Castle Dangerous
 9780748628353

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THE EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS      - -      Professor David Hewitt

 His Grace the Duke of Buccleuch The Royal Society of Edinburgh : The University of Edinburgh    Bank of Scotland   Lord Sutherland of Houndwood, Chairman Sir Eric Anderson : Professor Andrew Hook Professor R. D. S. Jack : Professor Sir Neil MacCormick Professor Douglas Mack : Professor Susan Manning Allan Massie : Professor Jane Millgate Professor David Nordloh : Sir Lewis Robertson   Dr J. H. Alexander, University of Aberdeen Professor P. D. Garside, University of Edinburgh Professor Claire Lamont, University of Newcastle Dr Alison Lumsden, University of Aberdeen G. A. M. Wood, University of Stirling Typographical Adviser The late Ruari McLean

            -      [ ] CASTLE DANGEROUS

EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS

to be complete in thirty volumes Each volume will be published separately but original conjoint publication of certain works is indicated in the     volume numbering [4a, b; 7a, b, etc.]. Where     editors have been appointed, their names are listed 1 2 3 4a 4b 5 6 7a 7b 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18a 18b 19 20 21 22 23a 23b 24 25a 25b

Waverley [1814] P. D. Garside Guy Mannering [1815] P. D. Garside The Antiquary [1816] David Hewitt The Black Dwarf [1816] P. D. Garside The Tale of Old Mortality [1816] Douglas Mack Rob Roy [1818] David Hewitt The Heart of Mid-Lothian [1818] David Hewitt & Alison Lumsden The Bride of Lammermoor [1819] J. H. Alexander A Legend of the Wars of Montrose [1819] J. H. Alexander Ivanhoe [1820] Graham Tulloch The Monastery [1820] Penny Fielding The Abbot [1820] Christopher Johnson Kenilworth [1821] J. H. Alexander The Pirate [1822] Mark Weinstein and Alison Lumsden The Fortunes of Nigel [1822] Frank Jordan Peveril of the Peak [1822] Alison Lumsden Quentin Durward [1823] J. H. Alexander and G. A. M. Wood Saint Ronan’s Well [1824] Mark Weinstein Redgauntlet [1824] G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt The Betrothed [1825] J. B. Ellis The Talisman [1825] J. B. Ellis Woodstock [1826] Tony Inglis Chronicles of the Canongate [1827] Claire Lamont The Fair Maid of Perth [1828] A. Hook and D. Mackenzie Anne of Geierstein [1829] J. H. Alexander Count Robert of Paris [1831] J. H. Alexander Castle Dangerous [1831] J. H. Alexander The Shorter Fiction [1828] Graham Tulloch Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33 Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33

WALTER SCOTT

CASTLE DANGEROUS

Edited by J. H. Alexander

 University Press

© The University Court of the University of Edinburgh 2006 Edinburgh University Press 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Linotronic Ehrhardt by Speedspools, Edinburgh and printed and bound in Great Britain on acid-free paper at the Cromwell Press, Trowbridge, Wilts  10 0 7486 0588 6  13 978 0 7486 0588 0 A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.

FOREWORD

T  P           of Waverley in 1814 marked the emergence of the modern novel in the western world. It is difficult now to recapture the impact of this and the following novels of Scott on a readership accustomed to prose fiction either as picturesque romance, ‘Gothic’ quaintness, or presentation of contemporary manners. For Scott not only invented the historical novel, but gave it a dimension and a relevance that made it available for a great variety of new kinds of writing. Balzac in France, Manzoni in Italy, Gogol and Tolstoy in Russia, were among the many writers of fiction influenced by the man Stendhal called ‘notre père, Walter Scott’. What Scott did was to show history and society in motion: old ways of life being challenged by new; traditions being assailed by counter-statements; loyalties, habits, prejudices clashing with the needs of new social and economic developments. The attraction of tradition and its ability to arouse passionate defence, and simultaneously the challenge of progress and ‘improvement’, produce a pattern that Scott saw as the living fabric of history. And this history was rooted in place; events happened in localities still recognisable after the disappearance of the original actors and the establishment of new patterns of belief and behaviour. Scott explored and presented all this by means of stories, entertainments, which were read and enjoyed as such. At the same time his passionate interest in history led him increasingly to see these stories as illustrations of historical truths, so that when he produced his final Magnum Opus edition of the novels he surrounded them with historical notes and illustrations, and in this almost suffocating guise they have been reprinted in edition after edition ever since. The time has now come to restore these novels to the form in which they were presented to their first readers, so that today’s readers can once again capture their original power and freshness. At the same time, serious errors of transcription, omission, and interpretation, resulting from the haste of their transmission from manuscript to print can now be corrected. D D  University Press

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

viii

General Introduction

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CASTLE DANGEROUS Volume I

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Appendix to the Text . .

Essay on the Text .

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genesis and composition .

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the chief textual witnesses .

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the collected editions . . .

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the present text .

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Emendation List .

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Historical Note.

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Explanatory Notes.

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Glossary.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Scott Advisory Board and the editors of the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels wish to express their gratitude to The University Court of the University of Edinburgh for its vision in initiating and supporting the preparation of the first critical edition of Walter Scott’s fiction. Those Universities which employ or once employed the editors have also contributed greatly in paying the editors’ salaries, and awarding research leave and grants for travel and materials. In addition to the universities, the project could not have prospered without the help of the sponsors cited below. Their generosity has met the direct costs of the initial research and of the preparation of the text of the novels appearing in this edition.    The collapse of the great Edinburgh publisher Archibald Constable in January 1826 entailed the ruin of Sir Walter Scott who found himself responsible for his own private debts, for the debts of the printing business of James Ballantyne and Co. in which he was co-partner, and for the bank advances to Archibald Constable which had been guaranteed by the printing business. Scott’s largest creditors were Sir William Forbes and Co., bankers, and the Bank of Scotland. On the advice of Sir William Forbes himself, the creditors did not sequester his property, but agreed to the creation of a trust to which he committed his future literary earnings, and which ultimately repaid the debts of over £120,000 for which he was legally liable. In the same year the Government proposed to curtail the rights of the Scottish banks to issue their own notes; Scott wrote the ‘Letters of Malachi Malagrowther’ in their defence, arguing that the measure was neither in the interests of the banks nor of Scotland. The ‘Letters’ were so successful that the Government was forced to withdraw its proposal and to this day the Scottish Banks issue their own notes. A portrait of Sir Walter appears on all current bank notes of the Bank of Scotland because Scott was a champion of Scottish banking, and because he was an illustrious and honourable customer not just of the Bank of Scotland itself, but also of three other banks now incorporated within it—the British Linen Bank, Sir William Forbes and Co., and Ramsays, Bonars and Company. Bank of Scotland’s support of the EEWN continues its long and fruitful involvement with the affairs of Walter Scott. viii

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          Between 1992 and 1998 the EEWN was greatly assisted by the British Academy through the award of a series of research grants which provided most of the support required for employing a research fellow, without whom steady progress could not have been maintained. In 2000 the AHRB awarded the EEWN a major grant which ensured the completion of the Edition. The preparation of this volume was especially assisted by a Small Research Grant from the British Academy to enable the editor to examine the manuscript of Castle Dangerous in New York. To both of these bodies, the British Academy and the Arts and Humanities Research Board, the Advisory Board and the editors express their thanks.   The Advisory Board and the editors also wish to acknowledge with gratitude the generous grants and gifts to the EEWN from the P. F. Charitable Trust, the main charitable trust of the Fleming family which founded the City firm which bears their name; the Edinburgh University General Council Trust, now incorporated within the Edinburgh University Development Trust; Sir Gerald Elliott; the Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland; the Modern Humanities Research Association; and the Robertson Trust.   The manuscript of Castle Dangerous is owned by the New York Society Library, New York. The Library staff have been most helpful and hospitable to the editor and to Professor Mark Weinstein. Special thanks are due to the former Librarian, Mark Piel, for most generous assistance, and to Arevig Caprielian, Rare Book Librarian, and Mark Bartlett. The support of the National Library of Scotland for the  has throughout been generous as well as essential. The numerous sets and fragments of proofs for Castle Dangerous and many related papers are in the National Library, and the editor wishes to record his own indebtedness to the Library, and his gratitude to its professional staff on all the visits it required to make sense of the proof material. Thanks are due also to the following institutions and their staff: Aberdeen University Library; the Advocates Library, Edinburgh; the Bodleian Library, Oxford; the British Library; Edinburgh Public Library; the Houghton Library, Harvard University; and Stirling University Library. The following individuals have kindly assisted in various ways: Professor Ian Duncan, Dr Judith King, Professor Caroline McCrackenFlescher, Professor Douglas Mack, Professor Donald Meek, Professor Jane Millgate, Dr David Reid, and Professor Graham Tulloch. Particular thanks are due to Professor Mark Weinstein, who collated the manuscript in New York and who was supported in this work by sabbatical

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assistance from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. The Edinburgh Edition has a number of consultants who advise on matters which affect both the text and the notes, and this editor is especially grateful to Professor Thomas Craik (Shakespeare) and Caroline Jackson-Houlston (popular song). The complexity of the textual witnesses for Castle Dangerous is such that thanking those normally classed as ‘helpers’ cannot be overdone. Principal among these are Dr Alison Lumsden who collated all the proofs of the text, Dr Sheena Sutherland who checked all quotations and references in the editorial matter and acted as proof-reader, Rachel Halliday who proof-read the complete work, and Dr Ian Clark whose proof-reading went beyond discerning mistakes into the heart of the scholarship. Professor David Hewitt has, as always, been an exemplary general editor, unfazed by the unusual problems posed by the material submitted for his experienced and judicious scrutiny. The General Editor for this volume was Professor David Hewitt.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

What has the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels achieved? The original version of this General Introduction said that many hundreds of readings were being recovered from the manuscripts, and commented that although the individual differences were often minor, they were ‘cumulatively telling’. Such an assessment now looks tentative and tepid, for the textual strategy pursued by the editors has been justified by spectacular results. In each novel up to 2000 readings never before printed are being recovered from the manuscripts. Some of these are major changes although they are not always verbally extensive. The restoration of the pen-portraits of the Edinburgh literati in Guy Mannering, the reconstruction of the way in which Amy Robsart was murdered in Kenilworth, the recovery of the description of Clara Mowbray’s previous relationship with Tyrrel in Saint Ronan’s Well—each of these fills out what was incomplete, or corrects what was obscure. A surprising amount of what was once thought loose or unidiomatic has turned out to be textual corruption. Many words which were changed as the holograph texts were converted into print have been recognised as dialectal, period or technical terms wholly appropriate to their literary context. The mistakes in foreign languages, in Latin, and in Gaelic found in the early printed texts are usually not in the manuscripts, and so clear is this manuscript evidence that one may safely conclude that Friar Tuck’s Latin in Ivanhoe is deliberately full of errors. The restoration of Scott’s own shaping and punctuating of speech has often enhanced the rhetorical effectiveness of dialogue. Furthermore, the detailed examination of the text and supporting documents such as notes and letters has revealed that however quickly his novels were penned they mostly evolved over long periods; that although he claimed not to plan his work yet the shape of his narratives seems to have been established before he committed his ideas to paper; and that each of the novels edited to date has a precise time-scheme which implies formidable control of his stories. The Historical and Explanatory Notes reveal an intellectual command of enormously diverse materials, and an equal imaginative capacity to synthesise them. Editing the texts has revolutionised the editors’ understanding and appreciation of Scott, and will ultimately generate a much wider recognition of his quite extraordinary achievement. The text of the novels in the Edinburgh Edition is normally based on the first editions, but incorporates all those manuscript readings which were lost through accident, error, or misunderstanding in the process of xi

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converting holograph manuscripts into printed books. The Edition is the first to investigate all Scott’s manuscripts and proofs, and all the printed editions to have appeared in his lifetime, and it has adopted the textual strategy which best makes sense of the textual problems. It is clear from the systematic investigation of all the different states of Scott’s texts that the author was fully engaged only in the early stages (manuscripts and proofs, culminating in the first edition), and when preparing the last edition to be published in his lifetime, familiarly known as the Magnum Opus (1829–33). There may be authorial readings in some of the many intermediate editions, and there certainly are in the third edition of Waverley, but not a single intermediate edition of any of the nineteen novels so far investigated shows evidence of sustained authorial involvement. There are thus only two stages in the textual development of the Waverley Novels which might provide a sound basis for a critical edition. Scott’s holograph manuscripts constitute the only purely authorial state of the texts of his novels, for they alone proceed wholly from the author. They are for the most part remarkably coherent, although a close examination shows countless minor revisions made in the process of writing, and usually at least one layer of later revising. But the heaviest revising was usually done by Scott when correcting his proofs, and thus the manuscripts could not constitute the textual basis of a new edition; despite their coherence they are drafts. Furthermore, the holograph does not constitute a public form of the text: Scott’s manuscript punctuation is light (in later novels there are only dashes, full-stops, and speech marks), and his spelling system though generally consistent is personal and idiosyncratic. Scott’s novels were, in theory, anonymous publications—no title page ever carried his name. To maintain the pretence of secrecy, the original manuscripts were copied so that his handwriting should not be seen in the printing house, a practice which prevailed until 1827, when Scott acknowledged his authorship. Until 1827 it was these copies, not Scott’s original manuscripts, which were used by the printers. Not a single leaf of these copies is known to survive but the copyists probably began the tidying and regularising. As with Dickens and Thackeray in a later era, copy was sent to the printers in batches, as Scott wrote and as it was transcribed; the batches were set in type, proof-read, and ultimately printed, while later parts of the novel were still being written. When typesetting, the compositors did not just follow what was before them, but supplied punctuation, normalised spelling, and corrected minor errors. Proofs were first read in-house against the transcripts, and, in addition to the normal checking for mistakes, these proofs were used to improve the punctuation and the spelling. When the initial corrections had been made, a new set of proofs went to James Ballantyne, Scott’s friend and partner in the printing firm

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which bore his name. He acted as editor, not just as proof-reader. He drew Scott’s attention to gaps in the text and pointed out inconsistencies in detail; he asked Scott to standardise names; he substituted nouns for pronouns when they occurred in the first sentence of a paragraph, and inserted the names of speakers in dialogue; he changed incorrect punctuation, and added punctuation he thought desirable; he corrected grammatical errors; he removed close verbal repetitions; and in a cryptic correspondence in the margins of the proofs he told Scott when he could not follow what was happening, or when he particularly enjoyed something. These annotated proofs were sent to the author. Scott usually accepted Ballantyne’s suggestions, but sometimes rejected them. He made many more changes; he cut out redundant words, and substituted the vivid for the pedestrian; he refined the punctuation; he sometimes reworked and revised passages extensively, and in so doing made the proofs a stage in the creative composition of the novels. When Ballantyne received Scott’s corrections and revisions, he transcribed all the changes on to a clean set of proofs so that the author’s hand would not be seen by the compositors. Further revises were prepared. Some of these were seen and read by Scott, but he usually seems to have trusted Ballantyne to make sure that the earlier corrections and revisions had been executed. When doing this Ballantyne did not just read for typesetting errors, but continued the process of punctuating and tidying the text. A final proof allowed the corrections to be inspected and the imposition of the type to be checked prior to printing. Scott expected his novels to be printed; he expected that the printers would correct minor errors, would remove words repeated in close proximity to each other, would normalise spelling, and would insert a printed-book style of punctuation, amplifying or replacing the marks he had provided in manuscript. There are no written instructions to the printers to this effect, but in the proofs he was sent he saw what Ballantyne and his staff had done and were doing, and by and large he accepted it. This assumption of authorial approval is better founded for Scott than for any other writer, for Scott was the dominant partner in the business which printed his work, and no doubt could have changed the practices of his printers had he so desired. It is this history of the initial creation of Scott’s novels that led the editors of the Edinburgh Edition to propose the first editions as base texts. That such a textual policy has been persuasively theorised by Jerome J. McGann in his A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (1983) is a bonus: he argues that an authoritative work is usually found not in the artist’s manuscript, but in the printed book, and that there is a collective responsibility in converting an author’s manuscript into print, exercised by author, printer and publisher, and governed by the nature of the understanding between the author and the other parties. In Scott’s case

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the exercise of such a collective responsibility produced the first editions of the Waverley Novels. On the whole Scott’s printers fulfilled his expectations. There are normally in excess of 50,000 variants in the first edition of a three-volume novel when compared with the manuscript, and the great majority are in accordance with Scott’s general wishes as described above. But the intermediaries, as the copyist, compositors, proof-readers, and James Ballantyne are collectively described, made mistakes; from time to time they misread the manuscripts, and they did not always understand what Scott had written. This would not have mattered had there not also been procedural failures: the transcripts were not thoroughly checked against the original manuscripts; Scott himself does not seem to have read the proofs against the manuscripts and thus did not notice transcription errors which made sense in their context; Ballantyne continued his editing in post-authorial proofs. Furthermore, it has become increasingly evident that, although in theory Scott as partner in the printing firm could get what he wanted, he also succumbed to the pressure of printer and publisher. He often had to accept mistakes both in names and the spelling of names because they were enshrined in print before he realised what had happened. He was obliged to accept the movement of chapters between volumes, or the deletion or addition of material, in the interests of equalising the size of volumes. His work was subject to bowdlerisation, and to a persistent attempt to have him show a ‘high example’ even in the words put in the mouths of his characters; he regularly objected, but conformed nonetheless. From time to time he inserted, under protest, explanations of what was happening in the narrative because the literal-minded Ballantyne required them. The editors of modern texts have a basic working assumption that what is written by the author is more valuable than what is generated by compositors and proof-readers. Even McGann accepts such a position, and argues that while the changes made in the course of translating the manuscript text into print are a feature of the acceptable ‘socialisation’ of the authorial text, they have authority only to the extent that they fulfil the author’s expectations about the public form of the text. The editors of the Edinburgh Edition normally choose the first edition of a novel as base-text, for the first edition usually represents the culmination of the initial creative process, and usually seems closest to the form of his work Scott wished his public to have. But they also recognise the failings of the first editions, and thus after the careful collation of all pre-publication materials, and in the light of their investigation into the factors governing the writing and printing of the Waverley Novels, they incorporate into the base-text those manuscript readings which were lost in the production process through accident, error, misunderstanding, or a misguided attempt to ‘improve’. In certain cases they also introduce into the base-texts revisions found in editions published almost immediately

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after the first, which they believe to be Scott’s, or which complete the intermediaries’ preparation of the text. In addition, the editors correct various kinds of error, such as typographical and copy-editing mistakes including the misnumbering of chapters, inconsistencies in the naming of characters, egregious errors of fact that are not part of the fiction, and failures of sense which a simple emendation can restore. In doing all this the editors follow the model for editing the Waverley Novels which was provided by Claire Lamont in her edition of Waverley (Oxford, 1981): her base-text is the first edition emended in the light of the manuscript. But they have also developed that model because working on the Waverley Novels as a whole has greatly increased knowledge of the practices and procedures followed by Scott, his printers and his publishers in translating holograph manuscripts into printed books. The result is an ‘ideal’ text, such as his first readers might have read had the production process been less pressurised and more considered. The Magnum Opus could have provided an alternative basis for a new edition. In the Advertisement to the Magnum Scott wrote that his insolvency in 1826 and the public admission of authorship in 1827 restored to him ‘a sort of parental control’, which enabled him to reissue his novels ‘in a corrected and . . . an improved form’. His assertion of authority in word and deed gives the Magnum a status which no editor can ignore. His introductions are fascinating autobiographical essays which write the life of the Author of Waverley. In addition, the Magnum has a considerable significance in the history of culture. This was the first time all Scott’s works of fiction had been gathered together, published in a single uniform edition, and given an official general title, in the process converting diverse narratives into a literary monument, the Waverley Novels. There were, however, two objections to the use of the Magnum as the base-text for the new edition. Firstly, this has been the form of Scott’s work which has been generally available for most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; a Magnum-based text is readily accessible to anyone who wishes to read it. Secondly, a proper recognition of the Magnum does not extend to approving its text. When Scott corrected his novels for the Magnum, he marked up printed books (specially prepared by the binder with interleaves, hence the title the ‘Interleaved Set’), but did not perceive the extent to which these had slipped from the text of the first editions. He had no means of recognising that, for example, over 2000 differences had accumulated between the first edition of Guy Mannering and the text which he corrected, in the 1822 octavo edition of the Novels and Tales of the Author of Waverley. The printed text of Redgauntlet which he corrected, in the octavo Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley (1827), has about 900 divergences from the first edition, none of which was authorially sanctioned. He himself made about 750 corrections to the text of Guy Mannering and

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200 to Redgauntlet in the Interleaved Set, but those who assisted in the production of the Magnum were probably responsible for a further 1600 changes to Guy Mannering, and 1200 to Redgauntlet. Scott marked up a corrupt text, and his assistants generated a systematically cleanedup version of the Waverley Novels. The Magnum constitutes the author’s final version of his novels and thus has its own value, and as the version read by the great Victorians has its own significance and influence. To produce a new edition based on the Magnum would be an entirely legitimate project, but for the reasons given above the Edinburgh editors have chosen the other valid option. What is certain, however, is that any compromise edition, that drew upon both the first and the last editions published in Scott’s lifetime, would be a mistake. In the past editors, following the example of W. W. Greg and Fredson Bowers, would have incorporated into the firstedition text the introductions, notes, revisions and corrections Scott wrote for the Magnum Opus. This would no longer be considered acceptable editorial practice, as it would confound versions of the text produced at different stages of the author’s career. To fuse the two would be to confuse them. Instead, Scott’s own material in the Interleaved Set is so interesting and important that it will be published separately, and in full, in the two parts of Volume 25 of the Edinburgh Edition. For the first time in print the new matter written by Scott for the Magnum Opus will be wholly visible. The Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels aims to provide the first reliable text of Scott’s fiction. It aims to recover the lost Scott, the Scott which was misunderstood as the printers struggled to set and print novels at high speed in often difficult circumstances. It aims in the Historical and Explanatory Notes and in the Glossaries to illuminate the extraordinary range of materials that Scott weaves together in creating his stories. All engaged in fulfilling these aims have found their enquiries fundamentally changing their appreciation of Scott. They hope that readers will continue to be equally excited and astonished, and to have their understanding of these remarkable novels transformed by reading them in their new guise.   January 1999

WALTER SCOTT

CASTLE DANGEROUS

CASTLE DANGEROUS a romance of the middle ages

 

Chapter One One such name was known Had terror in the accent, and was a warcry, A gathering word, a banner, and a shout Of instant onset and of heady strife. Old Play Hosts have been known at that dread sound to yield, And, Douglas dead, his name hath won the field. J H

I    the close of an early spring day, when nature seemed reviving from her winter’s sleep in a cold province of Scotland, and the air at least, though not the vegetation, gave promise of an amendment of the rigour of the season, that two travellers, whose appearance at that early period perfectly announced their wandering character, and, in general, secured them a free passage even through a dangerous country, were seen coming from the south-westward, within a few miles of the Castle of Douglas, and seemed to be holding their course in the direction of the celebrated river bearing the same name, whose dale afforded, by its acclivity, a species of approach to that memorable feudal fortress. The stream, small in comparison to the extent of its fame, served as a kind of drain to the country in its neighbourhood, and thus afforded the means of a rough road to the castle and village. The high lords to whom the castle had for ages belonged, might, had they chosen, have made their access a great deal smoother and more convenient; but there had been yet little or no exercise for these geniuses, who have taught modern times that it is better to take the 3

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more circuitous road round the declivity of a hill, than the direct course of ascending it on the one side, and descending it directly on the other, without yielding a single step to render the passage over the height more easy to the traveller; still less were those mysteries dreamed of, which M‘Adam has of late days expounded to his astonished countrymen. And, indeed, to what purpose should the ancient Douglasses have employed the principles, if they had known them in ever so much perfection? Wheel-carriages, except of the most clumsy kind, and for the most simple operations of agriculture, or other rural purposes, were totally unknown for transporting even the human person; the most delicate female had no resource save that of a horse, or, in case of great infirmity, of a litter. The men used their own sturdy limbs, or their horses, to transport themselves from place to place; and the latter, in particular, experienced no small inconvenience from the rugged nature of the country they had to traverse. A swollen torrent sometimes crossed their path, and compelled them to delay their course until the waters had abated their unusual frenzy. The bank of a small river was occasionally torn away by the effects of a thunderstorm, a recent tempest, or such like convulsion of nature; and the traveller relied upon his knowledge of the features of the district, or obtained the best local information in his power, how to direct his path so as to surmount an unexpected obstacle. The river, or brook, of Douglas escapes from an amphitheatre of mountains which close its valley to the south-west, from whose contributions, and the aid of sudden storms, it receives its scanty supplies. Their general aspect is that of the pastoral hills of the south of Scotland, forming, as is usual, bleak and wild farms, many of which had, at no length from the date of the story, been covered with trees; while some of them attest their former state by the name of shaw, that is, a wild natural wood. The neighbourhood of the Douglas water itself was level flat land, capable of bearing strong crops of oats and rye, and afforded what the inhabitants needed. At no great distance from the edge of the river, a few special spots excepted, the soil capable of agriculture was more and more mixed with the pastoral and woodland country, till both terminated in desolate and partly inaccessible moorlands. Above all, it was war-time, and of necessity all circumstances of mere convenience were obliged to give way to a paramount sense of danger; the inhabitants, therefore, instead of trying to amend the paths which connected them with other districts, were thankful that the natural difficulties which surrounded them rendered it unnecessary for them by their personal labour to break up or to fortify the access from other countries. Their wants, with a very few exceptions,

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were completely supplied by the rude and scanty produce of their own mountains and holms,* the last of which served for the exercise of their limited agriculture, while the better part of the mountains and the forest glens produced pasture for their herds and flocks. The recesses of the unexplored depths of these silvan retreats being seldom disturbed, especially since the lords of the district had laid aside, during this time of strife, their constant occupation of hunting, the various kinds of game had increased of late very considerably; so that not only in crossing the rougher parts of the hilly and desolate country we are describing, different varieties of the deer tribe were occasionally seen, but even the wild cattle peculiar to Scotland sometimes showed themselves. And other animals, which indicated the irregular and disordered state of the country, were now visible: the wild cat was occasionally surprised in the dark ravines or the swampy thickets which it inhabits; and the wolf, already a stranger to the lower or more populous districts of the Lothians, here maintained his ground against the encroachments of mankind, and was still himself a terror to those by whom he was finally to be extirpated. In winter especially, and winter was hardly yet past, the wolves were wont to be driven to extremity by want of food, and used to frequent, in dangerous numbers, the battle-field, the deserted churchyard—nay, sometimes the abodes of living men, there to watch for children, and young females in particular, their defenceless prey, with as much familiarity as the fox now-a-days will venture to prowl boldly near the mistress’s† poultry-yard. From what we have said, our readers, if they have made—as who in these days has not—the Scottish tour, will be apt to form a tolerably just idea of the banks of the wilder and upper part of Douglas Dale, during the earlier period of the fourteenth century. The setting sun cast his gleams along a moorish country, which, as it retreated westward, broke into larger swells, terminating in the mountains called the Larger and Lesser Cairntable. The first of these is, as it were, the father of the hills in the neighbourhood and by far the largest in the ridge, still holding in his dark bosom and the ravines with which his sides are ploughed, considerable remnants of that ancient forest ground with which all the mountains of that quarter were once covered and particularly the hills in which the rivers—both those which run to the east, and those which seek the west and discharge themselves into the Solway—hide, like so many hermits, their original and scanty sources. * Holms, or flat plains, by the sides of the brooks and rivers, termed in the south, Ings. † The good dame, or wife of a respectable farmer, is almost universally thus designated in Scotland.

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The landscape was still illuminated by the reflection of the evening sun, sometimes thrown back from pool or stream of the brook which shone forth as the lady of the valley; sometimes catching and resting on grey rocks, huge cumberers of the soil, which labour and agriculture have since removed; and sometimes contenting itself with gilding the banks of the stream, tinged alternately grey, green, or ruddy, as they themselves consisted of grizzled rock, or grassy turf, or bare earthen mound, looking at a distance like a rampart of dark red porphyry. Occasionally, too, it rested on the steep brown extent of moorland, as it glanced back from the little tarn or mountain pool, whose lustre, like that of the eye in the human countenance, gives a life and vivacity to every feature around. The elder and stouter of the two travellers whom we have mentioned, was a person well, and even showily dressed, according to the finery of the times, who bore at his back, as wandering minstrels wont, a case, containing a small harp, rote, or viol, or some such species of musical instrument. The leathern case announced so much, although it proclaimed not the exact nature of the instrument. The colour of the traveller’s doublet was blue, that of his trowsers or paned hose violet, with slashes which showed a lining of the same stuff with the jerkin. A mantle ought, according to ordinary custom, to have covered this dress, but the heat of the sun, though the season was so early, had induced the wearer to fold up his cloak in small compass, and form it into a bundle, attached to the shoulders like the military great-coat of the infantry soldier of the present day. The neatness with which the packing was made up, argued the precision of a traveller who had been long engaged in his journey, and was accustomed to every kind of dexterity which change of weather required. A great profusion of narrow ribands or points, constituting the loops with which our ancestors connected their doublet and trowsers, formed a kind of cincture, composed of knots of blue and violet, which went round his person, and thus corresponded in colour with the two garments which it was the office of these strings to combine together. The bonnet usually worn with this showy dress, was of that kind with which Henry the Eighth and his son, Edward the Sixth, are usually painted, and fitter, from the gay stuff it was made of, to appear in a public place, than to bear out a storm of rain. It was party-coloured, being composed of different stripes of blue and violet; and the wearer arrogated a certain degree of gentility to himself, by wearing a plume of considerable dimensions of the same favourite colours. The features over which this feather drooped were in no degree remarkable for peculiarity of expression. Yet, in so desolate a country as the west of Scotland, it would not have been easy to pass the man without paying him more

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attention than he would have met with where there was more in the character of the scenery to arrest the gaze of the passengers. A quick eye, a sociable look, seeming to say, “Ay, look at me, I am a man worth noticing, and not unworthy your attention,” carried with it an interpretation which might be thought favourable or otherwise, according to the character of the person who met the traveller. A knight or soldier would merely have thought that he had met a merry fellow, who could sing a wild song, or tell a wild tale, and help in emptying a flagon, with all the accomplishments necessary for a boon companion at an hostelry, except perhaps an alacrity at defraying his share of the reckoning. A churchman, on the other hand, might have thought he of the blue and violet was of too loose habits, and accustomed too little to limit himself within the boundaries of beseeming mirth, to be fit society for one of his sacred calling. Yet the Man of Song had a certain steadiness of countenance, which seemed fitted to hold place in scenes of serious business, as well as of gayety. A wayfaring passenger of wealth, not at that time a numerous class, might have feared in him a professional robber, or one whom opportunity was very likely to convert into such; a female might have been afraid of uncivil treatment; and a youth, or timid person, might have thought upon murder, and such direful doings. Unless privately armed, however, the minstrel was ill accoutred for any dangerous occupation. His only visible weapon was a small crooked sword, like what we now call a hanger; and the state of the times would have justified any man, however peaceful his intentions, for being so far armed against the perils of the road. If a glance at this man had in any respect prejudiced him in the opinion of those whom he met in his journey, a look at his companion would, so far as his character could have been discerned— for he was closely muffled up—have passed for an apology and warrant for his associate. The younger voyager was apparently in early youth, a soft and gentle boy, whose Sclavonic gown, as the appropriate dress of the pilgrim, he wore more closely drawn about him than it would seem the coldness of the weather authorized or recommended. His features, imperfectly seen under the hood of his pilgrim’s dress, were prepossessing in a high degree; and though he wore a walking sword, it seemed rather to be to comply with fashion than from any hostile purpose. There were traces of sadness upon his brow, and of tears upon his cheeks; and his weariness was such, as even his rougher companion seemed to sympathize with, while he privately participated also of the sorrow which had left its marks upon a countenance so lovely. They spoke together, and the eldest of the two assumed the deferential air peculiar to a man of lower rank addressing one to whom

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he is willing to pay the respect due by an inferior to his superior, and had even in his tone something that amounted to interest and affection, though couched in the most respectful attitude and manner. “Bertram, my friend,” said the youngest of the two, “how far are we still from Douglas Castle? We have already come further than thirty miles, which thou didst say was the distance from Cummock—or how didst thou call the last hostelry which we left by daybreak?” “Cumnock, my dearest lady—I beg ten thousand excuses—my gracious young lord.” “Call me Augustine,” replied his comrade, “if you mean to speak as is fittest for the time.” “Nay, as for that,” said Bertram, “if your ladyship can condescend to lay aside your quality, my own good-breeding is not so firmly sewed to me but that I can doff it, and resume it again without losing a stitch of it; and since your ladyship, to whom I am sworn in obedience, is pleased to command that I should treat you as my own son, shame it were if I am not able to show you the affection of a father, more especially as I may well swear my great oath, that I owe you the duty of such, though well I wot it has, in our case, been the lot of the father to be maintained by the kindness and liberality of the son; for when was it that I hungered or thirsted, and the black stock* of Berkely did not relieve my wants?” “I would have it so,” said the young lady, whose pilgrim’s dress was so shaped as to give her the air of the other sex; “I would have it so. What use of the mountains of beef, and the oceans of beer, which they say our domains produce, if there is a hungry heart among our vassalage, or especially if thou, Bertram, who has served as the minstrel of our house for more than twenty years, shouldst experience such a feeling?” “Certes, lady,” answered Bertram, “it would be like the catastrophe which is told of the Baron of Fastenough, when his last mouse was starved to death in the very pantry; and if I escape this journey without such a calamity, I shall think myself out of reach of thirst or famine for the whole of my life.” “Thou hast suffered already once or twice by these attacks, my poor knave,” said the lady. “It is little,” answered Bertram, “any thing that I have suffered; and I were ungrateful to give the inconvenience of missing a breakfast, or making an untimely dinner, so serious a name. But then I hardly see how your ladyship—that is, how you, Master Augustine, can endure this gear much longer. You must yourself feel, that the plodding along these high lands, of which the Scotch give us such good measure in * The table dormant, which stood in a baron’s hall, was sometimes so designated.

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their miles, is no jesting matter; and as for Douglas Castle, why it is nearly as distant as five miles, not to say any thing of what the Scotch call a bittock, which in their way of accounting is at least a mile to the boot.” “The question then is,” quoth the lady, heaving a sort of sigh, “what we are to do when we have so far to travel, and when the castle gates must have been locked long, long before we arrive there?” “For that I will pledge my word,” answered Bertram. “The gates of Douglas, under the keeping of Sir John Walton, do not open so easily as those of the buttery hatch at your own castle, when it is well oiled; and if your ladyship takes my advice, you will turn southward ho! and in two days at farthest, we will be in a land where men’s wants are provided for, as the inns proclaim it, with the least possible delay, and the secret of this little journey shall never be known to living mortal but ourselves, as sure as I am sworn minstrel and man of faith.” “I thank you for thy advice, mine honest Bertram,” said the lady, “but I cannot profit by it. Should thy knowledge of these parts possess thee with an acquaintance with any decent house, whether it be a rich man’s or that of a poor, I would willingly take quarters there, if I could obtain them from this time until to-morrow morning. The gates of Douglas Castle will then be open to guests of so peaceful an appearance as ourselves, and—and—it will out—we should have time to make such applications to our toilet as might ensure us a good reception, by drawing a comb through our locks, or such like foppery.” “Ah, madam!” said Bertram, “were not Sir John Walton in question, methinks I should venture to reply, that an unwashed brow, an unkempt head of hair, and a look far more saucy than your ladyship ever wears, or can wear, were the proper disguises to make you resemble the minstrel’s boy, whom you wish to represent in the present pageant.” “Do you suffer your youthful pupils to be indeed so slovenly and so saucy, Bertram?” answered the lady. “I for one will not imitate them in that particular; and whether Sir John be presently in the Castle of Douglas or not, I will treat those soldiers who hold so honourable a charge with a washed brow, and a head of hair somewhat ordered. As for going back without seeing a castle which mingled even with my very dreams—at a word, Bertram, thou mayst go that way, but I will not.” “And if I part with your ladyship on such terms,” responded the minstrel, “now your frolic is so nearly accomplished, it shall be the foul fiend himself, and nothing more comely or less dangerous, that shall tear me from your side; and for lodging, there is not far from hence the house of Tom Dickson of Hazelside, one of the most

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thriving men that lives upon the river, and who, although a labouring man, ranked as high as a warrior, when I was in this country, as any noble gentleman who rides in the band of the Douglas.” “He is, then, a soldier?” said the lady. “When his country or his lord need his sword,” replied Bertram— “and, to say the truth, they are seldom at peace; but otherwise, he is no enemy, save to the wolf which plunders his herds.” “But forget not, my trusty guide,” replied the lady, “that the blood in our veins is English, and consequently, that we are in danger from all who call themselves enemies to the ruddy Cross.” “Do not fear this man’s faith,” answered Bertram. “You may trust to him as to the best knight or gentleman of the land. We may make our lodging by a tune or a song; and it may remember you that I undertook (providing it pleased your ladyship) to temporize a little with the Scots, who, poor souls, love minstrelsy, and when they have but a silver penny, will willingly bestow it to encourage the gay science —I promised you, I say, that we should be as welcome to them as if we had been born in the middle of their own wild hills; and for the best that the house affords, the glee-man’s son, or rather his patroness, shall not breathe a wish in vain. And now, will you speak your mind to your devoted friend and adopted father, or rather your sworn servant and guide, Bertram the Minstrel?” “O, we will certainly accept of the Scot’s hospitality,” said the lady, “your minstrel word being plighted that he is a true man.—Tom Dickson, call you him?” “Yes,” replied Bertram, “such is his name; and by looking on these sheep, I am assured that we are now upon his land.” “Indeed!” said the lady, with some surprise; “and how is your wisdom aware of that?” “I see the first letter of his name marked upon his flock,” answered the guide. “Ah, learning is what carries a man through the world, as well as if he had the ring by virtue of which old minstrels tell that Adam understood the language of beasts formerly in Paradise. Ah, madam! there is more wit taught in the shepherd’s shieling than the lady thinks of, who sews her painted seam in her summer bower.” “Be it so, good Bertram. And supposing me completely acquainted with the knowledge of written language, it is impossible for me to esteem its value more than I actually do; so hold we on the nearest road to this Tom Dickson’s, whose very sheep tell of his whereabout. I trust we have not very far to go, although the knowledge that our journey is shortened by four or five miles has so much recovered my fatigue, that methinks I could jump all the rest of the way.”

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Chapter Two Rosalind. Well, this is the Forest of Arden. Touchstone. Aye, now am I in Arden; the more fool I. When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content. Ros. Aye, be so, good Touchstone.—Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old, in solemn talk. As You Like It.—Scene IV. Act II

A     travellers spoke together, they reached a turn of the path which presented a more extensive prospect than the unequal state of the country had yet shown them. A valley, through which flowed a small tributary stream, exhibited a wild, but not unpleasant, picture of “a lone vale of green braken,” here and there besprinkled with groups of alder-trees, of hazels, and of copse oakwood, which had maintained their stations in the recesses of the valley, although they had vanished from the loftier and more exposed sides of the hills. The farm-house, or mansion-house, of its proprietor, (for, from size and appearance, it might have been the one or the other,) was a large but low building, and the walls of the out-houses were sufficiently strong to protect what they might contain against any casual depredators whose violence could be apprehended. There was no preparation against force which might be used to a greater extent; for, in a country laid waste by war, the farmer was of course then, as now, obliged to take his chance of the great evils attendant upon that state of things; and his condition, never a very eligible one, was rendered considerably worse by the insecurity attending it. About half a mile further was a Gothic building of very small extent, having a half-dismantled chapel, which the minstrel pronounced to be the Abbey of Saint Bride’s, “which,” said he, “I understand is allowed to subsist, as two or three old monks and as many nuns, whom it contains, are permitted by the English to serve God there, and sometimes to harbour Scottish travellers; and who have taken assurance with Sir John Walton, and accepted as their superior a churchman on whom he thinks he can depend. But if their guests have any secrets to tell, they are pretty generally believed to fly towards the English governor; and therefore, unless your ladyship’s commands be positive, I think we had best not trust ourselves to their hospitality.” “Of a surety, no,” said the lady, “if thou canst provide me with lodgings where we shall have more prudent hosts.” At this moment, two human forms were seen coming towards the farm-house in a different direction from those persons we have first introduced, and speaking so high, in a tone apparently of dispute, that

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the minstrel and his companion could hear the raised tone of their voices at the distance of nearly half a mile from where they stood. Having skreened his eyes with his hand for some minutes, Bertram at length exclaimed, “By Our Lady, it is my old friend, Tom Dickson, sure enough!—What can make him in such bad humour with the lad, who, I think, may be the little wild boy, his son Charles, who used to run about and plait rushes some twenty years ago, when I was in this country? It is lucky, however, we have found our friends astir; for, I warrant, Tom hath a hearty piece of beef in the pot ere he goes to bed, and he must have changed his wont if an old friend hath not his share; and who knows, had we come later, at what hour they may now find it convenient to drop latch and draw bolt so near a hostile garrison; for if we call things by their right names, such is the proper term for an English garrison in the house of a Scottish nobleman, or true subject.” “Foolish fellow,” answered the lady, “thou judgest of Sir John Walton as thou wouldst of some rude boor, to whom the opportunity of doing evil is a temptation and license to exercise cruelty and oppression. Now, I could plight you my word, that, setting apart the quarrel of the kingdoms, which, of course, will be fought out in fair battle, and like honourable men, on both sides, you will find that English and Scottish, within this domain, and within the reach of Sir John Walton’s influence, live together as that same flock of sheep and goats do with the shepherd’s dog; a foe whom they fly upon certain occasions, but around whom they nevertheless eagerly gather for protection should a wolf happen to show himself.” “It is not to your ladyship,” answered Bertram, “that I should venture to state my opinion of such matters; but the young knight, when he is sheathed in his armour, is as it were a different being from him who feasts in halls among press of ladies; and he that feeds by another man’s fireside, and whose landlord, of all men in the world, chances to be the Black Douglas, has reason to keep his eyes about him when he makes his meal:—but it were better I looked after our own evening refreshment, than that I stood here gaping and talking about other folk’s matters.” So saying, he called out in a thundering tone of voice, “Dickson!—what ho, Thomas Dickson!—will you not acknowledge an old friend, who is much disposed to trust his supper and night’s lodging to your hospitality?” The farmer, attracted by the call, looked first along the banks of the river, then upwards to the bare side of the hill, and at length cast his eyes upon the two human figures who were descending from it. As if he felt the night colder while he advanced from the more sheltered part of the valley, he wrapped closer around him the grey plaid, which, from an early period, has been used by the shepherds of the south of

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Scotland, and the appearance of which gives a romantic air to the peasantry and middle classes; and, although less brilliant and gaudy in its colours, is as picturesque in its arrangement as the more military looking tartan mantle of the Highland country. When they approached near to each other, the lady might observe that this friend of her guide’s was a stout athletic man, somewhat past the middle life, and already showing marks of the approach but none of the infirmity of age, upon a countenance which had been exposed to many a storm. Sharp eyes too, and a quick observation, exhibited signs of vigilance, acquired by one who had lived long in a country where he had occasion for looking around him with shrewdness and caution. His features were still swollen with displeasure; and the handsome young man who attended him seemed to be disconcerted, like one who had undergone no gentle marks of his father’s indignation, and who, from the sullen expression which mingled with an appearance of shame in his countenance, seemed at least as much affected by anger as by remorse. “Do you not remember me, old friend?” said Bertram, as they approached within a distance fit for communing; “or have the twenty years which have marched over us since we met, carried along with them all remembrance of Bertram, the Englishman?” “In troth,” answered the Scot, “it is not for want of plenty of your countrymen to keep you in my remembrance, and I have hardly heard one of them so much as whistle Hey, now the day dawns,

but it has recalled some note of your blithe rebeck; and yet such animals are we, that I had forgot the mien of my old friend, and scarcely knew him at a distance. But we have had trouble lately; there are a thousand of your countrymen that keep garrison in the Perilous Castle of Douglas yonder, as well as in other places through the vale, and that is but a woful sight for a true heart belonging to the country— even my own poor house has not escaped the dignity of a garrison of a man-at-arms, beside two or three archer knaves, and one or two slips of mischievous boys called pages, coistrels, and so forth, who will not let a man say, ‘this is my own,’ by his own fireside. Do not, therefore, think hardly of me, old comrade, if I show you a welcome something more cold than you might expect from a friend of former days; for, by Saint Bride of Douglas, I have scarcely any thing left to which I can say welcome.” “Small welcome will serve,” said Bertram. “My son, make thy reverence to thy father’s old friend. Augustine is learning my joyous trade, but he will need some practice ere he can endure its fatigues. If you could give him a quiet bed for the night, and some little matter of

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food, there’s no fear but what we shall both do well enough; for I dare say when you travel with my friend Charles there,—if that tall youth chances to be my old acquaintance Charles,—you will find yourself accommodated when his wants are once well provided for.” “Nay, the foul fiend take me if I do,” answered the Scottish husbandman. “I know not what the lads of this day are made of—not of the same clay as their fathers to be sure—not sprung from the heather, which fears neither wind nor rain, but from some delicate plant of a foreign country, which will not thrive unless an artist shall nourish it under glass, with a murrain to it. The good Lord of Douglas—I have been his henchman, and can vouch for it—did not in his pagehood desire for himself such food and lodgings as will hardly satisfy in the present day such a lad as your friend Charles.” “Nay,” said Bertram, “it is not that my Augustine is delicate; but I must request of you, for other reasons, a bed to himself; he hath of late been unwell.” “Ay, I understand,” said Dickson, “your son hath had a touch of that illness which terminates so frequently in the black death you English folks die of? We hear much of the havoc it has made to the southward. Comes it hitherward?” Bertram nodded. “Well, my father’s house,” continued the farmer, “hath more mansions than one, and your son shall have one which is well-aired and comfortable; and for supper, thou shalt have thy favourite slice of a jolly sirloin prepared for thy countrymen, though I would rather have their room than their company. If I were to receive a score of my own starving countrymen, yet they will not dispute the claim of such a minstrel as thou art to a night’s hospitality. I am ashamed to say that I must do their bidding even in my own house. Well-a-day, if my good lord were in possession of his own, I have heart and hand enough to turn the whole of them out of my house, like—like”—— “To speak plainly,” said Bertram, “like the southern strolling gang from Redesdale, whom I once have seen you fling out of your house like a litter of blind puppies, and not one of them looked behind to see who had done him the courtesy until he was half-way to Cairntable.” “Ay,” answered the Scotchman, drawing himself up six inches at least taller than before; “then I had a house of my own, and a cause and an arm to keep it. Now I am—what signifies it what I am?—the noblest lord in Scotland is little better.” “Truly, friend,” said Bertram, “now you view this matter in a rational point of view. I do not say that the wisest man, the richest man, or the strongest man has any right to tyrannize over his neighbour, because he is the weaker, the more ignorant, and the poorer; but yet if

