Waverley; Or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since, Walter Scott [good novels to read .txt] 📗

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 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. 20 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 wooes 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 first few 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 harmonized 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 benumbed every hand! The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust; The bloodless claymore is but reddened 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 hushed 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 illumed with the rays, And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze. [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 Dr. Gregory.] O high-minded Moray!—the exiled—the dear!— In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear! Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly, Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh! [The Marquis of Tullibardine's elder brother, who, long exiled, returned to Scotland with Charles Edward in 1745] Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? That dawn never beamed 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 Even, 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 Kinntail, 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 renowned Rorri More, To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar. How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display The ewe-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey! How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe! Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More! Mac-Neil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

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

Our bootless host of high-born beggars, Mac-Leans, Mac-Kenzies, and Mac-Gregors.'

Waverley expressed his regret at the interruption.

'Oh, 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! 'Tis the bugle—but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons—but not to the hall. 'Tis 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