw “the
hand of Walter Scott” busy at its task. “Page after page is finished,
and thrown on the heap of manuscripts, and still it goes on
unwearied.”[**] The book was published on July 7, the press hardly
keeping up with the activity of the author. Scott had written “two
volumes in three summer weeks” and the printers had not shown less
activity, while binders and stitchers must have worked extra tides.

[* Mr. R. P. Gillies says that in 1811 “Waverley, in three volumes, had
been announced by John Ballantyne, and a sheet or two set in types”
(Recollections of Sir Walter Scott, p 204).]


[** Lockhart, iv, 172.]


“Waverley” was published without the Author’s name. Scott’s reasons for
being anonymous have been stated by himself. “It was his humour,”—that
is the best of the reasons, and the secret gave him a great deal of
amusement. The Ballantynes, of course, knew it from the first; so did
Mr. Morritt, Lady Louisa Stuart, and Lord and Lady Montague, and others
were gradually admitted. In an undated letter, probably of November,
1816, Scott says to the Marchioness of Abercorn, a most intimate
friend: “I cannot even conjecture whom you mean by Mr. Mackenzie as
author of ‘The Antiquary.’ I should think my excellent old friend Mr.
Harry Mackenzie [author of the ‘Man of Feeling,’ etc.] was too much
advanced in years and plunged in business to amuse himself by writing
novels; and besides, the style in no degree resembles his.” (Lady
Abercorn meant “Young Harry Mackenzie,” not the patriarch.) “I am told
one of the English reviews gives these works by name and upon alleged
authority to George Forbes, Sir William’s brother; so they take them
off my hands, I don’t care who they turn to, for I am really tired of
an imputation which I am under the necessity of confuting at every
corner. Tom will soon be home from Canada, as the death of my elder
brother has left him a little money. He may answer for himself, but I
hardly suspect him, unless much changed, to be possessed of the
perseverance necessary to write nine volumes.” Scott elsewhere rather
encouraged the notion that his brother Thomas was the author, and tried
to make him exert himself and enter the field as a rival. Gossip also
assigned the “Scotch novels” to Jeffrey, to Mrs. Thomas Scott, aided by
her husband and Sir Walter, to a Dr. Greenfield, a clergyman, and to
many others. Sir Walter humorously suggested George Cranstoun as the
real offender. After the secret was publicly confessed, Lady Louisa
Stuart reminded Scott of all the amusement it had given them. “Old
Mortality” had been pronounced “too good” for Scott, and free from his
“wearisome descriptions of scenery.” Clever people had detected several
separate hands in “Old Mortality,” as in the Iliad. All this was
diverting. Moreover, Scott was in some degree protected from the bores
who pester a successful author. He could deny the facts very stoutly,
though always, as he insists, with the reservation implied in alleging
that, if he had been the author, he would still have declined to
confess. In the notes to later novels we shall see some of his “great
denials.”

The reception of “Waverley” was enthusiastic. Large editions were sold
in Edinburgh, and when Scott returned from his cruise in the northern
islands he found society ringing with his unacknowledged triumph.
Byron, especially, proclaimed his pleasure in “Waverley.” It may be
curious to recall some of the published reviews of the moment. Probably
no author ever lived so indifferent to published criticism as Scott.
Miss Edgeworth, in one of her letters, reminds him how they had both
agreed that writers who cared for the dignity and serenity of their
characters should abstain from “that authors’ bane-stuff.” “As to the
herd of critics,” Scott wrote to Miss Seward, after publishing “The
Lay,” “many of those gentlemen appear to me to be a set of tinkers,
who, unable to _make_ pots and pans, set up for _menders_ of them.” It
is probable, therefore, that he was quite unconcerned about the few
remarks which Mr. Gifford, in the “Quarterly Review” (vol. xl., 1814),
interspersed among a multitude of extracts, in a notice of “Waverley”
manufactured with scissors and paste. The “Quarterly” recognized “a
Scotch Castle Rackrent,” but in “a much higher strain.” The tale was
admitted to possess all the accuracy of history, and all the vivacity
of romance. Scott’s second novel, “Guy Mannering,” was attacked with
some viciousness in the periodical of which he was practically the
founder, and already the critic was anxious to repeat what Scott,
talking of Pope’s censors, calls “the cuckoo cry of ‘written out’!” The
notice of “Waverley” in the “Edinburgh Review” by Mr. Jeffrey was not
so slight and so unworthy of the topic. The novel was declared, and not
unjustly, to be “very hastily, and in many places very unskilfully,
written.” The Scotch was decried as “unintelligible” dialect by the
very reviewer who had accused “Marmion” of not being Scotch enough. But
the “Edinburgh” applauded “the extraordinary fidelity and felicity”
with which all the inferior agents in the story are represented.
“Fastidious readers” might find Callum Beg and Mrs. Nosebag and the
Cumberland peasants “coarse and disgusting,” said the reviewer, who
must have had in his imagination readers extremely superfine. He
objected to the earlier chapters as uninteresting, and—with justice—to
the passages where the author speaks in “the smart and flippant style
of modern makers of paragraphs.” “These form a strange and humiliating
contrast with the force and freedom of his manner when engaged in those
dramatic and picturesque representations to which his genius so
decidedly inclines.” He spoke severely of the places where Scott
explains the circumstances of Waverley’s adventures before he reaches
Edinburgh; and Scott himself, in his essay on Mrs. Radcliffe, regrets
that explanatory chapters had ever been invented. The reviewer broadly
hints his belief that Scott is the author; and on the whole, except for
a cautious lack of enthusiasm, the notice is fair and kindly. The
“Monthly Review” differed not much from the Blue and Yellow (the
“Edinburgh Review”).

“It is not one of the least merits of this very uncommon production
that all the subordinate characters are touched with the same
discriminating force which so strongly marks their principals; and that
in this manner almost every variety of station and interest, such as
existed at the period under review, is successively brought before the
mind of the reader in colours vivid as the original.
    “A few oversights, we think, we have detected in the conduct of the
    story which ought not to remain unnoticed. For example, the age of
    Stanley and Lady Emily does not seem well to accord with the
    circumstances of their union, as related in the commencement of the
    work; and we are not quite satisfied that Edward should have been
    so easily reconciled to the barbarous and stubborn prejudices which
    precluded even the office of intercession for his gallant friend
    and companion-in-arms.
    “The pieces of poetry which are not very profusely scattered
    through these volumes can scarcely fail to be ascribed to Mr.
    Scott, whatever may be judged of the body of the work. In point of
    comparative merit, we should class them neither with the highest
    nor with the meanest effusions of his lyric minstrelsy.”


Lord Byron’s “Grandmother’s Review, the British,” was also friendly and
sagacious, in its elderly way.

“We request permission, therefore, to introduce ‘Waverley,’ a
publication which has already excited considerable interest in the
sister kingdom, to the literary world on this side the Tweed.
    “A very short time has elapsed since this publication made its
    appearance in Edinburgh, and though it came into the world in the
    modest garb of anonymous obscurity, the Northern _literati_ are
    unanimous, we understand, in ascribing part of it, at least, to the
    pen of W. Scott.
    “We are unwilling to consider this publication in the light of a
    common novel whose fate it is to be devoured with rapidity for a
    day, and afterwards forgotten forever, but as a vehicle of curious
    and accurate information upon a subject which must at all times
    demand our attention,—the history and manners of a very large and
    renowned portion of the inhabitants of these islands. We would
    recommend this tale as faithfully embodying the lives, the manners,
    and the opinions of this departed race, and as affording those
    features of ancient days which no man probably, besides its author,
    has had the means to collect, the desire to preserve, or the power
    to portray.
    “Although there are characters sufficient to awaken the attention
    and to diversify the scenes, yet they are not in sufficient number
    to perplex the memory or to confuse the incidents. Their spirit is
    well kept up till the very last, and they relieve one another with
    so much art that the reader will not find himself wearied even with
    the pedantic jargon of the old Baron of Bradwardine.
    “Of Waverley himself we shall say but little, as his character is
    far too common to need a comment; we can only say that his
    wanderings are not gratuitous, nor is he wavering and indecisive
    only because the author chooses to make him so. Every feature in
    his character is formed by education, and it is to this first
    source that we are constantly referred for a just and sufficient
    cause of all the wandering passions as they arise in his mind.
    “The secondary personages are drawn with much spirit and fidelity,
    and with a very striking knowledge of the peculiarities of the
    Scotch temper and disposition. The incidents are all founded on
    fact, and the historical parts are related with much accuracy. The
    livelier scenes which are displayed are of the most amusing
    species, because they flow so naturally from the personages before
    us that the characters, not the author, appear to speak. A strong
    vein of very original humour marks the whole: in most instances it
    is indeed of a local and particular nature, but in many cases it
    assumes a more general appearance.
    “Of the more serious portions we can speak with unqualified
    approbation; the very few pathetic scenes which occur are short,
    dignifed, and affecting. The love-scenes are sufficiently
    contracted to produce that very uncommon sensation in the mind,—a
    wish that they were longer.
    “The religious opinions expressed in the course of the tale are
    few, but of those few we fully approve.
    “The humorous and happy adaptation of legal terms shows no moderate
    acquaintance with the arcana of the law, and a perpetual allusion
    to the English and Latin classics no common share of scholarship
    and taste.”


The “Scots Magazine” illustrated the admirable unanimity of reviewers
when they _are_ unanimous. The “Anti-jacobin” objected that no
Château-Margaux sent in the wood from Bordeaux to Dundee in 1713 could
have been drinkable in 1745. “Claret two-and-thirty years old! It
almost gives us the gripes to think of it.” Indeed, Sir Walter, as
Lochhart assures us, was so far from being a judge of claret that he
could not tell when it was “corked.” One or two points equally
important amused the reviewer, who, like most of his class, detected
the hand of Scott. There was hardly a possibility, as Mr. Morritt told
Sir Walter, “that the poems in ‘Waverley’ could fail to suggest their
author. No man who ever heard you tell a story over a table but must
recognize you at once.” To his praise of “Waverley” Mr. Morritt hardly
added any adverse criticism, beyond doubting the merit of the early
chapters, and denouncing the word “sombre” as one which had lately
“kept bad company among the slipshod English of the sentimental
school.” Scott, in defence, informed Mr. Morritt that he had “left the
story to flag in the first volume on purpose. . . . I wished (with what
success Heaven knows) to avoid the ordinary error of novelists, whose
first volume is usually their best.”

It must be admitted that if Scott wished to make “Waverley” “flag” in
the beginning, he succeeded extremely well,—too well for many modern
readers, accustomed to a leap into the midst of the story. “These
introductory chapters,” he observes in a note on the fifth of them,
“have been a good deal censured as tedious and unnecessary; yet there
are circumstances recorded in them which the Author has not been able
to persuade himself to retract or cancel.” These “circumstances” are
probably the studies of Waverley, his romantic readings, which are
really autobiographic. Scott was, apparently, seriously of opinion that
the “mental discipline” of a proper classical education would have been
better for himself than his own delightfully desultory studies.
Ballantyne could not see what Waverley’s reading had to do with his
adventures and character. Scott persisted in being of another mind. He
himself, writing to Morritt, calls his hero “a sneaking piece of
imbecility;” but he probably started with loftier intentions of
“psychological analysis” than he fulfilled. He knew, and often said, in
private letters, as in published works, that he was no hand at a
respectable hero. Borderers, buccaneers, robbers, and humorsome people,
like Dugald Dalgetty and Bailie Nicol Jarvie and Macwheeble, whom he
said he preferred to any person in “Waverley,” were the characters he
delighted in. We may readily believe that Shakspeare too preferred
Jacques and the Fat Knight to Orlando or the favoured lover of Anne
Page. Your hero is a difficult person to make human,—unless, indeed, he
has the defects of Pendennis or Tom Jones. But it is likely enough that
the Waverley whom Scott had in his mind in 1805 was hardly the Waverley
of 1813. His early English chapters are much in the ordinary vein of
novels as they were then written; in those chapters come the “asides”
by the author which the “Edinburgh Review” condemned. But there remains
the kindly, honourable Sir Everard, while the calm atmosphere of
English meadows, and the plump charms of Miss Cecilia Stubbs, are
intended as foils to the hills of the North, the shy refinement of
Rose, and the heroic heart of Flora Mac-Ivor. Scott wished to show the
remote extremes of civilization and mental habit co-existing in the
same island of Scotland and England. Yet we regret such passages as
“craving pardon for my heroics, which I am unable in certain cases to
resist giving way to,” and so forth. Scott was no Thackeray, no
Fielding, and failed (chiefly in “Waverley”) when he attempted the mood
of banter, which one of his daughters, a lady “of Beatrice’s mind,”
“never got from me,” he observes.

In any serious attempt to criticise “Waverley” as a whole, it is not
easy to say whether we should try to put ourselves at the point of view
of its first readers, or whether we should look at it from the
vantage-ground of to-day. In 1814 the dead world of clannish loyalty
was fresh in many memories. Scott’s own mother had often spoken with a
person who had seen Cromwell enter Edinburgh after Dunbar. He himself
knew heroes of the Forty-five, and his friend Lady Louisa Stuart had
been well acquainted with Miss Walkinshaw, sister of the mistress of
Charles Edward. To his generation those things were personal memories,
which to us seem as distant as the reign of Men-ka-ra. They could not
but be “carried off their feet” by such pictures of a past still so
near them. Nor had they other great novelists to weaken the force of
Scott’s impressions. They had not to compare him with the melancholy
mirth of Thackeray, and the charm, the magic, of his style. Balzac was
of the future; of the future was the Scott of France,—the boyish, the
witty, the rapid, the brilliant, the inexhaustible Dumas. Scott’s
generation had no scruples about “realism,” listened to no sermons on
the glory of the commonplace; like Dr. Johnson, they admired a book
which “was amusing as a fairy-tale.” But we are overwhelmed with a
wealth of comparisons, and deafened by a multitude of homilies on
fiction, and distracted, like the people in the _Eyrbyggja_ Saga, by
the strange rising and setting, and the wild orbits of new “weirdmoons”
of romance. Before we can make up our minds on Scott, we have to
remember, or forget, the scornful patronage of one critic, the
over-subtlety and exaggerations of another, the more than papal
infallibility of a third. Perhaps the best critic would be an
intelligent school-boy, with a generous heart and an unspoiled
imagination. As his remarks are not accessible, as we must try to judge
“Waverley” like readers inured to much fiction and much criticism, we
must confess, no doubt, that the commencement has the faults which the
first reviewers detected, and which Scott acknowledged. He is decidedly
slow in getting to business, as they say; he began with more of
conscious ethical purpose than he went on, and his banter is poor. But
when once we enter the village of Tully-Veolan, the Magician finds his
wand. Each picture of place or person tells,—the old butler, the daft
Davie Gellatley, the solemn and chivalrous Baron, the pretty natural
girl, the various lairds, the factor Macwheeble,—all at once become
living people, and friends whom we can never lose. The creative fire of
Shakspeare lives again. The Highlanders—Evan Dhu, Donald Bean Lean, his
charming daughter, Callum Beg, and all the rest—are as natural as the
Lowlanders. In Fergus and Flora we feel, indeed, at first, that the
author has left his experience behind, and is giving us creatures of
fancy. But they too become human and natural,—Fergus in his moods of
anger, ambition, and final courageous resignation; Flora, in her grief.
As for Waverley, his creator was no doubt too hard on him. Among the
brave we hear that he was one of the bravest, though Scott always wrote
his battlepieces in a manner to suggest no discomfort, and does not
give us particular details of Waverley’s prowess. He has spirit enough,
this “sneaking piece of imbecility,” as he shows in his quarrel with
Fergus, on the march to Derby. Waverley, that creature of romance,
considered as a lover, is really not romantic enough. He loved Rose
because she loved him,—which is confessed to be unheroic behaviour.
Scott, in “Waverley,” certainly does not linger over love-scenes. With
Mr. Ruskin, we may say: “Let it not be thought for an instant that the
slight and sometimes scornful glance with which Scott passes over
scenes, which a novelist of our own day would have analyzed with the
airs of a philosopher, and painted with the curiosity of a gossip,
indicates any absence in his heart of sympathy with the great and
sacred elements of personal happiness.” But his mind entertained other
themes of interest, “loyalty, patriotism, piety.” On the other hand, it
is necessary to differ from Mr. Ruskin when he says that Scott “never
knew ‘l’amor che move ’l sol e l’altre stelle.’” He whose heart was
“broken for two years,” and retained the crack till his dying day, he
who, when old and tired, and near his death, was yet moved by the
memory of the name which thirty years before he had cut in Runic
characters on the turf at the Castle-gate of St. Andrew, knew love too
well to write of it much, or to speak of it at all. He had won his
ideal as alone the ideal can be won; he never lost her: she was with
him always, because she had been unattainable. “There are few,” he
says, “who have not, at one period of life, broken ties of love and
friendship, secret disappointments of the heart, to mourn over,—and we
know no book which recalls the memory of them more severely than ‘Julia
de Roubigné.’” He could not be very eager to recall them, he who had so
bitterly endured them, and because he had known and always knew “l’amor
che move ’l sol e l’altre stelle,” a seal was on his lips, a silence
broken only by a caress of Di Vernon’s.[*]

[* In a letter to Lady Abercorn, written when he was busy with the
“Lady of the Lake,” Scott complained that he could not draw a lover, in
spite of his own experience.]


This apology we may make, if an apology be needed, for what modern
readers may think the meagreness of the love-passages in Scott. He does
not deal in embraces and effusions, his taste is too manly; he does not
dwell much on Love, because, like the shepherd in Theocritus, he has
found him an inhabitant of the rocks. Moreover, when Scott began
novel-writing, he was as old as Thackeray when Thackeray said that
while at work on a love-scene he blushed so that you would think he was
going into an apoplexy. “Waverley” stands by its pictures of manners,
of character, by its humour and its tenderness, by its manly “criticism
of life,” by its touches of poetry, so various, so inspired, as in
Davie Gellatley with his songs, and Charles Edward in the gallant hour
of Holyrood, and Flora with her high, selfless hopes and broken heart,
and the beloved Baron, bearing his lot “with a good-humoured though
serious composure.” “To be sure, we may say with Virgilius Maro,
‘Fuimus Troes’—and there’s the end of an auld sang. But houses and
families and men have a’ stood lang eneugh when they have stood till
they fall with honour.”

“Waverley” ends like a fairy-tale, while real life ever ends like a
Northern saga. But among the good things that make life bearable, such
fairy-tales are not the least precious, and not the least enduring.




INTRODUCTION


The plan of this edition leads me to insert in this place some account
of the incidents on which the Novel of Waverley is founded. They have
been already given to the public by my late lamented friend, William
Erskine, Esq. (afterwards Lord Kinneder), when reviewing the Tales of
My Landlord for the Quarterly Review in 1817. The particulars were
derived by the critic from the Author’s information. Afterwards they
were published in the preface to the “Chronicles of the Canongate”.
They are now inserted in their proper place.

The mutual protection afforded by Waverley and Talbot to each other,
upon which the whole plot depends, is founded upon one of those
anecdotes which soften the features even of civil war; and, as it is
equally honourable to the memory of both parties, we have no hesitation
to give their names at length. When the Highlanders, on the morning of
the battle of Preston, 1745, made their memorable attack on Sir John
Cope’s army, a battery of four field-pieces was stormed and carried by
the Camerons and the Stewarts of Appine. The late Alexander Stewart of
Invernahylewas one of the foremost in the charge, and observing an
officer of the King’s forces, who, scorning to join the flight of all
around, remained with his sword in his hand, as if determined to the
very last to defend the post assigned to him, the Highland gentleman
commanded him to surrender, and received for reply a thrust, which he
caught in his target. The officer was now defenceless, and the
battle-axe of a gigantic Highlander (the miller of Invernahyle’s mill)
was uplifted to dash his brains out, when Mr. Stewart with difficulty
prevailed on him to yield. He took charge of his enemy’s property,
protected his person, and finally obtained him liberty on his parole.
The officer proved to be Colonel Whitefoord, an Ayrshire gentleman of
high character and influence, and warmly attached to the House of
Hanover; yet such was the confidence existing between these two
honourable men, though of different political principles, that, while
the civil war was raging, and straggling officers from the Highland
army were executed without mercy, Invernahyle hesitated not to pay his
late captive a visit, as he returned to the Highlands to raise fresh
recruits, on which occasion he spent a day or two in Ayrshire among
Colonel Whitefoord’s Whig friends, as pleasantly and as good-humouredly
as if all had been at peace around him.

After the battle of Culloden had ruined the hopes of Charles Edward and
dispersed his proscribed adherents, it was Colonel Whitefoord’s turn to
strain every nerve to obtain Mr. Stewart’s pardon. He went to the Lord
Justice Clerk to the Lord Advocate, and to all the officers of state,
and each application was answered by the production of a list in which
Invernahyle (as the good old gentleman was wont to express it) appeared
“marked with the sign of the beast!” as a subject unfit for favour or
pardon.

At length Colonel Whitefoord applied to the Duke of Cumberland in
person. From him, also, he received a positive refusal. He then limited
his request, for the present, to a protection for Stewart’s house,
wife, children, and property. This was also refused by the Duke; on
which Colonel Whitefoord, taking his commission from his bosom, laid it
on the table before his Royal Highness with much emotion, and asked
permission to retire from the service of a sovereign who did not know
how to spare a vanquished enemy. The Duke was struck, and even
affected. He bade the Colonel take up his commission, and granted the
protection he required. It was issued just in time to save the house,
corn, and cattle at Invernahyle from the troops, who were engaged in
laying waste what it was the fashion to call “the country of the
enemy.” A small encampment of soldiers was formed on Invernahyle’s
property, which they spared while plundering the country around, and
searching in every direction for the leaders of the insurrection, and
for Stewart in particular. He was much nearer them than they suspected;
for, hidden in a cave (like the Baron of Bradwardine), he lay for many
days so near the English sentinels that he could hear their muster-roll
called. His food was brought to him by one of his daughters, a child of
eight years old, whom Mrs. Stewart was under the necessity of
entrusting with this commission; for her own motions, and those of all
her elder inmates, were closely watched. With ingenuity beyond her
years, the child used to stray about among the soldiers, who were
rather kind to her, and thus seize the moment when she was unobserved
and steal into the thicket, when she deposited whatever small store of
provisions she had in charge at some marked spot, where her father
might find it. Invernahyle supported life for several weeks by means of
these precarious supplies; and, as he had been wounded in the battle of
Culloden, the hardships which he endured were aggravated by great
bodily pain. After the soldiers had removed their quarters he had
another remarkable escape.

As he now ventured to his own house at night and left it in the
morning, he was espied during the dawn by a party of the enemy, who
fired at and pursued him. The fugitive being fortunate enough to escape
their search, they returned to the house and charged the family with
harbouring one of the proscribed traitors. An old woman had presence of
mind enough to maintain that the man they had seen was the shepherd.
“Why did he not stop when we called to him?” said the soldier. “He is
as deaf, poor man, as a peat-stack,” answered the ready-witted
domestic. “Let him be sent for directly.” The real shepherd accordingly
was brought from the hill, and, as there was time to tutor him by the
way, he was as deaf when he made his appearance as was necessary to
sustain his character. Invernahyle was afterwards pardoned under the
Act of Indemnity.

The Author knew him well, and has often heard these circumstances from
his own mouth. He was a noble specimen of the old Highlander, far
descended, gallant, courteous, and brave, even to chivalry. He had been
_out_, I believe, in 1715 and 1745, was an active partaker in all the
stirring scenes which passed in the Highlands betwixt these memorable
eras; and, I have heard, was remarkable, among other exploits, for
having fought a duel with the broadsword with the celebrated Rob Roy
MacGregor at the clachan of Balquidder.

Invernahyle chanced to be in Edinburgh when Paul Jones came into the
Firth of Forth, and though then an old man, I saw him in arms, and
heard him exult (to use his own words) in the prospect of “drawing his
claymore once more before he died.” In fact, on that memorable
occasion, when the capital of Scotland was menaced by three trifling
sloops or brigs, scarce fit to have sacked a fishing village, he was
the only man who seemed to propose a plan of resistance. He offered to
the magistrates, if broadswords and dirks could be obtained, to find as
many Highlanders among the lower classes as would cut off any boat’s
crew who might be sent into a town full of narrow and winding passages,
in which they were like to disperse in quest of plunder. I know not if
his plan was attended to, I rather think it seemed too hazardous to the
constituted authorities, who might not, even at that time, desire to
see arms in Highland hands. A steady and powerful west wind settled the
matter by sweeping Paul Jones and his vessels out of the Firth.

If there is something degrading in this recollection, it is not
unpleasant to compare it with those of the last war, when Edinburgh,
besides regular forces and militia, furnished a volunteer brigade of
cavalry, infantry, and artillery to the amount of six thousand men and
upwards, which was in readiness to meet and repel a force of a far more
formidable description than was commanded by the adventurous American.
Time and circumstances change the character of nations and the fate of
cities; and it is some pride to a Scotchman to reflect that the
independent and manly character of a country, willing to entrust its
own protection to the arms of its children, after having been obscured
for half a century, has, during the course of his own lifetime,
recovered its lustre.

Other illustrations of “Waverley” will be found in the Notes at the
foot of the pages to which they belong. Those which appeared too long
to be so placed are given at the end of the chapters to which they
severally relate. [Footnote: In this edition at the end of the several
volumes.]




PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION


To this slight attempt at a sketch of ancient Scottish manners the
public have been more favourable than the Author durst have hoped or
expected. He has heard, with a mixture of satisfaction and humility,
his work ascribed to more than one respectable name. Considerations,
which seem weighty in his particular situation, prevent his releasing
those gentlemen from suspicion by placing his own name in the
title-page; so that, for the present at least, it must remain uncertain
whether WAVERLEY be the work of a poet or a critic, a lawyer or a
clergyman, or whether the writer, to use Mrs. Malaprop’s phrase, be,
“like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once.”

The Author, as he is unconscious of anything in the work itself (except
perhaps its frivolity) which prevents its finding an acknowledged
father, leaves it to the candour of the public to choose among the many
circumstances peculiar to different situations in life such as may
induce him to suppress his name on the present occasion. He may be a
writer new to publication, and unwilling to avow a character to which
he is unaccustomed; or he may be a hackneyed author, who is ashamed of
too frequent appearance, and employs this mystery, as the heroine of
the old comedy used her mask, to attract the attention of those to whom
her face had become too familiar. He may be a man of a grave
profession, to whom the reputation of being a novel-writer might be
prejudicial; or he may be a man of fashion, to whom writing of any kind
might appear pedantic. He may be too young to assume the character of
an author, or so old as to make it advisable to lay it aside.

The Author of “Waverley” has heard it objected to this novel, that, in
the character of Callum Beg and in the account given by the Baron of
Bradwardine of the petty trespasses of the Highlanders upon trifling
articles of property, he has borne hard, and unjustly so, upon their
national character. Nothing could be farther from his wish or
intention. The character of Callum Beg is that of a spirit naturally
turned to daring evil, and determined, by the circumstances of his
situation, to a particular species of mischief. Those who have perused
the curious Letters from the Highlands, published about 1726, will find
instances of such atrocious characters which fell under the writer’s
own observation, though it would be most unjust to consider such
villains as representatives of the Highlanders of that period, any more
than the murderers of Marr and Williamson can be supposed to represent
the English of the present day. As for the plunder supposed to have
been picked up by some of the insurgents in 1745, it must be remembered
that, although the way of that unfortunate little army was neither
marked by devastation nor bloodshed, but, on the contrary, was orderly
and quiet in a most wonderful degree, yet no army marches through a
country in a hostile manner without committing some depredations; and
several, to the extent and of the nature jocularly imputed to them by
the Baron, were really laid to the charge of the Highland insurgents;
for which many traditions, and particularly one respecting the Knight
of the Mirror, may be quoted as good evidence.[*]

[* A homely metrical narrative of the events of the period, which
contains some striking particulars, and is still a great favourite with
the lower classes, gives a very correct statement of the behaviour of
the mountaineers respecting this same military license; and, as the
verses are little known, and contain some good sense, we venture to
insert them.]


THE AUTHOR’S ADDRESS TO ALL IN GENERAL


Now, gentle readers, I have let you ken
My very thoughts, from heart and pen,
’Tis needless for to conten’
          Or yet controule,
For there’s not a word o’t I can men’;
          So ye must thole.

For on both sides some were not good;
I saw them murd’ring in cold blood,
Not the gentlemen, but wild and rude,
          The baser sort,
Who to the wounded had no mood
          But murd’ring sport!

Ev’n both at Preston and Falkirk,
That fatal night ere it grew mirk,
Piercing the wounded with their durk,
          Caused many cry!
Such pity’s shown from Savage and Turk
          As peace to die.

A woe be to such hot zeal,
To smite the wounded on the fiell!
It’s just they got such groats in kail,
          Who do the same.
It only teaches crueltys real
          To them again.

I’ve seen the men call’d Highland rogues,
With Lowland men make shangs a brogs,
Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs
          Out at the door,
Take cocks, hens, sheep, and hogs,
          And pay nought for.

I saw a Highlander, ’t was right drole,
With a string of puddings hung on a pole,
Whip’d o’er his shoulder, skipped like a fole,
          Caus’d Maggy bann,
Lap o’er the midden and midden-hole,
          And aff he ran.

When check’d for this, they’d often tell ye,
Indeed _her nainsell’s_ a tume belly;
You’ll no gie’t wanting bought, nor sell me;
          _Hersell_ will hae’t;
Go tell King Shorge, and Shordy’s Willie,
          I’ll hae a meat.

I saw the soldiers at Linton-brig,
Because the man was not a Whig,
Of meat and drink leave not a skig,
          Within his door;
They burnt his very hat and wig,
          And thump’d him sore.

And through the Highlands they were so rude,
As leave them neither clothes nor food,
Then burnt their houses to conclude;
          ’T was tit for tat.
How can _her nainsell_ e’er be good,
          To think on that?

And after all, O, shame and grief!
To use some worse than murd’ring thief,
Their very gentleman and chief,
          Unhumanly!
Like Popish tortures, I believe,
          Such cruelty.

Ev’n what was act on open stage
At Carlisle, in the hottest rage,
When mercy was clapt in a cage,
          And pity dead,
Such cruelty approv’d by every age,
          I shook my head.

So many to curse, so few to pray,
And some aloud huzza did cry;
They cursed the rebel Scots that day,
          As they’d been nowt
Brought up for slaughter, as that way
          Too many rowt.

Therefore, alas! dear countrymen,
O never do the like again,
To thirst for vengeance, never ben’
          Your gun nor pa’,
But with the English e’en borrow and len’,
          Let anger fa’.

Their boasts and bullying, not worth a louse,
As our King’s the best about the house.
’T is ay good to be sober and douce,
          To live in peace;
For many, I see, for being o’er crouse,
          Gets broken face.




WAVERLEY

OR

’TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE

Volume I.




CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY


The title of this work has not been chosen without the grave and solid
deliberation which matters of importance demand from the prudent. Even
its first, or general denomination, was the result of no common
research or selection, although, according to the example of my
predecessors, I had only to seize upon the most sounding and euphonic
surname that English history or topography affords, and elect it at
once as the title of my work and the name of my hero. But, alas! what
could my readers have expected from the chivalrous epithets of Howard,
Mordaunt, Mortimer, or Stanley, or from the softer and more sentimental
sounds of Belmour, Belville, Belfield, and Belgrave, but pages of
inanity, similar to those which have been so christened for half a
century past? I must modestly admit I am too diffident of my own merit
to place it in unnecessary opposition to preconceived associations; I
have, therefore, like a maiden knight with his white shield, assumed
for my hero, WAVERLEY, an uncontaminated name, bearing with its sound
little of good or evil, excepting what the reader shall hereafter be
pleased to affix to it. But my second or supplemental title was a
matter of much more difficult election, since that, short as it is, may
be held as pledging the author to some special mode of laying his
scene, drawing his characters, and managing his adventures. Had I, for
example, announced in my frontispiece, “Waverley, a Tale of other
Days,” must not every novel-reader have anticipated a castle scarce
less than that of Udolpho, of which the eastern wing had long been
uninhabited, and the keys either lost, or consigned to the care of some
aged butler or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, about the middle of
the second volume, were doomed to guide the hero, or heroine, to the
ruinous precincts? Would not the owl have shrieked and the cricket
cried in my very title-page? and could it have been possible for me,
with a moderate attention to decorum, to introduce any scene more
lively than might be produced by the jocularity of a clownish but
faithful valet, or the garrulous narrative of the heroine’s
_fille-de-chambre_, when rehearsing the stories of blood and horror
which she had heard in the servants’ hall? Again, had my title borne,
“Waverley, a Romance from the German,” what head so obtuse as not to
image forth a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and
mysterious association of Rosycrucians and Illuminati, with all their
properties of black cowls, caverns, daggers, electrical machines,
trap-doors, and dark-lanterns? Or if I had rather chosen to call my
work a “Sentimental Tale,” would it not have been a sufficient presage
of a heroine with a profusion of auburn hair, and a harp, the soft
solace of her solitary hours, which she fortunately finds always the
means of transporting from castle to cottage, although she herself be
sometimes obliged to jump out of a two-pair-of-stairs window, and is
more than once bewildered on her journey, alone and on foot, without
any guide but a blowzy peasant girl, whose jargon she hardly can
understand? Or, again, if my Waverley had been entitled “A Tale of the
Times,” wouldst thou not, gentle reader, have demanded from me a
dashing sketch of the fashionable world, a few anecdotes of private
scandal thinly veiled, and if lusciously painted, so much the better? a
heroine from Grosvenor Square, and a hero from the Barouche Club or the
Four-in-Hand, with a set of subordinate characters from the elegantes
of Queen Anne Street East, or the dashing heroes of the Bow-Street
Office? I could proceed in proving the importance of a title-page, and
displaying at the same time my own intimate knowledge of the particular
ingredients necessary to the composition of romances and novels of
various descriptions;—but it is enough, and I scorn to tyrannise longer
over the impatience of my reader, who is doubtless already anxious to
know the choice made by an author so profoundly versed in the different
branches of his art.

By fixing, then, the date of my story Sixty Years before this present
1st November, 1805, I would have my readers understand, that they will
meet in the following pages neither a romance of chivalry nor a tale of
modern manners; that my hero will neither have iron on his shoulders,
as of yore, nor on the heels of his boots, as is the present fashion of
Bond Street; and that my damsels will neither be clothed “in purple and
in pall,” like the Lady Alice of an old ballad, nor reduced to the
primitive nakedness of a modern fashionable at a rout. From this my
choice of an era the understanding critic may farther presage that the
object of my tale is more a description of men than manners. A tale of
manners, to be interesting, must either refer to antiquity so great as
to have become venerable, or it must bear a vivid reflection of those
scenes which are passing daily before our eyes, and are interesting
from their novelty. Thus the coat-of-mail of our ancestors, and the
triple-furred pelisse of our modern beaux, may, though for very
different reasons, be equally fit for the array of a fictitious
character; but who, meaning the costume of his hero to be impressive,
would willingly attire him in the court dress of George the Second’s
reign, with its no collar, large sleeves, and low pocket-holes? The
same may be urged, with equal truth, of the Gothic hall, which, with
its darkened and tinted windows, its elevated and gloomy roof, and
massive oaken table garnished with boar’s-head and rosemary, pheasants
and peacocks, cranes and cygnets, has an excellent effect in fictitious
description. Much may also be gained by a lively display of a modern
_fête_, such as we have daily recorded in that part of a newspaper
entitled the Mirror of Fashion, if we contrast these, or either of
them, with the splendid formality of an entertainment given Sixty Years
Since; and thus it will be readily seen how much the painter of antique
or of fashionable manners gains over him who delineates those of the
last generation.

Considering the disadvantages inseparable from this part of my subject,
I must be understood to have resolved to avoid them as much as
possible, by throwing the force of my narrative upon the characters and
passions of the actors;—those passions common to men in all stages of
society, and which have alike agitated the human heart, whether it
throbbed under the steel corslet of the fifteenth century, the brocaded
coat of the eighteenth, or the blue frock and white dimity waistcoat of
the present day.[*] Upon these passions it is no doubt true that the
state of manners and laws casts a necessary colouring; but the
bearings, to use the language of heraldry, remain the same, though the
tincture may be not only different, but opposed in strong
contradistinction. The wrath of our ancestors, for example, was
coloured _gules;_ it broke forth in acts of open and sanguinary
violence against the objects of its fury. Our malignant feelings, which
must seek gratification through more indirect channels, and undermine
the obstacles which they cannot openly bear down, may be rather said to
be tinctured sable. But the deep-ruling impulse is the same in both
cases; and the proud peer, who can now only ruin his neighbour
according to law, by protracted suits, is the genuine descendant of the
baron who wrapped the castle of his competitor in flames, and knocked
him on the head as he endeavoured to escape from the conflagration. It
is from the great book of Nature, the same through a thousand editions,
whether of black-letter, or wire-wove and hot-pressed, that I have
venturously essayed to read a chapter to the public. Some favourable
opportunities of contrast have been afforded me by the state of society
in the northern part of the island at the period of my history, and may
serve at once to vary and to illustrate the moral lessons, which I
would willingly consider as the most important part of my plan;
although I am sensible how short these will fall of their aim if I
shall be found unable to mix them with amusement—a task not quite so
easy in this critical generation as it was “Sixty Years Since.”

[* Alas! that attire, respectable and gentlemanlike in 1805, or
thereabouts, is now as antiquated as the Author of “Waverley” has
himself become since that period! The reader of fashion will please to
fill up the costume with an embroidered waistcoat of purple velvet or
silk, and a coat of whatever colour he pleases.]




CHAPTER II.
WAVERLEY-HONOUR—A RETROSPECT


It is, then, sixty years since Edward Waverley, the hero of the
following pages, took leave of his family, to join the regiment of
dragoons in which he had lately obtained a commission. It was a
melancholy day at Waverley-Honour when the young officer parted with
Sir Everard, the affectionate old uncle to whose title and estate he
was presumptive heir.

A difference in political opinions had early separated the Baronet from
his younger brother Richard Waverley, the father of our hero. Sir
Everard had inherited from his sires the whole train of Tory or
High-Church predilections and prejudices which had distinguished the
house of Waverley since the Great Civil War. Richard, on the contrary,
who was ten years younger, beheld himself born to the fortune of a
second brother, and anticipated neither dignity nor entertainment in
sustaining the character of Will Wimble. He saw early that, to succeed
in the race of life, it was necessary he should carry as little weight
as possible. Painters talk of the difficulty of expressing the
existence of compound passions in the same features at the same moment;
it would be no less difficult for the moralist to analyse the mixed
motives which unite to form the impulse of our actions. Richard
Waverley read and satisfied himself from history and sound argument
that, in the words of the old song,

Passive obedience was a jest,
And pshaw! was non-resistance;


yet reason would have probably been unable to combat and remove
hereditary prejudice could Richard have anticipated that his elder
brother, Sir Everard, taking to heart an early disappointment, would
have remained a bachelor at seventy-two. The prospect of succession,
however remote, might in that case have led him to endure dragging
through the greater part of his life as “Master Richard at the Hall,
the Baronet’s brother,” in the hope that ere its conclusion he should
be distinguished as Sir Richard Waverley of Waverley-Honour, successor
to a princely estate, and to extended political connections as head of
the county interest in the shire where it lay.

But this was a consummation of things not to be expected at Richard’s
outset, when Sir Everard was in the prime of life, and certain to be an
acceptable suitor in almost any family, whether wealth or beauty should
be the object of his pursuit, and when, indeed, his speedy marriage was
a report which regularly amused the neighbourhood once a year. His
younger brother saw no practicable road to independence save that of
relying upon his own exertions, and adopting a political creed more
consonant both to reason and his own interest than the hereditary faith
of Sir Everard in High-Church and in the house of Stuart. He therefore
read his recantation at the beginning of his career, and entered life
as an avowed Whig and friend of the Hanover succession.

The ministry of George the First’s time were prudently anxious to
diminish the phalanx of opposition. The Tory nobility, depending for
their reflected lustre upon the sunshine of a court, had for some time
been gradually reconciling themselves to the new dynasty. But the
wealthy country gentlemen of England, a rank which retained, with much
of ancient manners and primitive integrity, a great proportion of
obstinate and unyielding prejudice, stood aloof in haughty and sullen
opposition, and cast many a look of mingled regret and hope to Bois le
Due, Avignon, and Italy.[*] The accession of the near relation of one
of those steady and inflexible opponents was considered as a means of
bringing over more converts, and therefore Richard Waverley met with a
share of ministerial favour more than proportioned to his talents or
his political importance. It was, however, discovered that he had
respectable talents for public business, and the first admittance to
the minister’s levee being negotiated, his success became rapid. Sir
Everard learned from the public News-Letter, first that Richard
Waverley, Esquire, was returned for the ministerial borough of
Barterfaith; next, that Richard Waverley, Esquire, had taken a
distinguished part in the debate upon the Excise Bill in the support of
government; and, lastly, that Richard Waverley, Esquire, had been
honoured with a seat at one of those boards where the pleasure of
serving the country is combined with other important gratifications,
which, to render them the more acceptable, occur regularly once a
quarter.

[* Where the Chevalier St. George, or, as he was termed, the Old
Pretender, held his exiled court, as his situation compelled him to
shift his place of residence.]


Although these events followed each other so closely that the sagacity
of the editor of a modern newspaper would have presaged the two last
even while he announced the first, yet they came upon Sir Everard
gradually, and drop by drop, as it were, distilled through the cool and
procrastinating alembic of “Dyer’s Weekly Letter.”[1] For it may be
observed in passing, that instead of those mail-coaches, by means of
which every mechanic at his six-penny club, may nightly learn from
twenty contradictory channels the yesterday’s news of the capital, a
weekly post brought, in those days, to Waverley-Honour, a Weekly
Intelligencer, which, after it had gratified Sir Everard’s curiosity,
his sister’s, and that of his aged butler, was regularly transferred
from the Hall to the Rectory, from the Rectory to Squire Stubbs’s at
the Grange, from the Squire to the Baronet’s steward at his neat white
house on the heath, from the steward to the bailiff, and from him
through a huge circle of honest dames and gaffers, by whose hard and
horny hands it was generally worn to pieces in about a month after its
arrival.

This slow succession of intelligence was of some advantage to Richard
Waverley in the case before us; for, had the sum total of his
enormities reached the ears of Sir Everard at once, there can be no
doubt that the new commissioner would have had little reason to pique
himself on the success of his politics. The Baronet, although the
mildest of human beings, was not without sensitive points in his
character; his brother’s conduct had wounded these deeply; the Waverley
estate was fettered by no entail (for it had never entered into the
head of any of its former possessors that one of their progeny could be
guilty of the atrocities laid by “Dyer’s Letter” to the door of
Richard), and if it had, the marriage of the proprietor might have been
fatal to a collateral heir. These various ideas floated through the
brain of Sir Everard without, however, producing any determined
conclusion.

He examined the tree of his genealogy, which, emblazoned with many an
emblematic mark of honour and heroic achievement, hung upon the
well-varnished wainscot of his hall. The nearest descendants of Sir
Hildebrand Waverley, failing those of his eldest son Wilfred, of whom
Sir Everard and his brother were the only representatives, were, as
this honoured register informed him (and, indeed, as he himself well
knew), the Waverleys of Highley Park, com. Hants; with whom the main
branch, or rather stock, of the house had renounced all connection
since the great law-suit in 1670.

This degenerate scion had committed a farther offence against the head
and source of their gentility, by the intermarriage of their
representative with Judith, heiress of Oliver Bradshawe, of Highley
Park, whose arms, the same with those of Bradshawe the regicide, they
had quartered with the ancient coat of Waverley. These offences,
however, had vanished from Sir Everard’s recollection in the heat of
his resentment; and had Lawyer Clippurse, for whom his groom was
despatched express, arrived but an hour earlier, he might have had the
benefit of drawing a new settlement of the lordship and manor of
Waverley-Honour, with all its dependencies. But an hour of cool
reflection is a great matter when employed in weighing the comparative
evil of two measures to neither of which we are internally partial.
Lawyer Clippurse found his patron involved in a deep study, which he
was too respectful to disturb, otherwise than by producing his paper
and leathern ink-case, as prepared to minute his honour’s commands.
Even this slight manœuvre was embarrassing to Sir Everard, who felt it
as a reproach to his indecision. He looked at the attorney with some
desire to issue his fiat, when the sun, emerging from behind a cloud,
poured at once its chequered light through the stained window of the
gloomy cabinet in which they were seated. The Baronet’s eye, as he
raised it to the splendour, fell right upon the central scutcheon,
inpressed with the same device which his ancestor was said to have
borne in the field of Hastings,—three ermines passant, argent, in a
field azure, with its appropriate motto, _sans tache_. “May our name
rather perish,” exclaimed Sir Everard, “than that ancient and loyal
symbol should be blended with the dishonoured insignia of a traitorous
Roundhead!”

All this was the effect of the glimpse of a sunbeam, just sufficient to
light Lawyer Clippurse to mend his pen. The pen was mended in vain. The
attorney was dismissed, with directions to hold himself in readiness on
the first summons.

The apparition of Lawyer Clippurse at the Hall occasioned much
speculation in that portion of the world to which Waverley-Honour
formed the centre. But the more judicious politicians of this microcosm
augured yet worse consequences to Richard Waverley from a movement
which shortly followed his apostasy. This was no less than an excursion
of the Baronet in his coach-and-six, with four attendants in rich
liveries, to make a visit of some duration to a noble peer on the
confines of the shire, of untainted descent, steady Tory principles,
and the happy father of six unmarried and accomplished daughters.

Sir Everard’s reception in this family was, as it may be easily
conceived, sufficiently favourable; but of the six young ladies, his
taste unfortunately determined him in favour of Lady Emily, the
youngest, who received his attentions with an embarrassment which
showed at once that she durst not decline them, and that they afforded
her anything but pleasure.

Sir Everard could not but perceive something uncommon in the restrained
emotions which the young lady testified at the advances he hazarded;
but, assured by the prudent Countess that they were the natural effects
of a retired education, the sacrifice might have been completed, as
doubtless has happened in many similar instances, had it not been for
the courage of an elder sister, who revealed to the wealthy suitor that
Lady Emily’s affections were fixed upon a young soldier of fortune, a
near relation of her own.

Sir Everard manifested great emotion on receiving this intelligence,
which was confirmed to him, in a private interview, by the young lady
herself, although under the most dreadful apprehensions of her father’s
indignation.

Honour and generosity were hereditary attributes of the house of
Waverley. With a grace and delicacy worthy the hero of a romance, Sir
Everard withdrew his claim to the hand of Lady Emily. He had even,
before leaving Blandeville Castle, the address to extort from her
father a consent to her union with the object of her choice. What
arguments he used on this point cannot exactly be known, for Sir
Everard was never supposed strong in the powers of persuasion; but the
young officer, immediately after this transaction, rose in the army
with a rapidity far surpassing the usual pace of unpatronised
professional merit, although, to outward appearance, that was all he
had to depend upon.

The shock which Sir Everard encountered upon this occasion, although
diminished by the consciousness of having acted virtuously and
generously had its effect upon his future life. His resolution of
marriage had been adopted in a fit of indignation; the labour of
courtship did not quite suit the dignified indolence of his habits; he
had but just escaped the risk of marrying a woman who could never love
him, and his pride could not be greatly flattered by the termination of
his amour, even if his heart had not suffered. The result of the whole
matter was his return to Waverley-Honour without any transfer of his
affections, notwithstanding the sighs and languishments of the fair
tell-tale, who had revealed, in mere sisterly affection, the secret of
Lady Emily’s attachment, and in despite of the nods, winks, and
innuendos of the officious lady mother, and the grave eulogiums which
the Earl pronounced successively on the prudence, and good sense, and
admirable dispositions, of his first, second, third, fourth, and fifth
daughters.

The memory of his unsuccessful amour was with Sir Everard, as with many
more of his temper, at once shy, proud, sensitive, and indolent, a
beacon against exposing himself to similar mortification, pain, and
fruitless exertion for the time to come. He continued to live at
Waverley-Honour in the style of an old English gentleman, of an ancient
descent and opulent fortune. His sister, Miss Rachel Waverley, presided
at his table; and they became, by degrees, an old bachelor and an
ancient maiden lady, the gentlest and kindest of the votaries of
celibacy.

The vehemence of Sir Everard’s resentment against his brother was but
short-lived; yet his dislike to the Whig and the placeman, though
unable to stimulate him to resume any active measures prejudicial to
Richard’s interest, in the succession to the family estate, continued
to maintain the coldness between them. Richard knew enough of the
world, and of his brother’s temper, to believe that by any
ill-considered or precipitate advances on his part, he might turn
passive dislike into a more active principle. It was accident,
therefore, which at length occasioned a renewal of their intercourse.
Richard had married a young woman of rank, by whose family interest and
private fortune he hoped to advance his career. In her right he became
possessor of a manor of some value, at the distance of a few miles from
Waverley-Honour.