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he does enter into such a controversy, he must submit to the course of nature, and that will always give the advantage in the tide of battle to him who possesses wealth, strength, and health.” “With permission, however,” answered Dickson, “the weaker, if he uses the faculties which he has to the utmost, may, in the long run, obtain revenge upon the author of his sufferings, and that would be at least compensation for his temporary submission; and he acts simply as a man, and most sillily as a Scottish man, whether he sustains these wrongs with the insensibility of an idiot, or whether he endeavours to revenge them before the time has arrived which Heaven has appointed.—But I shall scare you, as I have frightened some of your countrymen, from accepting a meal of meat, and a night’s lodging, in a house where you might be called with the morning to a bloody settlement of a national quarrel.” “Never mind,” said Bertram, “we have been known to each other of old; and I am no more afraid of meeting unkindness in your house, than you expect me to come here for the purpose of adding to the injuries of which you complain.” “So be it,” said Thomas Dickson; “and you, my old friend, are as welcome to my old abode as when it never held any guest save those of my own inviting.—And you, my young friend, Master Augustine, shall be looked after in your present condition as well as if you came with a gay brow and a light cheek, such as best becomes the gay science, of which thou art a professor.” “But wherefore, may I ask,” said Bertram, “so much displeased but now at my young friend Charles?” The youth answered before his father could speak. “My father, good sir, may put what show upon it he will, but the old man waxes weak in the brain in these troublous times. He saw two or three wolves seize upon three of our choicest wethers; and because I shouted to give the alarm to the English garrison, he was angry as if he could have murdered me—just for saving the sheep from the jaws of one of the wolves.” “This is a strange account of thee, old friend,” said Bertram. “Doest thou connive with the very wolves in robbing thine own folds?” “Why, let it pass, if thou lovest me,” answered the countryman; “Charles could tell thee something nearer the truth, if he had a mind; but let it pass for the present.” The minstrel accordingly, perceiving that the Scotsman was fretted and embarrassed with the subject, pressed it no farther. At this moment they were crossing the threshold of Thomas Dickson’s farm house, and were greeted with the sounds from within. “Quiet, Anthony,” said one voice,—“quiet, man!—for the sake of

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common sense, if not common manners;—Robin Hood, it is said, never sat down to his board ere the roast was ready.” “Ready!” quoth another rough voice; “it is roasting to rags, and small had been the share of the knave Dickson even of these rags, had it not been the express orders of the worshipful Sir John Walton, that the soldiers who lie at outposts should afford to the inmates such beef as is not necessary for their own subsistence.” “Hush, Anthony,—hush, for shame!” replied his fellow soldier, “if ever I heard our host’s step, I heard it this instant; so give o’er thy grumbling, since our captain, you know, hath discharged, under strict penalties, all quarrels between his followers and the people of the country.” “I am sure,” replied Anthony, “that I have ministered occasion to none; but I would I were equally certain of the good meaning of this sullen-browed Thomas Dickson towards the English soldiers, for I seldom go to bed in this dungeon of a house, but I expect my throat will gape as wide as a thirsty oyster before I awake again. Here he comes, however,” added Anthony, sinking his sharp tones as he spoke; “and I hope to be excommunicated if he has not brought with him that mad animal, his son Charles, and two other Scottish men besides, hungry enough, I’ll be sworn, to eat up the whole supper, if they do us no other injury.” “Shame of thyself, Anthony,” repeated his comrade; “a good archer thou as ever wore Kendal green, and to affect to be frightened for two tired travellers, or alarmed for the inroad that their hunger may make on the night’s meal. There are four or five or us here—we have our bows and our bills within reach, and scorn to be chased from our supper, or cheated out of our share of it, by a dozen Scottishmen, whether stationary or strollers. How say’st thou?” he added, turning to Dickson—“How say’st thou, quartermaster? thou knowest, that by the directions given to our post, we must enquire into the occupations of such friends as you may receive over and above ourselves, your unwilling guests; thou art as ready for supper, I warrant, as supper is for you, and I will only delay you and my friend Anthony, who becomes dreadfully impatient, until you answer two or three questions which you wot of.” “Bend-the-Bow,” answered Dickson, “thou art a civil fellow; and although it is something hard to be constrained to give an account of one’s friends, because they chance to guesten in one’s own house in such capacity for a night or so, yet I will submit to the times, and make no vain opposition. You may mark down in your breviary there, that upon the fourteenth day before Palm Sunday, Thomas Dickson brought to his house of Hazelside, which you hold by orders from the

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English governor Sir John Walton, two strangers, to whom the said Thomas Dickson had promised refreshment, and a bed for the evening, if so be lawful at this time or place.” “But what are they, these strangers?” said Anthony, somewhat sharply. “A fine world the while,” murmured Thomas Dickson, “that an honest man should be forced to answer the queries of every paltry companion!”—But he mitigated his voice and proceeded. “The eldest of my guests is Bertram, an ancient English minstrel, who is bound on his own errand to the Castle of Douglas, and will communicate what he has to say of news to Sir John Walton himself. I have known him for twenty years back, and never heard any thing, save that he was good man and true. The younger stranger is his son, a lad recovering of the English disorder, which has been raging far and wide in Westmoreland and Cumberland.” “Tell me,” said Bend-the-Bow, “this same Bertram, was he not about a year since in the service of some noble lady in our own country?” “I have heard so,” answered Dickson. “We shall, in that case, I think, incur little danger,” replied Bendthe-Bow, “by allowing this old man and his son to proceed on their journey to the castle.” “You are my elder and my better,” answered Anthony; “but I would remind you that it is not equally clearly our duty to carry into a garrison of a thousand men of all ranks, a youth who has been so lately attacked by a contagious disorder; and I question if our commander would not rather hear that the Black Douglas, with a hundred devils as black as himself, had taken possession of the gateway with sword and battleaxe, than that one person suffering under this fell sickness had entered peaceably, and by the opened wicket of Castle Douglas.” “There is something in what thou sayest, Anthony,” replied his comrade; “and yet, considering that our captain, since he has undertaken the troublesome job of keeping a castle which is esteemed so much more dangerous than any other within Scotland, has become one of the most cautious and jealous men in the world, we had better, I think, inform him of the circumstance, and take his commands how the stripling is to be dealt with.” “Content am I,” said the archer; “and first, methinks, I would just, in order to show that we know what belongs to such a case, ask the stripling a few questions, as how long he has been ill, by what physicians he has been attended, when he was cured, and how his cure is certified,” &c. “True, brother,” said Bend-the-Bow. “Thou hearest, minstrel, we

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would ask thy son some questions—What has become of him?—he was in this apartment but now.” “So please you,” answered Bertram, “he did but pass through the apartment. Master Thomas Dickson, at my entreaty, as well as in respectful reverence to your honours’ health, carried him through the room without any tarriance, judging his own bedchamber the fittest place for a young man recovering from a severe illness, and after a day’s walk of considerable fatigue.” “Well,” answered the elder archer, “though it is uncommon for men who live like us by bowstring and quiver, to meddle with interrogations and examinations, yet, as the case stands, we must make some enquiries of your son, ere we can permit him to set forth to the Castle of Douglas, where his errand, you say, leads him.” “Rather my errand, noble sir,” said the minstrel, “than that of the young man himself.” “If such be the case,” answered Bend-the-Bow, “we shall sufficiently do our duty by sending you yourself, with the first grey light of dawn, to the castle, and letting your son remain here in bed, which I warrant me is the fittest place for him, until we shall receive Sir John Walton’s commands whether he be brought onward or not.” “And we may as well,” said Anthony, “since we are to have this man’s company at supper, make him acquainted with the rules of the out garrison which is stationed here for the time.” So saying, he pulled a scroll from his leather pouch, and said, “Minstrel, thou canst read?” “It becomes my calling,” said the minstrel. “It has nothing to do with mine, though,” answered the archer, “and therefore read aloud; for since I do not comprehend these characters by sight, I lose no chance of having them read as often as I can to me, that I may fix the sense in my memory. So beware that thou readest the words letter for letter as they are there set down; for thou readest at thy peril, Sir Minstrel, if thou readest not like a true man.” “On my minstrel word,” said Bertram, and began to read excessively slow; for he wished to gain a little time for consideration, which he foresaw would be necessary to prevent his being separated from his mistress, which was likely to occasion her much anxiety and distress. He therefore began thus:—“‘Outpost at Hazelside peel, the steading of Goodman Thomas Dickson’—Ay, Thomas, and is thy house so called?” “It is the ancient name of the steading,” said the Scot, “being surrounded by a hazel-shaw, or thicket.” “Hold your chattering tongue,” said Anthony, “and proceed, as you value that or your ears, which you seem like to make less use of.”

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“ ‘Garrison,’ ” proceeded the minstrel, reading, “ ‘a lance with its furniture.’ A lance in this party?” “ ’Tis no concern of thine,” said the archer. “But it is,” answered the minstrel; “we have a right to be examined by the highest person in presence.” “I will show thee, thou rascal,” said the archer, starting up, “that I am lance enough for thee to reply to, and I will break thy head with my bow if thou say’st a word more.” “Take care, brother Anthony,” said his comrade, “we are to use travellers courteously, and, with your leave, those travellers best who come from our own native land.” “It is even so stated here,” said the minstrel, and proceeded to read:— “ ‘The watch at this outpost of Hazelside shall stop and examine all travellers passing by the said station, suffering such to pass onwards to the town of Douglas, or Douglas Castle, if they see it convenient, always interrogating them with civility, and detaining and turning them back if there arise matter of suspicion; but conducting themselves in this matter, and in all other duties, civilly and courteously to the people of the country, and to those who travel in it.’ You see, most excellent and valiant archer,” added the commentator Bertram, “that courtesy and civility is, above all, recommended to your worship in your conduct towards the inhabitants, and those passengers who, like us, may chance to fall under your rules in such matters.” “I am not to be told at this time of day,” said the archer, “how to conduct myself in discharge of the duties of my post. Let me advise you, Sir Minstrel, to be frank and open in your answers to our enquiries, and you shall have no reason to complain of the return we may make you.” “So I trust,” said the minstrel, “your favour for my son, who is a delicate stripling, and not accustomed to play his part among the crew which for the present man this wild world.” “Well,” continued the other and civiller of the two archers, in answer to Bertram’s last observation, “if thy son be a novice in this terrestrial navigation, I warrant that thou, my friend, from thy look and manner of speech, have enough and to spare of that commodity. To comfort thee, although thou must thyself answer the questions of our governor or deputy governor, in order that he may see there is no offence in thee, I think there may be permission granted for thy son’s residing in the convent hard by, (where the nuns, by the way, are as old as the monks, and have near as long beards, so thou mayst be easy about thy son’s morals,) until thou hast done thy business at Douglas Castle, and art ready to resume thy journey.”

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“If such permission,” said the minstrel, “can be obtained, I should be better pleased to leave him at the abbey, and go myself, in the first place, to take the directions of your commanding officer.” “Certainly,” answered the archer, “it will be your safest and best way; and with a piece or two of money, thou mayst secure the protection of the abbot.” “Thou say’st well,” answered the minstrel; “I have known life, I have known every style, gap, pathway, and pass of this wilderness of ours for some thirty years since I have been a traveller in it; and he that cannot steer his helm and keep his course fairly through the world like an able seaman, after having served such an apprenticeship, can hardly ever be taught to box his compass, were a century to be given him to learn it in.” “Since thou art so expert a mariner,” answered the archer Anthony, “thou hast, I warrant me, met in thy wanderings a potation called a morning’s draught, which they who are conducted by others, in a way where they themselves lack experience, are used to bestow upon those who undertake the task of guide upon the occasion?” “I understand you, sir,” quoth the minstrel, “and although money, or drink-geld, as the Fleming calls it, is rather a scarce commodity in the purse of one of my calling, yet, according to my feeble ability, thou shalt have no cause to complain that thine eyes or those of thy comrade have been damaged by a Scottish mist, if we can find an English gold piece to pay for the good liquor which should wash them clear.” “Content,” said the archer; “we now understand each other; and if difficulties arise on the road, thou shalt not want the countenance of Anthony to sail triumphantly through them. But thou hadst better let thy son know this night of the early visit to the abbot for which he must hold himself prepared to-morrow, for thou mayst guess that we cannot and dare not delay our departure for a minute after the eastern sky is ruddy; and, with other infirmities, young men often are possessed by laziness and love of ease.” “Thou shalt have no reason to think so,” answered the minstrel; “not the lark himself, when waked by the first ray peeping over the black cloud, springs more lightly to the sky, than my Augustine will answer the same brilliant summons to-morrow morning. And now we understand each other, I would only pray you to forbear light talk while my son is in your company,—being a boy of innocent life, and timid in conversation.” “Nay, jolly minstrel,” said the elder archer, “thou givest us here too gross an example of Satan reproving sin. If thou hast followed thy craft for twenty years, as thou pretendest, thy son, who hath kept thee company since childhood, must by this time be fit to open a school to

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teach the devils themselves the practice of the seven deadly sins, of which none know the theory if those of the gay science are lacking therein.” “Truly, comrade, thou speakest well,” answered Bertram, “and I acknowledge that we minstrels are too much to blame in this matter. Nevertheless, in good sooth, the fault is not one of which I myself am particularly guilty; on the contrary, I think that he who would wish to have his own hair honoured when time has strewed it with silver, should so rein his mirth when in the presence of the young, as may show in what respect he holds youth and innocence. I will, therefore, with your permission, speak a word to inform Augustine that tomorrow we must be on foot early, as you have already apprised me.” “Do so, my friend,” said the English soldier; “and do the same the more speedily that our poor supper is still awaiting until thou art ready to partake of it.” “To which, I promise you,” said Bertram, “I will faithfully be disposed to entertain no delay.” “Follow me, then,” said Thomas Dickson, “and I will show you in what corner of the building this young bird of thine has his nest.” Their host accordingly tripped up the wooden stair, and tapped at a door, which he thus indicated was that of his younger guest. “Your father,” continued he, as the door opened, “would speak with you, Master Augustine, to apprise you of the order of march for to-morrow. But how now,” seeing with some surprise that the young person was still fully dressed, “are you in your full apparel so late at night? This is a mistake, or you have taken the vespers of my neighbour, Saint Bride’s chapel, for morning song.” “Excuse me, my host,” answered Augustine; “the truth is, that as I sleep directly above your eating-chamber, and as the flooring is not in the best possible repair, I have been compelled to the unhandsome practices of an eavesdropper, and not a word has escaped me that passed between the English soldiers, my father, and thyself, concerning our journey to-morrow, and the somewhat early hour at which I must shake off sloth, and, according to thy expression, fly down from the roost.” “And how doest thou relish,” said Dickson, “being left under the Abbot of Saint Bride’s little flock here?” “Why, well,” said the boy, “if he is a man of respectability becoming his vocation, and not one of those swaggering churchmen, who stretch out their hand to the sword, and bear themselves like rank soldiers in these troublous times.” “For that, young master,” said Dickson, “if you let him put his hand deep enough into your purse, he will hardly quarrel with any thing.”

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“Then I will leave him to my father,” replied Augustine, “who will hardly grudge him any thing he asks, reasonable or unreasonable.” “In that case,” replied the Scotsman, “you may trust to our abbot for good accommodation—and so both sides are pleased.” “It is well, my son,” said Bertram, who now joined in the conversation; “and that thou mayst be ready for thy early travelling, believe me thou must go to bed now, and sleep off the fatigue of to-day, since tomorrow will bring labours for itself.” “And as for thy engagement to these honest archers,” subjoined Augustine, “my purse, thou knowest, is somewhat heavier than thine; and there is no provisions which the convent can supply that we are not fit, and will not be willing, to call for and pay for, if our doing so can pleasure our guides, and if our guides are disposed to be civil and true men.” So speaking, the pilgrim shook a small green silken purse. “God bless thee, my child!” answered Bertram; “thou knowest already that magic sound which would drag after your beck all the English archers that were ever at Cressy or Poictiers. There is no fear of a grey goose shaft, if you sing a reveillez like to that which chimed even now from that silken nest of dainty young goldfinches.” “Hold me as in readiness, then, ere you depart to-morrow morning. I am within hearing, you say, of the bells of Saint Bride’s chapel, and have no fear of keeping you waiting through my sloth.” “Good-night, and God bless thee, my child!” again said the minstrel to the supposed young man; “remember that your father sleeps not far distant, and on the slightest alarm I will not fail to be with you. Recommend thyself, meantime, to the great Being, who is friend and father to us all who have innocence to entitle us to his protection.” The youth thanked his supposed father for his evening blessing, and the visitors withdrew without farther speech at the time, leaving the young lady to those engrossing fears, which naturally thronged upon her, the novelty of her situation, and the native delicacy of her sex being considered. A horseman shortly after stopped at the house of Hazelside, and was welcomed by its garrison with acclamation and respect. Bertram understood so much as to discover from the conversation of the wardours that this late arrival was Aymer de Valence, the knight who commanded the little party, and to the furniture of whose lance, as it was technically called, belonged the archers with whom we have already been acquainted, a man-at-arms or two, a certain proportion of pages or grooms, and, in short, the command and guidance of the garrison at Thomas Dickson’s, while in rank he was deputy-governor of Douglas Castle. To prevent all suspicion respecting himself and his companion, as

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well as the risk of the latter being disturbed, the minstrel thought it proper to present himself to the inspection of this knight, the great authority of the little place. He found him, with as little scruple as the archers heretofore, making a supper of the relics of the roast beef. Before this young knight Bertram underwent an examination, while an old monk took down such items of information as the examinant thought proper to express in his replies, both in respect to the minutiæ of his present journey, his business at Castle Douglas, and his route when that business was accomplished; a much more minute examination, in a word, than he had hitherto undergone by the archers, or perhaps was quite agreeable to him, being encumbered with at least the confidence of one secret, whatever more. Not that this new examinator had any thing stern in his looks or severe in his questions. As to the first, he was mild, gentle, and “meek as a maid,” and possessed exactly of the courteous manners ascribed by our father Chaucer to the young elève of chivalry whom he describes upon his pilgrimage to Canterbury. But with all his gentleness, De Valence showed a greater degree of acuteness and accuracy in his queries than the minstrel had hitherto undergone; and well pleased was Bertram that he did not insist upon seeing his supposed son, although even in that case his ready wit had resolved, like a seaman whose goods are in peril through tempest, to sacrifice one part to preserve the rest. He was not, however, driven to this extremity, being treated by Sir Aymer with that degree of courtesy which in that age men of song were in general thought entitled to. The knight kindly and liberally consented to the lad’s remaining in the monastery, as a fitter and quieter residence for a stripling and an invalid, until Sir John Walton, should express his pleasure upon the subject; and Sir Aymer consented to this arrangement the more willingly, as it averted all possible danger of bringing contagion into the English garrison. By the young knight’s order, all in Dickson’s house were dispatched earlier to rest than usual; the matin bell of the neighbouring chapel being the signal for their assembly with daybreak. They rendezvoused accordingly, and proceeded to Saint Bride’s, where they heard their morning’s mass, and an interview took place between the Abbot Jerome and the minstrel Bertram, in which the former undertook, with permission of De Valence, to receive Augustine into his abbey as a guest for a few days, less or more, in consequence of which Bertram promised an acknowledgment or sum of alms, which was amply satisfactory. “So be it,” said the father, taking leave of his supposed son, “and rely on it I will not tarry a day longer at Douglas Castle than will suffice for transacting my business there, which is to look after the old books

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you wot of, and will speedily return for thee at the Abbey of Saint Bride’s, and resume in company our journey homeward.” “O father,” replied the youth, with a smile, “I fear, if you get among romances and chronicles, and the contents of a fine old library, you will be so earnest in your researches, that you will forget poor Augustine and his concerns.” “Never fear me, Augustine,” said the old man, making the motion of throwing a kiss towards the boy; “thou art good and virtuous, and Heaven will not neglect thee were thy father unnatural enough to do so. Believe me, all the old songs since Merlin’s day shall not make me forget thee.” Thus they separated, the minstrel, with the English knight and his retinue, to move towards Douglas, and the youth in dutiful attendance on the venerable abbot, who was delighted to find that his guest’s thoughts turned rather upon spiritual things than towards breakfast, of the approach of which hour he could not help being himself sensible.

Chapter Three This night, methinks, is but the daylight sick, It looks a little paler; ’tis a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid. Merchant of Venice

T   the progress of the party on its way to Douglas Castle, the Knight of Valence offered the minstrel the convenience of a horse, which the fatigues of yesterday made him gladly accept. For any one well acquainted with equestrian exercise, is aware that no means of refreshment carries away the sense of fatigue from over walking so easily, as to exchange it for riding, which calls into exercise another set of muscles, and leaves those which have been too much wrought an opportunity of resting by change of motion, more completely than they could by absolute repose. Sir Aymer de Valence was sheathed in armour, and mounted on his charger; two of the archers, a groom of mean rank, and a squire, who looked in his day for the honour of knighthood, attended and completed the whole detachment, who seemed at once disposed to prevent the minstrel from any escape on the road, and to ensure him against the violence of others. “Not,” said the young knight, addressing himself to Bertram, “that there is any fear of travelling in this country, any more than in the most quiet and obedient districts of England; but some disturbances, as you may yourself have learnt, have broke out here within this last year, and have occasioned the garrison of Castle Douglas maintaining

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a stricter watch than was heretofore found necessary. But let us move on, for the complexion of the day is like what may be said to be the original meaning of the name of the country, and the description of the chiefs to whom it belonged—Sholto Dhu Glass—(see yon dark grey man), and dark grey will our route prove this morning, though by good luck it is not long.” The morning was indeed what the original Gaelic words implied, “a drizzly, dank, moist day;” the mist had settled upon the hills, and unrolled itself upon brook, glade, and tarn, and the spring breeze was not powerful enough to raise the veil, though from the wild sounds which were heard occasionally on the ridges, and through the glens, it might be supposed to wail at a sense of its own inability. The route of the travellers was directed by the course which the river had ploughed for itself down the valley, the waters of which bore in general that dark grey livery which Sir Aymer de Valence had intimated to be the prevalent tint of the country. Some ineffectual struggles of the sun shot a ray here and there to salute the peaks of the hills; yet these only amounted in the dulness of a March morning, and at the early hour of a quarter past five, to a variety of shades, rather than a gleam of brightness, upon the eastern horizon. The view was monotonous and depressing, and apparently the good knight Aymer sought some amusement in occasional talk with Bertram, who, as was usual with his craft, possessed a fund of knowledge, and a power of conversation, well suited to pass away a dull morning. Anxious as the minstrel was in picking up such information as he might be able to procure concerning the present state of the castle, he of course embraced every opportunity of sustaining the dialogue. “I would speak with you, Sir Minstrel,” said the young knight. “If thou dost not find the air of this heavy morning too harsh for thine organs, heartily do I wish thou wouldst fairly tell me what can have induced thee, being, as thou seemst to be, a man of sense, to thrust thyself into an unsettled country like this, at such a wild and disorderly time.—And you, my masters,” addressing the archers, and the rest of the party, “methinks it would be as fitting and seeming if you reined back your steeds for a horse’s length or so, since I apprehend you can travel on your way without the pastime of minstrelsy.” The bowmen took the hint, and fell back, but, as was expressed by their grumbling observations, by no means pleased that there seemed no chance of their overhearing what conversation should pass between the young knight and the minstrel, which proceeded as follows:— “I am, then, to understand, good minstrel,” said the knight, “that you, who have in your time borne arms, and have even followed Saint George’s red-cross banner as far as the Holy Sepulchre, are so little

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tired of the danger attending of our profession, that you feel yourself attracted unnecessarily to regions where the sword is for ever loose in its scabbard, and ready to start on the slightest provocation, for the purpose of sheathing itself in a neighbour’s bosom?” “It would be hard,” replied the minstrel bluntly, “to answer such a question in the affirmative; and yet, when you consider how nearly allied is his profession who celebrates deeds of arms with that of the knight who performs them, your honour, I think, will hold it advisable that a minstrel desirous of doing his devoir, should, like a young knight, seek the truth of adventures where it is to be found, and rather visit countries where the knowledge is preserved of high and noble deeds, than those lazy and quiet realms, in which men live indolently, and die ignobly in peace, or at best by sentence of law. You yourself, sir, and those like you, who hold life cheap in respect of glory, guide your course through this world on the very same principle which brings your poor rhyming slave Bertram from a far province of merry England, to this dark country of rugged Scotland called Douglas Dale. You long to see adventures worthy of notice, and I (under favour for naming us in the same breath) seek a scanty and precarious, but not a dishonourable living, by preparing for eternal memory, as well as I can, the particulars of such exploits, especially the names of those who were the heroes of these actions. Each, therefore, labours in his vocation; nor can the one be justly wondered at more than the other, seeing that if there be any difference in the danger to which both the hero and the poet alike expose themselves, the courage, strength, arms, and address of the valiant knight, render it safer for him to venture into scenes of peril, than for the poor man of rhyme.” “You say well,” answered the warrior; “and although it is something of novelty to me to hear your craft set up and presented as upon a level with my own bellicose and dangerous mode of life, yet shame were it to say that the minstrel who toils so much to save the memory of gallant feats and of the heroes by whom they were performed, should not himself prefer fame to existence, and a single crowded memory of life to a whole age without a name, or to affirm that he follows a mean and unworthy profession.” “Your worship will then acknowledge,” said the minstrel, “that it is a legitimate object in such a one as myself, who, simple as I am, have taken my regular degrees among the professors of the gay science at the capital town of Aigues-Mortes, to struggle forwards into this northern district, where I am well assured many things have happened which have been adapted to the harp by minstrels of great fame in ancient days, and have become the subject of lays which lie deposited in the library of Castle Douglas, where, unless copied over by some one who

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understands the old British characters and language, they will be speedily lost to posterity, with whatever they may contain, whether of entertainment or edification. If these hidden treasures were preserved and recorded by the minstrel art of my poor self and others, it might be held well to compensate for the risk of a chance blow of a broadsword, or the sweep of a brown bill, received while I am engaged in collecting them; and that I were unworthy of the name of a man, much more of an inventor or finder,* should I weigh the loss of life, a commodity always so uncertain, with the chance of that species of immortality which will long survive in my lay, even when my broken voice and shivered harp shall have become unable to express either tune or tale.” “Certainly,” said Sir Aymer, “having a heart to feel such a motive, you have an undoubted right to express it; nor should I have been in any degree disposed to question it, had I found many minstrels prepared to act like yourself, and to prefer renown even to life itself, which most men think of greatly more consequence.” “There are, indeed, noble sir,” replied Bertram, “minstrels, and, with your reverence, even belted knights themselves, who do not sufficiently value that renown which is acquired at the risk of life. To such ignoble men we must leave their own reward—earth, and the things of earth, let us abandon to them, since they cannot aspire to that glory which is the best reward of others. But I have known not poets only, but even chroniclers, a very inferior generation, who spared neither toil nor danger when the question was how to acquire a true knowledge of the facts which they intended to transmit to posterity.—Ah! rest thy soul, noble Froissart, poet as well as historian, gentle canon of the collegiate church of Chimay, well was this shown in thy example! Was there an object worth loving or admiring which had not for thee a charm unknown save to one of thy enthusiastic and searching mind? Didst thou not love alike, or at least with the same species of affection, the gallant steed and good stag-hound? Was there a proficient like thee in music—a gayer member of assemblies, feasts, and dancing parties? Didst thou not enjoy dancing, dress, good living, wine, and beauty? And didst thou not search for every particular respecting all celebrated deeds of arms, and frequent the foreign fields in which ancient knights and squires had been present at famous sieges and battles, and had become well entitled to talk of them? And didst thou not thus for thy noble history, to which thou wert * The name of Maker is given to the poets in the old Scottish language. That of Trouveur, or Troubadour—Finder, in short—has a similar meaning, and almost in every country the poetical tribe have been graced with the same epithet, inferring the property of invention or creation.

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encouraged by thy very dear lord and master, Guy de Chatillon, Count de Blois, Lord of Avesne, of Chimay, of Beaumont, of Shonove, of Goude? Didst thou not promise, with a spirit of enthusiasm altogether thine own, that, having already taken great pains in thy history, thou wouldest, through God’s grace, continue it through the wars of France and England, so long as thou shouldst live? for, as thou sayest, ‘The more I work at it the greater pleasure I receive—like the gallant knight or squire enamoured with arms, who by perseverance and attention perfects and accomplishes himself; thus by labouring and working on this subject, I acquire greater ability and delight.’ ”* The minstrel recited these words with enthusiasm, and the knight drew his bridle, and stood fronting Bertram, with his countenance kindling at the same theme, which, after a short time, expressed itself with the same vivacity. “Well fare thy heart, gay companion! I am happy to hear there is still so much enthusiasm living in this country, as becomes the land of the heroes, whom this glorious old chronicler has immortalized in his columns. Thou hast fairly won the minstrel groat; and if I do not pay it in conformity to my sense of thy merit, it is the fault of dame Fortune, who has graced my labours in these Scottish wars with the niggard pay of Scottish money. A gold piece or two there must be remaining of the ransom of one French knight, whom chance threw into my hand, and that, my friend, shall full surely be thine own, were it but for thy good taste of loving my favourite author; and hark thee, I, Aymer, who now speak to thee, am come of the noble House of Pembroke; and though now landless, I shall, by the grace of Our Lady, have in time a fitting establishment, wherein I will find room for a minstrel like thee, if thy talents have not by that time found thee a better patron.” “Thank thee, noble knight,” said the minstrel, “as well for thy present intentions, as I shall for thy future performance when that shall come; but I may say with truth, that I have not the sordid inclination of many of my brethren.” “An admirer of Froissart cannot at the same time be a lover of gold,” said the young knight, “but now I remember, I believe the old chronicler’s chief recommendation to you must be, that he travelled to the very bosom of the Highlands of Scotland on a white nag, with his portmanteau behind him; and some short time after made a scarcely less mountainous journey into North Wales. Evil to the Gothic hands by whom the Memoirs which so curious an enquirer must have made in the course of his travels were destroyed; and peace once more to the ashes of the high-spirited canon. But thou hast not yet told me, friend * Memoirs of the Life of Froissart, translated by Col Johnes, of Hafod, from Monsieur De la Cusne de St Palaye.

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minstrel, what are the motives, in particular, which have attracted thy wandering steps to this wild country?” “Were I to do so,” replied Bertram, rather desirous to avoid the question, as in some respects too nearly bordering on the secret purpose of his journey, “it might sound like a studied panegyric on thine own bold deeds, Sir Knight, and those of your companions in arms; and that, minstrel as I am, I hate like an empty cup at a companion’s lips. But let me say in few words, that Douglas Castle, and the deeds of valour which have been done before it, in its attack and in its defence, have sounded wide through England; nor is there a gallant knight or trusty minstrel, whose heart does not throb at name of the stronghold, which, in former days, the foot of an Englishman never entered, except in hospitality; but which, in our time, has been made an unassailable portion of the English empire. There is a magic in the very names of Sir John Walton and Sir Aymer de Valence, the gallant defenders of a place so often won back by its ancient lord, and so often with circumstances, it is said, of equal valour and cruelty, that it bears the name, in England, of the Dangerous Castle.” “Yet I would fain hear,” answered the knight, “your own minstrel account of those legends which have induced you, for the amusement of future times, to visit a country which, at this period, is so distracted and perilous.” “If you can endure the length of a minstrel tale,” said Bertram, “I for one am always amused by the exercise of my vocation, and have no objection to tell my story, provided you do not interrupt me by being such an impatient listener as our host, Harry Baillie of the Tabard, whose history you well know.” “Well enough at least to understand your hint,” said the young knight; “a fair listener thou shalt have of me, and if my reward is not great, my attention at least shall be remarkable.” “And he,” said the minstrel, “must be a poor gleeman who does not hold himself better apaid with that, than with gold or silver, were the pieces English rose-nobles. On this condition, then, I begin a long story, which may, in one or other of its details, find subject for better minstrels than myself, and be listened to by such warriors as you hundreds and hundreds of years hence.”

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Chapter Four While many a merry lay and many a song Cheer’d the rough road, we wish’d the rough road long; The rough road then returning in a round, Mark’d their impatient steps, for all was fairy ground. D J

“I   about the year of redemption one thousand two hundred and eighty-five years,” began the minstrel, “when King Alexander the Third of Scotland lost his daughter Margaret, whose only child, of the same name, called the Maiden of Norway, (as her father was king of that country,) became the heir of this kingdom of Scotland, as well as of her father’s crown. An unhappy death was this for Alexander, who had no nearer heirs left of his own body than this grandchild. She indeed might claim his kingdom by birthright; but the difficulty of establishing such a claim of inheritance must have been anticipated by all who cast a thought upon the subject. The Scottish king, therefore, endeavoured to supply the hopes which he had lost by replacing his late queen, who was an English princess, sister of our Edward the First, with Juletta, daughter of the Count de Dreux. The solemnities at the nuptial ceremony were very great and remarkable, and particularly when, amidst the show of a pageant which was exhibited on the occasion, in the town of Jedburgh, a ghastly spectre made its appearance unexpectedly in the form of a skeleton, as the King of Terrors is said to be represented.—Your worship is free to laugh at this, if you think it a proper subject for mirth; but men are alive who viewed it with their own eyes, and the event showed too well of what misfortunes this apparition was the singular prognostication.” “I have heard the story,” said the knight; “but the monk who told it me, suggested that the figure, though unhappily chosen, was perhaps purposely introduced as a part of the pageant.” “I know not that,” said the minstrel dryly; “but there is no doubt that shortly after this apparition King Alexander died, to the great sorrow of his people. The Maid of Norway shortly followed her grandfather, and our English king, Sir Knight, raked up a claim of dependency and homage, which neither the lawyers, nobles, priests, nor the very minstrels of Scotland, ever heard of before even by rumour.” “Now, beshrew me,” interrupted Sir Aymer de Valence, “this is beyond bargain. I agreed to hear your tale with patience, but I did not pledge that it should contain matter to the reproach of Edward the First, of blessed memory; nor will I permit his name to be mentioned

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in my hearing without the respect due to his high rank and noble qualities.” “Nay,” said the minstrel, “I am no Highland bagpiper or genealogist, to carry respect for my art so far as to quarrel with a man of worship who stops me at the beginning of a pibroch. I am an Englishman, and wish dearly well to my country; but, above all, I must speak the truth. But I will avoid disputable topics. Your age, sir, though none of the ripest, authorizes me to suppose you may have seen the battle of Falkirk, and other onslaughts in which the competition of Bruce and Baliol has been fiercely agitated, and you will permit me to say, that if the Scottish have not had the right upon their side, they have at least defended the wrong with the efforts of brave men and true.” “Of brave men, I grant you,” said the knight, “for I have seen few or no cowards amongst them; but as for the truth of their conduct, they can best judge of it who know how often their countrymen have sworn faith to England, and how repeatedly they have broken their vow.” “I shall not stir the question,” said the minstrel, “leaving it to your worship to determine which has most falsehood—he who compels a weaker person to take an untrue oath, or he who, compelled by circumstances, takes it without a view of keeping his word.” “Nay, nay,” said De Valence, “let us keep our opinions, for we are not like to force each other from a faith which we have adopted on this subject. But take my advice, and while thou travellest under an English pennon, take heed that thou keepest off this conversation in the hall and kitchen, where perhaps the soldier may be less tolerant than the officer; and now, in a word, what is thy legend of this Castle Dangerous?” “For that,” replied Bertram, “methinks your worship is more likely to have a better edition than I, who have not been in this country for many years; but it is not for me to bandy opinions with your knightship. I will even proceed with the tale as I have heard it. I need not, I presume, inform your worship that the Lords of Douglas, who have founded their house and dwelt from all antiquity in this valley, are of an ancient and honourable descent. Nay, they have themselves boasted that their family is not to be seen or distinguished, like other great houses, until it is found at once in a certain degree of eminence. ‘You may see us in the tree,’ they say, ‘you cannot discover us in the twig; you may see us in the stream, you cannot trace us to the fountain.’ In a word, they deny that historians or genealogists can point out the first mean man of the family of Douglas; and certain it is, that so far back as we have known this people, they have always been renowned for valour and enterprise, and have never wanted the power by which that greatness can be made effectual.”

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“Enough,” said the knight, “I have heard of the pride and power of the great family, nor does it interest me in the least to deny or detract from the bold claims which they make to consideration in this respect.” “Well, then, you must have heard, noble sir,” replied the minstrel, “that James, the present heir of the house of Douglas, is not at present in possession of his inheritance?” “I should suppose not,” answered the English knight, “since he is known to have been a stout supporter of that outlawed traitor, William Wallace; and since, upon the first raising of the banner by this Robert Bruce, who pretends to be King of Scotland, this young springald, James Douglas, must needs start into rebellion again. He plunders his uncle, the Archbishop of St Andrews, of a considerable sum of money, to fill the Scottish King’s not over-burdened treasury, debauches the servants of his relation, takes arms, and, though chastised repeatedly in the field, yet still keeps his vaunt, and threatens mischief to those who defend the Castle of Douglas Dale in name of his rightful sovereign.” “It is your pleasure to say so,” replied Bertram; “yet I am sure, were you Scottish, you should with patience hear me tell over what has been said of this young man by those who have known him, and who show how the same tale can be told another way. These men talk of the heir of this ancient family as fully adequate to maintain and augment its reputation: a young man of high spirit, and ready to undergo whatever peril he may be called upon to meet in the cause of Robert the Bruce, esteemed by him his lawful king; and, seeing his prince and country assailed by the English, hath bent himself, with such small strength as he may get together, to revenge himself on those Southerns, who have, for several years, as he thinks unjustly, possessed themselves of his father’s abode.” “O,” replied Sir Aymer de Valence, “we have heard much of his achievements in this respect, and of his threats against our general and ourselves; yet we think it scarce likely that Sir John Walton will move from Douglas Dale without the King’s order, although this James Douglas, being a mere chicken, takes upon himself to crack his voice by crowing like a cock of the game.” “Sir,” answered Bertram, “our acquaintance is not great, and yet I feel it has been so beneficial to me, that I trust there is no harm in hoping that James Douglas and you may never meet in bodily presence till the state of the two countries shall admit of peace being between you.” “You are obliging, friend,” answered Sir Aymer, “and, I question not, sincere; and that thou hast a true and wholesome sense of the

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respect due to this young knight, when men talk of him in his native valley of Douglas. For me, I am only poor Aymer of Valence, without an acre of land, or much hope of acquiring any, unless I cut something with my broadsword out of the middle of these huge hills, like the Great Umphraville, who they say is now Earl of Angus-shire, somewhere in the North. Only this, good minstrel, if thou livest to tell my story, may I pray thee to use thy scrupulous custom of searching out the verity, and live or die thou shalt not, I think, discover that thy late acquaintance of a spring morning hath added more to the laurels of James of Douglas, than every man’s death must give to those by whose stronger arm, or more lucky chance, it is his lot to fall.” “I nothing fear you, Sir Knight,” said the minstrel, “for yours is that happy brain, which, bold in youth as beseems a young knight, is in more advanced life the happy source of the most prudent counsel, of which I would not wish thy country to be deprived by an untimely death.” “Thou art so candid, then, as to wish Old England the benefit of good advice,” said Sir Aymer, “though thou leanest to the side of Scotland in the controversy?” “Assuredly, Sir Knight,” said the minstrel, “since in wishing that England and Scotland each knew their own true interest, I am bound to wish them both alike well; and they should, I think, desire to live in friendship together. Occupying each their own portion of the same island, and living under the same laws, and peaceful between themselves, they might, without fear, face the enmity of all the rest of Europe.” “If thy faith be so liberal,” answered the knight, “as becomes a good man, thou must certainly pray, Sir Minstrel, for the success of England in the war, by which alone these murderous hostilities of the northern nation can be ended on the footing of a solid peace. The rebellions of this obstinate country are but the struggles of the stag when he is mortally wounded; the animal grows weaker and weaker with every struggle, till his resistance is effectually tamed by the hand of death.” “Not so, Sir Knight,” said the minstrel; “if my creed is well taught me, we ought not so to pray. We may, without offence, intimate the end which we would wish to obtain; but it is not for us, poor mortals, to point out in our prayers to an all-seeing Providence the precise manner in which our petitions are to be accomplished, or to wish the downfall of a country to end its commotions, as the death-stab terminates the agonies of the wounded stag. Whether I appeal to my heart or to my understanding, the dictate would be to petition Heaven for what is just and equal in the case; and if I should fear for thee, Sir Knight, in an encounter with James of

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Douglas, it is only because he upholds, as I conceive, the better side of the debate; and powers more than earthly have presaged to him success.” “Do you tell me so, Sir Minstrel,” said De Valence, in a threatening tone, “knowing me and my office!” “Your personal dignity and authority,” said Bertram, “cannot change the right into wrong, or avert what Providence has decreed to take place. You know, I must presume, that the Douglas hath, by various devices, already contrived to make himself master of this Castle of Douglas three several times, and that Sir John Walton, the present governor, holds the office with a garrison trebled in force, and under the assurance that if, without surprise, he should keep it from the Scottish power for a year and day, he shall obtain the barony of Douglas, with its extensive appendages, in free property for his reward; while, on the other hand, if he shall suffer the fortress during this space to be taken, either by guile or by open force, as has happened successively to the holders of the Dangerous Castle, he will become liable to dishonour as a knight, and to attainder as a subject; and the chiefs who take share with him, and serve under him, will share also in his guilt and his punishment?” “All this I know well,” said Sir Aymer; “and I only wonder that, having become public, the conditions have, nevertheless, been told with so much accuracy; but what has it to do with the issue of the combat, if the Douglas and I should chance to meet? I will not surely be disposed to fight with less animation because I wear my fortune upon my sword, or become coward because I fight for a portion of the Douglas’s estate, as well as for fame and for fatherland? And after all”—— “Hear me,” said the minstrel; “an ancient gleeman has said, that in a false quarrel there is no true valour, and the los or praise won therein, is, when balanced against honest fame, as valueless as a wreath formed out of copper, compared to a chaplet of pure gold; but I bid you not take myself for thy warrant in this important question. Thou hast heard how James of Thirlwall, the last commander on the part of England before Sir John Walton, was surprised, and the castle sacked with circumstances of great inhumanity.” “Truly,” said Sir Aymer, “I think that Scotland and England both have heard of that onslaught, and of the disgusting proceedings of the Scottish chieftain, when he caused transport into the wild forest gold, silver, ammunition, and armour, and all things that could be easily moved, and destroyed a large quantity of provisions, in a manner equally savage and unheard-of.” “Perhaps, Sir Knight,” said Bertram, “you were yourself an eyewit-

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ness of that transaction, which has been spoken of far and wide, and is called the Douglas Larder.” “I saw not the actual accomplishment of the deed,” said Valence; “that is, I witnessed it not a-doing, but I beheld enough of the sad relics to make the Douglas Larder a never to be forgotten record of horror and abomination. I would speak it truly, by the hand of my father and by my honour as a knight! and I will leave it to thee to judge whether it was a deed calculated to secure the smiles of Heaven in favour of the actors. This is my edition of the story:— “A large quantity of provisions had nearly two years since during the last months been collected from different points, and the Castle of Douglas, newly repaired, and, as was thought, carefully guarded, was appointed as the place where the said provisions were to be put in store for the service of the King of England, or of the Lord Clifford, whichever should first enter the Western Marches, and stand in need of such a supply. This army was also to relieve our wants, by which I mean those of my uncle the Earl of Pembroke, who then and for some time before had lain with a considerable force in the town called Ayr, near the old Caledonian Forest, and where we had hot wars with the insurgent Scots. Well, sir, it happened, as in similar cases, that Thirlwall, though a bold and active soldier, was surprised in the Castle of Douglas, about Hallowmass, by this same worthy, young James Douglas. In no very good humour was he, as you may suppose; for his father, called William the Hardy, or William Longlegs, having refused, on any terms, to become Anglocised, was made a lawful prisoner, and died as such, closely confined in Berwick, or, as some say, in Newcastle. This news of his father’s death had put young Douglas into no small rage, and tended, I think, to suggest what he did in his resentment. Being embarrassed by the quantity of provisions which, the English being superior in the country, he had neither the means to remove, nor still less the leisure to stay and consume at his ease, the fiend, as I think, inspired him with a contrivance to render them unfit for human use. You shall judge yourself whether it was likely to be suggested by a good or an evil spirit. “According to this device, the gold, silver, and other transportable commodities being carried to secret places of safety, Douglas caused the meat, the malt, and other corn or grain to be brought down into the castle cellar, where he emptied the contents of the sacks into one loathsome heap, striking out the heads of the barrels and puncheons, so as to let the mingled drink run through the heap of meal, grain, and so forth. The bullocks provided for slaughter were in like manner knocked on the head, and their blood suffered to drain forth into the mass of edible substances; and lastly, the quarters of the cattle were

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buried in the same mass, in which were also included the dead bodies of those in the castle, who, receiving no quarter from the Douglas, paid dear enough for having kept no better watch. This base and ungodly abuse of provisions intended for the use of man, together with throwing into the well of the castle carcasses of men and horses, and other filth for polluting the same, has since that time been called the D       L  .” “I pretend not, good Sir Aymer,” said the minstrel, “to vindicate what you justly reprove, nor can I conceive any mode of rendering provisions such as have been arranged after the form of the Douglas Larder, very proper for the use of any Christian; yet this young gentleman might perhaps act under the sting of natural resentment, rendering his singular exploit more excusable than it may seem at first. Think, if your own noble father were dead in a lingering captivity, his inheritance seized upon, and occupied as a garrison by a foreign enemy, would not these things stir you to a mode of resentment, which in cold blood, and judging of it as the action of an enemy, your honour might hold in natural and laudable abhorrence?—Would you pay respect to dead and senseless objects, which no one could blame your appropriating to your own use, or even scruple the refusal of quarter to prisoners, which is so often practised even in wars which are otherwise termed fair and humane?” “You press me close, minstrel,” said Aymer de Valence. “I at least have no great interest to excuse the Douglas in this matter: we—I mean I myself and the rest of my uncle’s host, laboured with Clifford and his army to rebuild this same Dangerous Castle; and feeling no stomach for the cheer that the Douglas had left us, we suffered hard commons, though I acknowledge we did not spare to adopt for our own use such sheep and oxen as the miserable Scottish had still left round their farm-houses; and I jest not, Sir Minstrel, when I acknowledge in sad earnest, that we martial men ought to make our petitions to Heaven for mercy with peculiar penitence, when we reflect on the various miseries which the nature of our profession compels us to inflict upon each other and on our fellow-creatures.” “It seems to me,” answered the minstrel, “that those who feel the stings of their own conscience should be more lenient when they speak of the offences of others; nor do I, I must say, upon recollection greatly rely on a sort of prophecy which was delivered, as the men of this hill district say, to the young Lord Douglas, by a man who in the course of nature should have been long since dead, promising him a course of success against the English in respect of his having sacrificed his own Castle of Douglas to prevent their making it a garrison.” “We have time enough for the story,” said Sir Aymer, “and

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methinks it would suit a knight and a minstrel better than the grave conversation we have hitherto had, which would have beseemed—so God save me—the mouths of two travelling friars.” “So be it,” said the minstrel; “the rote or the viol easily changes its time and varies its note.”

