Waverley; Or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since

by Walter Scott

  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 hislivery, was no bad representative of the old school. His light-colouredembroidered coat, and superbly barred waistcoat, his brigadier wig,surmounted by a small gold-laced cocked-hat, completed his personalcostume; 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 ofevery farmyard which they passed in their progress, till, 'low down ina grassy vale,' they found Davie Gellatley leading two very tall deergreyhounds, and presiding over half a dozen curs, and about as manybare-legged and bare-headed boys, who, to procure the chosen distinctionof attending on the chase, had not failed to tickle his ears with thedulcet appellation of Maister Gellatley, though probably all and eachhad booted him on former occasions in the character of daft Davie.But this is no uncommon strain of flattery to persons in office, noraltogether confined to the bare-legged villagers of Tully-Veolan: itwas in fashion Sixty Years since, is now, and will be six hundred yearshence, if this admirable compound of folly and knavery, called theworld, shall be then in existence.

  These GILLIE-WET-FOOTS, [A bare-footed Highland lad is called agillie-wet-foot. Gillie, in general, means servant or attendant.] asthey were called, were destined to beat the bushes, which they performedwith so much success, that, after half an hour's search, a roe wasstarted, coursed, and killed; the Baron following on his white horse,like Earl Percy of yore, and magnanimously flaying and embowelling theslain animal (which, he observed, was called by the French chasseursFAIRE LA CUREE) with his own baronial COUTEAU DE CHASSE. After thisceremony he conducted his guest homeward by a pleasant and circuitousroute, commanding an extensive prospect of different villages andhouses, to each of which Mr. Bradwardine attached some anecdote ofhistory or genealogy, told in language whimsical from prejudice andpedantry, but often respectable for the good sense and honourablefeelings which his narrative displayed, and almost always curious, ifnot valuable, for the information they contained.

  The truth is, the ride seemed agreeable to both gentlemen, because theyfound amusement in each other's conversation, although their charactersand habits of thinking were in many respects totally opposite. Edward,we have informed the reader, was warm in his feelings, wild and romanticin his ideas and in his taste of reading, with a strong dispositiontowards poetry. Mr. Bradwardine was the reverse of all this, and piquedhimself upon stalking through life with the same upright, starched,stoical gravity which distinguished his evening promenade upon theterrace of Tully-Veolan, where for hours together--the very model oldHardyknute--

  Stately stepped he east the wa', And stately stepped he west.

  As for literature, he read the classic poets, to be sure, and theEPITHALAMIUM of Georgius Buchanan, and Arthur Johnston's PSALMS, ofa Sunday; and the DELICIAE POETARUM SCOTORUM, and Sir David Lindsay'sWORKS, and Barbour's BRUCE, and Blind Harry's WALLACE, and the GENTLESHEPHERD, and the CHERRY AND THE SLAE. But though he thus far sacrificedhis time to the Muses, he would if the truth must be spoken, have beenmuch better pleased had the pious or sapient apothegms, as well asthe historical narratives, which these various works contained, beenpresented to him in the form of simple prose. And he sometimes could notrefrain from expressing contempt of the 'vain and unprofitable art ofpoem-making,' in which, he said, 'the only one who had excelled in histime was Allan Ramsay, the periwig-maker.'

  [The Baron ought to have remembered that the joyous Allan literally drewhis blood from the house of the noble Earl, whom he terms--

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

  But although Edward and he differed TOTO COELO, as the Baron wouldhave said, upon this subject, yet they met upon history as on a neutralground, in which each claimed an interest. The Baron, indeed, onlycumbered his memory with matters of fact; the cold, dry, hard outlineswhich history delineates. Edward, on the contrary, loved to fill up andround the sketch with the colouring of a warm and vivid imagination,which gives light and life to the actors and speakers in the drama ofpast ages. Yet with tastes so opposite, they contributed greatly toeach other's amusement. Mr. Bradwardine's minute narratives and powerfulmemory supplied to Waverley fresh subjects of the kind upon which hisfancy loved to labour, and opened to him a new mine of incident and ofcharacter. And he repaid the pleasure thus communicated, by an earnestattention, valuable to all story-tellers, more especially to the Baron,who felt his habits of self-respect flattered by it; and sometimesalso 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 beenspent in camps and foreign lands, and had many interesting particularsto tell of the generals under whom he had served, and the actions he hadwitnessed.