Little Edward, the hero of our tale, then in his fifth year, was their
only child. It chanced that the infant with his maid had strayed one
morning to a mile’s distance from the avenue of Brerewood Lodge, his
father’s seat. Their attention was attracted by a carriage drawn by six
stately long-tailed black horses, and with as much carving and gilding
as would have done honour to my lord mayor’s. It was waiting for the
owner, who was at a little distance inspecting the progress of a
half-built farm-house. I know not whether the boy’s nurse had been a
Welsh or a Scotch-woman, or in what manner he associated a shield
emblazoned with three ermines with the idea of personal property, but
he no sooner beheld this family emblem than he stoutly determined on
vindicating his right to the splendid vehicle on which it was
displayed. The Baronet arrived while the boy’s maid was in vain
endeavouring to make him desist from his determination to appropriate
the gilded coach-and-six. The _rencontre_ was at a happy moment for
Edward, as his uncle had been just eyeing wistfully, with something of
a feeling like envy, the chubby boys of the stout yeoman whose mansion
was building by his direction. In the round-faced rosy cherub before
him, bearing his eye and his name, and vindicating a hereditary title
to his family, affection, and patronage, by means of a tie which Sir
Everard held as sacred as either Garter or Blue-mantle, Providence
seemed to have granted to him the very object best calculated to fill
up the void in his hopes and affections. Sir Everard returned to
Waverley-Hall upon a led horse, which was kept in readiness for him,
while the child and his attendant were sent home in the carriage to
Brerewood Lodge, with such a message as opened to Richard Waverley a
door of reconciliation with his elder brother.

Their intercourse, however, though thus renewed, continued to be rather
formal and civil than partaking of brotherly cordiality; yet it was
sufficient to the wishes of both parties. Sir Everard obtained, in the
frequent society of his little nephew, something on which his
hereditary pride might found the anticipated pleasure of a continuation
of his lineage, and where his kind and gentle affections could at the
same time fully exercise themselves. For Richard Waverley, he beheld in
the growing attachment between the uncle and nephew the means of
securing his son’s, if not his own, succession to the hereditary
estate, which he felt would be rather endangered than promoted by any
attempt on his own part towards a closer intimacy with a man of Sir
Everard’s habits and opinions.

Thus, by a sort of tacit compromise, little Edward was permitted to
pass the greater part of the year at the Hall, and appeared to stand in
the same intimate relation to both families, although their mutual
intercourse was otherwise limited to formal messages and more formal
visits. The education of the youth was regulated alternately by the
taste and opinions of his uncle and of his father. But more of this in
a subsequent chapter.




CHAPTER III.
EDUCATION


The education of our hero, Edward Waverley, was of a nature somewhat
desultory. In infancy his health suffered, or was supposed to suffer
(which is quite the same thing), by the air of London. As soon,
therefore, as official duties, attendance on Parliament, or the
prosecution of any of his plans of interest or ambition, called his
father to town, which was his usual residence for eight months in the
year, Edward was transferred to Waverley-Honour, and experienced a
total change of instructors and of lessons, as well as of residence.
This might have been remedied had his father placed him under the
superintendence of a permanent tutor. But he considered that one of his
choosing would probably have been unacceptable at Waverley-Honour, and
that such a selection as Sir Everard might have made, were the matter
left to him, would have burdened him with a disagreeable inmate, if not
a political spy, in his family. He therefore prevailed upon his private
secretary, a young man of taste and accomplishments, to bestow an hour
or two on Edward’s education while at Brerewood Lodge, and left his
uncle answerable for his improvement in literature while an inmate at
the Hall. This was in some degree respectably provided for. Sir
Everard’s chaplain, an Oxonian, who had lost his fellowship for
declining to take the oaths at the accession of George I, was not only
an excellent classical scholar, but reasonably skilled in science, and
master of most modern languages. He was, however, old and indulgent,
and the recurring interregnum, during which Edward was entirely freed
from his discipline, occasioned such a relaxation of authority, that
the youth was permitted, in a great measure, to learn as he pleased,
what he pleased, and when he pleased. This slackness of rule might have
been ruinous to a boy of slow understanding, who, feeling labour in the
acquisition of knowledge, would have altogether neglected it, save for
the command of a taskmaster; and it might have proved equally dangerous
to a youth whose animal spirits were more powerful than his imagination
or his feelings, and whom the irresistible influence of Alma would have
engaged in field-sports from morning till night. But the character of
Edward Waverley was remote from either of these. His powers of
apprehension were so uncommonly quick as almost to resemble intuition,
and the chief care of his preceptor was to prevent him, as a sportsman
would phrase it, from over-running his game—that is, from acquiring his
knowledge in a slight, flimsy, and inadequate manner. And here the
instructor had to combat another propensity too often united with
brilliancy of fancy and vivacity of talent—that indolence, namely, of
disposition, which can only be stirred by some strong motive of
gratification, and which renounces study as soon as curiosity is
gratified, the pleasure of conquering the first difficulties exhausted,
and the novelty of pursuit at an end. Edward would throw himself with
spirit upon any classical author of which his preceptor proposed the
perusal, make himself master of the style so far as to understand the
story, and, if that pleased or interested him, he finished the volume.
But it was in vain to attempt fixing his attention on critical
distinctions of philology, upon the difference of idiom, the beauty of
felicitous expression, or the artificial combinations of syntax. “I can
read and understand a Latin author,” said young Edward, with the
self-confidence and rash reasoning of fifteen, “and Scaliger or Bentley
could not do much more.” Alas! while he was thus permitted to read only
for the gratification of his amusement, he foresaw not that he was
losing for ever the opportunity of acquiring habits of firm and
assiduous application, of gaining the art of controlling, directing,
and concentrating the powers of his mind for earnest investigation—an
art far more essential than even that intimate acquaintance with
classical learning which is the primary object of study.

I am aware I may be here reminded of the necessity of rendering
instruction agreeable to youth, and of Tasso’s infusion of honey into
the medicine prepared for a child; but an age in which children are
taught the driest doctrines by the insinuating method of instructive
games, has little reason to dread the consequences of study being
rendered too serious or severe. The history of England is now reduced
to a game at cards, the problems of mathematics to puzzles and riddles,
and the doctrines of arithmetic may, we are assured, be sufficiently
acquired by spending a few hours a week at a new and complicated
edition of the Royal Game of the Goose. There wants but one step
further, and the Creed and Ten Commandments may be taught in the same
manner, without the necessity of the grave face, deliberate tone of
recital, and devout attention, hitherto exacted from the well-governed
childhood of this realm. It may, in the meantime, be subject of serious
consideration, whether those who are accustomed only to acquire
instruction through the medium of amusement may not be brought to
reject that which approaches under the aspect of study; whether those
who learn history by the cards may not be led to prefer the means to
the end; and whether, were we to teach religion in the way of sport,
our pupils may not thereby be gradually induced to make sport of their
religion. To our young hero, who was permitted to seek his instruction
only according to the bent of his own mind, and who, of consequence,
only sought it so long as it afforded him amusement, the indulgence of
his tutors was attended with evil consequences, which long continued to
influence his character, happiness, and utility.

Edward’s power of imagination and love of literature, although the
former was vivid and the latter ardent, were so far from affording a
remedy to this peculiar evil, that they rather inflamed and increased
its violence. The library at Waverley-Honour, a large Gothic room, with
double arches and a gallery, contained such a miscellaneous and
extensive collection of volumes as had been assembled together, during
the course of two hundred years, by a family which had been always
wealthy, and inclined, of course, as a mark of splendour, to furnish
their shelves with the current literature of the day, without much
scrutiny or nicety of discrimination. Throughout this ample realm
Edward was permitted to roam at large. His tutor had his own studies;
and church politics and controversial divinity, together with a love of
learned ease, though they did not withdraw his attention at stated
times from the progress of his patron’s presumptive heir, induced him
readily to grasp at any apology for not extending a strict and
regulated survey towards his general studies. Sir Everard had never
been himself a student, and, like his sister, Miss Rachel Waverley, he
held the common doctrine, that idleness is incompatible with reading of
any kind, and that the mere tracing the alphabetical characters with
the eye is in itself a useful and meritorious task, without
scrupulously considering what ideas or doctrines they may happen to
convey. With a desire of amusement, therefore, which better discipline
might soon have converted into a thirst for knowledge, young Waverley
drove through the sea of books like a vessel without a pilot or a
rudder. Nothing perhaps increases by indulgence more than a desultory
habit of reading, especially under such opportunities of gratifying it.
I believe one reason why such numerous instances of erudition occur
among the lower ranks is, that, with the same powers of mind, the poor
student is limited to a narrow circle for indulging his passion for
books, and must necessarily make himself master of the few he possesses
ere he can acquire more. Edward, on the contrary, like the epicure who
only deigned to take a single morsel from the sunny side of a peach,
read no volume a moment after it ceased to excite his curiosity or
interest; and it necessarily happened, that the habit of seeking only
this sort of gratification rendered it daily more difficult of
attainment, till the passion for reading, like other strong appetites,
produced by indulgence a sort of satiety.

Ere he attained this indifference, however, he had read, and stored in
a memory of uncommon tenacity, much curious, though ill-arranged and
miscellaneous information. In English literature he was master of
Shakespeare and Milton, of our earlier dramatic authors, of many
picturesque and interesting passages from our old historical
chronicles, and was particularly well acquainted with Spenser, Drayton,
and other poets who have exercised themselves on romantic fiction, of
all themes the most fascinating to a youthful imagination, before the
passions have roused themselves and demand poetry of a more sentimental
description. In this respect his acquaintance with Italian opened him
yet a wider range. He had perused the numerous romantic poems, which,
from the days of Pulci, have been a favourite exercise of the wits of
Italy, and had sought gratification in the numerous collections of
_novelle_, which were brought forth by the genius of that elegant
though luxurious nation, in emulation of the “Decameron.” In classical
literature, Waverley had made the usual progress, and read the usual
authors; and the French had afforded him an almost exhaustless
collection of memoirs, scarcely more faithful than romances, and of
romances so well written as hardly to be distinguished from memoirs.
The splendid pages of Froissart, with his heart-stirring and
eye-dazzling descriptions of war and of tournaments, were among his
chief favourites; and from those of Brantome and De la Noue he learned
to compare the wild and loose, yet superstitious, character of the
nobles of the League with the stern, rigid, and sometimes turbulent
disposition of the Huguenot party. The Spanish had contributed to his
stock of chivalrous and romantic lore. The earlier literature of the
northern nations did not escape the study of one who read rather to
awaken the imagination than to benefit the understanding. And yet,
knowing much that is known but to few, Edward Waverley might justly be
considered as ignorant, since he knew little of what adds dignity to
man, and qualifies him to support and adorn an elevated situation in
society.

The occasional attention of his parents might indeed have been of
service to prevent the dissipation of mind incidental to such a
desultory course of reading. But his mother died in the seventh year
after the reconciliation between the brothers, and Richard Waverley
himself, who, after this event, resided more constantly in London, was
too much interested in his own plans of wealth and ambition to notice
more respecting Edward than that he was of a very bookish turn, and
probably destined to be a bishop. If he could have discovered and
analysed his son’s waking dreams, he would have formed a very different
conclusion.




CHAPTER IV.
CASTLE-BUILDING


I have already hinted that the dainty, squeamish, and fastidious taste
acquired by a surfeit of idle reading had not only rendered our hero
unfit for serious and sober study, but had even disgusted him in some
degree with that in which he had hitherto indulged.

He was in his sixteenth year when his habits of abstraction and love of
solitude became so much marked as to excite Sir Everard’s affectionate
apprehension. He tried to counterbalance these propensities by engaging
his nephew in field-sports, which had been the chief pleasure of his
own youthful days. But although Edward eagerly carried the gun for one
season, yet when practice had given him some dexterity, the pastime
ceased to afford him amusement.

In the succeeding spring, the perusal of old Isaac Walton’s fascinating
volume determined Edward to become “a brother of the angle.” But of all
diversions which ingenuity ever devised for the relief of idleness,
fishing is the worst qualified to amuse a man who is at once indolent
and impatient; and our hero’s rod was speedily flung aside. Society and
example, which, more than any other motives, master and sway the
natural bent of our passions, might have had their usual effect upon
the youthful visionary. But the neighbourhood was thinly inhabited, and
the home-bred young squires whom it afforded were not of a class fit to
form Edward’s usual companions, far less to excite him to emulation in
the practice of those pastimes which composed the serious business of
their lives.

There were a few other youths of better education and a more liberal
character, but from their society also our hero was in some degree
excluded. Sir Everard had, upon the death of Queen Anne, resigned his
seat in Parliament, and, as his age increased and the number of his
contemporaries diminished, had gradually withdrawn himself from
society; so that when, upon any particular occasion, Edward mingled
with accomplished and well-educated young men of his own rank and
expectations, he felt an inferiority in their company, not so much from
deficiency of information, as from the want of the skill to command and
to arrange that which he possessed. A deep and increasing sensibility
added to this dislike of society. The idea of having committed the
slightest solecism in politeness, whether real or imaginary, was agony
to him; for perhaps even guilt itself does not impose upon some minds
so keen a sense of shame and remorse, as a modest, sensitive, and
inexperienced youth feels from the consciousness of having neglected
etiquette or excited ridicule. Where we are not at ease, we cannot be
happy; and therefore it is not surprising that Edward Waverley supposed
that he disliked and was unfitted for society, merely because he had
not yet acquired the habit of living in it with ease and comfort, and
of reciprocally giving and receiving pleasure.

The hours he spent with his uncle and aunt were exhausted in listening
to the oft-repeated tale of narrative old age. Yet even there his
imagination, the predominant faculty of his mind, was frequently
excited. Family tradition and genealogical history, upon which much of
Sir Everard’s discourse turned, is the very reverse of amber, which,
itself a valuable substance, usually includes flies, straws, and other
trifles; whereas these studies, being themselves very insignificant and
trifling, do nevertheless serve to perpetuate a great deal of what is
rare and valuable in ancient manners, and to record many curious and
minute facts which could have been preserved and conveyed through no
other medium. If, therefore, Edward Waverley yawned at times over the
dry deduction of his line of ancestors, with their various
intermarriages, and inwardly deprecated the remorseless and protracted
accuracy with which the worthy Sir Everard rehearsed the various
degrees of propinquity between the house of Waverley-Honour and the
doughty barons, knights, and squires to whom they stood allied; if
(notwithstanding his obligations to the three ermines passant) he
sometimes cursed in his heart the jargon of heraldry, its griffins, its
moldwarps, its wyverns, and its dragons, with all the bitterness of
Hotspur himself, there were moments when these communications
interested his fancy and rewarded his attention.

The deeds of Wilibert of Waverley in the Holy Land, his long absence
and perilous adventures, his supposed death, and his return on the
evening when the betrothed of his heart had wedded the hero who had
protected her from insult and oppression during his absence; the
generosity with which the Crusader relinquished his claims, and sought
in a neighbouring cloister that peace which passeth not away;[2]—to
these and similar tales he would hearken till his heart glowed and his
eye glistened. Nor was he less affected when his aunt, Mrs. Rachel,
narrated the sufferings and fortitude of Lady Alice Waverley during the
Great Civil War. The benevolent features of the venerable spinster
kindled into more majestic expression as she told how Charles had,
after the field of Worcester, found a day’s refuge at Waverley-Honour,
and how, when a troop of cavalry were approaching to search the
mansion, Lady Alice dismissed her youngest son with a handful of
domestics, charging them to make good with their lives an hour’s
diversion, that the king might have that space for escape. “And, God
help her,” would Mrs. Rachel continue, fixing her eyes upon the
heroine’s portrait as she spoke, “full dearly did she purchase the
safety of her prince with the life of her darling child. They brought
him here a prisoner, mortally wounded; and you may trace the drops of
his blood from the great hall door along the little gallery, and up to
the saloon, where they laid him down to die at his mother’s feet. But
there was comfort exchanged between them; for he knew, from the glance
of his mother’s eye, that the purpose of his desperate defence was
attained. Ah! I remember,” she continued, “I remember well to have seen
one that knew and loved him. Miss Lucy Saint Aubin lived and died a
maid for his sake, though one of the most beautiful and wealthy matches
in this country; all the world ran after her, but she wore widow’s
mourning all her life for poor William, for they were betrothed though
not married, and died in—I cannot think of the date; but I remember, in
the November of that very year, when she found herself sinking, she
desired to be brought to Waverley-Honour once more, and visited all the
places where she had been with my grand-uncle, and caused the carpets
to be raised that she might trace the impression of his blood, and if
tears could have washed it out, it had not been there now; for there
was not a dry eye in the house. You would have thought, Edward, that
the very trees mourned for her, for their leaves dropt around her
without a gust of wind, and, indeed, she looked like one that would
never see them green again.”

From such legends our hero would steal away to indulge the fancies they
excited. In the corner of the large and sombre library, with no other
light than was afforded by the decaying brands on its ponderous and
ample hearth, he would exercise for hours that internal sorcery by
which past or imaginary events are presented in action, as it were, to
the eye of the muser. Then arose in long and fair array the splendour
of the bridal feast at Waverley-Castle; the tall and emaciated form of
its real lord, as he stood in his pilgrim’s weeds, an unnoticed
spectator of the festivities of his supposed heir and intended bride;
the electrical shock occasioned by the discovery; the springing of the
vassals to arms; the astonishment of the bridegroom; the terror and
confusion of the bride; the agony with which Wilibert observed that her
heart as well as consent was in these nuptials; the air of dignity, yet
of deep feeling, with which he flung down the half-drawn sword, and
turned away for ever from the house of his ancestors. Then would he
change the scene, and fancy would at his wish represent Aunt Rachel’s
tragedy. He saw the Lady Waverley seated in her bower, her ear strained
to every sound, her heart throbbing with double agony, now listening to
the decaying echo of the hoofs of the king’s horse, and when that had
died away, hearing in every breeze that shook the trees of the park,
the noise of the remote skirmish. A distant sound is heard like the
rushing of a swoln stream; it comes nearer, and Edward can plainly
distinguish the galloping of horses, the cries and shouts of men, with
straggling pistol-shots between, rolling forwards to the Hall. The lady
starts up—a terrified menial rushes in—but why pursue such a
description?

As living in this ideal world became daily more delectable to our hero,
interruption was disagreeable in proportion. The extensive domain that
surrounded the Hall, which, far exceeding the dimensions of a park, was
usually termed Waverley-Chase, had originally been forest ground, and
still, though broken by extensive glades, in which the young deer were
sporting, retained its pristine and savage character. It was traversed
by broad avenues, in many places half grown up with brush-wood, where
the beauties of former days used to take their stand to see the stag
coursed with greyhounds, or to gain an aim at him with the crossbow. In
one spot, distinguished by a moss-grown Gothic monument, which retained
the name of Queen’s Standing, Elizabeth herself was said to have
pierced seven bucks with her own arrows. This was a very favourite
haunt of Waverley. At other times, with his gun and his spaniel, which
served as an apology to others, and with a book in his pocket, which
perhaps served as an apology to himself, he used to pursue one of these
long avenues, which, after an ascending sweep of four miles, gradually
narrowed into a rude and contracted path through the cliffy and woody
pass called Mirkwood Dingle, and opened suddenly upon a deep, dark, and
small lake, named, from the same cause, Mirkwood-Mere. There stood, in
former times, a solitary tower upon a rock almost surrounded by the
water, which had acquired the name of the Strength of Waverley, because
in perilous times it had often been the refuge of the family. There, in
the wars of York and Lancaster, the last adherents of the Red Rose who
dared to maintain her cause carried on a harassing and predatory
warfare, till the stronghold was reduced by the celebrated Richard of
Gloucester. Here, too, a party of Cavaliers long maintained themselves
under Nigel Waverley, elder brother of that William whose fate Aunt
Rachel commemorated. Through these scenes it was that Edward loved to
“chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy,” and, like a child among his
toys, culled and arranged, from the splendid yet useless imagery and
emblems with which his imagination was stored, visions as brilliant and
as fading as those of an evening sky. The effect of this indulgence
upon his temper and character will appear in the next chapter.




CHAPTER V.
CHOICE OF A PROFESSION


From the minuteness with which I have traced Waverley’s pursuits, and
the bias which these unavoidably communicated to his imagination, the
reader may perhaps anticipate, in the following tale, an imitation of
the romance of Cervantes. But he will do my prudence injustice in the
supposition. My intention is not to follow the steps of that inimitable
author, in describing such total perversion of intellect as
misconstrues the objects actually presented to the senses, but that
more common aberration from sound judgment, which apprehends
occurrences indeed in their reality, but communicates to them a
tincture of its own romantic tone and colouring. So far was Edward
Waverley from expecting general sympathy with his own feelings, or
concluding that the present state of things was calculated to exhibit
the reality of those visions in which he loved to indulge, that he
dreaded nothing more than the detection of such sentiments as were
dictated by his musings. He neither had nor wished to have a confidant,
with whom to communicate his reveries; and so sensible was he of the
ridicule attached to them, that, had he been to choose between any
punishment short of ignominy, and the necessity of giving a cold and
composed account of the ideal world in which he lived the better part
of his days, I think he would not have hesitated to prefer the former
infliction. This secrecy became doubly precious as he felt in advancing
life the influence of the awakening passions. Female forms of exquisite
grace and beauty began to mingle in his mental adventures; nor was he
long without looking abroad to compare the creatures of his own
imagination with the females of actual life.

The list of the beauties who displayed their hebdomadal finery at the
parish church of Waverley was neither numerous nor select. By far the
most passable was Miss Sissly, or, as she rather chose to be called,
Miss Cecilia Stubbs, daughter of Squire Stubbs at the Grange. I know
not whether it was by the “merest accident in the world,” a phrase
which, from female lips, does not always exclude _malice prepense_,—or
whether it was from a conformity of taste, that Miss Cecilia more than
once crossed Edward in his favourite walks through Waverley-Chase. He
had not as yet assumed courage to accost her on these occasions; but
the meeting was not without its effect. A romantic lover is a strange
idolater, who sometimes cares not out of what log he frames the object
of his adoration; at least, if nature has given that object any
passable proportion of personal charms, he can easily play the Jeweller
and Dervise in the Oriental tale,[*] and supply her richly, out of the
stores of his own imagination, with supernatural beauty, and all the
properties of intellectual wealth.

[* See Hoppner’s tale of The Seven Lovers.]


But ere the charms of Miss Cecilia Stubbs had erected her into a
positive goddess, or elevated her at least to a level with the saint
her namesake, Mrs. Rachel Waverley gained some intimation which
determined her to prevent the approaching apotheosis. Even the most
simple and unsuspicious of the female sex have (God bless them!) an
instinctive sharpness of perception in such matters, which sometimes
goes the length of observing partialities that never existed, but
rarely misses to detect such as pass actually under their observation.
Mrs. Rachel applied herself with great prudence, not to combat, but to
elude, the approaching danger, and suggested to her brother the
necessity that the heir of his house should see something more of the
world than was consistent with constant residence at Waverley-Honour.

Sir Everard would not at first listen to a proposal which went to
separate his nephew from him. Edward was a little bookish, he admitted,
but youth, he had always heard, was the season for learning, and, no
doubt, when his rage for letters was abated, and his head fully stocked
with knowledge, his nephew would take to field-sports and country
business. He had often, he said, himself regretted that he had not
spent some time in study during his youth: he would neither have shot
nor hunted with less skill, and he might have made the roof of Saint
Stephen’s echo to longer orations than were comprised in those zealous
Noes, with which, when a member of the House during Godolphin’s
administration, he encountered every measure of government.

Aunt Rachel’s anxiety, however, lent her address to carry her point.
Every representative of their house had visited foreign parts, or
served his country in the army, before he settled for life at
Waverley-Honour, and she appealed for the truth of her assertion to the
genealogical pedigree, an authority which Sir Everard was never known
to contradict. In short, a proposal was made to Mr. Richard Waverley,
that his son should travel, under the direction of his present tutor
Mr. Pembroke, with a suitable allowance from the Baronet’s liberality.
The father himself saw no objection to this overture; but upon
mentioning it casually at the table of the minister, the great man
looked grave. The reason was explained in private. The unhappy turn of
Sir Everard’s politics, the minister observed, was such as would render
it highly improper that a young gentleman of such hopeful prospects
should travel on the Continent with a tutor, doubtless of his uncle’s
choosing, and directing his course by his instructions. What might Mr.
Edward Waverley’s society be at Paris, what at Rome, where all manner
of snares were spread by the Pretender and his sons—these were points
for Mr. Waverley to consider. This he could himself say, that he knew
his Majesty had such a just sense of Mr. Richard Waverley’s merits,
that, if his son adopted the army for a few years, a troop, he
believed, might be reckoned upon in one of the dragoon regiments lately
returned from Flanders.

A hint thus conveyed and enforced was not to be neglected with
impunity; and Richard Waverley, though with great dread of shocking his
brother’s prejudices, deemed he could not avoid accepting the
commission thus offered him for his son. The truth is, he calculated
much, and justly, upon Sir Everard’s fondness for Edward, which made
him unlikely to resent any step that he might take in due submission to
parental authority. Two letters announced this determination to the
Baronet and his nephew. The latter barely communicated the fact, and
pointed out the necessary preparations for joining his regiment. To his
brother, Richard was more diffuse and circuitous. He coincided with
him, in the most flattering manner, in the propriety of his son’s
seeing a little more of the world, and was even humble in expressions
of gratitude for his proposed assistance; was, however, deeply
concerned that it was now, unfortunately, not in Edward’s power exactly
to comply with the plan which had been chalked out by his best friend
and benefactor. He himself had thought with pain on the boy’s
inactivity, at an age when all his ancestors had borne arms; even
Royalty itself had deigned to inquire whether young Waverley was not
now in Flanders, at an age when his grandfather was already bleeding
for his king in the Great Civil War. This was accompanied by an offer
of a troop of horse. What could he do? There was no time to consult his
brother’s inclinations, even if he could have conceived there might be
objections on his part to his nephew’s following the glorious career of
his predecessors. And, in short, that Edward was now (the intermediate
steps of cornet and lieutenant being overleapt with great agility)
Captain Waverley, of Gardiner’s regiment of dragoons, which he must
join in their quarters at Dundee in Scotland, in the course of a month.

Sir Everard Waverley received this intimation with a mixture of
feelings. At the period of the Hanoverian succession he had withdrawn
from parliament, and his conduct in the memorable year 1715 had not
been altogether unsuspected. There were reports of private musters of
tenants and horses in Waverley-Chase by moonlight, and of cases of
carbines and pistols purchased in Holland, and addressed to the
Baronet, but intercepted by the vigilance of a riding officer of the
excise, who was afterwards tossed in a blanket on a moonless night, by
an association of stout yeomen, for his officiousness. Nay, it was even
said, that at the arrest of Sir William Wyndham, the leader of the Tory
party, a letter from Sir Everard was found in the pocket of his
night-gown. But there was no overt act which an attainder could be
founded on, and government, contented with suppressing the insurrection
of 1715, felt it neither prudent nor safe to push their vengeance
farther than against those unfortunate gentlemen who actually took up
arms.

Nor did Sir Everard’s apprehensions of personal consequences seem to
correspond with the reports spread among his Whig neighbours. It was
well known that he had supplied with money several of the distressed
Northumbrians and Scotchmen, who, after being made prisoners at Preston
in Lancashire, were imprisoned in Newgate and the Marshalsea, and it
was his solicitor and ordinary counsel who conducted the defence of
some of these unfortunate gentlemen at their trial. It was generally
supposed, however, that, had ministers possessed any real proof of Sir
Everard’s accession to the rebellion, he either would not have ventured
thus to brave the existing government, or at least would not have done
so with impunity. The feelings which then dictated his proceedings were
those of a young man, and at an agitating period. Since that time Sir
Everard’s Jacobitism had been gradually decaying, like a fire which
burns out for want of fuel. His Tory and High-Church principles were
kept up by some occasional exercise at elections and quarter-sessions;
but those respecting hereditary right were fallen into a sort of
abeyance. Yet it jarred severely upon his feelings, that his nephew
should go into the army under the Brunswick dynasty; and the more so,
as, independent of his high and conscientious ideas of paternal
authority, it was impossible, or at least highly imprudent, to
interfere authoritatively to prevent it. This suppressed vexation gave
rise to many poohs and pshaws which were placed to the account of an
incipient fit of gout, until, having sent for the Army List, the worthy
Baronet consoled himself with reckoning the descendants of the houses
of genuine loyalty, Mordaunts, Granvilles, and Stanleys, whose names
were to be found in that military record; and, calling up all his
feelings of family grandeur and warlike glory, he concluded, with logic
something like Falstaff’s, that when war was at hand, although it were
shame to be on any side but one, it were worse shame to be idle than to
be on the worst side, though blacker than usurpation could make it. As
for Aunt Rachel, her scheme had not exactly terminated according to her
wishes, but she was under the necessity of submitting to circumstances;
and her mortification was diverted by the employment she found in
fitting out her nephew for the campaign, and greatly consoled by the
prospect of beholding him blaze in complete uniform.

Edward Waverley himself received with animated and undefined surprise
this most unexpected intelligence. It was, as a fine old poem expresses
it, “like a fire to heather set,” that covers a solitary hill with
smoke, and illumines it at the same time with dusky fire. His tutor,
or, I should say, Mr. Pembroke, for he scarce assumed the name of
tutor, picked up about Edward’s room some fragments of irregular verse,
which he appeared to have composed under the influence of the agitating
feelings occasioned by this sudden page being turned up to him in the
book of life. The doctor, who was a believer in all poetry which was
composed by his friends, and written out in fair straight lines, with a
capital at the beginning of each, communicated this treasure to Aunt
Rachel, who, with her spectacles dimmed with tears, transferred them to
her commonplace book, among choice receipts for cookery and medicine,
favourite texts, and portions from High-Church divines, and a few
songs, amatory and Jacobitical, which she had carolled in her younger
days, from whence her nephew’s poetical _tentamina_ were extracted when
the volume itself, with other authentic records of the Waverley family,
were exposed to the inspection of the unworthy editor of this memorable
history. If they afford the reader no higher amusement, they will
serve, at least, better than narrative of any kind, to acquaint him
with the wild and irregular spirit of our hero:—

Late, when the Autumn evening fell
On Mirkwood-Mere’s romantic dell,
The lake return’d, in chasten’d gleam,
The purple cloud, the golden beam:
Reflected in the crystal pool,
Headland and bank lay fair and cool;
The weather-tinted rock and tower
Each drooping tree, each fairy flower,
So true, so soft, the mirror gave,
As if there lay beneath the wave,
Secure from trouble, toil, and care,
A world than earthly world more fair.

But distant winds began to wake,
And roused the Genius of the Lake!
He heard the groaning of the oak,
And donn’d at once his sable cloak,
As warrior, at the battle-cry,
Invests him with his panoply:
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press’d
He ’gan to shake his foamy crest
O’er furrow’d brow and blacken’d cheek,
And bade his surge in thunder speak.
In wild and broken eddies whirl’d.
Flitted that fond ideal world,
And to the shore in tumult tost
The realms of fairy bliss were lost.

Yet, with a stern delight and strange,
I saw the spirit-stirring change,
As warr’d the wind with wave and wood,
Upon the ruin’d tower I stood,
And felt my heart more strongly bound,
Responsive to the lofty sound,
While, joying in the mighty roar,
I mourn’d that tranquil scene no more.

So, on the idle dreams of youth,
Breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth,
Bids each fair vision pass away,
Like landscape on the lake that lay,
As fair, as flitting, and as frail,
As that which fled the Autumn gale.—
For ever dead to fancy’s eye
Be each gay form that glided by,
While dreams of love and lady’s charms
Give place to honour and to arms!


In sober prose, as perhaps these verses intimate less decidedly, the
transient idea of Miss Cecilia Stubbs passed from Captain Waverley’s
heart amid the turmoil which his new destinies excited. She appeared,
indeed, in full splendour in her father’s pew upon the Sunday when he
attended service for the last time at the old parish church, upon which
occasion, at the request of his uncle and Aunt Rachel, he was induced
(nothing 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
_pis-aller_, and gave her hand, at the distance of six months, to the
aforesaid Jonas, son of the Baronet’s steward, and heir (no unfertile
prospect) to a steward’s fortune, besides the snug probability of
succeeding to his father’s office. All these advantages moved Squire
Stubbs, as much as the ruddy brown and manly form of the suitor
influenced his daughter, to abate somewhat in the article of their
gentry; and so the match was concluded. None seemed more gratified than
Aunt Rachel, who had hitherto looked rather askance upon the
presumptuous damsel (as much so, peradventure, as her nature would
permit), but who, on the first appearance of the new-married pair at
church, honoured the bride with a smile and a profound curtsy, in
presence of the rector, the curate, the clerk, and the whole
congregation of the united parishes of Waverley _cum_ Beverley.

I beg pardon, once and for all, of those readers who take up novels
merely for amusement, for plaguing them so long with old-fashioned
politics, and Whig and Tory, and Hanoverians and Jacobites. The truth
is, I cannot promise them that this story shall be intelligible, not to
say probable, without it. My plan requires that I should explain the
motives on which its action proceeded; and these motives necessarily
arose from the feelings, prejudices, and parties of the times. I do not
invite my fair readers, whose sex and impatience give them the greatest
right to complain of these circumstances, into a flying chariot drawn
by hippogriffs, or moved by enchantment. Mine is a humble English
post-chaise, drawn upon four wheels, and keeping his Majesty’s highway.
Such as dislike the vehicle may leave it at the next halt, and wait for
the conveyance of Prince Hussein’s tapestry, or Malek the Weaver’s
flying sentrybox. Those who are contented to remain with me will be
occasionally exposed to the dulness inseparable from heavy roads, steep
hills, sloughs, and other terrestrial retardations; but with tolerable
horses and a civil driver (as the advertisements have it), I engage to
get as soon as possible into a more picturesque and romantic country,
if my passengers incline to have some patience with me during my first
stages.[*]

[* These Introductory Chapters have been a good deal censured as
tedious and unnecessary. Yet there are circumstances recorded in them
which the author has not been able to persuade himself to retrench or
cancel.]




CHAPTER VI.
THE ADIEUS OF WAVERLEY


It was upon the evening of this memorable Sunday that Sir Everard
entered the library, where he narrowly missed surprising our young hero
as he went through the guards of the broadsword with the ancient weapon
of old Sir Hildebrand, which, being preserved as an heirloom, usually
hung over the chimney in the library, beneath a picture of the knight
and his horse, where the features were almost entirely hidden by the
knight’s profusion of curled hair, and the Bucephalus which he bestrode
concealed by the voluminous robes of the Bath with which he was
decorated. Sir Everard entered, and after a glance at the picture and
another at his nephew, began a little speech, which, however, soon
dropt into the natural simplicity of his common manner, agitated upon
the present occasion by no common feeling. “Nephew,” he said; and then,
as mending his phrase, “My dear Edward, it is God’s will, and also the
will of your father, whom, under God, it is your duty to obey, that you
should leave us to take up the profession of arms, in which so many of
your ancestors have been distinguished. I have made such arrangements
as will enable you to take the field as their descendant, and as the
probable heir of the house of Waverley; and, sir, in the field of
battle you will remember what name you bear. And, Edward, my dear boy,
remember also that you are the last of that race, and the only hope of
its revival depends upon you; therefore, as far as duty and honour will
permit, avoid danger—I mean unnecessary danger—and keep no company with
rakes, gamblers, and Whigs, of whom, it is to be feared, there are but
too many in the service into which you are going. Your colonel, as I am
informed, is an excellent man—for a Presbyterian; but you will remember
your duty to God, the Church of England, and the—” (this breach ought
to have been supplied, according to the rubric, with the word “king;”
but as, unfortunately, that word conveyed a double and embarrassing
sense, one meaning _de facto_ and the other _de jure_, the knight
filled up the blank otherwise)—“the Church of England, and all
constituted authorities.” Then, not trusting himself with any further
oratory, he carried his nephew to his stables to see the horses
destined for his campaign. Two were black (the regimental colour),
superb chargers both; the other three were stout active hacks, designed
for the road, or for his domestics, of whom two were to attend him from
the Hall; an additional groom, if necessary, might be picked up in
Scotland.

“You will depart with but a small retinue,” quoth the Baronet,
“compared to Sir Hildebrand, when he mustered before the gate of the
Hall a larger body of horse than your whole regiment consists of. I
could have wished that these twenty young fellows from my estate, who
have enlisted in your troop, had been to march with you on your journey
to Scotland. It would have been something, at least; but I am told
their attendance would be thought unusual in these days, when every new
and foolish fashion is introduced to break the natural dependence of
the people upon their landlords.”

Sir Everard had done his best to correct this unnatural disposition of
the times; for he had brightened the chain of attachment between the
recruits and their young captain, not only by a copious repast of beef
and ale, by way of parting feast, but by such a pecuniary donation to
each individual as tended rather to improve the conviviality than the
discipline of their march. After inspecting the cavalry, Sir Everard
again conducted his nephew to the library, where he produced a letter,
carefully folded, surrounded by a little stripe of flox-silk, according
to ancient form, and sealed with an accurate impression of the Waverley
coat-of-arms. It was addressed, with great formality, “To Cosmo Comyne
Bradwardine, Esq., of Bradwardine, at his principal mansion of
Tully-Veolan, in Perthshire, North Britain. These—By the hands of
Captain Edward Waverley, nephew of Sir Everard Waverley, of
Waverley-Honour, Bart.”

The gentleman to whom this enormous greeting was addressed, of whom we
shall have more to say in the sequel, had been in arms for the exiled
family of Stuart in the year 1715, and was made prisoner at Preston in
Lancashire. He was of a very ancient family, and somewhat embarrassed
fortune; a scholar, according to the scholarship of Scotchmen, that is,
his learning was more diffuse than accurate, and he was rather a reader
than a grammarian. Of his zeal for the classic authors he is said to
have given an uncommon instance. On the road between Preston and
London, he made his escape from his guards; but being afterwards found
loitering near the place where they had lodged the former night, he was
recognised, and again arrested. His companions, and even his escort,
were surprised at his infatuation, and could not help inquiring, why,
being once at liberty, he had not made the best of his way to a place
of safety; to which he replied, that he had intended to do so, but, in
good faith, he had returned to seek his Titus Livius, which he had
forgot in the hurry of his escape.[3] The simplicity of this anecdote
struck the gentleman, who, as we before observed, had managed the
defence of some of those unfortunate persons, at the expense of Sir
Everard, and perhaps some others of the party. He was, besides, himself
a special admirer of the old Patavinian, and though probably his own
zeal might not have carried him such extravagant lengths, even to
recover the edition of Sweynheim and Pannartz (supposed to be the
_princeps_), he did not the less estimate the devotion of the North
Briton, and in consequence exerted himself to so much purpose to remove
and soften evidence, detect legal flaws, _et cetera_, that he
accomplished the final discharge and deliverance of Cosmo Comyne
Bradwardine from certain very awkward consequences of a plea before our
sovereign lord the king in Westminster.

The Baron of Bradwardine, for he was generally so called in Scotland
(although his intimates, from his place of residence, used to
denominate him Tully-Veolan, or more familiarly, Tully), no sooner
stood _rectus in curia_ than he posted down to pay his respects and
make his acknowledgments at Waverley-Honour. A congenial passion for
field-sports, and a general coincidence in political opinions, cemented
his friendship with Sir Everard, notwithstanding the difference of
their habits and studies in other particulars; and, having spent
several weeks at Waverley-Honour, the Baron departed with many
expressions of regard, warmly pressing the Baronet to return his visit,
and partake of the diversion of grouse-shooting, upon his moors in
Perthshire next season. Shortly after, Mr. Bradwardine remitted from
Scotland a sum in reimbursement of expenses incurred in the King’s High
Court of Westminster, which, although not quite so formidable when
reduced to the English denomination, had, in its original form of
Scotch pounds, shillings, and pence, such a formidable effect upon the
frame of Duncan Macwheeble, the laird’s confidential factor,
baron-bailie, and man of resource, that he had a fit of the cholic,
which lasted for five days, occasioned, he said, solely and utterly by
becoming the unhappy instrument of conveying such a serious sum of
money out of his native country into the hands of the false English.
But patriotism, as it is the fairest, so it is often the most
suspicious mask of other feelings; and many who knew Bailie Macwheeble
concluded that his professions of regret were not altogether
disinterested, and that he would have grudged the moneys paid to the
_loons_ at Westminster much less had they not come from Bradwardine
estate, a fund which he considered as more particularly his own. But
the Bailie protested he was absolutely disinterested—

“Woe, woe, for Scotland, not a whit for me!”


The laird was only rejoiced that his worthy friend, Sir Everard
Waverley of Waverley-Honour, was reimbursed of the expenditure which he
had outlaid on account of the house of Bradwardine. It concerned, he
said, the credit of his own family, and of the kingdom of Scotland at
large, that these disbursements should be repaid forthwith, and, if
delayed, it would be a matter of national reproach. Sir Everard,
accustomed to treat much larger sums with indifference, received the
remittance of £294, 13_s_. 6_d_. without being aware that the payment
was an international concern, and, indeed, would probably have forgot
the circumstance altogether, if Bailie Macwheeble had thought of
comforting his cholic by intercepting the subsidy. A yearly intercourse
took place, of a short letter and a hamper or a cask or two, between
Waverley-Honour and Tully-Veolan, the English exports consisting of
mighty cheeses and mightier ale, pheasants, and venison, and the
Scottish returns being vested in grouse, white hares, pickled salmon,
and usquebaugh; all which were meant, sent, and received as pledges of
constant friendship and amity between two important houses. It followed
as a matter of course, that the heir-apparent of Waverley-Honour could
not with propriety visit Scotland without being furnished with
credentials to the Baron of Bradwardine.

When this matter was explained and settled, Mr. Pembroke expressed his
wish to take a private and particular leave of his dear pupil. The good
man’s exhortations to Edward to preserve an unblemished life and
morals, to hold fast the principles of the Christian religion, and to
eschew the profane company of scoffers and latitudinarians, too much
abounding in the army, were not unmingled with his political
prejudices. It had pleased Heaven, he said, to place Scotland
(doubtless for the sins of their ancestors in 1642) in a more
deplorable state of darkness than even this unhappy kingdom of England.
Here, at least, although the candlestick of the Church of England had
been in some degree removed from its place, it yet afforded a
glimmering light; there was a hierarchy, though schismatical, and
fallen from the principles maintained by those great fathers of the
church, Sancroft and his brethren; there was a liturgy, though woefully
perverted in some of the principal petitions. But in Scotland it was
utter darkness; and, excepting a sorrowful, scattered, and persecuted
remnant, the pulpits were abandoned to Presbyterians, and, he feared,
to sectaries of every description. It should be his duty to fortify his
dear pupil to resist such unhallowed and pernicious doctrines in church
and state as must necessarily be forced at times upon his unwilling
ears.

Here he produced two immense folded packets, which appeared each to
contain a whole ream of closely written manuscript. They had been the
labour of the worthy man’s whole life; and never were labour and zeal
more absurdly wasted. He had at one time gone to London, with the
intention of giving them to the world, by the medium of a bookseller in
Little Britain, well known to deal in such commodities, and to whom he
was instructed to address himself in a particular phrase and with a
certain sign, which, it seems, passed at that time current among the
initiated Jacobites. The moment Mr. Pembroke had uttered the
Shibboleth, with the appropriate gesture, the bibliopolist greeted him,
notwithstanding every disclamation, by the title of Doctor, and
conveying him into his back shop, after inspecting every possible and
impossible place of concealment, he commenced: “Eh, Doctor!—Well—all
under the rose—snug—I keep no holes here even for a Hanoverian rat to
hide in. And, what—eh! any good news from our friends over the
water?—and how does the worthy King of France?—Or perhaps you are more
lately from Rome? it must be Rome will do it at last—the church must
light its candle at the old lamp.—Eh—what, cautious? I like you the
better; but no fear.”

Here Mr. Pembroke with some difficulty stopt a torrent of
interrogations, eked out with signs, nods, and winks; and, having at
length convinced the bookseller that he did him too much honour in
supposing him an emissary of exiled royalty, he explained his actual
business.

The man of books with a much more composed air proceeded to examine the
manuscripts. The title of the first was “A Dissent from Dissenters, or
the Comprehension confuted; showing the Impossibility of any
Composition between the Church and Puritans, Presbyterians, or
Sectaries of any Description; illustrated from the Scriptures, the
Fathers of the Church, and the soundest Controversial Divines.” To this
work the bookseller positively demurred. “Well meant,” he said, “and
learned, doubtless;” but the time had gone by. Printed on small-pica it
would run to eight hundred pages, and could never pay. Begged therefore
to be excused. Loved and honoured the true church from his soul, and,
had it been a sermon on the martyrdom, or any twelve-penny touch—“why,
I would venture something for the honour of the cloth. But come, let’s
see the other. ‘Right Hereditary righted!’—Ah! there’s some sense in
this. Hum—hum—hum—pages so many, paper so much, letter-press—Ah—I’ll
tell you, though, Doctor, you must knock out some of the Latin and
Greek; heavy, Doctor, damn’d heavy—(beg your pardon) and if you throw
in a few grains more pepper—I am he that never preached my author. I
have published for Drake and Charlwood Lawton, and poor Amhurst.[4] Ah,
Caleb! Caleb! Well, it was a shame to let poor Caleb starve, and so
many fat rectors and squires among us. I gave him a dinner once a week;
but, Lord love you, what’s once a week, when a man does not know where
to go the other six days? Well, but I must show the manuscript to
little Tom Alibi the solicitor, who manages all my law affairs—must
keep on the windy side; the mob were very uncivil the last time I
mounted in Old Palace Yard—all Whigs and Roundheads every man of them,
Williamites and Hanover rats.”

The next day Mr. Pembroke again called on the publisher, but found Tom
Alibi’s advice had determined him against undertaking the work. “Not
but what I would go to—(what was I going to say?) to the Plantations
for the church with pleasure—but, dear Doctor, I have a wife and
family; but, to show my zeal, I’ll recommend the job to my neighbour
Trimmel—he is a bachelor, and leaving off business, so a voyage in a
western barge would not inconvenience him.” But Mr. Trimmel was also
obdurate, and Mr. Pembroke, fortunately perchance for himself, was
compelled to return to Waverley-Honour with his treatise in vindication
of the real fundamental principles of church and state safely packed in
his saddle-bags.

As the public were thus likely to be deprived of the benefit arising
from his lucubrations by the selfish cowardice of the trade, Mr.
Pembroke resolved to make two copies of these tremendous manuscripts
for the use of his pupil. He felt that he had been indolent as a tutor,
and, besides, his conscience checked him for complying with the request
of Mr. Richard Waverley, that he would impress no sentiments upon
Edward’s mind inconsistent with the present settlement in church and
state. But now, thought he, I may, without breach of my word, since he
is no longer under my tuition, afford the youth the means of judging
for himself, and have only to dread his reproaches for so long
concealing the light which the perusal will flash upon his mind. While
he thus indulged the reveries of an author and a politician, his
darling proselyte, seeing nothing very inviting in the title of the
tracts, and appalled by the bulk and compact lines of the manuscript,
quietly consigned them to a corner of his travelling trunk.

Aunt Rachel’s farewell was brief and affectionate. She only cautioned
her dear Edward, whom she probably deemed somewhat susceptible, against
the fascination of Scottish beauty. She allowed that the northern part
of the island contained some ancient families, but they were all Whigs
and Presbyterians except the Highlanders; and respecting them she must
needs say, there could be no great delicacy among the ladies, where the
gentlemen’s usual attire was, as she had been assured, to say the
least, very singular, and not at all decorous. She concluded her
farewell with a kind and moving benediction, and gave the young
officer, as a pledge of her regard, a valuable diamond ring (often worn
by the male sex at that time), and a purse of broad gold-pieces, which
also were more common Sixty Years Since than they have been of late.




CHAPTER VII.
A HORSE-QUARTER IN SCOTLAND


The next morning, amid varied feelings, the chief of which was a
predominant, anxious, and even solemn impression, that he was now in a
great measure abandoned to his own guidance and direction, Edward
Waverley departed from the Hall amid the blessings and tears of all the
old domestics and the inhabitants of the village, mingled with some sly
petitions for sergeantcies and corporalships, and so forth, on the part
of those who professed that “they never thoft to ha’ seen Jacob, and
Giles, and Jonathan go off for soldiers, save to attend his honour, as
in duty bound.” Edward, as in duty bound, extricated himself from the
supplicants with the pledge of fewer promises than might have been
expected from a young man so little accustomed to the world. After a
short visit to London, he proceeded on horseback, then the general mode
of travelling, to Edinburgh, and from thence to Dundee, a seaport on
the eastern coast of Angus-shire, where his regiment was then
quartered.