Chapter Five A tale of sorrow, for your eyes may weep; A tale of horror, for your flesh may tingle; A tale of wonder, for the eyebrows arch, And the flesh curdles, if you read it rightly. Old Play

“Y          must be informed, gentle Sir Aymer de Valence, that I have heard this story told at a great distance from the land in which it happened, by a sworn minstrel of the house of Douglas, one of the best, it is said, who ever belonged to that noble name. He was called Hugo Hugonet, had fought by the side of that young lord at that last storm which we have noticed, and been engaged in the massacre which then took place; for although a man of kind and merciful mood, so far as concerned the prisoners and the horses which were put to death, he was one who felt no compunction where his master’s house was concerned, and took the readiest road to revenge upon their enemies all such injuries as they had to complain of. “The castle was in total tumult, being still in the confusion which follows a storm; in one corner the war-men were busy breaking up and destroying provisions; in another, they were slaying men, horses, and cattle, and these actions were accompanied with appropriate sounds. The cattle, particularly, had become sensible of their fate, and with awkward resistance and piteous cries, testified that reluctance with which these poor creatures look instinctively on a shambles. The groans and screams of men, undergoing, or about to undergo, the pang of death, and the screeches of the poor horses which were in mortal agony, formed a fearful chorus. Hugonet was desirous to remove himself from such unpleasant sights and sounds; but his master, the Douglas, had been a man of some reading, and his old servant was anxious to secure a book of poetry, to which he had been attached of old. This contained the Lays of an ancient Scottish Bard, who, if an ordinary human creature while he was in this life, cannot now perhaps be exactly termed so. “He was, in short, that Thomas, distinguished by the name of the Rhymer, and whose intimacy, it is said, became so great with the gifted people, called the Faëry folk, that he could, like them, foretell the

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future deed before its arrival upon this world, and united in his own person the quality of bard and of soothsayer. But of late years he had vanished almost entirely from this mortal scene; and although the time and manner of his death were never publicly known, yet the general belief was, that he was not severed from the land of the living, but removed to the land of Faëry, from whence he sometimes made excursions, and concerned himself only about matters which were to come hereafter. Hugonet was the more earnest to prevent the loss of this ancient bard’s works, that they were supposed to contain much of a metrical nature particularly connected with the old house of Douglas, and other chiefs of ancient race, who had been subjects of the old man’s prophecy; and accordingly he determined to save this volume from destruction in the general conflagration to which the building was about to be consigned by the heir of its ancient proprietors. With this view he hurried up into the little old vaulted room, called ‘the Douglas’s study,’ where there might be some dozen old books written by the ancient chaplains, in what the minstrels call the letter black. He immediately discovered the celebrated lay, called Sir Tristrem, which has been so often altered and abridged as to bear little resemblance to the original. Hugonet, who well knew the value in which this poem was held by the ancient lords of the castle, took the parchment volume from the shelves of the library, and laid it upon a small desk adjacent to the Baron’s chair. Having made such preparation for putting it in safety, he naturally fell into a fit of reverie, in which the decay of light, and the preparations for the Douglas Larder, but especially the last sight of things which had been familiar to his eyes, engaged him in the very moment of their destruction. “The bard, therefore, was thinking within himself upon the uncommon character of the mixture of the scholar and mystic and warrior in his old master, when, as he bent his eyes upon the book of the ancient Rhymer, he was astonished to observe it lifted from the desk on which it lay, and plainly displaced and moved, as it were by an invisible hand. The old man looked with horror at this spontaneous motion of the book, for the safety of which he was interested, and had the courage to approach a little nearer the table, in order to discover by what means it had been withdrawn. “I have said the room was already becoming dark, so as to render the contents of the chair difficult to be distinguished, though it now appeared, on closer examination, that a kind of shadowy outline of a human form was seated in it, but neither precise enough to convey its exact figure to Hugonet, nor so detailed as to intimate accurately its mode of motion. The Bard of Douglas, therefore, gazed upon the object of his fear, as if he had looked upon something that was not

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mortal; nevertheless, as he gazed more intently, he became more capable of discovering the object which offered itself to his eyes, which grew by degrees more keen to penetrate what they witnessed. A tall thin form, attired in, or rather shaded with, a long flowing dusky robe, having a face and physiognomy so wild and overgrown with hair as to be hardly human, were the only marked outlines of the phantom before him; and, looking more attentively, Hugonet was still sensible of two other forms, the outlines, it seemed, of a hart and a hind, which appeared half to shelter themselves under the robe of this supernatural person.” “A probable tale,” said the knight, “for you, Sir Minstrel, a man of sense as you seem to be, to recite gravely! From what wise authority have you had this tale, which, though it might be placed well enough amid clanging beakers, must be held quite apocryphal in the sober hours of the morning?” “By my minstrel word, Sir Knight,” answered Bertram, “I am no propagator of the fable, if it be one; Hugonet, the violer, communicated the story to me when he had retired into a cloister near the Lake of Pembelmere in Wales, where I heard the tale from him as I tell it to you. Thus, as it was upon the authority of an eyewitness, I need not, I flatter myself, apologize for again communicating it to you, since I could hardly discover a more direct source of knowledge.” “Be it so, Sir Minstrel,” said the knight; “tell on thy tale, and may thy legend escape criticism from others as well as from me.” “Hugonet, Sir Knight,” answered Bertram, “was a holy man, and had lived respectably his whole life, notwithstanding his trade may be esteemed a light one. The vision spoke to him in an antique language, like that formerly used in the kingdom of Strath-Clyde, being a species of Scottish or Gaelic, which few would have comprehended.” “ ‘You are a learned man,’ said the apparition, ‘and not unacquainted with the dialects used in your country formerly, although they are now out of date, and you are obliged to translate them into the vulgar Saxon of Deira or Northumberland; but highly must an ancient British bard prize one in this “remote term of time,” who sets upon the poetry of his native country a value which invites him to think of its preservation at a moment of such terror as influences the present evening.’ “ ‘It is, indeed,’ said Hugonet, ‘a night of terror, that calls even the dead from the grave, and makes them the ghastly and fearful companions of the living—Who or what art thou, in God’s name, who breakest the bounds which divide the dead from the living, and enterest so strangely limits which are accessible to them both?’ “ ‘I am,’ replied the vision, ‘that celebrated Thomas the Rhymer, by

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some called Thomas of Erceldoun, or Thomas the True Speaker, or finally Thomas Learmonth from the name of my family. Like other sages, I am permitted at times to revisit the scenes of my former life, nor am I incapable of removing the shadows, clouds, and darkness which overhang futurity; and know, thou afflicted man, that what thou now seest in this woful country, is not a general emblem of what shall therein befall hereafter, but in proportion as the Douglasses are now suffering the loss and destruction of their home, for the sake of the rightful heir of the Scottish kingdom, so hath Heaven appointed for them a just reward; and as they have not spared to burn and destroy their own house and that of their fathers, so is it the doom of Heaven, that as often as Douglas Castle shall be burnt to the ground by the heir himself in behalf of the freedom of Scotland, so often shall it be again rebuilt still more stately and more magnificent than the family have been before able to accomplish, and by the truth of this my present saying, O Hugo Hugonet, shalt thou know how to establish the truth of the Rhymer’s words, and the perpetuity which has been doomed to the Dangerous Castle.’ “A cry was heard like that of a multitude in the court-yard, joining in a fierce shout of exultation; at the same time a broad and ruddy glow seemed to catch the beams and rafters, and sparkles flew from them as from the smith’s stithy, while the element caught to its fuel, and the conflagration broke its way through every aperture. “ ‘See ye that,’ said the vision, casting his eye towards the windows, and disappearing while in the act of doing so—‘Begone! The fated hour of removing this book is not yet come, nor are thine the destined hands. But it will be safe where I have placed it, and the time of its removal shall come.’ The voice was heard after the form had entirely vanished, and the brain of Hugonet almost turned round at the wild scene which he saw; his utmost exertion was scarce sufficient to withdraw him from the terrible spot, and Douglas Castle that night sunk into ashes and smoke, to arise, in no great length of time, in a form stronger than ever.” The minstrel stopt, and his hearer remained silent for some minutes, ere at length he replied. “It is true, minstrel,” answered Sir Aymer, “that your tale is so far undeniable, that this castle—three times burned down by the heir of the house and of the barony—has hitherto been reared again as often by Henry Lord Clifford, and by other generals of the English, who endeavoured on every occasion to build it up more artificially and more strongly than it had existed formerly, since it occupies a place so important to the safety of our Scottish borders. This I myself have partly witnessed. But that I should therefore think, that because the castle has been so destroyed or doomed, it is so to be repaired—it is, I

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think, dubious, considering that cruelties which surely cannot meet the approbation of Heaven have attended the feats of the Douglasses. But I see thou art determined to keep thine own faith, nor can I blame thee, since the wonderful turns of fate which have attended this fortress, are sufficient to warrant any one to watch for what seems the peculiar indication of the will of Heaven; but thou mayest believe, good minstrel, that the fault shall not be mine, if the young Douglas shall have opportunity to exercise his cookery upon a second edition of his family larder, or to profit by the predictions of Thomas the Rhymer.” “I do not doubt due circumspection upon your own part and Sir John Walton’s,” said Bertram: “but there is no crime in my saying that Heaven can accomplish its purposes as it will; and I confess I look upon Douglas Castle as in some degree a fated place, and I long to see what changes time has made in it during the currency of at least twenty years. Above all, I desire to secure, if possible, the volume of this Thomas of Erceldoun, having in it such a fund of forgotten minstrelsy, and of prophecies respecting the future fates of the British kingdom, both northern and southern.” The knight made no answer, but rode a little space forwards, keeping the upper part of the ridge of the water, by which the road down the vale seemed to be rather sharply conducted. It at length attained the summit of an acclivity of considerable length. From this point, and behind a conspicuous wood, which was partly drawn aside, as it were, like the scene of a theatre, to admit the under part of the valley, the travellers beheld the extensive vale, parts of which were originally shown in detail, but which, as the river flowed more northerly, was now entirely laid bare in its heighth and depth as far as it extended, and displayed in its precincts, at a little distance from the course of the stream, the town and lordly castle to which it gave the name. The mists, which overhung the buildings of both, continued for some time to encumber the valley with its fleecy clouds, showing imperfectly the rude fortifications which served to defend the small town of Douglas, which was strong enough to repel a desultory attack, but not to withstand what was called in those days a formal siege. The most striking feature was its church, an ancient Gothic pile, even then extremely ruinous, raised on an eminence in the centre of the town. To the left, and lying in the distance, might be seen other towers and battlements; and, divided from the town by a piece of artificial water, which extended almost around it, arose the Dangerous Castle of Douglas. Sternly was it fortified, after the fashion of the middle ages, with donjon and battlement, and the tall tower which bore the name of Lord Clifford’s Tower, or, as it was termed, the Clifford’s. This

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tower, with added battlements, or defences, bore witness to the truth of Sir Aymer de Valence, who affirmed, that such augmentations had been made to the fortifications since the first surprise of the fortress by the young heir of Douglas. “That is the castle of Douglas,” said Aymer de Valence, pointing his arm, with a smile of triumph upon his brow; “thou mayest judge thyself, whether the defences added to it under the Clifford are like to render its next capture a more easy deed than the last.” The minstrel barely shook his head, and quoted a verse from the Psalmist—“Nisi Dominus custodiet.” Nor did he prosecute the discourse, though De Valence answered eagerly, “My own edition of the text is not very different from that which you are willing to assert— more than can always be predicated of a wandering minstrel.” “God knows,” said Bertram, “that if I, or such as I, are forgetful of the finger of Providence in accomplishing the chances of this world, we have heavier blame than that of other people, since we are perpetually called upon, even in the exercise of our fanciful profession, to admire the turns of fate which bring good out of evil, and render those who think only of their own passions and purposes the executors of the will of Heaven.” “I do submit to what you say, Sir Minstrel,” answered the knight, “and it would be unlawful to express any doubt of the truths which you speak so solemnly, any more than of your own belief in them. Let me add, sir, that I think I have power enough in this garrison to bid you welcome to it, and Sir John Walton will not, I am sure, contradict me in so slight a matter, as to receive a person of your profession, who, in general, have free access to hall, castle, or knight’s bower; and by whose conversation we shall, perhaps, profit somewhat in wisdom and honest learning.” The minstrel gladly saw his acquaintance with the young knight terminate in an invitation to the castle which he wished to see; an offer which, however, Sir Aymer immediately clogged by an exception—“I dare not include your son in the invitation, considering the present state of his health; but if I grant him the privilege to remain at the convent of Saint Bride, he will be permitted to stay there unmolested and in safety, until you have renewed your acquaintance with Douglas Dale and its history, and are disposed to set forward on your journey.” “I embrace your honour’s proposal the more willingly,” said the minstrel, “that I can recompense the Father Abbot for his charity.” “A main point with holy men or women,” replied De Valence, “who, in time of warfare, subsist themselves by affording the visitors of their shrine the means of maintenance in their cloisters.” The party now approached the sentinels on guard at the castle, who

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were close and thickly stationed on the outside, and who respectfully admitted Sir Aymer de Valence, as next in command under Sir John Walton. Fabian—for so was the young squire named who attended on De Valence—mentioned it as his master’s pleasure that the minstrel should also be admitted. An old archer, however, looked hard at the minstrel as he followed Sir Aymer. “It is not for us,” said he, “or any of our degree, to oppose the pleasure of Sir Aymer de Valence, nephew to the Earl of Pembroke, in such a matter; and for us, Master Fabian, welcome are you to make the gleeman your companion both at bed and board, as well as your visitant, a week or two at the Castle of Douglas; but your worship is well aware of the strict order of watch laid upon us, and if Solomon, King of Israel, was coming here as a travelling minstrel, by my faith I durst not give him entrance, unless I had positive authority from Sir John Walton.” “Do you doubt, sirrah,” said Sir Aymer de Valence, who returned on hearing an altercation betwixt Fabian and the archer—“do you doubt that I have good authority to entertain a guest, or do you presume to contest it?” “Heaven forbid!” said the old man, “that I should presume to place my own desire in opposition to your worship’s, who has so lately and so honourably acquired your spurs; but in this matter I must think what will be the wish of Sir John Walton, who is your governor, Sir Knight, as well as my own; and so far I hold it worth while to detain your guest until Sir John returns from a ride to the outposts of the castle; and this, I conceive, being my duty, will be no point of offence to your worship.” “Methinks,” said the knight, “it is saucy in thee to suppose that my commands can have any thing in them improper, or contradictory to those of Sir John Walton; thou mayest trust to me at least that thou shalt come to no harm. Keep this man in the guard-room; let him not want food and necessaries, and when Sir John Walton comes in, report him as a person who has been admitted according to my invitation, and if any thing more be wanted to make out your excuse, I shall not be reluctant in stating it to the governor.” The archer made a signal of obedience with the pike which he held in his hand. He ushered in the minstrel, and furnished him with food and liquor, speaking at the same time to Fabian, who remained behind. The smart young stripling had become very proud of late, in consequence of obtaining the name of Sir Aymer’s squire, and advancing to a step of chivalry, as Sir Aymer himself had, somewhat earlier than the usual period, been advanced from squire to knight. “I tell thee, Fabian,” said the old archer, (whose gravity, sagacity,

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and skill in his vocation, gained him the good will of all in the castle, as he himself said, for sense and discipline, together with the ridicule and dislike of young coxcombs; but these grave qualities certainly rendered him besides somewhat pragmatic and punctilious towards those who stood higher in birth and rank than himself;) “I tell thee, Fabian, thou wilt do thy master, Sir Aymer, good service, if thou wilt give him a hint to suffer an old archer, man-at-arms, or such like, to give him a fair and civil answer respecting that which he commands to have done; for undoubtedly it is not in the first score of a man’s years that he learns the various etiquettes proper to military service; and Sir John Walton, a most excellent commander no doubt, is one earnestly bent on pursuing the strict line of his duty, and will be rigorously severe, as well, believe me, with thy master as with a lesser person. Nay, he also possesses that zeal for his duty which induces him to throw especial blame, if there be the slightest ground for it, upon Aymer de Valence himself, although his uncle, the Earl of Pembroke, was Sir John Walton’s steady patron, and laid the beginning of his good fortune and luck in life; for to train up his nephew in the true discipline of the French wars, which he has so completely attained, Sir John has accounted the best way of shewing himself grateful to the old Earl.” “Be it as you will, old Gilbert Greenleaf,” answered the boy, “thou knowest I never quarrel with thy sermonizing, and therefore give me credit for submitting to many a lecture from Sir John Walton and thyself; but thou drivest this a little too far, if thou canst not let a day pass without giving me a flogging. Credit me, Sir John will not thank thee, if thou term him one too old to remember that he himself hath had in his time some green sap within his veins. Ay, thus it is, the old man will not forget that he has once been young, nor the young that he must once be old; and so the one changes his manners into the lingering formality of advanced age, and the other remains like a midsummer torrent swelled with rain, every drop of water in it noise, froth, and overflow. There is a maxim for thee, Gilbert!—Heardest thou ever better? hang it up amidst thy axioms of wisdom, and see if it will not pass among them like fifteen to the dozen. It will serve to bring thee off, man, when the wine-pot (thine only fault, good Gilbert) hath brought thee on occasion into something of a scrape.” “Best keep it for thyself, good Sir Squire,” said the old man; “methinks it is the more tempting opportunity for thy own transgressions. Who ever heard of a knight, or of the wood of which a knight is made, and that is a squire, being punished corporally like a poor old archer or horseboy? Your worst fault will be mended by some of these witty sayings that will plead your apology, and your best service will

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scarce be rewarded more thankfully than by giving thee the title of Fabian the Fabler, or some such witty name.” Having unloosed his repartee to this extent, old Greenleaf resumed a certain acidity of countenance, which may be said to characterise those whose preferment hath become frozen under the influence of the slowness of its progress, and who display a sort of general spleen against such as have obtained the advancement for which all are struggling, earlier, and, as they suppose, with less merit than their own. From time to time his eye stole from the top of his pike, and with an air of triumph sought the young man Fabian, as if to see how deeply the wound had galled him, while at the same time he held himself in attendance, prompt to show his extreme readiness in performing whatever mechanical duty his post might require, with a degree of accuracy which should serve to show how very well acquainted he was with the duty of a sentinel. Both Fabian and his master were at the happy period of life when such discontent as that of the grave archer affected them lightly, and, at the very worst, was considered as the jest of an old man and a good soldier; the more especially, as he was always willing to do the duty of his companions, and was trusted by Sir John Walton, who, though much younger, had been bred up like Greenleaf in the wars of Edward the First, and was tenacious concerning the punctualities of discipline, which, since the death of that great monarch, had been considerably neglected by the young and warmblooded valour of England. Unluckily it occurred to Sir Aymer de Valence, that in displaying the usual degree of hospitality shown to such a man as Bertram, he would merely do what was becoming his own rank, and vindicating his right to do so, as one possessed of the highest honours of chivalry. The minstrel might in reality be, or he might not be, a man of that worth of which he assumed the show. There was certainly something about him that might be termed remarkable, at least more grave, if not more austere, than was common with those of his calling; and when he recollected many points of Sir John Walton’s minuteness, a doubt arose in his mind, that the governor might not approve of his having introduced into the castle a person of Bertram’s character, who was capable of making observations from which the garrison might afterwards feel much danger and inconvenience. Secretly, therefore, he regretted that he had not fairly intimated to the wandering minstrel, that his reception within the Dangerous Castle, or that of any stranger, was not at present permitted by the circumstances of the times. In this case, the express rules of his post would have been his vindication, and he would have had praise and honour from his superior, instead of perhaps meeting discountenance and blame.

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With these thoughts running in his mind, some tacit apprehension of a rebuke on the part of his commanding-officer arose. For this officer, notwithstanding his strictness, Sir Aymer loved as well as feared. He went, therefore, towards the guard-room of the castle, under pretence of seeing the rites of hospitality had been duly observed towards his late travelling companion. The minstrel arose respectfully, and from the manner in which he paid his compliments, seemed, if he had not expected this call of enquiry, at least to be in no degree surprised at it. Sir Aymer, on the other hand, assumed an air something more distant than he had yet used towards Bertram, and in returning to his former invitation, he now so far qualified it as to say, that the minstrel knew that he was only second in command, and that his invitation to the castle should be sanctioned by Sir John Walton to be effectual. There is a civil way of seeming to believe any apology which people are disposed to accredit and receive in payment, without alleging suspicion of its currency. The minstrel, therefore, tendered his thanks for the civility which had so far been shown to him. “It was a mere wish of passing curiosity,” he said, “which, if not granted, could be attended with no consequences either inconvenient or disagreeable to him. Thomas of Ercildoun was, according to the Welsh triads, one of the three bards of Britain, who never stained his spear with blood, or was guilty either of taking or retaking castles and fortresses, and thus far not a person likely, after death, to be suspected of such warlike feats. But he could easily conceive why Sir John Walton should have allowed the usual rites of hospitality to fall into disuse, and declared that a man of public character at least should not desire to receive meat or lodging where it was accounted so dangerous, and he was not even surprised that he did not invest his worthy young lieutenant with the power of dispensing with so strict and unusual a rule.” These words, very coolly spoken, had something of the effect of affronting the young knight, as if he were not judged sufficiently trustworthy, or thought so prudent that faith should be reposed in him, by Sir John Walton, with whom he had lived on terms of intimate affection and familiarity, though the governor had attained his thirtieth year and upwards, and his lieutenant did not yet write himself oneand-twenty, the full age of chivalry being in his case particularly dispensed with, owing to a feat of early manhood. Ere he had fully composed the angry thoughts which were chafing in his mind, the sound of a hunting-bugle was heard at the gate, and from the sort of general alarm which it spread through the garrison, it was plain that the governor had returned from his ride in the neighbourhood. Every sentinel seemed animated by his presence, shouldered his pike more

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uprightly, gave the word of the post more sudden, more sharp, and in a more business-like manner, and seemed inspired, as fully awake and more conscious of his duty. Sir John Walton having alighted from his horse, asked Greenleaf what had passed during his absence; the old archer thought it his duty to say, that a minstrel, who seemed like a Scotchman, or wandering borderer, had been admitted into the castle, while his son, a lad sick of the pestilence so much talked of, had been left for a time at the Abbey of Saint Bride’s. This he said on Fabian’s information. The archer added, that the father was a man of tale and song, who could keep the whole garrison amused, without giving them leave to attend to their own business. “We want no such devices to pass the time in this castle of ours,” answered the governor; “and we would have been better satisfied if our lieutenant had been pleased to find us other guests, and fitter for a direct and frank communication, than one who, by his profession, is a detractor of God and a deceiver of man.” “Yet,” said the old soldier, who could hardly listen even to his commander without indulging a humour of contradiction, “I have heard your honour intimate that the trade of a minstrel, when it is justly acted up to, is as worthy as even the degree of knighthood itself.” “Such it may have been in former days,” answered the knight; “but in modern minstrelsy, the duty of rendering his art an incentive to virtue is forgotten, and it is well if the poetry which fired our fathers to noble deeds, does not now push on their children to such as are base and unworthy. But I will speak upon this to my friend Aymer, than whom I do not know a more excellent, or more high-spirited young man; and I desire that all persons, as they bear respect to their own safety, will leave me the opportunity of communicating with Sir Aymer in person, and not venture to inform him that I have taken the least displeasure at him for exerting his own judgment, where his office certainly permitted him the privilege of personal judgment, although, perhaps, he might as well have taken the counsel of one whom he has never had reason to term other than a most sincere friend. I know no more certain way of breeding dissensions between the best men, than when an officious go-between presumes to tell the one what the other might think or say respecting him in a hurry, or without a full explanation.” While discoursing with the archer in this manner, Sir John Walton, of a tall and handsome figure, advanced and stood within the ample arch of the guard-room chimney, and was listened to in reverential silence by Gilbert, who filled up with nods and signs, as an attentive auditor, the pauses in the conversation. The conduct of another hearer of what passed was not equally respectful towards the speaker, but, as

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he was not seen, he escaped the governor’s criticism. This third person who heard Sir John Walton’s observations on the minstrel’s being chosen as a companion by Sir Aymer de Valence, was no other than the squire Fabian, who being very much attached to the young knight, was proportionally displeased with the insinuations or suspicions, which, to him, appeared directly false, and so easily capable of confutation. He was concealed from observation by his position behind the hob, or projecting portion of the old-fashioned grate, and hid himself yet more studiously when he heard the conversation between the governor and the archer turn to the prejudice, as he thought, of his master. The squire’s employment at this time, was the servile task of cleaning Sir Aymer’s arms, which was conveniently performed by heating, upon the projection already specified, the pieces of steel armour for the usual thin coating of varnish. He could not, therefore, if he should be discovered, be considered as guilty of any thing insolent or disrespectful. Meantime a quantity of fresh wood, oak panelling being the fuel which lay nearest at hand, carved in many cases with the crest and achievements of the Douglas family, lay smouldering and gathering to a blaze. Such a sight many of my readers may have seen in a French or Gascoigne chateau, though there is no harm in hoping that in future such scenes of destruction will be considerably more rare. The governor, unconscious of this addition to his audience, pursued his conversation with Gilbert Greenleaf: “I need not tell you,” he said, “that I am interested in the speedy termination of this siege or blockade, with which Douglas continues to threaten us; my own honour, my affections, are engaged in keeping this Perilous Castle safe in England’s behalf; and young De Valence, if strictly kept to his duty, may act as laudably in the defence of this place upon a bulwark or bartizan, or in some onslaught upon the barricades, as he could in a pitched field, were it Cressy itself. But I can conceive that a fiery youth like my friend seems turning weary of watching for preferment, though he expects it by the nearest road.” “Pity it is,” replied old Greenleaf, shaking his head, “that this goodnatured and gallant young knight is somewhat drawn aside by the rash advices of his squire, the boy Fabian, who has bravery, but as little steadiness in him as a bottle full of fermenting small beer.” “Marry! hang thee,” thought Fabian to himself, “for an old relic of the wars, stuffed full of conceit and warlike terms, like a soldier who, to keep himself from the cold, has lapped himself so close in a tattered ensign for a shelter, that his very outside may show nothing but rags and blazonry.” “I would not think twice of the matter, were the party less dear to

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me,” said Sir John Walton. “But I would fain be of use to this young man, even although I should purchase his improvement in military knowledge at the expense of giving him a little pain. Experience should, as it were, be burnt in upon the mind of a young man, and not merely imposed by marking the lines of this chart out for him with chalk; I will remember the hint you have given, and take an opportunity of severing these two young men; and though I most dearly love the one, and am far from wishing ill to the other, yet at present, as you well hint, Greenleaf, the blind is leading the blind, and the young knight has for his assistant and counsellor too young a squire, and that must be amended.” “Marry! out upon thee, old palmer worm!” said the squire within himself; “have I found thee in the very fact of maligning myself and my master, as it is thy nature to do all the hopeful young buds of chivalry? If it was not to dirty the arms of an elève of chivalry, by measuring them with one of thy rank, I might honour thee with a knightly invitation to the field, while the scandal which thou hast spoken was still foul upon thy tongue; as it is, thou shalt not carry one packet of language publicly in the castle, and open a private one before the governor, upon the footing of having served with him under the banner of Edward the first. I will carry this tale to my master, for whose misfortune and disgrace the plot is intended; and when we have concerted together, it shall appear whether the youthful spirits of the garrison or the grey beards are most effectually like to be the hope and protection of Castle Dangerous.” It is enough to say that Fabian pursued his purpose, and by carrying to his master, in no very good humour at any rate, the report of what had passed between Sir John Walton and the old soldier, he easily accomplished representing the whole communication as a formal offence intended to Sir Aymer de Valence; while all that the governor did to remove the suspicions entertained by the young knight, could not in any respect bring him to take a kindly view of the feelings of his commander towards him. He always retained the impression which he had formed from Fabian’s recital of what he had heard, and did not deem he was doing Sir John Walton any injustice, in supposing him desirous to engross the greatest share of the fame acquired in the defence of the castle, and thrusting back his companions, who might reasonably pretend to a fair share of it. The mother of mischief, says a Scottish proverb, is no bigger than a midge’s wing.* In this matter of quarrel, neither the young man nor the older knight had afforded the other any just cause of offence. Walton was a strict observer of military discipline, in which he had * i. e. Gnat’s wing.

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been educated from his extreme youth, and which had formed to him, by constant use, a second nature, by which he was almost as completely ruled as by his natural disposition; and his present situation added force to his original education. Common report had even exaggerated the military skill, the love of adventure, and the great variety of enterprise, ascribed to James, the young Lord Douglas. He had, in the eyes of the Southern garrison, the faculties of a fiend, rather than those of a mere mortal; for if an English soldier was cursing the tedium of the perpetual watch and ward upon the Dangerous Castle, which admitted of no relaxation from the severity of extreme duty, a tall form was sure to appear to them with a battle-axe in his hand, and entering into conversation with them in the most insinuating manner, never failed, with ingenuity and eloquence equal to that of a fallen spirit, to recommend to the discontented soldier some mode in which he might set himself at liberty, by giving his assistance to betray the English garrison. The variety of these devices, and the frequency of their recurrence, kept Sir John Walton’s anxiety (which we have mentioned as excessive) so perpetually upon the stretch, that he at no time thought himself exactly out of the Black Douglas’s reach, any more than the good Christian supposes himself out of reach of the wiles of the Devil; while every new temptation, instead of confirming his hope, seems to announce that an immediate retreat of the Evil One will be followed by a new attack yet more cunningly devised. Under this general state of anxiety and apprehension, the temper of the governor changed somewhat for the worse, and they who loved him best, regretted most that he became addicted to complaining of the want of diligence on the part of those, who did not entertain the same degree of suspicion as himself, and who could not partake in the same reward, and were therefore more indifferent in the acquisition of it. The soldiers muttered that the vigilance of their governor was marked with severity; the officers and men of rank, of whom there were several, as the castle was a renowned school of arms, and there was a certain merit attained even by having been within its walls, complained that Sir John Walton no longer made parties for hunting, for hawking, or for any purpose which might soften the rigours of warfare, and suffered nothing to go forwards but the precise discipline of the castle. On the other hand, it may be usually granted, that the castle is well kept where the governor is a disciplinarian; and where feuds and personal quarrels are found in the garrison, the young men are usually more in fault than those whose greater experience has convinced them of the necessity of using the strictest precautions. The reader, therefore, has only to suppose a noble heart like that of Sir John Walton, suffering a little under the influence of

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continued and anxious suspicion, and he will have the idea of a character which a virtue that properly belongs to the wars, when carried to an extravagant degree, has often the effect of creating. A generous mind is thus changed and corrupted by the habit of over-vigilance, and pushed beyond its natural limits of candour. Neither was Sir Aymer de Valence free from a similar change; suspicion, though from a different cause, seemed also to threaten to bias his open and noble disposition, in those qualities which had hitherto been proper to him. It was in vain that Sir John Walton studiously sought opportunities to give his younger friend indulgences, which at times were as fully extended as the duty of the garrison permitted. The blow was struck; the alarm was given to a proud and fiery temper on both sides; and while De Valence entertained an opinion that he was unjustly suspected by a friend, who was in several respects bound to him, Walton was led to conceive that a young man, of whom he took a charge as affectionate as if he had been a son of his own, and who owed to his lessons what he knew of warfare and what success he had obtained in life, had taken offence at trifles and considered himself ill treated on very inadequate grounds. Thus the seeds of disagreement were sown between them, and they failed not, like the tares sown by the enemy among the wheat, to pass from one class of the garrison to another; the soldiers, though without any better reason than merely to pass the time, took part, in their debates, between Sir John Walton and his young lieutenant; and so the ball of contention being once thrown up between them, never lacked some arm or other to keep it aloft.

Chapter Six Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny, and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain. * * * * * * Each spoke words of high disdain, And insult to his heart’s dear brother, But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining— They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been. Christabelle of C        

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I             of the intention which seemed wisest to him when his blood was cold, Sir John Walton resolved that he would go to the verge of indulgence with his lieutenant and his young officers, furnish them with every species of amusement which the place rendered possible, and make them ashamed of their discontent, by overloading them with courtesy. The first time, therefore, that he saw Aymer de Valence after their return to Castle Douglas, he addressed him in high spirits, whether real or assumed. “What thinkest thou, my young friend,” said he, “if we try some of the woodland sports proper, they say, to this country? There are still in our neighbourhood some herds of the Caledonian breed of wild cattle, which are nowhere to be found except among the moorlands, or upon the frontier of what was anciently called the Kingdom of StrathClyde. There are some hunters, too, who have been accustomed to the sport, and who vouch that these animals are by far the most bold and fierce subject of chase in the island of Britain.” “You will do as you please,” replied Sir Aymer, coldly; “but it is not I, Sir John, who would recommend, for the sake of a hunting-match, that you should involve the whole garrison in danger; you know best the responsibilties incurred by your office here, and no doubt must have heedfully attended to them before making a proposal of such a nature.” “I do indeed know my own duty,” returned Walton, “and might be allowed to think of yours also, without assuming more than my own share of responsibility; but it seems to me as if the commander of this Dangerous Castle, among his inabilities, was subjected to a spell which, as old people say in this country, renders it impossible for him so to guide his conduct as to afford pleasure to those whom he feels the greatest desire to oblige. Not a great many weeks since, whose eyes would have sparkled like those of Sir Aymer de Valence at the proposal of a general hunting-match after a new object of game; and now what is his bearing when such sport is proposed, merely, I think, to disappoint my purpose of obliging him?—a cold acquiescence drops half frozen from his lips, and he proposes to go to rouse the wild cattle with an air of gravity, as if he were undertaking a pilgrimage to the tomb of a martyr.” “Not so, Sir John,” answered the young knight. “In our present situation we stand conjoined in more charges than one, and although the deeper and controlling trust is no doubt laid upon you as the older and abler knight, yet still I feel that I myself have my own share of responsibility, and that a serious one. I trust, therefore, you will indulgently hear me deliver my opinion, and bear with it, even though it should appear to have relation to that part of our common charge

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which is more especially intrusted to your keeping. The dignity of knighthood which I have the honour to share with you, and no less the accolade laid on my shoulder by the royal Plantagenet, entitles me, methinks, to so much grace.” “I cry you mercy,” said the elder knight; “I forgot how important a person I had before me, dubbed by King Edward himself, who was moved no doubt by special reasons, considering his youth, to confer such an honour; and I certainly feel that I outstep my duty when I propose any thing that savours like idle sport to a person of such grave countenance and manners.” “Sir John,” retorted De Valence, “we have had something too much of this—let it stop here. All that I mean to say is, that in this wardship of Douglas Castle, it will not be by my consent, or at least without frankly speaking my mind, that any amusement, which distinctly infers a relaxation of discipline, is unnecessarily engaged in, and especially such as compels us to summon to our assistance a number of the Scots, whose evil disposition towards us we well know; nor will I, though my years have rendered me liable to such suspicion, suffer any thing of this kind to be imputed to me; and if unfortunately —though I am sure I know not why—we are in future to lay aside those bonds of familiar friendship which tied us to each other, yet I see no reason why we should not bear ourselves in our necessary intercourse like knights and gentlemen, and put the best construction on each other’s motives, since there can be no reason in imputing the worst to any thing that comes from either of us.” “You may be right, Sir Aymer de Valence,” said the governor, bending stiffly; “and since you say we are no longer bound to each other as friends, you may be certain, nevertheless, that I will never permit a hostile feeling to occupy my bosom, of which you are the object. You have been long, and I hope not uselessly, my pupil in the duties of chivalry, and have profited perhaps by the lessons which I have endeavoured to teach. You are the near relation of the Earl of Pembroke, my kind and constant patron, and if these circumstances are well weighed, they form a mutual connexion which it would be difficult, at least for me, to break through. If you feel yourself, as you seem to intimate, less strictly tied by the obligations which have subsisted between us, you must take your own choice in fixing our relations toward each other.” “I can only say,” replied De Valence, “that my conduct will naturally be regulated by your own; and that you, Sir John, cannot hope more devoutly than I do, that our military duties may be fairly discharged, without interfering with our friendly intercourse.” The knights here parted, after a conference which once or twice

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had very nearly terminated in a full and cordial explanation; but still there was wanting one kind heartfelt word from the one or the other, to break, as it were, the ice which was fast freezing upon their intercourse, and neither chose to be the first in making their advance with the necessary cordiality, though either would have gladly met the approach to perfect reconciliation, had the other made the move; but their pride was too high, and prevented each of them from saying a single frank or yielding word which might at once have put them upon an open and manly footing. They parted, therefore, without again returning to the subject of the proposed diversion; until it was afterwards resumed in a formal note, praying Sir Aymer de Valence to accompany the commandant of Douglas Castle upon a solemn hunting-match, which had for its object the wild cattle of the Douglas Dale. The time of meeting was appointed at six in the morning, beyond the gate of the outer barricade; and the chase was declared to be ended at an hour earlier in the evening, when the recheat was to be blown beneath the great oak, which was known to all the inhabitants of the castle and neighbourhood by the name of Sholto’s Club, and stood a remarkable object, where Douglas Dale, meaning the fertile district properly so called, was bounded by several scattered trees, the outskirts of the forest and hill country. The usual warning was sent out to the common people, or vassals of the district, which they received in general with pleasure, notwithstanding their feeling of national antipathy, upon the great Epicurean principle of carpe diem, that is to say, in whatever circumstances they present themselves, be sure you lose no recreation which life affords. A hunting-match has still its attractions, even though an English knight takes his pleasure in the woods of the Douglas. It was no doubt afflicting to these faithful vassals, to acknowledge another lord than the redoubted Douglas, and to wait by wood and river at the command of English officers, and in company of their archers, whom they accounted their natural enemies. Still, however, it was the only species of amusement which had been permitted them for a long time, and they were not disposed to omit the rare opportunity of joining in it. The chase of the wolf, the boar, and even the timid stag, required silvan arms; the wild cattle still more demanded the equipment of war-bows and shafts, boar-spears and sharp swords, and other tools of the chase similar to those used in actual war. Considering this, the Scottish inhabitants were seldom allowed to join the chase, except under regulation as to numbers and arms, and especially in preserving a balance of force on the side of the English soldiers, which was very offensive to them. The greater part of the

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garrison was upon such occasions kept on foot, and several detachments, formed according to the governor’s direction, were stationed in different positions, in case the quarrel between the hunters and the native inhabitants should suddenly break out. Strict orders, therefore, were given for taking due precautions, as afterwards in the hunting of Cheviot chase; different parties were formed, one of which drove the game, another killed it, and a third attended entirely to the security of the hunters; and a strong military force remaining firm under arms, kept themselves in readiness at a moment’s warning to fight, if it was necessary, in their defence. The verses of the ancient poem, taken from the composition or transcription of Richard Sheal,* form the motto to the next chapter, and convey a minute idea of the manner in which they pursued their amusement, and the precautions they took for defence of their occupation, in case of need.

Chapter Seven The drivers thorough the wood went, For to raise the deer; Bowmen bickered upon the bent, With their broad arrows clear. The wylde thorough the woods went, On every side shear; Grehounds through the groves glent, For to kill thir deer. This began in Cheviot the hills abone Early on a Monanday, By that it drew to the hour of noon, A hundred fat harts dead there lay. Ballad of Chevy Chase, old Edit. See P    ’ Reliques of Ancient Poetry. Vol. I. Page 4

T          appointed came in cold and raw, after the manner of the Scottish March weather. Dogs yelped, yawned, and shivered, and the huntsmen, though hardy and cheerful in hope of the day’s sport, twitched their mawds, or lowland plaids, closer to their throats, and looked with some dismay at the mists which floated about the horizon, now threatening to sink down on the peaks and ridges of prominent * This person’s name is attached to the ballads of the Hunting of Cheviot, and the Battle of Otterburn, in Percy’s collection of songs about the time of Henry VI. He was certainly a minstrel, and if the author of these ballads, must be surely considered as one of the very best who ever touched a harp; yet there is appearance that, notwithstanding his skill in his art, he had fallen on evil days and evil tongues.

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mountains, and now to shift their position under the influence of some of the uncertain gales, which rose and fell alternately, as they swept along the valley. Nevertheless the appearance of the whole formed, as is usual in almost all departments of the chase, a gay and a jovial spectacle. A brief truce seemed to have taken place between the nations, and the Scottish people appeared for the time rather as exhibiting the sports of their mountains in a friendly manner to the accomplished knights and bonny archers of Old England, than as performing a feudal service at the instigation of their usurping neighbours; not, it must be owned, either pleasant or honourable in itself. The figures of the cavaliers, who were riding, often at full speed, through dangerous and broken ground, attracted particularly the attention of the pedestrians, who, leading the dogs or beating the thickets, dislodged such objects of chase as they found in the dingles, and kept their eyes fixed upon their companions, whose disregard of all accidents to the rider was as perfect as Melton Mowbray itself, or any other noted field of hunters of the present day, can exhibit. The principles of modern and ancient hunting are doubtless as different as possible. The modern is far more moderate in the extent of his object. A fox, perhaps even a hare is, in our own day, considered as a sufficient apology for a day’s exercise for forty or fifty dogs, and nearly as many horses and attendants, without stopping to divide the latter into amateurs, regular domestics, and the ordinary mob of a common hunting-field. The ancient mode of hunting, on the contrary, which often terminated in battle, had in it something more important than the ordinary chase of a peaceful country. If indeed one species of exercise can be pointed out as more universally exhilarating and more generally engrossing than others, it is certainly that of the chase. The poor o’erlaboured drudge, who has served out his day of life, and wearied all his energies in the service of his fellow mortals, who has been for many years the slave of agriculture, or even (which is still worse) of manufactures—engaged in raising a single peck of corn from year to year, or in the monotonous task of multiplying the twentieth part of a pin—can hardly remain dead to the general happiness when the chase sweeps past him with hound and horn, and for a moment feels all the exultation of the proudest cavalier who partakes the amusement. Let any one who has witnessed the sight, recall to his imagination the vigour and lively interest which he has seen inspired into a village, including the oldest, most feeble, and most torpid of its inhabitants. In the words of Wordsworth, it is, on such occasions,

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Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away, Not a soul will remain in the village to-day; The hare has just started from Hamilton’s grounds, And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.

But compare these inspiring sounds to the burst of a whole feudal population enjoying the sport, and whose lives, instead of being spent in the monotonous toil which is the common lot of humanity, have been agitated by the hazards of war, and of the chase, its near resemblance, and you must necessarily suppose that the excitation is extended like a fire which catches to dry heath. To use the common expression of another amusement, all is fish that comes in the net upon these occasions. An ancient hunting-match (the degree of carnage excepted) was almost equal to a modern battle, when practised on the surface of a varied and unequal country, and perhaps examples of the feudal hunting have been found in the Highlands within the remembrance of persons now alive. A whole district poured forth its inhabitants, who formed a ring of great extent, called technically a tinchel, and, advancing and narrowing their circle by degrees, drove before them the alarmed animals of every kind; all and each of which, as they burst from the thicket or the moorland, were objects of the bow, the javelin, or whatever missile weapons were possessed by the hunters; while others were run down and worried by large greyhounds, or more frequently brought to bay, when the more important persons present claimed for themselves the pleasure of putting them to death with their chivalrous hands, incurring in their own person such danger as is inferred from a mortal contest even with the timid buck, when he is brought to the death-struggle, and has no choice but yielding his life, or putting himself upon the defensive, by aid of his splendid antlers, and with all the courage of despair. The quantity of game found in Douglas Dale on this occasion was very considerable indeed, for, as already noticed, it was a long time since a hunting upon a general scale had been attempted under the Douglasses themselves, whose misfortunes had commenced, several years before, with those of their country. The English garrison, too, had not sooner judged themselves strong or numerous enough to exercise these valued feudal privileges. In the meantime the game increased considerably. The deer, the wild cattle, and the wild boars, lay near the foot of the mountains, and made frequent irruptions into the lower part of the valley, which in Douglas Dale bears no small resemblance to an oasis, surrounded by tangled woods and broken moors, occasionally rocky, and showing large tracts of that varied wilderness to which wild creatures gladly escape when pressed by the neighbourhood of man.

