Waverley + Guy Mannering + The Antiquary. Walter Scott

      ‘Her ain sell,’ replied Callum, ‘could wait for him a wee bit frae the toun, and kittle his quarters wi’her skene-occle.’

      ‘Skene-occle! what’s that?’

      Callum unbuttoned his coat, raised his left arm, and, with an emphatic nod, pointed to the hilt of a small dirk, snugly deposited under it, in the lining of his jacket. Waverley thought he had misunderstood his meaning; he gazed in his face, and discovered in Callum’s very handsome though embrowned features just the degree of roguish malice with which a lad of the same age in England would have brought forward a plan for robbing an orchard.

      ‘Good God, Callum, would you take the man’s life?’

      ‘Indeed,’ answered the young desperado, ‘and I think he has had just a lang enough lease o ‘t, when he’s for betraying honest folk that come to spend siller at his public.’

      Edward saw nothing was to be gained by argument, and therefore contented himself with enjoining Callum to lay aside all practices against the person of Mr. Ebenezer Cruickshanks; in which injunction the page seemed to acquiesce with an air of great indifference.

      ‘Ta duinhe-wassel might please himsell; ta auld rudas loon had never done Callum nae ill. But here’s a bit line frae ta Tighearna, tat he bade me gie your honour ere I came back.’

      The letter from the Chief contained Flora’s lines on the fate of Captain Wogan, whose enterprising character is so well drawn by Clarendon. He had originally engaged in the service of the Parliament, but had abjured that party upon the execution of Charles I; and upon hearing that the royal standard was set up by the Earl of Glencairn and General Middleton in the Highlands of Scotland, took leave of Charles II, who was then at Paris, passed into England, assembled a body of Cavaliers in the neighbourhood of London, and traversed the kingdom, which had been so long under domination of the usurper, by marches conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit that he safely united his handful of horsemen with the body of Highlanders then in arms. After several months of desultory warfare, in which Wogan’s skill and courage gained him the highest reputation, he had the misfortune to be wounded in a dangerous manner, and no surgical assistance being within reach he terminated his short but glorious career.

      There were obvious reasons why the politic Chieftain was desirous to place the example of this young hero under the eye of Waverley, with whose romantic disposition it coincided so peculiarly. But his letter turned chiefly upon some trifling commissions which Waverley had promised to execute for him in England, and it was only toward the conclusion that Edward found these words: ‘I owe Flora a grudge for refusing us her company yesterday; and, as I am giving you the trouble of reading these lines, in order to keep in your memory your promise to procure me the fishing-tackle and cross-bow from London, I will enclose her verses on the Grave of Wogan. This I know will tease her; for, to tell you the truth, I think her more in love with the memory of that dead hero than she is likely to be with any living one, unless he shall tread a similar path. But English squires of our day keep their oak-trees to shelter their deer parks, or repair the losses of an evening at White’s, and neither invoke them to wreathe their brows nor shelter their graves. Let me hope for one brilliant exception in a dear friend, to whom I would most gladly give a dearer title.’

      The verses were inscribed,

      To an Oak Tree

      in the Church-Yard of ——, in the Highlands of Scotland, said to mark the Grave of Captain Wogan, killed in 1649.

      Emblem of England’s ancient faith,

      Full proudly may thy branches wave,

      Where loyalty lies low in death,

      And valour fills a timeless grave.

      And thou, brave tenant of the tomb!

      Repine not if our clime deny,

      Above thine honour’d sod to bloom

      The flowerets of a milder sky.

      These owe their birth to genial May;

      Beneath a fiercer sun they pine,

      Before the winter storm decay;

      And can their worth be type of thine?

      No! for, ‘mid storms of Fate opposing,

      Still higher swell’d thy dauntless heart,

      And, while Despair the scene was closing,

      Commenced thy brief but brilliant part.

      ‘T was then thou sought’st on Albyn’s hill,

      (When England’s sons the strife resign’d)

      A rugged race resisting still,

      And unsubdued though unrefined.

      Thy death’s hour heard no kindred wail,

      No holy knell thy requiem rung;

      Thy mourners were the plaided Gael,

      Thy dirge the clamourous pibroch sung.

      Yet who, in Fortune’s summer-shine

      To waste life’s longest term away,

      Would change that glorious dawn of thine,

      Though darken’d ere its noontide day!

      Be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs

      Brave summer’s drought and winter’s gloom.

      Rome bound with oak her patriots’ brows,

      As Albyn shadows Wogan’s tomb.

      Whatever might be the real merit of Flora Mac-Ivor’s poetry, the enthusiasm which it intimated was well calculated to make a corresponding impression upon her lover. The lines were read — read again, then deposited in Waverley’s bosom, then again drawn out, and read line by line, in a low and smothered voice, and with frequent pauses which prolonged the mental treat, as an epicure protracts, by sipping slowly, the enjoyment of a delicious beverage. The entrance of Mrs. Cruickshanks with the sublunary articles of dinner and wine hardly interrupted this pantomime of affectionate enthusiasm.

      At length the tall ungainly figure and ungracious visage of Ebenezer presented themselves. The upper part of his form, notwithstanding the season required no such defence, was shrouded in a large great-coat, belted over his under habiliments, and crested with a huge cowl of the same stuff, which, when drawn over the head and hat, completely overshadowed both, and, being buttoned beneath the chin, was called a trot-cozy. His hand grasped a huge jockey-whip, garnished with brassmounting. His thin legs tenanted a pair of gambadoes, fastened at the sides with rusty clasps. Thus accoutred, he stalked into the midst of the apartment, and announced his errand in brief phrase: ‘Yer horses are ready.’

      ‘You go with me yourself then, landlord?’

      ‘I do, as far as Perth; where ye may be supplied with a guide to Embro’, as your occasions shall require.’

      Thus saying, he placed under Waverley’s eye the bill which he held in his hand; and at the same time, self-invited, filled a glass of wine and drank devoutly to a blessing on their journey. Waverley stared at the man’s impudence, but, as their connection was to be short and promised to be convenient, he made no observation upon it; and, having paid his reckoning, expressed his intention to depart immediately. He mounted Dermid accordingly and sallied forth from the Golden Candlestick, followed by the puritanical figure we have described, after he had, at the expense of some time and difficulty, and by the assistance of a ‘louping-on-stane,’ or structure of masonry erected for the traveller’s convenience in front of the house, elevated his person to the back of a long-backed, raw-boned, thin-gutted phantom of a broken-down blood-horse, on which Waverley’s portmanteau was deposited. Our hero, though not in a very gay humour, could hardly help laughing at the appearance of his new squire, and at imagining the astonishment which his person and equipage would have excited at Waverley-Honour.