He now entered upon a new world, where, for a time, all was beautiful
because all was new. Colonel Gardiner, the commanding officer of the
regiment, was himself a study for a romantic, and at the same time an
inquisitive youth. In person he was tall, handsome, and active, though
somewhat advanced in life. In his early years he had been what is
called, by manner of palliative, a very gay young man, and strange
stories were circulated about his sudden conversion from doubt, if not
infidelity, to a serious and even enthusiastic turn of mind. It was
whispered that a supernatural communication, of a nature obvious even
to the exterior senses, had produced this wonderful change; and though
some mentioned the proselyte as an enthusiast, none hinted at his being
a hypocrite. This singular and mystical circumstance gave Colonel
Gardiner a peculiar and solemn interest in the eyes of the young
soldier.[5] It may be easily imagined that the officers, of a regiment
commanded by so respectable a person composed a society more sedate and
orderly than a military mess always exhibits; and that Waverley escaped
some temptations to which he might otherwise have been exposed.

Meanwhile his military education proceeded. Already a good horseman, he
was now initiated into the arts of the manege, which, when carried to
perfection, almost realise the fable of the Centaur, the guidance of
the horse appearing to proceed from the rider’s mere volition, rather
than from the use of any external and apparent signal of motion. He
received also instructions in his field duty; but I must own, that when
his first ardour was past, his progress fell short in the latter
particular of what he wished and expected. The duty of an officer, the
most imposing of all others to the inexperienced mind, because
accompanied with so much outward pomp and circumstance, is in its
essence a very dry and abstract task, depending chiefly upon
arithmetical combinations, requiring much attention, and a cool and
reasoning head to bring them into action. Our hero was liable to fits
of absence, in which his blunders excited some mirth, and called down
some reproof. This circumstance impressed him with a painful sense of
inferiority in those qualities which appeared most to deserve and
obtain regard in his new profession. He asked himself in vain, why his
eye could not judge of distance or space so well as those of his
companions; why his head was not always successful in disentangling the
various partial movements necessary to execute a particular evolution;
and why his memory, so alert upon most occasions, did not correctly
retain technical phrases and minute points of etiquette or field
discipline. Waverley was naturally modest, and therefore did not fall
into the egregious mistake of supposing such minuter rules of military
duty beneath his notice, or conceiting himself to be born a general,
because he made an indifferent subaltern. The truth was, that the vague
and unsatisfactory course of reading which he had pursued, working upon
a temper naturally retired and abstracted, had given him that wavering
and unsettled habit of mind which is most averse to study and riveted
attention. Time, in the mean while, hung heavy on his hands. The gentry
of the neighbourhood were disaffected, and showed little hospitality to
the military guests; and the people of the town, chiefly engaged in
mercantile pursuits, were not such as Waverley chose to associate with.
The arrival of summer, and a curiosity to know something more of
Scotland than he could see in a ride from his quarters, determined him
to request leave of absence for a few weeks. He resolved first to visit
his uncle’s ancient friend and correspondent, with the purpose of
extending or shortening the time of his residence according to
circumstances. He travelled of course on horse-back, and with a single
attendant, and passed his first night at a miserable inn, where the
landlady had neither shoes nor stockings, and the landlord, who called
himself a gentleman, was disposed to be rude to his guest, because he
had not bespoke the pleasure of his society to supper.[6] The next day,
traversing an open and uninclosed country, Edward gradually approached
the Highlands of Perthshire, which at first had appeared a blue outline
in the horizon, but now swelled into huge gigantic masses, which
frowned defiance over the more level country that lay beneath them.
Near the bottom of this stupendous barrier, but still in the Lowland
country, dwelt Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine of Bradwardine; and, if
grey-haired eld can be in aught believed, there had dwelt his
ancestors, with all their heritage, since the days of the gracious King
Duncan.




CHAPTER VIII.
A SCOTTISH MANOR-HOUSE SIXTY YEARS SINCE


It was about noon when Captain Waverley entered the straggling village,
or rather hamlet, of Tully-Veolan, close to which was situated the
mansion of the proprietor. The houses seemed miserable in the extreme,
especially to an eye accustomed to the smiling neatness of English
cottages. They stood, without any respect for regularity, on each side
of a straggling kind of unpaved street, where children, almost in a
primitive state of nakedness, lay sprawling, as if to be crushed by the
hoofs of the first passing horse. Occasionally, indeed, when such a
consummation seemed inevitable, a watchful old grandam, with her close
cap, distaff, and spindle, rushed like a sibyl in frenzy out of one of
these miserable cells, dashed into the middle of the path, and
snatching up her own charge from among the sunburnt loiterers, saluted
him with a sound cuff, and transported him back to his dungeon, the
little white-headed varlet screaming all the while, from the very top
of his lungs, a shrilly treble to the growling remonstrances of the
enraged matron. Another part in this concert was sustained by the
incessant yelping of a score of idle useless curs, which followed,
snarling, barking, howling, and snapping at the horses’ heels; a
nuisance at that time so common in Scotland, that a French tourist,
who, like other travellers, longed to find a good and rational reason
for everything he saw, has recorded, as one of the memorabilia of
Caledonia, that the state maintained, in each village a relay of curs,
called _collies_, whose duty it was to chase the _chevaux de poste_
(too starved and exhausted to move without such a stimulus) from one
hamlet to another, till their annoying convoy drove them to the end of
their stage. The evil and remedy (such as it is) still exist. But this
is remote from our present purpose, and is only thrown out for
consideration of the collectors under Mr. Dent’s Dog Bill.

As Waverley moved on, here and there an old man, bent as much by toil
as years, his eyes bleared with age and smoke, tottered to the door of
his hut, to gaze on the dress of the stranger and the form and motions
of the horses, and then assembled, with his neighbours, in a little
group at the smithy, to discuss the probabilities of whence the
stranger came and where he might be going. Three or four village girls,
returning from the well or brook with pitchers and pails upon their
heads, formed more pleasing objects, and, with their thin short-gowns
and single petticoats, bare arms, legs, and feet, uncovered heads and
braided hair, somewhat resembled Italian forms of landscape. Nor could
a lover of the picturesque have challenged either the elegance of their
costume or the symmetry of their shape; although, to say the truth, a
mere Englishman in search of the “comfortable”,—a word peculiar to his
native tongue, might have wished the clothes less scanty, the feet and
legs somewhat protected from the weather, the head and complexion
shrouded from the sun, or perhaps might even have thought the whole
person and dress considerably improved by a plentiful application of
spring water, with a _quantum sufficit_ of soap. The whole scene was
depressing; for it argued, at the first glance, at least a stagnation
of industry, and perhaps of intellect. Even curiosity, the busiest
passion of the idle, seemed of a listless cast in the village of
Tully-Veolan: the curs aforesaid alone showed any part of its activity;
with the villagers it was passive. They stood, and gazed at the
handsome young officer and his attendant, but without any of those
quick motions and eager looks that indicate the earnestness with which
those who live in monotonous ease at home look out for amusement
abroad. Yet the physiognomy of the people, when more closely examined,
was far from exhibiting the indifference of stupidity; their features
were rough, but remarkably intelligent; grave, but the very reverse of
stupid; and from among the young women an artist might have chosen more
than one model whose features and form resembled those of Minerva. The
children also, whose skins were burnt black, and whose hair was
bleached white, by the influence of the sun, had a look and manner of
life and interest. It seemed, upon the whole, as if poverty, and
indolence, its too frequent companion, were combining to depress the
natural genius and acquired information of a hardy, intelligent, and
reflecting peasantry.

Some such thoughts crossed Waverley’s mind as he paced his horse slowly
through the rugged and flinty street of Tully-Veolan, interrupted only
in his meditations by the occasional caprioles which his charger
exhibited at the reiterated assaults of those canine Cossacks, the
_collies_ before mentioned. The village was more than half a mile long,
the cottages being irregularly divided from each other by gardens, or
yards, as the inhabitants called them, of different sizes, where (for
it is Sixty Years Since) the now universal potato was unknown, but
which were stored with gigantic plants of _kale_ or colewort, encircled
with groves of nettles, and exhibited here and there a huge hemlock, or
the national thistle, overshadowing a quarter of the petty inclosure.
The broken ground on which the village was built had never been
levelled; so that these inclosures presented declivities of every
degree, here rising like terraces, there sinking like tan-pits. The
dry-stone walls which fenced, or seemed to fence (for they were sorely
breached), these hanging gardens of Tully-Veolan were intersected by a
narrow lane leading to the common field, where the joint labour of the
villagers cultivated alternate ridges and patches of rye, oats, barley,
and pease, each of such minute extent that at a little distance the
unprofitable variety of the surface resembled a tailor’s book of
patterns. In a few favoured instances, there appeared behind the
cottages a miserable wigwam, compiled of earth, loose stones, and turf,
where the wealthy might perhaps shelter a starved cow or sorely galled
horse. But almost every hut was fenced in front by a huge black stack
of turf on one side of the door, while on the other the family dunghill
ascended in noble emulation.

[Illustration: Tully-Veolan]

About a bowshot from the end of the village appeared the inclosures
proudly denominated the Parks of Tully-Veolan, being certain square
fields, surrounded and divided by stone walls five feet in height. In
the centre of the exterior barrier was the upper gate of the avenue,
opening under an archway, battlemented on the top, and adorned with two
large weather-beaten mutilated masses of upright stone, which, if the
tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, at
least had been once designed to represent, two rampant Bears, the
supporters of the family of Bradwardine. This avenue was straight and
of moderate length, running between a double row of very ancient
horse-chestnuts, planted alternately with sycamores, which rose to such
huge height, and 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, Bewar the Bar, cut under each
hyperborean form. The court was spacious, well paved, and perfectly
clean, there being probably another entrance behind the stables for
removing the litter. Everything around appeared solitary, and would
have been silent, but for the continued plashing of the fountain; and
the whole scene still maintained the monastic illusion which the fancy
of Waverley had conjured up. And here we beg permission to close a
chapter of still life.[7]




CHAPTER IX.
MORE OF THE MANOR-HOUSE AND ITS ENVIRONS


After having satisfied his curiosity by gazing around him for a few
minutes, Waverley applied himself to the massive knocker of the
hall-door, the architrave of which bore the date 1594. But no answer
was returned, though the peal resounded through a number of apartments,
and was echoed from the court-yard walls without the house, startling
the pigeons from the venerable rotunda which they occupied, and
alarming anew even the distant village curs, which had retired to sleep
upon their respective dunghills. Tired of the din which he created, and
the unprofitable responses which it excited, Waverley began to think
that he had reached the castle of Orgoglio as entered by the victorious
Prince Arthur,—

When ’gan he loudly through the house to call,
        But no man cared to answer to his cry;
    There reign’d a solemn silence over all,
Nor voice was heard, nor wight was seen in bower or hall.


Filled almost with expectation of beholding some “old, old man, with
beard as white as snow,” whom he might question concerning this
deserted mansion, our hero turned to a little oaken wicket-door, well
clenched with iron-nails, which opened in the court-yard wall at its
angle with the house. It was only latched, notwithstanding its
fortified appearance, and, when opened, admitted him into the garden,
which presented a pleasant scene.[*] The southern side of the house,
clothed with fruit-trees, and having many evergreens trained upon its
walls, extended its irregular yet venerable front along a terrace,
partly paved, partly gravelled, partly bordered with flowers and choice
shrubs. This elevation descended by three several flights of steps,
placed in its centre and at the extremities, into what might be called
the garden proper, and was fenced along the top by a stone parapet with
a heavy balustrade, ornamented from space to space with huge grotesque
figures of animals seated upon their haunches, among which the
favourite bear was repeatedly introduced. Placed in the middle of the
terrace between a sashed-door opening from the house and the central
flight of steps, a huge animal of the same species supported on his
head and fore-paws a sun-dial of large circumference, inscribed with
more diagrams than Edward’s mathematics enabled him to decipher.

[* At Ravelston may be seen such a garden, which the taste of the
proprietor, the author’s friend and kinsman, Sir Alexander Keith,
Knight Mareschal, has judiciously preserved. That, as well as the house
is, however, of smaller dimensions than the Baron of Bradwardine’s
mansion and garden are presumed to have been.]


The garden, which seemed to be kept with great accuracy, abounded in
fruit-trees, and exhibited a profusion of flowers and evergreens, cut
into grotesque forms. It was laid out in terraces, which descended rank
by rank from the western wall to a large brook, which had a tranquil
and smooth appearance, where it served as a boundary to the garden;
but, near the extremity, leapt in tumult over a strong dam, or
wear-head, the cause of its temporary tranquillity, and there forming a
cascade, was overlooked by an octangular summer-house, with a gilded
bear on the top by way of vane. After this feat, the brook, assuming
its natural rapid and fierce character, escaped from the eye down a
deep and wooded dell, from the copse of which arose a massive, but
ruinous tower, the former habitation of the Barons of Bradwardine. The
margin of the brook, opposite to the garden, displayed a narrow meadow,
or haugh, as it was called, which formed a small washing-green; the
bank, which retired behind it, was covered by ancient trees.

The scene, though pleasing, was not quite equal to the gardens of
Alcina; yet wanted not the “due donzellette garrule” of that enchanted
paradise, for upon the green aforesaid two bare-legged damsels, each
standing in a spacious tub, performed with their feet the office of a
patent washing-machine. These did not, however, like the maidens of
Armida, remain to greet with their harmony the approaching guest, but,
alarmed at the appearance of a handsome stranger on the opposite side,
dropped their garments (I should say garment, to be quite correct) over
their limbs, which their occupation exposed somewhat too freely, and,
with a shrill exclamation of “Eh, sirs!” uttered with an accent between
modesty and coquetry, sprung off like deer in different directions.


[Illustration]

Waverley began to despair of gaining entrance into this solitary and
seemingly enchanted mansion, when a man advanced up one of the garden
alleys, where he still retained his station. Trusting this might be a
gardener, or some domestic belonging to the house, Edward descended the
steps in order to meet him; but as the figure approached, and long
before he could descry its features, he was struck with the oddity of
its appearance and gestures. Sometimes this mister wight held his hands
clasped over his head, like an Indian Jogue in the attitude of penance;
sometimes he swung them perpendicularly, like a pendulum, on each side;
and anon he slapped them swiftly and repeatedly across his breast, like
the substitute used by a hackney-coachman for his usual flogging
exercise, when his cattle are idle upon the stand, in a clear frosty
day. His gait was as singular as his gestures, for at times he hopped
with great perseverance on the right foot, then exchanged that
supporter to advance in the same manner on the left, and then putting
his feet close together he hopped upon both at once. His attire also
was antiquated and extravagant. It consisted in a sort of grey jerkin,
with scarlet cuffs and slashed sleeves, showing a scarlet lining; the
other parts of the dress corresponded in colour, not forgetting a pair
of scarlet stockings, and a scarlet bonnet, proudly surmounted with a
turkey’s feather. Edward, whom he did not seem to observe, now
perceived confirmation in his features of what the mien and gestures
had already announced. It was apparently neither idiocy nor insanity
which gave that wild, unsettled, irregular expression to a face which
naturally was rather handsome, but something that resembled a compound
of both, where the simplicity of the fool was mixed with the
extravagance of a crazed imagination. He sung with great earnestness,
and not without some taste, a fragment of an old Scottish ditty:—

False love, and hast thou play’d me this
    In summer among the flowers?
I will repay thee back again
    In winter among the showers.
Unless again, again, my love,
    Unless you turn again;
As you with other maidens rove,
    I’ll smile on other men.[*]


[* This is a genuine ancient fragment, with some alteration in the two
last lines.]


Here lifting up his eyes, which had hitherto been fixed in observing
how his feet kept time to the tune, he beheld Waverley, and instantly
doffed his cap, with many grotesque signals of surprise, respect, and
salutation. Edward, though with little hope of receiving an answer to
any constant question, requested to know whether Mr. Bradwardine were
at home, or where he could find any of the domestics. The questioned
party replied, and, like the witch of Thalaba, “still his speech was
song,”—

The Knight’s to the mountain
    His bugle to wind;
The Lady’s to greenwood
    Her garland to bind.
The bower of Burd Ellen
    Has moss on the floor,
That the step of Lord William
    Be silent and sure.


This conveyed no information, and Edward, repeating his queries,
received a rapid answer, in which, from the haste and peculiarity of
the dialect, the word “butler” was alone intelligible. Waverley then
requested to see the butler; upon which the fellow, with a knowing look
and nod of intelligence, made a signal to Edward to follow, and began
to dance and caper down the alley up which he had made his approaches.
A strange guide this, thought Edward, and not much unlike one of
Shakespeare’s roynish clowns. I am not over prudent to trust to his
pilotage; but wiser men have been led by fools. By this time he reached
the bottom of the alley, where, turning short on a little parterre of
flowers, shrouded from the east and north by a close yew hedge, he
found an old man at work without his coat, whose appearance hovered
between that of an upper servant and gardener; his red nose and ruffled
shirt belonging to the former profession; his hale and sunburnt visage,
with his green apron, appearing to indicate

“Old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden.”


The major domo, for such he was, and indisputably the second officer of
state in the barony (nay, as chief minister of the interior, superior
even to Bailie Macwheeble in his own department of the kitchen and
cellar)—the major domo laid down his spade, slipped on his coat in
haste, and with a wrathful look at Edward’s guide, probably excited by
his having introduced a stranger while he was engaged in this
laborious, and, as he might suppose it, degrading office, requested to
know the gentleman’s commands. Being informed that he wished to pay his
respects to his master, that his name was Waverley, and so forth, the
old man’s countenance assumed a great deal of respectful importance.
“He could take it upon his conscience to say, his honour would have
exceeding pleasure in seeing him. Would not Mr. Waverley choose some
refreshment after his journey? His honour was with the folk who were
getting doon the dark hag; the twa gardener lads (an emphasis on the
word twa) had been ordered to attend him; and he had been just amusing
himself in the mean time with dressing Miss Rose’s flower-bed, that he
might be near to receive his honour’s orders, if need were; he was very
fond of a garden, but had little time for such divertisements.”

“He canna get it wrought in abune twa days in the week at no rate
whatever,” said Edward’s fantastic conductor.

A grim look from the butler chastised his interference, and he
commanded him, by the name of Davie Gellatley, in a tone which admitted
no discussion, to look for his honour at the dark hag, and tell him
there was a gentleman from the south had arrived at the Ha’.

“Can this poor fellow deliver a letter?” asked Edward.

“With all fidelity, sir, to any one whom he respects. I would hardly
trust him with a long message by word of mouth—though he is more knave
than fool.”

Waverley delivered his credentials to Mr. Gellatley, who seemed to
confirm the butler’s last observation, by twisting his features at him,
when he was looking another way, into the resemblance of the grotesque
face on the bole of a German tobacco pipe; after which, with an odd
_congé_ to Waverley, he danced off to discharge his errand.

“He is an innocent, sir,” said the butler; “there is one such in almost
every town in the country, but ours is brought far ben. He used to work
a day’s turn weel enough; but he helped Miss Rose when she was flemit
with the Laird of Killancureit’s new English bull, and since that time
we ca’ him Davie Do-little; indeed we might ca’ him Davie Do-naething,
for since he got that gay clothing, to please his honour and my young
mistress (great folks will have their fancies), he has done naething
but dance up and down about the _toun_, without doing a single turn,
unless trimming the laird’s fishing-wand or busking his flies, or may
be catching a dish of trouts at an orra time. But here comes Miss Rose,
who, I take burden upon me for her, will be especial glad to see one of
the house of Waverley at her father’s mansion of Tully-Veolan.”

But Rose Bradwardine deserves better of her unworthy historian than to
be introduced at the end of a chapter.

In the mean while it may be noticed, that Waverley learned two things
from this colloquy: that in Scotland a single house was called a
“town”, and a natural fool an “innocent”.[8]




CHAPTER X.
ROSE BRADWARDINE AND HER FATHER


Miss Bradwardine was but seventeen; yet, at the last races of the
county town of——, upon her health being proposed among a round of
beauties, the Laird of Bumperquaigh, permanent toast-master and
croupier of the Bautherwhillery Club, not only said “More” to the
pledge in a pint bumper of Bourdeaux, but, ere pouring forth the
libation, denominated the divinity to whom it was dedicated, “the Rose
of Tully-Veolan”; upon which festive occasion three cheers were given
by all the sitting members of that respectable society, whose throats
the wine had left capable of such exertion. Nay, I am well assured,
that the sleeping partners of the company snorted applause, and that
although strong bumpers and weak brains had consigned two or three to
the floor, yet even these, fallen as they were from their high estate,
and weltering—I will carry the parody no farther—uttered divers
inarticulate sounds, intimating their assent to the motion.

Such unanimous applause could not be extorted but by acknowledged
merit; and Rose Bradwardine not only deserved it, but also the
approbation of much more rational persons than the Bautherwhillery Club
could have mustered, even before discussion of the first _magnum_. She
was indeed a very pretty girl of the Scotch cast of beauty, that is,
with a profusion of hair of paley gold, and a skin like the snow of her
own mountains in whiteness. Yet she had not a pallid or pensive cast of
countenance; her features, as well as her temper, had a lively
expression; her complexion, though not florid, was so pure as to seem
transparent, and the slightest emotion sent her whole blood at once to
her face and neck. Her form, though under the common size, was
remarkably elegant, and her motions light, easy, and unembarrassed. She
came from another part of the garden to receive Captain Waverley, with
a manner that hovered between bashfulness and courtesy.

The first greetings past, Edward learned from her that the _dark hag_,
which had somewhat puzzled him in the butler’s account of his master’s
avocations, had nothing to do either with a black cat or a broomstick,
but was simply a portion of oak copse which was to be felled that day.
She offered, with diffident civility, to show the stranger the way to
the spot, which, it seems, was not far distant; but they were prevented
by the appearance of the Baron of Bradwardine in person, who, summoned
by David Gellatley, now appeared, “on hospitable thoughts intent,”
clearing the ground at a prodigious rate with swift and long strides,
which reminded Waverley of the seven-league boots of the nursery fable.
He was a tall, thin, athletic figure, old indeed and grey-haired, but
with every muscle rendered as tough as whip-cord by constant exercise.
He was dressed carelessly, and more like a Frenchman than an Englishman
of the period, while, from his hard features and perpendicular rigidity
of stature, he bore some resemblance to a Swiss officer of the guards,
who had resided some time at Paris, and caught the _costume_, but not
the ease or manner, of its inhabitants. The truth was, that his
language and habits were as heterogeneous as his external appearance.

Owing to his natural disposition to study, or perhaps to a very general
Scottish fashion of giving young men of rank a legal education, he had
been bred with a view to the bar. But the politics of his family
precluding the hope of his rising in that profession, Mr. Bradwardine
travelled with high reputation for several years, and made some
campaigns in foreign service. After his _démêlée_ with the law of high
treason in 1715, he had lived in retirement, conversing almost entirely
with those of his own principles in the vicinage. The pedantry of the
lawyer, superinduced upon the military pride of the soldier, might
remind a modern of the days of the zealous volunteer service, when the
bar-gown of our pleaders was often flung over a blazing uniform. To
this must be added the prejudices of ancient birth and Jacobite
politics, greatly strengthened by habits of solitary and secluded
authority, which, though exercised only within the bounds of his
half-cultivated estate, was there indisputable and undisputed. For, as
he used to observe, “the lands of Bradwardine, Tully-Veolan, and
others, had been erected into a free barony by a charter from David the
First, cum liberali potest. habendi curias et justicias, cum fossa et
furca (_lie_, pit and gallows) et saka et soka, et thol et theam, et
infang-thief et outfang-thief, sive hand-habend, sive bak-barand.” The
peculiar meaning of all these cabalistical words few or none could
explain; but they implied, upon the whole, that the Baron of
Bradwardine might, in case of delinquency, imprison, try, and execute
his vassals at his pleasure. Like James the First, however, the present
possessor of this authority was more pleased in talking about
prerogative than in exercising it; and excepting that he imprisoned two
poachers in the dungeon of the old tower of Tully-Veolan, where they
were sorely frightened by ghosts, and almost eaten by rats, and that he
set an old woman in the _jougs_ (or Scottish pillory) for saying “there
were mair fules in the laird’s ha’ house than Davie Gellatley,” I do
not learn that he was accused of abusing his high powers. Still,
however, the conscious pride of possessing them gave additional
importance to his language and deportment.

At his first address to Waverley, it would seem that the hearty
pleasure he felt to behold the nephew of his friend had somewhat
discomposed the stiff and upright dignity of the Baron of Bradwardine’s
demeanour, for the tears stood in the old gentleman’s eyes, when,
having first shaken Edward heartily by the hand in the English fashion,
he embraced him _à la mode Française_, and kissed him on both sides of
his face; while the hardness of his gripe, and the quantity of Scotch
snuff which his accolade communicated, called corresponding drops of
moisture to the eyes of his guest.

“Upon the honour of a gentleman,” he said, “but it makes me young again
to see you here, Mr. Waverley! A worthy scion of the old stock of
Waverley-Honour—_spes altera_, as Maro hath it—and you have the look of
the old line, Captain Waverley; not so portly yet as my old friend Sir
Everard—_mais cela viendra avec le temps_, as my Dutch acquaintance,
Baron Kikkitbroeck, said of the _sagesse of madame son épouse_. And so
ye have mounted the cockade? Right, right; though I could have wished
the colour different, and so I would ha’ deemed might Sir Everard. But
no more of that; I am old, and times are changed. And how does the
worthy knight baronet, and the fair Mrs. Rachel?—Ah, ye laugh, young
man! In troth she was the fair Mrs. Rachel in the year of grace
seventeen hundred and sixteen; but time passes—_et singula prædantur
anni_—that is most certain. But once again ye are most heartily welcome
to my poor house of Tully-Veolan! Hie to the house, Rose, and see that
Alexander Saunderson looks out the old Château Margaux, which I sent
from Bourdeaux to Dundee in the year 1713.”

Rose tripped off demurely enough till she turned the first corner, and
then ran with the speed of a fairy, that she might gain leisure, after
discharging her father’s commission, to put her own dress in order, and
produce all her little finery, an occupation for which the approaching
dinner-hour left but limited time.

“We cannot rival the luxuries of your English table, Captain Waverley,
or give you the _epulæ lautiores_ of Waverley-Honour. I say ‘epulæ’
rather than prandium, because the latter phrase is popular: epulae ad
senatum, prandium vero ad populum attinet, says Suetonius Tranquillus.
But I trust ye will applaud my Bourdeaux; _c’est des doux oreilles_, as
Captain Vinsauf used to say; _vinum primæ notæ_, the principal of Saint
Andrews denominated it. And, once more, Captain Waverley, right glad am
I that ye are here to drink the best my cellar can make forthcoming.”

This speech, with the necessary interjectional answers, continued from
the lower alley where they met up to the door of the house, where four
or five servants in old-fashioned liveries, headed by Alexander
Saunderson, the butler, who now bore no token of the sable stains of
the garden, received them in grand _costume_,

In an old hall hung round with pikes and with bows,
With old bucklers and corslets that had borne many shrewd blows.


With much ceremony, and still more real kindness, the Baron, without
stopping in any intermediate apartment, conducted his guest through
several into the great dining parlour, wainscotted with black oak, and
hung round with the pictures of his ancestry, where a table was set
forth in form for six persons, and an old-fashioned beaufet displayed
all the ancient and massive plate of the Bradwardine family. A bell was
now heard at the head of the avenue; for an old man, who acted as
porter upon gala days, had caught the alarm given by Waverley’s
arrival, and, repairing to his post, announced the arrival of other
guests.

These, as the Baron assured his young friend, were very estimable
persons. “There was the young Laird of Balmawhapple, a Falconer by
surname, of the house of Glenfarquhar, given right much to
field-sports—_gaudet equis et canibus_—but a very discreet young
gentleman. Then there was the Laird of Killancureit, who had devoted
his leisure _until_ tillage and agriculture, and boasted himself to be
possessed of a bull of matchless merit, brought from the county of
Devon (the Damnonia of the Romans, if we can trust Robert of
Cirencester). He is, as ye may well suppose from such a tendency, but
of yeoman extraction—_servabit odorem testa diu;_ and I believe,
between ourselves, his grandsire was from the wrong side of the
Border—one Bullsegg, who came hither as a steward, or bailiff, or
ground-officer, or something in that department, to the last Girnigo of
Killancureit, who died of an atrophy. After his master’s death, sir,—ye
would hardly believe such a scandal,—but this Bullsegg, being portly
and comely of aspect, intermarried with the lady dowager, who was young
and amorous, and possessed himself of the estate, which devolved on
this unhappy woman by a settlement of her umwhile husband, in direct
contravention of an unrecorded taillie, and to the prejudice of the
disponer’s own flesh and blood, in the person of his natural heir and
seventh cousin, Girnigo of Tipperhewit, whose family was so reduced by
the ensuing law-suit, that his representative is now serving as a
private gentleman-sentinel in the Highland Black Watch. But this
gentleman, Mr. Bullsegg of Killancureit that now is, has good blood in
his veins by the mother and grandmother, who were both of the family of
Pickletillim, and he is well liked and looked upon, and knows his own
place. And God forbid, Captain Waverley, that we of irreproachable
lineage should exult over him, when it may be, that in the eighth,
ninth, or tenth generation, his progeny may rank, in a manner, with the
old gentry of the country. Rank and ancestry, sir, should be the last
words in the mouths of us of unblemished race—_vix ea nostra voco_, as
Naso saith. There is, besides, a clergyman of the true (though
suffering) Episcopal church of Scotland. He was a confessor in her
cause after the year 1715, when a Whiggish mob destroyed his
meeting-house, tore his surplice, and plundered his dwelling-house of
four silver spoons, intromitting also with his mart and his mealark,
and with two barrels, one of single and one of double ale, besides
three bottles of brandy.[9] My baron-bailie and doer, Mr. Duncan
Macwheeble, is the fourth on our list. There is a question, owing to
the incertitude of ancient orthography, whether he belongs to the clan
of Wheedle or of Quibble, but both have produced persons eminent in the
law.”—

“As such he described them by person and name,
They enter’d, and dinner was served as they came.”




CHAPTER XI.
THE BANQUET


The entertainment was ample and handsome, according to the Scotch ideas
of the period, and the guests did great honour to it. The Baron ate
like a famished soldier, the Laird of Balmawhapple like a sportsman,
Bullsegg of Killancureit like a farmer, Waverley himself like a
traveller, and Bailie Macwheeble like all four together; though, either
out of more respect, or in order to preserve that proper declination of
person which showed a sense that he was in the presence of his patron,
he sat upon the edge of his chair, placed at three feet distance from
the table, and achieved a communication with his plate by projecting
his person towards it in a line which obliqued from the bottom of his
spine, so that the person who sat opposite to him could only see the
foretop of his riding periwig.

This stooping position might have been inconvenient to another person;
but long habit made it, whether seated or walking, perfectly easy to
the worthy Bailie. In the latter posture it occasioned, no doubt, an
unseemly projection of the person towards those who happened to walk
behind; but those being at all times his inferiors (for Mr. Macwheeble
was very scrupulous in giving place to all others), he cared very
little what inference of contempt or slight regard they might derive
from the circumstance. Hence, when he waddled across the court to and
from his old grey pony, he somewhat resembled a turnspit walking upon
its hind legs.

The nonjuring clergyman was a pensive and interesting old man, with
much of the air of a sufferer for conscience’ sake. He was one of those

“Who, undeprived, their benefice forsook.”


For this whim, when the Baron was out of hearing, the Bailie used
sometimes gently to rally Mr. Rubrick, upbraiding him with the nicety
of his scruples. Indeed, it must be owned, that he himself, though at
heart a keen partisan of the exiled family, had kept pretty fair with
all the different turns of state in his time; so that Davie Gellatley
once described him as a particularly good man, who had a very quiet and
peaceful conscience, _that never did him any harm_.

When the dinner was removed, the Baron announced the health of the
King, politely leaving to the consciences of his guests to drink to the
sovereign _de facto_ or _de jure_, as their politics inclined. The
conversation now became general; and, shortly afterwards, Miss
Bradwardine, who had done the honours with natural grace and
simplicity, retired, and was soon followed by the clergyman. Among the
rest of the party, the wine, which fully justified the encomiums of the
landlord, flowed freely round, although Waverley, with some difficulty,
obtained the privilege of sometimes neglecting the glass. At length, as
the evening grew more late, the Baron made a private signal to Mr.
Saunders Saunderson, or, as he facetiously denominated him, _Alexander
ab Alexandro_, who left the room with a nod, and soon after returned,
his grave countenance mantling with a solemn and mysterious smile, and
placed before his master a small oaken casket, mounted with brass
ornaments of curious form. The Baron, drawing out a private key,
unlocked the casket, raised the lid, and produced a golden goblet of a
singular and antique appearance, moulded into the shape of a rampant
bear, which the owner regarded with a look of mingled reverence, pride,
and delight, that irresistibly reminded Waverley of Ben Jonson’s Tom
Otter, with his Bull, Horse, and Dog, as that wag wittily denominated
his chief carousing cups. But Mr. Bradwardine, turning towards him with
complacency, requested him to observe this curious relic of the olden
time.

“It represents,” he said, “the chosen crest of our family, a bear, as
ye observe, and _rampant;_ because a good herald will depict every
animal in its noblest posture, as a horse _salient_, a greyhound
_currant_, and, as may be inferred, a ravenous animal _in actu
ferociori_, or in a voracious, lacerating, and devouring posture. Now,
sir, we hold this most honourable achievement by the wappen-brief, or
concession of arms, of Frederick Red-beard, Emperor of Germany, to my
predecessor, Godmund Bradwardine, it being the crest of a gigantic
Dane, whom he slew in the lists in the Holy Land, on a quarrel touching
the chastity of the emperor’s spouse or daughter, tradition saith not
precisely which, and thus, as Virgilius hath it—

“‘Mutemus clypeos, Danaumque insignia nobis
Aptemus.’


Then for the cup, Captain Waverley, it was wrought by the command of
Saint Duthac, Abbot of Aberbrothock, for behoof of another baron of the
house of Bradwardine, who had valiantly defended the patrimony of that
monastery against certain encroaching nobles. It is properly termed the
Blessed Bear of Bradwardine (though old Doctor Doubleit used jocosely
to call it Ursa Major), and was supposed, in old and Catholic times, to
be invested with certain properties of a mystical and supernatural
quality. And though I give not in to such _anilia_, it is certain it
has always been esteemed a solemn standard cup and heirloom of our
house; nor is it ever used but upon seasons of high festival, and such
I hold to be the arrival of the heir of Sir Everard under my roof; and
I devote this draught to the health and prosperity of the ancient and
highly-to-be-honoured house of Waverley.”

During this long harangue, he carefully decanted a cob-webbed bottle of
claret into the goblet, which held nearly an English pint; and, at the
conclusion, delivering the bottle to the butler, to be held carefully
in the same angle with the horizon, he devoutly quaffed off the
contents of the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine.

Edward, with horror and alarm, beheld the animal making his rounds, and
thought with great anxiety upon the appropriate motto, “Beware the
Bear”; but, at the same time, plainly foresaw that, as none of the
guests scrupled to do him this extraordinary honour, a refusal on his
part to pledge their courtesy would be extremely ill received.
Resolving, therefore, to submit to this last piece of tyranny, and then
to quit the table, if possible, and confiding in the strength of his
constitution, he did justice to the company in the contents of the
Blessed Bear, and felt less inconvenience from the draught than he
could possibly have expected. The others, whose time had been more
actively employed, began to show symptoms of innovation—“the good wine
did its good office.”[*] The frost of etiquette and pride of birth
began to give way before the genial blessings of this benign
constellation, and the formal appellatives with which the three
dignitaries had hitherto addressed each other were now familiarly
abbreviated into Tully, Bally, and Killie. When a few rounds had
passed, the two latter, after whispering together, craved permission (a
joyful hearing for Edward) to ask the grace-cup. This, after some
delay, was at length produced, and Waverley concluded the orgies of
Bacchus were terminated for the evening. He was never more mistaken in
his life.

[* Southey’s Madoc.]


As the guests had left their horses at the small inn, or
_change-house_, as it was called, of the village, the Baron could not,
in politeness, avoid walking with them up the avenue, and Waverley from
the same motive, and to enjoy after this feverish revel the cool summer
evening, attended the party. But when they arrived at Luckie Macleary’s
the Lairds of Balmawhapple and Killancureit declared their
determination to acknowledge their sense of the hospitality of
Tully-Veolan by partaking, with their entertainer and his guest Captain
Waverley, what they technically called _deoch an doruis_, a
stirrup-cup, to the honour of the Baron’s roof-tree.[10]

It must be noticed that the Bailie, knowing by experience that the
day’s jovialty, which had been hitherto sustained at the expense of his
patron, might terminate partly at his own, had mounted his spavined
grey pony, and, between gaiety of heart and alarm for being hooked into
a reckoning, spurred him into a hobbling canter (a trot was out of the
question), and had already cleared the village. The others entered the
change-house, leading Edward in unresisting submission; for his
landlord whispered him, that to demur to such an overture would be
construed into a high misdemeanour against the _leges conviviales_, or
regulations of genial compotation. Widow Macleary seemed to have
expected this visit, as well she might, for it was the usual
consummation of merry bouts, not only at Tully-Veolan, but at most
other gentlemen’s houses in Scotland, Sixty Years Since. The guests
thereby at once acquitted themselves of their burden of gratitude for
their entertainer’s kindness, encouraged the trade of his change-house,
did honour to the place which afforded harbour to their horses, and
indemnified themselves for the previous restraints imposed by private
hospitality, by spending what Falstaff calls the sweet of the night in
the genial license of a tavern.

Accordingly, in full expectation of these distinguished guests, Luckie
Macleary had swept her house for the first time this fortnight,
tempered her turf-fire to such a heat as the season required in her
damp hovel even at Midsummer, set forth her deal table newly washed,
propped its lame foot with a fragment of turf, arranged four or five
stools of huge and clumsy form upon the sites which best suited the
inequalities of her clay floor; and having, moreover, put on her clean
toy, rokelay, and scarlet plaid, gravely awaited the arrival of the
company, in full hope of custom and profit. When they were seated under
the sooty rafters of Luckie Macleary’s only apartment, thickly
tapestried with cobwebs, their hostess, who had already taken her cue
from the Laird of Balmawhapple, appeared with a huge pewter
measuring-pot, containing at least three English quarts, familiarly
denominated a Tappit Hen, and which, in the language of the hostess,
reamed (_i.e._, mantled) with excellent claret just drawn from the
cask.

It was soon plain that what crumbs of reason the Bear had not devoured
were to be picked up by the Hen; but the confusion which appeared to
prevail favoured Edward’s resolution to evade the gaily circling glass.
The others began to talk thick and at once, each performing his own
part in the conversation without the least respect to his neighbour.
The Baron of Bradwardine sung French _chansons à boire_, and spouted
pieces of Latin; Killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key,
of top-dressing and bottom-dressing,[*] and year-olds, and gimmers, and
dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed
turnpike-act; while Balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled
his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called Whistler. In the middle of
this din, the Baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the
instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed that for a moment he
obtained it, he hastened to beseech their attention “unto a military
ariette, which was a particular favourite of the Maréchal Duc de
Berwick”; then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of
a French musquetaire, he immediately commenced,—

“Mon cœur volage, dit elle,
    N’est pas pour vous, garçon;
Est pour un homme de guerre,
    Qui a barbe au menton.
        Lon, Lon, Laridon.

“Qui port chapeau à plume,
    Soulier à rouge talon,
Qui joue de la flute,
    Aussi du violon.
        Lon, Lon, Laridon.”


[* This has been censured as an anachronism; and it must be confessed
that agriculture of this kind was unknown to the Scotch Sixty Years
Since.]


Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a
d—d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethroughwi’t, the piper of Cupar;
and, without wasting more time, struck up,—

It’s up Glenbarchan’s braes I gaed,
And o’er the bent of Killiebraid,
And mony a weary cast I made,
    To cuittle the moor-fowl’s tail.[*]


[* _Suum cuique_. This snatch of a ballad was composed by Andrew
MacDonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of “Vimonda”.]


The Baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous
strains of Balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to
hum “Lon, Lon, Laridon,” and to regard the successful candidate for the
attention of the company with an eye of disdain, while Balmawhapple
proceeded,—

If up a bonny black-cock should spring,
To whistle him down wi’ a slug in his wing,
And strap him on to my lunzie string,
    Right seldom would I fail.


After an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sung the
first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared there
was “more sense in that than in all the _derry-dongs_ of France, and
Fifeshire to the boot of it.” The Baron only answered with a long pinch
of snuff and a glance of infinite contempt. But those noble allies, the
Bear and the Hen, had emancipated the young laird from the habitual
reverence in which he held Bradwardine at other times. He pronounced
the claret “shilpit,” and demanded brandy with great vociferation. It
was brought; and now the Demon of Politics envied even the harmony
arising from this Dutch concert, merely because there was not a
wrathful note in the strange compound of sounds which it produced.
Inspired by her, the Laird of Balmawhapple, now superior to the nods
and winks with which the Baron of Bradwardine, in delicacy to Edward,
had hitherto checked his entering upon political discussion, demanded a
bumper, with the lungs of a Stentor, “to the little gentleman in black
velvet who did such service in 1702, and may the white horse break his
neck over a mound of his making!”

Edward was not at that moment clear-headed enough to remember that King
William’s fall, which occasioned his death, was said to be owing to his
horse stumbling at a mole-hill; yet felt inclined to take umbrage at a
toast which seemed, from the glance of Balmawhapple’s eye, to have a
peculiar and uncivil reference to the Government which he served. But,
ere he could interfere, the Baron of Bradwardine had taken up the
quarrel. “Sir,” he said, “whatever my sentiments _tanquam privatus_ may
be in such matters, I shall not tamely endure your saying anything that
may impinge upon the honourable feelings of a gentleman under my roof.
Sir, if you have no respect for the laws of urbanity, do ye not respect
the military oath, the _sacramentum militare_, by which every officer
is bound to the standards under which he is enrolled? Look at Titus
Livius, what he says of those Roman soldiers who were so unhappy as
_exuere sacramentum_, to renounce their legionary oath; but you are
ignorant, sir, alike of ancient history and modern courtesy.”

“Not so ignorant as ye would pronounce me,” roared Balmawhapple. “I ken
weel that you mean the Solemn League and Covenant; but if a’ the Whigs
in hell had taken the—”

Here the Baron and Waverley both spoke at once, the former calling out,
“Be silent, sir! ye not only show your ignorance, but disgrace your
native country before a stranger and an Englishman”; and Waverley, at
the same moment, entreating Mr. Bradwardine to permit him to reply to
an affront which seemed levelled at him personally. But the Baron was
exalted by wine, wrath, and scorn above all sublunary considerations.

“I crave you to be hushed, Captain Waverley; you are elsewhere,
peradventure, _sui juris_,—foris-familiated, that is, and entitled, it
may be, to think and resent for yourself; but in my domain, in this
poor Barony of Bradwardine, and under this roof, which is _quasi_ mine,
being held by tacit relocation by a tenant at will, I am _in loco
parentis_ to you, and bound to see you scathless. And for you, Mr.
Falconer of Balmawhapple, I warn ye, let me see no more aberrations
from the paths of good manners.”

“And I tell you, Mr. Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine of Bradwardine and
Tully-Veolan,” retorted the sportsman in huge disdain, “that I’ll make
a moor-cock of the man that refuses my toast, whether it be a
crop-eared English Whig wi’ a black ribband at his lug, or ane wha
deserts his ain friends to claw favour wi’ the rats of Hanover.”

In an instant both rapiers were brandished, and some desperate passes
exchanged. Balmawhapple was young, stout, and active; but the Baron,
infinitely more master of his weapon, would, like Sir Toby Belch, have
tickled his opponent other gates than he did had he not been under the
influence of Ursa Major.

Edward rushed forward to interfere between the combatants, but the
prostrate bulk of the Laird of Killancureit, over which he stumbled,
intercepted his passage. How Killancureit happened to be in this
recumbent posture at so interesting a moment was never accurately
known. Some thought he was about to insconce himself under the table;
he himself alleged that he stumbled in the act of lifting a
joint-stool, to prevent mischief, by knocking down Balmawhapple. Be
that as it may, if readier aid than either his or Waverley’s had not
interposed, there would certainly have been bloodshed. But the
well-known clash of swords, which was no stranger to her dwelling,
aroused Luckie Macleary as she sat quietly beyond the hallan, or
earthen partition of the cottage, with eyes employed on Boston’s “Crook
the Lot,” while her ideas were engaged in summing up the reckoning. She
boldly rushed in, with the shrill expostulation, “Wad their honours
slay ane another there, and bring discredit on an honest widow-woman’s
house, when there was a’ the lee-land in the country to fight upon?” a
remonstrance which she seconded by flinging her plaid with great
dexterity over the weapons of the combatants. The servants by this time
rushed in, and being, by great chance, tolerably sober, separated the
incensed opponents, with the assistance of Edward and Killancureit. The
latter led off Balmawhapple, cursing, swearing, and vowing revenge
against every Whig, Presbyterian, and fanatic in England and Scotland,
from John-o’-Groat’s to the Land’s End, and with difficulty got him to
horse. Our hero, with the assistance of Saunders Saunderson, escorted
the Baron of Bradwardine to his own dwelling, but could not prevail
upon him to retire to bed until he had made a long and learned apology
for the events of the evening, of which, however, there was not a word
intelligible, except something about the Centaurs and the Lapithæ.




CHAPTER XII.
REPENTANCE AND A RECONCILIATION


Waverley was unaccustomed to the use of wine, excepting with great
temperance. He slept therefore soundly till late in the succeeding
morning, and then awakened to a painful recollection of the scene of
the preceding evening. He had received a personal affront—he, a
gentleman, a soldier, and a Waverley. True, the person who offered it
was not, at the time it was given, possessed of the moderate share of
sense which nature had allotted him; true also, in resenting this
insult, he would break the laws of Heaven as well as of his country;
true, in doing so, he might take the life of a young man who perhaps
respectably discharged the social duties, and render his family
miserable, or he might lose his own—no pleasant alternative even to the
bravest, when it is debated coolly and in private.

All this pressed on his mind; yet the original statement recurred with
the same irresistible force. He had received a personal insult; he was
of the house of Waverley; and he bore a commission. There was no
alternative; and he descended to the breakfast parlour with the
intention of taking leave of the family, and writing to one of his
brother officers to meet him at the inn midway between Tully-Veolan and
the town where they were quartered, in order that he might convey such
a message to the Laird of Balmawhapple as the circumstances seemed to
demand. He found Miss Bradwardine presiding over the tea and coffee,
the table loaded with warm bread, both of flour, oatmeal, and
barleymeal, in the shape of loaves, cakes, biscuits, and other
varieties, together with eggs, reindeer ham, mutton and beef ditto,
smoked salmon, marmalade, and all the other delicacies which induced
even Johnson himself to extol the luxury of a Scotch breakfast above
that of all other countries. A mess of oatmeal porridge, flanked by a
silver jug, which held an equal mixture of cream and butter-milk, was
placed for the Baron’s share of this repast; but Rose observed, he had
walked out early in the morning, after giving orders that his guest
should not be disturbed.

Waverley sat down almost in silence, and with an air of absence and
abstraction which could not give Miss Bradwardine a favourable opinion
of his talents for conversation. He answered at random one or two
observations which she ventured to make upon ordinary topics; so that,
feeling herself almost repulsed in her efforts at entertaining him, and
secretly wondering that a scarlet coat should cover no better breeding,
she left him to his mental amusement of cursing Doctor Doubleit’s
favourite constellation of Ursa Major as the cause of all the mischief
which had already happened and was likely to ensue. At once he started,
and his colour heightened, as, looking toward the window, he beheld the
Baron and young Balmawhapple pass arm in arm, apparently in deep
conversation; and he hastily asked, “Did Mr. Falconer sleep here last
night?” Rose, not much pleased with the abruptness of the first
question which the young stranger had addressed to her, answered drily
in the negative, and the conversation again sunk into silence.

At this moment Mr. Saunderson appeared, with a message from his master,
requesting to speak with Captain Waverley in another apartment. With a
heart which beat a little quicker, not indeed from fear, but from
uncertainty and anxiety, Edward obeyed the summons. He found the two
gentlemen standing together, an air of complacent dignity on the brow
of the Baron, while something like sullenness or shame, or both,
blanked the bold visage of Balmawhapple. The former slipped his arm
through that of the latter, and thus seeming to walk with him, while in
reality he led him, advanced to meet Waverley, and, stopping in the
midst of the apartment, made in great state the following oration:

“Captain Waverley—my young and esteemed friend, Mr. Falconer of
Balmawhapple, has craved of my age and experience, as of one not wholly
unskilled in the dependencies and punctilios of the duello or
monomachia, to be his interlocutor in expressing to you the regret with
which he calls to remembrance certain passages of our symposion last
night, which could not but be highly displeasing to you, as serving for
the time under this present existing government. He craves you, sir, to
drown in oblivion the memory of such solecisms against the laws of
politeness, as being what his better reason disavows, and to receive
the hand which he offers you in amity; and I must needs assure you that
nothing less than a sense of being _dans son tort_, as a gallant French
chevalier, Mons. Le Bretailleur, once said to me on such an occasion,
and an opinion also of your peculiar merit, could have extorted such
concessions; for he and all his family are, and have been, time out of
mind, _Mavortia pectora_, as Buchanan saith, a bold and warlike sept,
or people.”