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As the hunters traversed the spots which separated the field from the wood, there was always a stimulating uncertainty what sort of game was to be found in the latter, and the marksman, with his bow ready bent, or his javelin poised, and his good and well-bitted horse thrown upon its haunches, ready for a sudden start, observed watchfully what should rush forth from the covert, so that, were it deer, boar, wild cattle, or any other species of game, the sportsman might be in readiness to take his chance accordingly. The wolf, which, on account of its ravages, was the most obnoxious of the beasts of prey, did not, however, supply the degree of diversion which his very name promised; he fled in the usual case, almost twenty miles in some instances, before he took courage to turn to bay, and though formidable at such moments, destroying both dogs and men by the severity of his terrible bite, yet at other times was rather despised for his cowardice. The boar, on the other hand, was a much more irascible and courageous animal. The wild cattle, the most formidable of all the tenants of the ancient Caledonian forest, were, however, to the English cavaliers, by far the most interesting objects of pursuit.* Altogether, the ringing of bugles, the clattering of horses’ hoofs, the lowing and bellow* These Bulls are thus described by Hector Boetius, concerning whom he says—“In this wood (namely the Caledonian wood,) were sometime white bulls, with crisp and curling manes, like fierce lions; and though they seemed meek and tame in the remanent figure of their bodies, they were more wild than any other beasts, and had such hatred against the society and company of men, that they never came in the woods nor lesuries where they found any foot or hand thereof, and many days after they eat not of the herbs that were touched or handled by man. These bulls were so wild, that they were never taken but by slight and crafty labour, and so impatient, that after they were taken they died from insupportable dolour. As soon as any man invaded these bulls, they rushed with such terrible press upon him that they struck him to the earth, taking no fear of hounds, sharp lances, or other most penetrative weapons.”—B , Chron. Scot. Vol. I. page xxxix. The wild cattle of this breed, which are now only known in one manor in England, that of Chillingham Castle, in Northumberland, (the seat of the Earl of Tankerville,) were, in the memory of man, still preserved in three places in Scotland, namely, Drumlanrig, Cumbernauld, and the upper park at Hamilton Palace, at all of which places, except the last, I believe they have now been destroyed, on account of their ferocity. But though those of modern days were remarkable for their white colour, with black muzzles, and exhibiting, in a small degree, the black mane, about three or four inches long, with which the bulls in particular are distinguished, they do not by any means come near the terrific description given us by the ancient authors, which has made some naturalists think that these animals should probably be referred to a different species, though possessing the same general habits, and included in the same genus. The bones which are often discovered in Scottish mosses belong certainly to a race of animals much larger than those of Chillingham, which seldom grow to above 80 stone (of 14 lbs.), the general weight varying from 60 to 80 stone. We should be accounted very negligent by one class of readers, did we not record that the beef furnished by these cattle is of excellent flavour, and finely marbled.

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ing of the enraged mountain cattle, the sobs of deer mangled by throttling dogs, the men’s wild shouts of exultation,— made a chorus which extended far through the scene in which it arose, and seemed to threaten the inhabitants of the valley even in its inmost recesses. It is only necessary to add, that in the chase which we attempt to describe, every now and then in the course of the day, when a stag or a boar was expected, one of these wild cattle came rushing forwards, bearing down the young trees, crashing the branches in its progress, and in general dispersing whatever human opposition was presented to it by the hunters. Sir John Walton was the only one of the chivalry of the party who individually succeeded in mastering one of these powerful animals. Like a Spanish tauridor, he bore down and killed with his lance a ferocious bull; two well grown calves and three kine were also slain, being unable to carry off the quantity of arrows, javelins, and other missiles, directed against them by the archers and drivers; but many others, in spite of every endeavour to intercept them, escaped to their gloomy haunts in the remote skirts of the mountain called Cairntable, with their hides well feathered with those marks of human enmity. Several hours of the morning were this way spent, until a particular blast from the master of the hunt announced that he had not forgot the discreet custom of taking breakfast, which, in respect of the solemn occasion, was provided for upon a scale proportioned to the multitude who had been convened to attend the sport. The blast peculiar to the time, assembled the whole party in an open space in a wood, where their numbers had room and accommodation to sit down upon the green turf, and the slain game plentifully supplied them with slices for roasting or broiling, an employment in which the lower class were all presently engaged; while puncheons and pipes, placed in readiness, were scientifically opened, and supplied Gascoigne wine, and mighty ale, at the pleasure of those who chose to appeal to them. The knights, whose rank did not admit of interference, were seated by themselves, and ministered to by their squires and pages, to whom such menial services were not accounted disgraceful, but, on the contrary, a proper step of their education. The number of those distinguished persons seated upon the present occasion at the table of dais, as it was called, (in virtue of a canopy of green boughs with which it was overshadowed,) comprehended Sir John Walton, Sir Aymer de Valence, and some reverend brethren dedicated to the service of Saint Bride, who, though Scottish ecclesiastics, were

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treated with becoming respect by the English soldiers. One or two Scottish retainers or vavasours, maintaining, in prudence perhaps, a suitable deference to the English knights, sat at the bottom of the table, and as many English archers, peculiarly respected by their superiors, were invited, according to the modern phrase, to the honours of the sitting. Sir John Walton sat at the head of the table; his eye making a circuit, which, though it seemed to have no certain object, yet never for a moment remained stationary, but glanced from one countenance to another of the ring formed by his invited guests, though he himself could hardly have told upon what principle he had issued the invitations; and apparently he was at a loss to think what, in one or two cases, had procured him the honour of the presence of some of the party. One person in particular caught Walton’s eye, as having the air of a redoubted man-at-arms, although it seemed as if fortune had not of late smiled upon his enterprises. He was a tall raw-boned man, of an extremely rugged countenance, and his skin, which shewed itself through many a loophole in his dress, exhibited a complexion which must have endured all the varieties of an outlawed life; and akin to one who had, according to the customary phrase, “ta’en the bent with Robin Bruce,” in other words, occupied the moors with him as an insurgent. Some such idea certainly crossed Walton’s imagination. But the coolness, and apparently the want of alarm, with which this person sat at the board of an English officer, at the same time wholly in his power, had much in it which was irreconcilable with the supposed circumstances of the man. Walton, and several of those about him, had in the course of the day observed that this tattered seeming cavalier, the most remarkable parts of whose garb and equipments consisted of an old coat-of-mail and a rusted yet massive partisan about eight feet long, was possessed of superior skill in the art of hunting to any individual of their numerous party. The governor, accordingly, having looked at this suspicious figure until he had rendered the stranger aware of the special interest which he attracted, at length filled a goblet of choice wine, and requested him, as one of the best pupils of Sir Tristrem who had attended upon the day’s chase, to pledge him in a vintage superior to that supplied to the general company. “I suppose, however, sir,” said Walton, “you will have little objection to put off the tribute of a brimmer, until you can answer my pledge in Gascoigne wine, which grew in the king’s own demesne, was pressed for his own lip, and is therefore fittest to be emptied to his majesty’s health and prosperity.”

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“One half of the island of Britain,” said the woodsman, with great composure, “will be of your honour’s opinion; but as I belong to the other half, even the choicest liquor in Gascony cannot render the health acceptable to me.” A murmur of disapprobation ran through the warriors present; the priests hung their heads, looked deadly grave, and muttered their paternosters. “You see, stranger,” said Walton sternly, “that your speech discomposes the company.” “It may be so,” replied the man, in the same blunt tone; “and it may happen that there is no harm in the speech.” “Do you consider that it is made in my presence?” answered Walton. “Yes, Sir Governor.” “And have you thought what must be my necessary inference?” continued Walton. “I may form a round guess,” answered the stranger, “what I might have to fear, if your safe conduct and word of honour, when inviting me to this hunt, were less trustworthy than I know full well it really is. But I am your guest—your meat is even now passing my throat—your cup, filled with right good wine, I have just now quaffed off—and I would not fear the rankest Paynim infidel, if we stood in such relation together, much less an English knight. I tell you, besides, Sir Knight, you undervalue the wine we have quaffed. The high flavour and contents of your cup, grow where it will, give me spirit to tell you one or two circumstances, which cold cautious sobriety would, in a moment like this, have left unsaid. You wish, I doubt not, to know who I am? My christian name is Michael—my surname is that of Turnbull, a redoubted clan, to whose honours, even in the field of hunting or of battle, I have added something. My abode is beneath the mountain of Rubieslaw, by the fair streams of Teviot. You are surprised that I know how to hunt the wild cattle—I, who have made them my sport from my infancy in the lonely forests of Jed and Southdean, have killed more of them than you or any Englishman in your host ever saw in your lives, even if you include the doughty deeds of this very day.” The bold borderer made this declaration with the same provoking degree of coolness which predominated in his whole demeanour, and was indeed his principal attribute. The effrontery did not fail to produce its effect upon Sir John Walton, who instantly called out, “To arms! to arms!—Secure the spy and traitor! Ho! pages and yeomen —William, Anthony, Bend-the-bow, and Greenleaf—seize the traitor, and bind him with your bowstrings and dog-leashes—bind

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him, I say, until the blood starts from beneath his nails!” “Here is a goodly summons!” said Turnbull, with a sort of horselaugh. “Were I as sure of being answered by twenty men I could name, there would be small doubt of the upshot of this day.” The archers thickened around the hunter, yet laid no hold on him, none of them being willing to be the first who broke peace. “Tell me,” said Walton, “thou traitor, for what in the world thou waitest here?” “Simply and solely,” said the Jed forester, “that I may deliver up to the Douglas the castle of his ancestors, and that I may insure you, Sir Englishman, the payment of thy deserts, by cutting that very throat which thou makest such a bawling use of.” At the same time, perceiving that the yeomen were crowding behind him to carry their lord’s commands into execution so soon as they should be reiterated, the huntsman turned himself short round upon those who appeared about to surprise him, and having, by the suddenness of the action, induced them to step a pace back, he proceeded— “Yes, John Walton, my purpose was e’en now to have put thee to death, as one whom I found in possession of that castle and territory which belonged to my master, and to a knight much more worthy than thyself; but I know not—thou hast given me food when I was hungry for twenty-four hours, and I have not had the heart to pay thee in the manner which thou hast deserved. Begone from this place and country, and take the fair warning of a foe; thou hast constituted thyself the mortal enemy of this people, and there are those among them who have seldom been injured or defied with impunity. Take no care in searching after me,—it will be in vain,—until I meet thee at a time which will come at my pleasure, not thine. Push not thy inquisition into cruelty, to discover by what means I have deceived you, for it is impossible for you to learn; and with this friendly advice, look at me and take your leave, for although we shall one day meet, it may be long ere I see you again.” Walton remained silent, hoping that his prisoner, (for he saw no chance of his escaping,) might, in his communicative humour, drop some other circumstances of information, and was not desirous to precipitate the fray with which the scene was like to conclude, unconscious of the advantage which he hereby gave the daring Scottish man. As Turnbull concluded his sentence, he made a sudden spring backwards, which carried him out of the circle that had formed around him, and before they were aware of his intentions, at once disappeared among the underwood, in what manner no one could exactly tell. “Seize him—seize him!” repeated Walton; “let us have him at least at our discretion, unless earth has actually swallowed him.”

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This indeed appeared not unlikely, for near the place where Turnbull had made the spring, there yawned a steep ravine, into which he plunged, and descended by the assistance of branches, bushes, and copsewood trees, until he reached the bottom, where he found some road to the outskirts of the forest, through which he made his escape, leaving the most expert woodsmen among the pursuers totally at fault, and unable to trace his footsteps.

Chapter Eight T             carried some confusion into the proceedings of the hunt, thus suddenly surprised by the apparition of Michael Turnbull, an armed and avowed follower of the House of Douglas, a sight so little to be expected in the territory where his master was held a rebel and a bandit, and where he himself must have been well known to most of the peasantry present. The circumstance made an obvious impression on the English chivalry. Sir John Walton looked grave and thoughtful, ordered the hunters to be assembled on the spot, and directed his soldiers to commence a strict search among the persons who had attended the chase, so as to discover whether Turnbull had any companions among them; but it was too late to make that enquiry in the strict fashion which Walton directed. The Scottish who were present were not numerous, and when they beheld that the hunting, under pretence of which they were called together, was interrupted for the purpose of laying hands upon their persons, and subjecting them to examination, conscious of being the weaker party, they became afraid of foul play, and most of them slipt away from the places to which they had been appointed, and left the English hunting-match like men who conceived they had been invited there for no good purpose. Sir John Walton became aware of the decreasing numbers of the Scottish—their gradual disappearance awakening in the English knight that degree of suspicion which had of late become his peculiar characteristic. “Take, I pray thee,” said he to Sir Aymer de Valence, “as many men-at-arms as thou canst gather together in five minutes space, and at least a hundred of the mounted archers, and ride as fast as thou canst lead them, without permitting them to straggle from thy standard, to reinforce on the spot the garrison of Douglas; for I have my own thoughts what may have been attempted there, when we observe with our own eyes such a nest of traitors here assembled.” “With reverence, Sir John,” replied Aymer, “you shoot in this matter rather beyond the mark. That the Scottish peasants have bad

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thoughts against us, I will be the last to deny; but long debarred from any silvan sport, you cannot wonder at their crowding to any diversion by wood or river, and still less at their being easily alarmed as to the certainty of the safe footing on which they stand with us. The least rude usage is likely to strike them with fear, and with the desire of escape, and so”—— “And so,” said Sir John Walton, who had listened with a degree of impatience scarce consistent with the grave and formal politeness which one knight was accustomed to bestow upon another, “and so I would rather see Sir Aymer de Valence busy his horse’s heels to execute my orders, than give his tongue the trouble of impugning them.” At this sharp reprimand, the knights present, as well as the old soldiers, looked upon each other with grave and marked displeasure. Sir Aymer was highly offended, but saw it was no time to indulge in repartee. He bowed until the feather which was in his barret-cap mingled with his horse’s mane, and with no reply—for he did not choose to trust his voice at the moment—he led under his charge a considerable body of cavalry, with whom he found, as well as he could, the straightest road back to the Castle of Douglas. When he came to one of those eminences from which he could observe the massive and complicated towers and walls of the old fortress, with the glitter of the broad lake, which surrounded it on three sides, he felt much pleasure in the sight of the great banner of England, which streamed from the highest part of the building. “I knew it,” he internally said; “I was certain that this Sir John Walton was become a very woman in indulgence of his fears and suspicions. Alas! that living alone, and in some degree of charge, should so much have altered a disposition which I have known so noble and so knightly! By this good day, I scarce knew in what manner I should demean me when thus publicly rebuked before the garrison. Certainly he deserves that I should, at some time or other, let him understand, that, however he may triumph in the exercise of his short-lived commission, yet if man is to meet with man, it will pinch Sir John Walton to show himself the superior of Aymer de Valence, or even to establish himself as his equal. But if, on the contrary, his fears, however fantastic, are real and sincere, it becomes me to obey punctually those commands, which, however absurd, are imposed on me in consequence of his own belief that they are rendered necessary by the time, not inventions designed to vex and domineer over his officers in indulgence of his official power. I would I knew which were the true statement of the case, and whether the once famed Walton were turned afraid of his enemies more than becomes a knight, or makes

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the pretence that he is so the pretext of tyrannizing and predominating over his friend. I cannot say it would make much difference to me, but I would rather have the man I once loved turn a petty tyrant than a weak-spirited coward; and that he should study to vex me, than be afraid of his own shadow.” With this mental observation, which was sharpened by the consciousness that he himself might be suspected of having been infected by the base and degrading vice of cowardice, should that be found applicable to Sir John Walton, his instructor, while that of a tyrannical temper would hardly be credited, if such an accusation was brought against him;—with these imaginations rolling in his head, the young knight crossed over the causeway which traversed the piece of water that fed the moat, and, passing under the strongly fortified gateway, gave strict orders for letting down the portcullis, and elevating the drawbridge, even at the appearance of Walton’s own standard before it. A slow and guarded movement from the hunting-ground to the Castle of Douglas, gave the governor ample time to recover his temper, and forget that his young friend had shown less alacrity than usual in obeying his commands. He was even disposed to treat as a jest the extreme ceremony with which every point of martial discipline was observed on his own re-admission to the castle, though the raw air of a wet spring evening whistled round his own unsheltered person, and those of his followers, while they waited before the castle-gate for the exchange of passwords, the delivery of keys, and all the slow minutiæ attendant upon the motions of a garrison in a well-guarded fortress. “Come,” said he to an old knight, who was peevishly blaming the lieutenant-governor, “it was my own fault; I spoke but now to Aymer de Valence with more authoritative emphasis than his newly dubbed dignity was pleased with, and this precise style of obedience is a piece of not unnatural and very pardonable revenge. Well, we will owe him a return, Sir Philip—Shall we not? This is not a night to keep a man at the gate.” This dialogue was overheard by some of the squires and pages, and bandied about among them from one to another, until it entirely lost the accent and tone of good humour in which it had been originally spoken, and the offence was stated as one for which Sir John Walton and old Sir Philip were to meditate revenge, and was said to have been represented by the governor as a piece of mortal and intentional offence on the part of his subordinate officer. Thus an increasing feud went on from day to day between two warriors, who not only had no just cause of quarrel, but had at heart every reason to esteem and love each other. It became visible in the

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fortress even to those of the lower rank, who hoped to gain some consequence, by intermingling in the species of emulation produced by the jealousy of the commanding officers—an emulation which may take place, indeed, in the present day, but can hardly have the same sense of wounded pride and jealous dignity attached to it, which existed in times when the personal honour of chivalry rendered those who possessed it more jealous, even to the last degree, of every punctilio. So many little debates took place between the two knights, that Sir Aymer de Valence thought himself under the necessity of writing to his uncle and namesake, the Earl of Pembroke, stating that his officer, Sir John Walton, had unfortunately of late taken some degree of prejudice against him, and that, after having borne with many provoking instances of his displeasure, he was now compelled to request that his place of service should be changed from the Castle of Douglas, and removed elsewhere, where honour could be acquired, and time might be given to put an end to his present cause of complaint against his commanding officer. Through the whole letter, young Sir Aymer was particularly cautious how he expressed his sense of Sir John Walton’s jealousy or severe usage; but such sentiments are not easily concealed, and in spite of him an air of displeasure glanced out from several passages, and indicated his discontent with his uncle’s old friend and companion in arms, and with the sphere of military duty which his uncle had himself assigned him. The accident of some movement among the English troops brought Sir Aymer an answer to his letter sooner than he could have hoped in the ordinary course of correspondence, which was extremely slow and interrupted. Pembroke, a rigid old warrior, entertained the most partial opinion with regard to Sir John Walton, who was a work as it were of his own hands, and was indignant to find that his nephew, whom he considered as a mere boy, elated by having had the dignity of knighthood conferred upon him at an age unusually early, did not absolutely coincide with him in opinion. He replied to him, accordingly, in the tone of a displeased and powerful relative writing to a young and dependent kinsman upon the duties of his profession and of his situation; and, as he collected his nephew’s cause of complaint from his own letter, he conceived that he did him no injustice in making it slighter than it really was. He reminded the young knight that the study of chivalry consisted in the faithful and patient discharge of military service, whether of high or low degree, according to the circumstances in which war placed the champion. That above all, the post of danger, which Douglas Castle had been termed with one consent, was also the

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post of honour; and that a young man should be cautious how he became supposed to be desirous of quitting his present honourable command, because he was tired of the discipline of a military director so renowned as Sir John Walton. Much also there was, as was natural in a letter of that tone, concerning the duty of a youth, whether in council or in arms, to be guided implicitly by his elders; and it was observed, with justice, that the commanding officer, who had put himself into the situation of being responsible with his honour, if not his life, for the event of the siege or blockade, might justly, and in a degree more than common, claim the implicit direction of the whole defence. Lastly, Pembroke reminded his nephew that he was, in a great measure, dependent upon the report of Sir John Walton for the character which he was to sustain in after life; and reminded him, that a few actions of headlong and inconsiderate valour would not so firmly found his reputation, as months and years spent in regular, humble, and steady obedience of the commands which the governor thought necessary in so dangerous a conjuncture. This missive arrived within so short time after the despatch of the letter to which it was a reply, that young Aymer was almost tempted to suppose that his uncle had some mode of corresponding with Walton, secret from himself, and from the rest of the garrison. And as the earl alluded to some particular displeasure which had been exhibited by De Valence on a late trivial occasion, his uncle’s knowledge of this, and other minutiæ, seemed to confirm his idea that his own conduct was overlooked in a manner which he did not feel honourable to himself, or dignified on the part of his relative; in a word, he conceived himself exposed to that sort of surveillance of which the young have accused the old in all ages. It hardly needs to say, that the admonition of the Earl of Pembroke greatly chafed the fiery spirit of his nephew; insomuch, that if he had contrived a letter to have increased the prejudices which he desired to put an end to, he probably would have written in the terms he made use of. The truth was, that the old archer, Gilbert Greenleaf, had, without the knowledge of the young knight, gone to Pembroke’s camp, in Ayrshire, and had been recommended by Sir John Walton to the earl, as a person who could give such minute information respecting Aymer de Valence, as he might desire to receive. The old man was, as we have seen, a formalist, and when pressed on some points of Sir Aymer de Valence’s discipline, he did not hesitate to throw out hints, which, connected with those in the knight’s letter to his uncle, made the severe old warrior adopt too implicitly the idea that his nephew was indulging a spirit of insubordination, and a sense of impatience under authority, most dangerous to the character of a young soldier. A little

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explanation might have produced a complete agreement in the sentiments of both; but for this, fate allowed no time nor opportunity; and the earl was unfortunately induced to choose the office of a party, instead of a negotiator, in the quarrel, And by decision more embroil’d the fray.

When Sir John Walton perceived that after the receipt of Pembroke’s letter (on which he had on his side founded much), his lieutenant did not in any respect alter his cold ceremonious conduct towards him, which limited their intercourse to what their situation rendered indispensable, and exhibited no advances to any more frank or intimate connexion, he was naturally displeased, and said at least, if he did not swear, that De Valence should seek his friendship before he again gave him an opportunity of neglecting or despising his advances towards renewing it. Thus, as may sometimes be the case between officers in their relative situations even at the present day, they remained in that cold stiff degree of official communication, in which their intercourse was limited to as few expressions as could possibly convey the duty they were meant to express, without a single word either of courtesy or of kindness. Such a state of misunderstanding is, in fact, worse than a downright quarrel;—the latter may be explained or apologized for, or become the subject of mediation; but in such a case as the former, an eclaircissement is as unlikely to take place as a general engagement between two armies which have taken up strong defensive positions on both sides. Duty, however, obliged the two principal persons in the garrison to be sometimes together, when they were so far from seeking an opportunity of making up matters between them, that they usually rubbed up and renewed ancient subjects of debate and quarrel. Thus, upon an occasion of this kind, Walton, in a very formal manner, asked De Valence in what capacity, and for how long time, it was his pleasure that the minstrel, called Bertram, should remain at the castle. “A week,” said the governor, “is certainly long enough to express the hospitality due to a minstrel in this time and place.” “Surely,” replied the young man, “I have not interest enough in the subject to form a single wish upon it.” “In that case,” resumed Walton, “I shall request of this person to cut short his visit at the Castle of Douglas.” “I know no particular interest,” replied Aymer de Valence, “which I can possibly have in this man’s motions. He is here under pretence of making some researches after the writings of Thomas of Erceldoun, called the Rhymer, which he says are infinitely curious, of which

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there is a volume in the old Baron’s study, saved somehow from the flames at the last conflagration. This told, you know as much of him as I do; and if you hold the presence of a wandering old man, and the neighbourhood of a boy, dangerous to the castle under your charge, you will no doubt do well to dismiss him,—it will cost but a word of your mouth.” “Pardon me,” said Walton; “the minstrel came here as one of your retinue, and I could not of course properly discharge him without your leave.” “I am sorry, then,” answered Sir Aymer, “in my turn, that you did not mention your purpose some days since. I never entertained a dependent vassal or servant, whose residence in the castle I would wish to have prolonged a moment beyond your honourable pleasure.” “I am sorry,” said Sir John Walton, “that we two have of late grown so extremely courteous that it is difficult for us to understand each other. This minstrel and his son come from we know not where, and are bound we know not whither. There is a report among some of your escort, that this fellow Bertram upon the way had the audacity to impugn, even to your face, the King of England’s right to the crown of Scotland, and that he debated the point with you, while your other attendants were desired by you to keep behind and out of hearing.” “Hah!” said Sir Aymer, “do you mean to found on that circumstance any charge against my loyalty? I pray you to observe, that such an averment would touch mine honour, which I am ready and willing to defend to the last gasp.” “No doubt of it, Sir Knight,” answered the governor; “but it is the strolling minstrel, and not the high-born English knight, against whom the charge is brought. Well! the minstrel comes to this castle, and he intimates a wish that his son should be allowed to reside at the little old convent of Saint Bride’s, where two or three Scottish nuns and friars are still permitted to dwell, most of them rather out of respect to their order, than for any good-will which they are supposed to bear the English or their sovereign. It may also be noticed, that this leave was purchased by a larger sum of money, if my information be correct, than is usually to be found in the purses of travelling minstrels, who are at least as remarkable for their poverty as for their genius. What do you think of all this?” “I?”—replied De Valence; “I am happy that my situation, as a soldier under command, altogether dispenses with my thinking of it at all. My post, as lieutenant of your castle, is such, that if I can manage matters so as to call my honour and my soul my own, I must think that quite enough of free-will is left at my command; and I promise you,

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you shall not have to reprove me, or send a bad report of me to my uncle, on any other account.” “This is beyond sufferance!” said Sir John Walton half aside, and then proceeded aloud—“Do not, for Heaven’s sake, do yourself and me the injustice of supposing that I am endeavouring to gain an advantage over you by these questions. Recollect, young knight, that when you evade giving your commanding officer your advice when required, you fail as much in point of duty, as if you declined affording him the assistance of your sword and lance.” “Such being the case,” answered De Valence, “let me know plainly in what matter it is that you require my opinion? I will deliver it plainly, and stand by the result, even if I should have the misfortune (a crime unpardonable in so young a man, and so inferior an officer) to differ from that of Sir John Walton.” “I would ask you then, Sir Knight of Valence,” answered the governor, “what is your opinion with respect to this minstrel, Bertram, and whether the suspicions respecting him and his son are not so great as to call upon me, in performance of my duty, to put them to a close examination, with the question ordinary and extraordinary, as is usual in such cases, and to expel them both from the castle, and the whole territory of Douglas Dale, under pain of scourging, if they be again found wandering in these parts.” “You ask me my opinion,” said De Valence, “and you shall have it, Sir Knight of Walton, as freely and fairly, as if matters stood betwixt you and me on a footing as friendly as they ever did. I agree with you, that most of those who in these days profess the science of minstrelsy, are altogether unqualified to support the higher pretensions of that noble order. Minstrels by right, are men who have dedicated themselves to the noble occupation of celebrating knightly deeds and generous principles; it is in their verse that the valiant knight himself is handed down to fame, and the poet has a right, nay is bound, to emulate the virtues which he praises. The looseness of the times has diminished the consequence, and impaired the moral life of this class of mankind; their satire and their praise is distributed on no other principle than love of gain; yet let us hope that there are still among them those also who know and pursue their duty, and are willing to the utmost of their power to perform it. My own opinion is, that this man Bertram is one of such as have not shared in the degradation of his brethren, nor bent the knee to the mammon of the times; it must remain with you, sir, to judge whether such a person, honourably and morally disposed, can afford any danger to the Castle of Douglas. But thinking, as I strongly believe, that he is incapable, with the sentiments he has manifested to me, of playing the part of a traitor, I must strongly

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remonstrate against his being punished as one, or subjected to the torture within the walls of an English garrison. I should blush for my country, were it at any time a part of our duty to inflict such wanton misery upon wanderers, whose sole fault in reality was honesty; and your own knightly sentiments will suggest more than would become me to state to Sir John Walton, unless in so far as is necessary to apologize for my own opinion.” Sir John Walton’s dark brow was shaded with red when he heard an opinion delivered in opposition to his own, which plainly went to stigmatize his advice as ungenerous, unfeeling, and unknightly. He made an effort to preserve his temper, while he thus replied with a degree of calmness. “You have given your opinion, Sir Aymer de Valence; and that you have given it openly and boldly, without regard to my own, I thank you. It is not quite so clear that I am obliged to defer my own sentiments to yours, in case the rules on which I hold my office—the commands of the king—and the observations which I may personally have made, shall recommend to me a different line of conduct from that which you think it right to adopt.” Walton bowed, in conclusion, with great gravity; and the young knight, returning the reverence with exactly the same degree of stiff formality, asked whether there were any particular orders respecting his duty in the castle; and having received an answer in the negative, he took his departure accordingly. Sir John Walton, after an expression of impatience, as if disappointed at finding that an advance which he had made towards an explanation with his young friend had proved unexpectedly abortive, composed his brow as if to deep thought, and walked several times to and fro in the apartment, considering what course he was to take in the circumstances. “It is hard,” he said, “when I recollect, at first entering upon life, my own thoughts and feelings would have been those of this giddy and hotheaded, but generous boy. Now prudence teaches me to suspect mankind in a thousand instances, where perhaps there is not sufficient ground for proof of their guilt or baseness. If I am disposed to venture my own honour and fortune, rather than an idle travelling minstrel should suffer a little pain, which at all events I might make up to such a person by a little money, still, have I a right to run the chance of a conspiracy against the king, and serving to advance the treasonable surrender of the Castle of Douglas which I command, and against which I know so many schemes are formed; and against which none can be imagined so desperate but agents will be found bold enough to undertake the execution? A man who serves in my condition, although the slave of conscience, ought to learn to set aside those false scruples which assume the appearance of flowing from our own moral feeling,

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whereas they are in fact instilled by the suggestion of affected delicacy. I will not, I swear by Heaven, be infected by the follies of a boy such as Aymer; I will not, that I may defer to his caprices, lose all that love, honour, and ambition can propose, for the reward of twelve months’ service, of a nature the most watchful and unpleasant. I will go straight to my point, and use the ordinary precautions in Scotland, which I should employ in Normandy or Gascoigny.—What ho! page? who waits there?” One of his attendants replied to his summons—“Seek me out Gilbert Greenleaf the archer, and tell him I would speak with him touching the two bows and the sheaf of arrows, concerning which I gave him a commission to Ayr.” A few minutes intervened after the order was given, when the archer entered, holding in his hand two bow-staves, not yet fashioned, and a number of arrows secured together with a thong. He bore the mysterious looks of one whose apparent business is not of very great consequence, but is meant as a passport for other affairs which are in themselves of a secret or contraband nature. Accordingly, as the knight was silent, and afforded no opening for treating what Greenleaf suspected to be his real business, that judicious negotiator proceeded to enter upon such as was fictitious. “Here are the bows, noble sir, which you desired me to obtain while I was at Ayr with the Earl of Pembroke’s army. They are not so good as I could have wished, yet are perhaps of better quality than could have been procured by any other than by old Gilbert Greenleaf. The whole camp are frantic mad in order to procure real Spanish staves from the Groyne, and other ports in Spain; but though two vessels laden with such came into Ayr, said to be for the King’s army, yet I believe never one half of them have come into English hands. These two grew in Sherwood, which having been seasoned since the time of Robin Hood, are not likely to fail either in strength or in aim, in so strong a hand, and with so just an eye, as those of the men who wait on your worship.” “And who has got the rest, since two ships’ cargoes of new bowstaves are arrived at Ayr, and thou with difficulty hast only procured me two old ones?” said the governor. “Faith, I pretend not skill enough to know,” answered Greenleaf, shrugging his shoulders. “Talk there is of plots in that country as well as here. It is said that their Bruce, and the rest of his kinsmen, intend a new May-game, and that the outlawed king proposes to land early in summer with a number of stout kerne from Ireland about Turnberry; and no doubt the men of his mock earldom of Carrick are getting them ready with bow and spear for so hopeful an undertaking. I reckon that it will not cost us the expense of more than a few scores of sheaves of

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arrows to put all that matter to rights.” “Do you talk then of conspiracies in this part of the country, Greenleaf?” said Walton. “I know you are a sagacious fellow, well bred for many a day to the use of the bent stick and string, and wilt not allow such a practice to go on under thy nose, without taking notice of it.” “I am old enough, Heaven knows,” said Greenleaf, “and have had good experience of these Scottish wars, and know well whether these native Scots are a people to be trusted to by knight or yeoman. Say they are a false generation, and say a good archer told you so, who, with a fair aim, seldom missed a handsbreadth of the white. Ah! sir, your honour knows how to deal with them,—ride them strongly, and rein them hard,—and are not like those simple novices who imagine that all is to be done by gentleness, and wish to parade themselves as courteous and generous to those faithless mountaineers, who never knew the qualities of courteousness or generosity in the course of their lives.” “Thou alludest to some one,” said the governor, “and I charge thee, Gilbert, to be plain and sincere with me. Thou knowest, methinks, that in trusting me thou wilt come to no harm.” “It is true, sir,” said the old remnant of the wars, carrying his hand to his brow; “but if one is to communicate all the remarks which float through an old man’s brain in the idle moments of such a garrison as this, one stumbles unawares on fantasies, as well as realities, and thus one gets, not altogether undeservedly, the character of a tale-bearer and mischief-maker among his comrades, and methinks I would not willingly fall under that accusation.” “Speak frankly to me,” answered Walton, “and have no fear of being misconstrued, whosoever the conversation may concern.” “Nay, in plain truth,” answered Gilbert, “I fear not the greatness of this young knight, being, as I am, the oldest soldier in the garrison, and having drawn a bow-string long and many a day ere he was weaned from his nurse’s breast.” “It is then,” said Walton, “my lieutenant and friend, Aymer de Valence, at whom your suspicions point?” “At nothing,” replied the archer, “touching the honour of the young knight himself, who is as brave as the sword he wears, and, his youth considered, stands high in the roll of English chivalry; but he is young, as your worship knows, and I own that in the choice of his company he disturbs and alarms me.” “Why, you know, Greenleaf,” answered the governor, “that in the leisure of a garrison a knight cannot always confine his sports and pleasures among those of his own rank, who are not numerous, and may not be so gamesome or fond of frolic as he would desire them to be.”

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“I know that well,” answered the archer; “nor would I say a word concerning your honour’s lieutenant, for joining any honest fellows, however inferior their rank, who are trying their skill in the wrestling ring, or their activity at a bout of quarterstaff; but since Sir Aymer de Valence has a fondness for martial tales of former days, methinks he had better learn them from the ancient soldiers who have followed Edward the First, whom God assoilzie, and who have known before his time the Barons’ wars and other onslaughts, in which the knights and archers of merry England transmitted so many gallant actions to be recorded by fame; truly, such were more beseeming the Earl of Pembroke’s nephew, than to see him closet himself day after day with a strolling minstrel, who gains his livelihood by reciting nonsense and lies to such young men as are fond enough to believe him, of whom hardly any one knows whether he be English or Scottish in his opinions, and still less can any one pretend to say whether he is Englishman or Scottishman by birth, or with what purpose he lies lounging about this castle, and is left free to communicate every thing which passes within it to these old mutterers of matins, who say with their tongues, God save King Edward, but pray in their hearts, God save King Robert Bruce. Such a communication he can easily hold by means of his son, who lies at Saint Bride’s cell, as your worship knows, under pretence of illness.” “How do you say?” exclaimed the governor, “under pretence?—is he not then indisposed?” “Nay, he may be sick to the death for aught I know,” said the archer; “but were it not then more natural that the father should attend his sick-bed, than that he should be ranging about this castle, where one eternally meets him in the old Baron’s study, or in some corner, where you least expect to find him?” “If he has no lawful object,” replied the knight, “it might be as you say; but if he seeks for a volume of ancient poems or prophecies of Merlin, of the Rhymer, or some other old bard, it is natural for him to wish to enlarge his stock of knowledge and power of giving amusement, and where should he find the means save in a study filled with ancient books?” “No doubt,” replied the archer, with a sort of dry civil sneer of incredulity; “I have seldom known an insurrection in Scotland but that it was prophesied by some old forgotten rhyme, conjured out of dust and cobwebs, for the sake of giving courage to those North Country rebels who durst not otherwise have abidden the whistling of the grey-goose shaft; but young heads are hasty, and, with license, even your own brain, Sir Knight, retains too much of the fire of youth for such uncertain times as the present are.”

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“Thou hast convinced me, Gilbert Greenleaf, and I will look into this man’s business and occupation more closely than I have hitherto done. This is no time to peril the safety of a royal castle for the sake of affecting generosity towards a man of whom we know so little, and to whom, till we receive a very full explanation, we may, without doing him injustice, attach such grave suspicions. Is he now in the apartment called the Baron’s study?” “Your worship will be certain to find him there,” replied Greenleaf. “Then follow me, with two or three of thy comrades, and keep out of sight, but within hearing; it may be necessary to arrest this man.” “My assistance,” said the old archer, “shall be at hand when you call, but”—— “But what?” said the knight; “I hope I am not to find doubts and disobedience on all hands?” “Certainly not on mine,” replied Greenleaf; “but I would only remind your worship that what I have said was a sincere opinion expressed in answer to your worship’s question; and, as Sir Aymer de Valence has avowed himself the patron of this man, I would not willingly be left to the hazard of his revenge.” “Pshaw!” answered Walton, “is Aymer de Valence governor of this castle, or am I? or to whom do you imagine you are responsible for such questions as I may put to you?” “Nay,” replied the archer, secretly not displeased with seeing Walton show some little jealousy of authority, “believe me, Sir Knight, that I know my own station and your worship’s, and that I am not now, after many years, to be told to whom I owe obedience.” “To this study then, and let us find the man,” said the governor. “A fine matter indeed,” subjoined Greenleaf, following him, “that your worship should have to go in person to look after the arrest of so mean an individual. But your honour is right; these minstrels are often jugglers, and possess the power of making their escape by means which the borrel* folk like myself are disposed to attribute to necromancy.” Without attending to these last words, Sir John Walton set forth towards the study, walking faster, as if this conversation had augmented his desire to find himself in possession of the person of this suspected minstrel. Traversing the ancient passages of the castle of Douglas, the governor had no difficulty in reaching the study, which was strongly vaulted with stone, and furnished with a sort of iron press, intended to serve for the preservation of articles of value, or papers of consequence, in case of a fire. Here the minstrel was seated, a small table * Unlearned.

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sustaining before him a manuscript, apparently of great antiquity, from which he seemed engaged in making extracts. The windows were very small, and still showed some traces that they had originally been glazed with a painted history of Saint Bride—another mark of the devotion of the great family of Douglas to their tutelar saint. The minstrel seemed deeply wrapt in contemplation of his task, but disturbed by the unusual entrance of Sir John Walton, he rose with every mark of respect and humility, and, remaining standing in the governor’s presence, appeared to wait for his interrogations, as if he had foretold that the visit concerned himself particularly. “I am to suppose,” said Sir John Walton, “that you have been successful in your search, and have found the volume of poetry or prophecy that you proposed to hunt after, amongst these broken shelves and tattered volumes?” “More so than I could have expected,” replied the minstrel, “considering the effects of the conflagration. This, Sir Knight, is apparently the fatal volume for which I sought, and strange it is, considering the fate of other books contained in that library, that I have been able to find a few though imperfect fragments of it.” “Since, therefore, you have been permitted to indulge your curiosity,” said the governor, “I trust, minstrel, you will have no objection to satisfy mine?” The minstrel replied with the same humility, “that if there was any thing within the poor compass of his skill which could gratify Sir John Walton in any degree, he would but reach his lute, and presently obey his commands.” “You mistake, sir,” said Sir John, somewhat harshly. “I am none of those who have time to spend in old tales or music of former days; my life has hardly given me leisure enough for learning the duties of my profession, far less has it allowed me time for such twangling follies. I care not who knows it, but my ear is so incapable of judging of your art, which you doubtless think a noble one, that I can scarcely tell the modulation of one tune from another.” “In that case,” replied the minstrel composedly, “I can hardly promise myself the pleasure of affording your worship the amusement which I might otherwise have done.” “Nor do I look for any at your hand,” said the governor, advancing a step nearer to him, and speaking in a sterner tone. “I want information, sir, which I am assured you can give me, if you have a mind to do so; and it is my duty to tell you, that if you show unwillingness to speak the truth, I know means by which it will become a painful duty to extort it from you in a more disagreeable manner than I would wish.” “If your questions, Sir Knight,” answered Bertram, “be such as I

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can or ought to answer, there shall be no occasion to put them more than once. If they are such as I cannot or ought not to reply to, believe that no threats of violence will extort an answer from me.” “You speak boldly,” said Sir John Walton; “but take my word for it, that your courage will be put to the test. I am as little fond of proceeding to such extremities as you can be of undergoing them, but they will be the natural consequence of your own obstinacy. I therefore ask you, whether Bertram be your real name—whether you have any other profession than that of a travelling minstrel—and, lastly, whether you have any acquaintance or connexion with any Englishman or Scottishman beyond the walls of this Castle of Douglas?” “To these questions,” replied the minstrel, “I have already answered the worshipful knight, Sir Aymer de Valence, and, in respect of having fully satisfied him, it is not, I conceive, necessary that I should undergo a second examination; nor is it consistent either with your worship’s honour, or that of the lieutenant-governor, that such a re-examination should take place.” “You are very considerate,” replied the governor, “of my honour and of Sir Aymer de Valence’s. Take my word for it, they are both in perfect safety in our own keeping, and may dispense with your attention. I ask you, will you answer the enquiries which it is my duty to make, or am I to enforce them by putting them to you under the penalties of the question? I have already, it is my duty to say, seen the answers you have returned to my lieutenant, and they by no means satisfy me.” He at the same time clapped his hands, and two or three archers showed themselves, stripped of their tunics, and only attired in their shirts and hose. “I understand,” said the minstrel, “that you intend to inflict upon me a punishment which is foreign to the genius of the English laws before any proof is adduced of my guilt. I have told you that I am by birth an Englishman, by profession a minstrel, and that I am totally unconnected with any person who is likely to nourish any design against this Castle of Douglas, Sir John Walton, or his garrison. What answers you may extort from me by bodily agony, I cannot, to speak as a plain-dealing Christian, make myself responsible for. I think that I can endure as much pain as any one; I am sure that I never yet felt a degree of agony, that I would not willingly prefer to breaking my plighted word, or becoming a false informer against innocent persons; but I own I do not know the extent to which the art of torture may be carried; and though I do not fear you, Sir John Walton, yet I must acknowledge that I fear myself, since I know not to what extremities your cruelty may be capable of subjecting me, or how far I may be

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enabled to bear them. I, therefore, in the first place, make my protest, that I shall in no manner be liable for any word which I may say in the course of any examination which shall be enforced by constraint of torture; and you must therefore, under such circumstances, proceed to the execution of your office, which, permit me to say, is hardly that which I expected to have found administered by an accomplished knight like yourself.” “Hark you, sir,” replied the governor, “you and I are at issue together, and in doing my full duty, I ought instantly to proceed to the extremities I have threatened; but perhaps you yourself feel less reluctance to undergo the examination as proposed, than I shall do in commanding it; I will therefore consign you for the present to a place of confinement, suitable to one who is suspected of being a spy upon this fortress. Until you are pleased to remove such suspicions, your lodging and nourishment must be those of a prisoner. In the meantime, before subjecting you to the question, take notice, I will myself ride to the Abbey of Saint Bride’s, and satisfy myself whether the young person whom thou wouldst pass as thy son, is possessed of the same determination as that which thou thyself seemest to assert. It may so happen that his examination and yours may throw such light upon each other as will prove decidedly either your guilt or your innocence, without its being confirmed by use of the extraordinary question. If it be otherwise, tremble for thy son’s sake if not for thine own.—Have I shaken you, sir?—or do you fear, in respect to your son’s young sinews and joints, the engines which, in your own case, you seem willing to defy?” “Sir,” answered the minstrel, recovering himself from the momentary emotion which he had shown, “I leave it to yourself, as a man of honour and candour, whether you ought, in common fairness, to form a worse opinion of any man, because he is not unwilling to incur, in his own person, severities which he would not desire should be inflicted upon his child, a sickly youth, just recovering from a dangerous disease.” “It is my duty,” answered Walton, after a short pause, “to leave no stone unturned by which this business may be cleared to the source; and if thou desirest mercy upon thy son, thou wilt thyself most easily attain it, by setting him the example of honesty and plain-dealing.” The minstrel threw himself back on the seat, as if fully resolved to stand every extremity that could be inflicted, rather than make any further answer than those which he had already offered. Sir John Walton seemed himself in some degree uncertain what might be his best part to play. He felt an invincible repugnance to proceed, without hesitation, in what most people would have considered as the direct

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line of his duty, by inflicting the torture both upon father and son; but, deep as was his sense of devotion towards the King, and great as were the hopes and expectations which he had formed upon the safe discharge of his present high trust, he could not resolve upon having recourse at once to this cruel method of cutting the knot. Bertram’s appearance was venerable, and his power of words numerous, and even select. The governor remembered that Aymer de Valence, whose judgment it was impossible to deny, had stated him to be one of those rare individuals, who vindicated the honour of a corrupted profession by their personal good behaviour; and he acknowledged to himself, that there was gross cruelty and injustice in refusing to admit the prisoner to the credit of being a true and honest man, until, by way of proving his rectitude, he had strained every sinew, and crushed every joint in his body, and his son’s. “I have no touchstone,” he said internally, “which can distinguish truth from falsehood; the Douglas has no longer been heard of from Ireland, and the Bruce with the rest of his followers has certainly equipped the galleys which lay at Rachrin through winter. This story, too, of Greenleaf, about arms being procured for a new insurrection, tallies strangely with the appearance of that savage-looking forester at the hunt; and all tends to show, that something is upon the anvil which it is my duty to provide against. I will, therefore, pass over no circumstance by which I can affect this man’s mind by hope or fear; but, please God to give me light from any other source, I will not think it lawful to torment these unfortunate, and, it may yet be, honest men.” He accordingly took his departure from the study, whispering a word to Greenleaf of some orders respecting the prisoner. He had reached the outward door of the study, and his satellites had already taken the old man into their grasp, when his voice was heard calling upon Walton to return for a single moment. “What hast thou to say, friend?” said the governor; “be speedy, for I have already lost more time in listening to thee than I am answerable for, and so I advise thee for thine own sake”—— “I advise thee,” said the minstrel, “for thine own sake, Sir John Walton, to beware how thou dost insist on thy present purpose, by which thou thyself alone, of all men living, wilt most severely suffer. If thou harmest a hair of that young man’s head—nay, if thou permittest him to know a single want which it is in thy power to prevent, thou wilt prepare, in doing so, for thy own heart suffering a degree of agony more acute than any other sorrow or pain in this mortal world could accumulate upon thee. I swear by the most blessed objects of our holy religion; I call to witness that holy sepulchre, of which I have been an unworthy visitor, that I speak nothing but the truth, and that thou wilt

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one day testify thy gratitude for the part I am now acting. It is my interest, as well as yours, to secure you in the safe possession of this castle, although assuredly I know some things respecting it, and respecting your worship, which I am not at liberty to tell without consent of that youth himself. Bring me but a note under his hand, consenting to my taking you into our consultation, and believe me, you will soon see those clouds charmed away; nor was there ever a pageant or a doleful mystery which more speedily changed to joy, or a thundercloud of adversity which more instantly gave way to sunshine.” He spoke with so much earnestness as made some impression upon Sir John Walton, who was once more at a great loss to know what line his duty called upon him to pursue. “I would most gladly,” said the governor, “follow out my purpose by the gentlest means in my power; nor shall my severity bring further distress upon this poor lad, than thine own obstinacy and his shall appear to deserve. In the meantime, think, Bertram, that my duty has limits, and if I slack them for a day or two, it will become thee to exert every effort in thy power to meet my condescension. I will give thee leave to address thy son by a line under thy hand, and I will await his answer before I proceed farther in a matter which seems to be very mysterious. Meantime, if thou hast a soul to be saved, I conjure thee to speak the truth, and tell me whether the secrets of which thou seemest to be a too faithful treasurer, have regard to the practices of Douglas, of Bruce, or any in their names, against this Castle of Douglas?” The prisoner thought a moment, and then replied—“I am aware, Sir Knight, of the severe charge under which this government is intrusted to thee, and was it in my power to assist you, as a faithful minstrel and loyal subject, either with hand or tongue, I should feel myself called upon to do so; but so far am I from being the character your suspicions have apprehended, that I should have held it for constant truth that the Bruce and Douglas had assembled their followers, for the purpose of renouncing their rebellious attempts, and taking their departure for the Holy Land, but for the apparition of the forester, who, I hear, bearded you at the hunting, which impresses upon me the belief, that where so resolute a follower and haunchman of the Douglas was sitting fearless among you, his master and comrades could be at no great distance—how far his intentions could be friendly to you, I must leave it to yourself to judge; only believe me thus far, that the rack, pulley, or pincers, would not have compelled me to act the informer, or adviser, in a quarrel wherein I have little or no share, if I had not been desirous of fixing the belief upon you, that you are dealing with a true man, and one who has your welfare at heart.—Meanwhile, permit me to have writing materials, or let them

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restore my own, for I possess, in some degree, the higher arts of my calling; nor do I fear but what I can procure for you an explanation of these marvels, without much more loss of time.” “God grant it prove so,” said the governor; “though I see not well how I can hope for so favourable a termination, and I may sustain great harm by acting too candidly, and trusting too much on the present occasion.” He handed the prisoner as he spoke the writing materials, which had been seized upon by the archers on their first entrance, and then commanded those satellites to unhand the minstrel. “I would rather,” said Bertram, “remain subjected to all the severities of a strict captive, and I deprecate no hardship whatever in my own person, so I may secure you from acting with a degree of rashness, of which you will repent the whole remainder of your life, and will never after find means of atoning.” “No more words, minstrel,” said the governor; “but since I have made my choice, perhaps a very dangerous one for myself, let us carry this spell into execution, which thou sayest is to serve me, as mariners say that oil spread upon the billows will assuage their fury.”

