Waverly (Unabridged). Walter Scott

up to him in the book of life. The doctor, who was a believer in all poetry which was composed by his friends, and written out in fair straight lines, with a capital at the beginning of each, communicated this treasure to Aunt Rachel, who, with her spectacles dimmed with tears, transferred them to her commonplace book, among choice receipts for cookery and medicine, favourite texts, and portions from High-Church divines, and a few songs, amatory and Jacobitical, which she had carolled in her younger days, from whence her nephew’s poetical tentamina were extracted when the volume itself, with other authentic records of the Waverley family, were exposed to the inspection of the unworthy editor of this memorable history. If they afford the reader no higher amusement, they will serve, at least, better than narrative of any kind, to acquaint him with the wild and irregular spirit of our hero: —

      Late, when the Autumn evening fell

      On Mirkwood-Mere’s romantic dell,

      The lake return’d, in chasten’d gleam,

      The purple cloud, the golden beam:

      Reflected in the crystal pool,

      Headland and bank lay fair and cool;

      The weather-tinted rock and tower,

      Each drooping tree, each fairy flower,

      So true, so soft, the mirror gave,

      As if there lay beneath the wave,

      Secure from trouble, toil, and care,

      A world than earthly world more fair.

      But distant winds began to wake,

      And roused the Genius of the Lake!

      He heard the groaning of the oak,

      And donn’d at once his sable cloak,

      As warrior, at the battle-cry,

      Invests him with his panoply:

      Then, as the whirlwind nearer press’d

      He ‘gan to shake his foamy crest

      O’er furrow’d brow and blacken’d cheek,

      And bade his surge in thunder speak.

      In wild and broken eddies whirl’d.

      Flitted that fond ideal world,

      And to the shore in tumult tost

      The realms of fairy bliss were lost.

      Yet, with a stern delight and strange,

      I saw the spirit-stirring change,

      As warr’d the wind with wave and wood,

      Upon the ruin’d tower I stood,

      And felt my heart more strongly bound,

      Responsive to the lofty sound,

      While, joying in the mighty roar,

      I mourn’d that tranquil scene no more.

      So, on the idle dreams of youth,

      Breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth,

      Bids each fair vision pass away,

      Like landscape on the lake that lay,

      As fair, as flitting, and as frail,

      As that which fled the Autumn gale. —

      For ever dead to fancy’s eye

      Be each gay form that glided by,

      While dreams of love and lady’s charms

      Give place to honour and to arms!

      In sober prose, as perhaps these verses intimate less decidedly, the transient idea of Miss Cecilia Stubbs passed from Captain Waverley’s heart amid the turmoil which his new destinies excited. She appeared, indeed, in full splendour in her father’s pew upon the Sunday when he attended service for the last time at the old parish church, upon which occasion, at the request of his uncle and Aunt Rachel, he was induced (nothing both, if the truth must be told) to present himself in full uniform.

      There is no better antidote against entertaining too high an opinion of others than having an excellent one of ourselves at the very same time. Miss Stubbs had indeed summoned up every assistance which art could afford to beauty; but, alas! hoop, patches, frizzled locks, and a new mantua of genuine French silk, were lost upon a young officer of dragoons who wore for the first time his gold-laced hat, jack-boots, and broadsword. I know not whether, like the champion of an old ballad, —

      His heart was all on honour bent,

      He could not stoop to love;

      No lady in the land had power

      His frozen heart to move;

      or whether the deep and flaming bars of embroidered gold, which now fenced his breast, defied the artillery of Cecilia’s eyes; but every arrow was launched at him in vain.

      Yet did I mark where Cupid’s shaft did light;

      It lighted not on little western flower,

      But on bold yeoman, flower of all the west,

      Hight Jonas Culbertfield, the steward’s son.

      Craving pardon for my heroics (which I am unable in certain cases to resist giving way to), it is a melancholy fact, that my history must here take leave of the fair Cecilia, who, like many a daughter of Eve, after the departure of Edward, and the dissipation of certain idle visions which she had adopted, quietly contented herself with a pisaller, and gave her hand, at the distance of six months, to the aforesaid Jonas, son of the Baronet’s steward, and heir (no unfertile prospect) to a steward’s fortune, besides the snug probability of succeeding to his father’s office. All these advantages moved Squire Stubbs, as much as the ruddy brown and manly form of the suitor influenced his daughter, to abate somewhat in the article of their gentry; and so the match was concluded. None seemed more gratified than Aunt Rachel, who had hitherto looked rather askance upon the presumptuous damsel (as much so, peradventure, as her nature would permit), but who, on the first appearance of the new-married pair at church, honoured the bride with a smile and a profound curtsy, in presence of the rector, the curate, the clerk, and the whole congregation of the united parishes of Waverley cum Beverley.

I beg pardon, once and for all, of those readers who take up novels merely for amusement, for plaguing them so long with old- fashioned politics, and Whig and Tory, and Hanoverians and Jacobites. The truth is, I cannot promise them that this story shall be intelligible, not to say probable, without it. My plan requires that I should explain the motives on which its action proceeded; and these motives necessarily arose from the feelings, prejudices, and parties of the times. I do not invite my fair readers, whose sex and impatience give them the greatest right to complain of these circumstances, into a flying chariot drawn by hippogriffs, or moved by enchantment. Mine is a humble English post-chaise, drawn upon four wheels, and keeping his Majesty’s highway. Such as dislike the vehicle may leave it at the next halt, and wait for the conveyance of Prince Hussein’s tapestry, or Malek the Weaver’s flying sentrybox. Those who are contented to remain with me will be occasionally exposed to the dulness inseparable from heavy roads, steep hills, sloughs, and other terrestrial retardations; but with tolerable horses and a civil driver (as the advertisements have it), I engage to get as soon as possible into a more picturesque and romantic country, if my passengers incline to have some patience with me during my first stages.¹⁹

18 See Hoppner’s tale of The Seven Lovers.

19 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.