  Both parties returned to Tully-Veolan in great good humour with eachother; Waverley desirous of studying more attentively what he consideredas a singular and interesting character, gifted with a memory containinga curious register of ancient and modern anecdotes; and Bradwardinedisposed to regard Edward as PUER (or rather JUVENIS) BONAE SPEI ETMAGNAE INDOLIS, a youth devoid of that petulant volatility, which isimpatient of, or vilipends, the conversation and advice of hisseniors, from which he predicted great things of his future success anddeportment in life. There was no other guest except Mr. Rubrick, whoseinformation and discourse, as a clergyman and a scholar, harmonized verywell with that of the Baron and his guest.

  Shortly after dinner, the Baron, as if to show that his temperance wasnot entirely theoretical, proposed a visit to Rose's apartment, or, ashe termed it, her TROISIEME ETAGE. Waverley was accordingly conductedthrough one or two of those long awkward passages with which ancientarchitects studied to puzzle the inhabitants of the houses which theyplanned, at the end of which Mr. Bradwardine began to ascend, by twosteps at once, a very steep, narrow, and winding stair, leaving Mr.Rubrick and Waverley to follow at more leisure, while he should announcetheir approach to his daughter.

  After having climbed this perpendicular corkscrew until their brainswere almost giddy, they arrived in a little matted lobby, which servedas an ante-room to Rose's SANCTUM SANCTORUM, and through which theyentered her parlour. It was a small but pleasant apartment, opening tothe 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, embroideredwaistcoat, laced hat, and bag-wig, with a bow in his hand. Edward couldnot help smiling at the costume, and at the odd resemblance betweenthe round, smooth, red-checked, staring visage in the portrait, andthe gaunt, bearded, hollow-eyed, swarthy features, which travelling,fatigues of war, and advanced age, had bestowed on the original. TheBaron joined in the laugh. 'Truly,' he said, 'that picture was a woman'sfantasy 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 topof the Shinnyheuch; it was burnt by the Dutch auxiliaries brought in bythe Government in 1715); I never sat for my pourtraicture but once sincethat was painted, and it was at the special and reiterated request ofthe Marechal Duke of Berwick.'

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

  Miss Rose now appeared from the interior room of her apartment, towelcome her father and his friends. The little labours in which shehad been e
mployed obviously showed a natural taste, which required onlycultivation. Her father had taught her French and Italian, and a few ofthe ordinary authors in those languages ornamented her shelves. He hadendeavoured also to be her preceptor in music; but as he began with themore abstruse doctrines of the science, and was not perhaps master ofthem himself, she had made no proficiency further than to be able toaccompany her voice with the harpsichord; but even this was not verycommon in Scotland at that period. To make amends, she sang with greattaste and feeling, and with a respect to the sense of what she utteredthat might be proposed in example to ladies of much superior musicaltalent. Her natural good sense taught her, that if, as we are assuredby high authority, music be 'married to immortal verse,' they arevery often divorced by the performer in a most shameful manner. It wasperhaps owing to this sensibility to poetry, and power of combining itsexpression with those of the musical notes, that her singing gave morepleasure to all the unlearned in music, and even to many of the learned,than could have been communicated by a much finer voice and morebrilliant 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 crowdedwith flowers of different kinds, which she had taken under her specialprotection. A projecting turret gave access to this Gothic balcony,which commanded a most beautiful prospect. The formal garden, with itshigh bounding walls, lay below, contracted, as it seemed, to a mereparterre; while the view extended beyond them down a wooded glen, wherethe small river was sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in copse. Theeye might be delayed by a desire to rest on the rocks, which here andthere rose from the dell with massive or spiry fronts, or it might dwellon the noble, though ruined tower, which was here beheld in all itsdignity, frowning from a promontory over the river. To the left wereseen two or three cottages, a part of the village; the brow of the hillconcealed the others. The glen, or dell, was terminated by a sheet ofwater, called Loch-Veolan, into which the brook discharged itself, andwhich now glistened in the western sun. The distant country seemedopen and varied in surface, though not wooded; and there was nothing tointerrupt the view until the scene was bounded by a ridge of distant andblue 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 familyanecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which the Baron told withgreat enthusiasm. The projecting peak of an impending crag which rosenear it, had acquired the name of St. Swithin's Chair. it was the sceneof a peculiar superstition, of which Mr. Rubrick mentioned some curiousparticulars, which reminded Waverley of a rhyme quoted By Edgar in KINGLEAR; and Rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which theyhad 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, gaveall the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which hispoetry so much wanted. I almost doubt if it can be read with patience,destitute of these advantages; although I conjecture the following copyto have been somewhat corrected by Waverley, to suit the taste of thosewho might not relish pure antiquity:--