Chapter Nine Beware! beware! of the Black Friar Who sitteth by Norman stone, For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, And his mass of the days that are gone. When the Lord of the hill, Amundeville, Made Norman church his prey, And expell’d the friars, one friar still Would not be driven away. Though he came in his might, with King Henry’s right, To turn church lands to lay, With sword in hand, and torch to light Their walls if they said nay; A monk remain’d, unchased, unchain’d, And he did not seem form’d of clay; For he’s seen in the porch, and he’s seen in the church, Though he is not seen by day. * * * * * * But beware! beware! of the Black Friar! He still retains his sway, For he is yet the church’s heir, Whoever may be the lay. Amundeville is lord by day, But the monk is lord by night, Nor wine nor wassel could raise a vassal To question that friar’s right.

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Say nought to him as he walks the hall, And he’ll say nought to you: He sweeps along in his dusky pall, As o’er the grass the dew. Then gramercy! for the Black Friar, Heaven sain him fair or foul; And whatsoever may be his prayer, Let ours be for his soul. Don Juan, Canto xvi

T       made no vain boast concerning the skill which he possessed in the use of pen and ink. In fact, no priest of the time could have produced his little scroll more speedily, and more neatly composed, or more fairly written, than the lines addressed “To the youth called Augustine, son of Bertram the Minstrel.” “I have not folded this letter,” said he, “nor tied it with silk, for it is not expressed so as to explain the mystery to you; nor, to speak frankly, do I think that it can convey you any intelligence; but it may be satisfactory to show you what the letter does not contain, and that it is written from and to a person who means kindly towards you and your garrison.” “That,” said the governor, “is a deception which is easily practised; it tends, however, to show, though not with certainty, that you are disposed to act upon good faith, and I shall consider it my point of duty, until the contrary shall appear, to treat you with as much gentleness as the matter admits of. Meantime, I will myself ride to the Abbey of Saint Bride’s, and in person examine the young prisoner, and as you say he has the power, so I pray to Heaven he may have the will, to read this riddle, which seems to place us all in confusion.” So saying, he ordered his horse, and while it was getting ready, he perused with great composure the minstrel’s letter. Its contents ran thus:— “D    A        , “Sir John Walton, the governor of this castle, has conceived those suspicions which I pointed out as likely to be the consequence of our coming to this country without an avowed errand. I at least am seized, and threatened with examination under torture, to force me to tell the purpose of our journey; but they shall tear my flesh from my bones, ere they force me to break the oath which I have taken. And the purport of this letter is to apprize you of the danger in which you stand of being placed in similar circumstances, unless you are disposed to authorize me to make the discovery to this knight; but on this subject you have only to express your own wishes, being assured they shall be in every respect a law to your bounden vassal “B .”

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This letter did not throw the smallest light upon the mystery of the writer. The governor read it more than once, and turned it repeatedly in his hand, as if he had hoped by that mechanical process to make something apparent from the missive, which at a first view the words did not express; but as no result of this sort appeared, he retired to the hall, where he informed Sir Aymer de Valence, that he was going abroad as far as the Abbey of Saint Bride’s, and that he would be obliged by his taking upon him the duties of governor during his absence. Sir Aymer, of course, intimated his acquiesence in the charge, and the state of disunion in which they stood to each other, permitted no further explanation. Upon the arrival of Sir John Walton, at the dilapidated shrine, the abbot, with trembling haste, made it his business immediately to attend the commander of the English garrison, upon whom, for the present, their house depended for every indulgence they experienced, as well as for the subsistence and protection necessary to them in so perilous a period. Having interrogated this old man respecting the youth residing in the abbey, Walton was informed that he had been indisposed since left there by his father, Bertram, a minstrel. It appeared to the abbot, however, that his indisposition was not of that contagious kind which, at that period, ravaged the English Borders, and made some incursions into Scotland, where it afterwards worked a fearful progress. After some farther conversation, Sir John Walton put into the abbot’s hand the letter to the young person under his roof, on delivering which to Augustine, the reverend father was charged with a message to the English governor, so bold, that he was afraid to be the bearer of it. It signified, that the youth could not, and would not, at that moment, receive the knight; but that, if he came back on the morrow at noon, it was probable he might learn something of what was requested. “This is not an answer,” said Sir John Walton, “to be sent by a boy like this to a person in my charge; and methinks, Father Abbot, you consult your own safety but slenderly in undertaking the delivery of such a message.” The abbot trembled under the folds of his large coarse habit; and Walton, imagining that his discomposure was the consequence of guilty fear, called upon him to remember the duties which he owed to England, the benefits which he had received from himself, and the probable consequence of mixing himself in a pert boy’s insolent defiance of the power of the governor of the province. The abbot vindicated himself from these charges with the utmost anxiety. He pledged his sacred word, that the inconsiderate character of the boy’s message was owing to the petulance of indisposition. He

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reminded the governor that, as a Christian and an Englishman, he had duties to observe towards the community of Saint Bride’s, which had never given the English government the least subject of complaint. As he spoke, the churchman seemed to gather courage from the immunities of his order. He said he could not permit a sick boy, who had taken refuge within the sanctuary of the church, to be seized or subjected to any species of force, unless he was accused of a specific crime, capable of being immediately proved, concerning which he saw no allegation. The Douglasses, a headlong race, had, in former days, uniformly respected the sanctuary of Saint Bride’s, and it was not to be supposed that the King of England, the dutiful and obedient child of the Church of Rome, would act with less veneration for her rights and immunities, than the followers of a usurper, homicide, and excommunicated person like Robert Bruce. Walton was considerably shaken with this remonstrance. He knew that, in the circumstances of the time, the Pope had great power in every controversy in which it was his pleasure to interfere, with how little reason so ever. He knew that even in the dispute respecting the supremacy of Scotland, his Holiness had set up a claim to the kingdom, which, in the temper of the times, might perhaps have been deemed superior both to that of Robert Bruce and that of Edward of England, and he conceived his monarch would give him little thanks for any fresh embroilment which might take place between the church and himself. Moreover, it was easy to place a watch to prevent Augustine from escaping during the night; and at the lapse of twenty-four hours, which was the space that the young man desired for consideration, he would be as effectually in the power of the English governor as if he was to be seized on by open force at the present moment. The abbot also engaged, in consideration of the sanctuary being respected for this space of time, he would be aiding and assisting with his spiritual authority to surrender the youth to his pleasure, should he not allege a sufficient reason to the contrary. This arrangement, which appeared still to flatter the governor with the prospect of an easy termination of this troublesome dispute, strongly inclined him to grant the delay which Augustine rather demanded than petitioned for. “At your request, Father Abbot, whom I have hitherto found a true man, I will indulge this youth with twenty-four hours grace, before taking him into custody, understanding you will admit that he shall not be permitted to leave this place; and thou art to be responsible to this effect, giving thee, as is reasonable, power to command our little garrison at Hazelside, to which I will send a reinforcement on my return to the Castle, in order to employ them, if necessary, to use the strong hand in detaining him in custody.”

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“Worthy Sir Knight,” replied the abbot, “I have no idea that the frowardness of this youth will render any force necessary, saving that of persuasion; and I venture to say, that you yourself will in the highest degree approve of the method in which I shall acquit myself of my present trust.” “Be it so,” replied the knight—“still it is prudent that I should have force at no great distance from you, in case it should so turn out, contrary to your hope and my own, that there should be occasion to employ it.” The abbot then went through the duties of hospitality, numbering up what simple cheer the cloister of the convent permitted him to offer to the English knight, whom he was desirous to please and to honour. Sir John Walton declined the offer of refreshment, however—took a courteous leave of the churchman, and did not spare his horse until the noble animal had brought him again before the Castle of Douglas. Sir Aymer de Valence met him on the drawbridge, and reported the state of the garrison to be the same in which he had left it, excepting that intimation had been received that twelve or fifteen men were expected upon duty ultimately in the town of Lanark; and being on march from the neighbourhood of Ayr, would that very night take up their quarters at the outpost of Hazelside. “I am glad of it,” replied the governor; “I was about to strengthen that detachment to prevent that stripling, the son of Bertram the minstrel, who is to deliver himself up for examination tomorrow at noon. As this party of soldiers are followers of your uncle, Lord Pembroke, may I request you will ride to meet them, and command them to halt at Hazelside until the youth shall deliver himself up to them, and then convey him hither, with all due care and attention to his security, as being a prisoner of some importance.” “Certainly, Sir John,” answered Sir Aymer; “your command shall be obeyed, since you have no other orders of greater importance for one who hath the honour to be second only to yourself in this place.” “I crave your mercy, Sir Aymer,” returned the governor, “if the commission be in any degree beneath your dignity; but it is our misfortune to misunderstand each other, when we endeavour to be most intelligible.” “But what am I to do,” said Sir Aymer—“(no way disputing your command, but only asking for information)—what am I to do, if the abbot offers opposition?” “He dare not!” answered Sir John Walton; “with the reinforcement of my Lord of Pembroke’s men, you will command at least twenty with bow and spear, against five or six timid old monks, with only gown and hood.”

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“True,” said Sir Aymer, “but ban and excommunication are sometimes, in the present day, too hard for the mail coat, and I would not willingly be thrown out of the pale of the Christian church.” “Well, then, thou very suspicious and scrupulous young man,” replied Walton, “know that if to-morrow at noon this youth does not deliver himself up to thee of his own accord, the abbot has promised to put him into thy hands.” There was no further answer to be made, and De Valence, though still thinking himself unnecessarily harassed with charge of a petty commission, took the sort of half arms which were always used when the knights stirred beyond the walls of the garrison, and proceeded to execute the commands of Walton. A horseman or two, together with his squire Fabian, accompanied him. The evening closed in with one of those Scottish mists which are commonly said to be equal to the showers of happier climates; the path became more and more dank, the hills more wreathed in vapours, and more difficult to traverse; and all the little petty inconveniencies which rendered travelling through the district slow and uncertain, were augmented by the obscurity of a wet and misty night. Sir Aymer, therefore, occasionally mended his pace, and often incurred the fate of an over-lated man, delaying himself by the very efforts which he made, and the passes which he attempted for the purpose of quickening his arrival. The knight thought he should get into a straighter road by passing through the almost deserted town of Douglas,—the inhabitants of which had been treated with considerable severity by the English, so that most of them who were capable of bearing arms had thought it necessary to leave the place and withdrawn where the Scottish natives, living under less strict governors than Sir John Walton, were objects of less severe suspicion. The gate of the town was defended by a rude palisade, and a ruder drawbridge, which gave entrance into narrow streets, crowded as they were with old houses, thrust upon each other, so as to admit with difficulty three horses to go abreast, and evincing with what strictness the Douglasses, ancient lords of the village, adhered to their prejudice against fortifications, and their opinion in favour of keeping the field, as it is expressed in the well-known proverb of the family,—“It is better to hear the lark sing than the mouse cheep.” The streets, or rather the lanes, were dark, but for a shifting gleam of moonlight, which, as that planet began to rise, was now and then visible upon some steep and narrow gable. No sound of domestic industry, or domestic festivity, was heard from the houses, and no ray of candle or firelight glanced from their windows; the ancient ordinance called the curfew, which the Conqueror

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had introduced into England, was in full force in such parts of Scotland as were thought doubtful, and likely to rebel, and Douglas was particularly held in suspicion. The Church, whose Gothic ornaments were of a magnificent character, had been, as far as possible, destroyed by fire; so that the ruins only held together by the weight of the massive stones of which it was composed, and thus evinced both the greatness of the distinguished family to which it had belonged, and the power exercised by the enemies by whom such devastation had been committed. Paying little attention to these splendid memorials of departed grandeur, Sir Aymer de Valence advanced with his few attendants, and had passed the remaining fragments of the cemetery of the Douglasses, when, to his surprise, the noise of his horse’s feet was seemingly replied to by sounds which rung like those of another knightly steed riding heavily up the street, as if it were to meet him. He was unable to form a guess what might be the cause of these warlike sounds; the ring and the clang of armour was distinct, and the heavy tramp of a warhorse was not to be mistaken by the ear of a warrior. The difficulty of keeping soldiers from straying out of quarters by night, would have sufficiently accounted for the appearance of a straggling foot-soldier; but it was more difficult to account for a mounted horseman, in full armour; and such was the apparition which a peculiarly bright glimpse of moonlight showed at the bottom of the causewayed hill. Perhaps the unknown warrior obtained at the same time a glance of Aymer de Valence and his armed party—at least each of them shouted “Who goes there?”—the alarm of the times; and the deep answers of “Saint George!” on the one side, and “The Douglas!” on the other, wakened the still echoes of the tall and ruinous street, and the silent arches of the dilapidated church. Astonished at a war-cry with which so many recollections were connected, the English knight, determined to know the cause of such extraordinary sounds, spurred his horse at full gallop down the steep and broken descent leading out at the south or southeast gate of the town, in hopes to come to grapple with this audacious warrior; and it was the work of an instant to call out, “Ho! Saint George! upon the insolent villain, all of you!—To the gate, Fabian, and cut him off!—Saint George! I say, for England! Bows and bills! —bows and bills!” At the same time Aymer de Valence laid in rest his own long lance, which he snatched from the squire by whom it was carried. But the light was seen and gone in an instant, and though De Valence concluded that the hostile warrior had hardly room to avoid his career, yet he could not take any exact aim for his encounter, unless it were by mere guess, and the speed at which he descended the declivity, among shattered stones and other encumbrances in the dark, was

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too hazardous to permit him to attain with his lance the horseman whose person he could not see. He rode, therefore, at a broken gallop, about fifty or sixty yards down the street, without having any reason to suppose that he had met the figure whom he had seen, although the narrowness of the street scarcely admitted his having passed him, unless both the strange rider and the steed could have melted at the moment of encounter like an air-bubble. The horsemen of his suite were struck with a feeling like supernatural terror, which a number of singular adventures had caused most of them to attach to the name of Douglas. Fabian, indeed, at the sound of his master’s voice, too hotheaded to be timorous, had ridden on at the gallop through the broken street to the gate by which it was terminated. Here there was a post of English archers, who were turning out in considerable alarm, when De Valence and his squire rode in amongst them. “Villains!” said De Valence, “why were ye not upon your duty? Who was it passed through your post even now, with the traitorous cry of ‘Douglas?’ ” “We know of no such,” said the captain of the watch. “That is to say, you besotted villains,” answered the young knight, “you have been drinking, and have slept?” The men protested the contrary, but in a confused manner, which was far from overcoming De Valence’s suspicions. He called loudly to bring cressets, torches, and lights; and the few remaining inhabitants began to make their unwilling appearance, with such means of giving illumination as they chanced to possess. They heard the story of the young English knight with wonder; nor, although it was confirmed by all his retinue, did they give credit to it, more than that it was put forth by the Englishmen for picking a quarrel with the people of the place, under pretence of their having admitted a retainer of their ancient lord by night into the town. They protested, therefore, their innocence of the cause of tumult, and endeavoured to seem active in going from house to house, and corner to corner, with their torches, in order to discover the invisible cavalier. The English suspected them no less of treachery, than the Scottish imagined the whole matter a pretext to bring an accusation, on the part of the young knight, against the citizens. The women, who now began to issue from the houses, had a key for the solution of the apparition, which at that time was believed of efficacy sufficient to solve any mystery. “The devil,” they said, “must have appeared visibly amongst them;” an explanation which had already occurred to the followers of the young knight; for that a living man and horse, both, as it seemed, of a gigantic size, could be conjured in the twinkling of an eye, out of a street secured at one end by the best of the archers, and at the other by the horsemen under Valence himself, was altogether, it seemed, a case absolutely improb-

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able. The Scottish men did not venture to trust their thoughts on the subject into language, for fear of giving offence, and only indicated by a passing word to each other the real degree of pleasure which they felt in the confusion and embarrassment of the English garrison. Still, however, they continued to affect a great deal of interest in the alarm which De Valence had received, and the anxiety which he expressed to discover the cause. At length a female voice spoke above the other confused sounds, saying, “Where is the young English Knight? I am sure that I can tell him the only person who can help him out of his present difficulty.” “And who is that, good woman?” said Aymer de Valence, who was growing every moment more impatient at the loss of time, which was flying fast, in an investigation which had something in it ridiculous, and considering the pressure of time, even vexatious. “Come hither to me,” said the female voice, “and I will name to you the only person who can explain all matters of this kind that chance in this country.” After some thrusting and crowding, the knight at last snatched a torch, or lighted wisp of straw, from some of those who were present, and holding it up, descried the person who spoke, a tall woman, who endeavoured to render herself remarkable, and was easily distinguished from the other spectators. When he approached her, she communicated her intelligence in a grave and sententious tone of voice. “We had once wise men, that could have answered any parables which might have been put to them for explanation in this country side. Whether you yourselves, gentlemen, have not had some hand in weeding them out, good troth, it is not for the like of me to say; at any rate, good counsel is not so easy come by as it was in this Douglas country, nor, may be, is it a safe thing to pretend to the power of giving it.” “Good woman,” said De Valence, “if you will show me the way out of this labyrinth, I will owe you a kirtle of the best raploch grey.” “It is not I,” said the old woman, “that pretend to possess the knowledge which may assist you; but I would fain that the man whom I shall name to you shall be skaithless and harmless. Upon your knighthood and your honour, will you promise to me so much?” “Assuredly,” said De Valence, “such a person shall even have thanks and reward, if he is a faithful informer; ay, and pardon, moreover, although he may have listened to any dangerous practices, or been concerned in any plots.” “Oh! not he,” replied the female; “it is old Goodman Powheid, who has the charge of the muniments,” (meaning probably monuments,) “that is, such part of them as you English have left standing; I

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mean the old sexton of the kirk of Douglas, who can tell more stories of these old folks, whom your honour is not very fond of hearing named, than would last us from this day till Yule.” “Does any body,” said the knight, “know whom it is that this old woman means?” “I conjecture,” replied Fabian, “that she speaks of an old dotard, who is, I think, the general referee concerning the history and antiquities of this old town, and of the ancient family who lived here before the conquest.” “And who, I dare say,” said the knight, “knows as much about the matter as she herself does. But where is this man? a sexton is he? He may be acquainted with places of concealment, which are often fabricated in Gothic buildings, and known to those whose business calls them to frequent them. Come, my good old dame, bring this man to me; or, what may be better, I will go to him, for we have already spent too much time.” “Time!” replied the old woman,—“is time an object with your honour? I am sure I can hardly get so much for mine as will hold soul and body together. You are not far from the old man’s house.” She led the way accordingly, blundering over heaps of rubbish, and encountering all the embarrassments of a ruinous street, lighting the way to Sir Aymer, who, giving his horse to one of his attendants, scrambled after as well as the slowness of his guide would permit. The sight of a partisan of the Douglas in their own native town, seemed to bode too serious consequences, if it should be suffered to pass without probing to the bottom. Both were soon involved in the remains of the old church, much dilapidated as it had been by wanton damage done to it by the soldiery, and so much impeded by rubbish, that Sir Aymer marvelled how the old woman could find the way. She kept talking all the while that she stumbled onward. Sometimes she called out in a screeching tone, “Powheid! Lazarus Powheid!”—and then muttered—“Ay, ay, the old man will be busy with some of his duties, as he calls them; I wonder he fashes wi’ them in these times. But never mind, I warrant they will last for his day, and for mine; and the times, Lord help us! for all that I can see, are well enough for those that are to live in them.” “Are you sure, good woman,” replied the knight, “that there is any inhabitant in these ruins? For my part, I should rather suppose that you are taking me to the charnel-house of the dead.” “Maybe you are right,” said the old woman, with a ghastly laugh; “carles and carlines agree very weel with funeral vaults and charnelhouses, and when an auld bedral dwells near the dead, he is living, ye ken, among his customers—Hollo! Powheid! Lazarus Powheid!

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there is a gentleman would speak with you;” and she added, with some sort of emphasis, “an English noble gentleman—one of the honourable garrison.” An old man’s step was now heard advancing, so slowly that the glimmering light which he held in his hand was visible on the ruined walls of the vault some time before it showed the person who bore it. The shadow of the old man was projected upon the illuminated wall ere his person came in view; his dress was in considerable confusion, owing to his having been roused from his bed; since it was to be conceived that in a town where darkness occupied such a portion of the daytime, and artificial light was forbidden by the regulations of the garrison, the natives of Douglas Dale studied to spend in sleep the time that they could not very well get rid of by any other means. The sexton was a tall thin man, emaciated by years and by privations, his body bent habitually by his occupation of digging the earth, and his eye naturally inclined downwards to the scene of his labours. His hand sustained the crusie or little lamp, which he held so as to throw light upon his visitant; and at the same time it displayed to the young knight the features of the person with whom he was now confronted, which, though neither handsome nor pleasing, were strongly marked, sagacious, and venerable, indicating, at the same time, a certain air of dignity, which age, even mere poverty, may be found occasionally to bestow, as conferring that last melancholy species of independence proper to those whose situation can hardly, by any imaginable means, be rendered much worse than years and fortune have already made it. The habit of a lay brother added somewhat of religious importance to his appearance. “What would you with me, young man?” said the sexton. “Your youthful features, and your gay dress, render you unlike one who stands in need of my ministry either for himself or for others.” “I am, indeed,” replied the knight, “a living man, and therefore need not either shovel or pick-axe for my own behoof. I am not, as you see, attired in mourning, and therefore need not your offices in behalf of any friend; I would only ask you a few questions.” “What you would have done must needs be done, you being at present one of our rulers, and, as I think, a man of authority,” replied the sexton; “follow me this way into my poor habitation; I have had better in my day; and yet, Heaven knows, it is good enough for me, when many men of much greater consequence must here content themselves with worse.” He opened a lowly door, which was fitted, though irregularly, to serve as the entrance of a vaulted apartment, where it appeared that the old man held, apart from the living world, his wretched and

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solitary situation. The floor, made of paving stones, laid together with some accuracy, and here and there inscribed with letters and hieroglyphics, as if they had once upon a time served to distinguish sepulchres, was indifferently well swept, and a fire at the upper end directed its smoke into a hole which was perforated for a chimney. The spade and pick-axe (with other tools,) which the chamberlain of mortality makes use of in rendering the last rites required upon earth, lay confused in the apartment, and, with a rude stool or two, and a table, where some unexperienced hand had unquestionably supplied the labours of the joiner, were nearly the only furniture, if we include the old man’s bed of straw, lying in a corner, and discomposed, as if he had been just raised from it. At the lower end of the apartment the wall was almost entirely covered by a large escutcheon, such as is usually hung over the graves of men of very high rank, having the appropriate quarters, to the number of sixteen, each properly blazoned and distinct, placed as ornaments around the principal armorial coat itself. “Let us sit,” said the old man; “the posture will better enable my failing ears to apprehend your meaning, and the asthma will deal with me more mercifully in permitting me to make you understand mine.” A peal of short asthmatic coughs attested the violence of the disorder which he had last named, and the young knight followed his host’s example, in sitting down on one of the rickety stools by the side of the fire. The old man brought from one corner of the apartment an apron, which he wore while following his occupation, full of broken boards in irregular pieces, some of which were covered with black cloth, or driven full of nails, black, as it might happen, or gilded. “You will find this fresh fuel necessary,” said the old man, “to keep some degree of heat within this waste apartment; nor are the vapours of mortality, with which it is apt to be filled, if the fire is permitted to become extinct, indifferent to the lungs of the dainty and the healthy, like your worship, though to me they are become habitually an atmosphere of use and wont. The wood will catch fire, although it is some time ere the damps of the grave are overcome by the drier air and the warmth of the chimney.” Accordingly, the relics of mortality with which the old man had heaped his fireplace, began by degrees to send forth a thick unctuous vapour, which at length leaped to light, and going blazing up the aperture, gave a degree of liveliness to the gloomy scene. The blazonry of the huge escutcheon met and returned the rays with as brilliant a reflection as that lugubrious object was capable of, and the whole apartment looked with a fantastic gayety, strangely mingled with the gloomy ideas which its ornaments were calculated to impress upon the imagination.

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“You are astonished,” said the old man, “and perhaps, Sir Knight, you have never before seen the last remnants of mortality applied to the purpose of rendering the living, in some degree, more comfortable than their condition would otherwise admit of.” “Comfortable!” returned the Knight of Valence, shrugging his shoulders; “I should be sorry, old man, to know that I had a dog that was as indifferently quartered as thou art, whose grey hairs have certainly seen better days.” “It may be,” answered the sexton, “and it may be otherwise; but it was not, I presume, concerning my own history that your worship seemed disposed to ask me some questions; and I would venture to enquire, therefore, to whom they have relation?” “I will speak plainly to you,” replied Sir Aymer, “and you will at once acknowledge the necessity of giving a short and distinct reply. I have even now met in the streets of this village a person shown to me by a single flash of light, who had the audacity to display the armorial insignia and utter the war-cry of the Douglasses; nay, if I could trust a transient glance, this daring cavalier had the features and the dark complexion proper to the Douglas. I am referred to thee as to one who possesses means of explaining this extraordinary circumstance, which, as an English knight, and one holding a charge under the royal King Edward, I am particularly called upon to make enquiry into.” “Let me make a distinction,” said the old man. “The Douglasses of former generations are my near neighbours, and, according to my superstitious townsmen, my acquaintances and visitors; I can take it upon my conscience to be answerable for their good behaviour, and to become bound that none of the old barons, to whom the roots of that mighty tree may, it is said, be traced—not one of them—will again disturb with their war-cry the towns or villages of their native country —not one will parade in moonshine the black armour which has long rusted upon their tombs. The knights are dust, And their good swords are rust; Their souls are with the saints, we trust.

Look around, Sir Knight, you have above and around you the men of whom we speak. Beneath us, in a little aisle, (which hath not been opened since these thin grey locks were thick and brown,) there lies the first man whom I can name as memorable among those of this mighty line. It is he whom the Thane of Athol pointed out to the King of Scotland as Sholto Dhuglass, or the dark iron-coloured man, whose exertions had gained the battle for his native prince; though others say that the race assumed the name of Douglas from the river and village so called. Others, his descendants, called Orodh or Hugh the first and

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Orodh or Hugh the second, William the first of that honourable name, and Gilmour, the theme of many a minstrel song, commemorating achievements done under the oriflamme of Charles the Great, Emperor of France, have all consigned themselves to their last sleep, nor has their memory been sufficiently preserved from the waste of time. Something we know concerning their great deeds, their great power, and, alas! their great crimes. Something we also know of a Lord of Douglas who sat in a parliament at Forfar, held by King Malcolm the First, and we are aware that from his attachment to hunting the wild hart, he built himself a tower called Blackhouse, in the forest of Ettrick, which perhaps still exists.” “I crave your forgiveness, old man,” said the knight, “but I have no time at present to bestow upon the recitation of the pedigree of the House of Douglas. A less matter would hold a well-breathed minstrel in subject for recitation for a calendar month, Sundays and holydays and all.” “What other information can you expect from me,” said the sexton, “than that respecting those heroes, some of whom it has been my lot to consign to that eternal rest, which will for ever divide the dead from the duties of this world? I have told you where the race sleep, down to the reign of the royal Malcolm. I can tell you also of another vault, in which lie Sir John of Douglas-burn, with his son Lord Archibald, and a third William, known by an indenture with Lord Abernethy. Lastly, I tell you of him to whom that escutcheon, with its appurtenances of splendour and dignity, justly belongs. Do you envy that nobleman, whom, if death were in the sound, I would not hesitate to term my honourable patron? and have you any design of dishonouring his remains? It will be a poor victory; nor does it become a knight and nobleman to come in person to enjoy such a triumph over the dead, against whom, when he lived, there were few knights dared spur their horses. He fought in defence of his country, but he had not the good fortune of some of his ancestors, to die on the field of battle. Captivity, sickness, and regret for the misfortunes of his native land, brought his head to the grave in his prison-house, in the land of the stranger.” The old man’s voice here became interrupted by emotion, and the English knight found it difficult to continue his examination in the stern fashion which his duty required. “Old man,” he said, “I do not require from thee this detail, which must be useless to me, as well as painful to thyself. Thou dost but thy duty in rendering justice to thy ancient lord; but thou hast not yet explained to me why I have met in this town, this very night, and not half an hour since, a person in the arms, and bearing the complexion,

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of one of these old Douglasses, who cried his war-cry as if in contempt of his conquerors.” “Surely,” replied the sexton, “it is not my business to explain such a fancy, otherwise than by supposing that the natural fears of the Southron will raise the spectre of a Douglas at any time, when he is within sight of their sepulchre, and methinks, in such a night as this, the fairest cavalier would wear the complexion of their swarthy race; nor lastly, is it wonderful that the war-cry which was once in the throats of so many thousands in this country, should issue upon occasion from the mouth of a single champion.” “You are bold, old man,” returned the English knight; “do you consider that your life is in my power, and it may, in certain cases, be my duty to inflict death with that degree of pain at which humanity shudders?” The old man rose up slowly in the light of the blazing fire, displaying his emaciated features, which resembled those ascribed by artists to Saint Anthony of the desert; and pointing to the feeble lamp, which he placed upon the coarse table, thus addressed his interrogator, with an appearance of perfect firmness, and something even resembling dignity:— “Young knight of England, you see that utensil constructed for the purpose of dispensing light amidst these fatal vaults,—it is as frail as any thing can well be, whose flame is supplied by living element, contained in a frame composed of iron. It is doubtless in your power entirely to end its service, by destroying the frame, or extinguishing the light. Threaten it with such annihilation, Sir Knight, and see whether the fire or the iron will acknowledge any sense of your power. Know that you have no more power over the frail mortal whom you threaten with similar annihilation. You may tear from my body the skin in which it is now hardly swathed, and although my nerves may glow with agony during the inhuman operation, it will produce no more impression on me than the flaying of a stag which an arrow has previously pierced through the heart. My age sets me beyond your cruelty: and if you think otherwise, call your agents, and commence your operations; nor will threats or actions enable you to extort from me any thing that I am not ready to tell you of my own accord.” “You jest with me, old man,” said De Valence; “you talk as if you possessed some secret respecting the motions of these Douglasses, who are to you as gods, yet you communicate no intelligence whatever.” “You may soon know,” replied the old man, “all that a poor sacristan has to communicate; and it will not increase your knowledge respecting the living, though it may throw some light upon my proper

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domains, which are those of the dead. The spirits of the deceased Douglasses do not rest in their graves during the dishonour of their monuments, and the downfall of their house. That they are at once consigned to the regions of eternal bliss, or never-ending misery, religion will not suffer us to believe, but amidst a race who had so great a share of worldly triumph and prosperity, we may suppose there have existed many who were justly subjected to the doom of an intermediate space of punishment. You have destroyed the temples which were built by their posterity with regard to the safety of their souls; you have silenced the prayers and stopt the choirs, by mediation of which the piety of their children had sought to appease the wrath of Heaven in behalf of their ancestors, who were subjected to penal fires. Can you wonder that the tormented spirits, thus deprived of the relief which had been proposed to them, should not, according to the common phrase, rest in their graves? Can you wonder they should show themselves like discontented loiterers near to the places which, but for the manner in which you have prosecuted your remorseless warfare, might have ere now afforded them rest? Or do you marvel that these fleshless warriors should interrupt your marches, and do what else their airy nature may permit to disturb your councils, and meet as far as they may the hostilities which you make it your boast to carry on, as well against the dead part of the family, as against any who may yet survive your cruelty?” “Old man,” replied Aymer de Valence, “you cannot expect that I am to take for answer a story like this, being a fiction too gross to charm to sleep a schoolboy tormented with the toothach; nevertheless, I thank God that thy doom does not remain in my hands. My squire and two archers shall carry thee captive to the worshipful Sir John Walton, Governor of the Castle and Valley, that he may deal with thee as seems meet; nor is he a person to believe in your apparitions of ghosts from purgatory.—What ho! Fabian! Come hither, and bring with thee two archers of the guard.” Fabian accordingly, who had waited at the entrance of the ruined building, now found his way, by the light of the sacristan’s fire, and the sound of his master’s voice, into the singular apartment of the old man, the strange decorations of which struck the youth with great surprise and some horror. “You will take the two archers with you, Fabian,” said the Knight of Valence, “and, with their assistance, convey this old man, on horseback, or in a litter, if thou canst procure one, to the presence of the worshipful Sir John Walton. Tell him what we have seen, which thou didst witness as well as I; and tell him that this old sacristan, whom I send to be examined by his superior wisdom, seems to know more

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than he is willing to disclose respecting our ghostly cavalier, though he will give us no account of him, except intimating that he is a spirit of the old Douglasses from purgatory, to which Sir John Walton will add what faith he pleases. You may say, that, for my part, my belief is, either that the sacristan is crazed by age, want, and enthusiasm, or that he is connected with some plot which the country people are hatching.” Fabian promised obedience; and the knight, pulling him aside, gave him an additional caution, to behave with attention in this business, seeing he must recollect, that neither the judgment of himself, nor that of his master, were apparently held in very much esteem by the governor; and that it would ill become them to make any mistake in a matter where the safety of the castle was perhaps concerned. “Fear me not, worshipful sir,” replied the youth; “I am returning to pure air in the first place, and a good fire in the second, both acceptable exchanges for this dungeon of suffocating vapours and execrable smells of every kind. You may trust to my making no delay upon the road; half an hour will carry me back to Castle Douglas, even with suitable attention to this old man’s bones.” “Use him humanely,” answered the knight. “And thou, old man, if thou art insensible to threats of personal danger in this matter, remember, that if thou art found paltering with us, thy punishment will be more severe than any we can inflict upon thine own person.” “Can you administer the torture to the soul?” said the sacristan. “As to thee,” answered the knight, “we have that power;—we will dissolve every monastery or religious establishment held for the souls of these Douglasses, and will only allow the religious people to hold their residence there, upon condition of their praying for the soul of King Edward the First of glorious memory, the malleus Scotorum; and if the Douglasses are deprived of the ghostly benefit of the prayers and services of such shrines, they may term thy obstinacy the cause.” “Such a species of vengeance,” answered the old man, in the same bold unsubdued tone which he had hitherto used, “were more worthy of the infernal fiends than of Christian men.” The squire raised his hand. The knight interposed: “Forbear him,” he said, “Fabian, he is very old, and perhaps insane.—And you, sacristan, remember that the vengeance threatened is lawfully directed towards a family which have been the obstinate supporters of the excommunicated rebel, who murdered the Red Comyn at the High Church in Dumfries.” So saying, Aymer strode out of the ruins, picking his way with some difficulty—took his horse, which he found at the entrance—repeated a caution to Fabian to conduct himself with prudence—and, passing

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on to the south-western gate, gave the strongest injunctions concerning the necessity of keeping a vigilant watch, both by patrols and by sentinels, intimating at the same time, that it must have been neglected during the preceding part of the evening. The men murmured an apology, the confusion of which seemed to express that there was some foundation for it. Sir Aymer then proceeded on his journey to Hazelside, his train diminished by the absence of Fabian and his assistants. After a rapid, but not a short journey, for he met with many impediments, he lighted at Thomas Dickson’s, where he found the detachment from Ayr had arrived before him, and were snugly housed for the night. He sent one of the archers at that post to disturb the slumbers of the Abbot of Saint Bride’s and his young guest, intimating at the same time, that the archer must keep sight of the latter until he himself arrived at the chapel, which would be instantly.

Chapter Ten S  A  de Valence had no sooner followed his archer to the convent of Saint Bride, than he summoned to his presence the abbot, who came with air of a man who loves his ease, and who is suddenly called from the couch where he has consigned himself to a comfortable repose, by the summons of one whom he does not think it safe to disobey, and whom, at the same time he would show some sense of peevishness, if he durst. “It is a late ride,” he said, “which has brought your worthy honour hither from the castle. May I be informed of the cause?” “It is my hope,” replied the knight, “that you, Father Abbot, are not already conscious of it; suspicions are afloat, and I myself have this night seen something to confirm them, that some of the obstinate rebels of this country are again setting afoot dangerous practices, to the peril of the garrison; and I come, father, to see whether, in requital of many favours received from the English monarch, you will not merit his bounty and protection, by contributing to the discovery of the designs of his enemies.” “Assuredly,” answered Father Jerome, in an agitated voice. “Most unquestionably—that is, if I knew any thing the communication of which could be of advantage to you.” “Father Abbot,” replied the English knight, “although it is rash to make myself responsible for a Scot in these times, yet I own I do consider you as one who has ever been faithfully subject to the King of England, and I willingly hope that you will still continue so.”

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“And a fine encouragement I have!” said the abbot; “to be called out of my bed at midnight, in this raw weather, to undergo the examination of a knight, who is the youngest, perhaps, of his own honourable rank, and who will not tell me the subject of the examination which I am to undergo, but detains me on this cold pavement, till, according to the opinion of Celsus, the podagra which lurks in my feet may be driven into my stomach, and then good-night to abbacy and examinations from henceforward.” “Good father,” said the young man, “the spirit of the times must teach you patience; recollect that I can feel no pleasure in this duty, and that if an insurrection should take place, the rebels, who are sufficiently displeased with you for acknowledging the English monarch, would hang thee from thine own steeple to feed the crows; or that, if thou hast secured thy peace by some private compact with the insurgents, the English governor, who will sooner or later gain the advantage, will not fail to treat thee as a rebel to his sovereign.” “It may appear to you, my noble son,” answered the abbot, obviously discomposed, “that I am hung up, in this case, on the horns of the dilemma which you have stated; nevertheless, I protest to you, that if any one accuses me of conspiring with the rebels against the King of England, I am ready, provided you give me time to swallow a potion recommended by Celsus in my perilous case, to answer with the most perfect sincerity every question which thou canst put to me upon that subject.” So saying, he called upon a monk who had attended at his levée, and giving him a large key, whispered something in his ear. The cup which the monk brought, was of such capacity as proved Celsus’s draught required to be administered in considerable quantity, and a strong smell which it spread through the apartment, accredited the knight’s suspicion that the medicine chiefly consisted in what was then termed distilled waters, a preparation known in the monasteries for some time before that comfortable secret had reached the laity in general. The abbot, neither overawed by the strength nor by the quantity of the potion, took it off with what he himself would have called a feeling of solace and pleasance, and his voice was much more composed when he signified himself much comforted by the medicine, and willing to proceed to answer any questions which could be put to him by his gallant young friend. “At present,” said the knight, “you are aware, father, that strangers travelling through this country, must be the first objects of our suspicions and enquiries. What is, for example, your own opinion of the youth termed Augustine, the son, or calling himself so, of a person called Bertram the minstrel, who has resided for some days in your convent?”

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The abbot heard the question with eyes expressive of surprise at the quarter from which it came. “Assuredly,” said he, “I think of him as a youth who, from any thing I have seen, is of that excellent disposition, both with respect to loyalty and religion, which I should have expected, were I to judge from the estimable person who committed him to my care.” With this the abbot bowed to the knight, as if he had conceived that this repartee gave him a silencing advantage in any question which could follow upon that subject; and he was probably, therefore, surprised when Sir Aymer replied as follows:— “It is very true, Father Abbot, that I myself did recommend this stripling as a youth of a harmless disposition, and with respect to whom it would be unnecessary to exercise the strict vigilance extended to others in similar situations; but the evidence which appeared to me to ensure this young man’s innocence, has not seemed so satisfactory to my superior and commander; and it is by his orders that I now make further enquiries of you. You must think they are of consequence, since they give you this trouble at so unwonted an hour.” “I can only protest by my order, and by the veil of Saint Bride,” replied the abbot, the spirit of Celsus appearing to have deserted the support of his pupil, “that whatever evil may be in this matter, is totally unknown to me—nor could it be extorted from me by racks or implements of torture. Whatever signs of disloyalty may have been evinced by this young man, I have witnessed none of them, although I have been strictly attentive to his behaviour.” “In what respect?” said the knight—“and what is the result of your observation?” “My answer,” said the abbot of Saint Bride’s, “shall be sincere and downright. The youth condescended upon payment of a certain number of gold crowns, not by any means to repay the hospitality of the church of Saint Bride’s, but merely”—— “Nay, father,” interrupted the knight, “you may cut that short, since the governor and I well understand the terms upon which the monks of Saint Bride’s exercise their hospitality. In what manner, it is more necessary to ask, was it received by this boy?” “With the utmost gentleness and moderation, noble sir,” answered the abbot; “indeed, it appeared to me, at first, that he might be a troublesome guest, since the amount of his benevolence to the convent was such as to encourage, and, in some degree, to authorize, his demanding accommodation of a kind superior to that we had to bestow.” “In which case,” said Sir Aymer, “you would have had the displeasure of returning some part of the money you have received?”