Edward immediately, and with natural politeness, accepted the hand
which Balmawhapple, or rather the Baron in his character of mediator,
extended towards him. “It was impossible,” he said, “for him to
remember what a gentleman expressed his wish he had not uttered; and he
willingly imputed what had passed to the exuberant festivity of the
day.”

“That is very handsomely said,” answered the Baron; “for undoubtedly,
if a man be _ebrius_, or intoxicated, an incident which on solemn and
festive occasions may and will take place in the life of a man of
honour; and if the same gentleman, being fresh and sober, recants the
contumelies which he hath spoken in his liquor, it must be held _vinum
locutum est;_ the words cease to be his own. Yet would I not find this
exculpation relevant in the case of one who was _ebriosus_, or an
habitual drunkard; because, if such a person choose to pass the greater
part of his time in the predicament of intoxication, he hath no title
to be exeemed from the obligations of the code of politeness, but
should learn to deport himself peaceably and courteously when under
influence of the vinous stimulus. And now let us proceed to breakfast,
and think no more of this daft business.”

I must confess, whatever inference may be drawn from the circumstance,
that Edward, after so satisfactory an explanation, did much greater
honour to the delicacies of Miss Bradwardine’s breakfast-table than his
commencement had promised. Balmawhapple, on the contrary, seemed
embarrassed and dejected; and Waverley now, for the first time,
observed that his arm was in a sling, which seemed to account for the
awkward and embarrassed manner with which he had presented his hand. To
a question from Miss Bradwardine, he muttered in answer something about
his horse having fallen; and seeming desirous to escape both from the
subject and the company, he arose as soon as breakfast was over, made
his bow to the party, and, declining the Baron’s invitation to tarry
till after dinner, mounted his horse and returned to his own home.

Waverley now announced his purpose of leaving Tully-Veolan early enough
after dinner to gain the stage at which he meant to sleep; but the
unaffected and deep mortification with which the good-natured and
affectionate old gentleman heard the proposal quite deprived him of
courage to persist in it. No sooner had he gained Waverley’s consent to
lengthen his visit for a few days than he laboured to remove the
grounds upon which he conceived he had meditated a more early retreat.
“I would not have you opine, Captain Waverley, that I am by practice or
precept an advocate of ebriety, though it may be that, in our festivity
of last night, some of our friends, if not perchance altogether
_ebrii_, or drunken, were, to say the least, _ebrioli_, by which the
ancients designed those who were fuddled, or, as your English
vernacular and metaphorical phrase goes, half-seas-over. Not that I
would so insinuate respecting you, Captain Waverley, who, like a
prudent youth, did rather abstain from potation; nor can it be truly
said of myself, who, having assisted at the tables of many great
generals and marechals at their solemn carousals, have the art to carry
my wine discreetly, and did not, during the whole evening, as ye must
have doubtless observed, exceed the bounds of a modest hilarity.”

There was no refusing assent to a proposition so decidedly laid down by
him, who undoubtedly was the best judge; although, had Edward formed
his opinion from his own recollections, he would have pronounced that
the Baron was not only _ebriolus_, but verging to become _ebrius;_ or,
in plain English, was incomparably the most drunk of the party, except
perhaps his antagonist the Laird of Balmawhapple. However, having
received the expected, or rather the required, compliment on his
sobriety, the Baron proceeded—“No, sir, though I am myself of a strong
temperament, I abhor ebriety, and detest those who swallow wine _gulæ
causa_, for the oblectation of the gullet; albeit I might deprecate the
law of Pittacus of Mitylene, who punished doubly a crime committed
under the influence of _Liber Pater;_ nor would I utterly accede to the
objurgation of the younger Plinius, in the fourteenth book of his
‘Historia Naturalis.’ No, sir, I distinguish, I discriminate, and
approve of wine so far only as it maketh glad the face, or, in the
language of Flaccus, _recepto amico_.”

Thus terminated the apology which the Baron of Bradwardine thought it
necessary to make for the superabundance of his hospitality; and it may
be easily believed that he was neither interrupted by dissent nor any
expression of incredulity.

He then invited his guest to a morning ride, and ordered that Davie
Gellatley should meet them at the _dern path_ with Ban and Buscar.
“For, until the shooting season commence, I would willingly show you
some sport, and we may, God willing, meet with a roe. The roe, Captain
Waverley, may be hunted at all times alike; for never being in what is
called _pride of grease_, he is also never out of season, though it be
a truth that his venison is not equal to that of either the red or
fallow deer.[*] But he will serve to show how my dogs run; and
therefore they shall attend us with David Gellatley.”

[* The learned in cookery dissent from the Baron of Bradwardine, and
hold the roe venison dry and indifferent food, unless when dressed in
soup and Scotch collops.]


Waverley expressed his surprise that his friend Davie was capable of
such trust; but the Baron gave him to understand that this poor
simpleton was neither fatuous, _nec naturaliter idiota_, as is
expressed in the brieves of furiosity, but simply a crack-brained
knave, who could execute very well any commission which jumped with his
own humour, and made his folly a plea for avoiding every other. “He has
made an interest with us,” continued the Baron, “by saving Rose from a
great danger with his own proper peril; and the roguish loon must
therefore eat of our bread and drink of our cup, and do what he can, or
what he will, which, if the suspicions of Saunderson and the Bailie are
well founded, may perchance in his case be commensurate terms.”

Miss Bradwardine then gave Waverley to understand that this poor
simpleton was dotingly fond of music, deeply affected by that which was
melancholy, and transported into extravagant gaiety by light and lively
airs. He had in this respect a prodigious memory, stored with
miscellaneous snatches and fragments of all tunes and songs, which he
sometimes applied, with considerable address, as the vehicles of
remonstrance, explanation, or satire. Davie was much attached to the
few who showed him kindness; and both aware of any slight or ill usage
which he happened to receive, and sufficiently apt, where he saw
opportunity, to revenge it. The common people, who often judge hardly
of each other as well as of their betters, although they had expressed
great compassion for the poor _innocent_ while suffered to wander in
rags about the village, no sooner beheld him decently clothed, provided
for, and even a sort of favourite, than they called up all the
instances of sharpness and ingenuity, in action and repartee, which his
annals afforded, and charitably bottomed thereupon a hypothesis that
David Gellatley was no farther fool than was necessary to avoid hard
labour. This opinion was not better founded than that of the Negroes,
who, from the acute and mischievous pranks of the monkeys, suppose that
they have the gift of speech, and only suppress their powers of
elocution to escape being set to work. But the hypothesis was entirely
imaginary; David Gellatley was in good earnest the half-crazed
simpleton which he appeared, and was incapable of any constant and
steady exertion. He had just so much solidity as kept on the windy side
of insanity, so much wild wit as saved him from the imputation of
idiocy, some dexterity in field-sports (in which we have known as great
fools excel), great kindness and humanity in the treatment of animals
entrusted to him, warm affections, a prodigious memory, and an ear for
music.

The stamping of horses was now heard in the court, and Davie’s voice
singing to the two large deer greyhounds,

Hie away, hie away,
Over bank and over brae,
Where the copsewood is the greenest,
Where the fountains glisten sheenest,
Where the lady-fern grows strongest,
Where the morning dew lies longest,
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it,
Where the fairy latest trips it.
Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Over bank and over brae,
Hie away, hie away.


“Do the verses he sings,” asked Waverley, “belong to old Scottish
poetry, Miss Bradwardine?”

“I believe not,” she replied. “This poor creature had a brother, and
Heaven, as if to compensate to the family Davie’s deficiencies, had
given him what the hamlet thought uncommon talents. An uncle contrived
to educate him for the Scottish kirk, but he could not get preferment
because he came from our _ground_. He returned from college hopeless
and brokenhearted, and fell into a decline. My father supported him
till his death, which happened before he was nineteen. He played
beautifully on the flute, and was supposed to have a great turn for
poetry. He was affectionate and compassionate to his brother, who
followed him like his shadow, and we think that from him Davie gathered
many fragments of songs and music unlike those of this country. But if
we ask him where he got such a fragment as he is now singing, he either
answers with wild and long fits of laughter, or else breaks into tears
of lamentation; but was never heard to give any explanation, or to
mention his brother’s name since his death.”

“Surely,” said Edward, who was readily interested by a tale bordering
on the romantic, “surely more might be learned by more particular
inquiry.”

“Perhaps so,” answered Rose; “but my father will not permit any one to
practise on his feelings on this subject.”

By this time the Baron, with the help of Mr. Saunderson, had indued a
pair of jack-boots of large dimensions, and now invited our hero to
follow him as he stalked clattering down the ample stair-case, tapping
each huge balustrade as he passed with the butt of his massive
horse-whip, and humming, with the air of a _chasseur_ of Louis
Quatorze,—

“Pour la chasse ordonnée il faut preparer tout.
Ho la ho! Vite! vite debout!”




CHAPTER XIII.
A MORE RATIONAL DAY THAN THE LAST


The Baron of Bradwardine, mounted on an active and well-managed horse,
and seated on a demi-pique saddle, with deep housings to agree with his
livery, was no bad representative of the old school. His light-coloured
embroidered coat, and superbly barred waistcoat, his brigadier wig,
surmounted by a small gold-laced cocked-hat, completed his personal
costume; but he was attended by two well-mounted servants on horseback,
armed with holster-pistols.

In this guise he ambled forth over hill and valley, the admiration of
every farm-yard which they passed in their progress, till, “low down in
a grassy vale,” they found David Gellatley leading two very tall deer
greyhounds, and presiding over half a dozen curs, and about as many
bare-legged and bare-headed boys, who, to procure the chosen
distinction of attending on the chase, had not failed to tickle his
ears with the dulcet appellation of Maister Gellatley, though probably
all and each had hooted him on former occasions in the character of
daft Davie. But this is no uncommon strain of flattery to persons in
office, nor altogether confined to the barelegged villagers of
Tully-Veolan; it was in fashion Sixty Years Since, is now, and will be
six hundred years hence, if this admirable compound of folly and
knavery, called the world, shall be then in existence.

These “gillie-wet-foots,”[*] as they were called, were destined to beat
the bushes, which they performed with so much success, that, after half
an hour’s search, a roe was started, coursed, and killed; the Baron
following on his white horse, like Earl Percy of yore, and
magnanimously flaying and embowelling the slain animal (which, he
observed, was called by the French _chasseurs, faire la curée_) with
his own baronial _couteau de chasse_. After this ceremony, he conducted
his guest homeward by a pleasant and circuitous route, commanding an
extensive prospect of different villages and houses, to each of which
Mr. Bradwardine attached some anecdote of history or genealogy, told in
language whimsical from prejudice and pedantry, but often respectable
for the good sense and honourable feelings which his narrative
displayed, and almost always curious, if not valuable, for the
information they contained.

[* A bare-footed Highland lad is called a “gillie-wet-foot.” _Gillie_,
in general, means servant, or attendant.]


The truth is, the ride seemed agreeable to both gentlemen, because they
found amusement in each other’s conversation, although their characters
and habits of thinking were in many respects totally opposite. Edward,
we have informed the reader, was warm in his feelings, wild and
romantic in his ideas and in his taste of reading, with a strong
disposition towards poetry. Mr Bradwardine was the reverse of all this,
and piqued himself upon stalking through life with the same upright,
starched, stoical gravity which distinguished his evening promenade
upon the terrace of Tully-Veolan, where for hours together—the very
model of old Hardyknute—

“Stately stepp’d he east the wa’,
And stately stepp’d he west.”


As for literature, he read the classic poets, to be sure, and the
“Epithalamium” of Georgius Buchanan and Arthur Johnston’s Psalms, of a
Sunday; and the “Deliciæ Poetarum Scotorum,” and Sir David Lindsay’s
“Works”, and Barbour’s “Brace”, and Blind Harry’s “Wallace”, and “The
Gentle Shepherd”, and “The Cherry and The Slae.”

But though he thus far sacrificed his time to the Muses, he would, if
the truth must be spoken, have been much better pleased had the pious
or sapient apothegms, as well as the historical narratives, which these
various works contained, been presented to him in the form of simple
prose. And he sometimes could not refrain from expressing contempt of
the “vain and unprofitable art of poem-making”, in which, he said, “the
only one who had excelled in his time was Allan Ramsay, the
periwigmaker.”[*]

[* The Baron ought to have remembered that the joyous Allan literally
drew his blood from the house of the noble earl whom he terms,—


“Dalhousie of an old descent
My stoup, my pride, my ornament.”]


But although Edward and he differed _toto cœlo_, as the Baron would
have said, upon this subject, yet they met upon history as on a neutral
ground, in which each claimed an interest. The Baron, indeed, only
cumbered his memory with matters of fact, the cold, dry, hard outlines
which history delineates. Edward, on the contrary, loved to fill up and
round the sketch with the colouring of a warm and vivid imagination,
which gives light and life to the actors and speakers in the drama of
past ages. Yet with tastes so opposite, they contributed greatly to
each other’s amusement. Mr. Bradwardine’s minute narratives and
powerful memory supplied to Waverley fresh subjects of the kind upon
which his fancy loved to labour, and opened to him a new mine of
incident and of character. And he repaid the pleasure thus communicated
by an earnest attention, valuable to all story-tellers, more especially
to the Baron, who felt his habits of self-respect flattered by it; and
sometimes also by reciprocal communications, which interested Mr.
Bradwardine, as confirming or illustrating his own favourite anecdotes.
Besides, Mr. Bradwardine loved to talk of the scenes of his youth,
which had been spent in camps and foreign lands, and had many
interesting particulars to tell of the generals under whom he had
served and the actions he had witnessed.

Both parties returned to Tully-Veolan in great good-humour with each
other; Waverley desirous of studying more attentively what he
considered as a singular and interesting character, gifted with a
memory containing a curious register of ancient and modern anecdotes;
and Bradwardine disposed to regard Edward as _puer_ (or rather
_juvenis_) _bonæ spei et magnæ indolis_, a youth devoid of that
petulant volatility which is impatient of, or vilipends, the
conversation and advice of his seniors, from which he predicted great
things of his future success and deportment in life. There was no other
guest except Mr. Rubrick, whose information and discourse, as a
clergyman and a scholar, harmonised very well with that of the Baron
and his guest.

Shortly after dinner, the Baron, as if to show that his temperance was
not entirely theoretical, proposed a visit to Rose’s apartment, or, as
he termed it, her “troisième étage.” Waverley was accordingly conducted
through one or two of those long awkward passages with which ancient
architects studied to puzzle the inhabitants of the houses which they
planned, at the end of which Mr. Bradwardine began to ascend, by two
steps at once, a very steep, narrow, and winding stair, leaving Mr.
Rubrick and Waverley to follow at more leisure, while he should
announce their approach to his daughter.

After having climbed this perpendicular corkscrew until their brains
were almost giddy, they arrived in a little matted lobby, which served
as an anteroom to Rose’s _sanctum sanctorum_, and through which they
entered her parlour. It was a small, but pleasant apartment, opening to
the south, and hung with tapestry; adorned besides with two pictures,
one of her mother, in the dress of a shepherdess, with a bell-hoop; the
other of the Baron, in his tenth year, in a blue coat, embroidered
waistcoat, laced hat, and bag-wig, with a bow in his hand. Edward could
not help smiling at the costume, and at the odd resemblance between the
round, smooth, red-cheeked, staring visage in the portrait, and the
gaunt, bearded, hollow-eyed, swarthy features, which travelling,
fatigues of war, and advanced age, had bestowed on the original. The
Baron joined in the laugh. “Truly,” he said, “that picture was a
woman’s fantasy of my good mother’s (a daughter of the Laird of
Tulliellum, Captain Waverley; I indicated the house to you when we were
on the top of the Shinnyheuch; it was burnt by the Dutch auxiliaries
brought in by the Government in 1715); I never sate for my
pourtraicture but once since that was painted, and it was at the
special and reiterated request of the Maréchal Duke of Berwick.”

The good old gentleman did not mention what Mr. Rubrick afterwards told
Edward, that the Duke had done him this honour on account of his being
the first to mount the breach of a fort in Savoy during the memorable
campaign of 1709, and his having there defended himself with his
half-pike for nearly ten minutes before any support reached him. To do
the Baron justice, although sufficiently prone to dwell upon, and even
to exaggerate, his family dignity and consequence, he was too much a
man of real courage ever to allude to such personal acts of merit as he
had himself manifested.

Miss Rose now appeared from the interior room of her apartment, to
welcome her father and his friends. The little labours in which she had
been employed obviously showed a natural taste, which required only
cultivation. Her father had taught her French and Italian, and a few of
the ordinary authors in those languages ornamented her shelves. He had
endeavoured also to be her preceptor in music; but as he began with the
more abstruse doctrines of the science, and was not perhaps master of
them himself, she had made no proficiency farther than to be able to
accompany her voice with the harpsichord; but even this was not very
common in Scotland at that period. To make amends, she sung with great
taste and feeling, and with a respect to the sense of what she uttered
that might be proposed in example to ladies of much superior musical
talent. Her natural good sense taught her that, if, as we are assured
by high authority, music be “married to immortal verse,” they are very
often divorced by the performer in a most shameful manner. It was
perhaps owing to this sensibility to poetry, and power of combining its
expression with those of the musical notes, that her singing gave more
pleasure to all the unlearned in music, and even to many of the
learned, than could have been communicated by a much finer voice and
more brilliant execution unguided by the same delicacy of feeling.

A bartizan, or projecting gallery, before the windows of her parlour,
served to illustrate another of Rose’s pursuits; for it was crowded
with flowers of different kinds, which she had taken under her special
protection. A projecting turret gave access to this Gothic balcony,
which commanded a most beautiful prospect. The formal garden, with its
high bounding walls, lay below, contracted, as it seemed, to a mere
parterre; while the view extended beyond them down a wooded glen, where
the small river was sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in copse. The
eye might be delayed by a desire to rest on the rocks, which here and
there rose from the dell with massive or spiry fronts, or it might
dwell on the noble, though ruined tower, which was here beheld in all
its dignity, frowning from a promontory over the river. To the left
were seen two or three cottages, a part of the village, the brow of the
hill concealed the others. The glen, or dell, was terminated by a sheet
of water, called Loch Veolan, into which the brook discharged itself,
and which now glistened in the western sun. The distant country seemed
open and varied in surface, though not wooded; and there was nothing to
interrupt the view until the scene was bounded by a ridge of distant
and blue hills, which formed the southern boundary of the strath or
valley. To this pleasant station Miss Bradwardine had ordered coffee.

The view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family
anecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which the Baron told with
great enthusiasm. The projecting peak of an impending crag which rose
near it had acquired the name of Saint Swithin’s Chair. It was the
scene of a peculiar superstition, of which Mr. Rubrick mentioned some
curious particulars, which reminded Waverley of a rhyme quoted by Edgar
in King Lear; and Rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in
which they had been interwoven by some village poet,

Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung,
Saved others’ names, but left his own unsung.


The sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave
all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which his
poetry so much wanted. I almost doubt if it can be read with patience,
destitute of these advantages, although I conjecture the following copy
to have been somewhat corrected by Waverley, to suit the taste of those
who might not relish pure antiquity.

ST. SWITHIN’S CHAIR


On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere ye boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless’d;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
Sailing through moonshine or swath’d in the cloud.

The Lady she sat in Saint Swithin’s Chair,
The dew of the night has damp’d her hair:
Her cheek was pale; but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.

She mutter’d the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopp’d the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.

He that dare sit on Saint Swithin’s Chair,
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,
Questions three, when he speaks the spell,
He may ask, and she must tell.

The Baron has been with King Robert his liege
These three long years in battle and siege;
News are there none of his weal or his woe,
And fain the Lady his fate would know.

She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;—
Is it the moody owl that shrieks?
Or is it that sound, betwixt laughter and scream,
The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?

The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,
And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow;
The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,
When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly Form!


“I am sorry to disappoint the company, especially Captain Waverley, who
listens with such laudable gravity; it is but a fragment, although I
think there are other verses, describing the return of the Baron from
the wars, and how the lady was found ‘clay-cold upon the grounsill
ledge.’”

“It is one of those figments,” observed Mr. Bradwardine, “with which
the early history of distinguished families was deformed in the times
of superstition; as that of Rome, and other ancient nations, had their
prodigies, sir, the which you may read in ancient histories, or in the
little work compiled by Julius Obsequens, and inscribed by the learned
Scheffer, the editor, to his patron, Benedictus Skytte, Baron of
Dudershoff.”

“My father has a strange defiance of the marvellous, Captain Waverley,”
observed Rose, “and once stood firm when a whole synod of Presbyterian
divines were put to the rout by a sudden apparition of the foul fiend.”

Waverley looked as if desirous to hear more.

“Must I tell my story as well as sing my song? Well—Once upon a time
there lived an old woman, called Janet Gellatley, who was suspected to
be a witch, on the infallible grounds that she was very old, very ugly,
very poor, and had two sons, one of whom was a poet and the other a
fool, which visitation, all the neighbourhood agreed, had come upon her
for the sin of witchcraft. And she was imprisoned for a week in the
steeple of the parish church, and sparely supplied with food, and not
permitted to sleep until she herself became as much persuaded of her
being a witch as her accusers; and in this lucid and happy state of
mind was brought forth to make a clean breast, that is, to make open
confession of her sorceries, before all the Whig gentry and ministers
in the vicinity, who were no conjurors themselves. My father went to
see fair play between the witch and the clergy; for the witch had been
born on his estate. And while the witch was confessing that the Enemy
appeared, and made his addresses to her as a handsome black man,—which,
if you could have seen poor old blear-eyed Janet, reflected little
honour on Apollyon’s taste,—and while the auditors listened with
astonished ears, and the clerk recorded with a trembling hand, she, all
of a sudden, changed the low mumbling tone with which she spoke into a
shrill yell, and exclaimed, “Look to yourselves! look to yourselves! I
see the Evil One sitting in the midst of ye.” The surprise was general,
and terror and flight its immediate consequences. Happy were those who
were next the door; and many were the disasters that befell hats,
bands, cuffs, and wigs, before they could get out of the church, where
they left the obstinate prelatist to settle matters with the witch and
her admirer at his own peril or pleasure.”

“_Risu solvuntur tabulæ_,” said the Baron; “when they recovered their
panic trepidation they were too much ashamed to bring any wakening of
the process against Janet Gellatley.”[11]

This anecdote led to a long discussion of

All those idle thoughts and fantasies,
Devices, dreams, opinions unsound,
Shows, visions, soothsays, and prophecies,
And all that feigned is, as leasings, tales, and lies.


With such conversation, and the romantic legends which it introduced,
closed our hero’s second evening in the house of Tully-Veolan.




CHAPTER XIV.
A DISCOVERY—WAVERLEY BECOMES DOMESTICATED AT TULLY-VEOLAN


The next day Edward arose betimes, and in a morning walk around the
house and its vicinity came suddenly upon a small court in front of the
dog-kennel, where his friend Davie was employed about his four-footed
charge. One quick glance of his eye recognised Waverley, when,
instantly turning his back, as if he had not observed him, he began to
sing part of an old ballad:—

“Young men will love thee more fair and more fast
    (_Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?_);
Old men’s love the longest will last
    (_And the throstle-cock’s head is under his wing_).

“The young man’s wrath is like light straw on fire
    (_Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?_);
But like red-hot steel is the old man’s ire,
    (_And the throstle-cock’s head is under his wing_).

“The young man will brawl at the evening board
    (_Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?_);
But the old man will draw at the dawning the sword,
    (_And the throstle-cock’s head is under his wing_).”


Waverley could not avoid observing that Davie laid something like a
satirical emphasis on these lines. He therefore approached, and
endeavoured, by sundry queries, to elicit from him what the innuendo
might mean; but Davie had no mind to explain, and had wit enough to
make his folly cloak his knavery. Edward could collect nothing from
him, excepting that the Laird of Balmawhapple had gone home yesterday
morning “wi’ his boots fu’ o’ bluid.” In the garden, however, he met
the old butler, who no longer attempted to conceal that, having been
bred in the nursery line with Sumack and Co. of Newcastle, he sometimes
wrought a turn in the flower-borders to oblige the Laird and Miss Rose.
By a series of queries, Edward at length discovered, with a painful
feeling of surprise and shame, that Balmawhapple’s submission and
apology had been the consequence of a _rencontre_ with the Baron before
his guest had quitted his pillow, in which the younger combatant had
been disarmed and wounded in the sword arm.

Greatly mortified at this information, Edward sought out his friendly
host, and anxiously expostulated with him upon the injustice he had
done him in anticipating his meeting with Mr. Falconer, a circumstance
which, considering his youth and the profession of arms which he had
just adopted, was capable of being represented much to his prejudice.
The Baron justified himself at greater length than I choose to repeat.
He urged that the quarrel was common to them, and that Balmawhapple
could not, by the code of honour, _evite_ giving satisfaction to both,
which he had done in his case by an honourable meeting, and in that of
Edward by such a _palinode_ as rendered the use of the sword
unnecessary, and which, being made and accepted, must necessarily
_sopite_ the whole affair.

With this excuse, or explanation, Waverley was silenced, if not
satisfied; but he could not help testifying some displeasure against
the Blessed Bear, which had given rise to the quarrel, nor refrain from
hinting that the sanctified epithet was hardly appropriate. The Baron
observed, he could not deny that “the Bear, though allowed by heralds
as a most honourable ordinary, had, nevertheless, somewhat fierce,
churlish, and morose in his disposition (as might be read in Archibald
Simson, pastor of Dalkeith’s “Hieroglyphica Animalium”) and had thus
been the type of many quarrels and dissensions which had occurred in
the house of Bradwardine; of which,” he continued, “I might commemorate
mine own unfortunate dissension with my third cousin by the mother’s
side, Sir Hew Halbert, who was so unthinking as to deride my family
name, as if it had been _quasi Bear-Warden,_ a most uncivil jest, since
it not only insinuated that the founder of our house occupied such a
mean situation as to be a custodier of wild beasts, a charge which, ye
must have observed, is only entrusted to the very basest plebeians;
but, moreover, seemed to infer that our coat-armour had not been
achieved by honourable actions in war, but bestowed by way of
_paranomasia_, or pun, upon our family appellation,—a sort of bearing
which the French call _armoires parlantes_, the Latins _arma
cantantia_, and your English authorities canting heraldry, being indeed
a species of emblazoning more befitting canters, gaberlunzies, and such
like mendicants, whose gibberish is formed upon playing upon the word,
than the noble, honourable, and useful science of heraldry, which
assigns armorial bearings as the reward of noble and generous actions,
and not to tickle the ear with vain quodlibets, such as are found in
jestbooks.”[12] Of his quarrel with Sir Hew he said nothing more than
that it was settled in a fitting manner.

Having been so minute with respect to the diversions of Tully-Veolan on
the first days of Edward’s arrival, for the purpose of introducing its
inmates to the reader’s acquaintance, it becomes less necessary to
trace the progress of his intercourse with the same accuracy. It is
probable that a young man, accustomed to more cheerful society, would
have tired of the conversation of so violent an assertor of the “boast
of heraldry” as the Baron; but Edward found an agreeable variety in
that of Miss Bradwardine, who listened with eagerness to his remarks
upon literature, and showed great justness of taste in her answers. The
sweetness of her disposition had made her submit with complacency, and
even pleasure, to the course of reading prescribed by her father,
although it not only comprehended several heavy folios of history, but
certain gigantic tomes in high-church polemics. In heraldry he was
fortunately contented to give her only such a slight tincture as might
be acquired by perusal of the two folio volumes of Nisbet. Rose was
indeed the very apple of her father’s eye. Her constant liveliness, her
attention to all those little observances most gratifying to those who
would never think of exacting them, her beauty, in which he recalled
the features of his beloved wife, her unfeigned piety, and the noble
generosity of her disposition, would have justified the affection of
the most doting father.


[Illustration]

His anxiety on her behalf did not, however, seem to extend itself in
that quarter where, according to the general opinion, it is most
efficiently displayed, in labouring, namely, to establish her in life,
either by a large dowry or a wealthy marriage. By an old settlement,
almost all the landed estates of the Baron went, after his death, to a
distant relation; and it was supposed that Miss Bradwardine would
remain but slenderly provided for, as the good gentleman’s cash matters
had been too long under the exclusive charge of Bailie Macwheeble to
admit of any great expectations from his personal succession. It is
true, the said Bailie loved his patron and his patron’s daughter next
(though at an incomparable distance) to himself. He thought it was
possible to set aside the settlement on the male line, and had actually
procured an opinion to that effect (and, as he boasted, without a fee)
from an eminent Scottish counsel, under whose notice he contrived to
bring the point while consulting him regularly on some other business.
But the Baron would not listen to such a proposal for an instant. On
the contrary, he used to have a perverse pleasure in boasting that the
barony of Bradwardine was a male fief, the first charter having been
given at that early period when women were not deemed capable to hold a
feudal grant; because, according to _Les coustusmes de Normandie, c’est
l’homme ki se bast et ki conseille_, or, as is yet more ungallantly
expressed by other authorities, all of whose barbarous names he
delighted to quote at full length, because a woman could not serve the
superior, or feudal lord, in war, on account of the decorum of her sex,
nor assist him with advice, because of her limited intellect, nor keep
his counsel, owing to the infirmity of her disposition. He would
triumphantly ask, how it would become a female, and that female a
Bradwardine, to be seen employed _in servitio exuendi, seu detrahendi,
caligas regis post battaliam?_ that is, in pulling off the king’s boots
after an engagement, which was the feudal service by which he held the
barony of Bradwardine. “No,” he said, “beyond hesitation, _procul
dubio_, many females, as worthy as Rose, had been excluded, in order to
make way for my own succession, and Heaven forbid that I should do
aught that might contravene the destination of my forefathers, or
impinge upon the right of my kinsman, Malcolm Bradwardine of
Inchgrabbit, an honourable, though decayed branch of my own family.”

The Bailie, as prime minister, having received this decisive
communication from his sovereign, durst not press his own opinion any
farther, but contented himself with deploring, on all suitable
occasions, to Saunderson, the minister of the interior, the laird’s
self-willedness, and with laying plans for uniting Rose with the young
Laird of Balmawhapple, who had a fine estate, only moderately burdened,
and was a faultless young gentleman, being as sober as a saint—if you
keep brandy from him and him from brandy—and who, in brief, had no
imperfection but that of keeping light company at a time; such as
Jinker, the horse-couper, and Gibby Gaethroughwi’t, the piper o’ Cupar;
“o’ whilk follies, Mr. Saunderson, he’ll mend, he’ll mend,” pronounced
the Bailie.

“Like sour ale in simmer,” added Davie Gellatley, who happened to be
nearer the conclave than they were aware of.

Miss Bradwardine, such as we have described her, with all the
simplicity and curiosity of a recluse, attached herself to the
opportunities of increasing her store of literature which Edward’s
visit afforded her. He sent for some of his books from his quarters,
and they opened to her sources of delight of which she had hitherto had
no idea. The best English poets, of every description, and other works
on belles-lettres, made a part of this precious cargo. Her music, even
her flowers, were neglected, and Saunders not only mourned over, but
began to mutiny against, the labour for which he now scarce received
thanks. These new pleasures became gradually enhanced by sharing them
with one of a kindred taste. Edward’s readiness to comment, to recite,
to explain difficult passages, rendered his assistance invaluable; and
the wild romance of his spirit delighted a character too young and
inexperienced to observe its deficiencies. Upon subjects which
interested him, and when quite at ease, he possessed that flow of
natural, and somewhat florid eloquence, which has been supposed as
powerful even as figure, fashion, fame, or fortune, in winning the
female heart. There was, therefore, an increasing danger in this
constant intercourse to poor Rose’s peace of mind, which was the more
imminent as her father was greatly too much abstracted in his studies,
and wrapped up in his own dignity, to dream of his daughter’s incurring
it. The daughters of the house of Bradwardine were, in his opinion,
like those of the house of Bourbon or Austria, placed high above the
clouds of passion which might obfuscate the intellects of meaner
females; they moved in another sphere, were governed by other feelings,
and amenable to other rules than those of idle and fantastic affection.
In short, he shut his eyes so resolutely to the natural consequences of
Edward’s intimacy with Miss Bradwardine, that the whole neighbourhood
concluded that he had opened them to the advantages of a match between
his daughter and the wealthy young Englishman, and pronounced him much
less a fool than he had generally shown himself in cases where his own
interest was concerned.

If the Baron, however, had really meditated such an alliance, the
indifference of Waverley would have been an insuperable bar to his
project. Our hero, since mixing more freely with the world, had learned
to think with great shame and confusion upon his mental legend of Saint
Cecilia, and the vexation of these reflections was likely, for some
time at least, to counterbalance the natural susceptibility of his
disposition. Besides, Rose Bradwardine, beautiful and amiable as we
have described her, had not precisely the sort of beauty or merit which
captivates a romantic imagination in early youth. She was too frank,
too confiding, too kind; amiable qualities, undoubtedly, but
destructive of the marvellous, with which a youth of imagination
delights to dress the empress of his affections. Was it possible to
bow, to tremble, and to adore, before the timid, yet playful little
girl, who now asked Edward to mend her pen, now to construe a stanza in
Tasso, and now how to spell a very—very long word in her version of it?
All these incidents have their fascination on the mind at a certain
period of life, but not when a youth is entering it, and rather looking
out for some object whose affection may dignify him in his own eyes
than stooping to one who looks up to him for such distinction. Hence,
though there can be no rule in so capricious a passion, early love is
frequently ambitious in choosing its object; or, which comes to the
same, selects her (as in the case of Saint Cecilia aforesaid) from a
situation that gives fair scope for _le beau idéal_, which the reality
of intimate and familiar life rather tends to limit and impair. I knew
a very accomplished and sensible young man cured of a violent passion
for a pretty woman, whose talents were not equal to her face and
figure, by being permitted to bear her company for a whole afternoon.
Thus, it is certain, that had Edward enjoyed such an opportunity of
conversing with Miss Stubbs, Aunt Rachel’s precaution would have been
unnecessary, for he would as soon have fallen in love with the
dairy-maid. And although Miss Bradwardine was a very different
character, it seems probable that the very intimacy of their
intercourse prevented his feeling for her other sentiments than those
of a brother for an amiable and accomplished sister; while the
sentiments of poor Rose were gradually, and without her being
conscious, assuming a shade of warmer affection.

I ought to have said that Edward, when he sent to Dundee for the books
before mentioned, had applied for, and received permission, extending
his leave of absence. But the letter of his commanding officer
contained a friendly recommendation to him not to spend his time
exclusively with persons who, estimable as they might be in a general
sense, could not be supposed well affected to a government which they
declined to acknowledge by taking the oath of allegiance. The letter
further insinuated, though with great delicacy, that although some
family connections might be supposed to render it necessary for Captain
Waverley to communicate with gentlemen who were in this unpleasant
state of suspicion, yet his father’s situation and wishes ought to
prevent his prolonging those attentions into exclusive intimacy. And it
was intimated, that, while his political principles were endangered by
communicating with laymen of this description, he might also receive
erroneous impressions in religion from the prelatic clergy, who so
perversely laboured to set up the royal prerogative in things sacred.

This last insinuation probably induced Waverley to set both down to the
prejudices of his commanding officer. He was sensible that Mr.
Bradwardine had acted with the most scrupulous delicacy, in never
entering upon any discussion that had the most remote tendency to bias
his mind in political opinions, although he was himself not only a
decided partisan of the exiled family, but had been trusted at
different times with important commissions for their service. Sensible,
therefore, that there was no risk of his being perverted from his
allegiance, Edward felt as if he should do his uncle’s old friend
injustice in removing from a house where he gave and received pleasure
and amusement, merely to gratify a prejudiced and ill-judged suspicion.
He therefore wrote a very general answer, assuring his commanding
officer that his loyalty was not in the most distant danger of
contamination, and continued an honoured guest and inmate of the house
of Tully-Veolan.




CHAPTER XV.
A CREAGH, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES


When Edward had been a guest at Tully-Veolan nearly six weeks, he
descried, one morning, as he took his usual walk before the breakfast
hour, signs of uncommon perturbation in the family. Four bare-legged
dairy-maids, with each an empty milk-pail in her hand, ran about with
frantic gestures, and uttering loud exclamations of surprise, grief,
and resentment. From their appearance, a pagan might have conceived
them a detachment of the celebrated Belides, just come from their
baling penance. As nothing was to be got from this distracted chorus,
excepting “Lord guide us!” and “Eh sirs!” ejaculations which threw no
light upon the cause of their dismay, Waverley repaired to the
fore-court, as it was called, where he beheld Bailie Macwheeble
cantering his white pony down the avenue with all the speed it could
muster. He had arrived, it would seem, upon a hasty summons, and was
followed by half a score of peasants from the village who had no great
difficulty in keeping pace with him.

The Bailie, greatly too busy and too important to enter into
explanations with Edward, summoned forth Mr. Saunderson, who appeared
with a countenance in which dismay was mingled with solemnity, and they
immediately entered into close conference. Davie Gellatley was also
seen in the group, idle as Diogenes at Sinope while his countrymen were
preparing for a siege. His spirits always rose with anything, good or
bad, which occasioned tumult, and he continued frisking, hopping,
dancing, and singing the burden of an old ballad,—

“Our gear’s a’ gane,”


until, happening to pass too near the Bailie, he received an admonitory
hint from his horse-whip, which converted his songs into lamentation.

Passing from thence towards the garden, Waverley beheld the Baron in
person, measuring and re-measuring, with swift and tremendous strides,
the length of the terrace; his countenance clouded with offended pride
and indignation, and the whole of his demeanour such as seemed to
indicate, that any inquiry concerning the cause of his discomposure
would give pain at least, if not offence. Waverley therefore glided
into the house, without addressing him, and took his way to the
breakfast-parlour, where he found his young friend Rose, who, though
she neither exhibited the resentment of her father, the turbid
importance of Bailie Macwheeble, nor the despair of the handmaidens,
seemed vexed and thoughtful. A single word explained the mystery. “Your
breakfast will be a disturbed one, Captain Waverley. A party of
Caterans have come down upon us last night, and have driven off all our
milch cows.”

“A party of Caterans?”

“Yes; robbers from the neighbouring Highlands. We used to be quite free
from them while we paid blackmail to Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr; but
my father thought it unworthy of his rank and birth to pay it any
longer, and so this disaster has happened. It is not the value of the
cattle, Captain Waverley, that vexes me; but my father is so much hurt
at the affront, and is so bold and hot, that I fear he will try to
recover them by the strong hand; and if he is not hurt himself, he will
hurt some of these wild people, and then there will be no peace between
them and us perhaps for our life-time; and we cannot defend ourselves
as in old times, for the government have taken all our arms; and my
dear father is so rash—O what will become of us!”—Here poor Rose lost
heart altogether, and burst into a flood of tears.

The Baron entered at this moment, and rebuked her with more asperity
than Waverley had ever heard him use to any one. “Was it not a shame,”
he said, “that she should exhibit herself before any gentleman in such
a light, as if she shed tears for a drove of horned nolt and milch
kine, like the daughter of a Cheshire yeoman!—Captain Waverley, I must
request your favourable construction of her grief, which may, or ought
to proceed, solely from seeing her father’s estate exposed to spulzie
and depredation from common thieves and sornars, while we are not
allowed to keep half a score of muskets, whether for defence or
rescue.”

Bailie Macwheeble entered immediately afterwards, and by his report of
arms and ammunition confirmed this statement, informing the Baron, in a
melancholy voice, that though the people would certainly obey his
honour’s orders, yet there was no chance of their following the gear to
ony guid purpose, in respect there were only his honour’s body servants
who had swords and pistols, and the depredators were twelve
Highlanders, completely armed after the manner of their country. Having
delivered this doleful annunciation, he assumed a posture of silent
dejection, shaking his head slowly with the motion of a pendulum when
it is ceasing to vibrate, and then remained stationary, his body
stooping at a more acute angle than usual, and the latter part of his
person projecting in proportion.

The Baron, meanwhile, paced the room in silent indignation, and at
length fixing his eye upon an old portrait, whose person was clad in
armour, and whose features glared grimly out of a huge bush of hair,
part of which descended from his head to his shoulders, and part from
his chin and upper-lip to his breast-plate,—“That gentleman, Captain
Waverley, my grandsire,” he said, “with two hundred horse,—whom he
levied within his own bounds, discomfited and put to the rout more than
five hundred of these Highland reivers, who have been ever _lapis
offensionis et petra scandali_, a stumbling-block and a rock of
offence, to the Lowland vicinage—he discomfited them, I say, when they
had the temerity to descend to harry this country, in the time of the
civil dissensions, in the year of grace sixteen hundred forty and two.
And now, sir, I, his grandson, am thus used at such unworthy hands.”

Here there was an awful pause; after which all the company, as is usual
in cases of difficulty, began to give separate and inconsistent
counsel. Alexander ab Alexandro proposed they should send some one to
compound with the Caterans, who would readily, he said, give up their
prey for a dollar a head. The Bailie opined that this transaction would
amount to theft-boot, or composition of felony; and he recommended that
some _canny hand_ should be sent up to the glens to make the best
bargain he could, as it were for himself, so that the Laird might not
be seen in such a transaction. Edward proposed to send off to the
nearest garrison for a party of soldiers and a magistrate’s warrant;
and Rose, as far as she dared, endeavoured to insinuate the course of
paying the arrears of tribute money to Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr,
who, they all knew, could easily procure restoration of the cattle, if
he were properly propitiated.

None of these proposals met the Baron’s approbation. The idea of
composition, direct or implied, was absolutely ignominious; that of
Waverley only showed that he did not understand the state of the
country, and of the political parties which divided it; and, standing
matters as they did with Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr, the Baron would
make no concession to him, were it, he said, “to procure restitution
_in integrum_ of every stirk and stot that the chief, his forefathers,
and his clan, had stolen since the days of Malcolm Canmore.”

In fact his voice was still for war, and he proposed to send expresses
to Balmawhapple, Killancureit, Tulliellum, and other lairds, who were
exposed to similar depredations, inviting them to join in the pursuit;
“and then, sir, shall these _nebulones nequissimi_, as Leslæus calls
them, be brought to the fate of their predecessor Cacus,

“Elisos oculos, et siccum sanguine guttur.”


The bailie, who by no means relished these warlike counsels, here
pulled forth an immense watch, of the colour, and nearly of the size,
of a pewter warming-pan, and observed it was now past noon, and that
the Caterans had been seen in the pass of Ballybrough soon after
sunrise; so that, before the allied forces could assemble, they and
their prey would be far beyond the reach of the most active pursuit,
and sheltered in those pathless deserts, where it was neither advisable
to follow, nor indeed possible to trace them.

This proposition was undeniable. The council therefore broke up without
coming to any conclusion, as has occurred to councils of more
importance; only it was determined that the Bailie should send his own
three milkcows down to the mains for the use of the Baron’s family, and
brew small ale, as a substitute for milk, in his own. To this
arrangement, which was suggested by Saunderson, the Bailie readily
assented, both from habitual deference to the family, and an internal
consciousness that his courtesy would, in some mode or other, be repaid
tenfold.

The Baron having also retired to give some necessary directions,
Waverley seized the opportunity to ask, whether this Fergus, with the
unpronounceable name, was the chief thief-taker of the district?

“Thief-taker!” answered Rose, laughing; “he is a gentleman of great
honour and consequence, the chieftain of an independent branch of a
powerful Highland clan, and is much respected, both for his own power
and that of his kith, kin, and allies.”

“And what has he to do with the thieves, then? Is he a magistrate, or
in the commission of the peace?” asked Waverley.

“The commission of war rather, if there be such a thing,” said Rose;
“for he is a very unquiet neighbour to his unfriends, and keeps a
greater _following_ on foot than many that have thrice his estate. As
to his connection with the thieves, that I cannot well explain; but the
boldest of them will never steal a hoof from any one that pays
black-mail to Vich Ian Vohr.”

“And what is black-mail?”

“A sort of protection-money that Low-Country gentlemen and heritors,
lying near the Highlands, pay to some Highland chief, that he may
neither do them harm himself, nor suffer it to be done to them by
others; and then if your cattle are stolen, you have only to send him
word, and he will recover them; or it may be, he will drive away cows
from some distant place, where he has a quarrel, and give them to you
to make up your loss.”

“And is this sort of Highland Jonathan Wild admitted into society, and
called a gentleman?”

“So much so,” said Rose, “that the quarrel between my father and Fergus
Mac-Ivor began at a county meeting, where he wanted to take precedence
of all the Lowland gentlemen then present, only my father would not
suffer it. And then he upbraided my father that he was under his
banner, and paid him tribute; and my father was in a towering passion,
for Bailie Macwheeble, who manages such things his own way, had
contrived to keep this black-mail a secret from him, and passed it in
his account for cess-money. And they would have fought; but Fergus
Mac-Ivor said, very gallantly, he would never raise his hand against a
grey head that was so much respected as my father’s.—O I wish, I wish
they had continued friends!”

“And did you ever see this Mr. Mac-Ivor, if that be his name, Miss
Bradwardine?”

“No, that is not his name; and he would consider _master_ as a sort of
affront, only that you are an Englishman, and know no better. But the
Lowlanders call him, like other gentlemen, by the name of his estate,
Glennaquoich; and the Highlanders call him Vich Ian Vohr, that is, the
son of John the Great; and we upon the braes here call him by both
names indifferently.”

“I am afraid I shall never bring my English tongue to call him by
either one or other.”

“But he is a very polite, handsome man,” continued Rose; “and his
sister Flora is one of the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies
in this country; she was bred in a convent in France, and was a great
friend of mine before this unhappy dispute. Dear Captain Waverley, try
your influence with my father to make matters up. I am sure this is but
the beginning of our troubles; for Tully-Veolan has never been a safe
or quiet residence when we have been at feud with the Highlanders. When
I was a girl about ten, there was a skirmish fought between a party of
twenty of them and my father and his servants behind the mains; and the
bullets broke several panes in the north windows, they were so near.
Three of the Highlanders were killed, and they brought them in wrapped
in their plaids, and laid them on the stone floor of the hall; and next
morning, their wives and daughters came, clapping their hands, and
crying the coronach, and shrieking, and carried away the dead bodies,
with the pipes playing before them. I could not sleep for six weeks
without starting and thinking I heard these terrible cries, and saw the
bodies lying on the steps, all stiff and swathed up in their bloody
tartans. But since that time there came a party from the garrison at
Stirling, with a warrant from the Lord Justice Clerk, or some such
great man, and took away all our arms; and now, how are we to protect
ourselves if they come down in any strength?”

Waverley could not help starting at a story which bore so much
resemblance to one of his own day-dreams. Here was a girl scarce
seventeen, the gentlest of her sex, both in temper and appearance, who
had witnessed with her own eyes such a scene as he had used to conjure
up in his imagination, as only occurring in ancient times, and spoke of
it coolly, as one very likely to recur. He felt at once the impulse of
curiosity, and that slight sense of danger which only serves to
heighten its interest. He might have said with Malvolio, ““I do not now
fool myself, to let imagination jade me!” I am actually in the land of
military and romantic adventures, and it only remains to be seen what
will be my own share in them.”

The whole circumstances now detailed concerning the state of the
country seemed equally novel and extraordinary. He had indeed often
heard of Highland thieves, but had no idea of the systematic mode in
which their depredations were conducted; and that the practice was
connived at, and even encouraged, by many of the Highland chieftains,
who not only found the creaghs, or forays, useful for the purpose of
training individuals of their clan to the practice of arms, but also of
maintaining a wholesome terror among their Lowland neighbours, and
levying, as we have seen, a tribute from them, under colour of
protection-money.

Bailie Macwheeble, who soon afterwards entered, expatiated still more
at length upon the same topic. This honest gentleman’s conversation was
so formed upon his professional practice, that Davie Gellatley once
said his discourse was like a “charge of horning.” He assured our hero,
that “from the maist ancient times of record, the lawless thieves,
limmers, and broken men of the Highlands, had been in fellowship
together by reason of their surnames, for the committing of divers
thefts, reifs, and herships upon the honest men of the Low Country,
when they not only intromitted with their whole goods and gear, corn,
cattle, horse, nolt, sheep, outsight and insight plenishing, at their
wicked pleasure, but moreover made prisoners, ransomed them, or
concussed them into giving borrows (pledges) to enter into captivity
again;—all which was directly prohibited in divers parts of the Statute
Book, both by the act one thousand five hundred and sixty-seven, and
various others; the whilk statutes, with all that had followed and
might follow thereupon, were shamefully broken and vilipended by the
said sorners, limmers, and broken men, associated into fellowships, for
the aforesaid purposes of theft, stouthreef, fire-raising, murther,
_raptus mulierum_, or forcible abduction of women, and such like as
aforesaid.”