  ST. SWITHIN'S CHAIR.

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

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

  The Lady she sat in St. Swithin's Chair, The dew of the night has damped her hair: Her cheek was pale--but resolved and high Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.

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

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

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

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

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

  . . . . . .

  'I am sorry to disappoint the company, especially Captain Waverley, wholistens with such laudable gravity; it is but a fragment, although Ithink there are other verses, describing the return of the Baron fromthe wars, and how the lady was found "clay-cold upon the grounsillledge."'

  'It is one of those figments,' observed Mr. Bradwardine, 'with whichthe early history of distinguished families was deformed in the timesof superstition; as that of Rome, and other ancient nations, had theirprodigies, sir, the which you may read in ancient histories, or in thelittle work compiled by Julius Obsequens, and inscribed by the learnedScheffer, the editor, to his patron, Benedictus Skytte, Baron ofDudershoff.'

  'My father has a strange defiance of the marvellous, Captain Waverley,'observed Rose, 'and once stood firm when a whole synod of Presbyteriandivines 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 timethere lived an old woman, called Janet Gellatley, who was suspected tobe 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 afool, which visitation, all the neighbourhood agreed, had come uponher for the sin of witchcraft. And she was imprisoned for a week in thesteeple of the parish church, and sparingly supplied with food, and notpermitted to sleep, until she herself became as much persuaded of herbeing a witch as her accusers; and in this lucid and happy state ofmind was brought forth to make a clean breast, that is, to make openconfession of her sorceries, before all the Whig gentry and ministersin the vicinity, who were no conjurers themselves. My father went to seefair play between the witch and the clergy; for the witch had beenborn on his estate. 'And while the witch was confessing that the Enemyappeared, and made his addresses to her as a handsome black man,--which,if you could have seen poor old blear-eyed Janet, reflected littlehonour on Apollyon's taste,--and while the auditors listened withastonished ears, and the clerk recorded with a trembling hand, she, allof a sudden, changed the low mumbling tone with which she spoke into ashrill yell, and exclaimed, "Look to yourselves! look to yourselves! Isee the Evil One sitting in the midst of ye." The surprise was general,and terror and flight its immediate consequences. Happy were those whowere next the door; and many were the disasters that befell hats, bands,cuffs, and wigs, before they could get out of the church, where theyleft the obstinate prelatist to settle matters with the witch and heradmirer, at his own peril or pleasure.'

  'RISU SOLVUNTUR TABULAE,' said the Baron: 'when they recovered theirpanic trepidation, they were too much ashamed to bring any wakening ofthe process against Janet Gellatley.' [The story last told was said tohave happened in the south of Scotland; but--CEDANT ARMA TOGAE--andlet the gown have its dues. It was an old clergyman, who had wisdom andfirmness enough to resist the panic which seized his brethren, who wasthe means of rescuing a poor insane creature from the cruel fate whichwould otherwise have overtaken her. The accounts of the trials forwitchcraft form one of the most deplorable chapters in Scottish story.]

  This anecdote led to a long discussion
of

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

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