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“That,” replied the abbot, “would have been a mode of settlement contrary to our vows. What is paid to the treasury of Saint Bridget cannot, agreeably to our rule, be on any account restored. But, noble knight, there was no occasion for this; a crust of white bread and a draught of milk was sufficient to nourish this poor youth for a day, and it was my own anxiety for his health that dictated the furnishing of his cell with a softer bed and coverlet than is consistent with the rules of our order.” “Now hearken to what I say, Sir Abbot, and answer me truly,” said the Knight of Valence—“What communication did this youth hold with the inmates of your convent, or with those beyond your house? Search your memory concerning this, and let me have a minute answer, for your guest’s safety and your own depend upon it.” “As I am a Christian man,” said the abbot, “I have observed nothing which could give ground for your suspicions. The boy Augustine, unlike those whom I have observed who have been educated in the world, showed a marked preference to the company of such sisters as the house of Saint Bride contains, rather than to that of the monks, my brethren, although there are among them lively and conversible men.” “Scandal,” said the young knight, “might find a reason for that preference.” “Not in the case of the sisters of Saint Bridget’s,” said the abbot, “most of whom have been sorely misused by time, or their comeliness destroyed by some mishap previously to their being received into the seclusion of the house.” This observation the good father made with some internal movement of mirth, which was apparently excited at the idea of the sisterhood of Saint Bridget’s becoming attractive to any one by dint of their personal beauty, in which, as it happened, they were all notably, and almost ludicrously, deficient; nor were their qualities of the understanding in any degree so attractive as to compensate their want of charms to a youth of Augustine’s age. The English knight, to whom the sisterhood were well known, felt also inclined to smile at this conversation. “I acquit,” he said, “the pious sisterhood of charming, otherwise than by their kind wishes, and attention to the wants of the suffering stranger.” “Sister Beatrice,” continued the father, resuming his gravity, “is indeed blessed with a winning gift of making comfits and syllabubs; but, on minute enquiry, I do not find that the youth has tasted any of them. Neither is sister Ursula so hard favoured by nature, as from the effect of an accident; but your honour knows that when a woman is ugly, the men do not trouble themselves about the cause of her hard

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favour. I will go, with your leave, and see in what state the youth now is, and summon him before you.” “I request you to do so, father, for the affair is instant; and I earnestly advise you to watch, in the closest manner, this Augustine’s behaviour: you cannot be too particular. I will wait your return, and either carry the boy to the castle, or leave him here, as circumstances may seem to require.” The abbot bowed, promised his utmost exertions, and hobbled out of the room to wait on the youth Augustine in his cell, anxious to favour, if possible, the wishes of one whom he looked upon as rendered by circumstances his military patron. He remained long absent, and Sir Aymer began to be of opinion that the delay was suspicious, when the abbot returned with perplexity and discomposure in his countenance. “I crave your pardon for keeping your worship waiting,” said Jerome, with much anxiety; “but I have myself been detained and vexed by unnecessary formalities and scruples on the part of this peevish boy. In the first place, hearing my foot approaching his bedroom, my youth, instead of undoing the door, which would have been proper respect to my place, on the contrary draws a sound bolt on the inside, and secures the door; and this, forsooth, has been placed on his chamber by Ursula’s command, that his slumbers, forsooth, might be suitably respected. I intimated to him as I best could, that he must attend you without delay, and prepare to accompany you to the Castle of Douglas; but my youth would not answer a single word, save recommending to me patience, to which I was fain to have recourse, as well as your archer, whom I found standing in sentinel before the door of the cell, and contenting himself with the assurance of the sisters that there was no other passage by which Augustine could make his escape. At length the door opens, and my young master presents himself fully arrayed for his journey, although I had repeatedly called to him there was no occasion for such formality. The truth is, I think some fresh attack of his malady has rendered the youth disturbed with some touch of hypochondria, or black choler, a species of dotage of the mind, which is sometimes found concomitant and symptomatic of this disorder; but he is at present composed, and if your worship chooses to see him, he is at your pleasure, although little, I fear me, to your satisfaction, for of all the fantastic, monkeybrained youths whom I have met in this world, this I think the most whimsical.” “Call him hither,” said the knight. And a considerable space of time again elapsed ere the eloquence of the abbot, half chiding and half soothing, prevailed on Augustine to approach the parlour, in which at

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last he made his appearance, with a countenance on which the marks of tears might still be discovered, and a pettish sullenness, like that of a boy, or, with reverence, that of a girl, who is determined upon going her own way in any matter, and equally resolved to give no reason for her doing so. Her hurried levée had not prevented her attending closely to all the mufflings and disguisings by which her pilgrim’s dress was arranged, so as to alter her apppearance, and effectually disguise her sex. But as civility prevented her wearing her large slouched hat, she necessarily exposed her countenance more than in the open air; and though the knight beheld a most lovely set of features, yet they were not such as were inconsistent with the character she had adopted, and which she had resolved upon maintaining to the last. She had, accordingly, mustered up a degree of courage which was not natural to her, and which she perhaps supported by hopes which the situation hardly admitted. So soon as she found herself in the same apartment with De Valence, she assumed a change of manners, which seemed bolder and more determined than she had hitherto displayed. “Your worship,” she said, addressing him even before he spoke, “is a knight of England, and possessed, therefore, of the virtues which become that noble station. I am an unfortunate lad, obliged, by reasons which I am under the necessity of keeping secret, to travel in a dangerous country, where I am suspected, without any just cause, of becoming accessory to plots and conspiracies which are contrary to my own interest, and which my very soul abhors; and which I might safely abjure, by imprecating upon myself all the curses of our religion and renouncing all its promises, if I were accessory in thought, word, or deed. Nevertheless, you, who will not believe my solemn protestation, are about to proceed against me as a guilty person, and in so doing I must warn you, Sir Knight, that you will commit a great and cruel injustice.” “I shall endeavour to avoid that,” said the knight, “by referring the duty to Sir John Walton, the governor, who will decide what is to be done; in this case, it will be only my duty to place you within his hands at Douglas Castle.” “Must you do this?” said Augustine. “Certainly,” replied the knight, “or be answerable for neglecting my duty.” “But if I become bound to answer your loss with a large sum of money, a large tract of land——” “No treasure, no land,” answered the knight, “can atone for disgrace; and besides, boy, how should I trust to your warrant, were my avarice such as would induce me to rely upon your promise?”

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“I must then prepare to attend you instantly to the Castle of Douglas, and the presence of Sir John Walton?” replied Augustine. “Young man,” answered De Valence, “there is no remedy, since, if you put off my time, I must carry you there by force.” “What will be the consequence to my father?” said the youth. “That,” replied the knight, “will depend exactly on the nature of your confession and his; something you both have to say, and, I assure you, you were better to speak it out at once, than to risk the consequences of more delay. I can admit of no more trifling; and, believe me, that your fate will be entirely ruled by your own frankness and candour.” “I must prepare, then, to move at your command,” said the youth. “But this cruel disease still hangs around me, and Abbot Jerome, whose leechcraft is famous, will himself assure you that I cannot travel without danger of my life; and that while I was residing in this convent, I declined every opportunity of exercise which was offered me by the kindness of the garrison at Hazelside, lest I might by mishap bring the contagion among your men.” “The youth says right,” said the abbot; “the archers and men-atarms have more than once sent to invite this lad to join in some of their military games, or to amuse them, perhaps, with some of his minstrelsy; but he has uniformly declined doing so; and, according to my belief, it is the effects of this disorder which have prevented his accepting such a natural indulgence at his age, and in so dull a place as the convent of Saint Bride’s must needs seem to a youth bred up in the world.” “Do you then hold, reverent father,” said Sir Aymer, “that there is danger in carrying this youth to the castle to-night, as I proposed?” “I conceive such danger,” replied the abbot, “to be imminent, not only as it may occasion the relapse of the poor youth himself, but as particularly likely to bring back the risk of contagion, and endanger your own honourable health, and that of whomsoever may be brought into contact with the poor lad.” “Then,” said the knight, “you must be content, my friend, to give a share of your room to an archer, by way of sentinel.” “I cannot object,” said Augustine, “providing my unfortunate vicinity does not endanger the health of the poor soldier.” “He will be as ready to do his duty,” said the abbot, “without the door of the apartment as within it; and if the youth should sleep soundly, which the presence of a guard in his chamber might prevent, he is the more likely to answer your purpose on the morrow.” “Let it be so,” said Sir Aymer; “so you are sure that you do not minister any facility of escape.”

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“The apartment,” said the monk, “hath no other entrance than that which is guarded by the archer.” “So be it, then,” said the Knight of Valence; “and I myself will lie down without doffing my mail-shirt, and snatch a sleep till the ruddy dawn calls me again to duty, when you, Augustine, will hold yourself ready to attend me to this our dangerous Castle.” The bells of the convent summoned the inhabitants and inmates to morning prayers at the first peep of day. When this duty was over, the knight demanded his prisoner. The abbot marshalled him to the door of the chamber. The sentinel who was stationed there, with a brownbill, or species of partisan, in his hand, reported that he had heard no motion in the apartment during the whole night. The abbot tapped at the door, but received no answer. He knocked again louder, but the silence was the same from within. “What means this?” said the reverend ruler of the convent of Saint Bride; “my young patient has certainly fallen into a syncope or swoon!” “I wish, Father Abbot,” said the knight, “that he may not have made his escape instead, an accident which both you and I may be required to answer, since, according to our strict duty, we ought to have kept sight of him, and detained him in close custody until the day break.” “I trust your worship,” said the abbot, “only anticipates a misfortune which I cannot think possible.” “We shall speedily see,” said the knight; and raising his voice, he called aloud, so as to be heard within, “Bring crow-bars and levers, and burst me that door into splinters without an instant’s delay!” The loudness of his voice, and the stern tone in which he spoke, soon brought around him the brethren of the house, and two or three soldiers of his own party, who were not already busy in caparisoning their horses. The displeasure of the young knight was manifested by his flushed features, and the abrupt manner in which he again repeated his commands for breaking the door. This was speedily performed, though it required the application of considerable strength, and as the shattered remains fell crashing into the apartment, De Valence sprung, and the abbot hobbled, into the cell of the prisoner, which, to the fulfilment of their worst suspicions, they found empty.

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Chapter Eleven Where is he? Hath the deep earth swallow’d him? Or hath he melted like some airy phantom That shuns the approach of morn and the young sun? Or hath he wrapt him in Cimmerian darkness, And pass’d beyond the circuit of the sight With things of the night’s shadows? A

T   of the youth, whose disguise and whose fate have, we hope, induced our readers to take some interest in him, will require some explanation ere we proceed with the other personages of the story, and we shall set about giving it accordingly. When Augustine was consigned to his cell for the second time on the preceding evening, both the monk and the young Knight of Valence had seen the key turned upon him, and had heard him secure the door on the inside with the bolt which had been put on at his request by sister Ursula, in whose affections the youth of Augustine, his extreme handsomeness, and, above all, his indisposition of body and his melancholy of mind, had gained him considerable interest. So soon, accordingly, as Augustine re-entered his apartment, he was greeted by the sister, who, during the interval of his absence, had contrived to slip into his cell, and having tappiced herself behind the little bed, flew out, with great appearance of joy, to greet the return of the youth. The number of little attentions, the disposal of holly boughs, and such other evergreens as the season permitted, showed the anxiety of the holy sisters to decorate the chamber of their guest, and the greetings of sister Ursula expressed the same friendly interest, at the same time intimating that she was already in some degree in possession of the stranger lady’s mystery. As Augustine and the holy sister were busied in exchange of confidence, the extraordinary difference between their countenances and their persons must have struck any one who might have been accidentally a witness of their interview. The dark pilgrim’s robe of the disguised female, was not a stronger contrast to the white woollen garment worn by the votaress of Saint Bride, than the visage of the nun, seamed with many a ghastly scar, and the light of one of her eyes extinguished for ever, causing it to roll a sightless luminary in her head, was to the beautiful countenance of Augustine, now bent with a confidential, and even affectionate look, upon the extraordinary features of her companion. “You know,” said the supposed Augustine, “the principal part of

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my story; can you, or will you, lend me your assistance? If not, my dearest mother, you must be witness to my death, rather than to my shame. Yes, sister Ursula, I will not be pointed at by the finger of scorn, as the thoughtless maiden who sacrificed so much for a young man, of whose attachment she was not so well assured as she ought to have been. I will not be dragged before Walton, for the purpose of being compelled, by threats of torture, to declare myself the female in honour of whom he holds the Dangerous Castle. No doubt, he would be glad to give his hand in wedlock to a lady whose dowery is so ample; but who can tell whether he will regard me with that respect which every woman would wish to command, or pardon that boldness of which I have been guilty, even though its consequences have been in his own favour?” “Nay, my darling daughter,” answered the nun, “comfort yourself; for in all I can aid you, be assured I will. My means are somewhat more than my present situation may express, and, be assured, they shall be tried to the uttermost. Methinks I still hear that lay which you sung to the other sisters and myself, although I alone, touched by kindred feelings to yours, had the address to comprehend that it contained thine own tale.” “I am yet surprised,” said Augustine, speaking beneath her breath, “how I had the boldness to sing in your ears the lay, which, in fact, was the history of my disgrace.” “Alas! that you will say so,” returned the nun; “there was not a word but what resembled those tales of love and of high-spirited daring which the best minstrels love to celebrate, and the noblest knights and maidens weep at once and smile to hear. The Lady Augusta of Berkely, a great heiress, according to the world, both in land and movable goods, becomes the King’s ward by the death of her parents; and thus is on the point of being given away in marriage to a minion of the King of England, whom, in these Scottish valleys, we scruple not to call a peremptory tyrant.” “I must not say so, my sister,” said the pilgrim; “and yet, true it is, that the cousin of the obscure parasite Gaveston, on whom the King wished to confer my poor hand, was neither by birth, merit, or circumstance, worthy of that honour. Meantime I heard of the fame of Sir John Walton; and I heard of it not with the less interest that his feats of chivalry were said to adorn a knight, who, rich in every thing else, was poor in worldly goods, and in the smiles of fortune. I saw this Sir John Walton, and I acknowledge that a thought, which had already intruded itself on my imagination, became, after this interview, more familiar, and more welcome to me. Methought that the daughter of a powerful English family, if she could give away with her hand such wealth as the

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world spoke of, would more justly and honourably bestow it in remedying the errors of fortune in regard to a gallant knight like Walton, than in patching the revenues of a beggarly Frenchman, whose only merit was in being the kinsman of a man who was very generally detested by the whole kingdom of England, excepting the infatuated monarch himself.” “Nobly designed, my daughter,” said the nun; “what more worthy of a noble heart, possessing riches, beauty, birth, and baronage, than to confer them all upon indigent and chivalrous merit?” “Such, dearest sister, was my intention,” replied Augustine; “but the lay, perhaps, scarce sufficiently explained the manner in which I meant to proceed. By the advice of a minstrel of our house, the same who is now prisoner at Douglas, and who has been my guide hither, I caused exhibit a large feast upon Christmas eve, and sent abundant invitations abroad to the young knights of noble name who were known to spend their leisure in quest of arms and adventures. When the tables were drawn, and the feast concluded, Bertram, as had been before devised, was called upon to take his harp. He sung, receiving from all who were present the attention due to a minstrel of so much fame. The theme which he chose, was the frequent capture of this Douglas Castle, or, as the poet termed it, Castle Dangerous. ‘Where are the champions of the renowned Edward the First,’ said the minstrel, ‘when the realm of England cannot furnish a man brave enough, or sufficiently expert in the wars, to defend a miserable hamlet of the North against the Scottish rebels, who have vowed to retake it over our soldiers’ heads ere the year rolls to an end? Where are the noble ladies, whose smiles used to give countenance to the Knights of Saint George’s Cross? Alas! the spirit of love and of chivalry is alike dead amongst us—the knights are limited to petty enterprises—and their noble ladies are given as prizes to the valour of strangers, as if their own country had no one to deserve them.’ “Here stopt the harp; and I shame to say, that I myself, as if moved to enthusiasm by the song of the minstrel, arose, and taking from my neck the chain of gold which supported a crucifix of special sanctity, I made my vow, always under the King’s permission, that I would give my hand, and the inheritance of my fathers, to the good knight, being of noble birth and lineage, who should keep the Castle of Douglas in the King of England’s name, for a year and a day. I sat down, my dearest sister, deafened with the jubilees in which my guests expressed their applause of my supposed patriotism. Yet some degree of pause took place amidst the young knights, who might reasonably be supposed to have embraced this offer, although at the risk of being encumbered with Augusta of Berkely.”

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“Shame on the man,” said sister Ursula, “who should think so! Put your beauty alone, my dearest, into consideration, and a true knight ought to have embraced the dangers of twenty Castles of Douglas, rather than let the opportunity pass.” “It may be that some in reality thought so,” said the pilgrim; “but it was supposed, perhaps, that the king’s favour might be lost by those who seemed too anxious to thwart his purposes upon his ward’s hand. At any rate, greatly to my joy, the only person who availed himself of the offer I had made, was Sir John Walton; and as his acceptance of it was guarded by a clause, saving and reserving the king’s approbation, I hope he has not suffered any diminution of Edward’s favour.” “Assure yourself, noble and high-spirited young lady,” replied the nun, “that there is no fear that thy generous devotion will hurt thy lover with the King of England. Something we hear concerning worldly passages, even in this remote nook of Saint Bride’s cloister; and the report goes among the English soldiers that your king was indeed offended at your putting your will in opposition to his own; yet, on the other hand, Sir John Walton was a man of such extensive fame, and your offer was so much in the character of better but not forgotten times, that even a king could not at the beginning of a long and stubborn war deprive an errant chevalier of his bride, if she should be duly won by his sword and lance.” “Ah! dearest sister Ursula!” sighed the disguised pilgrim, “but, on the other hand, how much time must pass by which that suit must needs be advanced? While I sat in my lonely castle, tidings after tidings came to astound me with the numerous, or rather the constant dangers, with which my lover was surrounded, until at length, in a moment I think of madness, I resolved to set out in this masculine disguise; and having myself with my own eyes seen in what situation I had placed my knight, I determined to take such measures in respect to shortening the term of his trial, or otherwise, as a sight of Douglas Castle, and—why should I deny it?—of Sir John Walton, should render advisable. Perhaps you, my dearest sister, may not so well understand my being terrified into flinching from the resolution which I had laid down for my own honour, and that of my lover; but consider, that my resolution was the consequence of a moment of excitation, and that the change which I adopted respecting it was the conclusion of a long, wasting, sickening state of incertainty, the effect of which was to weaken the nerves which were once highly strung with love of my country, as I thought; but in reality, alas! with fond and anxious feelings of a far more selfish description.” “Alas!” said sister Ursula, evincing the strongest symptoms of interest and compassion, “is it me, dearest child, whom you suspect of

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insensibility to the distresses which are the fruit of true love? Do you suppose that the air which is breathed within these walls has the property, upon the female heart, of such marvellous fountains as they say change into stone the substances which are immersed into their waters? Hear my tale, and judge if it can be thus with one who possesses my causes of grief. And do not fear for loss of time; we must let our neighbours at Hazelside be settled for the evening, ere I furnish you with the means of escaping; and you must have a trusty guide, for whose fidelity I will be responsible, who will direct your path through these woods, and protect you in case of any danger, too likely to occur in these troublesome times. It will, then, be nigh an hour ere you depart; and sure I am that in no manner can you spend it better than in listening to distresses so similar to your own, and flowing from the source of disappointed affection which you must needs sympathize with.” The distresses of the Lady Augusta did not prevent her being in some degree affected almost ludicrously with the singular contrast between the hideous countenance of this victim of the tender passion, and the cause to which she imputed her sorrows; but it was not a moment for giving way to a sense of the ridiculous, which was likely to be in the highest degree offensive to the nun, whose good-will she had so many reasons to conciliate. She readily, therefore, succeeded in preparing herself to listen to the votary of Saint Bride with an appearance of sympathy, which might reward that which she had herself experienced at the hands of sister Ursula; while the unfortunate recluse, with an agitation which made her ugliness still more conspicuous, narrated the following circumstances:— “My misfortunes commenced long before I was called sister Ursula, or secluded within these walls. My father was a noble Norman, who, like many of his countrymen, sought and found fortune at the court of the King of Scotland. He was endowed with the sheriffdom of this county, and Maurice de Hattely, or Hautlieu, was numbered among the wealthy and powerful. Wherefore should I deny it, that the daughter of this baron, then called Margaret de Hautlieu, was also distinguished among the great and fair? It can be no censurable vanity which provokes my speaking the truth, and without I tell it myself, you could hardly suspect what a near resemblance I once bore even to the lovely Lady Augusta of Berkely. About this time broke out these unfortunate feuds of Bruce and Baliol, which have been so long the curse of this country. My father, determined in his choice of party by the arguments of his wealthy kinsmen at the court of Edward, embraced with passion the faction of the English interest, and became one of the keenest partisans at first of John Baliol, and afterwards of

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the English monarch in his own person. None among the AnglocisedScottish, as his party were called, were so zealous as he for the red cross, and none was more detested by his countrymen who followed the standard of Saint Andrew and the patriot Wallace. Among these soldiers of the country, Malcolm Fleming of Biggar was one of the most distinguished by his noble birth, his high acquirements, and his fame in chivalry. I saw him; and the ghastly spectre who now addresses you must not be ashamed to say, that she loved, and was beloved by, one of the handsomest youths in Scotland. Our attachment was discovered to my father almost ere we had owned it to each other, and he was furious both against my lover and myself; he put me under charge of a religious woman of this rule, and I was immured within the house of Saint Bride’s, where my father shamed not to announce he would cause me to take the veil by force unless I agreed to wed a youth bred at the English court, his nephew; and, as Heaven had granted him no son, the heir, as he conceived, of the house of Hautlieu. I was not long in making my election. I protested that death should be my choice, rather than any other husband excepting Malcolm Fleming. Neither was my lover less faithful; he found means to communicate to me a particular night on which he proposed to attempt to storm the nunnery, and carry me from hence to freedom and the greenwood, of which Wallace was generally called the king. In an evil hour—an hour, I think, of infatuation and witchery—I suffered the abbess to wheedle the secret out of me, which I might have been sensible would appear more horribly flagitious to her than to any woman that breathed; but I had not taken the vows, and I thought Wallace and Fleming had the same charms for every body as for me, and the artful woman gave me reason to believe that her loyalty to Bruce was without a flaw of suspicion, and she took part in a plot, of which my freedom was the object. The abbess engaged to have the English guards removed to a distance, and in appearance the troops were withdrawn. Accordingly, in the middle of the night appointed, the window of my cell, which was two stories from the ground, broke in with a horrible crash; but never was sound more agreeable to my ear, as ready disguised and arrayed for flight, even in a horseman’s dress, like yourself, fairest Lady Augusta, I saw Malcolm Fleming spring into the apartment. He rushed to me; but at the same time my father with ten of his strongest men filled the room, and cried their war-cry of Baliol. Blows were instantly dealt on every side. A form like a giant appeared in the midst of the tumult, and distinguished himself even to my half-giddy eye, by the ease with which he bore down and dispersed those who fought against our freedom. My father alone offered an opposition which threatened to prove fatal to him; for Wallace, it was said, could foil any two martial

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champions that ever drew sword. Brushing from him the armed men, as a lady would drive away with her fan a swarm of troublesome flies, he secured me in one arm, used his other hand for my protection and his own, and I found myself in the act of being borne in safety down the ladder by which my deliverers had ascended from without;—but an evil fate awaited my attempt to escape. “My father, whom the Champion of Scotland had spared for my sake, or rather for Fleming’s, gained by his victor’s compassion and lenity a fearful advantage, and made a remorseless use of it. Having only his left hand to oppose to the maniac attempts of my father, even the force of Wallace could not prevent the assailant, with all the strength of desperation, from throwing down the ladder, on which his daughter was perched like a dove in the grasp of an eagle. The champion saw our danger, and exerting his inimitable agility, cleared himself and me from the ladder, and leaped with the purpose of breaking his own fall and mine, which must otherwise have precipitated us both into the moat of the abbey. The Champion of Scotland was saved in the desperate attempt, but I, who fell among a heap of stones and rubbish, I, the disobedient daughter, the apostate vestal, waked only from a long bed of sickness, to find myself the mutilated wretch which you now see here. I then learned that Malcolm had escaped from the tumult, and shortly after I heard, with feelings less keen perhaps than they ought to have been, that my father was slain in one of the endless battles which took place between the contending factions. If he had lived, I might have submitted to the completion of my fate; but since he was no more, I felt that it would be a better lot to be a beggar in the streets of a Scottish village, than an Abbess in this miserable house of Saint Bride’s; nor was even that poor object of ambition, on which my father used to expatiate when desirous of persuading me to enter the monastic state, by milder means than throwing me off the battlements, long open to me. The old abbess died of a cold caught the evening of the fray; and the place might have been kept open until my profession rendered me capable of filling it, when the English thought fit to reform, as they termed it, the discipline of the house; and, instead of electing a new abbess, sent hither two or three friendly monks, who have now the absolute government of the community, and wield it entirely according to the pleasure of the English. But I, for one, who have had the honour to be supported by the arms of the Champion of my country, will not remain here to be commanded by this Abbot Jerome. I will go forth; nor do I fear to find relations and friends, who will provide a more fit place of refuge for Margaret de Hautlieu than the convent of Saint Bride’s; you, too, dearest lady, shall obtain your freedom, and it will be well to leave such information as will make Sir

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John Walton aware of the happiness which his fate has designed him.” “It is not, then, your own intention,” said the Lady Augusta, “to return into the world again, and you are about to renounce the lover, in a union with whom you and he once saw your joint happiness?” “It is a question, my dearest child,” said sister Ursula, “which I dare not ask myself, and to which I am absolutely uncertain what answer I should return. I have not taken the final and irrevocable vows; I have done nothing to alter my situation with regard to Malcolm Fleming. He also, by the vows plighted in the Chancery of Heaven, is my affianced bridegroom, nor am I conscious that I less deserve his faith, in any respect now, than at the moment when it was pledged to me. I am now indeed poor,” she added, with a sigh, “and I am no longer possessed of those personal charms, which they say attract the love, and fix the fidelity, of those of the other sex. I teach myself, therefore, to think, in my moments of settled resolution, that all betwixt me and Malcolm Fleming is at an end, saving good wishes on the part of both; and yet there is a sensation in my bosom which whispers, in spite of my reason, that if I believed that which I now say, there is no object on earth which remains worthy my living in order to attain. This insinuating passion whispers to my secret soul, and in the very teeth of my reason and understanding, that Malcolm Fleming, who could pledge his all upon the service of his country, is incapable of nourishing the versatile affection of an ordinary, a coarse, or a venal character. Methinks, were the difference upon his part instead of mine, he would not lose his interest to me, because he was seamed with honourable scars, obtained in asserting the freedom of his choice, and that such wounds would add to his merit, whatever they took away from his personal comeliness. Ideas rise in my soul, as if Malcolm and Margaret might yet be to each other all that their affections once anticipated with so much security, and that a change, which took nothing from the honour and virtue of the beloved person, must rather add to, than diminish, the charms of the union. Look at me, dearest Lady Augusta! —look me—if you have courage—full in the face, and tell me whether I do not rave when I am thus converting possibilities into that which is probable.” The Lady of Berkely, conscious of the necessity, raised her eyes on the unfortunate nun, afraid of losing her own chance of deliverance by the mode in which she should conduct herself in this crisis; yet not willing to flatter the unfortunate woman, for which her own sense told her she could hardly find any rational grounds. But her imagination, stored with the minstrelsy of the time, brought back to her the Loathly Lady in “The Marriage of Sir Gawain,” and she conducted her reply in the following manner:—

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“You ask me, my dear Lady Margaret, a trying question, which it would be unfriendly to answer otherwise than sincerely, and most cruel to answer with too much rashness. It is true, that what is called beauty is the first quality on which we of the weaker sex learn to set a value; we are flattered by the imputation of such properties, whether we actually possess them or not; and no doubt we learn to place upon them a great deal more consequence than in reality is found to belong to them. The lover would show but little skill in his art who should omit to praise his mistress for personal charms, even though she did not happen to possess them, and hence the men teach us themselves, as well as we teach each other, to set a value on personal beauty far, perhaps, beyond what it possesses in reality. Women, even such as are held by their own sex, and perhaps in secret by themselves also, devoid of all pretensions to beauty, have been known to become, from their understanding, their talents, or their accomplishments, the undoubted objects of the warmest attachment. Wherefore should you, in the mere rashness of your apprehension, deem it impossible that your Malcolm Fleming should be made of that porcelain clay of the earth, which despises the passing captivations of outward form, in comparison to the charms of virtue, and the excellence of morality?” The nun pressed her companion’s hand to her bosom, and answered her with a deep sigh. “I fear,” she said, “you flatter me, and yet, in a crisis like this, it does one good to be flattered, even as cordials, otherwise dangerous to the constitution, are wisely given to support a patient through a paroxysm of agony, and enable him to endure at least what they cannot cure. Answer me only one question, and it will be time that we drop this conversation. Could you, sweet lady, you upon whom fortune has bestowed so many charms; could any argument make you patient under the irretrievable loss of them, with the concomitant loss, as is most probable, of that lover for whom you have already done so much?” The English lady cast her eyes again on her friend, and could not help shuddering a little at the thought of her own beautiful countenance being exchanged for the seamed and scarred features of the Lady of Hautlieu, irregularly lighted by the beams of a single eye. “Believe me,” she said, looking solemnly upward, “that even in the case which you suppose, I would not sorrow so much for myself, as I would for the poor-spirited thoughts of the lover who could leave me because those transitory charms (which must ere long take their departure) had fled ere yet the bridal had taken place. It is, however, concealed in the decrees of Providence, in what manner, or to what extent, other persons, with whom we can have no interest, may be

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affected by such changes. I am only interested in the desire to share your flight, nor can my advice, having such an intimate personal object in view, be fairly termed disinterested, although, be assured, it is my earnest desire that it should be so; nor is there a difficulty which shall remain in your path in future, if it is in my power to remove it from the way.—Hark!”—— “It is the signal of our freedom,” replied Ursula, giving attention to something resembling the whoop of a night owl. “We must prepare to leave the convent in a few minutes. Have you any thing to take with you?” “Nothing,” answered the Lady of Berkely, “except the few valuables, which I scarce know why I brought with me on my flight hither. This letter, which I shall leave behind for my faithful minstrel, sets his tongue at liberty to save himself, by confessing to Sir John Walton who the person was whom he has had within his reach, and how simply he has parted from her.” “It is strange,” said the novice of Saint Bride’s, “through what extraordinary labyrinths this ignis fatuus, Cupid, guides his votaries. Take heed as you descend; for a trapdoor, carefully concealed, curiously jointed and oiled, leads to a secret postern, where I conceive the horses already wait, which will enable us speedily to bid adieu to Saint Bride’s—Heaven’s blessing on her, and on her convent! We can have no advantage from any light, until we are in the open air.” During this time, sister Ursula, to give her for the last time her conventual name, exchanged her stole, or loose upper garment, for the more succinct cloak and hood of a horseman. She led the way through divers passages, studiously complicated, until the Lady of Berkely, with throbbing heart, stood in the pale and doubtful moonlight, which was shining with grey uncertainty upon the walls of the ancient building. The imitation of the owlet’s cry directed them to a neighbouring large elm, and on approaching it, they were aware of three horses, held by one, concerning whom they could only see that he was tall, strong, and accoutred in the dress of a man-at-arms. “The sooner,” he said, “we are gone from this place, Lady Margaret, it is so much the better. You have only to direct the course which we shall hold.” Lady Margaret’s answer was given beneath her breath; and with a caution from the guide to ride slowly and silently for the first quarter of an hour, they set forth, and proceeded cautiously for the time stated, until inhabited places were out of hearing, when they pursued their journey at a round pace.    

CASTLE DANGEROUS a romance of the middle ages

 

Chapter One H       for the means by which the Lady of Berkely made her escape from the Convent of Saint Bride’s, we must next describe the astonishment of the young Knight of Valence and the reverend Father Jerome, when, upon breaking into the cell, they discovered the youthful pilgrim’s absence; and, from the garments which were left, saw every reason to think that the one-eyed novice, sister Ursula, had accompanied him in his escape from custody. A thousand thoughts thronged upon Sir Aymer, all tending to persuade him that he had suffered himself to be outwitted by the artifices of a boy and of a novice. His reverend companion in error felt no less contrition for having been the means of recommending to the knight a mild exercise of his authority. Now Father Jerome had obtained his preferment as abbot upon the faith of his zeal for the cause of the English monarch, to which he was at a loss to reconcile the proceedings of the last night. A hurried enquiry took place, from which little could be learned, save that the young pilgrim had most certainly gone off with the Lady Margaret de Hautlieu, an incident at which the females of the convent expressed surprise, mingled with a great deal of horror; while that of the males, whom the news soon reached, was qualified with a degree of wonder, which seemed to be founded upon the very different personal appearance of the two fugitives. “Sacred Virgin!” said a nun, “who could have conceived the hopeful votaress, sister Ursula, so lately drowned in tears for her father’s untimely fate, capable of eloping with a young boy, scarce fourteen years old?” 117

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“And, holy Saint Bride!” said the Abbot Jerome, “what could have made so handsome a young man lend his arm to assist such a nightmare as sister Ursula in the commission of so great an enormity? Certainly he can neither plead temptation nor seduction, but must have gone, as the worldly phrase is,—to the divil with a dishclout.” “I must disperse the soldiers to pursue the fugitives,” said De Valence, “unless this letter, which the pilgrim must have left behind him, shall contain some explanation respecting our mysterious prisoner.” After reviewing the contents with some surprise, he read aloud,— “ ‘I, the undersigned, late residing in the house of Saint Bride’s, do you, Father Jerome, the abbot of said house, to know, that finding you disposed to treat me as a prisoner and a spy, in the sanctuary to which you received me as a distressed person, I have resolved to use my natural liberty, with which you have no right to interfere, and therefore have withdrawn myself from your abbacy. Moreover, finding that the novice called in your convent sister Ursula (who hath, by monastic rule and discipline, a fair title to return to the world unless she is pleased, after a year’s noviciate, to profess herself sister of your order,) is determined to use such privilege, I joyfully take the opportunity of her company in this her lawful resolution, as being what is in conformity to the law of God, and the precepts of Saint Bride, which give you no authority to detain any person in your convent by force, who hath not taken upon her irrevocably the vows of the order. “ ‘To you, Sir John Walton, and Sir Aymer de Valence, I have only to say, that you are acting against me under a mystery, the solution of which is comprehended in a secret known only to my faithful minstrel, Bertram of the Many Lays, as whose son I have found it convenient to pass myself. But in respect that I cannot at this time prevail upon myself personally to discover a secret which cannot well be unfolded without feelings of shame, I not only give permission to the said Bertram the minstrel, but I charge and command him, that he tell my real name, and the purpose with which I came originally to the Castle of Douglas. When this is discovered, it will only remain to express my feelings towards the two knights, in return for the pain and agony of mind which their violence and threats of further severities have occasioned me. “ ‘And first, respecting Sir Aymer de Valence, I freely and willingly forgive him for having been involved in a mistake to which I myself led the way, and I shall at all times be happy to meet with him as an acquaintance, and never to think farther of his part in these few days’ history, saving as matter of mirth and ridicule.

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“ ‘But respecting Sir John Walton, I must request of him to consider whether his conduct towards me, standing as we at present do towards each other, is such as he himself ought to forget, or I ought to forgive; and he will understand me when I tell him, that all former connexions must hereafter be at an end between him and the supposed “ ‘A        .’ ” “This is madness,” said the abbot, when he had read the letter,— “very Midsummer madness; not unfrequently an accompaniment of this pestilential disease, and I should do well in requiring of those soldiers who shall first apprehend this youth Augustine, that they reduce his victual immediately to water and bread, taking care that the diet do not exceed in measure what is necessary to sustain nature; and I should be warranted by the learned, did I recommend a sufficient intermixture of flagellation with belts, stirrup-leathers, or surcingles, and failing those, with riding-whips, switches, and the like.” “Hush! my reverend father,” said De Valence, “a light begins to break in upon me. John Walton, if my suspicion be true, would sooner expose his own flesh to be hewn from his bones, than have this Augustine’s finger stung by a gnat. Instead of treating this youth as a madman, I, for my own part, will be contented to avow that I myself have been bewitched and fascinated; and by my honour, if I send out my attendants in quest of the fugitives, it shall be with the strict charge, that, when apprehended, they treat them with all respect, and protect them, if they object to return to this house, to any honourable place of refuge which they may desire.” “I hope,” said the abbot, looking strangely confused, “I shall be first heard in behalf of the church concerning this affair of an abducted nun? You see yourself, Sir Knight, that this scapegrace of a minstrel avouches neither repentance nor contrition at his share in a matter so flagitious.” “You shall be secured an opportunity of being fully heard,” replied the knight, “if you shall find at last that you really desire one. Meantime, I must back, without a moment’s delay, to inform Sir John Walton of the turn which affairs have taken. Farewell, reverend father. By my honour, we may wish each other joy that we have escaped from a troublesome charge, which brought as much terror with it as the phantoms of a fearful dream, and is yet found capable of being dispelled by a cure as simple as that of awakening the sleeper. But, by Saint Bride! both churchman and layman are bound to sympathize with the unfortunate Sir John Walton. I tell thee, father, that if this letter”—touching the missive with his finger—“is to be construed literally, so far as respects him, he is the man most to be pitied betwixt

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the brink of Solway and the place where we now stand. Suspend thy curiosity, most worthy churchman, lest there should be more in this matter than I myself see; so that, while thinking that I have lighted on the true explanation, I may not have to acknowledge that I have been again leading you into error.—Sound to horse there! Ho!” he called out from the window of the apartment; “and let the party I brought hither prepare to scour the woods.” “By my faith!” said Father Jerome, “I am right glad that this young nut-cracker is going to leave me to my own meditation. I hate when a young person pretends to understand whatever passes, while his betters are obliged to confess that it is all a mystery to them. Such an assumption is like that of the conceited fool, sister Ursula, who pretended to read with a single eye a manuscript, which I myself could not render intelligible with the assistance of my spectacles.” This might not have quite pleased the young knight, nor was it one of those truths which the abbot would have chosen to deliver in his hearing. But the knight had shaken him by the hand, said adieu, and was already at Hazelside issuing particular orders to little troops of the archers and others, and occasionally chiding Thomas Dickson, who, with a degree of curiosity for which the English knight was not very willing to pardon him, was endeavouring to get some account of the occurrences of the night. “Peace, fellow!” he said, “and mind thine own business, being well assured that an hour will come in which it will require all the attention thou canst give, leaving others to take care of their own affairs.” “If I am suspected of any thing,” answered Dickson, in a tone rather dogged and surly than otherwise, “methinks it were but fair to let me know what accusation is brought against me. I need not tell you that chivalry prescribes that a knight should not attack an enemy undefied.” “When you are a knight,” answered Sir Aymer de Valence, “it will be time enough for me to reckon with you upon the points of form due to you by the laws of chivalry. Meanwhile, you had best let me know what share you have had in playing off the martial phantom which cried the rebellious slogan of Douglas in the town of that name?” “I know nothing of what you speak,” answered the goodman of Hazelside. “See then,” said the knight, “that you do not engage yourself in affairs of other people, even if your conscience admits that you are in no danger from your own.” So saying, he rode off, not waiting any answer. The ideas which filled his head were to the following purpose. “I know not how it is, but one mist seems no sooner to clear away,

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than we find ourselves engaged in another. I take it for granted, that the disguised damsel is no other than the goddess of Walton’s private idolatry, who has cost him and me so much trouble, and some certain degree of misunderstanding during these last weeks. By my honour! this fair lady is right lavish in the pardon which she has so frankly bestowed upon me, and if she is willing to be less complaisant to Sir John Walton, why then—And what then?—It surely does not infer that she would receive me into that place in her affections, from which she has just expelled Walton? Nor, if she did, could I avail myself of her change of preference in favour of myself, at the expense of my friend and companion in arms. It were a folly even to dream of a thing so improbable. But with respect to the other business, it is worth serious consideration. Yon sexton seems to have kept company with dead bodies, until he is unfit for the society of the living; and as to that Dickson of Hazelside, as they call him, there is no attempt against the English during these endless wars in which that man has not been concerned; had my life depended upon it, I could not have prevented myself from intimating my suspicions of him, let him take it as he lists.” So saying, the knight spurred his horse, and arriving at Douglas Castle demanded, in a tone of greater cordiality than he had of late used, whether he could be admitted to Sir John Walton, having something of consequence to report to him. He was immediately ushered into an apartment, in which the governor was engaged in eating, or appearing to eat, his solitary breakfast. Considering the terms upon which they had lately stood, the governor of Douglas Dale was somewhat surprised at the easy familiarity with which De Valence approached him without ceremony. “Some uncommon news,” said Sir John, rather gravely, “have brought me the honour of Sir Aymer de Valence’s company.” “It is,” answered Sir Aymer, “what seems of high importance to your interest, Sir John Walton, and therefore I were to blame if I lost a moment in communicating it.” “I shall be proud to profit by your intelligence,” said Sir John Walton. “And I too,” said the young knight, “am loath to lose the credit of having penetrated a mystery which blinded Sir John Walton. At the same time, I do not wish to be thought capable of jesting with you, which might be the case, were I, from misapprehension, to give a false key to this matter. With your permission, then, we proceed thus: We go together to the place of Bertram’s confinement. I have his son’s permission and request to him to tell the secret, which I conceive to lie in a single word noted down in this scroll. Should I be right, I put in

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your hand the piece of paper, which will then be found to prove the truth of my conjecture. Should it be otherwise, I throw it into the fire, and thus renounce the conceited idea of having penetrated a mystery to which the sagacity of my betters has not been equal.” “It must be as you say,” said Sir John Walton, “although I can scarce see occasion for adding so much form to a mystery which can be expressed in such small compass.” Accordingly the two knights, a warder leading the way, proceeded to the dungeon of the minstrel Bertram.

Chapter Two T   of the stronghold being undone displayed a prison constituted upon the principle in which they were built in former days, a dungeon to wit, or place of dreadful punishment to a man who chanced to be innocent, but to an ingenious knave, like those of the present day, a place where he would scarce deign to remain many hours. The huge irons by which the fetters were soldered together, were, when examined exactly, found to be clenched together by riveting so very thin, that when rubbed with corrosive acid, or patiently grinded with a bit of sandstone, the hold of the fetters upon each other might be easily forced asunder, and the purpose of them entirely frustrated. The locks also, large, and apparently very strong, were so coarsely made, that an artist of ingenuity could easily contrive to get the better of their fastenings upon the same principle. Daylight found its way to the subterranean dungeon only for a few days, through a passage which was purposely made tortuous, so as to exclude the rays of the sun, while it presented no obstacle against the rain or foul weather. The doctrine that a prisoner was to be esteemed innocent until he should be found guilty by his peers, was not understood in these days of brute force, and he was only accommodated with a lamp or other alleviation of his misery, if his demeanour was quiet, and if he appeared disposed to give his jailer no trouble by attempting to make his escape. Such a cell of confinement was that of Bertram, whose moderation of temper and patience had nevertheless procured for him such meliorations of his fate as the warder could grant. He was permitted to carry into his cell the old book, in the perusal of which he found an amusement of his solitude, together with writing materials, and such other modes of spending his time as were consistent with his abode in the bosom of the rock, and the degree of information with which his minstrel craft had possessed him. He raised his head from the table as the knights entered, while the governor

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observed to the subordinate officer:— “As you seem to think yourself possessed of the secret of this prisoner, I leave it to you, Sir Aymer de Valence, to bring it to light in the manner which you shall judge most expedient. If the man or his son have suffered unnecessary hardship, it shall be my duty to make amends—which, I suppose, can be no very important matter.” Bertram looked up, and fixed his eyes full upon the governor, but read nothing in his looks which indicated his being better acquainted than before with the secret of his imprisonment. Yet, upon turning his eye to Sir Aymer’s countenance it evidently lighted up. “You have my secret,” said he, “and you know who it is that passes under the name of Augustine?” Sir Aymer exchanged with him a glance of intelligence; while the governor, glancing wildly from the prisoner to the companion of his charge, exclaimed,— “Sir Aymer de Valence, as you are belted knight and Christian man, as you have honour to preserve on earth, and a soul to rescue after death, I charge you to tell me the meaning of this fearful mystery! It may be that you conceive, with truth, that you have subject of complaint against me—I will satisfy as a knight may.” The minstrel spoke at the same moment. “I charge this knight,” he said, “by his vow of chivalry, that he do not divulge any secret belonging to a person of honour and of character, unless he has positive assurance that it is done entirely by that person’s own consent.” “Let this note remove your prejudices,” said Sir Aymer, putting Lady Augusta of Berkely’s scroll into the hands of the minstrel; “and for you, Sir John Walton, far from retaining the least feeling of any misunderstanding which may have been between us, I am disposed entirely to pass it over on both sides, as having arisen out of a series of mistakes which no mortal could have comprehended. And do not be offended, my dear Sir John, when I protest, on my knightly faith, that I pity the pain which this scroll is likely to give you, and that if my utmost efforts can be of the least service to you in unravelling this tangled skein, I will contribute them with as much earnestness as ever I did aught in my life. The minstrel boy is no other person than the Lady Augusta of Berkely, by whose commands you have been so long guided. Here is the note which I prepared to convince you that I was possessed, since last night’s journey, of this important secret; and this faithful minstrel, Bertram, will show you the lady’s own commands for yielding up a secret, which, till he received her express commands to disclose it, he kept with so much fidelity.” The white plume which floated over the knight’s cap of mainten-

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ance, which was worn as a headpiece within doors, was not more pale in complexion than was the knight himself at the unexpected and surprising information, that the lady who was, in chivalrous phrase, empress of his thoughts, and commander of his actions, and to whom, even in less fantastic times, he must have owed the deepest gratitude for the generous election which she had made in his favour, was the same person whom he had threatened with personal violence, and subjected to hardships and affronts which he would not willingly have bestowed even upon the meanest of her sex. Yet Sir John Walton seemed at first scarcely to comprehend the numerous ill consequences which might probably follow this unhappy complication of mistakes. He took the paper from the minstrel’s hand, and while his eye, assisted by the lamp, wandered over the characters without apparently conveying any distinct impression to his understanding, De Valence even became alarmed that he was about to lose his faculties. “For Heaven’s sake, sir,” said Sir Aymer, “be a man, and support with manly steadiness these unexpected occurrences—I would fain think they will reach to nothing else—which the wit of man could not have prevented. This fair lady, I would fain hope, cannot be much hurt or deeply offended by a train of circumstances, the natural consequences of your anxiety to discharge perfectly a duty upon which must depend the accomplishment of all the hopes she had permitted you to entertain. In God’s name, rouse up, sir; let it not be said, that an apprehended frown of a fair lady hath damped to such a degree the courage of the boldest knight in England; be what men have called you, ‘Walton the Unwavering;’ in Heaven’s name, let us at least see that the lady is indeed offended, before we conclude that she is irreconcilably so. To whose fault are we to ascribe the source of all these errors? Surely, with all due respect, to the caprice of the lady herself, which has engendered such a nest of mistakes. Think of it as a man, and as a soldier. Suppose that you yourself, or I, desirous of proving the fidelity of our sentinels, or for any other reason, good or bad, attempted to enter this Dangerous Castle of Douglas without giving the password to the warders, would we be entitled to blame those upon duty, if, not knowing our persons, they manfully refused us entrance, made us prisoners, and mishandled us while resisting our attempt, in terms of the orders which we ourselves had imposed upon them? What is there that makes a difference between such a sentinel and yourself, John Walton, in this curious affair, which, by Heaven! would rather form a gay subject for the minstrelsy of this excellent bard, than the theme of a tragic lay? Come! look not thus, Sir John Walton; or if you will, be angry with the lady who has committed such

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a piece of folly, or be angry with me who have rode up and down all night on a fool’s errand, and spoiled my best horse, in absolute uncertainty how I shall get another till my uncle of Pembroke and I shall be reconciled; or, lastly, if you desire to be totally absurd in your wrath, direct it against this worthy minstrel on account of his rare fidelity, and punish him for that for which he better deserves a chain of gold than fetters in a dungeon, since he was obviously determined to sacrifice his own life rather than betray his lady’s fancy.” Sir John Walton made an effort to speak, and succeeded with some difficulty. “Aymer de Valence,” he said, “in irritating a madman you do but sport with your own life;” and then remained silent. “I am glad you can yet say so much,” replied his friend; “for I was not jesting when I said I would rather that you were at variance with me, than that you laid the whole blame on yourself. I fancy it will be necessary to set the minstrel instantly at liberty. Meantime, for his lady’s sake, I will entreat him, in all honour, to be our guest till the Lady Augusta de Berkely shall do us the same honour, and to assist us in our search after her place of retirement.—Good minstrel,” he continued, “you hear what I say, and you will not, I suppose, be surprised, that, in all honour and kind usage, you find yourself detained for a short space in the Castle of Douglas?” “You seem, Sir Knight,” replied the minstrel, “not so much to keep your eye upon the right, as to possess the might. I must necessarily be guided by your advice, since you have the power to make it a command.” “And I trust,” continued De Valence, “that when your mistress and you again meet, we shall have the benefit of your intercession for any thing which we may have done to displeasure her, considering that the purpose of our action was naturally the reverse?” “Let me,” said Sir John Walton, “say a single word, not by way of diminishing my guilt, but to show my sense of it. I will offer thee a chain of gold, heavy enough to bear down the weight of these shackles, as a sign of regret for having condemned thee to suffer them.” “Enough said, Sir John,” said De Valence; “let us promise no more till this good minstrel shall see some sign of performance. Follow me this way, and I will tell thee in private of other tidings, which it is important that you should know.” So saying, he withdrew Walton from the dungeon, and sending for the old knight, Sir Philip de Montenay, already mentioned, who acted as seneschal of the castle, he commanded that the minstrel should be enlarged from the dungeon, well looked to in other respects, yet prohibited, though with every mark of civility, from leaving the castle.