It seemed like a dream to Waverley that these deeds of violence should
be familiar to men’s minds, and currently talked of as falling within
the common order of things, and happening daily in the immediate
vicinity, without his having crossed the seas, and while he was yet in
the otherwise well-ordered island of Great Britain.[13]




CHAPTER XVI.
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY APPEARS


The Baron returned at the dinner-hour, and had in a great measure
recovered his composure and good-humour. He not only confirmed the
stories which Edward had heard from Rose and Bailie Macwheeble, but
added many anecdotes from his own experience, concerning the state of
the Highlands and their inhabitants. The chiefs he pronounced to be, in
general, gentlemen of great honour and high pedigree, whose word was
accounted as a law by all those of their own sept, or clan. “It did not
indeed,” he said, “become them, as had occurred in late instances, to
propone their _prosapia_, a lineage which rested for the most part on
the vain and fond rhymes of their seannachies or bhairds, as
æquiponderate with the evidence of ancient charters and royal grants of
antiquity, conferred upon distinguished houses in the Low Country by
divers Scottish monarchs; nevertheless, such was their _outrecuidance_
and presumption, as to undervalue those who possessed such evidents, as
if they held their lands in a sheep’s skin.”

This, by the way, pretty well explained the cause of quarrel between
the Baron and his Highland ally. But he went on to state so many
curious particulars concerning the manners, customs, and habits of this
patriarchal race that Edward’s curiosity became highly interested, and
he inquired whether it was possible to make with safety an excursion
into the neighbouring Highlands, whose dusky barrier of mountains had
already excited his wish to penetrate beyond them. The Baron assured
his guest that nothing would be more easy, providing this quarrel were
first made up, since he could himself give him letters to many of the
distinguished chiefs, who would receive him with the utmost courtesy
and hospitality.

While they were on this topic, the door suddenly opened, and, ushered
by Saunders Saunderson, a Highlander, fully armed and equipped, entered
the apartment. Had it not been that Saunders acted the part of master
of the ceremonies to this martial apparition, without appearing to
deviate from his usual composure, and that neither Mr. Bradwardine nor
Rose exhibited any emotion, Edward would certainly have thought the
intrusion hostile. As it was, he started at the sight of what he had
not yet happened to see, a mountaineer in his full national costume.
The individual Gael was a stout, dark, young man, of low stature, the
ample folds of whose plaid added to the appearance of strength which
his person exhibited. The short kilt, or petticoat, showed his sinewy
and clean-made limbs; the goatskin purse, flanked by the usual
defences, a dirk and steel-wrought pistol, hung before him; his bonnet
had a short feather, which indicated his claim to be treated as a
_duinhé-wassel_, or sort of gentleman; a broadsword dangled by his
side, a target hung upon his shoulder, and a long Spanish fowling-piece
occupied one of his hands. With the other hand he pulled off his
bonnet, and the Baron, who well knew their customs, and the proper mode
of addressing them, immediately said, with an air of dignity, but
without rising, and much, as Edward thought, in the manner of a prince
receiving an embassy, “Welcome, Evan Dhu Maccombich; what news from
Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr?”

“Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr,” said the ambassador, in good English,
“greets you well, Baron of Bradwardine and Tully-Veolan, and is sorry
there has been a thick cloud interposed between you and him, which has
kept you from seeing and considering the friendship and alliances that
have been between your houses and forebears of old; and he prays you
that the cloud may pass away, and that things may be as they have been
heretofore between the clan Ivor and the house of Bradwardine, when
there was an egg between them for a flint and a knife for a sword. And
he expects you will also say, you are sorry for the cloud, and no man
shall hereafter ask whether it descended from the hill to the valley,
or rose from the valley to the hill; for they never struck with the
scabbard who did not receive with the sword, and woe to him who would
lose his friend for the stormy cloud of a spring morning.”

To this the Baron of Bradwardine answered with suitable dignity, that
he knew the chief of Clan Ivor to be a well-wisher to the _king_, and
he was sorry there should have been a cloud between him and any
gentleman of such sound principles, “for when folks are banding
together, feeble is he who hath no brother.”

This appearing perfectly satisfactory, that the peace between these
august persons might be duly solemnised, the Baron ordered a stoup of
usquebaugh, and, filling a glass, drank to the health and prosperity of
Mac-Ivor of Glennaquoich; upon which the Celtic ambassador, to requite
his politeness, turned down a mighty bumper of the same generous
liquor, seasoned with his good wishes to the house of Bradwardine.

Having thus ratified the preliminaries of the general treaty of
pacification, the envoy retired to adjust with Mr. Macwheeble some
subordinate articles with which it was not thought necessary to trouble
the Baron. These probably referred to the discontinuance of the
subsidy, and apparently the Bailie found means to satisfy their ally,
without suffering his master to suppose that his dignity was
compromised. At least, it is certain, that after the plenipotentiaries
had drunk a bottle of brandy in single drams, which seemed to have no
more effect upon such seasoned vessels than if it had been poured upon
the two bears at the top of the avenue, Evan Dhu Maccombich, having
possessed himself of all the information which he could procure
respecting the robbery of the preceding night, declared his intention
to set off immediately in pursuit of the cattle, which he pronounced to
be “no that far off; they have broken the bone,” he observed, “but they
have had no time to suck the marrow.”

Our hero, who had attended Evan Dhu during his perquisitions, was much
struck with the ingenuity which he displayed in collecting information,
and the precise and pointed conclusions which he drew from it. Evan
Dhu, on his part, was obviously flattered with the attention of
Waverley, the interest he seemed to take in his inquiries, and his
curiosity about the customs and scenery of the Highlands. Without much
ceremony he invited Edward to accompany him on a short walk of ten or
fifteen miles into the mountains, and see the place where the cattle
were conveyed to; adding, “If it be as I suppose, you never saw such a
place in your life, nor ever will, unless you go with me or the like of
me.”

Our hero, feeling his curiosity considerably excited by the idea of
visiting the den of a Highland Cacus, took, however, the precaution to
inquire if his guide might be trusted. He was assured that the
invitation would on no account have been given had there been the least
danger, and that all he had to apprehend was a little fatigue; and, as
Evan proposed he should pass a day at his Chieftain’s house in
returning, where he would be sure of good accommodation and an
excellent welcome, there seemed nothing very formidable in the task he
undertook. Rose, indeed, turned pale when she heard of it; but her
father, who loved the spirited curiosity of his young friend, did not
attempt to damp it by an alarm of danger which really did not exist,
and a knapsack, with a few necessaries, being bound on the shoulders of
a sort of deputy gamekeeper, our hero set forth with a fowling-piece in
his hand, accompanied by his new friend Evan Dhu, and followed by the
gamekeeper aforesaid, and by two wild Highlanders, the attendants of
Evan, one of whom had upon his shoulder a hatchet at the end of a pole,
called a Lochaber-axe,[14] and the other a long ducking-gun. Evan, upon
Edward’s inquiry, gave him to understand that this martial escort was
by no means necessary as a guard, but merely, as he said, drawing up
and adjusting his plaid with an air of dignity, that he might appear
decently at Tully-Veolan, and as Vich Ian Vohr’s foster-brother ought
to do. “Ah!” said he, “if you Saxon _duinhé-wassel_ (English gentleman)
saw but the Chief with his tail on!”

“With his tail on?” echoed Edward in some surprise.

“Yes—that is, with all his usual followers, when he visits those of the
same rank. There is,” he continued, stopping and drawing himself
proudly up, while he counted upon his fingers the several officers of
his chief’s retinue; “there is his _hanchman_, or right-hand man; then
his _bàrd_, or poet; then his _bladier_, or orator, to make harangues
to the great folks whom he visits; then his _gilly-more_, or
armour-bearer, to carry his sword and target, and his gun; then his
_gilly-casfliuch_, who carries him on his back through the sikes and
brooks; then his _gilly-comstrian_, to lead his horse by the bridle in
steep and difficult paths; then his _gilly-trushharnish_, to carry his
knapsack; and the piper and the piper’s man, and it may be a dozen
young lads beside, that have no business, but are just boys of the
belt, to follow the Laird and do his honour’s bidding.”

“And does your Chief regularly maintain all these men?” demanded
Waverley.

“All these?” replied Evan; “ay, and many a fair head beside, that would
not ken where to lay itself, but for the mickle barn at Glennaquoich.”

With similar tales of the grandeur of the Chief in peace and war, Evan
Dhu beguiled the way till they approached more closely those huge
mountains which Edward had hitherto only seen at a distance. It was
towards evening as they entered one of the tremendous passes which
afford communication between the high and low country; the path, which
was extremely steep and rugged, winded up a chasm between two
tremendous rocks, following the passage which a foaming stream, that
brawled far below, appeared to have worn for itself in the course of
ages. A few slanting beams of the sun, which was now setting, reached
the water in its darksome bed, and showed it partially, chafed by a
hundred rocks and broken by a hundred falls. The descent from the path
to the stream was a mere precipice, with here and there a projecting
fragment of granite, or a scathed tree, which had warped its twisted
roots into the fissures of the rock. On the right hand, the mountain
rose above the path with almost equal inaccessibility; but the hill on
the opposite side displayed a shroud of copsewood, with which some
pines were intermingled.

“This,” said Evan, “is the pass of Bally-Brough, which was kept in
former times by ten of the clan Donnochie against a hundred of the
Low-Country carles. The graves of the slain are still to be seen in
that little _corri_, or bottom, on the opposite side of the burn; if
your eyes are good, you may see the green specks among the heather.
See, there is an _earn_, which you Southrons call an eagle. You have no
such birds as that in England. He is going to fetch his supper from the
Laird of Bradwardine’s braes, but I’ll send a slug after him.”

He fired his piece accordingly, but missed the superb monarch of the
feathered tribes, who, without noticing the attempt to annoy him,
continued his majestic flight to the southward. A thousand birds of
prey, hawks, kites, carrion-crows, and ravens, disturbed from the
lodgings which they had just taken up for the evening, rose at the
report of the gun, and mingled their hoarse and discordant notes with
the echoes which replied to it, and with the roar of the mountain
cataracts. Evan, a little disconcerted at having missed his mark, when
he meant to have displayed peculiar dexterity, covered his confusion by
whistling part of a pibroch as he reloaded his piece, and proceeded in
silence up the pass.

It issued in a narrow glen, between two mountains, both very lofty and
covered with heath. The brook continued to be their companion, and they
advanced up its mazes, crossing them now and then, on which occasions
Evan Dhu uniformly offered the assistance of his attendants to carry
over Edward; but our hero, who had been always a tolerable pedestrian,
declined the accommodation, and obviously rose in his guide’s opinion,
by showing that he did not fear wetting his feet. Indeed he was
anxious, so far as he could without affectation, to remove the opinion
which Evan seemed to entertain of the effeminacy of the Lowlanders, and
particularly of the English.

Through the gorge of this glen they found access to a black bog, of
tremendous extent, full of large pit-holes, which they traversed with
great difficulty and some danger, by tracks which no one but a
Highlander could have followed. The path itself, or rather the portion
of more solid ground on which the travellers half walked, half waded,
was rough, broken, and in many places quaggy and unsound. Sometimes the
ground was so completely unsafe that it was necessary to spring from
one hillock to another, the space between being incapable of bearing
the human weight. This was an easy matter to the Highlanders, who wore
thin-soled brogues fit for the purpose, and moved with a peculiar
springing step; but Edward began to find the exercise, to which he was
unaccustomed, more fatiguing than he expected. The lingering twilight
served to show them through this Serbonian bog, but deserted them
almost totally at the bottom of a steep and very stony hill, which it
was the travellers’ next toilsome task to ascend. The night, however,
was pleasant, and not dark; and Waverley, calling up mental energy to
support personal fatigue, held on his march gallantly, though envying
in his heart his Highland attendants, who continued, without a symptom
of abated vigour, the rapid and swinging pace, or rather trot, which,
according to his computation, had already brought them fifteen miles
upon their journey.

After crossing this mountain and descending on the other side towards a
thick wood, Evan Dhu held some conference with his Highland attendants,
in consequence of which Edward’s baggage was shifted from the shoulders
of the gamekeeper to those of one of the gillies, and the former was
sent off with the other mountaineer in a direction different from that
of the three remaining travellers. On asking the meaning of this
separation, Waverley was told that the Lowlander must go to a hamlet
about three miles off for the night; for unless it was some very
particular friend, Donald Bean Lean, the worthy person whom they
supposed to be possessed of the cattle, did not much approve of
strangers approaching his retreat. This seemed reasonable, and silenced
a qualm of suspicion which came across Edward’s mind when he saw
himself, at such a place and such an hour, deprived of his only Lowland
companion. And Evan immediately afterwards added, “that indeed he
himself had better get forward, and announce their approach to Donald
Bean Lean, as the arrival of a _sidier roy_ (red soldier) might
otherwise be a disagreeable surprise.” And without waiting for an
answer, in jockey phrase, he trotted out, and putting himself to a very
round pace, was out of sight in an instant.

Waverley was now left to his own meditations, for his attendant with
the battle-axe spoke very little English. They were traversing a thick,
and, as it seemed, an endless wood of pines, and consequently the path
was altogether indiscernible in the murky darkness which surrounded
them. The Highlander, however, seemed to trace it by instinct, without
the hesitation of a moment, and Edward followed his footsteps as close
as he could.

After journeying a considerable time in silence, he could not help
asking, “Was it far to the end of their journey?”

“Ta cove was tree, four mile; but as _duinhé-wassel_ was a wee taiglit,
Donald could, tat is, might—would—should send ta _curragh_.”

This conveyed no information. The _curragh_ which was promised might be
a man, a horse, a cart, or chaise; and no more could be got from the
man with the battle-axe but a repetition of “Aich ay! ta _curragh_.”

But in a short time Edward began to conceive his meaning, when, issuing
from the wood, he found himself on the banks of a large river or lake,
where his conductor gave him to understand they must sit down for a
little while. The moon, which now began to rise, showed obscurely the
expanse of water which spread before them, and the shapeless and
indistinct forms of mountains with which it seemed to be surrounded.
The cool and yet mild air of the summer night refreshed Waverley after
his rapid and toilsome walk; and the perfume which it wafted from the
birch trees,[*] bathed in the evening dew, was exquisitely fragrant.

[* It is not the weeping birch, the most common species in the
Highlands, but the woolly-leaved Lowland birch, that is distinguished
by this fragrance.]


He had now time to give himself up to the full romance of his
situation. Here he sate on the banks of an unknown lake, under the
guidance of a wild native, whose language was unknown to him, on a
visit to the den of some renowned outlaw, a second Robin Hood, perhaps,
or Adam o’ Gordon, and that at deep midnight, through scenes of
difficulty and toil, separated from his attendant, left by his guide.
What a variety of incidents for the exercise of a romantic imagination,
and all enhanced by the solemn feeling of uncertainty at least, if not
of danger! The only circumstance which assorted ill with the rest was
the cause of his journey—the Baron’s milk-cows! this degrading incident
he kept in the background.

While wrapt in these dreams of imagination, his companion gently
touched him, and, pointing in a direction nearly straight across the
lake, said, “Yon’s ta cove.” A small point of light was seen to twinkle
in the direction in which he pointed, and, gradually increasing in size
and lustre, seemed to flicker like a meteor upon the verge of the
horizon. While Edward watched this phenomenon, the distant dash of oars
was heard. The measured sound approached near and more near, and
presently a loud whistle was heard in the same direction. His friend
with the battle-axe immediately whistled clear and shrill, in reply to
the signal, and a boat, manned with four or five Highlanders, pushed
for a little inlet, near which Edward was sitting. He advanced to meet
them with his attendant, was immediately assisted into the boat by the
officious attention of two stout mountaineers, and had no sooner seated
himself than they resumed their oars, and began to row across the lake
with great rapidity.




CHAPTER XVII.
THE HOLD OF A HIGHLAND ROBBER


The party preserved silence, interrupted only by the monotonous and
murmured chant of a Gaelic song, sung in a kind of low recitative by
the steersman, and by the dash of the oars, which the notes seemed to
regulate, as they dipped to them in cadence. The light, which they now
approached more nearly, assumed a broader, redder and more irregular
splendour. It appeared plainly to be a large fire, but whether kindled
upon an island or the mainland Edward could not determine. As he saw
it, the red glaring orb seemed to rest on the very surface of the lake
itself, and resembled the fiery vehicle in which the Evil Genius of an
Oriental tale traverses land and sea. They approached nearer, and the
light of the fire sufficed to show that it was kindled at the bottom of
a huge dark crag or rock, rising abruptly from the very edge of the
water; its front, changed by the reflection to dusky red, formed a
strange and even awful contrast to the banks around, which were from
time to time faintly and partially illuminated by pallid moonlight.

The boat now neared the shore, and Edward could discover that this
large fire, amply supplied with branches of pine-wood by two figures,
who, in the red reflection of its light, appeared like demons, was
kindled in the jaws of a lofty cavern, into which an inlet from the
lake seemed to advance; and he conjectured, which was indeed true, that
the fire had been lighted as a beacon to the boatmen on their return.
They rowed right for the mouth of the cave, and then, 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.


[Illustration]

The interior of the cave, which here rose very high, was illuminated by
torches made of pine-tree, which emitted a bright and bickering light,
attended by a strong though not unpleasant odour. Their light was
assisted by the red glare of a large charcoal fire, round which were
seated five or six armed Highlanders, while others were indistinctly
seen couched on their plaids in the more remote recesses of the cavern.
In one large aperture, which the robber facetiously called his “spence”
(or pantry), there hung by the heels the carcasses of a sheep, or ewe,
and two cows lately slaughtered. The principal inhabitant of this
singular mansion, attended by Evan Dhu as master of the ceremonies,
came forward to meet his guest, totally different in appearance and
manner from what his imagination had anticipated. The profession which
he followed, the wilderness in which he dwelt, the wild warrior forms
that surrounded him, were all calculated to inspire terror. From such
accompaniments, Waverley prepared himself to meet a stern, gigantic,
ferocious figure, such as Salvator would have chosen to be the central
object of a group of banditti.[15]

Donald Bean Lean was the very reverse of all these. He was thin in
person and low in stature, with light sandy-coloured hair, and small
pale features, from which he derived his agnomen of “Bean” or white;
and although his form was light, well proportioned and active, he
appeared, on the whole, rather a diminutive and insignificant figure.
He had served in some inferior capacity in the French army, and in
order to receive his English visitor in great form, and probably
meaning, in his way, to pay him a compliment, he had laid aside the
Highland dress for the time, to put on an old blue and red uniform and
a feathered hat, in which he was far from showing to advantage, and
indeed looked so incongruous, compared with all around him, that
Waverley would have been tempted to laugh, had laughter been either
civil or safe. The robber received Captain Waverley with a profusion of
French politeness and Scottish hospitality, seemed perfectly to know
his name and connections, and to be particularly acquainted with his
uncle’s political principles. On these he bestowed great applause, to
which Waverley judged it prudent to make a very general reply.

Being placed at a convenient distance from the charcoal fire, the heat
of which the season rendered oppressive, a strapping Highland damsel
placed before Waverley, Evan, and Donald Bean three _cogues_, or wooden
vessels composed of staves and hoops, containing _eanaruich_,[*] a sort
of strong soup, made out of a particular part of the inside of the
beeves. After this refreshment, which, though coarse, fatigue and
hunger rendered palatable, steaks, roasted on the coals, were supplied
in liberal abundance, and disappeared before Evan Dhu and their host
with a promptitude that seemed like magic, and astonished Waverley, who
was much puzzled to reconcile their voracity with what he had heard of
the abstemiousness of the Highlanders. He was ignorant that this
abstinence was with the lower ranks wholly compulsory, and that, like
some animals of prey, those who practise it were usually gifted with
the power of indemnifying themselves to good purpose when chance threw
plenty in their way. The whisky came forth in abundance to crown the
cheer. The Highlanders drank it copiously and undiluted; but Edward,
having mixed a little with water, did not find it so palatable as to
invite him to repeat the draught. Their host bewailed himself
exceedingly that he could offer him no wine; had he but known
four-and-twenty hours before, he would have had some, had it been
within the circle of forty miles round him. But no gentleman could do
more to show his sense of the honour of a visit from another than to
offer him the best cheer his house afforded. Where there are no bushes
there can be no nuts, and the way of those you live with is that you
must follow.

[* This was the regale presented by Rob Roy to the Laird of Tullibody.]


He went on regretting to Evan Dhu the death of an aged man, Donnacha an
Amrigh, or Duncan with the Cap, “a gifted seer,” who foretold, through
the second sight, visitors of every description who haunted their
dwelling, whether as friends or foes.

“Is not his son Malcolm _taishatr_ (a second-sighted person)?” asked
Evan.

“Nothing equal to his father,” replied Donald Bean. “He told us the
other day, we were to see a great gentleman riding on a horse, and
there came nobody that whole day but Shemus Beg, the blind harper, with
his dog. Another time he advertised us of a wedding, and behold it
proved a funeral; and on the _creagh_, when he foretold to us we should
bring home a hundred head of horned cattle, we gripped nothing but a
fat bailie of Perth.”

From this discourse he passed to the political and military state of
the country; and Waverley was astonished, and even alarmed, to find a
person of this description so accurately acquainted with the strength
of the various garrisons and regiments quartered north of the Tay. He
even mentioned the exact number of recruits who had joined Waverley’s
troop from his uncle’s estate, and observed they were “pretty men”,
meaning, not handsome, but stout warlike fellows. He put Waverley in
mind of one or two minute circumstances which had happened at a general
review of the regiment, which satisfied him that the robber had been an
eye-witness of it; and Evan Dhu having by this time retired from the
conversation, and wrapped himself up in his plaid to take some repose,
Donald asked Edward, in a very significant manner, whether he had
nothing particular to say to him.

Waverley, surprised and somewhat startled at this question from such a
character, answered, he had no motive in visiting him but curiosity to
see his extraordinary place of residence. Donald Bean Lean looked him
steadily in the face for an instant, and then said, with a significant
nod, “You might as well have confided in me; I am as much worthy of
trust as either the Baron of Bradwardine or Vich Ian Vohr. But you are
equally welcome to my house.”

Waverley felt an involuntary shudder creep over him at the mysterious
language held by this outlawed and lawless bandit, which, in despite of
his attempts to master it, deprived him of the power to ask the meaning
of his insinuations. A heath pallet, with the flowers stuck uppermost,
had been prepared for him in a recess of the cave, and here, covered
with such spare plaids as could be mustered, he lay for some time
watching the motions of the other inhabitants of the cavern. Small
parties of two or three entered or left the place, without any other
ceremony than a few words in Gaelic to the principal outlaw, and, when
he fell asleep, to a tall Highlander who acted as his lieutenant, and
seemed to keep watch during his repose. Those who entered seemed to
have returned from some excursion, of which they reported the success,
and went without farther ceremony to the larder, where, cutting with
their dirks their rations from the carcasses which were there
suspended, they proceeded to broil and eat them at their own pleasure
and leisure. The liquor was under strict regulation, being served out
either by Donald himself, his lieutenant, or the strapping Highland
girl aforesaid, who was the only female that appeared. The allowance of
whisky, however, would have appeared prodigal to any but Highlanders,
who, living entirely in the open air and in a very moist climate, can
consume great quantities of ardent spirits without the usual baneful
effects either upon the brain or constitution.

At length the fluctuating groups began to swim before the eyes of our
hero as they gradually closed; nor did he re-open them till the morning
sun was high on the lake without, though there was but a faint and
glimmering twilight in the recesses of Uaimh an Ri, or the King’s
Cavern, as the abode of Donald Bean Lean was proudly denominated.




CHAPTER XVIII.
WAVERLEY PROCEEDS ON HIS JOURNEY


When Edward had collected his scattered recollection, he was surprised
to observe the cavern totally deserted. Having arisen and put his dress
in some order, he looked more accurately round him; but all was still
solitary. If it had not been for the decayed brands of the fire, now
sunk into grey ashes, and the remnants of the festival, consisting of
bones half burnt and half gnawed, and an empty keg or two, there
remained no traces of Donald and his band. When Waverley sallied forth
to the entrance of the cave, he perceived that the point of rock, on
which remained the marks of last night’s beacon, was accessible by a
small path, either natural or roughly hewn in the rock, along the
little inlet of water which ran a few yards up into the cavern, where,
as in a wetdock, the skiff which brought him there the night before was
still lying moored. When he reached the small projecting platform on
which the beacon had been established, he would have believed his
further progress by land impossible, only that it was scarce probable
but what the inhabitants of the cavern had some mode of issuing from it
otherwise than by the lake. Accordingly, he soon observed three or four
shelving steps, or ledges of rock, at the very extremity of the little
platform; and, making use of them as a staircase, he clambered by their
means around the projecting shoulder of the crag on which the cavern
opened, and, descending with some difficulty on the other side, he
gained the wild and precipitous shores of a Highland loch, about four
miles in length and a mile and a half across, surrounded by heathy and
savage mountains, on the crests of which the morning mist was still
sleeping.

Looking back to the place from which he came, he could not help
admiring the address which had adopted a retreat of such seclusion and
secrecy. The rock, round the shoulder of which he had turned by a few
imperceptible notches, that barely afforded place for the foot, seemed,
in looking back upon it, a huge precipice, which barred all further
passage by the shores of the lake in that direction. There could be no
possibility, the breadth of the lake considered, of descrying the
entrance of the narrow and low-browed cave from the other side; so
that, unless the retreat had been sought for with boats, or disclosed
by treachery, it might be a safe and secret residence to its garrison
as long as they were supplied with provisions. Having satisfied his
curiosity in these particulars, Waverley looked around for Evan Dhu and
his attendants, who, he rightly judged, would be at no great distance,
whatever might have become of Donald Bean Lean and his party, whose
mode of life was, of course, liable to sudden migrations of abode.
Accordingly, at the distance of about half a mile, he beheld a
Highlander (Evan apparently) angling in the lake, with another
attending him, whom, from the weapon which he shouldered, he recognised
for his friend with the battle-axe.

Much nearer to the mouth of the cave he heard the notes of a lively
Gaelic song, guided by which, in a sunny recess, shaded by a glittering
birch-tree, and carpeted with a bank of firm white sand, he found the
damsel of the cavern, whose lay had already reached him, busy, to the
best of her power, in arranging to advantage a morning repast of milk,
eggs, barley-bread, fresh butter, and honey-comb. The poor girl had
already made a circuit of four miles that morning in search of the
eggs, of the meal which baked her cakes, and of the other materials of
the breakfast, being all delicacies which she had to beg or borrow from
distant cottagers. The followers of Donald Bean Lean used little food
except the flesh of the animals which they drove away from the
Lowlands; bread itself was a delicacy seldom thought of, because hard
to be obtained, and all the domestic accommodations of milk, poultry,
butter, etc., were out of the question in this Scythian camp. Yet it
must not be omitted that, although Alice had occupied a part of the
morning in providing those accommodations for her guest which the
cavern did not afford, she had secured time also to arrange her own
person in her best trim. Her finery was very simple. A short
russet-coloured jacket and a petticoat of scanty longitude was her
whole dress; but these were clean, and neatly arranged. A piece of
scarlet embroidered cloth, called the snood, confined her hair, which
fell over it in a profusion of rich dark curls. The scarlet plaid,
which formed part of her dress, was laid aside, that it might not
impede her activity in attending the stranger. I should forget Alice’s
proudest ornament were I to omit mentioning a pair of gold ear-rings
and a golden rosary, which her father (for she was the daughter of
Donald Bean Lean) had brought from France, the plunder, probably, of
some battle or storm.

Her form, though rather large for her years, was very well
proportioned, and her demeanour had a natural and rustic grace, with
nothing of the sheepishness of an ordinary peasant. The smiles,
displaying a row of teeth of exquisite whiteness, and the laughing
eyes, with which, in dumb show, she gave Waverley that morning greeting
which she wanted English words to express, might have been interpreted
by a coxcomb, or perhaps by a young soldier who, without being such,
was conscious of a handsome person, as meant to convey more than the
courtesy of an hostess. Nor do I take it upon me to say that the little
wild mountaineer would have welcomed any staid old gentleman advanced
in life, the Baron of Bradwardine, for example, with the cheerful pains
which she bestowed upon Edward’s accommodation. She seemed eager to
place him by the meal which she had so sedulously arranged, and to
which she now added a few bunches of cranberries, gathered in an
adjacent morass. Having had the satisfaction of seeing him seated at
his breakfast, she placed herself demurely upon a stone at a few yards’
distance, and appeared to watch with great complacency for some
opportunity of serving him.

Evan and his attendant now returned slowly along the beach, the latter
bearing a large salmon-trout, the produce of the morning’s sport,
together with the angling-rod, while Evan strolled forward, with an
easy, self-satisfied, and important gait, towards the spot where
Waverley was so agreeably employed at the breakfast-table. After
morning greetings had passed on both sides, and Evan, looking at
Waverley, had said something in Gaelic to Alice, which made her laugh,
yet colour up to her eyes, through a complexion well embrowned by sun
and wind, Evan intimated his commands that the fish should be prepared
for breakfast. A spark from the lock of his pistol produced a light,
and a few withered fir branches were quickly in flame, and as speedily
reduced to hot embers, on which the trout was broiled in large slices.
To crown the repast, Evan produced from the pocket of his short jerkin
a large scallop shell, and from under the folds of his plaid a ram’s
horn full of whisky. Of this he took a copious dram, observing he had
already taken his “morning” with Donald Bean Lean before his departure;
he offered the same cordial to Alice and to Edward, which they both
declined. With the bounteous air of a lord, Evan then proffered the
scallop to Dugald Mahony, his attendant, who, without waiting to be
asked a second time, drank it off with great gusto. Evan then prepared
to move towards the boat, inviting Waverley to attend him. Meanwhile,
Alice had made up in a small basket what she thought worth removing,
and flinging her plaid around her, she advanced up to Edward, and with
the utmost simplicity, taking hold of his hand, offered her cheek to
his salute, dropping at the same time her little curtsy. Evan, who was
esteemed a wag among the mountain fair, advanced as if to secure a
similar favour; but Alice, snatching up her basket, escaped up the
rocky bank as fleetly as a roe, and, turning round and laughing, called
something out to him in Gaelic, which he answered in the same tone and
language; then, waving her hand to Edward, she resumed her road, and
was soon lost among the thickets, though they continued for some time
to hear her lively carol, as she proceeded gaily on her solitary
journey.

They now again entered the gorge of the cavern, and stepping into the
boat, the Highlander pushed off, and, taking advantage of the morning
breeze, hoisted a clumsy sort of sail, while Evan assumed the helm,
directing their course, as it appeared to Waverley, rather higher up
the lake than towards the place of his embarkation on the preceding
night. As they glided along the silver mirror, Evan opened the
conversation with a panegyric upon Alice, who, he said, was both
“canny” and “fendy,” and was, to the boot of all that, the best dancer
of a strathspey in the whole strath. Edward assented to her praises so
far as he understood them, yet could not help regretting that she was
condemned to such a perilous and dismal life.

“_Oich!_ for that,” said Evan, “there is nothing in Perthshire that she
need want, if she ask her father to fetch it, unless it be too hot or
too heavy.”

“But to be the daughter of a cattle-stealer—a common thief!” “Common
thief!—no such thing: Donald Bean Lean never _lifted_ less than a drove
in his life.”

“Do you call him an uncommon thief, then?”

“No; he that steals a cow from a poor widow, or a stirk from a cotter,
is a thief; he that lifts a drove from a Sassenach laird is a
gentleman-drover. And, besides, to take a tree from the forest, a
salmon from the river, a deer from the hill, or a cow from a Lowland
strath, is what no Highlander need ever think shame upon.”

“But what can this end in, were he taken in such an appropriation?”

“To be sure he would _die for the law_, as many a pretty man has done
before him.”

“Die for the law!”

“Ay; that is, with the law, or by the law; be strapped up on the _kind_
gallows of Crieff,[16] where his father died, and his goodsire died,
and where I hope he’ll live to die himsell, if he’s not shot, or
slashed, in a _creagh_.”

“You _hope_ such a death for your friend, Evan?”

“And that do I e’en; would you have me wish him to die on a bundle of
wet straw in yon den of his, like a mangy tyke?”

“But what becomes of Alice, then?”

“Troth, if such an accident were to happen, as her father would not
need her help ony langer, I ken nought to hinder me to marry her
mysell.”

“Gallantly resolved,” said Edward; “but, in the meanwhile, Evan, what
has your father-in-law (that shall be, if he have the good fortune to
be hanged) done with the Baron’s cattle?”

“_Oich_,” answered Evan, “they were all trudging before your lad and
Allan Kennedy before the sun blinked ower Ben Lawers this morning; and
they’ll be in the pass of Bally-Brough by this time, in their way back
to the parks of Tully-Veolan, all but two, that were unhappily
slaughtered before I got last night to Uaimh an Ri.”

“And where are we going, Evan, if I may be so bold as to ask?” said
Waverley.

“Where would you be ganging, but to the Laird’s ain house of
Glennaquoich? Ye would not think to be in his country, without ganging
to see him? It would be as much as a man’s life’s worth.”

“And are we far from Glennaquoich?”

“But five bits of miles; and Vich Ian Vohr will meet us.”

In about half an hour they reached the upper end of the lake, where,
after landing Waverley, the two Highanders drew the boat into a little
creek among thick flags and reeds, where it lay perfectly concealed.
The oars they put in another place of concealment, both for the use of
Donald Bean Lean probably, when his occasions should next bring him to
that place.

The travellers followed for some time a delightful opening into the
hills, down which a little brook found its way to the lake. When they
had pursued their walk a short distance, Waverley renewed his questions
about their host of the cavern.

“Does he always reside in that cave?”

“Out, no! it’s past the skill of man to tell where he’s to be found at
a’ times; there’s not a dern nook, or cove, or _corri_, in the whole
country that he’s not acquainted with.”

“And do others beside your master shelter him?”

“My master? _My_ master is in Heaven,” answered Evan, haughtily; and
then immediately assuming his usual civility of manner, “but you mean
my Chief;—no, he does not shelter Donald Bean Lean, nor any that are
like him; he only allows him (with a smile) wood and water.”

“No great boon, I should think, Evan, when both seem to be very
plenty.”

“Ah! but ye dinna see through it. When I say wood and water, I mean the
loch and the land; and I fancy Donald would be put till ’t if the Laird
were to look for him wi’ threescore men in the wood of Kailychat
yonder; and if our boats, with a score or twa mair, were to come down
the loch to Uaimh an Ri, headed by mysell, or ony other pretty man.”

“But suppose a strong party came against him from the Low Country,
would not your Chief defend him?”

“Na, he would not ware the spark of a flint for him—if they came with
the law.”

“And what must Donald do, then?”

“He behoved to rid this country of himsell, and fall back, it may be,
over the mount upon Letter Scriven.”

“And if he were pursued to that place?”

“I’se warrant he would go to his cousin’s at Rannoch.”

“Well, but if they followed him to Rannoch?”

“That,” quoth Evan, “is beyond all belief; and, indeed, to tell you the
truth, there durst not a Lowlander in all Scotland follow the fray a
gun-shot beyond Bally-Brough, unless he had the help of the _Sidier
Dhu_.”

“Whom do you call so?”

“The _Sidier Dhu?_ the black soldier; that is what they call the
independent companies that were raised to keep peace and law in the
Highlands. Vich Ian Vohr commanded one of them for five years, and I
was sergeant mysell, I shall warrant ye. They call them_ Sidier Dhu_
because they wear the tartans, as they call your men—King George’s
men—_Sidier Roy_, or red soldiers.”

“Well, but when you were in King George’s pay, Evan, you were surely
King George’s soldiers?”

“Troth, and you must ask Vich Ian Vohr about that; for we are for his
king, and care not much which o’ them it is. At ony rate, nobody can
say we are King George’s men now, when we have not seen his pay this
twelve-month.”

This last argument admitted of no reply, nor did Edward attempt any; he
rather chose to bring back the discourse to Donald Bean Lean. “Does
Donald confine himself to cattle, or does he ‘lift,’ as you call it,
anything else that comes in his way?”

“Troth, he’s nae nice body, and he’ll just tak onything, but most
readily cattle, horse, or live Christians; for sheep are slow of
travel, and inside plenishing is cumbrous to carry, and not easy to put
away for siller in this country.”

“But does he carry off men and women?”

“Out, ay. Did not ye hear him speak o’ the Perth bailie? It cost that
body five hundred merks ere he got to the south of Bally-Brough. And
ance Donald played a pretty sport.[17] There was to be a blythe bridal
between the Lady Cramfeezer, in the howe o’ the Mearns (she was the
auld laird’s widow, and no sae young as she had been hersell), and
young Gilliewhackit, who had spent his heirship and movables, like a
gentleman, at cock-matches, bull-baitings, horse-races, and the like.
Now, Donald Bean Lean, being aware that the bridegroom was in request,
and wanting to cleik the cunzie (that is, to hook the siller), he
cannily carried off Gilliewhackit ae night when he was riding
_dovering_ hame (wi’ the malt rather abune the meal), and with the help
of his gillies he gat him into the hills with the speed of light, and
the first place he wakened in was the cove of Uaimh an Ri. So there was
old to do about ransoming the bridegroom; for Donald would not lower a
farthing of a thousand punds—”

“The devil!”

“Punds Scottish, ye shall understand. And the lady had not the siller
if she had pawned her gown; and they applied to the governor o’
Stirling castle, and to the major o’ the Black Watch; and the governor
said it was ower far to the northward, and out of his district; and the
major said his men were gane hame to the shearing, and he would not
call them out before the victual was got in for all the Cramfeezers in
Christendom, let alane the Mearns, for that it would prejudice the
country. And in the meanwhile ye’ll no hinder Gilliewhackit to take the
small-pox. There was not the doctor in Perth or Stirling would look
near the poor lad; and I cannot blame them, for Donald had been
misguggled by ane of these doctors about Paris, and he swore he would
fling the first into the loch that he catched beyond the pass. However
some _cailliachs_ (that is, old women) that were about Donald’s hand
nursed Gilliewhackit sae weel that, between the free open air in the
cove and the fresh whey, deil an he did not recover maybe as weel as if
he had been closed in a glazed chamber and a bed with curtains, and fed
with red wine and white meat. And Donald was sae vexed about it that,
when he was stout and weel, he even sent him free home, and said he
would be pleased with onything they would like to gie him for the
plague and trouble which he had about Gilliewhackit to an unkenn’d
degree. And I cannot tell you precisely how they sorted; but they
agreed sae right that Donald was invited to dance at the wedding in his
Highland trews, and they said that there was never sae meikle siller
clinked in his purse either before or since. And to the boot of all
that, Gilliewhackit said that, be the evidence what it liked, if he had
the luck to be on Donald’s inquest, he would bring him in guilty of
nothing whatever, unless it were wilful arson or murder under trust.”

With such bald and disjointed chat Evan went on illustrating the
existing state of the Highlands, more perhaps to the amusement of
Waverley than that of our readers. At length, after having marched over
bank and brae, moss and heather, Edward, though not unacquainted with
the Scottish liberality in computing distance, began to think that
Evan’s five miles were nearly doubled. His observation on the large
measure which the Scottish allowed of their land, in comparison to the
computation of their money, was readily answered by Evan with the old
jest, “The deil take them wha have the least pint stoup.”[*]

[* The Scotch are liberal in computing their land and liquor; the
Scottish pint corresponds to two English quarts. As for their coin,
every one knows the couplet—


How can the rogues pretend to sense?
Their pound is only twenty pence.]


And now the report of a gun was heard, and a sportsman was seen, with
his dogs and attendant, at the upper end of the glen. “Shough,” said
Dugald Mahony, “tat’s ta chief.”

“It is not,” said Evan, imperiously. “Do you think he would come to
meet a Sassenach _duinhé-wassel_ in such a way as that?”

But as they approached a little nearer, he said, with an appearance of
mortification, “And it is even he, sure enough; and he has not his tail
on after all; there is no living creature with him but Callum Beg.”

In fact, Fergus Mac-Ivor, of whom a Frenchman might have said as truly
as of any man in the Highlands, “Qu’il connoit bien ses gens” had no
idea of raising himself in the eyes of an English young man of fortune
by appearing with a retinue of idle Highlanders disproportioned to the
occasion. He was well aware that such an unnecessary attendance would
seem to Edward rather ludicrous than respectable; and, while few men
were more attached to ideas of chieftainship and feudal power, he was,
for that very reason, cautious of exhibiting external marks of dignity,
unless at the time and in the manner when they were most likely to
produce an imposing effect. Therefore, although, had he been to receive
a brother chieftain, he would probably have been attended by all that
retinue which Evan described with so much unction, he judged it more
respectable to advance to meet Waverley with a single attendant, a very
handsome Highland boy, who carried his master’s shooting-pouch and his
broadsword, without which he seldom went abroad.

When Fergus and Waverley met, the latter was struck with the peculiar
grace and dignity of the Chieftain’s figure. Above the middle size and
finely proportioned, the Highland dress, which he wore in its simplest
mode, set off his person to great advantage. He wore the trews, or
close trowsers, made of tartan, chequed scarlet and white; in other
particulars his dress strictly resembled Evan’s, excepting that he had
no weapon save a dirk, very richly mounted with silver. His page, as we
have said, carried his claymore; and the fowling-piece, which he held
in his hand, seemed only designed for sport. He had shot in the course
of his walk some young wild-ducks, as, though “close time” was then
unknown, the broods of grouse were yet too young for the sportsman. His
countenance was decidedly Scottish, with all the peculiarities of the
northern physiognomy, but yet had so little of its harshness and
exaggeration that it would have been pronounced in any country
extremely handsome. The martial air of the bonnet, with a single
eagle’s feather as a distinction, added much to the manly appearance of
his head, which was besides ornamented with a far more natural and
graceful cluster of close black curls than ever were exposed to sale in
Bond Street.

An air of openness and affability increased the favorable impression
derived from this handsome and dignified exterior. Yet a skilful
physiognomist would have been less satisfied with the countenance on
the second than on the first view. The eyebrow and upper lip bespoke
something of the habit of peremptory command and decisive superiority.
Even his courtesy, though open, frank, and unconstrained, seemed to
indicate a sense of personal importance; and, upon any check or
accidental excitation, a sudden, though transient lour of the eye
showed a hasty, haughty, and vindictive temper, not less to be dreaded
because it seemed much under its owner’s command. In short, the
countenance of the Chieftain resembled a smiling summer’s day, in
which, notwithstanding, we are made sensible by certain, though slight
signs that it may thunder and lighten before the close of evening.

It was not, however, upon their first meeting that Edward had an
opportunity of making these less favourable remarks. The Chief received
him as a friend of the Baron of Bradwardine, with the utmost expression
of kindness and obligation for the visit; upbraided him gently with
choosing so rude an abode as he had done the night before; and entered
into a lively conversation with him about Donald Bean’s housekeeping,
but without the least hint as to his predatory habits, or the immediate
occasion of Waverley’s visit, a topic which, as the Chief did not
introduce it, our hero also avoided. While they walked merrily on
towards the house of Glennaquoich, Evan, who now fell respectfully into
the rear, followed with Callum Beg and Dugald Mahony.

We shall take the opportunity to introduce the reader to some
particulars of Fergus Mac-Ivor’s character and history, which were not
completely known to Waverley till after a connection which, though
arising from a circumstance so casual, had for a length of time the
deepest influence upon his character, actions, and prospects. But this,
being an important subject, must form the commencement of a new
chapter.




CHAPTER XIX.
THE CHIEF AND HIS MANSION


The ingenious licentiate Francisco de Ubeda, when he commenced his
history of “La Picara Justina Diez,”—which, by the way, is one of the
most rare books of Spanish literature,—complained of his pen having
caught up a hair, and forthwith begins, with more eloquence than common
sense, an affectionate expostulation with that useful implement,
upbraiding it with being the quill of a goose,—a bird inconstant by
nature, as frequenting the three elements of water, earth, and air
indifferently, and being, of course, “to one thing constant never.” Now
I protest to thee, gentle reader, that I entirely dissent from
Francisco de Ubeda in this matter, and hold it the most useful quality
of my pen, that it can speedily change from grave to gay, and from
description and dialogue to narrative and character. So that if my
quill display no other properties of its mother-goose than her
mutability, truly I shall be well pleased; and I conceive that you, my
worthy friend, will have no occasion for discontent. From the jargon,
therefore, of the Highland gillies I pass to the character of their
Chief. It is an important examination, and therefore, like Dogberry, we
must spare no wisdom.

The ancestor of Fergus Mac-Ivor, about three centuries before, had set
up a claim to be recognised as chief of the numerous and powerful clan
to which he belonged, the name of which it is unnecessary to mention.
Being defeated by an opponent who had more justice, or at least more
force, on his side, he moved southwards, with those who adhered to him,
in quest of new settlements, like a second Æneas. The state of the
Perthshire Highlands favoured his purpose. A great baron in that
country had lately become traitor to the crown; Ian, which was the name
of our adventurer, united himself with those who were commissioned by
the king to chastise him, and did such good service that he obtained a
grant of the property, upon which he and his posterity afterwards
resided. He followed the king also in war to the fertile regions of
England, where he employed his leisure hours so actively in raising
subsidies among the boors of Northumberland and Durham, that upon his
return he was enabled to erect a stone tower, or fortalice, so much
admired by his dependants and neighbours that he, who had hitherto been
called Ian Mac-Ivor, or John the son of Ivor, was thereafter
distinguished, both in song and genealogy, by the high title of Ian nan
Chaistel, or John of the Tower. The descendants of this worthy were so
proud of him that the reigning chief always bore the patronymic title
of Vich Ian Vohr, i.e. the son of John the Great; while the clan at
large, to distinguish them from that from which they had seceded, were
denominated Sliochd nan Ivor, the race of Ivor.

The father of Fergus, the tenth in direct descent from John of the
Tower, engaged heart and hand in the insurrection of 1715, and was
forced to fly to France, after the attempt of that year in favour of
the Stuarts had proved unsuccessful. More fortunate than other
fugitives, he obtained employment in the French service, and married a
lady of rank in that kingdom, by whom he had two children, Fergus and
his sister Flora. The Scottish estate had been forfeited and exposed to
sale, but was repurchased for a small price in the name of the young
proprietor, who in consequence came to reside upon his native
domains.[18] It was soon perceived that he possessed a character of
uncommon acuteness, fire, and ambition, which, as he became acquainted
with the state of the country, gradually assumed a mixed and peculiar
tone, that could only have been acquired Sixty Years Since.

Had Fergus Mac-Ivor lived Sixty Years sooner than he did, he would in
all probability have wanted the polished manner and knowledge of the
world which he now possessed; and had he lived Sixty Years later, his
ambition and love of rule would have lacked the fuel which his
situation now afforded. He was indeed, within his little circle, as
perfect a politician as Castruccio Castracani himself. He applied
himself with great earnestness to appease all the feuds and dissensions
which often arose among other clans in his neighbourhood, so that he
became a frequent umpire in their quarrels. His own patriarchal power
he strengthened at every expense which his fortune would permit, and
indeed stretched his means to the uttermost to maintain the rude and
plentiful hospitality which was the most valued attribute of a
chieftain. For the same reason he crowded his estate with a tenantry,
hardy indeed, and fit for the purposes of war, but greatly outnumbering
what the soil was calculated to maintain. These consisted chiefly of
his own clan, not one of whom he suffered to quit his lands if he could
possibly prevent it. But he maintained, besides, many adventurers from
the mother sept, who deserted a less warlike, though more wealthy chief
to do homage to Fergus Mac-Ivor. Other individuals, too, who had not
even that apology, were nevertheless received into his allegiance,
which indeed was refused to none who were, like Poins, proper men of
their hands, and were willing to assume the name of Mac-Ivor.