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“And now, Walton,” he said, “methinks you are a little churlish in not ordering me some breakfast, after I have been all night engaged in your affairs; and a cup of muscadel would, I think, be no bad induction to a full consideration of this perplexed matter.” “Thou knowest,” answered Walton, “that thou mayest call for what thou wilt, providing always thou tell me, without loss of time, what else thou knowest respecting the will of the lady, against whom we have all sinned so grievously—and I, alas, beyond hope of forgiveness!” “Trust me, I hope,” said the Knight of Valence, “the good lady bears me no malice, as indeed she has expressly renounced any ill-will against me. The words, you see, are as you yourself may read—‘To you, Sir John Walton and Sir Aymer de Valence, I have only to say that you are acting against me under a mystery, the solution of which is comprehended in a secret known only to my faithful minstrel, Bertram; now, therefore, the lady pardons poor Aymer de Valence, and forgives him willingly for having been involved in a mistake, to which she herself led the way, and she herself will at all times be happy to meet with him as an acquaintance, and never to think farther of these few days’ history, except as matter of mirth and ridicule.’ So it is expressly written and set down.” “Yes,” replied Sir John Walton, “but see you not that her offending lover is expressly excluded from the amnesty granted to the lesser offender? Mark you not the concluding paragraph? ‘But respecting Sir John Walton, I must request of him to consider whether his conduct towards me, standing as we do towards each other, is such as he himself ought to forget, or I ought to forgive; and he will understand me, when I tell him that all former connexion must hereafter be at an end between him and the supposed Augustine.’ Explain to me how the reading of these words is reconcilable to any thing but their plain sense of condemnation and forfeiture of contract, implying destruction of the hopes of Sir John Walton?” “You are somewhat an older man than me, Sir Knight,” answered De Valence, “and, I will grant, by far the wiser and more experienced; yet I will uphold that there is no adopting the interpretation which you seem to have affixed in your mind, without supposing the preliminary, that the fair writer was distracted in her understanding,—nay, never start, look wildly, or lay your hand on your sword—I say again, that no woman in her senses would have pardoned a common acquaintance, for his behaving to her with unintentional disrespect and unkindness, during the currency of a certain masquerade, and, at the same time, sternly and irrevocably broke off with the lover to whom her troth was plighted, although his error in joining in the offence was neither grosser nor more protracted.”

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“Do not blaspheme,” said Sir John Walton; “and forgive me, if, in justice to truth and to the angel whom I fear I have forfeited for ever, I point out to you the difference which a maiden of dignity and of feeling must make between an offence towards her, committed by an ordinary acquaintance, and one of precisely the same kind, offered by a person who is bound by the most undeserved preference, by the most generous benefits, and by every thing which can bind human feeling, to think and carefully consider ere he acts in any case in which it is possible for her to be concerned. The connexion which is in the other case but casual and of no consequence, becomes in that of a lover and a mistress, a tie the most sacred upon earth, and the breach of which is the most unpardonable.” “Now, by mine honour,” said Aymer de Valence, “I am glad to hear thee make some attempt at reason, although it is but an unreasonable kind of reason too, since its object is to destroy thine own hopes, and argue away thine own chance of happiness; but if I have, in the progress of this affair, borne me sometimes towards thee, as to give not only the governor, but even the friend, some cause of displeasure, I will make it up to thee now, John Walton, by trying to convince thee in spite of thine own perverse logic. But here comes the muscadel and the breakfast; wilt thou take some refreshment?—or shall we go on without the spirit of muscadel?” “For Heaven’s sake,” replied Walton, “do as thou wilt, so thou make me clear of thy well intended babble.” “Nay, thou shalt not brawl me out of my powers of argument,” said De Valence, laughing, and helping himself to a brimming cup of wine; “and if thou acknowledgest thyself conquered, I am contented to give the victory to the inspiring strength of the jovial liquor.” “Do as thou listest,” said Walton, “but make an end of an argument which thou canst not comprehend.” “I deny thy charge,” answered the younger knight, wiping his lips, after having finished his draught; “and listen, Walton the Warlike, to a chapter in the history of woman, in which thou art more unskilled than I would wish thee to be. Thou canst not deny that, be it right or wrong, thy Lady Augusta hath ventured more forward than is usual upon the sea of affection; she hath boldly made thee her choice, while thou wert as yet known to her only as a flower of English chivalry,—faith, and I respect her for her frankness—and what is it that she must now infer from a choice, which the more cold of her own sex may claim occasion to term rash and precipitate?—Nay, be not, I pray thee, offended—I am far from thinking or saying so; on the contrary, I will uphold with my lance, her choice of John Walton against the minion of a court, as a wise and generous election, and

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her own behaviour is alike candid and noble. But she herself is not unlikely to dread unjust misconstruction; a fear of which would necessarily induce her, upon any fair opportunity, to show an unwonted and unusual rigour towards her lover, in order to balance her having extended towards him, in the beginning of their intercourse, somewhat of an unusual degree of frank encouragement. Nay, it might be easy for her lover so far to take part against himself, by arguing as thou dost when out of thy senses, as to make it difficult for her to withdraw from an argument which he himself was foolish enough to strengthen; and thus, like a maiden too soon taken at her first nay-say, she is allowed no opportunity of bearing herself according to her real feelings, or retracting a sentence issued with consent of the party whose hopes it destroys.” “I have heard thee, De Valence,” answered the governor of Douglas Dale; “nor is it difficult for me to admit, that these thy lessons may serve as a chart to many a female heart, but not to that of Augusta de Berkely. By my life, I say I would much sooner be deprived of the merit of those few deeds of chivalry which thou sayest procured for me such enviable distinction, than I would act upon them with the insolence, as if I said that my place in the lady’s bosom was too firmly fixed to be shaken even by the success of a worthier man, or by my own gross failure, in respect to the object of my attachment. No, herself alone shall have power to persuade me that even goodness equal to that of an interceding saint, will restore me to the place in her affections which I have most unworthily forfeited, by a stupidity only to be compared to that of brutes.” “If you are so minded,” said Aymer de Valence, “I have only one word more—forgive me if I speak it peremptorily—the lady, as you say, and say truly, must be the final arbitress in this question. My arguments do not extend to insisting that you should claim her hand, whether she herself will or no; but to learn her determination, it is necessary that you should know where she is, and that you do not know, nor am I unfortunately able to inform you.” “How! or what mean you!” exclaimed the governor; “where is she fled? or with whom?” “She is fled, for what I know,” said De Valence, “in search of a more enterprising lover than one who is so willing to interpret every air of frost as a killing blight to his hopes; perhaps she seeks the Black Douglas, or some such hero of the Thistle, to reward with her lands, and lordships, and beauty, those of which John Walton once thought himself assured. How then shall he look when the Douglas’s chivalry take possession of this devoted castle, and while the garrison in vain endeavour to support their posts, when their governor has abandoned

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the command bestowed upon him by his king, and trusted to by his countrymen?” “Aymer de Valence,” replied Walton, in a solemn and animated tone, “never shall king or subject of England hear tidings that Walton has betrayed his duty. Douglas Castle shall be defended, as we have hitherto been able, with the aid of Heaven, to spread from its battlements the broad banner of Saint George. Come of me what list, I will die the faithful lover of Augusta de Berkely, even although I no longer live as her chosen knight. There are cloisters and hermitages”—— “Ay, marry are there,” replied Sir Aymer; “and girdles of hemp and beads of oak, which are unnecessary to our counsels, till we discover where the Lady Augusta is, and what she purposes to do in this matter.” “You say well,” replied Walton; “let us hold counsel together by what means we shall, if possible, discover the lady’s too hasty retreat, by which she has done me great wrong—if she supposes her commands would not have been fully obeyed, had she honoured with them the governor of Douglas Dale, or any who are under his command.” “Now,” replied De Valence, “you again speak like a true son of chivalry, sensible indeed of the duties which you owe your mistress, but not losing in them those which you owe to your sovereign and your country. With your permission, I would summon this minstrel to our presence. His fidelity to his mistress has been remarkable. As matters stand now, I cannot at all doubt that we shall have his best assistance in tracing the place of her retreat, and thus shall get through this difficult navigation.”

Chapter Three I    early in the day, when, after the Governor and De Valence had again summoned Bertram to their councils, the garrison of Douglas was mustered, and a number of small parties, in addition to that already dispatched by De Valence from Hazelside, were sent out to scour the woods in pursuit of the fugitives, with strict injunctions to treat them, if overtaken, with the utmost reverence, and to obey their commands, but keeping sight always of the place in which they might take refuge. To facilitate this reunion, some who were men of sense were intrusted with the secret of the supposed pilgrim’s sex and rank, and who she and the fugitive nun really were, while others were enjoined to conduct themselves according to the instructions they received by their officers, without any farther explanation upon the subject. The whole ground, whether forest or moorland, within many

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miles of Douglas Castle, was covered and traversed by parties, whose anxiety to detect the fugitives was equal to the reward for their safe recovery, liberally offered by Walton and De Valence. They met each other in every direction, and spared not to make such enquiries as might bring to light any machination of the Scottish insurgents which might be on foot at the same time. Their instructions were, in case of finding such, to proceed against the persons engaged, by arrest and otherwise, with the most rigorous measures, such as had been commanded by Walton himself at the time when the Black Douglas and his accomplices had been the principal objects of his wakeful suspicion. But the exploratory parties of the English, although numerous and alert, failed nevertheless both in falling on the trace of the Lady of Berkely and the nun Ursula, and in encountering any party whatever of the insurgent Scottish, so that the whole day was spent in fruitless enquiries. Meantime our fugitives had, as we have seen, set out from the convent of Saint Bride’s under the guidance of a cavalier, of whom the Lady Augusta knew nothing save that he was likely to guide their steps in a direction where they would not be exposed to the risk of being retaken. At length Margaret de Hautlieu herself spoke upon the subject. “You have made no enquiry,” she said, “Lady Augusta, whither you are travelling, or under whose charge, although methinks it should much concern you to know.” “Is it not enough for me to be aware,” answered Lady Augusta, “that I am travelling, kind sister, under the protection of one to whom you yourself trust as to a friend; and why need I be anxious for any farther assurance of my safety?” “Simply,” said Margaret de Hautlieu, “because the persons with whom, from national as well as personal circumstances, I stand connected, are perhaps not exactly the protectors to whom you, lady, can with perfect safety intrust yourself.” “In what sense,” said the Lady Augusta, “do you use these words?” “Because,” replied Lady Margaret, “the Douglas, the Bruce, Malcolm Fleming, and others of that party, although they are incapable of abusing such an advantage to any dishonourable purpose, might nevertheless, under a strong temptation, consider you as an hostage thrown into their hands by Providence, for whom they might meditate the exchange perhaps of the Castle of Douglas, or some similar advantage to their dispersed and dispirited party.” “They might make me,” answered the Lady Augusta, “the subject of such a treaty, when I was dead, but, believe me, never while I drew vital breath. Believe me also that, with whatever pain, shame, or agony,

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I would again deliver myself up to the power of Walton, yet I would rather put myself in his hands—What do I say? his!—I would rather surrender myself to the meanest archer of my native country, than combine with its foes to work mischief to merry England—my own England—that country which is the envy of every country, and the pride of all who can term themselves her natives!” “I thought that your choice might prove so,” said Lady Margaret; “and since you have honoured me with your confidence, gladly would I provide for your liberty by placing you as nearly in the situation which you yourself desire, as my poor means have the power of accomplishing. In half an hour we shall be in danger of being taken by the English parties, which will be instantly dispersed in every direction in quest of us. Now take notice, lady, I know a place in which I can take refuge with my friends and countrymen, those gallant Scots, who have never even in this dishonoured age bent the knee to Baal. For their honour, their nicety of honour, I could have answered with my own; but of late they have been put to those trials by which the most generous affections are soured, and driven to a species of frenzy, the more frantic that it is founded originally on the best feelings. A person who feels himself deprived of his natural birthright, denounced, exposed to confiscation and death, because he avouches the right of his king and the cause of his country, ceases on his part to be nice or precise in estimating the degree of retaliation which it is lawful for him to exercise in the requital of such injuries; and, believe me, bitterly should I feel the pain of having misguided you into some situation which might be regarded by you as afflicting or degrading.” “In a word, then,” said the English lady, “what is it you apprehend I am like to suffer at the hands of your friends, whom I must be excused for terming rebels?” “If,” said the sister Ursula, “your friends, whom I should term oppressors and tyrants, take our land and our lives, seize our castles and confiscate our property, you must confess, that the rough laws of war indulge mine with the privilege of retaliation. Not that I fear for a moment that they will ever exercise cruelty or insult upon a lady of your rank; but I can hardly expect that they will abstain from such means of extorting advantage from your captivity as are common in warfare. You would not, I think, wish to be delivered up to the English, on consideration of Sir John Walton surrendering the Castle of Douglas to its natural lord; yet, were you in the hands of the Bruce or Douglas, although I can answer for your being treated with all the respect which they have the means of showing, yet I own, that putting you at such a ransom is by no means unlikely.” “I would sooner die,” said the Lady of Berkely, “than have my name

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mixed up in a treaty so disgraceful; and Walton’s reply to it would, I am certain, be to strike the head from the messenger, and throw it from the highest tower of the Dangerous Castle.” “Where then, lady, would you go,” said sister Ursula, “were the choice in your power?” “To my own castle,” answered Lady Augusta, “where, if necessary, I could be defended even against the king himself, until I could place at least my person under the protection of the Church.” “In that case,” replied Margaret de Hautlieu, “my power of rendering you assistance is only precarious, yet it comprehends a choice which I will willingly submit to your decision, notwithstanding I thereby subject the secrets of my friends to some risk of being discovered to their infinite inconvenience. But the confidence which you have placed in me, imposes on me the necessity of resting in you a like trust. Choose, therefore, whether you will proceed with me to the secret rendezvous of the Douglas and his friends, which I may be blamed for making known, and there take your chance of the reception which you may encounter, since I cannot warrant you of any thing save honourable treatment; or, if you should think this too hazardous, I will proceed as far as I can with you upon your return to the borders of Scotland, and then leave you to find your way, and to obtain a guard and a conductor among your own countrymen. Meantime, it will be well for me if I escape being taken, since the abbot will not shrink at inflicting upon me the death due to an apostate nun.” “Such cruelty, my sister,” said the Lady of Berkely, “could hardly be inflicted upon one who had never taken the religious vows, but who still, according to the laws of the church, had a right to make a choice between the world and the veil.” “Such choice as they gave their gallant victims,” said Lady Margaret, “who have fallen into English hands during these merciless wars, —such choice as they gave to Wallace, the Champion of Scotland,— such as they gave to Hay, the gentle and the free,—to Sommerville, the flower of chivalry,—and to Athol, the blood relation of King Edward himself—all of whom were as much traitors, under which name they were executed, as Margaret de Hautlieu is an apostate nun, and subject to the rule of the cloister.” She spoke with some eagerness, for she felt as if the English lady imputed to her more coldness than she was conscious of manifesting. “And after all,” she proceeded, “you, Lady Augusta de Berkely, what do you venture, if you run the risk of falling into the hands of your lover? What dreadful risk do you incur? You need not, methinks, fear being immured between four walls, with a basket of bread and a cruise of water, which, whatever you may suppose, will be the only support

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allowed to me for the short space that my life may be prolonged. Nay, even were you to be betrayed to the rebel Scots, as you call them, a captivity among the hills, sweetened by the hope of deliverance, and rendered tolerable by all the alleviations which the circumstances of your captors allowed them the means of supplying, were not, I think, a lot so very hard to endure.” “Nevertheless,” answered the Lady of Berkely, “frightful enough it must have been, since, to fly from such an alternative, I threw myself upon your guidance.” “And whatever you think or suspect,” answered the novice, “I am as true to you as ever was one maiden to another; and as sure as ever sister Ursula was true to her vows, although they were never completed, so will I be faithful to your secret, even at the risk of betraying my own.—Hearken, lady!” she said, suddenly pausing, “do you hear that?” The sound to which she alluded was the imitation of the cry of an owlet, which the lady had before heard under the walls of the Convent. “These sounds,” said Margaret de Hautlieu, “announce that one is near, more able than I am to direct us in this matter. I will go forward and speak with him; and this man, our guide, will remain by you for a little space; nor, when he quits your bridle, need you wait for any other signal, but ride forwards in the woodland path, and obey the advice and directions which will be given you.” “Stay! stay! sister Ursula!” cried the Lady de Berkely—“abandon me not in this moment of uncertainty and distress!” “It must be, for the sake of both,” returned Margaret de Hautlieu. “I also am in uncertainty—I also am in distress—and patience and obedience are the only virtues which can save us both.” So saying, she struck her horse with the riding rod, and moving briskly forwards, disappeared among the boughs of a tangled thicket. The Lady of Berkely would have followed her new companion, but the cavalier who attended them both laid a strong hand upon the bridle of her palfrey, with a look which implied that he would not permit her to proceed in that direction. Terrified, therefore, though she could not exactly state a reason why, the Lady of Berkely remained with her eyes fixed upon the thicket, indistinctly dreading to see a band of English archers, or rugged Scottish insurgents, issuing from its tangled skirts, and doubtful which she should have most considered as the object of her terror. In the distress of her uncertainty, she even attempted to move forwards, but the stern check which her attendant bestowed upon her bridle, proved sufficiently that in restraining her wishes, the stranger was not like to spare the additional strength which he certainly possessed. At length, after ten minutes of delay had

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elapsed, the cavalier withdrew his hand from her bridle, and pointing with his lance towards the thicket, through which there lay a small, scarce visible path, seemed to intimate to the lady that her road lay in that direction, and that he would no longer prevent her following it. “Do you not go with me?” said the lady, who having been accustomed to this man’s company since they left the convent, had by degrees come to look upon him as a sort of protector. He, however, gravely shook his head, as if to excuse complying with her request, which it was not in his power to grant; and turning his steed in a different direction, retired at a pace which soon carried him from her sight. She had then no alternative but to take the path of the thicket, which had been followed by Margaret de Hautlieu, nor did she pursue it long before coming in sight of a singular spectacle. The trees grew wider as the lady advanced within the thicket, and she perceived, that though hedged in as it were by an enclosure of copsewood, it was in the interior altogether occupied by a few of the trunks of such as seemed to have been the ancestors of the forest, and which, though few in number, were sufficient to overshade all the unoccupied ground, by the immense extent of their complicated branches. Beneath one of these lay stretched something of a grey colour, which, as it drew itself together, exhibited the figure of a man sheathed in armour, but strangely accoutred, in a manner so bizarre, as to indicate some of the wild fancies peculiar to the knights of that period. His armour was ingeniously painted, so as to represent a skeleton; the ribs being constituted by the corslet and its back-piece. The shield represented an owl with its wings spread, a device which was repeated upon the helmet, which appeared to be completely covered by an image of the same bird of ill omen. But that which was particularly calculated to excite surprise in the spectator, was the great height and thinness of the figure, which, as he arose from the ground, and placed himself in an erect posture, seemed rather to resemble an apparition in the act of extricating itself from the grave, than that of an ordinary man rising upon his feet. The horse, too, upon which the lady rode, started back, and snorted, either at the sudden change of posture of this ghastly specimen of chivalry, or disagreeably affected by some odour which accompanied his presence. The lady herself manifested some alarm, for although she did not utterly believe that she was in presence of a supernatural being, yet, among the strange half-frantic disguises of chivalry, this was one of the most uncouth which she had ever seen; and considering how very often the knights of the period pushed their fantastic dresses to a degree of insanity, it was no very safe adventure to meet a person bearing the emblems and the marks of the King of Terrors himself, and the rencontre taking place in the

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midst of a wild forest. Be the knight and his character what it might, she resolved, however, to accost him in the language and manner observed in romances upon such occasions, in hopes that if a madman, which his guise would imply, he was at least a peaceable one, and accessible to civility. “Sir Knight of the Sepulchre,” she said, in as firm a tone as she could assume, “right sorry am I, if, by my hasty approach, I have disturbed your solitary meditations. My horse, sensible I think of the presence of yours, brought me hither, without my being aware whom or what I was to encounter.” “I am one,” answered the stranger, in a solemn tone, “whom few men seek to meet, till the time comes that they can avoid me no longer.” “It is too true,” replied the Lady de Berkely, “and you only speak, Sir Knight, according to the dismal character which it has pleased you to assume as your distinction. May I appeal to one whose exterior is so formidable, for the purpose of requesting some directions through this wild wood; as, for instance, what is the name of the nearest castle, town, or hostelry, and by what course I am best likely to reach it?” “Youth,” answered the Knight of the Tomb, “it is a singular audacity that would enter into conversation with him who is termed the Inexorable, the Unsparing, and the Pitiless, whom even the most miserable forbears to call to his assistance, lest his prayers should be too soon answered; are you not aware, that those who meet with me must consider their business of life as drawing to a close?” “Sir Knight,” replied the Lady Augusta, “the character which you have assumed, unquestionably for good reasons, dictates to you a peculiar course of speech and action; but although your part is a sad one, it does not, I should suppose, render it necessary for you to refuse those acts of civility which you have taken upon you with the other vows of chivalry.” “If you trust to my guidance,” replied the ghastly figure, “there is only one condition upon which I can grant you the information which you require; and that is, that you wait on my footsteps without any questions asked as to the tendency of our journey. You must pursue me as a guide upon the way, and trust to me implicitly, without being at once troublesome to me with your company, and with your conversation.” “I must submit to your conditions,” she answered, “if you are pleased to take the task of being my guide upon yourself. In my heart I conceive you to be one of the unhappy gentlemen of Scotland, who are now in arms, as they say, for defence of their liberties. A rash undertaking has brought me within the course of your walks, and now the

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only favour I have to request of you, against whom I never did, nor planned any evil, is the guidance which your knowledge of the country permits you easily to afford me in my way to the frontiers of England. Believe that what I may see of your haunts or of your practices, shall be to me things invisible, as if they were actually concealed by the sepulchre itself of which it has pleased you to assume the attributes; and if a sum of money, enough to be the ransom of a wealthy earl, will purchase such a favour at need, such a ransom will be frankly paid, with as much fidelity as ever it was rendered by a prisoner to the knight by whom he was taken. Do not reject me, princely Bruce—noble Douglas—if indeed it is to either of you that I address myself in my last extremity. Men speak you both fearful enemies, but generous knights and faithful friends. Let me entreat you to remember how much you would wish your own friends and connexions to meet with compassion at the hands of the knights of jolly England.” “And have they done so?” replied the Knight, in a voice more gloomy than before; “or do you act wisely, while imploring the protection of one whom you believe to be a true Scottish knight, for no other reason than the extreme and extravagant misery of his appearance? Is it, I say, well or wise to remind him of the mode in which the lords of England have treated the lovely maidens and the high-born dames of Scotland? Have not their prison houses been suspended from the battlements of castles, that their captivity might be kept in view of every base burgher who should desire to look upon the miseries of the noblest peeresses, yea, even the Queen of Scotland?* Is this a recollection which can inspire a Scottish knight with compassion towards an English lady? or is it a thought which can do aught but prolong the deeply sworn hatred between Edward Plantagenet, the author of these evils, and every drop of Scottish blood which still feels the throb of life? No;—it is all you can expect, if, cold and pitiless as the sepulchre I represent, I leave you unassisted in the helpless condition in which you describe yourself to be.” “You will not be so inhuman,” replied the lady; “in doing so, you must surrender every right to honest fame, which you have won either by sword or lance. You must surrender every pretence to that justice which claims the merit of supporting the weak against the strong. You must make it your principle to avenge the wrongs and tyranny of Edward Plantagenet upon the dames and damosels of England, who have neither access to his councils, nor give him their approbation in the wars which have Scotland for their object.” “It would not then,” said the Knight of the Sepulchre, “induce you * The Queen of Robert the Bruce, and the Countess of Buchan, by whom, as one of Macduff’s descent, he was crowned at Scone, were secured in the manner described.

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to depart from your request, should I tell you the evils to which you would subject yourself should we fall into the hands of the English troops, and should they find you under such ill-omened protection as my own?” “Be assured,” said the lady, “the consideration of such an event does not in the least shake my resolution or desire of confiding in your protection. You know who I am, and may judge how far even Edward would hold himself entitled to extend punishment towards me.” “How am I to know you,” replied the ghastly cavalier, “or your circumstances? They must be extraordinary indeed, if they form a check, either of justice or humanity, upon the revengeful feelings of Edward: all who know him are well assured that it is no ordinary motive that will induce him to depart from indulgence of his evil temper. But be it as it may, you, lady, if a lady you be, throw yourself as a burden upon me, and I must discharge myself of my trust as I best may; for this purpose you must be guided implicitly by my directions, which will be given after the fashion of those of the spiritual world, being intimations, rather than detailed instructions, for your conduct, and expressed rather by commands than by any reason or argument. In this way it is possible that I may be of service to you; in any other case, it is most likely that I may fail you at need, and melt from your side like a phantom which apprehends the approach of day.” “You cannot be so cruel!” answered the lady. “A gentleman, a knight, and a nobleman—and I persuade myself I speak to both—hath duties which he cannot abandon.” “He has, I grant it, and they are most sacred to me,” answered the Spectral Knight; “but I have also duties whose obligations are doubly binding, and to which I must sacrifice those which would otherwise lead me to devote myself to your rescue. The only question is, whether you feel inclined to accept my protection on the limited terms on which alone I can extend it, or whether you deem it better that each go their own way, and limit themselves to their own resources, and trust the rest to Providence?” “Alas!” replied the lady, “beset and hard pressed as I am, to ask me to form a resolution for myself, is like calling on a wretch, in the act of falling from a precipice, to form a calm judgment by what twig he may best gain the chance of breaking his fall. His answer must necessarily be, that he will cling to that which he can easiest lay hold of, and trust the rest to Providence. I take therefore your offer of protection, so modified as you are pleased to limit it, and I put my faith in Heaven and in you. To aid me effectually, however, you must know my name and my circumstances.” “All these,” answered the Knight of the Sepulchre, “have already

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been told me, so far as I hold them of any consequence, by your late companion; for deem not, young lady, that either beauty, rank, extended domains, unlimited wealth, or universal accomplishments, can weigh any thing in the consideration of him who wears the trappings of the tomb, and whose affections and desires are long buried in the charnel-house.” “May your faith,” said the Lady Augusta de Berkely, “be as steady as your words appear severe, and I submit to your guidance, without the least doubt or fear that it will prove otherwise than as I venture to hope.”

Chapter Four L      dog following its master, when engaged in training him to the sport in which he desires he should excel, the Lady Augusta felt herself occasionally treated with a severity calculated to impress upon her the most implicit attention and obedience. The terrific manners of the Knight of the Tomb persuaded her that he was a principal man among the retainers of Douglas, if not James of Douglas himself, and made her anxious to comply with every condition upon which he seemed rather to hint, than explicitly to promise the continuance of his protection. Still, however, the ideas which the lady had formed of the redoubted Douglas, were those of a knight highly accomplished in the duty of chivalry, devoted in particular to the service of the fair sex, and altogether unlike the personage with whom she found herself so strangely united, or rather to whom for the present she was enthralled. Nevertheless, when, as if to abridge farther communication, he turned short into one of the mazes of the wood, and seemed to adopt a pace, which, from the nature of the ground, the horse on which the Lady Augusta was mounted had difficulty to keep up with, she followed him with the alarm and speed of the young spaniel, which, from fear rather than fondness, endeavours to keep up with the steps of its severe task-master. The simile, it is true, is not a very polite one, nor entirely becoming an age, when women were worshipped with a certain degree of devotion; but the circumstances were also such as rarely occurred, and the Lady Augusta de Berkely could not but persuade herself that the terrible champion, whose name had been so long the theme of her anxiety, and the terror indeed of the whole country, might be able some way or other, by means of contrivances wrought out for other purposes, to accomplish her deliverance. She, therefore, exerted herself to the utmost so as to keep pace with the phantom-like apparition, and followed the knight, as the evening

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shadow keeps watch upon the belated rustic. As the lady obviously suffered under this degree of exertion, after riding about half an hour the Knight of the Tomb slackened his pace, looked anxiously around him, and muttered apparently to himself, though probably intended for his companion’s ear, “There is no occasion for so much haste.” He proceeded at a slower rate until they seemed to be on the brink of a ravine, many of which sunk out of the forest walks with a change of the surface of the ground, effected by the sudden torrents of the country, and which, winding among the trees and copsewood, formed, as it were, a net of places of concealment, opening into each other, so that there was perhaps no place in the world so fit for the purpose of ambuscade. The spot where the borderer Turnbull had made his escape at the hunting-match, was one specimen of this broken country, and perhaps connected itself with the various thickets and passes through which the knight and pilgrim occasionally seemed to take their way, though that ravine was at a considerable distance from their present route. Meanwhile the knight led the way, as if rather with the purpose of bewildering the Lady Augusta amidst these interminable woods, than following any exact or fixed route. Here they ascended, and anon appeared to descend in the same direction, finding only boundless wildernesses, and varied combinations of tangled woodland scenery. Such part of the country as seemed arable, the knight appeared carefully to avoid; yet he could not direct his course with so much certainty but what he occasionally crossed the path of inhabitants and cultivators, who showed a consciousness of so singular a presence, but never, as the lady observed, evinced any symptom of recognition. The inference was obvious, that the spectre knight was known in the country, and that he possessed adherents or accomplices there, who were at least so far his friends, as to avoid giving any alarm, which might be the means of his discovery. The well imitated cry of the night-owl, too frequent a guest in the wilderness that its call should be a subject of surprise, seemed to be a signal understood among the inhabitants; for it was heard in different parts of the wood, and the Lady Augusta, experienced in such journeys by her former travels under the guidance of the minstrel Bertram, was able to observe, that on hearing such wild notes, her guide changed the direction of his course, and betook himself to paths which led through deeper wilds, and more impenetrable thickets. This happened so often, that a new alarm came upon the unfortunate pilgrim, which suggested other motives of terror. Was she not the confidant, and almost the agent of some artful design, laid with a view to an extensive operation, which was destined to terminate,

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as the efforts of Douglas had before done, in the surprise of his hereditary castle, the massacre of the English garrison, and the dishonour and death of that Sir John Walton, upon whose fate she had long believed, or taught herself to believe, that her own was dependant? Edward the Second, by his attempt to dispose of her in marriage to a mean man, and without her consent, had taught her to regard his conduct as tyrannical, and she felt as if she was sure to have the majority of the nobility of England on her side, in contemning and refusing a match with the relation of the hated Gaveston. Her conscience, therefore, was a good deal quieted under the idea of resistance to King Edward’s pleasure, and transgression of her duty of a subject, and if the fair reader thinks our heroine fails in her duty in postponing the cause of the king to her own inclinations, we can only wish the king joy of possessing so loyal a subject as the fair judge herself. But when the same Lady Augusta thought she saw that she was engaged in a conspiracy with a Scottish insurgent, whose object she could only conjecture to be the death or dishonour of the lover who had bought so dearly her preference to him, the question was put before her in a different and new light, and she shuddered at the consequences of the dark transactions in which she had become engaged within the last two hours, and which now appeared to have a tendency so very different from what she had at first apprehended. The hours of the morning of this remarkable day, being that of Palm Sunday, were thus drawn out in wandering from place to place; while the Lady de Berkely occasionally interposed by petitions for liberty, which she endeavoured to express in the most moving and pathetic manner, and by offers of wealth and treasure, to which no answer whatever was returned by her strange guide. At length, as if worn out by his captive’s importunity, the knight, coming close up to the bridle rein of the Lady Augusta, said in a solemn tone— “I am, as you may well believe, none of those knights who roam through wood and wild seeking adventures, by the achievement of which I may obtain grace in the eyes of a fair lady: Yet will I to a certain degree grant the request which thou dost solicit so anxiously, and the arbitration of thy fate shall depend upon the pleasure of him to whose will thou hast expressed thyself ready to submit thine own. I will on our arrival at the place of our destination, which is now at hand, write to Sir John Walton, and send my letter, together with thy fair self, by a special messenger. He will, no doubt, speedily attend our summons, and thou shalt thyself be satisfied that even the votaries of the tomb, inexorable and deaf as they are to human entreaty, and insensible to earthly affections, have yet some sympathy for beauty and for virtue. I

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will put the choice of safety, and the future happiness of thy life, into thine own hands, and those of the man whom thou hast chosen; and thou mayest select which thou wilt betwixt those and misery.” While he thus spoke, one of those ravines or clefts in the earth seemed to yawn before them, and entering it at the upper end, the spectre knight, with an attention which he had not yet shown, guided the lady’s courser by the rein down the broken and steep path by which the bottom of the tangled dingle was accessible. When placed on firm ground after the dangers of a descent, in which her palfrey seemed to be sustained by the personal strength and address of the singular being who had hold of his bridle, the lady looked with some astonishment at a place so well adapted for concealment as that which she had now attained. It appeared also that it was used for this purpose, for more than one stifled answer was given to a very low bugle note emitted by the Knight of the Tomb; and when the same note was repeated, about half a score of armed men, some wearing the dress of soldiers, others those of shepherds and agriculturists, showed themselves imperfectly, as if acknowledging the summons.

Chapter Five “H    , my gallant friends!” said the Knight of the Tomb to his companions, who seemed to welcome him with the eagerness of men engaged in the same perilous undertaking. “The winter has passed over, the festival of Palm Sunday is come, and as surely as the ice and snow of this season shall not remain to chill the earth through the ensuing summer, so surely we, in a few hours, keep our word to those southern braggarts, who think their language of boasting and malice has as much force over our Scottish bosoms, as the blast possesses over the autumn fruits; but it is not so. While we choose to remain concealed, they may as vainly seek to descry us, as a housewife would search for the needle she has dropped among the withered foliage of yon gigantic oak. Yet a few hours, and the lost needle shall become the exterminating sword of the Genius of Scotland, avenging ten thousand injuries, and especially the life of the gallant Lord Douglas, cruelly done to die as an exile from his native country, in the English fortress of Newcastle, or some other of their prison houses.” An exclamation between a yell and a groan burst from the assembled retainers of Douglas, upon being reminded of the recent death of their chieftain; while they seemed at the same time sensible of the necessity

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of making little noise, lest they should give the alarm to some of the numerous English parties which were then traversing different parts of the forest. The acclamation, so cautiously uttered, had scarce died away in silence, when the Knight of the Tomb, or, to call him by his proper name, Sir James Douglas, again addressed his handful of faithful followers. “One effort, my friends, may yet be made to end our strife with the southron without bloodshed. Fate has this morning thrown into my power the young heiress of Berkely, for whose sake it is said Sir John Walton keeps with obstinacy the castle which is mine by inheritance. Is there one among you who dare go to the Castle of Douglas, as the honourable escort of Augusta de Berkely, bearing a letter, explaining the terms on which I am willing to restore her to her lover, to freedom, and to her English lordships?” “If there is none other,” said a tall man, dressed in the tattered attire of a woodsman, and being, in fact, no other than the very Michael Turnbull, who had already given so extraordinary a proof of his undaunted manhood, “I will gladly be the person who will be the lady’s henchman on this expedition.” “Thou art never awanting,” said the Douglas, “where a manly deed is to be done; but remember, this lady must pledge to us her word and oath that she will hold herself our faithful prisoner, rescue or no rescue; that she will consider herself as pledged for the life, freedom, and safe usage of Michael Turnbull; and that if Sir John Walton refuse my terms, she must hold herself obliged to return with Turnbull to our presence, in order to be disposed of at our pleasure.” There was much in these conditions, which struck the Lady Augusta with natural doubt and horror; nevertheless, strange as it may seem, the declaration of the Douglas gave a species of decision to her situation, which might have otherwise been unattainable; and from the high opinion which she entertained of the Douglas’s chivalry, she could not bring herself to think, that any part that he might play in the approaching drama would be other than that which a perfect good knight would maintain towards his enemy, whatever injuries he might have to complain of. Even with respect to Walton, she felt herself relieved of a painful difficulty. The idea of her being discovered by the knight himself, in a male disguise, had preyed upon her spirit; she felt as if guilty of departure from the laws of womanhood, and an extension of her favour toward him beyond maidenly limits; a step, therefore, which might tend to lessen her in the eyes of the lover for whom she had hazarded so much. The heart, she said, is lightly prized, That is but lightly won;

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And long shall mourn the heartless man, That leaves his love too soon.

On the other hand, to be brought before him as a prisoner, was indeed a circumstance equally perplexing and unpleasing, but it was one which was beyond her control, and the Douglas, into whose hands she had fallen, represented the deity in the play, whose entrance, she thought, was almost sufficient to bring its perplexities to a conclusion; she therefore not unwillingly submitted to take what oaths and promises were required by the party in whose hands she found herself, and accordingly engaged to be a true prisoner, whatever might occur to give her an opportunity of making an escape. Meantime she strictly obeyed the directions of those who had her motions at command, devoutly praying that circumstances, in themselves so fearful, might nevertheless work together for the safety of her lover and her own freedom. Douglas and his partisans, meanwhile, whispered together, as if unwilling she should hear their conference; while, to purchase their good-will, if possible, she studiously avoided every appearance of listening. After some conversation among themselves, Turnbull, who appeared to consider the lady as peculiarly his charge, said to her in a harsh voice, “Do not fear, lady, no wrong shall be done you; nevertheless, you must be content for a space to be blindfolded.” She submitted to this in silent terror; and the trooper, wrapping part of a mantle round her head, did not assist her to remount her palfrey, but lent her his arm to support her in this blinded state.

Chapter Six T         which they traversed was, as Lady Augusta could feel, very broken and uneven, and sometimes, as she thought, encumbered with ruins, which were difficult to surmount. The strength of her comrade assisted her forward on such occasions; but his help was so roughly administered, that the lady once or twice, in fear or suffering, was compelled to groan or sigh heavily, whatever was her desire to suppress such evidence of the apprehension which she underwent, or the pain which she endured. Presently, upon an occasion of this kind, she was distinctly sensible that the rough woodsman was removed from her side, and another of the party substituted in Michael Turnbull’s stead, whose voice she thought was more gentle than any which she had lately heard. “Noble lady,” were the words, “fear not the slightest injury at our

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hands, and accept of my ministry instead of that of my henchman; and think me not presuming on my situation, if I bear you in my arms through ruins where you could not move with ease alone and blindfolded.” At the same time, the Lady Augusta of Berkely felt herself raised from the earth in the strong arms of a man, and borne onward with the utmost gentleness, without encountering any necessity of making those painful exertions which had been originally required. She was ashamed of her situation; but, however delicate, it was no time to give vent to complaints, which might have given offence to persons whom it was her interest to conciliate. She, therefore, submitted to necessity, and heard the following words whispered in her ear: “Fear nothing; there is no evil intended you; nor shall Sir John Walton, if he loves you as you deserve at his hand, receive any harm on our part. We call on him but to do justice to ourselves and to you; and be assured you will best accomplish your own happiness by aiding our views, which are equally in favour of your wishes and of your freedom.” The Lady Augusta would have made some answer to this, but her breath, betwixt fear and the speed with which she was transported, refused to permit her to use intelligible accents. Meantime she began to be sensible that she was enclosed within some building, and probably a ruinous one—for although the mode of her transportation no longer permitted her to ascertain the nature of her path in any respect distinctly, yet the absence of the external air—which was, however, sometimes excluded, and sometimes admitted in furious gusts— intimated that she was conducted through buildings partly entire, and in other places admitting the wind through wide rents and gaps. In one place it seemed to the lady as if she passed through a considerable body of people, all of whom observed silence, although there was sometimes heard among them a murmur, to which every one present in some degree contributed, although the general noise did not exceed a whisper. Her situation made her attend to every circumstance, and she did not fail to observe that the persons around her, whoever they were, made way for him who bore her and for his burden, until at length she became sensible that he descended by the regular steps of a stair, and that she was now alone, excepting his company. Arrived once more on level pavement, they proceeded on their singular road by a course which appeared neither direct nor easy, and through an atmosphere which was close to a smothering degree, and felt at the same time damp, and disagreeable to the smell, as if from the vapours of a new made grave. Her guide again spoke. “Bear up, Lady Augusta, for a little longer, and continue to endure

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that atmosphere which must be one day common to us all. Relief is now near, and, by the necessity of my situation, I must resign my present office to your original guide, and can only give you my assurance, that he, nor no one else, shall offer you the least incivility or insult—and on this you may rely, on the faith of a man of honour.” He placed her, as he said these words, upon the soft turf, and, to her infinite refreshment, made her sensible that she was once more in the open air, and free from the smothering atmosphere which had before oppressed her like that of a charnel-house. At the same time, she breathed in whisper an anxious wish that she might be permitted to deliver herself, without offence, from the folds of the mantle, which excluded almost the power of breathing, though intended only to prevent her seeing by what road she travelled. She immediately found it unfolded, agreeable to her request, and hastened, with uncovered eyes, to take note of the scene around her. It was overshadowed by thick oak trees, amongst which stood some remnants of buildings, or what might have seemed such, being perhaps the same in which she had been lately wandering. A clear fountain of living water bubbled forth from under the twisted roots of one of those trees, and offered the lady the opportunity of a draught of the pure element, and in which she also bathed her face, on which she had received more than one scratch in the course of her journey, in spite of the care, and almost the tenderness, with which she had latterly been borne along the way. The cool water speedily stopt the bleeding of those trifling injuries, and the application served at the same time to recall the scattered senses of the damsel herself. Her first idea was a meditation whether an attempt to escape, if such should appear possible, was not advisable. A moment’s recollection, however, satisfied her that such a scheme was not to be thought of; and such second thoughts were confirmed by the approach of the gigantic form of the huntsman, Turnbull, the rough tones of whose voice were heard before his figure was obvious to her eye. “Were you impatient for my arrival, fair lady? Such as I,” he continued in an ironical tone of voice, “who are foremost in the chase of wild stags and silvan cattle, are not in use to lag behind, when fair ladies, like you, are the objects of pursuit; and if I am not so constant in my attendance as thou mightest expect, believe me, it is because I am this morning engaged in another matter, to which I must sacrifice for a little even the duty of attending on you.” “I offer no resistance,” said the lady; “forbear, however, in discharging this office, to augment my terror by thy conversation, for thy master hath pledged me his word that he will not suffer me to be alarmed or ill treated.”