He was enabled to discipline these forces, from having obtained command
of one of the independent companies raised by government to preserve
the peace of the Highlands. While in this capacity he acted with vigour
and spirit, and preserved great order in the country under his charge.
He caused his vassals to enter by rotation into his company, and serve
for a certain space of time, which gave them all in turn a general
notion of military discipline. In his campaigns against the banditti,
it was observed that he assumed and exercised to the utmost the
discretionary power which, while the law had no free course in the
Highlands, was conceived to belong to the military parties who were
called in to support it. He acted, for example, with great and
suspicious lenity to those freebooters who made restitution on his
summons and offered personal submission to himself, while he rigorously
pursued, apprehended, and sacrificed to justice all such interlopers as
dared to despise his admonitions or commands. On the other hand, if any
officers of justice, military parties, or others, presumed to pursue
thieves or marauders through his territories, and without applying for
his consent and concurrence, nothing was more certain than that they
would meet with some notable foil or defeat; upon which occasions
Fergus Mac-Ivor was the first to condole with them, and after gently
blaming their rashness, never failed deeply to lament the lawless state
of the country. These lamentations did not exclude suspicion, and
matters were so represented to government that our Chieftain was
deprived of his military command.[19]

Whatever Fergus Mac-Ivor felt on this occasion, he had the art of
entirely suppressing every appearance of discontent; but in a short
time the neighbouring country began to feel bad effects from his
disgrace. Donald Bean Lean, and others of his class, whose depredations
had hitherto been confined to other districts, appeared from
thenceforward to have made a settlement on this devoted border; and
their ravages were carried on with little opposition, as the Lowland
gentry were chiefly Jacobites, and disarmed. This forced many of the
inhabitants into contracts of black-mail with Fergus Mac-Ivor, which
not only established him their protector, and gave him great weight in
all their consultations, but, moreover, supplied funds for the waste of
his feudal hospitality, which the discontinuance of his pay might have
otherwise essentially diminished.

In following this course of conduct, Fergus had a further object than
merely being the great man of his neighbourhood, and ruling
despotically over a small clan. From his infancy upward he had devoted
himself to the cause of the exiled family, and had persuaded himself,
not only that their restoration to the crown of Britain would be
speedy, but that those who assisted them would be raised to honour and
rank. It was with this view that he laboured to reconcile the
Highlanders among themselves, and augmented his own force to the
utmost, to be prepared for the first favourable opportunity of rising.
With this purpose also he conciliated the favour of such Lowland
gentlemen in the vicinity as were friends to the good cause; and for
the same reason, having incautiously quarrelled with Mr. Bradwardine,
who, notwithstanding his peculiarities, was much respected in the
country, he took advantage of the foray of Donald Bean Lean to solder
up the dispute in the manner we have mentioned. Some, indeed, surmised
that he caused the enterprise to be suggested to Donald, on purpose to
pave the way to a reconciliation, which, supposing that to be the case,
cost the Laird of Bradwardine two good milch cows. This zeal in their
behalf the House of Stuart repaid with a considerable share of their
confidence, an occasional supply of louis-d’or, abundance of fair
words, and a parchment, with a huge waxen seal appended, purporting to
be an earl’s patent, granted by no less a person than James the Third
King of England, and Eighth King of Scotland, to his right feal,
trusty, and well-beloved Fergus Mac-Ivor of Glennaquoich, in the county
of Perth, and kingdom of Scotland.

With this future coronet glittering before his eyes, Fergus plunged
deeply into the correspondence and plots of that unhappy period; and,
like all such active agents, easily reconciled his conscience to going
certain lengths in the service of his party, from which honour and
pride would have deterred him had his sole object been the direct
advancement of his own personal interest. With this insight into a
bold, ambitious, and ardent, yet artful and politic character, we
resume the broken thread of our narrative.

The chief and his guest had by this time reached the house of
Glennaquoich, which consisted of Ian nan Chaistel’s mansion, a high
rude-looking square tower, with the addition of a _lofted_ house, that
is, a building of two stories, constructed by Fergus’s grandfather when
he returned from that memorable expedition, well remembered by the
western shires under the name of the Highland Host. Upon occasion of
this crusade against the Ayrshire Whigs and Covenanters, the Vich Ian
Vohr of the time had probably been as successful as his predecessor was
in harrying Northumberland, and therefore left to his posterity a rival
edifice as a monument of his magnificence.

Around the house, which stood on an eminence in the midst of a narrow
Highland valley, there appeared none of that attention to convenience,
far less to ornament and decoration, which usually surrounds a
gentleman’s habitation. An inclosure or two, divided by dry-stone
walls, were the only part of the domain that was fenced; as to the
rest, the narrow slips of level ground which lay by the side of the
brook exhibited a scanty crop of barley, liable to constant
depredations from the herds of wild ponies and black cattle that grazed
upon the adjacent hills. These ever and anon made an incursion upon the
arable ground, which was repelled by the loud, uncouth, and dissonant
shouts of half a dozen Highland swains, all running as if they had been
mad, and every one hallooing a half-starved dog to the rescue of the
forage. At a little distance up the glen was a small and stunted wood
of birch; the hills were high and heathy, but without any variety of
surface; so that the whole view was wild and desolate rather than grand
and solitary. Yet, such as it was, no genuine descendant of Ian nan
Chaistel would have changed the domain for Stow or Blenheim.

There was a sight, however, before the gate, which perhaps would have
afforded the first owner of Blenheim more pleasure than the finest view
in the domain assigned to him by the gratitude of his country. This
consisted of about a hundred Highlanders, in complete dress and arms;
at sight of whom the Chieftain apologised to Waverley in a sort of
negligent manner. “He had forgot,” he said, “that he had ordered a few
of his clan out, for the purpose of seeing that they were in a fit
condition to protect the country, and prevent such accidents as, he was
sorry to learn, had befallen the Baron of Bradwardine. Before they were
dismissed, perhaps Captain Waverley might choose to see them go through
a part of their exercise.”

Edward assented, and the men executed with agility and precision some
of the ordinary military movements. They then practised individually at
a mark, and showed extraordinary dexterity in the management of the
pistol and firelock. They took aim, standing, sitting, leaning, or
lying prostrate, as they were commanded, and always with effect upon
the target. Next, they paired off for the broadsword exercise; and,
having manifested their individual skill and dexterity, united in two
bodies, and exhibited a sort of mock encounter, in which the charge,
the rally, the flight, the pursuit, and all the current of a heady
fight, were exhibited to the sound of the great war bagpipe.

On a signal made by the Chief, the skirmish was ended. Matches were
then made for running, wrestling, leaping, pitching the bar, and other
sports, in which this feudal militia displayed incredible swiftness,
strength, and agility; and accomplished the purpose which their
Chieftain had at heart, by impressing on Waverley no light sense of
their merit as soldiers, and of the power of him who commanded them by
his nod.[20]

“And what number of such gallant fellows have the happiness to call you
leader?” asked Waverley.

“In a good cause, and under a chieftain whom they loved, the race of
Ivor have seldom taken the field under five hundred claymores. But you
are aware, Captain Waverley, that the disarming act, passed about
twenty years ago, prevents their being in the complete state of
preparation as in former times; and I keep no more of my clan under
arms than may defend my own or my friends’ property, when the country
is troubled with such men as your last night’s landlord; and
government, which has removed other means of defence, must connive at
our protecting ourselves.”

“But, with your force, you might soon destroy or put down such gangs as
that of Donald Bean Lean.”

“Yes, doubtless; and my reward would be a summons to deliver up to
General Blakeney, at Stirling, the few broadswords they have left us;
there were little policy in that, methinks. But come, captain, the
sound of the pipes informs me that dinner is prepared. Let me have the
honour to show you into my rude mansion.”




CHAPTER XX.
A HIGHLAND FEAST


Ere Waverley entered the banqueting hall, he was offered the
patriarchal refreshment of a bath for the feet, which the sultry
weather, and the morasses he had traversed, rendered highly acceptable.
He was not, indeed, so luxuriously attended upon this occasion as the
heroic travellers in the Odyssey; the task of ablution and abstersion
being performed, not by a beautiful damsel, trained

To chafe the limb, and pour the fragrant oil,


but by a smoke-dried skinny old Highland woman, who did not seem to
think herself much honoured by the duty imposed upon her, but muttered
between her teeth, “Our fathers’ herds did not feed so near together
that I should do you this service.” A small donation, however, amply
reconciled this ancient handmaiden to the supposed degradation; and, as
Edward proceeded to the hall, she gave him her blessing in the Gaelic
proverb, “May the open hand be filled the fullest.”

The hall, in which the feast was prepared, occupied all the first story
of Ian nan Chaistel’s original erection, and a huge oaken table
extended through its whole length. The apparatus for dinner was simple,
even to rudeness, and the company numerous, even to crowding. At the
head of the table was the Chief himself, with Edward, and two or three
Highland visitors of neighbouring clans; the elders of his own tribe,
wadsetters and tacksmen, as they were called, who occupied portions of
his estate as mortgagers or lessees, sat next in rank; beneath them,
their sons and nephews and foster-brethren; then the officers of the
Chief’s household, according to their order; and lowest of all, the
tenants who actually cultivated the ground. Even beyond this long
perspective, Edward might see upon the green, to which a huge pair of
folding doors opened, a multitude of Highlanders of a yet inferior
description, who, nevertheless, were considered as guests, and had
their share both of the countenance of the entertainer and of the cheer
of the day. In the distance, and fluctuating round this extreme verge
of the banquet, was a changeful group of women, ragged boys and girls,
beggars, young and old, large greyhounds, and terriers, and pointers,
and curs of low degree; all of whom took some interest, more or less
immediate, in the main action of the piece.

This hospitality, apparently unbounded, had yet its line of economy.
Some pains had been bestowed in dressing the dishes of fish, game,
etc., which were at the upper end of the table, and immediately under
the eye of the English stranger. Lower down stood immense clumsy joints
of mutton and beef, which, but for the absence of pork,[21] abhorred in
the Highlands, resembled the rude festivity of the banquet of
Penelope’s suitors. But the central dish was a yearling lamb, called “a
hog in har’st,” roasted whole. It was set upon its legs, with a bunch
of parsley in its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to
gratify the pride of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty
than the elegance of his master’s table. The sides of this poor animal
were fiercely attacked by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with
the knives which were usually in the same sheath with the dagger, so
that it was soon rendered a mangled and rueful spectacle. Lower down
still, the victuals seemed of yet coarser quality, though sufficiently
abundant. Broth, onions, cheese, and the fragments of the feast regaled
the sons of Ivor who feasted in the open air.

The liquor was supplied in the same proportion, and under similar
regulations. Excellent claret and champagne were liberally distributed
among the Chief’s immediate neighbours; whisky, plain or diluted, and
strong beer refreshed those who sat near the lower end. Nor did this
inequality of distribution appear to give the least offence. Every one
present understood that his taste was to be formed according to the
rank which he held at table; and, consequently, the tacksmen and their
dependants always professed the wine was too cold for their stomachs,
and called, apparently out of choice, for the liquor which was assigned
to them from economy.[22] The bag-pipers, three in number, screamed,
during the whole time of dinner, a tremendous war-tune; and the echoing
of the vaulted roof, and clang of the Celtic tongue, produced such a
Babel of noises that Waverley dreaded his ears would never recover it.
Mac-Ivor, indeed, apologised for the confusion occasioned by so large a
party, and pleaded the necessity of his situation, on which unlimited
hospitality was imposed as a paramount duty. “These stout idle kinsmen
of mine,” he said, “account my estate as held in trust for their
support; and I must find them beef and ale, while the rogues will do
nothing for themselves but practise the broadsword, or wander about the
hills, shooting, fishing, hunting, drinking, and making love to the
lasses of the strath. But what can I do, Captain Waverley? everything
will keep after its kind, whether it be a hawk or a Highlander.” Edward
made the expected answer, in a compliment upon his possessing so many
bold and attached followers.

“Why, yes,” replied the Chief, “were I disposed, like my father, to put
myself in the way of getting one blow on the head, or two on the neck,
I believe the loons would stand by me. But who thinks of that in the
present day, when the maxim is, ‘Better an old woman with a purse in
her hand than three men with belted brands?’” Then, turning to the
company, he proposed the “Health of Captain Waverley, a worthy friend
of his kind neighbour and ally, the Baron of Bradwardine.”

“He is welcome hither,” said one of the elders, “if he come from Cosmo
Comyne Bradwardine.”

“I say nay to that,” said an old man, who apparently did not mean to
pledge the toast;—“I say nay to that. While there is a green leaf in
the forest, there will be fraud in a Comyne.”

“There is nothing but honour in the Baron of Bradwardine,” answered
another ancient; “and the guest that comes hither from him should be
welcome, though he came with blood on his hand, unless it were blood of
the race of Ivor.”

The old man whose cup remained full replied, “There has been blood
enough of the race of Ivor on the hand of Bradwardine.”

“Ah! Ballenkeiroch,” replied the first, “you think rather of the flash
of the carbine at the mains of Tully-Veolan than the glance of the
sword that fought for the cause at Preston.”

“And well I may,” answered Ballenkeiroch; “the flash of the gun cost me
a fair-haired son, and the glance of the sword has done but little for
King James.”

The Chieftain, in two words of French, explained to Waverley that the
Baron had shot this old man’s son in a fray near Tully-Veolan, about
seven years before; and then hastened to remove Ballenkeiroch’s
prejudice, by informing him that Waverley was an Englishman,
unconnected by birth or alliance with the family of Bradwardine; upon
which the old gentleman raised the hitherto-untasted cup and
courteously drank to his health. This ceremony being requited in kind,
the Chieftain made a signal for the pipes to cease, and said aloud,
“Where is the song hidden, my friends, that Mac-Murrough cannot find
it?”

Mac-Murrough, the family _bhairdh_, an aged man, immediately took the
hint, and began to chant, with low and rapid utterance, a profusion of
Celtic verses, which were received by the audience with all the
applause of enthusiasm. As he advanced in his declamation, his ardour
seemed to increase. He had at first spoken with his eyes fixed on the
ground; he now cast them around as if beseeching, and anon as if
commanding, attention, and his tones rose into wild and impassioned
notes, accompanied with appropriate gestures. He seemed to Edward, who
attended to him with much interest, to recite many proper names, to
lament the dead, to apostrophise the absent, to exhort, and entreat,
and animate those who were present. Waverley thought he even discerned
his own name, and was convinced his conjecture was right from the eyes
of the company being at that moment turned towards him simultaneously.
The ardour of the poet appeared to communicate itself to the audience.
Their wild and sun-burnt countenances assumed a fiercer and more
animated expression; all bent forward towards the reciter, many sprung
up and waved their arms in ecstasy, and some laid their hands on their
swords. When the song ceased, there was a deep pause, while the aroused
feelings of the poet and of the hearers gradually subsided into their
usual channel.

The Chieftain, who, during this scene had appeared rather to watch the
emotions which were excited than to partake their high tone of
enthusiasm, filled with claret a small silver cup which stood by him.
“Give this,” he said to an attendant, “to Mac-Murrough nan Fonn (that
is, of the songs), and when he has drank the juice, bid him keep, for
the sake of Vich Ian Vohr, the shell of the gourd which contained it.”
The gift was received by Mac-Murrough with profound gratitude; he drank
the wine, and, kissing the cup, shrouded it with reverence in the plaid
which was folded on his bosom. He then burst forth into what Edward
justly supposed to be an extemporaneous effusion of thanks and praises
of his Chief. It was received with applause, but did not produce the
effect of his first poem. It was obvious, however, that the clan
regarded the generosity of their Chieftain with high approbation. Many
approved Gaelic toasts were then proposed, of some of which the
Chieftain gave his guest the following versions:—

“To him that will not turn his back on friend or foe.” “To him that
never forsook a comrade.” “To him that never bought or sold justice.”
“Hospitality to the exile, and broken bones to the tyrant.” “The lads
with the kilts.” “Highlanders, shoulder to shoulder,”—with many other
pithy sentiments of the like nature.

Edward was particularly solicitous to know the meaning of that song
which appeared to produce such effect upon the passions of the company,
and hinted his curiosity to his host. “As I observe,” said the
Chieftain, “that you have passed the bottle during the last three
rounds, I was about to propose to you to retire to my sister’s
tea-table, who can explain these things to you better than I can.
Although I cannot stint my clan in the usual current of their
festivity, yet I neither am addicted myself to exceed in its amount,
nor do I,” added he, smiling, “keep a Bear to devour the intellects of
such as can make good use of them.”

Edward readily assented to this proposal, and the Chieftain, saying a
few words to those around him, left the table, followed by Waverley. As
the door closed behind them, Edward heard Vich Ian Vohr’s health
invoked with a wild and animated cheer, that expressed the satisfaction
of the guests and the depth of their devotion to his service.




CHAPTER XXI.
THE CHIEFTAIN’S SISTER


The drawing-room of Flora Mac-Ivor was furnished in the plainest and
most simple manner; for at Glennaquoich every other sort of expenditure
was retrenched as much as possible, for the purpose of maintaining, in
its full dignity, the hospitality of the Chieftain, and retaining and
multiplying the number of his dependants and adherents. But there was
no appearance of this parsimony in the dress of the lady herself, which
was in texture elegant, and even rich, and arranged in a manner which
partook partly of the Parisian fashion and partly of the more simple
dress of the Highlands, blended together with great taste. Her hair was
not disfigured by the art of the friseur, but fell in jetty ringlets on
her neck, confined only by a circlet, richly set with diamonds. This
peculiarity she adopted in compliance with the Highland prejudices,
which could not endure that a woman’s head should be covered before
wedlock.

Flora Mac-Ivor bore a most striking resemblance to her brother Fergus;
so much so that they might have played Viola and Sebastian with the
same exquisite effect produced by the appearance of Mrs. Henry Siddons
and her brother, Mr. William Murray, in these characters. They had the
same antique and regular correctness of profile; the same dark eyes,
eye-lashes, and eye-brows; the same clearness of complexion, excepting
that Fergus’s was embrowned by exercise and Flora’s possessed the
utmost feminine delicacy. But the haughty and somewhat stern regularity
of Fergus’s features was beautifully softened in those of Flora. Their
voices were also similar in tone, though differing in the key. That of
Fergus, especially while issuing orders to his followers during their
military exercise, reminded Edward of a favourite passage in the
description of Emetrius:

“Whose voice was heard around,
Loud as a trumpet with a silver sound.”


That of Flora, on the contrary, was soft and sweet—“an excellent thing
in woman”; yet, in urging any favourite topic, which she often pursued
with natural eloquence, it possessed as well the tones which impress
awe and conviction as those of persuasive insinuation. The eager glance
of the keen black eye, which, in the Chieftain, seemed impatient even
of the material obstacles it encountered, had in his sister acquired a
gentle pensiveness. His looks seemed to seek glory, power, all that
could exalt him above others in the race of humanity; while those of
his sister, as if she were already conscious of mental superiority,
seemed to pity, rather than envy, those who were struggling for any
farther distinction. Her sentiments corresponded with the expression of
her countenance. Early education had impressed upon her mind, as well
as on that of the Chieftain, the most devoted attachment to the exiled
family of Stuart. She believed it the duty of her brother, of his clan,
of every man in Britain, at whatever personal hazard, to contribute to
that restoration which the partisans of the Chevalier St. George had
not ceased to hope for. For this she was prepared to do all, to suffer
all, to sacrifice all. But her loyalty, as it exceeded her brother’s in
fanaticism, excelled it also in purity. Accustomed to petty intrigue,
and necessarily involved in a thousand paltry and selfish discussions,
ambitious also by nature, his political faith was tinctured, at least,
if not tainted, by the views of interest and advancement so easily
combined with it; and at the moment he should unsheathe his claymore,
it might be difficult to say whether it would be most with the view of
making James Stuart a king or Fergus Mac-Ivor an earl. This, indeed,
was a mixture of feeling which he did not avow even to himself, but it
existed, nevertheless, in a powerful degree.

In Flora’s bosom, on the contrary, the zeal of loyalty burnt pure and
unmixed with any selfish feeling; she would have as soon made religion
the mask of ambitious and interested views as have shrouded them under
the opinions which she had been taught to think patriotism. Such
instances of devotion were not uncommon among the followers of the
unhappy race of Stuart, of which many memorable proofs will recur to
the minds of most of my readers. But peculiar attention on the part of
the Chevalier de St. George and his princess to the parents of Fergus
and his sister, and to themselves when orphans, had riveted their
faith. Fergus, upon the death of his parents, had been for some time a
page of honour in the train of the Chevalier’s lady, and, from his
beauty and sprightly temper, was uniformly treated by her with the
utmost distinction. This was also extended to Flora, who was maintained
for some time at a convent of the first order at the princess’s
expense, and removed from thence into her own family, where she spent
nearly two years. Both brother and sister retained the deepest and most
grateful sense of her kindness.

Having thus touched upon the leading principle of Flora’s character, I
may dismiss the rest more slightly. She was highly accomplished, and
had acquired those elegant manners to be expected from one who, in
early youth, had been the companion of a princess; yet she had not
learned to substitute the gloss of politeness for the reality of
feeling. When settled in the lonely regions of Glennaquoich, she found
that her resources in French, English, and Italian literature were
likely to be few and interrupted; and, in order to fill up the vacant
time, she bestowed a part of it upon the music and poetical traditions
of the Highlanders, and began really to feel the pleasure in the
pursuit which her brother, whose perceptions of literary merit were
more blunt, rather affected for the sake of popularity than actually
experienced. Her resolution was strengthened in these researches by the
extreme delight which her inquiries seemed to afford those to whom she
resorted for information.

Her love of her clan, an attachment which was almost hereditary in her
bosom, was, like her loyalty, a more pure passion than that of her
brother. He was too thorough a politician, regarded his patriarchal
influence too much as the means of accomplishing his own
aggrandisement, that we should term him the model of a Highland
Chieftain. Flora felt the same anxiety for cherishing and extending
their patriarchal sway, but it was with the generous desire of
vindicating from poverty, or at least from want and foreign oppression,
those whom her brother was by birth, according to the notions of the
time and country, entitled to govern. The savings of her income, for
she had a small pension from the Princess Sobieski, were dedicated, not
to add to the comforts of the peasantry, for that was a word which they
neither knew nor apparently wished to know, but to relieve their
absolute necessities when in sickness or extreme old age. At every
other period they rather toiled to procure something which they might
share with the Chief, as a proof of their attachment, than expected
other assistance from him save what was afforded by the rude
hospitality of his castle, and the general division and subdivision of
his estate among them. Flora was so much beloved by them that, when
Mac-Murrough composed a song in which he enumerated all the principal
beauties of the district, and intimated her superiority by concluding,
that “the fairest apple hung on the highest bough,” he received, in
donatives from the individuals of the clan, more seed-barley than would
have sowed his Highland Parnassus, the bard’s croft, as it was called,
ten times over.

From situation as well as choice, Miss Mac-Ivor’s society was extremely
limited. Her most intimate friend had been Rose Bradwardine, to whom
she was much attached; and when seen together, they would have afforded
an artist two admirable subjects for the gay and the melancholy muse.
Indeed Rose was so tenderly watched by her father, and her circle of
wishes was so limited, that none arose but what he was willing to
gratify, and scarce any which did not come within the compass of his
power. With Flora it was otherwise. While almost a girl she had
undergone the most complete change of scene, from gaiety and splendour
to absolute solitude and comparative poverty; and the ideas and wishes
which she chiefly fostered respected great national events, and changes
not to be brought round without both hazard and bloodshed, and
therefore not to be thought of with levity. Her manner, consequently,
was grave, though she readily contributed her talents to the amusement
of society, and stood very high in the opinion of the old Baron, who
used to sing along with her such French duets of Lindor and Cloris,
etc., as were in fashion about the end of the reign of old Louis le
Grand.

It was generally believed, though no one durst have hinted it to the
Baron of Bradwardine, that Flora’s entreaties had no small share in
allaying the wrath of Fergus upon occasion of their quarrel. She took
her brother on the assailable side, by dwelling first upon the Baron’s
age, and then representing the injury which the cause might sustain,
and the damage which must arise to his own character in point of
prudence—so necessary to a political agent, if he persisted in carrying
it to extremity. Otherwise it is probable it would have terminated in a
duel, both because the Baron had, on a former occasion, shed blood of
the clan, though the matter had been timely accommodated, and on
account of his high reputation for address at his weapon, which Fergus
almost condescended to envy. For the same reason she had urged their
reconciliation, which the Chieftain the more readily agreed to as it
favoured some ulterior projects of his own.

To this young lady, now presiding at the female empire of the
tea-table, Fergus introduced Captain Waverley, whom she received with
the usual forms of politeness.




CHAPTER XXII.
HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY


When the first salutations had passed, Fergus said to his sister, “My
dear Flora, before I return to the barbarous ritual of our forefathers,
I must tell you that Captain Waverley is a worshipper of the Celtic
muse, not the less so perhaps that he does not understand a word of her
language. I have told him you are eminent as a translator of Highland
poetry, and that Mac-Murrough admires your version of his songs upon
the same principle that Captain Waverley admires the original,—because
he does not comprehend them. Will you have the goodness to read or
recite to our guest in English the extraordinary string of names which
Mac-Murrough has tacked together in Gaelic? My life to a moor-fowl’s
feather, you are provided with a version; for I know you are in all the
bard’s councils, and acquainted with his songs long before he rehearses
them in the hall.”

“How can you say so, Fergus? You know how little these verses can
possibly interest an English stranger, even if I could translate them
as you pretend.”

“Not less than they interest me, lady fair. To-day your joint
composition, for I insist you had a share in it, has cost me the last
silver cup in the castle, and I suppose will cost me something else
next time I hold _cour plénière_, if the muse descends on Mac-Murrough;
for you know our proverb,—“When the hand of the chief ceases to bestow,
the breath of the bard is frozen in the utterance.”—Well, I would it
were even so: there are three things that are useless to a modern
Highlander,—a sword which he must not draw, a bard to sing of deeds
which he dare not imitate, and a large goat-skin purse without a
louis-d’or to put into it.”

“Well, brother, since you betray my secrets, you cannot expect me to
keep yours. I assure you, Captain Waverley, that Fergus is too proud to
exchange his broadsword for a maréchal’s baton, that he esteems
Mac-Murrough a far greater poet than Homer, and would not give up his
goat-skin purse for all the louis-d’or which it could contain.”

“Well pronounced, Flora; blow for blow, as Conan[23] said to the devil.
Now do you two talk of bards and poetry, if not of purses and
claymores, while I return to do the final honours to the senators of
the tribe of Ivor.” So saying, he left the room.

The conversation continued between Flora and Waverley; for two
well-dressed young women, whose character seemed to hover between that
of companions and dependants, took no share in it. They were both
pretty girls, but served only as foils to the grace and beauty of their
patroness. The discourse followed the turn which the Chieftain had
given it, and Waverley was equally amused and surprised with the
account which the lady gave him of Celtic poetry.

“The recitation,” she said, “of poems recording the feats of heroes,
the complaints of lovers, and the wars of contending tribes, forms the
chief amusement of a winter fire-side in the Highlands. Some of these
are said to be very ancient, and if they are ever translated into any
of the languages of civilised Europe, cannot fail to produce a deep and
general sensation. Others are more modern, the composition of those
family bards whom the chieftains of more distinguished name and power
retain as the poets and historians of their tribes. These, of course,
possess various degrees of merit; but much of it must evaporate in
translation, or be lost on those who do not sympathise with the
feelings of the poet.”

“And your bard, whose effusions seemed to produce such effect upon the
company to-day, is he reckoned among the favourite poets of the
mountains?”

“That is a trying question. His reputation is high among his
countrymen, and you must not expect me to depreciate it.[*]

[* The Highland poet almost always was an improvisatore. Captain Burt
met one of them at Lovat’s table.]


“But the song, Miss Mac-Ivor, seemed to awaken all those warriors, both
young and old.”

“The song is little more than a catalogue of names of the Highland
clans under their distinctive peculiarities, and an exhortation to them
to remember and to emulate the actions of their forefathers.”

“And am I wrong in conjecturing, however extraordinary the guess
appears, that there was some allusion to me in the verses which he
recited?”

“You have a quick observation, Captain Waverley, which in this instance
has not deceived you. The Gaelic language, being uncommonly vocalic, is
well adapted for sudden and extemporaneous poetry; and a bard seldom
fails to augment the effects of a premeditated song by throwing in any
stanzas which may be suggested by the circumstances attending the
recitation.”

“I would give my best horse to know what the Highland bard could find
to say of such an unworthy Southron as myself.”

“It shall not even cost you a lock of his mane. Una, _Mavourneen!_ (She
spoke a few words to one of the young girls in attendance, who
instantly curtsied and tripped out of the room.) I have sent Una to
learn from the bard the expressions he used, and you shall command my
skill as dragoman.”

Una returned in a few minutes, and repeated to her mistress a few lines
in Gaelic. Flora seemed to think for a moment, and then, slightly
colouring, she turned to Waverley—“It is impossible to gratify your
curiosity, Captain Waverley, without exposing my own presumption. If
you will give me a few moments for consideration, I will endeavour to
engraft the meaning of these lines upon a rude English translation
which I have attempted of a part of the original. The duties of the
tea-table seem to be concluded, and, as the evening is delightful, Una
will show you the way to one of my favourite haunts, and Cathleen and I
will join you there.”

Una, having received instructions in her native language, conducted
Waverley out by a passage different from that through which he had
entered the apartment. At a distance he heard the hall of the Chief
still resounding with the clang of bagpipes and the high applause of
his guests. Having gained the open air by a postern door, they walked a
little way up the wild, bleak, and narrow valley in which the house was
situated, following the course of the stream that winded through it. In
a spot, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, two brooks, which
formed the little river, had their junction. The larger of the two came
down the long bare valley, which extended, apparently without any
change or elevation of character, as far as the hills which formed its
boundary permitted the eye to reach. But the other stream, which had
its source among the mountains on the left hand of the strath, seemed
to issue from a very narrow and dark opening betwixt two large rocks.
These streams were different also in character. The larger was placid,
and even sullen in its course, wheeling in deep eddies, or sleeping in
dark blue pools; but the motions of the lesser brook were rapid and
furious, issuing from between precipices, like a maniac from his
confinement, all foam and uproar.

It was up the course of this last stream that Waverley, like a knight
of romance, was conducted by the fair Highland damsel, his silent
guide. A small path, which had been rendered easy in many places for
Flora’s accommodation, led him through scenery of a very different
description from that which he had just quitted. Around the castle all
was cold, bare, and desolate, yet tame even in desolation; but this
narrow glen, at so short a distance, seemed to open into the land of
romance. The rocks assumed a thousand peculiar and varied forms. In one
place a crag of huge size presented its gigantic bulk, as if to forbid
the passenger’s farther progress; and it was not until he approached
its very base that Waverley discerned the sudden and acute turn by
which the pathway wheeled its course around this formidable obstacle.
In another spot the projecting rocks from the opposite sides of the
chasm had approached so near to each other that two pine-trees laid
across, and covered with turf, formed a rustic bridge at the height of
at least one hundred and fifty feet. It had no ledges, and was barely
three feet in breadth.

While gazing at this pass of peril, which crossed, like a single black
line, the small portion of blue sky not intercepted by the projecting
rocks on either side, it was with a sensation of horror that Waverley
beheld Flora and her attendant appear, like inhabitants of another
region, propped, as it were, in mid air, upon this trembling structure.
She stopped upon observing him below, and, with an air of graceful ease
which made him shudder, waved her handkerchief to him by way of signal.
He was unable, from the sense of dizziness which her situation
conveyed, to return the salute; and was never more relieved than when
the fair apparition passed on from the precarious eminence which she
seemed to occupy with so much indifference, and disappeared on the
other side.

Advancing a few yards, and passing under the bridge which he had viewed
with so much terror, the path ascended rapidly from the edge of the
brook, and the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheatre, waving with
birch, young oaks, and hazels, with here and there a scattered
yew-tree. The rocks now receded, but still showed their grey and shaggy
crests rising among the copse-wood. Still higher rose eminences and
peaks, some bare, some clothed with wood, some round and purple with
heath, and others splintered into rocks and crags. At a short turning
the path, which had for some furlongs lost sight of the brook, suddenly
placed Waverley in front of a romantic waterfall. It was not so
remarkable either for great height or quantity of water as for the
beautiful accompaniments which made the spot interesting. After a
broken cataract of about twenty feet, the stream was received in a
large natural basin filled to the brim with water, which, where the
bubbles of the fall subsided, was so exquisitely clear that, although
it was of great depth, the eye could discern each pebble at the bottom.
Eddying round this reservoir, the brook found its way as if over a
broken part of the ledge, and formed a second fall, which seemed to
seek the very abyss; then, wheeling out beneath from among the smooth
dark rocks which it had polished for ages, it wandered murmuring down
the glen, forming the stream up which Waverley had just ascended.[24]
The borders of this romantic reservoir corresponded in beauty; but it
was beauty of a stern and commanding cast, as if in the act of
expanding into grandeur. Mossy banks of turf were broken and
interrupted by huge fragments of rock, and decorated with trees and
shrubs, some of which had been planted under the direction of Flora,
but so cautiously that they added to the grace without diminishing the
romantic wildness of the scene.

Here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapes of
Poussin, Waverley found Flora gazing on the waterfall. Two paces
further back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use of
which had been taught to Flora by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers of
the Western Highlands. The sun, now stooping in the west, gave a rich
and varied tinge to all the objects which surrounded Waverley, and
seemed to add more than human brilliancy to the full expressive
darkness of Flora’s eye, exalted the richness and purity of her
complexion, and enhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form.
Edward thought he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined a
figure of such exquisite and interesting loveliness. The wild beauty of
the retreat, bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled
feeling of delight and awe with which he approached her, like a fair
enchantress of Boiardo or Ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around
seemed to have been created an Eden in the wilderness.

Flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power, and
pleased with its effects, which she could easily discern from the
respectful yet confused address of the young soldier. But, as she
possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene and other
accidental circumstances full weight in appreciating the feelings with
which Waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and, unacquainted with
the fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, considered
his homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charms
might have expected in such a situation. She therefore quietly led the
way to a spot at such a distance from the cascade that its sound should
rather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and,
sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from
Cathleen.

“I have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, Captain
Waverley, both because I thought the scenery would interest you, and
because a Highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect
translation were I to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate
accompaniments. To speak in the poetical language of my country, the
seat of the Celtic Muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill,
and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream. He who woos her
must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the
solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.”

Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a
voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that the
muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate
representative. But Waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind,
found no courage to utter it. Indeed, the wild feeling of romantic
delight with which he heard the few first notes she drew from her
instrument amounted almost to a sense of pain. He would not for worlds
have quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude,
that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication of
emotions which now agitated his bosom.

Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard
for a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle-song in
former ages. A few irregular strains introduced a prelude of a wild and
peculiar tone, which harmonised well with the distant waterfall, and
the soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen,
which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. The following verses
convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and
accompanied, they were heard by Waverley:—

There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded—it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumb’d every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden’d with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hush’d every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale’s peaks are illumined with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan[*] leap bright in the blaze.

O high-minded Moray,[**] the exiled! the dear!
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the North let it fly,
Like the sun’s latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beam’d on your forefathers’ eye,
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

O, sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat!
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe!

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle’s bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!

Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renown’d Rorri More,
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar.

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o’er tresses of grey!
How the race of wrong’d Alpine and murder’d Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!
Mac-Neil of the islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!


[* The young and daring adventurer, Charles Edward, landed at
Glenaladale, in Moidart, and displayed his standard in the valley of
Glenfinnan, mustering around it the Mac-Donalds, the Camerons, and
other less numerous clans, whom he had prevailed on to join him. There
is a monument erected on the spot, with a Latin inscription by the late
Doctor Gregory.]

[** The Marquis of Tullibardine’s elder brother, who, long exiled,
returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745.]

Here a large greyhound, bounding up the glen, jumped upon Flora and
interrupted her music by his importunate caresses. At a distant whistle
he turned and shot down the path again with the rapidity of an arrow.
“That is Fergus’s faithful attendant, Captain Waverley, and that was
his signal. He likes no poetry but what is humorous, and comes in good
time to interrupt my long catalogue of the tribes, whom one of your
saucy English poets calls

“‘Our bootless host of high-born beggars,
Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.’”


Waverley expressed his regret at the interruption.

“O you cannot guess how much you have lost! The bard, as in duty bound,
has addressed three long stanzas to Vich Ian Vohr of the Banners,
enumerating all his great properties, and not forgetting his being a
cheerer of the harper and bard—‘a giver of bounteous gifts.’ Besides,
you should have heard a practical admonition to the fair-haired son of
the stranger, who lives in the land where the grass is always green—the
rider on the shining pampered steed, whose hue is like the raven, and
whose neigh is like the scream of the eagle for battle. This valiant
horseman is affectionately conjured to remember that his ancestors were
distinguished by their loyalty as well as by their courage. All this
you have lost; but, since your curiosity is not satisfied, I judge,
from the distant sound of my brother’s whistle, I may have time to sing
the concluding stanzas before he comes to laugh at my translation.”

“Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
’T is the bugle—but not for the chase is the call;
’T is the pibroch’s shrill summons—but not to the hall.

“’T is the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath:
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.

“Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin’s in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore,
Or die like your sires, and endure it no more!


[Illustration]




CHAPTER XXIII.
WAVERLEY CONTINUES AT GLENNAQUOICH


As Flora concluded her song, Fergus stood before them. “I knew I should
find you here, even without the assistance of my friend Bran. A simple
and unsublimed taste now, like my own, would prefer a _jet d’eau_ at
Versailles to this cascade, with all its accompaniments of rock and
roar; but this is Flora’s Parnassus, Captain Waverley, and that
fountain her Helicon. It would be greatly for the benefit of my cellar
if she could teach her coadjutor, Mac-Murrough, the value of its
influence: he has just drunk a pint of usquebaugh to correct, he said,
the coldness of the claret. Let me try its virtues.” He sipped a little
water in the hollow of his hand, and immediately commenced, with a
theatrical air,—

“O Lady of the desert, hail!
That lovest the harping of the Gael,
Through fair and fertile regions borne,
Where never yet grew grass or corn.


But English poetry will never succeed under the influence of a Highland
Helicon. _Allons, courage!_

O vous, qui buvez, à tasse pleine,
A cette heureuse fontaine,
Où on ne voit, sur le rivage,
    Que quelques vilains troupeaux,
Suivis de nymphes de village,
    Qui les escortent sans sabots—”


“A truce, dear Fergus! spare us those most tedious and insipid persons
of all Arcadia. Do not, for Heaven’s sake, bring down Coridon and
Lindor upon us.”

“Nay, if you cannot relish _la houlette et le chalumeau_, have with you
in heroic strains.”

“Dear Fergus, you have certainly partaken of the inspiration of
Mac-Murrough’s cup rather than of mine.”

“I disclaim it, _ma belle demoiselle_, although I protest it would be
the more congenial of the two. Which of your crack-brained Italian
romancers is it that says,

Io d’Elicona niente
Mi curo, in fe de Dio; che’l bere d’acque
(Bea chi ber ne vuol) sempre mi spiacque![*]


[* Good sooth, I reck nought of your Helicon;
Drink water whoso will, in faith I will drink none.]


But if you prefer the Gaelic, Captain Waverley, here is little Cathleen
shall sing you Drimmindhu. Come, Cathleen, _astore_ (that is, my dear),
begin; no apologies to the _Cean-kinné_.”

Cathleen sung with much liveliness a little Gaelic song, the burlesque
elegy of a countryman on the loss of his cow, the comic tones of which,
though he did not understand the language, made Waverley laugh more
than once.[*]

[* This ancient Gaelic ditty is still well known, both in the Highlands
and in Ireland. It was translated into English, and published, if I
mistake not, under the auspices of the facetious Tom D’Urfey, by the
title of “Colley, my Cow.”]


“Admirable, Cathleen!” cried the Chieftain; “I must find you a handsome
husband among the clansmen one of these days.”

Cathleen laughed, blushed, and sheltered herself behind her companion.

In the progress of their return to the castle, the Chieftain warmly
pressed Waverley to remain for a week or two, in order to see a grand
hunting party, in which he and some other Highland gentlemen proposed
to join. The charms of melody and beauty were too strongly impressed in
Edward’s breast to permit his declining an invitation so pleasing. It
was agreed, therefore, that he should write a note to the Baron of
Bradwardine, expressing his intention to stay a fortnight at
Glennaquoich, and requesting him to forward by the bearer (a _gilly_ of
the Chieftain’s) any letters which might have arrived for him.

This turned the discourse upon the Baron, whom Fergus highly extolled
as a gentleman and soldier. His character was touched with yet more
discrimination by Flora, who observed he was the very model of the old
Scottish cavalier, with all his excellencies and peculiarities. “It is
a character, Captain Waverley, which is fast disappearing; for its best
point was a self-respect which was never lost sight of till now. But in
the present time the gentlemen whose principles do not permit them to
pay court to the existing government are neglected and degraded, and
many conduct themselves accordingly; and, like some of the persons you
have seen at Tully-Veolan, adopt habits and companions inconsistent
with their birth and breeding. The ruthless proscription of party seems
to degrade the victims whom it brands, however unjustly. But let us
hope a brighter day is approaching, when a Scottish country gentleman
may be a scholar without the pedantry of our friend the Baron, a
sportsman without the low habits of Mr. Falconer, and a judicious
improver of his property without becoming a boorish two-legged steer
like Killancureit.”

Thus did Flora prophesy a revolution, which time indeed has produced,
but in a manner very different from what she had in her mind.

The amiable Rose was next mentioned, with the warmest encomium on her
person, manners, and mind. “That man,” said Flora, “will find an
inestimable treasure in the affections of Rose Bradwardine who shall be
so fortunate as to become their object. Her very soul is in home, and
in the discharge of all those quiet virtues of which home is the
centre. Her husband will be to her what her father now is, the object
of all her care, solicitude, and affection. She will see nothing, and
connect herself with nothing, but by him and through him. If he is a
man of sense and virtue, she will sympathise in his sorrows, divert his
fatigue, and share his pleasures. If she becomes the property of a
churlish or negligent husband, she will suit his taste also, for she
will not long survive his unkindness. And, alas! how great is the
chance that some such unworthy lot may be that of my poor friend! O
that I were a queen this moment, and could command the most amiable and
worthy youth of my kingdom to accept happiness with the hand of Rose
Bradwardine!”

“I wish you would command her to accept mine _en attendant_,” said
Fergus, laughing.

I don’t know by what caprice it was that this wish, however jocularly
expressed, rather jarred on Edward’s feelings, notwithstanding his
growing inclination to Flora and his indifference to Miss Bradwardine.
This is one of the inexplicabilities of human nature, which we leave
without comment.

“Yours, brother?” answered Flora, regarding him steadily. “No; you have
another bride—Honour; and the dangers you must run in pursuit of her
rival would break poor Rose’s heart.”

With this discourse they reached the castle, and Waverley soon prepared
his despatches for Tully-Veolan. As he knew the Baron was punctilious
in such matters, he was about to impress his billet with a seal on
which his armorial bearings were engraved, but he did not find it at
his watch, and thought he must have left it at Tully-Veolan. He
mentioned his loss, borrowing at the same time the family seal of the
Chieftain.

“Surely,” said Miss Mac-Ivor, “Donald Bean Lean would not—”

“My life for him in such circumstances,” answered her brother;
“besides, he would never have left the watch behind.”

“After all, Fergus,” said Flora, “and with every allowance, I am
surprised you can countenance that man.”

“I countenance him? This kind sister of mine would persuade you,
Captain Waverley, that I take what the people of old used to call “a
steakraid,” that is, a “collop of the foray,” or, in plainer words, a
portion of the robber’s booty, paid by him to the Laird, or Chief,
through whose grounds he drove his prey. O, it is certain that, unless
I can find some way to charm Flora’s tongue, General Blakeney will send
a sergeant’s party from Stirling (this he said with haughty and
emphatic irony) to seize Vich Ian Vohr, as they nickname me, in his own
castle.”

“Now, Fergus, must not our guest be sensible that all this is folly and
affectation? You have men enough to serve you without enlisting
banditti, and your own honour is above taint. Why don’t you send this
Donald Bean Lean, whom I hate for his smoothness and duplicity even
more than for his rapine, out of your country at once? No cause should
induce me to tolerate such a character.”

“_No_ cause, Flora?” said the Chieftain significantly.

“No cause, Fergus! not even that which is nearest to my heart. Spare it
the omen of such evil supporters!”

“O but, sister,” rejoined the Chief gaily, “you don’t consider my
respect for _la belle passion_. Evan Dhu Maccombich is in love with
Donald’s daughter, Alice, and you cannot expect me to disturb him in
his amours. Why, the whole clan would cry shame on me. You know it is
one of their wise sayings, that a kinsman is part of a man’s body, but
a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.”

“Well, Fergus, there is no disputing with you; but I would all this may
end well.”

“Devoutly prayed, my dear and prophetic sister, and the best way in the
world to close a dubious argument. But hear ye not the pipes, Captain
Waverley? Perhaps you will like better to dance to them in the hall
than to be deafened with their harmony without taking part in the
exercise they invite us to.”

Waverley took Flora’s hand. The dance, song, and merry-making
proceeded, and closed the day’s entertainment at the castle of Vich Ian
Vohr. Edward at length retired, his mind agitated by a variety of new
and conflicting feelings, which detained him from rest for some time,
in that not unpleasing state of mind in which fancy takes the helm, and
the soul rather drifts passively along with the rapid and confused tide
of reflections than exerts itself to encounter, systematise, or examine
them. At a late hour he fell asleep, and dreamed of Flora Mac-Ivor.




CHAPTER XXIV.
A STAG-HUNT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES


Shall this be a long or a short chapter? This is a question in which
you, gentle reader, have no vote, however much you may be interested in
the consequences; just as you may (like myself) probably have nothing
to do with the imposing a new tax, excepting the trifling circumstance
of being obliged to pay it. More happy surely in the present case,
since, though it lies within my arbitrary power to extend my materials
as I think proper, I cannot call you into Exchequer if you do not think
proper to read my narrative. Let me therefore consider. It is true that
the annals and documents in my hands say but little of this Highland
chase; but then I can find copious materials for description elsewhere.
There is old Lindsay of Pitscottie ready at my elbow, with his Athole
hunting, and his “lofted and joisted palace of green timber; with all
kind of drink to be had in burgh and land, as ale, beer, wine,
muscadel, malvaise, hippocras, and aqua-vitæ; with wheat-bread,
main-bread, ginge-bread, beef, mutton, lamb, veal, venison, goose,
grice, capon, coney, crane, swan, partridge, plover, duck, drake,
brissel-cock, pawnies, black-cock, muir-fowl, and capercailzies”; not
forgetting the “costly bedding, vaiselle, and napry,” and least of all
the “excelling stewards, cunning baxters, excellent cooks, and
pottingars, with confections and drugs for the desserts.” Besides the
particulars which may be thence gleaned for this Highland feast (the
splendour of which induced the Pope’s legate to dissent from an opinion
which he had hitherto held, that Scotland, namely, was the—the—the
latter end of the world)—besides these, might I not illuminate my pages
with Taylor the Water Poet’s hunting in the braes of Mar, where,—

Through heather, mosse, ’mong frogs, and bogs, and fogs,
    ’Mongst craggy cliffs and thunder-batter’d hills,
Hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and dogs,
    Where two hours’ hunting fourscore fat deer kills.
Lowland, your sports are low as is your seat;
The Highland games and minds are high and great.


But without further tyranny over my readers, or display of the extent
of my own reading, I shall content myself with borrowing a single
incident from the memorable hunting at Lude, commemorated in the
ingenious Mr. Gunn’s essay on the Caledonian Harp, and so proceed in my
story with all the brevity that my natural style of composition,
partaking of what scholars call the periphrastic and ambagitory, and
the vulgar the circumbendibus, will permit me.

The solemn hunting was delayed, from various causes, for about three
weeks. The interval was spent by Waverley with great satisfaction at
Glennaquoich; for the impression which Flora had made on his mind at
their first meeting grew daily stronger. She was precisely the
character to fascinate a youth of romantic imagination. Her manners,
her language, her talents for poetry and music, gave additional and
varied influence to her eminent personal charms. Even in her hours of
gaiety she was in his fancy exalted above the ordinary daughters of
Eve, and seemed only to stoop for an instant to those topics of
amusement and gallantry which others appear to live for. In the
neighbourhood of this enchantress, while sport consumed the morning and
music and the dance led on the hours of evening, Waverley became daily
more delighted with his hospitable landlord, and more enamoured of his
bewitching sister.

At length the period fixed for the grand hunting arrived, and Waverley
and the Chieftain departed for the place of rendezvous, which was a
day’s journey to the northward of Glennaquoich. Fergus was attended on
this occasion by about three hundred of his clan, well armed and
accoutred in their best fashion. Waverley complied so far with the
custom of the country as to adopt the trews (he could not be reconciled
to the kilt), brogues, and bonnet, as the fittest dress for the
exercise in which he was to be engaged, and which least exposed him to
be stared at as a stranger when they should reach the place of
rendezvous. They found on the spot appointed several powerful Chiefs,
to all of whom Waverley was formally presented, and by all cordially
received. Their vassals and clansmen, a part of whose feudal duty it
was to attend on these parties, appeared in such numbers as amounted to
a small army. These active assistants spread through the country far
and near, forming a circle, technically called the “tinchel,” which,
gradually closing, drove the deer in herds together towards the glen
where the Chiefs and principal sportsmen lay in wait for them. In the
meanwhile these distinguished personages bivouacked among the flowery
heath, wrapped up in their plaids, a mode of passing a summer’s night
which Waverley found by no means unpleasant.

For many hours after sunrise the mountain ridges and passes retained
their ordinary appearance of silence and solitude, and the Chiefs, with
their followers, amused themselves with various pastimes, in which the
joys of the shell, as Ossian has it, were not forgotten. “Others apart
sat on a hill retired,” probably as deeply engaged in the discussion
of politics and news as Milton’s spirits in metaphysical disquisition.
At length signals of the approach of the game were descried and heard.
Distant shouts resounded from valley to valley, as the various parties
of Highlanders, climbing rocks, struggling through copses, wading
brooks, and traversing thickets, approached more and more near to each
other, and compelled the astonished deer, with the other wild animals
that fled before them, into a narrower circuit. Every now and then the
report of muskets was heard, repeated by a thousand echoes. The baying
of the dogs was soon added to the chorus, which grew ever louder and
more loud. At length the advanced parties of the deer began to show
themselves; and as the stragglers came bounding down the pass by two or
three at a time, the Chiefs showed their skill by distinguishing the
fattest deer, and their dexterity in bringing them down with their
guns. Fergus exhibited remarkable address, and Edward was also so
fortunate as to attract the notice and applause of the sportsmen.

But now the main body of the deer appeared at the head of the glen,
compelled into a very narrow compass, and presenting such a formidable
phalanx that their antlers appeared at a distance, over the ridge of
the steep pass, like a leafless grove. Their number was very great, and
from a desperate stand which they made, with the tallest of the
red-deer stags arranged in front, in a sort of battle-array, gazing on
the group which barred their passage down the glen, the more
experienced sportsmen began to augur danger. The work of destruction,
however, now commenced on all sides. Dogs and hunters were at work, and
muskets and fusees resounded from every quarter. The deer, driven to
desperation, made at length a fearful charge right upon the spot where
the more distinguished sportsmen had taken their stand. The word was
given in Gaelic to fling themselves upon their faces; but Waverley, on
whose English ears the signal was lost, had almost fallen a sacrifice
to his ignorance of the ancient language in which it was communicated.
Fergus, observing his danger, sprung up and pulled him with violence to
the ground, just as the whole herd broke down upon them. The tide being
absolutely irresistible, and wounds from a stag’s horn highly
dangerous,[*] the activity of the Chieftain may be considered, on this
occasion, as having saved his guest’s life. He detained him with a firm
grasp until the whole herd of deer had fairly run over them. Waverley
then attempted to rise, but found that he had suffered several very
severe contusions, and, upon a further examination, discovered that he
had sprained his ankle violently.

[* The thrust from the tynes, or branches, of the stag’s horns was
accounted far more dangerous than those of the boar’s tusk:—


If thou be hurt with horn of stag, it brings thee to thy bier,
But barber’s hand shall boar’s hurt heal, thereof have thou no fear.]


This checked the mirth of the meeting, although the Highlanders,
accustomed to such incidents, and prepared for them, had suffered no
harm themselves. A wigwam was erected almost in an instant, where
Edward was deposited on a couch of heather. The surgeon, or he who
assumed the office, appeared to unite the characters of a leech and a
conjuror. He was an old smoke-dried Highlander, wearing a venerable
grey beard, and having for his sole garment a tartan frock, the skirts
of which descended to the knee, and, being undivided in front, made the
vestment serve at once for doublet and breeches.[*] He observed great
ceremony in approaching Edward; and though our hero was writhing with
pain, would not proceed to any operation which might assuage it until
he had perambulated his couch three times, moving from east to west,
according to the course of the sun. This, which was called making the
“deasil,”[**] both the leech and the assistants seemed to consider as a
matter of the last importance to the accomplishment of a cure; and
Waverley, whom pain rendered incapable of expostulation, and who indeed
saw no chance of its being attended to, submitted in silence.

[* This garb, which resembled the dress often put on children in
Scotland, called a “polonie” (that is, “polonaise”), is a very ancient
modification of the Highland garb. It was, in fact, the hauberk or
shirt of mail, only composed of cloth instead of rings of armour.]


[** Old Highlanders will still make the “deasil” around those whom they
wish well to. To go round a person in the opposite direction, or
wither-shins (German _wider-shins_), is unlucky, and a sort of
incantation.]


After this ceremony was duly performed, the old Esculapius let his
patient’s blood with a cupping-glass with great dexterity, and
proceeded, muttering all the while to himself in Gaelic, to boil on the
fire certain herbs, with which he compounded an embrocation. He then
fomented the parts which had sustained injury, never failing to murmur
prayers or spells, which of the two Waverley could not distinguish, as
his ear only caught the words Gasper-Melchior-Balthazar-max-prax-fax,
and similar gibberish. The fomentation had a speedy effect in
alleviating the pain and swelling, which our hero imputed to the virtue
of the herbs or the effect of the chafing, but which was by the
bystanders unanimously ascribed to the spells with which the operation
had been accompanied. Edward was given to understand that not one of
the ingredients had been gathered except during the full moon, and that
the herbalist had, while collecting them, uniformly recited a charm,
which in English ran thus:—

Hail to thee, thou holy herb,
That sprung on holy ground!
All in the Mount Olivet
First wert thou found.
Thou art boot for many a bruise,
And healest many a wound;
In our Lady’s blessed name,
I take thee from the ground.[*]


[* This metrical spell, or something very like it, is preserved by
Reginald Scott in his work on Witchcraft.]


Edward observed with some surprise that even Fergus, notwithstanding
his knowledge and education, seemed to fall in with the superstitious
ideas of his countrymen, either because he deemed it impolitic to
affect scepticism on a matter of general belief, or more probably
because, like most men who do not think deeply or accurately on such
subjects, he had in his mind a reserve of superstition which balanced
the freedom of his expressions and practice upon other occasions.
Waverley made no commentary, therefore, on the manner of the treatment,
but rewarded the professor of medicine with a liberality beyond the
utmost conception of his wildest hopes. He uttered on the occasion so
many incoherent blessings in Gaelic and English that Mac-Ivor, rather
scandalized at the excess of his acknowledgments, cut them short by
exclaiming, “Ceud mile mhalloich ort!” (that is, “A hundred thousand
curses on you!”) and so pushed the helper of men out of the cabin.

After Waverley was left alone, the exhaustion of pain and fatigue—for
the whole day’s exercise had been severe—threw him into a profound, but
yet a feverish sleep, which he chiefly owed to an opiate draught
administered by the old Highlander from some decoction of herbs in his
pharmacopœia.

Early the next morning, the purpose of their meeting being over, and
their sports damped by the untoward accident, in which Fergus and all
his friends expressed the greatest sympathy, it became a question how
to dispose of the disabled sportsman. This was settled by Mac-Ivor, who
had a litter prepared, of “birch and hazel-grey,”[*] which was borne by
his people with such caution and dexterity as renders it not improbable
that they may have been the ancestors of some of those sturdy Gael who
have now the happiness to transport the belles of Edinburgh in their
sedan-chairs to ten routs in one evening. When Edward was elevated upon
their shoulders he could not help being gratified with the romantic
effect produced by the breaking up of this sylvan camp.[25]

[* On the morrow they made their biers
Of birch and hazel grey.
_Chevy Chase_.]

The various tribes assembled, each at the pibroch of their native clan,
and each headed by their patriarchal ruler. Some, who had already begun
to retire, were seen winding up the hills, or descending the passes
which led to the scene of action, the sound of their bagpipes dying
upon the ear. Others made still a moving picture upon the narrow plain,
forming various changeful groups, their feathers and loose plaids
waving in the morning breeze, and their arms glittering in the rising
sun. Most of the Chiefs came to take farewell of Waverley, and to
express their anxious hope they might again, and speedily, meet; but
the care of Fergus abridged the ceremony of taking leave. At length,
his own men being completely assembled and mustered, Mac-Ivor commenced
his march, but not towards the quarter from which they had come. He
gave Edward to understand that the greater part of his followers now on
the field were bound on a distant expedition, and that when he had
deposited him in the house of a gentleman, who he was sure would pay
him every attention, he himself should be under the necessity of
accompanying them the greater part of the way, but would lose no time
in rejoining his friend.

Waverley was rather surprised that Fergus had not mentioned this
ulterior destination when they set out upon the hunting-party; but his
situation did not admit of many interrogatories. The greater part of
the clansmen went forward under the guidance of old Ballenkeiroch and
Evan Dhu Maccombich, apparently in high spirits. A few remained for the
purpose of escorting the Chieftain, who walked by the side of Edward’s
litter, and attended him with the most affectionate assiduity. About
noon, after a journey which the nature of the conveyance, the pain of
his bruises, and the roughness of the way rendered inexpressibly
painful, Waverley was hospitably received into the house of a gentleman
related to Fergus, who had prepared for him every accommodation which
the simple habits of living then universal in the Highlands put in his
power. In this person, an old man about seventy, Edward admired a relic
of primitive simplicity. He wore no dress but what his estate afforded;
the cloth was the fleece of his own sheep, woven by his own servants,
and stained into tartan by the dyes produced from the herbs and lichens
of the hills around him. His linen was spun by his daughters and
maidservants, from his own flax; nor did his table, though plentiful,
and varied with game and fish, offer an article but what was of native
produce.

Claiming himself no rights of clanship or vassalage, he was fortunate
in the alliance and protection of Vich Ian Vohr and other bold and
enterprising Chieftains, who protected him in the quiet unambitious
life he loved. It is true, the youth born on his grounds were often
enticed to leave him for the service of his more active friends; but a
few old servants and tenants used to shake their grey locks when they
heard their master censured for want of spirit, and observed, “When the
wind is still, the shower falls soft.” This good old man, whose charity
and hospitality were unbounded, would have received Waverley with
kindness had he been the meanest Saxon peasant, since his situation
required assistance. But his attention to a friend and guest of Vich
Ian Vohr was anxious and unremitted. Other embrocations were applied to
the injured limb, and new spells were put in practice. At length, after
more solicitude than was perhaps for the advantage of his health,
Fergus took farewell of Edward for a few days, when, he said, he would
return to Tomanrait, and hoped by that time Waverley would be able to
ride one of the Highland ponies of his landlord, and in that manner
return to Glennaquoich.

The next day, when his good old host appeared, Edward learned that his
friend had departed with the dawn, leaving none of his followers except
Callum Beg, the sort of foot-page who used to attend his person, and
who had now in charge to wait upon Waverley. On asking his host if he
knew where the Chieftain was gone, the old man looked fixedly at him,
with something mysterious and sad in the smile which was his only
reply. Waverley repeated his question, to which his host answered in a
proverb,—

What sent the messengers to hell,
Was asking what they knew full well.[*]


[* Corresponding to the Lowland saying, “Mony ane speirs the gate they
ken fu’ weel.”]


He was about to proceed, but Callum Beg said, rather pertly, as Edward
thought, that “Ta Tighearnach (i.e. the Chief) did not like ta
Sassenagh _duinhé-wassel_ to be pingled wi’ mickle speaking, as she was
na tat weel.” From this Waverley concluded he should disoblige his
friend by inquiring of a stranger the object of a journey which he
himself had not communicated.

It is unnecessary to trace the progress of our hero’s recovery. The
sixth morning had arrived, and he was able to walk about with a staff,
when Fergus returned with about a score of his men. He seemed in the
highest spirits, congratulated Waverley on his progress towards
recovery, and finding he was able to sit on horseback, proposed their
immediate return to Glennaquoich. Waverley joyfully acceded, for the
form of its fair mistress had lived in his dreams during all the time
of his confinement.

Now he has ridden o’er moor and moss,
O’er hill and many a glen,


Fergus, all the while, with his myrmidons, striding stoutly by his
side, or diverging to get a shot at a roe or a heath-cock. Waverley’s
bosom beat thick when they approached the old tower of Ian nan
Chaistel, and could distinguish the fair form of its mistress advancing
to meet them.

Fergus began immediately, with his usual high spirits, to exclaim,
“Open your gates, incomparable princess, to the wounded Moor Abindarez,
whom Rodrigo de Narvez, constable of Antiquera, conveys to your castle;
or open them, if you like it better, to the renowned Marquis of Mantua,
the sad attendant of his half-slain friend Baldovinos of the Mountain.
Ah, long rest to thy soul, Cervantes! without quoting thy remnants, how
should I frame my language to befit romantic ears!”

Flora now advanced, and welcoming Waverley with much kindness,
expressed her regret for his accident, of which she had already heard
particulars, and her surprise that her brother should not have taken
better care to put a stranger on his guard against the perils of the
sport in which he engaged him. Edward easily exculpated the Chieftain,
who, indeed, at his own personal risk, had probably saved his life.

This greeting over, Fergus said three or four words to his sister in
Gaelic. The tears instantly sprung to her eyes, but they seemed to be
tears of devotion and joy, for she looked up to heaven and folded her
hands as in a solemn expression of prayer or gratitude. After the pause
of a minute, she presented to Edward some letters which had been
forwarded from Tully-Veolan during his absence, and at the same time
delivered some to her brother. To the latter she likewise gave three or
four numbers of the “Caledonian Mercury,” the only newspaper which was
then published to the north of the Tweed.

Both gentlemen retired to examine their despatches, and Edward speedily
found that those which he had received contained matters of very deep
interest.




CHAPTER XXV.
NEWS FROM ENGLAND


The letters which Waverley had hitherto received from his relations in
England were not such as required any particular notice in this
narrative. His father usually wrote to him with the pompous affectation
of one who was too much oppressed by public affairs to find leisure to
attend to those of his own family. Now and then he mentioned persons of
rank in Scotland to whom he wished his son should pay some attention;
but Waverley, hitherto occupied by the amusements which he had found at
Tully-Veolan and Glennaquoich, dispensed with paying any attention to
hints so coldly thrown out, especially as distance, shortness of leave
of absence, and so forth furnished a ready apology. But latterly the
burden of Mr. Richard Waverley’s paternal epistles consisted in certain
mysterious hints of greatness and influence which he was speedily to
attain, and which would ensure his son’s obtaining the most rapid
promotion, should he remain in the military service. Sir Everard’s
letters were of a different tenor. They were short; for the good
Baronet was none of your illimitable correspondents, whose manuscript
overflows the folds of their large post paper, and leaves no room for
the seal; but they were kind and affectionate, and seldom concluded
without some allusion to our hero’s stud, some question about the state
of his purse, and a special inquiry after such of his recruits as had
preceded him from Waverley-Honour. Aunt Rachel charged him to remember
his principles of religion, to take care of his health, to beware of
Scotch mists, which, she had heard, would wet an Englishman through and
through, never to go out at night without his great-coat, and, above
all, to wear flannel next to his skin.

Mr. Pembroke only wrote to our hero one letter, but it was of the bulk
of six epistles of these degenerate days, containing, in the moderate
compass of ten folio pages, closely written, a precis of a
supplementary quarto manuscript of _addenda, delenda, et corrigenda_ in
reference to the two tracts with which he had presented Waverley. This
he considered as a mere sop in the pan to stay the appetite of Edward’s
curiosity until he should find an opportunity of sending down the
volume itself, which was much too heavy for the post, and which he
proposed to accompany with certain interesting pamphlets, lately
published by his friend in Little Britain, with whom he had kept up a
sort of literary correspondence, in virtue of which the library shelves
of Waverley-Honour were loaded with much trash, and a good round bill,
seldom summed in fewer than three figures, was yearly transmitted, in
which Sir Everard Waverley of Waverley-Honour, Bart., was marked Dr. to
Jonathan Grubbet, bookseller and stationer, Little Britain. Such had
hitherto been the style of the letters which Edward had received from
England; but the packet delivered to him at Glennaquoich was of a
different and more interesting complexion. It would be impossible for
the reader, even were I to insert the letters at full length, to
comprehend the real cause of their being written, without a glance into
the interior of the British cabinet at the period in question.

The ministers of the day happened (no very singular event) to be
divided into two parties; the weakest of which, making up by assiduity
of intrigue their inferiority in real consequence, had of late acquired
some new proselytes, and with them the hope of superseding their rivals
in the favour of their sovereign, and overpowering them in the House of
Commons. Amongst others, they had thought it worth while to practise
upon Richard Waverley. This honest gentleman, by a grave mysterious
demeanour, an attention to the etiquette of business rather more than
to its essence, a facility in making long dull speeches, consisting of
truisms and commonplaces, hashed up with a technical jargon of office,
which prevented the inanity of his orations from being discovered, had
acquired a certain name and credit in public life, and even
established, with many, the character of a profound politician; none of
your shining orators, indeed, whose talents evaporate in tropes of
rhetoric and flashes of wit, but one possessed of steady parts for
business, which would wear well, as the ladies say in choosing their
silks, and ought in all reason to be good for common and every-day use,
since they were confessedly formed of no holiday texture.

This faith had become so general that the insurgent party in the
cabinet, of which we have made mention, after sounding Mr. Richard
Waverley, were so satisfied with his sentiments and abilities as to
propose that, in case of a certain revolution in the ministry, he
should take an ostensible place in the new order of things, not indeed
of the very first rank, but greatly higher, in point both of emolument
and influence, than that which he now enjoyed. There was no resisting
so tempting a proposal, notwithstanding that the Great Man under whose
patronage he had enlisted, and by whose banner he had hitherto stood
firm, was the principal object of the proposed attack by the new
allies. Unfortunately this fair scheme of ambition was blighted in the
very bud by a premature movement. All the official gentlemen concerned
in it who hesitated to take the part of a voluntary resignation were
informed that the king had no further occasion for their services; and
in Richard Waverley’s case, which the minister considered as aggravated
by ingratitude, dismissal was accompanied by something like personal
contempt and contumely. The public, and even the party of whom he
shared the fall, sympathised little in the disappointment of this
selfish and interested statesman; and he retired to the country under
the comfortable reflection that he had lost, at the same time,
character, credit, and,—what he at least equally deplored,—emolument.

Richard Waverley’s letter to his son upon this occasion was a
masterpiece of its kind. Aristides himself could not have made out a
harder case. An unjust monarch and an ungrateful country were the
burden of each rounded paragraph. He spoke of long services and
unrequited sacrifices; though the former had been overpaid by his
salary, and nobody could guess in what the latter consisted, unless it
were in his deserting, not from conviction, but for the lucre of gain,
the Tory principles of his family. In the conclusion, his resentment
was wrought to such an excess by the force of his own oratory, that he
could not repress some threats of vengeance, however vague and
impotent, and finally acquainted his son with his pleasure that he
should testify his sense of the ill-treatment he had sustained by
throwing up his commission as soon as the letter reached him. This, he
said, was also his uncle’s desire, as he would himself intimate in due
course.

Accordingly, the next letter which Edward opened was from Sir Everard.
His brother’s disgrace seemed to have removed from his well-natured
bosom all recollection of their differences, and, remote as he was from
every means of learning that Richard’s disgrace was in reality only the
just as well as natural consequence of his own unsuccessful intrigues,
the good but credulous Baronet at once set it down as a new and
enormous instance of the injustice of the existing government. It was
true, he said, and he must not disguise it even from Edward, that his
father could not have sustained such an insult as was now, for the
first time, offered to one of his house, unless he had subjected
himself to it by accepting of an employment under the present system.
Sir Everard had no doubt that he now both saw and felt the magnitude of
this error, and it should be his (Sir Everard’s) business to take care
that the cause of his regret should not extend itself to pecuniary
consequences. It was enough for a Waverley to have sustained the public
disgrace; the patrimonial injury could easily be obviated by the head
of their family. But it was both the opinion of Mr. Richard Waverley
and his own that Edward, the representative of the family of
Waverley-Honour, should not remain in a situation which subjected him
also to such treatment as that with which his father had been
stigmatised. He requested his nephew therefore to take the fittest, and
at the same time the most speedy, opportunity of transmitting his
resignation to the War Office, and hinted, moreover, that little
ceremony was necessary where so little had been used to his father. He
sent multitudinous greetings to the Baron of Bradwardine.

A letter from Aunt Rachel spoke out even more plainly. She considered
the disgrace of brother Richard as the just reward of his forfeiting
his allegiance to a lawful though exiled sovereign, and taking the
oaths to an alien; a concession which her grandfather, Sir Nigel
Waverley, refused to make, either to the Roundhead Parliament or to
Cromwell, when his life and fortune stood in the utmost extremity. She
hoped her dear Edward would follow the footsteps of his ancestors, and
as speedily as possible get rid of the badge of servitude to the
usurping family, and regard the wrongs sustained by his father as an
admonition from Heaven that every desertion of the line of loyalty
becomes its own punishment. She also concluded with her respects to Mr.
Bradwardine, and begged Waverley would inform her whether his daughter,
Miss Rose, was old enough to wear a pair of very handsome ear-rings,
which she proposed to send as a token of her affection. The good lady
also desired to be informed whether Mr. Bradwardine took as much Scotch
snuff and danced as unweariedly as he did when he was at
Waverley-Honour about thirty years ago.

These letters, as might have been expected, highly excited Waverley’s
indignation. From the desultory style of his studies, he had not any
fixed political opinion to place in opposition to the movements of
indignation which he felt at his father’s supposed wrongs. Of the real
cause of his disgrace Edward was totally ignorant; nor had his habits
at all led him to investigate the politics of the period in which he
lived, or remark the intrigues in which his father had been so actively
engaged. Indeed, any impressions which he had accidentally adopted
concerning the parties of the times were (owing to the society in which
he had lived at Waverley-Honour) of a nature rather unfavourable to the
existing government and dynasty. He entered, therefore, without
hesitation into the resentful feeling of the relations who had the best
title to dictate his conduct, and not perhaps the less willingly when
he remembered the tedium of his quarters, and the inferior figure which
he had made among the officers of his regiment. If he could have had
any doubt upon the subject it would have been decided by the following
letter from his commanding officer, which, as it is very short, shall
be inserted _verbatim._

SIR,—Having carried somewhat beyond the line of my duty an indulgence
which even the lights of nature, and much more those of Christianity,
direct towards errors which may arise from youth and inexperience, and
that altogether without effect, I am reluctantly compelled, at the
present crisis, to use the only remaining remedy which is in my power.
You are, therefore, hereby commanded to repair to—, the headquarters of
the regiment, within three days after the date of this letter. If you
shall fail to do so, I must report you to the War Office as absent
without leave, and also take other steps, which will be disagreeable to
you as well as to,


Sir,
Your obedient Servant,
J. GARDINER,
_Lieut.-Col. Commanding the——Regt. Dragoons._


Edward’s blood boiled within him as he read this letter. He had been
accustomed from his very infancy to possess in a great measure the
disposal of his own time, and thus acquired habits which rendered the
rules of military discipline as unpleasing to him in this as they were
in some other respects. An idea that in his own case they would not be
enforced in a very rigid manner had also obtained full possession of
his mind, and had hitherto been sanctioned by the indulgent conduct of
his lieutenant-colonel. Neither had anything occurred, to his
knowledge, that should have induced his commanding officer, without any
other warning than the hints we noticed at the end of the fourteenth
chapter, so suddenly to assume a harsh and, as Edward deemed it, so
insolent a tone of dictatorial authority. Connecting it with the
letters he had just received from his family, he could not but suppose
that it was designed to make him feel, in his present situation, the
same pressure of authority which had been exercised in his father’s
case, and that the whole was a concerted scheme to depress and degrade
every member of the Waverley family.

Without a pause, therefore, Edward wrote a few cold lines, thanking his
lieutenant-colonel for past civilities, and expressing regret that he
should have chosen to efface the remembrance of them by assuming a
different tone towards him. The strain of his letter, as well as what
he (Edward) conceived to be his duty in the present crisis, called upon
him to lay down his commission; and he therefore inclosed the formal
resignation of a situation which subjected him to so unpleasant a
correspondence, and requested Colonel Gardiner would have the goodness
to forward it to the proper authorities.

Having finished this magnanimous epistle, he felt somewhat uncertain
concerning the terms in which his resignation ought to be expressed,
upon which subject he resolved to consult Fergus Mac-Ivor. It may be
observed in passing that the bold and prompt habits of thinking,
acting, and speaking which distinguished this young Chieftain had given
him a considerable ascendency over the mind of Waverley. Endowed with
at least equal powers of understanding, and with much finer genius,
Edward yet stooped to the bold and decisive activity of an intellect
which was sharpened by the habit of acting on a preconceived and
regular system, as well as by extensive knowledge of the world.

When Edward found his friend, the latter had still in his hand the
newspaper which he had perused, and advanced to meet him with the
embarrassment of one who has unpleasing news to communicate. “Do your
letters, Captain Waverley, confirm the unpleasing information which I
find in this paper?”

He put the paper into his hand, where his father’s disgrace was
registered in the most bitter terms, transferred probably from some
London journal. At the end of the paragraph was this remarkable
innuendo:—

“We understand that “this same _Richard_ who hath done all this” is not
the only example of the _Wavering Honour_ of W-v-r-ly H-n-r. See the
Gazette of this day.”


With hurried and feverish apprehension our hero turned to the place
referred to, and found therein recorded, “Edward Waverley, captain
in——regiment dragoons, superseded for absence without leave”; and in
the list of military promotions, referring to the same regiment, he
discovered this farther article, “Lieut. Julius Butler, to be captain,
_vice_ Edward Waverley, superseded.”

Our hero’s bosom glowed with the resentment which undeserved and
apparently premeditated insult was calculated to excite in the bosom of
one who had aspired after honour, and was thus wantonly held up to
public scorn and disgrace. Upon comparing the date of his colonel’s
letter with that of the article in the Gazette, he perceived that his
threat of making a report upon his absence had been literally
fulfilled, and without inquiry, as it seemed, whether Edward had either
received his summons or was disposed to comply with it. The whole,
therefore, appeared a formed plan to degrade him in the eyes of the
public; and the idea of its having succeeded filled him with such
bitter emotions that, after various attempts to conceal them, he at
length threw himself into Mac-Ivor’s arms, and gave vent to tears of
shame and indignation.

It was none of this Chieftain’s faults to be indifferent to the wrongs
of his friends; and for Edward, independent of certain plans with which
he was connected, he felt a deep and sincere interest. The proceeding
appeared as extraordinary to him as it had done to Edward. He indeed
knew of more motives than Waverley was privy to for the peremptory
order that he should join his regiment. But that, without further
inquiry into the circumstances of a necessary delay, the commanding
officer, in contradiction to his known and established character,
should have proceeded in so harsh and unusual a manner was a mystery
which he could not penetrate. He soothed our hero, however, to the best
of his power, and began to turn his thoughts on revenge for his
insulted honour.

Edward eagerly grasped at the idea. “Will you carry a message for me to
Colonel Gardiner, my dear Fergus, and oblige me for ever?”

Fergus paused. “It is an act of friendship which you should command,
could it be useful, or lead to the righting your honour; but in the
present case I doubt if your commanding officer would give you the
meeting on account of his having taken measures which, however harsh
and exasperating, were still within the strict bounds of his duty.
Besides, Gardiner is a precise Huguenot, and has adopted certain ideas
about the sinfulness of such _rencontres_, from which it would be
impossible to make him depart, especially as his courage is beyond all
suspicion. And besides, I—I, to say the truth—I dare not at this
moment, for some very weighty reasons, go near any of the military
quarters or garrisons belonging to this government.”

“And am I,” said Waverley, “to sit down quiet and contented under the
injury I have received?”

“That will I never advise my friend,” replied Mac-Ivor. “But I would
have vengeance to fall on the head, not on the hand, on the tyrannical
and oppressive government which designed and directed these
premeditated and reiterated insults, not on the tools of office which
they employed in the execution of the injuries they aimed at you.”

“On the government!” said Waverley.

“Yes,” replied the impetuous Highlander, “on the usurping House of
Hanover, whom your grandfather would no more have served than he would
have taken wages of red-hot gold from the great fiend of hell!”

“But since the time of my grandfather two generations of this dynasty
have possessed the throne,” said Edward coolly.

“True,” replied the Chieftain; “and because we have passively given
them so long the means of showing their native character,—because both
you and I myself have lived in quiet submission, have even truckled to
the times so far as to accept commissions under them, and thus have
given them an opportunity of disgracing us publicly by resuming them,
are we not on that account to resent injuries which our fathers only
apprehended, but which we have actually sustained? Or is the cause of
the unfortunate Stuart family become less just, because their title has
devolved upon an heir who is innocent of the charges of misgovernment
brought against his father? Do you remember the lines of your favourite
poet,—

Had Richard unconstrain’d resign’d the throne,
A king can give no more than is his own;
The title stood entail’d had Richard had a son.


You see, my dear Waverley, I can quote poetry as well as Flora and you.
But come, clear your moody brow, and trust to me to show you an
honourable road to a speedy and glorious revenge. Let us seek Flora,
who perhaps has more news to tell us of what has occurred during our
absence. She will rejoice to hear that you are relieved of your
servitude. But first add a postscript to your letter, marking the time
when you received this calvinistical colonel’s first summons, and
express your regret that the hastiness of his proceedings prevented
your anticipating them by sending your resignation. Then let him blush
for his injustice.”

The letter was sealed accordingly, covering a formal resignation of the
commission, and Mac-Ivor despatched it with some letters of his own by
a special messenger, with charge to put them into the nearest
post-office in the Lowlands.




CHAPTER XXVI.
AN ECLAIRCISSEMENT


The hint which the Chieftain had thrown out respecting Flora was not
unpremeditated. He had observed with great satisfaction the growing
attachment of Waverley to his sister, nor did he see any bar to their
union, excepting the situation which Waverley’s father held in the
ministry, and Edward’s own commission in the army of George II. These
obstacles were now removed, and in a manner which apparently paved the
way for the son’s becoming reconciled to another allegiance. In every
other respect the match would be most eligible. The safety, happiness,
and honourable provision of his sister, whom he dearly loved, appeared
to be ensured by the proposed union; and his heart swelled when he
considered how his own interest would be exalted in the eyes of the
ex-monarch to whom he had dedicated his service, by an alliance with
one of those ancient, powerful, and wealthy English families of the
steady cavalier faith, to awaken whose decayed attachment to the Stuart
family was now a matter of such vital importance to the Stuart cause.
Nor could Fergus perceive any obstacle to such a scheme. Waverley’s
attachment was evident; and as his person was handsome, and his taste
apparently coincided with her own, he anticipated no opposition on the
part of Flora. Indeed, between his ideas of patriarchal power and those
which he had acquired in France respecting the disposal of females in
marriage, any opposition from his sister, dear as she was to him, would
have been the last obstacle on which he would have calculated, even had
the union been less eligible.

Influenced by these feelings, the Chief now led Waverley in quest of
Miss Mac-Ivor, not without the hope that the present agitation of his
guest’s spirits might give him courage to cut short what Fergus termed
the romance of the courtship. They found Flora, with her faithful
attendants, Una and Cathleen, busied in preparing what appeared to
Waverley to be white bridal favours. Disguising as well as he could the
agitation of his mind, Waverley asked for what joyful occasion Miss
Mac-Ivor made such ample preparation.

“It is for Fergus’s bridal,” she said, smiling.

“Indeed!” said Edward; “he has kept his secret well. I hope he will
allow me to be his bride’s-man.”

“That is a man’s office, but not yours, as Beatrice says,” retorted
Flora.

“And who is the fair lady, may I be permitted to ask, Miss Mac-Ivor?”

“Did not I tell you long since that Fergus wooed no bride but Honour?”
answered Flora.

“And am I then incapable of being his assistant and counsellor in the
pursuit of honour?” said our hero, colouring deeply. “Do I rank so low
in your opinion?”

“Far from it, Captain Waverley. I would to God you were of our
determination! and made use of the expression which displeased you,
solely

Because you are not of our quality,
But stand against us as an enemy.”


“That time is past, sister,” said Fergus; “and you may wish Edward
Waverley (no longer captain) joy of being freed from the slavery to an
usurper, implied in that sable and ill-omened emblem.”

“Yes,” said Waverley, undoing the cockade from his hat, “it has pleased
the king who bestowed this badge upon me to resume it in a manner which
leaves me little reason to regret his service.”

“Thank God for that!” cried the enthusiast; “and O that they may be
blind enough to treat every man of honour who serves them with the same
indignity, that I may have less to sigh for when the struggle
approaches!”

“And now, sister,” said the Chieftain, “replace his cockade with one of
a more lively colour. I think it was the fashion of the ladies of yore
to arm and send forth their knights to high achievement.”

“Not,” replied the lady, “till the knight adventurer had well weighed
the justice and the danger of the cause, Fergus. Mr. Waverley is just
now too much agitated by feelings of recent emotion for me to press
upon him a resolution of consequence.”

Waverley felt half alarmed at the thought of adopting the badge of what
was by the majority of the kingdom esteemed rebellion, yet he could not
disguise his chagrin at the coldness with which Flora parried her
brother’s hint. “Miss Mac-Ivor, I perceive, thinks the knight unworthy
of her encouragement and favour,” said he, somewhat bitterly.

“Not so, Mr. Waverley,” she replied, with great sweetness. “Why should
I refuse my brother’s valued friend a boon which I am distributing to
his whole clan? Most willingly would I enlist every man of honour in
the cause to which my brother has devoted himself. But Fergus has taken
his measures with his eyes open. His life has been devoted to this
cause from his cradle; with him its call is sacred, were it even a
summons to the tomb. But how can I wish you, Mr. Waverley, so new to
the world, so far from every friend who might advise and ought to
influence you,—in a moment, too, of sudden pique and indignation,—how
can I wish you to plunge yourself at once into so desperate an
enterprise?”

Fergus, who did not understand these delicacies, strode through the
apartment biting his lip, and then, with a constrained smile, said,
“Well, sister, I leave you to act your new character of mediator
between the Elector of Hanover and the subjects of your lawful
sovereign and benefactor,” and left the room.

There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by Miss Mac-Ivor.
“My brother is unjust,” she said, “because he can bear no interruption
that seems to thwart his loyal zeal.”

“And do you not share his ardour?” asked Waverley,

“Do I not?” answered Flora. “God knows mine exceeds his, if that be
possible. But I am not, like him, rapt by the bustle of military
preparation, and the infinite detail necessary to the present
undertaking, beyond consideration of the grand principles of justice
and truth, on which our enterprise is grounded; and these, I am
certain, can only be furthered by measures in themselves true and just.
To operate upon your present feelings, my dear Mr. Waverley, to induce
you to an irretrievable step, of which you have not considered either
the justice or the danger, is, in my poor judgment, neither the one nor
the other.”

“Incomparable Flora!” said Edward, taking her hand, “how much do I need
such a monitor!”

“A better one by far,” said Flora, gently withdrawing her hand, “Mr.
Waverley will always find in his own bosom, when he will give its small
still voice leisure to be heard.”

“No, Miss Mac-Ivor, I dare not hope it; a thousand circumstances of
fatal self-indulgence have made me the creature rather of imagination
than reason. Durst I but hope—could I but think—that you would deign to
be to me that affectionate, that condescending friend, who would
strengthen me to redeem my errors, my future life—”

“Hush, my dear sir! now you carry your joy at escaping the hands of a
Jacobite recruiting officer to an unparalleled excess of gratitude.”

“Nay, dear Flora, trifle with me no longer; you cannot mistake the
meaning of those feelings which I have almost involuntarily expressed;
and since I have broken the barrier of silence, let me profit by my
audacity. Or may I, with your permission, mention to your brother—”

“Not for the world, Mr. Waverley!”

“What am I to understand?” said Edward. “Is there any fatal bar—has any
prepossession—”

“None, sir,” answered Flora. “I owe it to myself to say that I never
yet saw the person on whom I thought with reference to the present
subject.”

“The shortness of our acquaintance, perhaps—If Miss Mac-Ivor will deign
to give me time—”

“I have not even that excuse. Captain Waverley’s character is so
open—is, in short, of that nature that it cannot be misconstrued,
either in its strength or its weakness.”

“And for that weakness you despise me?” said Edward.

“Forgive me, Mr. Waverley—and remember it is but within this half hour
that there existed between us a barrier of a nature to me
insurmountable, since I never could think of an officer in the service
of the Elector of Hanover in any other light than as a casual
acquaintance. Permit me then to arrange my ideas upon so unexpected a
topic, and in less than an hour I will be ready to give you such
reasons for the resolution I shall express as may be satisfactory at
least, if not pleasing to you.” So saying Flora withdrew, leaving
Waverley to meditate upon the manner in which she had received his
addresses.

Ere he could make up his mind whether to believe his suit had been
acceptable or no, Fergus re-entered the apartment. “What, _à la mort_,
Waverley?” he cried. “Come down with me to the court, and you shall see
a sight worth all the tirades of your romances. An hundred firelocks,
my friend, and as many broadswords, just arrived from good friends; and
two or three hundred stout fellows almost fighting which shall first
possess them. But let me look at you closer. Why, a true Highlander
would say you had been blighted by an evil eye. Or can it be this silly
girl that has thus blanked your spirit. Never mind her, dear Edward;
the wisest of her sex are fools in what regards the business of life.”

“Indeed, my good friend,” answered Waverley, “all that I can charge
against your sister is, that she is too sensible, too reasonable.”

“If that be all, I ensure you for a louis-d’or against the mood lasting
four-and-twenty hours. No woman was ever steadily sensible for that
period; and I will engage, if that will please you, Flora shall be as
unreasonable to-morrow as any of her sex. You must learn, my dear
Edward, to consider women _en mousquetaire_.” So saying, he seized
Waverley’s arm and dragged him off to review his military preparations.




CHAPTER XXVII.
UPON THE SAME SUBJECT


Fergus Mac-Ivor had too much tact and delicacy to renew the subject
which he had interrupted. His head was, or appeared to be, so full of
guns, broadswords, bonnets, canteens, and tartan hose that Waverley
could not for some time draw his attention to any other topic.

“Are you to take the field so soon, Fergus,” he asked, “that you are
making all these martial preparations?”

“When we have settled that you go with me, you shall know all; but
otherwise, the knowledge might rather be prejudicial to you.”

“But are you serious in your purpose, with such inferior forces, to
rise against an established government? It is mere frenzy.”

“_Laissez faire à Don Antoine_,—I shall take good care of myself. We
shall at least use the compliment of Conan, who never got a stroke but
he gave one. I would not, however,” continued the Chieftain, “have you
think me mad enough to stir till a favourable opportunity: I will not
slip my dog before the game’s afoot. But, once more, will you join with
us, and you shall know all?”

“How can I?” said Waverley; “I, who have so lately held that commission
which is now posting back to those that gave it? My accepting it
implied a promise of fidelity, and an acknowledgment of the legality of
the government.”

“A rash promise,” answered Fergus, “is not a steel handcuff, it may be
shaken off, especially when it was given under deception, and has been
repaid by insult. But if you cannot immediately make up your mind to a
glorious revenge, go to England, and ere you cross the Tweed you will
hear tidings that will make the world ring; and if Sir Everard be the
gallant old cavalier I have heard him described by some of our _honest_
gentlemen of the year one thousand seven hundred and fifteen, he will
find you a better horse-troop and a better cause than you have lost.”

“But your sister, Fergus?”

“Out, hyperbolical fiend!” replied the Chief, laughing; “how vexest
thou this man! Speak’st thou of nothing but of ladies?”

“Nay, be serious, my dear friend,” said Waverley; “I feel that the
happiness of my future life must depend upon the answer which Miss
Mac-Ivor shall make to what I ventured to tell her this morning.”

“And is this your very sober earnest,” said Fergus, more gravely, “or
are we in the land of romance and fiction?”

“My earnest, undoubtedly. How could you suppose me jesting on such a
subject?”

“Then, in very sober earnest,” answered his friend, “I am very glad to
hear it; and so highly do I think of Flora, that you are the only man
in England for whom I would say so much. But before you shake my hand
so warmly, there is more to be considered. Your own family—will they
approve your connecting yourself with the sister of a high-born
Highland beggar?”

“My uncle’s situation,” said Waverley, “his general opinions, and his
uniform indulgence, entitle me to say, that birth and personal
qualities are all he would look to in such a connection. And where can
I find both united in such excellence as in your sister?”

“Oh, nowhere! _cela va sans dire_,” replied Fergus, with a smile. “But
your father will expect a father’s prerogative in being consulted.”

“Surely; but his late breach with the ruling powers removes all
apprehension of objection on his part, especially as I am convinced
that my uncle will be warm in my cause.”

“Religion perhaps,” said Fergus, “may make obstacles, though we are not
bigotted Catholics.”

“My grandmother was of the Church of Rome, and her religion was never
objected to by my family. Do not think of _my_ friends, dear Fergus;
let me rather have your influence where it may be more necessary to
remove obstacles—I mean with your lovely sister.”

“My lovely sister,” replied Fergus, “like her loving brother, is very
apt to have a pretty decisive will of her own, by which, in this case,
you must be ruled; but you shall not want my interest, nor my counsel.
And, in the first place, I will give you one hint—Loyalty is her ruling
passion; and since she could spell an English book she has been in love
with the memory of the gallant Captain Wogan, who renounced the service
of the usurper Cromwell to join the standard of Charles II, marched a
handful of cavalry from London to the Highlands to join Middleton, then
in arms for the king, and at length died gloriously in the royal cause.
Ask her to show you some verses she made on his history and fate; they
have been much admired, I assure you. The next point is—I think I saw
Flora go up towards the waterfall a short time since; follow, man,
follow! don’t allow the garrison time to strengthen its purposes of
resistance. _Alerte à la muraille!_ Seek Flora out, and learn her
decision as soon as you can, and Cupid go with you, while I go to look
over belts and cartouch-boxes.”

Waverley ascended the glen with an anxious and throbbing heart. Love,
with all its romantic train of hopes, fears, and wishes, was mingled
with other feelings of a nature less easily defined. He could not but
remember how much this morning had changed his fate, and into what a
complication of perplexity it was likely to plunge him. Sunrise had
seen him possessed of an esteemed rank in the honourable profession of
arms, his father to all appearance rapidly rising in the favour of his
sovereign. All this had passed away like a dream: he himself was
dishonoured, his father disgraced, and he had become involuntarily the
confidant at least, if not the accomplice, of plans, dark, deep, and
dangerous, which must infer either the subversion of the government he
had so lately served or the destruction of all who had participated in
them. Should Flora even listen to his suit favourably, what prospect
was there of its being brought to a happy termination amid the tumult
of an impending insurrection? Or how could he make the selfish request
that she should leave Fergus, to whom she was so much attached, and,
retiring with him to England, wait, as a distant spectator, the success
of her brother’s undertaking, or the ruin of all his hopes and
fortunes? Or, on the other hand, to engage himself, with no other aid
than his single arm, in the dangerous and precipitate counsels of the
Chieftain, to be whirled along by him, the partaker of all his
desperate and impetuous motions, renouncing almost the power of
judging, or deciding upon the rectitude or prudence of his actions,
this was no pleasing prospect for the secret pride of Waverley to stoop
to. And yet what other conclusion remained, saving the rejection of his
addresses by Flora, an alternative not to be thought of in the present
high-wrought state of his feelings with anything short of mental agony.
Pondering the doubtful and dangerous prospect before him, he at length
arrived near the cascade, where, as Fergus had augured, he found Flora
seated.

She was quite alone, and as soon as she observed his approach she rose
and came to meet him. Edward attempted to say something within the
verge of ordinary compliment and conversation, but found himself
unequal to the task. Flora seemed at first equally embarrassed, but
recovered herself more speedily, and (an unfavourable augury for
Waverley’s suit) was the first to enter upon the subject of their last
interview. “It is too important, in every point of view, Mr. Waverley,
to permit me to leave you in doubt on my sentiments.”

“Do not speak them speedily,” said Waverley, much agitated, “unless
they are such as I fear, from your manner, I must not dare to
anticipate. Let time—let my future conduct—let your brother’s
influence—”

“Forgive me, Mr. Waverley,” said Flora, her complexion a little
heightened, but her voice firm and composed. “I should incur my own
heavy censure did I delay expressing my sincere conviction that I can
never regard you otherwise than as a valued friend. I should do you the
highest injustice did I conceal my sentiments for a moment. I see I
distress you, and I grieve for it, but better now than later; and O,
better a thousand times, Mr. Waverley, that you should feel a present
momentary disappointment than the long and heart-sickening griefs which
attend a rash and ill-assorted marriage!”

“Good God!” exclaimed Waverley, “why should you anticipate such
consequences from a union where birth is equal, where fortune is
favourable, where, if I may venture to say so, the tastes are similar,
where you allege no preference for another, where you even express a
favourable opinion of him whom you reject?”

“Mr. Waverley, I _have_ that favourable opinion,” answered Flora; “and
so strongly that, though I would rather have been silent on the grounds
of my resolution, you shall command them, if you exact such a mark of
my esteem and confidence.”

She sat down upon a fragment of rock, and Waverley, placing himself
near her, anxiously pressed for the explanation she offered.

“I dare hardly,” she said, “tell you the situation of my feelings, they
are so different from those usually ascribed to young women at my
period of life; and I dare hardly touch upon what I conjecture to be
the nature of yours, lest I should give offence where I would willingly
administer consolation. For myself, from my infancy till this day I
have had but one wish—the restoration of my royal benefactors to their
rightful throne. It is impossible to express to you the devotion of my
feelings to this single subject; and I will frankly confess that it has
so occupied my mind as to exclude every thought respecting what is
called my own settlement in life. Let me but live to see the day of
that happy restoration, and a Highland cottage, a French convent, or an
English palace will be alike indifferent to me.”

“But, dearest Flora, how is your enthusiastic zeal for the exiled
family inconsistent with my happiness?”

“Because you seek, or ought to seek, in the object of your attachment a
heart whose principal delight should be in augmenting your domestic
felicity and returning your affection, even to the height of romance.
To a man of less keen sensibility, and less enthusiastic tenderness of
disposition, Flora Mac-Ivor might give content, if not happiness; for,
were the irrevocable words spoken, never would she be deficient in the
duties which she vowed.”

“And why,—why, Miss Mac-Ivor, should you think yourself a more valuable
treasure to one who is less capable of loving, of admiring you, than to
me?”

“Simply because the tone of our affections would be more in unison, and
because his more blunted sensibility would not require the return of
enthusiasm which I have not to bestow. But you, Mr. Waverley, would for
ever refer to the idea of domestic happiness which your imagination is
capable of painting, and whatever fell short of that ideal
representation would be construed into coolness and indifference, while
you might consider the enthusiasm with which I regarded the success of
the royal family as defrauding your affection of its due return.”

“In other words, Miss Mac-Ivor, you cannot love me?” said her suitor
dejectedly.

“I could esteem you, Mr. Waverley, as much, perhaps more, than any man
I have ever seen; but I cannot love you as you ought to be loved. O! do
not, for your own sake, desire so hazardous an experiment! The woman
whom you marry ought to have affections and opinions moulded upon
yours. Her studies ought to be your studies; her wishes, her feelings,
her hopes, her fears, should all mingle with yours. She should enhance
your pleasures, share your sorrows, and cheer your melancholy.”

“And why will not you, Miss Mac-Ivor, who can so well describe a happy
union, why will not you be yourself the person you describe?”

“Is it possible you do not yet comprehend me?” answered Flora. “Have I
not told you that every keener sensation of my mind is bent exclusively
towards an event upon which, indeed, I have no power but those of my
earnest prayers?”

“And might not the granting the suit I solicit,” said Waverley, too
earnest on his purpose to consider what he was about to say, “even
advance the interest to which you have devoted yourself? My family is
wealthy and powerful, inclined in principles to the Stuart race, and
should a favourable opportunity—”

“A favourable opportunity!” said Flora—somewhat scornfully. “Inclined
in principles! Can such lukewarm adherence be honourable to yourselves,
or gratifying to your lawful sovereign? Think, from my present
feelings, what I should suffer when I held the place of member in a
family where the rights which I hold most sacred are subjected to cold
discussion, and only deemed worthy of support when they shall appear on
the point of triumphing without it!”

“Your doubts,” quickly replied Waverley, “are unjust as far as concerns
myself. The cause that I shall assert, I dare support through every
danger, as undauntedly as the boldest who draws sword in its behalf.”

“Of that,” answered Flora, “I cannot doubt for a moment. But consult
your own good sense and reason rather than a prepossession hastily
adopted, probably only because you have met a young woman possessed of
the usual accomplishments in a sequestered and romantic situation. Let
your part in this great and perilous drama rest upon conviction, and
not on a hurried and probably a temporary feeling.”

Waverley attempted to reply, but his words failed him. Every sentiment
that Flora had uttered vindicated the strength of his attachment; for
even her loyalty, although wildly enthusiastic, was generous and noble,
and disdained to avail itself of any indirect means of supporting the
cause to which she was devoted.

After walking a little way in silence down the path, Flora thus resumed
the conversation.—“One word more, Mr. Waverley, ere we bid farewell to
this topic for ever; and forgive my boldness if that word have the air
of advice. My brother Fergus is anxious that you should join him in his
present enterprise. But do not consent to this; you could not, by your
single exertions, further his success, and you would inevitably share
his fall, if it be God’s pleasure that fall he must. Your character
would also suffer irretrievably. Let me beg you will return to your own
country; and, having publicly freed yourself from every tie to the
usurping government, I trust you will see cause, and find opportunity,
to serve your injured sovereign with effect, and stand forth, as your
loyal ancestors, at the head of your natural followers and adherents, a
worthy representative of the house of Waverley.”

“And should I be so happy as thus to distinguish myself, might I not
hope—”

“Forgive my interruption,” said Flora. “The present time only is ours,
and I can but explain to you with candour the feelings which I now
entertain; how they might be altered by a train of events too
favourable perhaps to be hoped for, it were in vain even to conjecture.
Only be assured, Mr. Waverley, that, after my brother’s honour and
happiness, there is none which I shall more sincerely pray for than for
yours.”

With these words she parted from him, for they were now arrived where
two paths separated. Waverley reached the castle amidst a medley of
conflicting passions. He avoided any private interview with Fergus, as
he did not find himself able either to encounter his raillery or reply
to his solicitations. The wild revelry of the feast, for Mac-Ivor kept
open table for his clan, served in some degree to stun reflection. When
their festivity was ended, he began to consider how he should again
meet Miss Mac-Ivor after the painful and interesting explanation of the
morning. But Flora did not appear. Fergus, whose eyes flashed when he
was told by Cathleen that her mistress designed to keep her apartment
that evening, went himself in quest of her; but apparently his
remonstrances were in vain, for he returned with a heightened
complexion and manifest symptoms of displeasure. The rest of the
evening passed on without any allusion, on the part either of Fergus or
Waverley, to the subject which engrossed the reflections of the latter,
and perhaps of both.

When retired to his own apartment, Edward endeavoured to sum up the
business of the day. That the repulse he had received from Flora would
be persisted in for the present, there was no doubt. But could he hope
for ultimate success in case circumstances permitted the renewal of his
suit? Would the enthusiastic loyalty, which at this animating moment
left no room for a softer passion, survive, at least in its engrossing
force, the success or the failure of the present political
machinations? And if so, could he hope that the interest which she had
acknowledged him to possess in her favour might be improved into a
warmer attachment? He taxed his memory to recall every word she had
used, with the appropriate looks and gestures which had enforced them,
and ended by finding himself in the same state of uncertainty. It was
very late before sleep brought relief to the tumult of his mind, after
the most painful and agitating day which he had ever passed.




CHAPTER XXVIII.
A LETTER FROM TULLY-VEOLAN


In the morning, when Waverley’s troubled reflections had for some time
given way to repose, there came music to his dreams, but not the voice
of Selma. He imagined himself transported back to Tully-Veolan, and
that he heard Davie Gellatley singing in the court those matins which
used generally to be the first sounds that disturbed his repose while a
guest of the Baron of Bradwardine. The notes which suggested this
vision continued, and waxed louder, until Edward awoke in earnest. The
illusion, however, did not seem entirely dispelled. The apartment was
in the fortress of Ian nan Chaistel, but it was still the voice of
Davie Gellatley that made the following lines resound under the
window:—

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.[*]


[* These lines form the burden of an old song to which Burns wrote
additional verses.]


Curious to know what could have determined Mr. Gellatley on an
excursion of such unwonted extent, Edward began to dress himself in all
haste, during which operation the minstrelsy of Davie changed its tune
more than once:—

There’s nought in the Highlands but syboes and leeks,
And lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks,
Wanting the breeks, and without hose and shoon,
But we’ll a’win the breeks when King Jamie comes hame.[*]


[* These lines are also ancient, and I believe to the tune of “We’ll
never hae peace till Jamie comes hame,” to which Burns likewise wrote
some verses.]


By the time Waverley was dressed and had issued forth, David had
associated himself with two or three of the numerous Highland loungers
who always graced the gates of the castle with their presence, and was
capering and dancing full merrily in the doubles and full career of a
Scotch foursome reel, to the music of his own whistling. In this double
capacity of dancer and musician he continued, until an idle piper, who
observed his zeal, obeyed the unanimous call of“seid suas” (that is
blow up), and relieved him from the latter part of his trouble. Young
and old then mingled in the dance as they could find partners. The
appearance of Waverley did not interrupt David’s exercise, though he
contrived, by grinning, nodding, and throwing one or two inclinations
of the body into the graces with which he performed the Highland fling,
to convey to our hero symptoms of recognition. Then, while busily
employed in setting, whooping all the while, and snapping his fingers
over his head, he of a sudden prolonged his side-step until it brought
him to the place where Edward was standing, and, still keeping time to
the music like Harlequin in a pantomime, he thrust a letter into our
hero’s hand, and continued his saltation without pause or intermission.
Edward, who perceived that the address was in Rose’s hand-writing,
retired to peruse it, leaving the faithful bearer to continue his
exercise until the piper or he should be tired out.

The contents of the letter greatly surprised him. It had originally
commenced with “Dear Sir”; but these words had been carefully erased,
and the monosyllable “Sir” substituted in their place. The rest of the
contents shall be given in Rose’s own language.

I fear I am using an improper freedom by intruding upon you, yet I
cannot trust to any one else to let you know some things which have
happened here, with which it seems necessary you should be acquainted.
Forgive me, if I am wrong in what I am doing; for, alas! Mr. Waverley,
I have no better advice than that of my own feelings; my dear father is
gone from this place, and when he can return to my assistance and
protection, God alone knows. You have probably heard that, in
consequence of some troublesome news from the Highlands, warrants were
sent out for apprehending several gentlemen in these parts, and, among
others, my dear father. In spite of all my tears and entreaties that he
would surrender himself to the government, he joined with Mr. Falconer
and some other gentlemen, and they have all gone northwards, with a
body of about forty horsemen. So I am not so anxious concerning his
immediate safety as about what may follow afterwards, for these
troubles are only beginning. But all this is nothing to you, Mr.
Waverley, only I thought you would be glad to learn that my father has
escaped, in case you happen to have heard that he was in danger.
    The day after my father went off there came a party of soldiers to
    Tully-Veolan, and behaved very rudely to Bailie Macwheeble; but the
    officer was very civil to me, only said his duty obliged him to
    search for arms and papers. My father had provided against this by
    taking away all the arms except the old useless things which hung
    in the hall, and he had put all his papers out of the way. But O!
    Mr. Waverley, how shall I tell you, that they made strict inquiry
    after you, and asked when you had been at Tully-Veolan, and where
    you now were. The officer is gone back with his party, but a
    non-commissioned officer and four men remain as a sort of garrison
    in the house. They have hitherto behaved very well, as we are
    forced to keep them in good-humour. But these soldiers have hinted
    as if, on your falling into their hands, you would be in great
    danger; I cannot prevail on myself to write what wicked falsehoods
    they said, for I am sure they are falsehoods; but you will best
    judge what you ought to do. The party that returned carried off
    your servant prisoner, with your two horses, and everything that
    you left at Tully-Veolan. I hope God will protect you, and that you
    will get safe home to England, where you used to tell me there was
    no military violence nor fighting among clans permitted, but
    everything was done according to an equal law that protected all
    who were harmless and innocent. I hope you will exert your
    indulgence as to my boldness in writing to you, where it seems to
    me, though perhaps erroneously, that your safety and honour are
    concerned. I am sure—at least I think, my father would approve of
    my writing; for Mr. Rubrick is fled to his cousin’s at the Duchran,
    to to be out of danger from the soldiers and the Whigs, and Bailie
    Macwheeble does not like to meddle (he says) in other men’s
    concerns, though I hope what may serve my father’s friend at such a
    time as this cannot be termed improper interference. Farewell,
    Captain Waverley! I shall probably never see you more; for it would
    be very improper to wish you to call at Tully-Veolan just now, even
    if these men were gone; but I will always remember with gratitude
    your kindness in assisting so poor a scholar as myself, and your
    attentions to my dear, dear father.


I remain, your obliged servant,
ROSE COMYNE BRADWARDINE.


P.S.—I hope you will send me a line by David Gellatley, just to say you
have received this and that you will take care of yourself; and forgive
me if I entreat you, for your own sake, to join none of these unhappy
cabals, but escape, as fast as possible, to your own fortunate country.
My compliments to my dear Flora and to Glennaquoich. Is she not as
handsome and accomplished as I have described her?


Thus concluded the letter of Rose Bradwardine, the contents of which
both surprised and affected Waverley. That the Baron should fall under
the suspicions of government, in consequence of the present stir among
the partisans of the house of Stuart, seemed only the natural
consequence of his political predilections; but how _he_ himself should
have been involved in such suspicions, conscious that until yesterday
he had been free from harbouring a thought against the prosperity of
the reigning family, seemed inexplicable. Both at Tully-Veolan and
Glennaquoich his hosts had respected his engagements with the existing
government, and though enough passed by accidental innuendo that might
induce him to reckon the Baron and the Chief among those disaffected
gentlemen who were still numerous in Scotland, yet until his own
connection with the army had been broken off by the resumption of his
commission, he had no reason to suppose that they nourished any
immediate or hostile attempts against the present establishment. Still
he was aware that, unless he meant at once to embrace the proposal of
Fergus Mac-Ivor, it would deeply concern him to leave the suspicious
neighbourhood without delay, and repair where his conduct might undergo
a satisfactory examination. Upon this he the rather determined, as
Flora’s advice favoured his doing so, and because he felt inexpressible
repugnance at the idea of being accessary to the plague of civil war.
Whatever were the original rights of the Stuarts, calm reflection told
him that, omitting the question how far James the Second could forfeit
those of his posterity, he had, according to the united voice of the
whole nation, justly forfeited his own. Since that period four monarchs
had reigned in peace and glory over Britain, sustaining and exalting
the character of the nation abroad and its liberties at home. Reason
asked, was it worth while to disturb a government so long settled and
established, and to plunge a kingdom into all the miseries of civil
war, for the purpose of replacing upon the throne the descendants of a
monarch by whom it had been wilfully forfeited? If, on the other hand,
his own final conviction of the goodness of their cause, or the
commands of his father or uncle, should recommend to him allegiance to
the Stuarts, still it was necessary to clear his own character by
showing that he had not, as seemed to be falsely insinuated, taken any
step to this purpose during his holding the commission of the reigning
monarch.

The affectionate simplicity of Rose and her anxiety for his safety, his
sense too of her unprotected state, and of the terror and actual
dangers to which she might be exposed, made an impression upon his
mind, and he instantly wrote to thank her in the kindest terms for her
solicitude on his account, to express his earnest good wishes for her
welfare and that of her father, and to assure her of his own safety.
The feelings which this task excited were speedily lost in the
necessity which he now saw of bidding farewell to Flora Mac-Ivor,
perhaps for ever. The pang attending this reflection was inexpressible;
for her high-minded elevation of character, her self-devotion to the
cause which she had embraced, united to her scrupulous rectitude as to
the means of serving it, had vindicated to his judgment the choice
adopted by his passions. But time pressed, calumny was busy with his
fame, and every hour’s delay increased the power to injure it. His
departure must be instant.

With this determination he sought out Fergus, and communicated to him
the contents of Rose’s letter, with his own resolution instantly to go
to Edinburgh, and put into the hands of some one or other of those
persons of influence to whom he had letters from his father his
exculpation from any charge which might be preferred against him.

“You run your head into the lion’s mouth,” answered Mac-Ivor. “You do
not know the severity of a government harassed by just apprehensions,
and a consciousness of their own illegality and insecurity. I shall
have to deliver you from some dungeon in Stirling or Edinburgh Castle.”

“My innocence, my rank, my father’s intimacy with Lord M——, General
G——, etc., will be a sufficient protection,” said Waverley.

“You will find the contrary,” replied the Chieftain, “these gentlemen
will have enough to do about their own matters. Once more, will you
take the plaid, and stay a little while with us among the mists and the
crows, in the bravest cause ever sword was drawn in?”[*]

[* A Highland rhyme on Glencairn’s Expedition, in 1650, has these
lines—


We’ll bide a while amang ta crows,
We’ll wiske ta sword and bend ta bows]


“For many reasons, my dear Fergus, you must hold me excused.”

“Well then,” said Mac-Ivor, “I shall certainly find you exerting your
poetical talents in elegies upon a prison, or your antiquarian
researches in detecting the Oggam[*] character or some Punic
hieroglyphic upon the keystones of a vault, curiously arched. Or what
say you to _un petit pendement bien joli?_ against which awkward
ceremony I don’t warrant you, should you meet a body of the armed
West-Country Whigs.”

[* The Oggam is a species of the old Irish character. The idea of the
correspondence betwixt the Celtic and Punic, founded on a scene in
Plautus, was not started till General Vallancey set up his theory, long
after the date of Fergus Mac-Ivor]


“And why should they use me so?” said Waverley.

“For a hundred good reasons,” answered Fergus. “First, you are an
Englishman; secondly, a gentleman; thirdly, a prelatist abjured; and,
fourthly, they have not had an opportunity to exercise their talents on
such a subject this long while. But don’t be cast down, beloved; all
will be done in the fear of the Lord.”

“Well, I must run my hazard.”

“You are determined, then?”

“I am.”

“Wilful will do’t” said Fergus. “But you cannot go on foot, and I shall
want no horse, as I must march on foot at the head of the children of
Ivor; you shall have brown Dermid.”

“If you will sell him, I shall certainly be much obliged.”

“If your proud English heart cannot be obliged by a gift or loan, I
will not refuse money at the entrance of a campaign: his price is
twenty guineas. [Remember, reader, it was Sixty Years Since.] And when
do you propose to depart?”

“The sooner the better,” answered Waverley.

“You are right, since go you must, or rather, since go you will. I will
take Flora’s pony and ride with you as far as Bally-Brough. Callum Beg,
see that our horses are ready, with a pony for yourself, to attend and
carry Mr. Waverley’s baggage as far as —— (naming a small town), where
he can have a horse and guide to Edinburgh. Put on a Lowland dress,
Callum, and see you keep your tongue close, if you would not have me
cut it out. Mr. Waverley rides Dermid.” Then turning to Edward, “You
will take leave of my sister?”

“Surely—that is, if Miss Mac-Ivor will honour me so far.”

“Cathleen, let my sister know Mr. Waverley wishes to bid her farewell
before he leaves us. But Rose Bradwardine, her situation must be
thought of; I wish she were here. And why should she not? There are but
four red-coats at Tully-Veolan, and their muskets would be very useful
to us.”

To these broken remarks Edward made no answer; his ear indeed received
them, but his soul was intent upon the expected entrance of Flora. The
door opened. It was but Cathleen, with her lady’s excuse, and wishes
for Captain Waverley’s health and happiness.




CHAPTER XXIX.
WAVERLEY’S RECEPTION IN THE LOWLANDS AFTER HIS HIGHLAND TOUR


It was noon when the two friends stood at the top of the pass of
Bally-Brough. “I must go no farther,” said Fergus Mac-Ivor, who during
the journey had in vain endeavoured to raise his friend’s spirits. “If
my cross-grained sister has any share in your dejection, trust me she
thinks highly of you, though her present anxiety about the public cause
prevents her listening to any other subject. Confide your interest to
me; I will not betray it, providing you do not again assume that vile
cockade.”

“No fear of that, considering the manner in which it has been recalled.
Adieu, Fergus; do not permit your sister to forget me.”

“And adieu, Waverley; you may soon hear of her with a prouder title.
Get home, write letters, and make friends as many and as fast as you
can; there will speedily be unexpected guests on the coast of Suffolk,
or my news from France has deceived me.”[*]

[* The sanguine Jacobites, during the eventful years 1745–46, kept up
the spirits of their party by the rumour of descents from France on
behalf of the Chevalier St. George.]


Thus parted the friends; Fergus returning back to his castle, while
Edward, followed by Callum Beg, the latter transformed from point to
point into a Low-Country groom, proceeded to the little town of ——.

Edward paced on under the painful and yet not altogether embittered
feelings which separation and uncertainty produce in the mind of a
youthful lover. I am not sure if the ladies understand the full value
of the influence of absence, nor do I think it wise to teach it them,
lest, like the Clelias and Mandanes of yore, they should resume the
humour of sending their lovers into banishment. Distance, in truth,
produces in idea the same effect as in real perspective. Objects are
softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and
more ordinary points of character are mellowed down, and those by which
it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity,
grace, or beauty. There are mists too in the mental as well as the
natural horizon, to conceal what is less pleasing in distant objects,
and there are happy lights, to stream in full glory upon those points
which can profit by brilliant illumination.

Waverley forgot Flora Mac-Ivor’s prejudices in her magnanimity, and
almost pardoned her indifference towards his affection when he
recollected the grand and decisive object which seemed to fill her
whole soul. She, whose sense of duty so wholly engrossed her in the
cause of a benefactor, what would be her feelings in favour of the
happy individual who should be so fortunate as to awaken them? Then
came the doubtful question, whether he might not be that happy man,—a
question which fancy endeavoured to answer in the affirmative, by
conjuring up all she had said in his praise, with the addition of a
comment much more flattering than the text warranted. All that was
commonplace, all that belonged to the every-day world, was melted away
and obliterated in those dreams of imagination, which only remembered
with advantage the points of grace and dignity that distinguished Flora
from the generality of her sex, not the particulars which she held in
common with them. Edward was, in short, in the fair way of creating a
goddess out of a high-spirited, accomplished, and beautiful young
woman; and the time was wasted in castle-building until, at the descent
of a steep hill, he saw beneath him the market-town of ——.

The Highland politeness of Callum Beg—there are few nations, by the
way, who can boast of so much natural politeness as the
Highlanders[*]—the Highland civility of his attendant had not permitted
him to disturb the reveries of our hero. But observing him rouse
himself at the sight of the village, Callum pressed closer to his side,
and hoped “when they cam to the public, his honour wad not say nothing
about Vich Ian Vohr, for ta people were bitter Whigs, deil burst tem.”

[* The Highlander, in former times, had always a high idea of his own
gentility, and was anxious to impress the same upon those with whom he
conversed. His language abounded in the phrases of courtesy and
compliment; and the habit of carrying arms, and mixing with those who
did so, made it particularly desirable they should use cautious
politeness in their intercourse with each other.]


Waverley assured the prudent page that he would be cautious; and as he
now distinguished, not indeed the ringing of bells, but the tinkling of
something like a hammer against the side of an old mossy, green,
inverted porridge-pot that hung in an open booth, of the size and shape
of a parrot’s cage, erected to grace the east end of a building
resembling an old barn, he asked Callum Beg if it were Sunday.

“Could na say just preceesely; Sunday seldom cam aboon the pass of
Bally-Brough.”

On entering the town, however, and advancing towards the most apparent
public-house which presented itself, the numbers of old women, in
tartan screens and red cloaks, who streamed from the barn-resembling
building, debating as they went the comparative merits of the blessed
youth Jabesh Rentowel and that chosen vessel Maister Goukthrapple,
induced Callum to assure his temporary master “that it was either ta
muckle Sunday hersell, or ta little government Sunday that they ca’d ta
fast.”

On alighting at the sign of the Seven-branched Golden Candlestick,
which, for the further delectation of the guests, was graced with a
short Hebrew motto, they were received by mine host, a tall thin
puritanical figure, who seemed to debate with himself whether he ought
to give shelter to those who travelled on such a day. Reflecting,
however, in all probability, that he possessed the power of mulcting
them for this irregularity, a penalty which they might escape by
passing into Gregor Duncanson’s, at the sign of the Highlander and the
Hawick Gill, Mr. Ebenezer Cruickshanks condescended to admit them into
his dwelling.

To this sanctified person Waverley addressed his request that he would
procure him a guide, with a saddle-horse, to carry his portmanteau to
Edinburgh.

“And whar may ye be coming from?” demanded mine host of the
Candlestick.

“I have told you where I wish to go; I do not conceive any further
information necessary either for the guide or his saddle-horse.”

“Hem! Ahem!” returned he of the Candlestick, somewhat disconcerted at
this rebuff. “It’s the general fast, sir, and I cannot enter into ony
carnal transactions on sic a day, when the people should be humbled and
the backsliders should return, as worthy Mr. Goukthrapple said; and
moreover when, as the precious Mr. Jabesh Rentowel did weel observe,
the land was mourning for covenants burnt, broken, and buried.”

“My good friend,” said Waverley, “if you cannot let me have a horse and
guide, my servant shall seek them elsewhere.”

“Aweel! Your servant? and what for gangs he not forward wi’ you
himsell?”

Waverley had but very little of a captain of horse’s spirit within
him—I mean of that sort of spirit which I have been obliged to when I
happened, in a mail coach or diligence, to meet some military man who
has kindly taken upon him the disciplining of the waiters and the
taxing of reckonings. Some of this useful talent our hero had, however,
acquired during his military service, and on this gross provocation it
began seriously to arise. “Look ye, sir; I came here for my own
accommodation, and not to answer impertinent questions. Either say you
can, or cannot, get me what I want; I shall pursue my course in either
case.”

Mr. Ebenezer Cruickshanks left the room with some indistinct
mutterings; but whether negative or acquiescent, Edward could not well
distinguish. The hostess, a civil, quiet, laborious drudge, came to
take his orders for dinner, but declined to make answer on the subject
of the horse and guide; for the Salique law, it seems, extended to the
stables of the Golden Candlestick.

From a window which overlooked the dark and narrow court in which
Callum Beg rubbed down the horses after their journey, Waverley heard
the following dialogue betwixt the subtle foot-page of Vich Ian Vohr
and his landlord:—

“Ye’ll be frae the north, young man?” began the latter.

“And ye may say that,” answered Callum.

“And ye’ll hae ridden a lang way the day, it may weel be?”

“Sae lang, that I could weel tak a dram.”

“Gudewife, bring the gill stoup.”

Here some compliments passed fitting the occasion, when my host of the
Golden Candlestick, having, as he thought, opened his guest’s heart by
this hospitable propitiation, resumed his scrutiny.

“Ye’ll no hae mickle better whisky than that aboon the Pass?”

“I am nae frae aboon the Pass.”

“Ye’re a Highlandman by your tongue?”

“Na; I am but just Aberdeen-a-way.”

“And did your master come frae Aberdeen wi’ you?”

“Ay; that’s when I left it mysell,” answered the cool and impenetrable
Callum Beg.

“And what kind of a gentleman is he?”

“I believe he is ane o’ King George’s state officers; at least he’s aye
for ganging on to the south, and he has a hantle siller, and never
grudges onything till a poor body, or in the way of a lawing.”

“He wants a guide and a horse frae hence to Edinburgh?”

“Ay, and ye maun find it him forthwith.”

“Ahem! It will be chargeable.”

“He cares na for that a bodle.”

“Aweel, Duncan—did ye say your name was Duncan, or Donald?”

“Na, man—Jamie—Jamie Steenson—I telt ye before.”

This last undaunted parry altogether foiled Mr. Cruickshanks, who,
though not quite satisfied either with the reserve of the master or the
extreme readiness of the man, was contented to lay a tax on the
reckoning and horse-hire that might compound for his ungratified
curiosity. The circumstance of its being the fast day was not forgotten
in the charge, which, on the whole, did not, however, amount to much
more than double what in fairness it should have been.

Callum Beg soon after announced in person the ratification of this
treaty, adding, “Ta auld deevil was ganging to ride wi’ ta
_duinhé-wassel_ hersell.”

“That will not be very pleasant, Callum, nor altogether safe, for our
host seems a person of great curiosity; but a traveller must submit to
these inconveniences. Meanwhile, my good lad, here is a trifle for you
to drink Vich Ian Vohr’s health.”

The hawk’s eye of Callum flashed delight upon a golden guinea, with
which these last words were accompanied. He hastened, not without a
curse on the intricacies of a Saxon breeches pocket, or “spleuchan,” as
he called it, to deposit the treasure in his fob; and then, as if he
conceived the benevolence called for some requital on his part, he
gathered close up to Edward, with an expression of countenance
peculiarly knowing, and spoke in an undertone, “If his honour thought
ta auld deevil Whig carle was a bit dangerous, she could easily provide
for him, and teil ane ta wiser.”

“How, and in what manner?”

“Her ain sell,” replied Callum, “could wait for him a wee bit frae the
toun, and kittle his quarters wi’her _skene-occle_.”

“‘Skene-occle!’ what’s that?”

Callum unbuttoned his coat, raised his left arm, and, with an emphatic
nod, pointed to the hilt of a small dirk, snugly deposited under it, in
the lining of his jacket. Waverley thought he had misunderstood his
meaning; he gazed in his face, and discovered in Callum’s very handsome
though embrowned features just the degree of roguish malice with which
a lad of the same age in England would have brought forward a plan for
robbing an orchard.

“Good God, Callum, would you take the man’s life?”

“Indeed,” answered the young desperado, “and I think he has had just a
lang enough lease o ’t, when he’s for betraying honest folk that come
to spend siller at his public.”

Edward saw nothing was to be gained by argument, and therefore
contented himself with enjoining Callum to lay aside all practices
against the person of Mr. Ebenezer Cruickshanks; in which injunction
the page seemed to acquiesce with an air of great indifference.

“Ta _duinhé-wassel_ might please himsell; ta auld rudas loon had never
done Callum nae ill. But here’s a bit line frae ta Tighearna, tat he
bade me gie your honour ere I came back.”

The letter from the Chief contained Flora’s lines on the fate of
Captain Wogan, whose enterprising character is so well drawn by
Clarendon. He had originally engaged in the service of the Parliament,
but had abjured that party upon the execution of Charles I; and upon
hearing that the royal standard was set up by the Earl of Glencairn and
General Middleton in the Highlands of Scotland, took leave of Charles
II, who was then at Paris, passed into England, assembled a body of
Cavaliers in the neighbourhood of London, and traversed the kingdom,
which had been so long under domination of the usurper, by marches
conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit that he safely united
his handful of horsemen with the body of Highlanders then in arms.
After several months of desultory warfare, in which Wogan’s skill and
courage gained him the highest reputation, he had the misfortune to be
wounded in a dangerous manner, and no surgical assistance being within
reach he terminated his short but glorious career.

There were obvious reasons why the politic Chieftain was desirous to
place the example of this young hero under the eye of Waverley, with
whose romantic disposition it coincided so peculiarly. But his letter
turned chiefly upon some trifling commissions which Waverley had
promised to execute for him in England, and it was only toward the
conclusion that Edward found these words: “I owe Flora a grudge for
refusing us her company yesterday; and, as I am giving you the trouble
of reading these lines, in order to keep in your memory your promise to
procure me the fishing-tackle and cross-bow from London, I will enclose
her verses on the Grave of Wogan. This I know will tease her; for, to
tell you the truth, I think her more in love with the memory of that
dead hero than she is likely to be with any living one, unless he shall
tread a similar path. But English squires of our day keep their
oak-trees to shelter their deer parks, or repair the losses of an
evening at White’s, and neither invoke them to wreathe their brows nor
shelter their graves. Let me hope for one brilliant exception in a dear
friend, to whom I would most gladly give a dearer title.”

The verses were inscribed,

TO AN OAK TREE


_In the Churchyard of ——, in the Highlands of Scotland, said to mark
the Grave of Captain Wogan, killed in_ 1649.


Emblem of England’s ancient faith,
    Full proudly may thy branches wave,
Where loyalty lies low in death,
    And valour fills a timeless grave.

And thou, brave tenant of the tomb!
    Repine not if our clime deny,
Above thine honour’d sod to bloom
    The flowerets of a milder sky.

These owe their birth to genial May;
    Beneath a fiercer sun they pine,
Before the winter storm decay;
    And can their worth be type of thine?

No! for, ’mid storms of Fate opposing,
    Still higher swell’d thy dauntless heart,
And, while Despair the scene was closing,
    Commenced thy brief but brilliant part.

’T was then thou sought’st on Albyn’s hill,
    (When England’s sons the strife resign’d)
A rugged race resisting still,
    And unsubdued though unrefined.

Thy death’s hour heard no kindred wail,
    No holy knell thy requiem rung;
Thy mourners were the plaided Gael,
    Thy dirge the clamourous pibroch sung.

Yet who, in Fortune’s summer-shine
    To waste life’s longest term away,
Would change that glorious dawn of thine,
    Though darken’d ere its noontide day!

Be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs
    Brave summer’s drought and winter’s gloom.
Rome bound with oak her patriots’ brows,
    As Albyn shadows Wogan’s tomb.


Whatever might be the real merit of Flora Mac-Ivor’s poetry, the
enthusiasm which it intimated was well calculated to make a
corresponding impression upon her lover. The lines were read—read
again, then deposited in Waverley’s bosom, then again drawn out, and
read line by line, in a low and smothered voice, and with frequent
pauses which prolonged the mental treat, as an epicure protracts, by
sipping slowly, the enjoyment of a delicious beverage. The entrance of
Mrs. Cruickshanks with the sublunary articles of dinner and wine hardly
interrupted this pantomime of affectionate enthusiasm.

At length the tall ungainly figure and ungracious visage of Ebenezer
presented themselves. The upper part of his form, notwithstanding the
season required no such defence, was shrouded in a large great-coat,
belted over his under habiliments, and crested with a huge cowl of the
same stuff, which, when drawn over the head and hat, completely
overshadowed both, and, being buttoned beneath the chin, was called a
trot-cozy. His hand grasped a huge jockey-whip, garnished with
brassmounting. His thin legs tenanted a pair of gambadoes, fastened at
the sides with rusty clasps. Thus accoutred, he stalked into the midst
of the apartment, and announced his errand in brief phrase: “Yer horses
are ready.”

“You go with me yourself then, landlord?”

“I do, as far as Perth; where ye may be supplied with a guide to
Embro’, as your occasions shall require.”

Thus saying, he placed under Waverley’s eye the bill which he held in
his hand; and at the same time, self-invited, filled a glass of wine
and drank devoutly to a blessing on their journey. Waverley stared at
the man’s impudence, but, as their connection was to be short and
promised to be convenient, he made no observation upon it; and, having
paid his reckoning, expressed his intention to depart immediately. He
mounted Dermid accordingly and sallied forth from the Golden
Candlestick, followed by the puritanical figure we have described,
after he had, at the expense of some time and difficulty, and by the
assistance of a “louping-on-stane,” or structure of masonry erected for
the traveller’s convenience in front of the house, elevated his person
to the back of a long-backed, raw-boned, thin-gutted phantom of a
broken-down blood-horse, on which Waverley’s portmanteau was deposited.
Our hero, though not in a very gay humour, could hardly help laughing
at the appearance of his new squire, and at imagining the astonishment
which his person and equipage would have excited at Waverley-Honour.

Edward’s tendency to mirth did not escape mine host of the Candlestick,
who, conscious of the cause, infused a double portion of souring into
the pharisaical leaven of his countenance, and resolved internally
that, in one way or other, the young _Englisher_ should pay dearly for
the contempt with which he seemed to regard him. Callum also stood at
the gate and enjoyed, with undissembled glee, the ridiculous figure of
Mr. Cruickshanks. As Waverley passed him he pulled off his hat
respectfully, and, approaching his stirrup, bade him “Tak heed the auld
whig deevil played him nae cantrip.”

Waverley once more thanked and bade him farewell, and then rode briskly
onward, not sorry to be out of hearing of the shouts of the children,
as they beheld old Ebenezer rise and sink in his stirrups to avoid the
concussions occasioned by a hard trot upon a half-paved street. The
village of —— was soon several miles behind him.




WAVERLEY

OR

’TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE

VOLUME II.


[Illustration]




CHAPTER I.
SHOWS THAT THE LOSS OF A HORSE’S SHOE MAY BE A SERIOUS INCONVENIENCE


The manner and air of Waverley, but, above all, the glittering contents
of his purse, and the indifference with which he seemed to regard them,
somewhat overawed his companion, and deterred him from making any
attempts to enter upon conversation. His own reflections were moreover
agitated by various surmises, and by plans of self-interest with which
these were intimately connected. The travellers journeyed, therefore,
in silence, until it was interrupted by the annunciation, on the part
of the guide, that his “naig had lost a fore-foot shoe, which,
doubtless, his honour would consider it was his part to replace.”

This was what lawyers call a fishing question, calculated to ascertain
how far Waverley was disposed to submit to petty imposition. “My part
to replace your horse’s shoe, you rascal!” said Waverley, mistaking the
purport of the intimation.

“Indubitably,” answered Mr. Cruickshanks; “though there was no preceese
clause to that effect, it canna be expected that I am to pay for the
casualties whilk may befall the puir naig while in your honour’s
service. Nathless, if your honour—”

“O, you mean I am to pay the farrier; but where shall we find one?”

Rejoiced at discerning there would be no objection made on the part of
his temporary master, Mr. Cruickshanks assured him that Cairnvreckan, a
village which they were about to enter, was happy in an excellent
blacksmith; “but as he was a professor, he would drive a nail for no
man on the Sabbath or kirk-fast, unless it were in a case of absolute
necessity, for which he always charged sixpence each shoe.” The most
important part of this communication, in the opinion of the speaker,
made a very slight impression on the hearer, who only internally
wondered what college this veterinary professor belonged to, not aware
that the word was used to denote any person who pretended to uncommon
sanctity of faith and manner.

As they entered the village of Cairnvreckan, they speedily
distinguished the smith’s house. Being also a public, it was two
stories high, and proudly reared its crest, covered with grey slate,
above the thatched hovels by which it was surrounded. The adjoining
smithy betokened none of the Sabbatical silence and repose which
Ebenezer had augured from the sanctity of his friend. On the contrary,
hammer clashed and anvil rang, the bellows groaned, and the whole
apparatus of Vulcan appeared to be in full activity. Nor was the labour
of a rural and pacific nature. The master smith, benempt, as his sign
intimated, John Mucklewrath, with two assistants, toiled busily in
arranging, repairing, and furbishing old muskets, pistols, and swords,
which lay scattered around his workshop in military confusion. The open
shed, containing the forge, was crowded with persons who came and went
as if receiving and communicating important news, and a single glance
at the aspect of the people who traversed the street in haste, or stood
assembled in groups, with eyes elevated and hands uplifted, announced
that some extraordinary intelligence was agitating the public mind of
the municipality of Cairnvreckan. “There is some news,” said mine host
of the Candlestick, pushing his lantern-jawed visage and bare-boned nag
rudely forward into the crowd—“there is some news; and, if it please my
Creator, I will forthwith obtain speirings thereof.”

Waverley, with better regulated curiosity than his attendant’s,
dismounted and gave his horse to a boy who stood idling near. It arose,
perhaps, from the shyness of his character in early youth, that he felt
dislike at applying to a stranger even for casual information, without
previously glancing at his physiognomy and appearance. While he looked
about in order to select the person with whom he would most willingly
hold communication, the buzz around saved him in some degree the
trouble of interrogatories. The names of Lochiel, Clanronald,
Glengarry, and other distinguished Highland Chiefs, among whom Vich Ian
Vohr was repeatedly mentioned, were as familiar in men’s mouths as
household words; and from the alarm generally expressed, he easily
conceived that their descent into the Lowlands, at the head of their
armed tribes, had either already taken place or was instantly
apprehended.

Ere Waverley could ask particulars, a strong, large-boned,
hard-featured woman, about forty, dressed as if her clothes had been
flung on with a pitchfork, her cheeks flushed with a scarlet red where
they were not smutted with soot and lamp-black, jostled through the
crowd, and, brandishing high a child of two years old, which she danced
in her arms without regard to its screams of terror, sang forth with
all her might,—

Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling,
Charlie is my darling,
        The young Chevalier!


“D’ ye hear what’s come ower ye now,” continued the virago, “ye
whingeing Whig carles? D’ye hear wha’s coming to cow yer cracks?

Little wot ye wha’s coming,
Little wot ye wha’s coming,
        A’ the wild Macraws are coming.”


The Vulcan of Cairnvreckan, who acknowledged his Venus in this exulting
Bacchante, regarded her with a grim and ire-foreboding countenance,
while some of the senators of the village hastened to interpose.
“Whisht, gudewife; is this a time or is this a day to be singing your
ranting fule sangs in?—a time when the wine of wrath is poured out
without mixture in the cup of indignation, and a day when the land
should give testimony against popery, and prelacy, and quakerism, and
independency, and supremacy, and erastianism, and antinomianism, and a’
the errors of the church?”

“And that’s a’ your Whiggery,” reechoed the Jacobite heroine; “that’s
a’ your Whiggery, and your presbytery, ye cut-lugged, graning carles!
What! d’ ye think the lads wi’ the kilts will care for yer synods and
yer presbyteries, and yer buttock-mail, and yer stool o’ repentance?
Vengeance on the black face o’t! mony an honester woman’s been set upon
it than streeks doon beside ony Whig in the country. I mysell—”

Here John Mucklewrath, who dreaded her entering upon a detail of
personal experience, interposed his matrimonial authority. “Gae hame,
and be d—— (that I should say sae), and put on the sowens for supper.”

“And you, ye doil’d dotard,” replied his gentle helpmate, her wrath,
which had hitherto wandered abroad over the whole assembly, being at
once and violently impelled into its natural channel, “_ye_ stand there
hammering dog-heads for fules that will never snap them at a
Highlandman, instead of earning bread for your family and shoeing this
winsome young gentleman’s horse that’s just come frae the north! I’se
warrant him nane of your whingeing King George folk, but a gallant
Gordon, at the least o’ him.”

The eyes of the assembly were now turned upon Waverley, who took the
opportunity to beg the smith to shoe his guide’s horse with all speed,
as he wished to proceed on his journey; for he had heard enough to make
him sensible that there would be danger in delaying long in this place.
The smith’s eyes rested on him with a look of displeasure and
suspicion, not lessened by the eagerness with which his wife enforced
Waverley’s mandate. “D’ye hear what the weel-favoured young gentleman
says, ye drunken ne’er-do-good?”

“And what may your name be, sir?” quoth Mucklewrath.

“It is of no consequence to you, my friend, provided I pay your
labour.”

“But it may be of consequence to the state, sir,” replied an old
farmer, smelling strongly of whisky and peat-smoke; “and I doubt we
maun delay your journey till you have seen the Laird.”

“You certainly,” said Waverley, haughtily, “will find it both difficult
and dangerous to detain me, unless you can produce some proper
authority.”

There was a pause and a whisper among the crowd,—“Secretary
Murray;” “Lord Lewis Gordon;” “Maybe the Chevalier himsell!” Such were
the surmises that passed hurriedly among them, and there was obviously
an increased disposition to resist Waverley’s departure. He attempted
to argue mildly with them, but his voluntary ally, Mrs. Mucklewrath,
broke in upon and drowned his expostulations, taking his part with an
abusive violence which was all set down to Edward’s account by those on
whom it was bestowed. “_Ye’ll_ stop ony gentleman that’s the Prince’s
freend?” for she too, though with other feelings, had adopted the
general opinion respecting Waverley. “I daur ye to touch him,”
spreading abroad her long and muscular fingers, garnished with claws
which a vulture might have envied. “I’ll set my ten commandments in the
face o’ the first loon that lays a finger on him.”

“Gae hame, gudewife,” quoth the farmer aforesaid; “it wad better set
you to be nursing the gudeman’s bairns than to be deaving us here.”

“_His_ bairns?” retorted the Amazon, regarding her husband with a grin
of ineffable contempt—“_His_ bairns!

O gin ye were dead, gudeman,
    And a green turf on your head, gudeman!
Then I wad ware my widowhood
    Upon a ranting Highlandman


This canticle, which excited a suppressed titter among the younger part
of the audience, totally overcame the patience of the taunted man of
the anvil. “Deil be in me but I’ll put this het gad down her throat!”
cried he in an ecstasy of wrath, snatching a bar from the forge; and he
might have executed his threat, had he not been withheld by a part of
the mob, while the rest endeavoured to force the termagant out of his
presence.

Waverley meditated a retreat in the confusion, but his horse was
nowhere to be seen. At length he observed at some distance his faithful
attendant, Ebenezer, who, as soon as he had perceived the turn matters
were likely to take, had withdrawn both horses from the press, and,
mounted on the one and holding the other, answered the loud and
repeated calls of Waverley for his horse. “Na, na! if ye are nae friend
to kirk and the king, and are detained as siccan a person, ye maun
answer to honest men of the country for breach of contract; and I maun
keep the naig and the walise for damage and expense, in respect my
horse and mysell will lose to-morrow’s day’s wark, besides the
afternoon preaching.”

Edward, out of patience, hemmed in and hustled by the rabble on every
side, and every moment expecting personal violence, resolved to try
measures of intimidation, and at length drew a pocket-pistol,
threatening, on the one hand, to shoot whomsoever dared to stop him,
and, on the other, menacing Ebenezer with a similar doom if he stirred
a foot with the horses. The sapient Partridge says that one man with a
pistol is equal to a hundred unarmed, because, though he can shoot but
one of the multitude, yet no one knows but that he himself may be that
luckless individual. The _levy en masse_ of Cairnvreckan would
therefore probably have given way, nor would Ebenezer, whose natural
paleness had waxed three shades more cadaverous, have ventured to
dispute a mandate so enforced, had not the Vulcan of the village, eager
to discharge upon some more worthy object the fury which his helpmate
had provoked, and not ill satisfied to find such an object in Waverley,
rushed at him with the red-hot bar of iron with such determination as
made the discharge of his pistol an act of self-defence. The
unfortunate man fell; and while Edward, thrilled with a natural horror
at the incident, neither had presence of mind to unsheathe his sword
nor to draw his remaining pistol, the populace threw themselves upon
him, disarmed him, and were about to use him with great violence, when
the appearance of a venerable clergyman, the pastor of the parish, put
a curb on their fury.

This worthy man (none of the Goukthrapples or Rentowels) maintained his
character with the common people, although he preached the practical
fruits of Christian faith as well as its abstract tenets, and was
respected by the higher orders, notwithstanding he declined soothing
their speculative errors by converting the pulpit of the gospel into a
school of heathen morality. Perhaps it is owing to this mixture of
faith and practice in his doctrine that, although his memory has formed
a sort of era in the annals of Cairnvreckan, so that the parishioners,
to denote what befell Sixty Years Since, still say it happened “in good
Mr. Morton’s time,” I have never been able to discover which he
belonged to, the evangelical or the moderate party in the kirk. Nor do
I hold the circumstance of much moment, since, in my own remembrance,
the one was headed by an Erskine, the other by a Robertson.[*]

[* The Reverend John Erskine, D. D, an eminent Scottish divine and a
most excellent man, headed the Evangelical party in the Church of
Scotland at the time when the celebrated Doctor Robertson, the
historian, was the leader of the Moderate party. These two
distinguished persons were colleagues in the Old Grey Friars’ Church,
Edinburgh; and, however much they differed in church politics,
preserved the most perfect harmony as private friends and as clergymen
serving the same cure]


Mr. Morton had been alarmed by the discharge of the pistol and the
increasing hubbub around the smithy. His first attention, after he had
directed the bystanders to detain Waverley, but to abstain from
injuring him, was turned to the body of Mucklewrath, over which his
wife, in a revulsion of feeling, was weeping, howling, and tearing her
elf-locks in a state little short of distraction. On raising up the
smith, the first discovery was that he was alive; and the next that he
was likely to live as long as if he had never heard the report of a
pistol in his life. He had made a narrow escape, however; the bullet
had grazed his head and stunned him for a moment or two, which trance
terror and confusion of spirit had prolonged somewhat longer. He now
arose to demand vengeance on the person of Waverley, and with
difficulty acquiesced in the proposal of Mr. Morton that he should be
carried before the Laird, as a justice of peace, and placed at his
disposal. The rest of the assistants unanimously agreed to the measure
recommended; even Mrs. Mucklewrath, who had begun to recover from her
hysterics, whimpered forth, “She wadna say naething against what the
minister proposed; he was e’en ower gude for his trade, and she hoped
to see him wi’ a dainty decent bishop’s gown on his back; a comelier
sight than your Geneva cloaks and bands, I wis.”

All controversy being thus laid aside, Waverley, escorted by the whole
inhabitants of the village who were not bed-ridden, was conducted to
the house of Cairnvreckan, which was about half a mile distant.




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 _naïveté_
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 Ian 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 manœuvre was observed and
understood. On the contrary, she shortly afterwards left the hut, and
it was only as she tripped 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[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.[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 set 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_[*] 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_[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.”

[* The Judges of the Supreme Court of Session in Scotland are
proverbially termed among the country people, The Fifteen.]

“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.


[Illustration]

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.[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?”


pb084 (94K)

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,[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 Ian 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 manœuvres 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 glebæ_, 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 _conclamare 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
chère_.”

“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 was na 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 Ian 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 Ian 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 Ian 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-à-vis_. The men of peace and of war, that is, Bailie
Macwheeble and Ensign Maccombich, after many profound _congés_ 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[*] to help you?”

[* The Doutelle was an armed vessel which brought a small supply of
money and arms from France for the use of the insurgents.]


“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_[*] that shall cry
the coronach loudest for the last Vich Ian Vohr.”

[* Old women, on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead,
which the Irish call _Keening_.]


“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.[*]


[* 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.”

[* That is, contiguous.]


“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 connections,
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),[*] 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.

[* They occur in Miss Seward’s fine verses, beginning—
“To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu.”]


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.[*]

[* 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 Phœbus 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’ Phœbus 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 Ian 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 Ian Vohr and ta Prince are awa to the lang green
glen ahint the clachan, tat they ca’ the King’s Park,[*] and mony ane’s
on his ain shanks the day that will be carried on ither folk’s ere
night.”

[* 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.]


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 manœuvres. 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 Ian 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.[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.[*]

[* 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 Duinhé-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 _garçons
apothicaires_.”

“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 molligheart_,” 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 manœuvres 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[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.[33]

[Illustration]

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.[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 (that is, the watch, which
he took for a living animal) died the very night Vich Ian 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 _prælium 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 Ian 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 _caligæ_, 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 Cæsar, 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
_caligæ_ 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 _caligæ_ were tied with latchets.”

“That will apply to the brogues,” said Fergus.

“It will so, my dear Glennaquoich, and the words are express: Caligæ
dictæ sunt quia ligantur; nam socci non ligantur, sed tantum
intromittuntur; that is, _caligæ_ 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 off_, 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 _caligæ_ (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 _caligæ_ 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-à-propos_. So, _au revoir_, my dear Waverley.”




CHAPTER XX.
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 _caligæ_.
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 re-examination 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[*] as fast as
these _ci-devant_ dragoon-horses choose to carry us.”

[* Charles Edward took up his quarters after the battle at Pinkie
House, adjoining to Musselburgh.]




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[35] 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 connections, 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.[*] 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?”

[* 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.]


“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.[36] 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 hond, 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 minutiæ and technicalities of discipline,
rather suitable to one who was to manœuvre 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 minutiæ 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 spoken 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 _fainéant_ (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 _planté là_.”

“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 _caligæ_ 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 rocked 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 galère?”

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


It was 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 manœuvres. 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!”

“Oh, 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 à Monseigneur! place à 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 bonté 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 Ecossais—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 Comte de Beaujeu.
“Gentilmans sauvages! mais, très 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, très bien; encore, Messieurs; il faut vous mettre à la marche.
Marchez donc, au nom de Dieu, parce que j’ai oublié le mot Anglais;
mais vous êtes des braves gens, et me comprenez très 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 apporté les premières nouvelles de ce maudit
fracas. Je suis trop faché, 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 bonté de vous mettre à la tête de votre régiment,
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[37] 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 connections 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 métier de prince errant est ennuyant,
par fois. Mais, courage! c’est le grand jeu, après 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!”


[Illustration]

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
manœuvres 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?”[38]




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-à-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 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 ’em. 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 prévôt-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?


It was 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, sat 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 connections 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,39] 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,
re-established, 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 £15,000, besides Brerewood Lodge—a very independent
person, I promise you. There are bills here for £200; 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 à 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
white-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 fulee 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.[*]

[* 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
_troisième_, or rather _cinquième, étage_. 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.


[* 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 Cœur 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


The Baron’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 _sæcula sæculorum_. 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
Maréchal 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 long 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 mystery how it 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 _gîte_ 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?


[Illustration]

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!”


[Illustration]

“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 Ian 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


Tomorrow? O that’s sudden!—Spare him, spare him!
SHAKSPEARE.


Edward, attended by his former servant Alick Polwarth, who had
re-entered 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.


[Illustration]




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 dulces 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. “Fungarque 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 _minutiæ_ 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 patritæ_, when we met in Edinburgh as even to
vilipend other countries, should have chosen to establish your Lares,
or household gods, _procul a patriæ 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
Brerewood 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 Bradwardine, 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 connections 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’s-breadth ’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.


[Illustration]




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 togæ_ 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—

Hæ 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.

DUINHÉ-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 blades.

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

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.