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“Nay, fair one,” replied the huntsman, “I ever thought it was fit to make interest by soft words with fair ladies; but if you like it not, I have no such pleasure in hunting for fine holyday terms, but what I can with equal ease hold myself silent. Come, then, since we must wait upon another lover of yours ere morning closes, and learn his last resolution touching a matter which is become so strangely complicated, I will hold no more intercourse with you as a female, but talk to you as a person of sense, although an Englishwoman.” “You will,” replied the lady, “best fulfil the intentions of those by whose orders you act, by holding no society with me whatever, otherwise than is necessary in the character of guide, which has been entrusted to you.” The man lowered, yet seemed to assent to what the Lady of Berkely proposed, and remained silent as they for some time pursued their course through the wilderness, each pondering over their own share of meditation, which probably turned upon matters essentially different. At length the blast of a bugle, sounded with strength and dexterity, was heard at no great distance from the unsocial fellow-travellers. “That is the person we seek,” said Turnbull; “I know his blast from any other who frequents this forest, and my orders are to bring you to speech of him.” The blood started rapidly through the lady’s veins at the thought of being thus unceremoniously presented to the knight, in whose favour she had confessed a rash preference more agreeable to the manners of those times, when exaggerated sentiments often inspired actions of extravagant generosity, than in our days, when every thing is accounted absurd which does not turn upon a motive connected with the immediate selfish interests of the actor himself. When Turnbull, therefore, winded his horn, as if in answer to the blast which they had heard, the lady was disposed to fly at the first impulse of shame and of fear. Turnbull perceived her intention, and caught hold of her with no very gentle gripe, saying—“Nay, lady, it is to be understood that you play your own part in the drama, which, unless you continue on the stage, will conclude, unsatisfactorily to us all, in a combat at outrance between your lover and me, when it will appear which of us is most worthy of your favour.” “I will be patient,” said the lady, bethinking her that even this strange man’s presence, and the compulsion which he appeared to use towards her, was a sort of excuse to her female scruples, for coming in presence of her lover, at least at her first appearance before him, in a disguise which her feelings confessed was not extremely decorous, or reconcilable to the dignity of her sex. The moment after these things had passed through her mind, the

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tramp of a horse was heard approaching them; and Sir John Walton, pressing through the trees, became aware of his lady, captive, as it seemed, in the grasp of a Scottish outlaw, who was only known to him by his former audacity at the general hunting-match. His surprise and joy only supplied the knight with those hasty expressions—“Caitiff, let go thy hold! or die in thy profane attempt to control the motions of one whom the very sun in heaven should be proud to obey.” At the same time, apprehensive that the huntsman might hurry his lady from his sight, by means of some entangled path —such as upon a former occasion had served him for escape—Sir John Walton dropt his cumbrous lance, of which the trees did not permit him the use, and, springing from his horse, approached Turnbull with his drawn sword. The Scottishman, keeping his left hand still upon the lady’s mantle, uplifted with his right the battle-axe, or Jedwood staff, with which he was armed, for the purpose of parrying and returning the blow of his antagonist, but the lady spoke. “Sir John Walton,” said she, “for heaven’s sake, forbear all violence, till you hear upon what pacific object I am brought hither, and by what peaceful means these wars may be put an end to. This man, though an enemy of yours, has been to me a civil and respectful guardian; and I entreat you to forbear him while he speaks the purpose for which he has brought me hither.” “To speak of compulsion and the Lady de Berkely in the same breath, would itself be enough of cause for instant death,” said the Governor of Douglas Castle; “but you command, and I spare his insignificant life, although I have causes of complaint against him, the least of which were worthy warrant, had he a thousand lives, for the forfeiture of them all.” “John Walton,” replied Turnbull, “this lady well knows that no fear of thee operates in my mind to render this a peaceful meeting; and were I not withheld by other circumstances of great consideration to the Douglas, as well as thyself, I should have no more fear in facing the utmost thou couldst do, than I have now in levelling that sapling to the earth it grows upon.” So saying, Michael Turnbull raised his battle-axe, and struck from a neighbouring oak-tree a branch, wellnigh as thick as a man’s arm, which (with all its twigs and leaves) rushed to the ground between Walton and the Scottishman, giving a singular instance of the strength of the latter, the keenness of his weapon, and the dexterity with which he used it. “Let there be truce, then, between us, good fellow,” said Sir John Walton, “since it is the lady’s pleasure that such should be the case,

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and let me know what thou hast to say to me respecting her?” “On that subject,” said Turnbull, “my words are few, but they are well worthy of marking, Sir Englishman. The Lady Augusta of Berkely, wandering in this country, has become a prisoner of the noble Lord Douglas, the rightful inheritor of the castle and lordship, and he finds himself obliged to attach to the liberty of this lady the following conditions, being in all respects such as good and lawful warfare entitle a knight to exact, being possessed of such an advantage over his adversary. That is to say, in all honour and safety the Lady Augusta shall be delivered to Sir John Walton, or those whom he shall name for the purpose of receiving her. On the other hand, the Castle of Douglas itself, together with all out-posts or garrisons thereunto belonging, shall be made over and surrendered by Sir John Walton, in the same situation, and containing the same provisions and artillery, as are now within their walls; and the space of a month of truce shall be permitted to Sir James Douglas and Sir John Walton farther to regulate the terms of the surrender on both parts, having first plighted their knightly word and oath, that in the exchange of the honourable lady for the foresaid castle, lies the full import of the present agreement, and that every other subject of dispute shall, at the pleasure of the noble knights aforesaid, be honourably compounded and agreed betwixt them; or, at their pleasure, settled knightly by single combat, according to usage, before any honourable person, that may possess power enough to preside in a place of combat, which may be accounted indifferent to either party.” It is not easy to conceive the astonishment of Sir John Walton at hearing the contents of this extraordinary cartel; he looked towards the Lady of Berkely with that aspect of despair with which a criminal may be supposed to see his guardian angel prepare himself for departure. Through her head also the same terms flowed, as if they contained a concession of what she had considered as the summit of her wishes, but under conditions so disgraceful to her lover, as the cherub’s fiery sword of yore was a barrier between our first parents and the blessings of their original paradise. Sir John Walton, after a moment’s hesitation, broke silence in these words:— “Noble lady, you may be surprised if a condition be imposed upon me, having for its object your freedom; and if Sir John Walton, already standing under those obligations to the Lady of Berkely, which he is proud of acknowledging, should yet hesitate on accepting, with the utmost eagerness, what must ensure your restoration to freedom and independence; but so it is, that the words now spoken have thrilled in mine ear without reaching to my understanding, and I must pray you for pardon if I take time to reconsider them for a short space.”

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“And I,” replied Turnbull, “have only power to allow you half an hour for consideration of an offer, at accepting which, methinks, you should jump shoulder-height, instead of asking any time for reflection. What does this cartel exact, save what your duty as a knight implicitly obliges you to? You have engaged yourself to become the agent of the tyrant Edward, in holding Douglas Castle, as his commander, to the prejudice of the Scottish nation, and of the Knight of Douglas Dale, who never, as a community or as an individual, were guilty of the least injury towards you; you are therefore prosecuting a false path, unworthy of a good knight. On the other hand, the freedom and safety of your lady is now proposed to you, with a full assurance of her liberty and honour, on consideration of your withdrawing from the unjust line of conduct, in which you have suffered yourself to be imprudently engaged. If you persevere in it, you place your own honour, and the lady’s happiness, in the hands of men whom you have done every thing in your power to render desperate, and whom, thus irritated, it is most probable you may find such.” “It is not from thee at least,” said the knight, “that I shall learn to estimate the manner in which Douglas will explain the laws of war, or Walton receive them at his dictating.” “I am not, then,” said Turnbull, “received as a friendly messenger? Farewell, and think of this lady as being in any hands but those which are safe, while you make up at leisure your mind upon the message I have brought you. Come, madam, we must be gone.” So saying, he seized upon the lady’s hand, and pulled her, as if to force her to withdraw. The lady had stood motionless, and almost senseless, while these speeches were speedily exchanged between the warriors; but when she felt the grasp of Michael Turnbull, she exclaimed, like one almost beside herself with fear—“Help me, Walton!” The knight was stung to instant rage, and assaulting the forester with the utmost fury, he dealt him with his long sword, almost at unawares, two or three heavy blows, by which he was so wounded that he sunk backwards in the thicket, and Walton was about to dispatch him, when he was prevented by the anxious cry of the lady—“Alas! Walton, what have you done? This man was only an ambassador, and should have passed free from injury while he confined himself to the delivery of what he was charged with. And if thou hast slain him, who knows how frightful may prove the vengeance exacted!” The voice of the lady seemed to recover the huntsman, who sprung on his feet, saying—“Never mind me, nor think of my becoming the means of making mischief. The knight, in his haste, spoke without giving me warning and defiance, which gave him an advantage which,

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I think, he would otherwise have scorned to have taken in such a case. I will renew the combat on fairer terms, or call another champion, as the knight pleases.” With these words he disappeared. “Fear not, empress of Walton’s thoughts,” answered the knight; “but believe, that if we regain together the shelter of Douglas Castle, and safeguard of Saint George’s Cross, thou mayst laugh at all. And if you can but pardon, what I shall never be able to forgive myself, the mole-like blindness which did not recognise the sun while under a temporary eclipse, the task cannot be named so hard which mortal valour may achieve but I shall willingly undertake it, to wipe out the memory of my grievous fault.” “Mention it no more,” said the lady; “it is not at such a time as this, when our lives are for the moment at stake, that quarrels upon slighter topics are to be recurred to. I can tell you, if you do not yet know, that the Scots are in arms in this vicinity, and that even the earth has yawned to conceal them from the sight of your garrison.” “Let it yawn, then,” said Sir John Walton, “and suffer every fiend in the infernal abyss to escape from his prison-house and reinforce our enemies—still, fairest, having recovered in thee a pearl of matchless price, my spurs shall be hacked from my heels by the basest scullion, if I turn my horse’s head to the rear before the utmost force these ruffians can assemble, either upon earth or from underneath it. In thy name I defy them all to instant combat.” As Sir John Walton pronounced these last words, in something of an exalted tone, a tall cavalier, arrayed in black armour of the simplest form, stepped forth from that part of the thicket where Turnbull had disappeared. “I am,” he said, “James of Douglas, and your challenge is accepted. I, the challenged, name the arms our knightly weapons as we now wear them, and our place of combat this field or dingle called the Bloody Sykes, the time being instant, and the combatants, like true knights, foregoing each advantage on either side.” “So be it, in God’s name,” said the English knight, who, though surprised at being called upon to so sudden an encounter with so formidable a warrior as young Douglas, was too proud to dream of avoiding the combat. Making a sign to the lady to get behind him, that he might not lose the advantage which he had gained by setting her at liberty from the forester, he drew his sword, and with a deliberate and prepared attitude of offence moved slowly to the encounter. It was a dreadful one, for the courage and skill both of the native Lord of Douglas Dale, and of him who would hold that title by commission of King Edward, were among the most renowned of the partisans, and perhaps the world of chivalry could hardly have produced two knights more famous. Their blows fell as if urged by some mighty engine,

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where they were met and parried by equal strength and dexterity; nor seemed it likely, in the course of ten minutes’ encounter, that an advantage would be speedily gained by either combatant over the other. An instant they stopped by mutually implied assent, as it seemed, for the purpose of taking breath, during which Douglas said, “I beg that this noble lady may understand that her own freedom is no way concerned in the present contest, which entirely regards the injustice done by this Sir John Walton, and by his nation of England, to the memory of my father and to my own natural rights.” “You are generous, Sir Knight,” replied the lady; “but in what circumstances do you place me, if you deprive me of my protector by death or captivity, and leave me alone in a foreign land?” “If such should be the event of the combat,” replied Sir James, “the Douglas himself, lady, will safely restore thee to thy native land; for never did his sword do an injury for which he was not willing to make amends with the same weapon; and if Sir John Walton will make the slightest admission that he renounces maintaining the present strife, were it only by yielding up a feather from the plume of his helmet, Douglas will renounce every purpose on his part which can touch the lady’s honour or safety, and the combat may be suspended until the national quarrel again brings us together.” Sir John Walton pondered a moment, and the lady, although she did not speak, looked at him with eyes which plainly expressed how much she wished that he would choose the less hazardous alternative. But the knight’s own scruples prevented his bringing the case to so favourable an arbitrement. “Never shall it be said of Sir John Walton,” he replied, “that he compromised, in the slightest degree, his own honour, or that of his country. This battle may end in my defeat, or rather death, and in that case my earthly prospects are closed, and I resign to Douglas, with my last breath, the charge of the Lady Augusta, trusting him that he will defend her with his life, and find the means of replacing her with safety in the halls of her fathers. But while I survive, she may have a better, but will not need another protector than he who boasts of being her own choice, and her guardian is this good sword; nor will I yield up, were it a plume from my helmet, implying that I have maintained an unjust quarrel, either in the cause of England, or of the fairest of her daughters. Thus far alone I will concede to Douglas—an instant truce, providing the lady shall not be interrupted in her retreat to England, and providing the combat be fought out upon another day. The castle and territory of Douglas is the property of Edward of England, the governor in his name is the rightful governor, and on this point I will fight while my eyelids wag.”

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“Time flies,” said Douglas, “without waiting for our resolves; nor is there any part of his motions of such value, as that which is passing with every breath of vital air which we presently draw. Why should we adjourn till to-morrow that which can be as well finished to-day? Will our swords be sharper, or our arms stronger to wield them, than they are at this moment? Douglas will do all which knight can do to succour a lady in distress; but he will not grant to her knight the slightest mark of deference, which Sir John Walton vainly supposes himself able to extort by force of arms.” With these words, the knights engaged once more in mortal combat, and the lady felt uncertain whether she should attempt her escape through the devious paths of the wood, or abide the issue of this obstinate fight. It was rather her desire to see the fate of Sir John Walton, than any other consideration, which induced her to remain, as if fascinated, upon the spot, where one of the fiercest quarrels ever fought was disputed by two of the bravest champions that ever drew sword. At last the lady attempted to put a stop to the combat, by appealing to the bells which began to ring for the service of the day, which was Palm Sunday. “For Heaven’s sake,” she said—“for your own sakes, and for that of lady’s love, and the duties of chivalry, hold your hands only for an hour, and take chance, that where strength is so equal, means will be found of converting the truce into a solid peace. Think this is Palm Sunday, called by the people Care Sunday, and observed by ceremonies expressive of peculiar veneration; and will you defile with blood such a peculiar festival of Christianity? Intermit your feud at least so far as to pass to the nearest church, bearing with you branches, not in the ostentatious mode of earthly conquerors, but as rendering due homage to the rules of the blessed church, and the institutions of our holy religion.” “I was on my road, for that purpose, to the holy church of Douglas,” said the Englishman; “nor do I object to proceed thither even now, holding truce together for an hour, and I fear not to find there friends to whom I can commit you with assurance of safety, in case I am unfortunate in the combat which we now break off, with the purpose of resuming after the service of the day.” “I also assent,” said the Douglas, “to a truce for such short space; nor do I fear that there may be good Christians enough at the church, who will not see their master overpowered by odds. Let us go thither, and each take the chance of what Heaven shall please to send us.” From these words, Sir John Walton little doubted that Douglas had assured himself of a party among those who should assemble at church that morning; but he doubted not of so many of the garrison

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being present as would bridle every attempt at rising; and the risk, he thought, was worth incurring, since he should thereby secure an opportunity to place Lady Augusta de Berkely in safety, instead of suffering her liberty to depend upon the precarious issue of a combat between himself and Douglas. Both of these two distinguished knights were of opinion, that the proposal of the lady, though it relieved themselves from their present conflict, by no means bound them to abstain from the consequences which an accession of force might add to their general strength, and each relied upon his superiority, in some degree provided for by their previous proceedings. Sir John Walton made almost certain of meeting with several of his bands of soldiers, who were scouring the country and traversing the woods by his direction; and Douglas, it may be supposed, had not ventured himself in person where a price was set upon his head, without being attended by a sufficient number of proved adherents, placed in more or less connexion with each other, and stationed with a similar attention to mutual support. Each, therefore, entertained well-grounded hopes, that, by adopting the truce proposed, he would ensure himself an advantage over his antagonist, although neither exactly knew in what manner or to what extent this success was to be obtained.

Chapter Seven His talk was of another world—his bodements Strange, doubtful, and mysterious; those who heard him Listen’d as to a man in feverish dreams, Who speaks of other objects than the present, And mutters like to him who sees a vision. Old Play

O         Palm Sunday when Walton and Douglas measured together their mighty swords, the minstrel Bertram was busied with the ancient Book of Prophecies, which we have already mentioned as the supposed composition of Thomas called the Rhymer. As a minstrel, he was desirous of an auditor to enter into the discoveries which he should make in that mystic volume; and Sir John Walton had furnished him, in Gilbert Greenleaf the archer, with one who was well contented to play the listener “from morn to dewy eve,” so long as a flask of Gascon wine, or a stoup of good English ale, remained on the board. It may be remembered that Walton, when he dismissed the minstrel from the dungeon, was sensible that he owed him some compensation on account of the causeless suspicion which had dictated his imprisonment, more particularly as he was a valued servant,

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and had shown himself the faithful confidant, of the Lady Augusta de Berkely, and the person with whom she was most likely to speak of the circumstances of her Scottish journey. To secure his good wishes was, therefore, politic; and Walton had intimated to his faithful archer that he was to lay aside all suspicion of Bertram, and at the same time keep sight of him, and keep him, if possible, in good humour with the governor of the castle, and with his adherents. Greenleaf accordingly had no difficulty in settling in his own mind, that the only way to please a minstrel was to listen with patience and commendation to the lays which he liked best to sing, or the tales which he most loved to tell; and in order to ensure the execution of his master’s commands, he judged it necessary to demand of the butler such store of good liquor, that the ancient official, knowing the fault which was most incident to Greenleaf, did not think it prudent to obey his orders until he had the approbation of Sir John Walton, which, it may be readily supposed, was granted without hesitation. Having thus fortified himself with the means of bearing a long interview with the minstrel, Gilbert Greenleaf sought him out, and announced to him that Sir John Walton had done him the pleasure to name him as a person qualified to show Bertram any thing about the castle which he might desire to see, and that he himself felt no small pleasure in the task imposed upon him. He therefore proposed to confer upon Bertram the bounty of an early breakfast, which, if it pleased the minstrel, they might wash down with a cup of sack, and then refresh their over wearied spirits by attending a part of the garrison of Douglas to the service of the day, which, as we have already seen, was of peculiar sanctity. Against such a proposal, the minstrel, a good Christian by profession, and a good fellow by his connexion with the joyous science, had no objections to make, and the two comrades, although they had formerly little good-will towards each other, commenced their morning’s repast on that fated Palm Sunday with all manner of cordiality and good fellowship. “And do not believe, worthy minstrel,” said the archer, “that my master in any respect disparages your worth or rank in referring you for company or conversation to so poor a man as myself. It is true, I am no officer of this garrison; yet for an old archer, who has lived by bow and bowstring for these thirty years, I do not (Our Lady make me thankful!) hold less share in the grace of Sir John Walton, the Earl of Pembroke, and other approved good soldiers, than many of those giddy young men on whom commissions are conferred, and to whom confidences are intrusted, not on account of what they have done, but what their ancestors have done before them. I pray you to notice one youth belonging to this garrison, who is placed at our head, and who

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bears the honoured name of Aymer de Valence, being the same with that Earl of Pembroke, of whom I have spoken. This knight hath also a brisk young squire, whom men call Fabian Harbothel.” “Is it to these gentlemen that your censure applies?” answered the minstrel; “I should have judged differently, having never, in the course of my experience, seen a young man more courteous and amiable than the young knight you named.” “I nothing dispute that it may be so,” said the archer, hastening to amend the false step which he had made; “but in order that it should be so, it will be necessary that he conforms to the usages of his uncle, taking the advice of experienced old soldiers in the emergencies which may present themselves; and not believing, that the knowledge, which it takes many years to collect by observation, can be at once conferred by the slap of the flat of a sword, and the magic words, ‘Rise up, Sir Arthur’—or however the case may be.” “Doubt not, Sir Archer,” replied Bertram, “that I am fully aware of the advantage to be derived from conversing with men of experience like you: it benefiteth men of every persuasion, and I myself am oft reduced to lament my want of sufficient knowledge of armorial bearings, signs, and cognizances, and would right fain have thy assistance, where I am a stranger alike to the names of places, of persons, and description of banners and emblems by which great families are distinguished from each other, so absolutely necessary to the accomplishment of my present task.” “Pennons and banners,” answered the archer, “I have seen right many, and can assign, as is a soldier’s wont, the name of the leader to the emblem under which he musters his followers; nevertheless, worthy minstrel, I cannot presume to understand what you call prophecies, with or under warranted authority of old painted books, expositions of dreams, oracles, revelations, invocations of damned spirits, judicials, astrologicals, and other gross and palpable offences, whereby men, pretending to have the assistance of the devil, do impose upon the common people, in spite of the warnings of the Privy Council; not, however, that I suspect you, worthy Bertram, of busying yourself with these attempts to explain futurity, which are dangerous attempts, and may be truly said to be parcel and part of treason.” “There is something in what you say,” replied the minstrel; “yet it applieth not to books and manuscripts such as I have been consulting; part of which things having already come to pass, authorize us surely to expect the completion of the rest; nor would I have much difficulty in showing you from this volume, that enough has been already proved true, to entitle us to look with certainty to the accomplishment of that which remains.”

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“I should be glad to hear that,” answered the archer, who entertained little more than a soldier’s belief respecting prophecies and auguries, but yet cared not to contradict bluntly what the minstrel spoke upon such subjects, as he had been instructed by Sir John Walton to comply with his humour. Accordingly the minstrel began to recite verses, which, in our time, the ablest interpreter could not make sense out of. “When the cock crows, keep well his comb, For the fox and the fulmart they are false both. When the raven and the rook have rounded together, And the kid in his cliff shall accord to the same, Then shall they be bold, and soon to battle thereafter. Then the birds of the raven rugs and reives, And the leal men of Lothian are louping on their horse; Then shall the poor people be spoiled full near, And the Abbeys be burnt truly that stand upon Tweed; They shall burn and slay, and great reif make; There shall no poor man say whose man he is: Then shall the land be lawless, for love there is none. Then falset shall have foot fully five years; Then truth surely shall be tint, and none shall lippen to other; The one cousing shall not trust the other, Not the son the father, nor the father the son; For to have his goods he would have him hanged,” &c., &c., &c.

The archer listened to these mystic prognostications, which were not the less wearisome that they were, in a considerable degree, unintelligible; subduing at the same time his Hotspur-like disposition to tire of the recitation, yet at brief intervals comforting himself with an application to the wine-flagon, and enduring as he might what he neither understood nor took interest in. Meanwhile the minstrel proceeded with his explanation of the dubious and imperfect vaticinations of which we have given the reader a sufficient specimen. “Could you wish,” said he to Greenleaf, “a more exact description of the miseries which have passed over Scotland in these latter days? Have not the raven and rook, the fox and the fulmart, explained; either because the nature of the birds or beasts bear an individual resemblance to those of the knights who display them in their banners, or otherwise are bodied forth by heraldic skill, by actual blazonry on their shields, and come openly into the field to ravage and destroy? Is not the total disunion of the land plainly indicated by these words, that connexions of blood shall be broken asunder, that kinsmen shall not trust each other, and the father and son, instead of putting faith in their native connexion, shall seek each other’s life, in order to enjoy his inheritance? The leal men of Lothian are distinctly mentioned as taking arms, and there is plainly allusion to the battle of Dunbar, and

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to the other events of these late Scottish troubles. The death of this last Alexander is obscurely intimated under the type of a hound, which was that good lord’s occasional cognizance. The hound that was harmed then muzzled shall be, Who loved him worst shall weep for his wreck; Yet shall a whelp rise of the same race, That rudely shall roar and rule the whole north, And quit the whole quarrel of old deeds done, Though he from his hold be kept back awhile. True Thomas told me this in a troublesome time, In a harvest morning at Eldoun hills.”

“This hath a meaning, Sir Archer,” continued the minstrel, “and which flies as directly to its mark as one of your own arrows, although there may be some want of wisdom in making the direct explication. Being, however, upon assurance with you, I do not hesitate to tell you, that in my opinion this lion’s whelp that waits its time, means this same celebrated Scottish prince, Robert the Bruce, who, though repeatedly defeated, has still, while hunted with bloodhounds, and surrounded by enemies of every sort, maintained his pretensions to the crown of Scotland, in despite of King Edward, now reigning, and of his father, called the first monarch of that name, whom God assoilzie.” “Minstrel,” answered the soldier, “you are my guest, and we have sat down together as friends to this simple meal in good comradeship; I must tell thee, however, though I am loath to disturb our harmony, that thou art the first who hast adventured to speak a word before Gilbert Greenleaf in favour of that outlawed traitor, Robert Bruce, who has by his seditions so long disturbed the peace of this realm. Take my advice, and be silent on this topic; for, believe me, the sword of a true English archer will spring from its scabbard without consent of its master, should it hear aught said to the disparagement of bonny Saint George and his ruddy cross; nor shall the authority of Thomas the Rhymer, or any other prophet in Scotland, England, or Wales, be considered as an apology for such unbecoming predictions.” “I were loath to give offence at any time,” said the minstrel, “much more to provoke you to anger, when I am in the very act of experiencing your hospitality. I trust, however, you will remember that I do not come your uninvited guest, and that if I speak to you of future events, I do so without having the least intention to add my endeavour to bring them to pass; for, God knows, it is many years since my sincere prayer has been for peace and happiness to all men, and particularly honour and happiness to the land of Bowmen, in which I was born, and which I am bound to remember in my prayers beyond all other nations in the world.” “It is well that you do so,” said the archer; “for so you shall best

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maintain your bounden duty to the fair land of your birth, which is the richest that the sun shines upon. Something, however, I would know, if it suits with your pleasure to tell me, and that is, whether you find any thing in these rude rhymes appearing to affect the safety of the Castle of Douglas, where we now are?—for, mark me, Sir Minstrel, I have observed that these mouldering parchments, when or by whomsoever composed, have so far a certain coincidence with the truth, and that when such predictions which they contain are spread abroad in the country, and create rumours of plots, conspiracies, and bloody wars, they are very apt to cause the very mischances which they would be thought only to predict.” “It were not very cautious in me,” said the minstrel, “to choose a prophecy for my theme, which had reference to any attack on this garrison; for in such case I should, according to your ideas, lay myself under suspicion of endeavouring to forward what no person could more heartily regret than myself.” “Take my word for it, good friend,” said the archer, “that it shall not be thus with thee; for I neither will myself conceive ill of thee, nor report thee to Sir John Walton as meditating harm towards him or his garrison,—nor, to speak truth, would Sir John Walton be willing to believe any one who did. He thinks highly, and no doubt deservedly, of thy good faith towards thy lady, and would conceive it unjust to suspect the fidelity of one who has given evidence of his willingness to meet death rather than betray the least secret of his mistress.” “In preserving her secret,” said Bertram, “I only discharged the duty of a faithful servant, leaving it to her to judge how long such a secret ought to be preserved; for a faithful servant ought to think as little of the issue towards himself of the commission which he bears, as the band of floss silk concerns itself with the secret of the letter which it secures. And, touching your question—I have no objections, although merely to satisfy your curiosity, to unfold to you that these old prophecies do contain some intimations of wars befalling in Douglas Dale, between an haggard, or wild hawk, which I take to be the cognizance of Sir John Walton, and the three stars, or martlets, which is the cognizance of the Douglas; and more particulars I could tell of these onslaughts, did I know whereabouts is a place in these woods termed Bloody Sykes, the scene also, as I comprehend, of slaughter and death, between the followers of the three stars and those who hold the part of the Saxon, or King of England.” “Such a place,” replied Gilbert Greenleaf, “is, I have heard, often mentioned by that name among the natives of these parts; nevertheless it is in vain to seek to discover the precise spot, as these wily Scots conceal from us with care every thing respecting the geography of

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their country, as it is called by learned men—we may here mention the Bloody Sykes, Bottomless Myre, and other places, as portentous names, to which their traditions attach some signification of war and slaughter. If it suits your wish, however, we can on our way to the church, try to find this place called Bloody Sykes, which I doubt not we shall trace out long before the traitors who meditate an attack upon us will find a power sufficient for the attempt.” Accordingly the minstrel and archer, the latter of whom was by this time reasonably well refreshed with wine, marched out of the Castle of Douglas, without waiting for others of the garrison, resolving to seek the dingle bearing the ominous name of Bloody Sykes, concerning which the archer only knew that by mere accident he had heard of a place bearing such a name, at the hunting-match made under the auspices of Sir John Walton, and knew that it lay in the woods somewhere between the town of Douglas and the vicinage of the castle.

Chapter Eight Hotspur. I cannot choose; sometimes he angers me With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, Of the dreamer Merlin, and his prophecies; And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clipt-wing’d griffin and a moulten raven, A couching lion, and a ramping cat, And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff, As puts me from my faith. King Henry IV

T   between the minstrel and the ancient archer naturally pursued a train somewhat resembling that of Hotspur and Glendower, in which Gilbert Greenleaf by degrees took a larger and more serious share than was apparently consistent with his habits and education: but the truth was, that as he exerted himself to recall the recognizances of military chieftains, their war-cries, emblems, and other types by which they distinguished themselves in battle, and might undoubtedly be indicated in prophetic rhymes, he began to experience the pleasure which most men entertain when they find themselves unexpectedly possessed of a faculty which the time calls upon them to employ, and renders them important in the possession of. Gilbert Greenleaf, though sufficiently knowing in the art of war, now discovered, for the first time, his own value in those hidden mysteries of prediction, and it was in his nature to become self-conceited. Accordingly, although he kept on disowning all self-opinion, and protesting that the opinions of a “poor borrel man like himself” were altogether unworthy of being minded, he

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could not be more solemn in expressing his sentiments, if they had been the annunciations of the chronicles of the Medes and Persians. The minstrel’s sound good sense was certainly somewhat surprised at the inconsistencies sometimes displayed by his companion, as he was carried off by the willingness to make show of his newly discovered faculty on the one hand, and, on the other, to call to mind the prejudices which he had nourished during his whole life against minstrels, who, with the whole train of legends and fables, were the more likely to be false, as being generally derived from the “North Countrie.” As they strolled from one glade of the forest to another, which the appearance of the morning, in “advancing spring weather,” rendered rather agreeable than otherwise, the minstrel began to be surprised at the number of Scottish votaries whom they met, and who seemed to be hastening to the church, and, as it appeared by the boughs which they carried, to assist in the ceremony of the day. To each of these the archer put a question respecting the existence of a place called Bloody Sykes, and of the part of the forest where it was to be found—but all seemed either to be ignorant on the subject, or desirous of evading it, for which they found some pretext in the jolly archer’s manner of interrogation, which savoured a good deal of the genial breakfast. The general answer was, that the party interrogated knew no such place, or had other matters to concern him upon the morn of a holy-tide than answering frivolous questions. At last, when, in one or two instances, the answer of the Scottish almost approached to sullenness, the minstrel remarked it, observing that there was ever some mischief on foot when the people of this country could not find a civil answer to their betters, which is usually so ready among them, and that they appeared to be mustering stronger for the service of Palm Sunday than he had observed them to do upon any similar occasion. “You will doubtless, Sir Archer,” continued the minstrel, “make your report to your knight accordingly; for I promise you, that if you do not, I myself, whose lady’s freedom is also concerned, will feel it my duty to place before Sir John Walton the circumstances which make me entertain suspicion of this unusual confluence of Scottish men, and the surliness which has replaced their wonted courtesy of manners.” “Tush, Sir Minstrel,” replied the archer, displeased at Bertram’s interference, “believe me, that armies have ere now depended on my report to the general, which has always been perspicuous and clear, according to the duties of war. Your walk, my worthy friend, has been in a separate department, such as affairs of peace, old songs, prophecies, and the like, in which it is far from my thoughts to contend with

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you; but credit me, it will be most for the reputation of both, that we do not attempt to interfere with what concerns each other.” “It is far from my wish to do so,” replied the minstrel; “but I would wish that a speedy return should be made to the castle, in order to ask Sir John Walton’s opinion of that which we have this day seen.” “To this,” replied Greenleaf, “there can be no objection; but, would you seek the governor at the hour which now is, you will find him most readily by going to the church of Douglas, to which he regularly wends on such occasions with the principal part of his officers, to ensure, by his presence, that no tumult arise (of which there is no little dread) between the English and the Scottish. Let us therefore hold towards the left, and we shall rid ourselves of these entangled woods, and gain the shortest road to the church of Douglas.” “Let us go then with all dispatch,” said the minstrel; “and with the greater haste, that it appears to me that something has passed on this very spot this morning, which argues that the Christian peace due to the day has not been inviolably observed. What mean these drops of blood?” alluding to those which had flowed from the wounds of Turnbull—“Wherefore is the earth impressed with these deep dints, the footsteps of armed men advancing and retreating, doubtless, according to the chances of a fierce and heady conflict?” “By Our Lady,” returned Greenleaf, “I must own that thou seest clear. What were my eyes made of when they permitted thee to be the first discoverer of these signs of conflict? Here are feathers of a blue plume, which I ought to remember, seeing my knight assumed it, or at least permitted me to place it in his helmet, this morning, in sign of returning hope, from the liveliness of its colour. But here it lies, shorn from his head, and, if I may guess, by no friendly hand. Come, friend, to the church—to the church—and thou shalt have my example of the manner in which Walton ought to be supported when in danger.” He led the way through the town of Douglas, entering at the southern gate, and up the very street in which Sir Aymer de Valence had charged the Phantom Knight. We can now say more fully, that the church of Douglas had originally been a stately Gothic building, whose towers, arising high above the rest of the town, bore witness to the pomp of its original construction. It was, however, partly ruinous, and the small portion of open space which was retained for public worship was fitted up in the family aisle, where its deceased lords rested from worldly labours and the strife of war. From the open ground in the front of the building, their eye could pursue a considerable part of the course of the river Douglas, which approached the town from the south-west, bordered by a

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line of hills fantastically diversified in their appearance, and in many places covered with copsewood, which descended towards the valley, and formed a part of the tangled and intricate woodland by which the town was surrounded. The river itself swept round the west side of the town, and from thence supplied that large inundation or artificial piece of water which we have already mentioned. Several of the Scottish people, bearing willow branches, or those of yew, to represent the palms which were the costume of the day, seemed wandering in the churchyard for the sake of attending the approach of some person of peculiar sanctity, or procession of monks and friars, come to render the homage due to the solemnity. At the moment almost that Bertram and his companion entered the churchyard, the Lady of Berkely, who was in the act of following Sir John Walton into the church, after having witnessed his conflict with the young Knight of Douglas, caught a glimpse of her faithful minstrel, and instantly determined to regain the company of that old servant of her house and confidant of her fortunes, and trust to the chance afterwards of being rejoined by Sir John Walton, with a sufficient party to provide for her safety, which she in no respect doubted it would be his care to collect. She darted away accordingly from the path in which she was advancing, and reached the place where Bertram, with his new acquaintance Greenleaf, were making some enquiries of the soldiers of the English garrison, whom the service of the day had brought there. Lady Augusta of Berkely, in the mean time, had an opportunity to say privately to her faithful attendant and guide, “Take no notice of me, friend Bertram, but take heed, if possible, that we be not again separated from each other.” Having given him this hint, she observed that it was adopted by the minstrel, and that he presently afterwards looked round and set his eye upon her, as, muffled in her pilgrim’s cloak, she slowly withdrew to another part of the cemetery, and seemed to halt until, detaching himself from Gilbert Greenleaf, he should find an opportunity of joining her. Nothing, in truth, could have more sensibly affected the faithful minstrel than the singular mode of communication which acquainted him that his mistress was safe, and at liberty to choose her own motions, and, as he might hope, disposed to extricate herself from the dangers which surrounded her in Scotland by an immediate retreat to her own country and domain. He would gladly have approached and joined her, but she took an opportunity by a private sign to caution him against doing so, while at the same time he remained somewhat apprehensive of the consequences of bringing her under the notice of his new friend, Greenleaf, who might perhaps think it proper again to reduce her to a state of captivity, in order to gain some favour with the

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knight who was at the head of the garrison. Meantime the old archer proceeded in his conversation with Bertram, as a person who had been recommended to him by Sir John Walton, and whom therefore he was specially obliged to entertain and be attentive to, while the minstrel, like many other men in a similar case, heartily wished that his well-meaning companion had been a hundred fathoms under ground, so his evanishment had given him license to join his mistress; but all which he had in his power to do was to approach her as near as he could naturally, without intimating an intention of joining company with her. “I would pray you, worthy minstrel,” said Greenleaf, after looking carefully round, “that we may prosecute together the theme which we were agitating before we came hither; is it not your opinion, that the Scottish natives have fixed this very morning for some of those dangerous attempts which they have repeatedly made, and which are so carefully guarded against by the governors placed in this district of Douglas by our good King Edward, our rightful sovereign?” “I cannot see,” replied the minstrel, “on what grounds you found such an apprehension, or what you see here in the churchyard different from that you talked of as we approached it, when you held me rather in scorn, for giving way to some suspicions of that kind.” “Do you not see,” added the archer, “the numbers of men, with strange faces, and in various disguisements, who are thronging about these ancient ruins, which are usually so solitary? Yonder, for example, sits a boy, whose dress, I will be sworn, has never been shaped in Scotland.” “And if he is an English pilgrim,” replied the minstrel, observing that the archer pointed to the Lady of Berkely, “he affords surely less matter of suspicion.” “I know not that,” said old Greenleaf, “but I think it my duty to inform Sir John Walton, if I can discover him, that there are many persons here, who in outward appearance neither belong to the garrison, nor to this part of the country.” “Consider,” said Bertram, “before you harass with accusation a poor young man, and subject him to the consequences which must necessarily attend upon suspicions of this nature, how many circumstances call forth men peculiarly to devotion at this period. Not only is this the time of the triumphal entrance of the founder of the Christian religion into Jerusalem, but the day itself is called Dominica Confitentium, or the Sunday of Confessors, and the palm-tree, or the box and yew, which are used as its substitutes, and which are distributed to the priests, are burnt solemnly to ashes, and those ashes distributed among the pious, by the priests, upon the Ash-Wednesday of the

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succeeding year, all which rites and ceremonies in our country are observed, by order of the Christian church; nor ought you, gentle archer, nor can you without a crime, persecute those as guilty of designs upon your garrison, who can ascribe their presence here to their desire to discharge the duties of the day; and look ye at yon numerous procession approaching with banner and cross, and, as it appears, consisting of some churchman of rank, and his attendants; let us first enquire who he is, and it is probable we shall find in his name and rank sufficient security for the peace and orderly behaviour of those whom piety has this day assembled at the church of Douglas.” Greenleaf accordingly made the investigation recommended by his companion, and received information that the holy man, who headed the procession, was no other than the diocesan of the district, the Bishop of Glasgow, who came to give his countenance to the rites with which the day was to be sanctified. The prelate accordingly entered the walls of the dilapidated churchyard, preceded by his cross-bearers, and attended by numbers, with boughs of yew and other evergreens, used instead of palms. Among them the Bishop showered his blessing, accompanied by signs of the cross, which were received with devout exclamations by such of the worshippers as crowded around him:—“To thee, reverend father, we apply for pardon for our offences, which we humbly desire to confess to thee, in order that we may obtain pardon for the same.” In this manner the congregation and the dignified clergyman met together, exchanging pious greeting, and seemingly intent upon nothing but the rites of the day. The acclamations of the congregation mingled with the deep voice of the officiating priest, dispensing the sacred ritual; the whole forming a scene which, with the Roman Catholic skill and ceremonial, was at once awful and affecting. The archer, on seeing the zeal with which the people in the churchyard, as well as a number who issued from the church, hastened to salute the Bishop of the diocese, was rather ashamed of the suspicions which he had entertained of the sincerity of the good man’s purpose in coming hither, and Bertram the minstrel had an opportunity of slipping clear of his English friend, as, in a fit of devotion, not perhaps very common with him, old Greenleaf studied to thrust himself forward to have his share of those spiritual advantages. Bertram, gliding to the side of the Lady Augusta, exchanged, by the mutual pressure of their hands, a congratulation upon having rejoined company. On a sign by the minstrel, they withdrew to the inside of the church, where they might remain undistinguished amidst the crowd, or concealed by the darkness which was suffered to overshadow it. The body of the church, broken as it was, and hung round with the

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armorial trophies of the last Lords of Douglas, furnished rather the appearance of a sacrilegious desecrated ruin, than the inside of a holy place; yet some care appeared to have been taken to prepare it for the service of the day. At the lower end hung the great escutcheon of William Lord of Douglas, who had lately died a prisoner in England; around that escutcheon were placed the smaller shields of his sixteen ancestors, and a deep black shadow was dispersed by the whole mass, unless in so far as it might be relieved by the glance of the coronets, or the glimmer of some special bearings particularly gay in emblazonry. I need not say, that in other respects the interior of the church was much dismantled, it being the very same place in which Sir Aymer de Valence held an interview with the old sexton; and such a post did it hold in his memory, that, drawing into a separate corner such of the archers as were present, Sir Aymer kept himself and those about him upon the alert, and appeared as much suspicious of an attack as well at mid-day as at the witching hour of midnight. The care of the garrison seemed especially to devolve upon him; for although Sir John Walton was also present, yet his eyes seemed busied in searching from one place to another there, as if he was unable to find the object he was in quest of, which the reader will easily understand to be the Lady Augusta de Berkely, who had vanished from her lover’s view as he entered. At the eastern part of the church was fitted up a temporary altar, by the side of which, arrayed in his robes, stood the Bishop of Glasgow, with such priests and attendants as composed his episcopal retinue. His suite was neither numerous nor richly attired, nor did his own appearance present a splendid specimen of the wealth and dignity of the episcopal order. When he laid down, however, his golden cross, at the stern command of the King of England, that of simple wood, which he assumed instead thereof, did not possess less authority or less awe among the clergy and people of his diocese. The various persons, natives of Scotland, who crowded around him, seemed to watch his motions, as those of a descended saint, and the English waited in mute astonishment, apprehensive that at some unexpected signal an attack would be made upon them, either by the powers of earth or heaven, or perhaps by both in combination. The truth is, that so great was the devotion of the Scottish clergy of the higher ranks to the interests of the political party of Bruce, that the English became jealous of permitting them to interfere even with those ceremonies of the church which were placed under their proper management, and thence the presence of the Bishop of Glasgow at the church of Douglas, and his officiating at a high festival, was a circumstance of rare occurrence, and not unattended both with

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wonder and suspicion. A council of the church, however, had lately called the distinguished prelates of Scotland to the discharge of their duty on the festivity of Palm Sunday, and neither English nor Scottish saw the ceremony with indifference. An unwonted silence which prevailed in the church, filled, as it appeared, with persons of different views, hopes, wishes, and expectations, resembled one of those solemn pauses which often take place before a strife of the elements, and are well understood to be the forerunners of some dreadful concussion of creation. All animals, according to their various nature, express their sense of the approaching tempest; the cattle, the deer, and other inhabitants of the walks of the forest, withdraw to the inmost recesses of their pastures; the sheep crowd into their fold; and the dull stupor of universal nature, whether animate or inanimate, presages its speedily awaking into general convulsion and disturbance, where the blue lightning hisses at command of the solemn diapason of the thunder. It was thus that, in horrible suspense, those who had come to the church at the summons of the Douglas, awaited and expected every moment a signal to attack; while the soldiers of the English garrison, aware of the evil disposition of the natives towards them, were reckoning every moment when the well-known shout of “Bows and bills!” should give signal for a general conflict, and both parties, gazing fiercely upon each other, seemed to expect the fatal onset. There was one interview, which took place under circumstances of more marked suspicion than those which attended the meeting of the soldiers of both parties in the general case. I allude to a subterranean vault, in which was deposited the person of a large tall man, whose blood ran in quantity through two or three ghastly wounds, and streamed amongst the trusses of straw on which he lay; while his features exhibited a mixture of sternness and ferocity, which seemed prompt to kindle into a still more savage expression. The reader will probably conjecture that the person in question was no other than Michael Turnbull, who, wounded in his rencounter of the morning, had been left by some of his friends, of whom many were present, upon the straw, which was arranged for him by way of bed there, to live or die as he best could. The Prelate of Glasgow, visiting the vault in which he was deposited, took the opportunity of calling the attention of the wounded man to the state of his spiritual affairs, and assisting him to such comfort as the doctrine of the church directed should be administered to sinners when about to depart from this life. The words exchanged between them were of that grave and severe character which passes between the ghostly father and his pupil, when one world is rolled away from the view of the sinner, and another is

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displaying itself in all its terrors, and thundering in the ear of the penitent that retribution which the deeds done in the flesh must needs prepare him to expect. It is upon every occasion one of the most solemn meetings which can take place between earthly beings; and the courageous character of the Jedwood forester, as well as the benevolent and pious expression of the old churchman, considerably enhanced the pathos of the scene. “Turnbull,” said the churchman, “I trust you will believe me when I say, that it grieves my heart to see thee brought to this situation by wounds which, I can not flatter you, you must consider as mortal.” “Is the chase ended then?” said the Jedwood man, with a single natural sigh. “I care not, good father, for I think I have borne me as becomes a gallant quarry, and that the old forest has lost no credit by me, whether in pursuit, or in bringing to bay; and even in this last matter, methinks this gay English knight would not have come off with such advantage had the ground on which we stood been alike indifferent to both the parties, or had I been aware of his onset; but it will be seen, by any one who takes the trouble to examine, that poor Michael Turnbull’s foot slipped twice in the melée, otherwise it had not been his fate to be lying here in the dead-thraw;* and yonder southron would probably have died like a dog, upon this bloody straw, in his place.” The Bishop replied, advising his penitent to turn from vindictive thoughts respecting the death of others, and endeavour to fix his attention upon his own departure from existence, which was shortly about to take place. “Nay,” replied the wounded man, “you, father, undoubtedly know best what is fit for me to do; yet methinks it could not be very well with me, supposing I had prolonged to this time of day the task of revising my life, and I am not the man to deny that mine has been a bloody and a desperate one. But you will grant me I never bore malice to a brave enemy for having done me an injury, and show me the man, being a Scottishman born, and having a natural love for his own country, who hath not, in these times, rather preferred a steel cap to a hat and feather, or who hath not been more conversant with drawn blades than with prayer-book; and you yourself know, father, whether, in our proceedings against the English interest, we have not uniformly had the countenance of the sincere fathers of the Scottish Church, and whether we have not been exhorted to take arms and make use of them for the honour of the King of Scotland, and defence of our own rights.” “Undoubtedly,” said the prelate, “such have been our exhortations * Or death agony.

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towards our oppressed countrymen, nor do I now teach you a different doctrine from what my brethren and I originally taught you; nevertheless, having now blood around me, and a dying man before me, I have need to pray that I have not been myself misled from the true path, and thus become the means of misdirecting others. May Heaven forgive me if I have done so, since I have only to plead my sincere and honest intention in excuse for the erroneous counsel which I may have given to you and others touching these unhappy wars. I am conscious that in dipping my hand in blood, or at least encouraging you so to stain your sword, I have departed in some degree from the character of my profession, which enjoins that we neither shed blood, nor become the occasion of its being spilt. May Heaven enable us to obey our duties and to repent of our errors, especially such as have occasioned the death or distress of our fellow-creatures! And, above all, may this dying Christian become aware of his errors, and may he repent with sincerity of having done that to others with the sword which he would not willingly have suffered at their hand!” “For that matter,” answered Turnbull, “the time has never been when I would not exchange a blow with the best man who ever lived; and if I was not in constant practice of the sword, it was because I have been brought up to the use of the Jedwood-axe, which the English call a partisan, and which makes little difference, I understand, from the sword and poniard.” “The distinction is not great,” said the Bishop; “but I fear, my friend, that life taken with what you call the Jedwood-axe, gives you no privilege over him who commits the same deed, and inflicts the same loss of life, with any other weapon.” “Nay, worthy father,” said the penitent, “I must own that the effect of the weapons is the same, as far as concerns the man who is removed out of the way; but I would pray of you information, why a Jedwood man ought not to use, as is the custom of his country, a Jedwood-axe, being, as is implied in the name, the offensive weapon proper to his country?” “The crime of murder,” said the Bishop, “consists not in the kind of weapon with which the death is inflicted, but in the pain which the murderer inflicts upon his fellow-creature, and the breach of good order which he introduces into heaven’s lovely and peaceable creation; and it is by turning your repentance upon this crime that you may fairly expect to propitiate Heaven for your offences, and at the same time to escape the consequences which are denounced in Holy Scripture against those by whom man’s blood shall be shed.” “But, good father,” said the wounded man, “you know better than any one, that in this company, and in this very church, there are upon

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the watch scores both of Scottishmen and Englishmen, who come here not so much to discharge the religious duties of the day, as literally to bereave each other of their lives, and give a new example of the horror of those feuds which the two extremities of Britain nourish against each other. What conduct, then, is a poor man like me to hold? Am I to bear a hand against the English, which methinks I can still make a tolerably efficient one—or am I, for the first time in my life, to hear the war-cry when it is raised, and hold back my sword from the slaughter? Methinks it will be difficult, perhaps altogether impossible, for me to do so; but if such is the pleasure of Heaven, and your advice, most reverend father, unquestionably I must do my best to be governed by your directions, as of one who has a right and title to direct us in every dilemma, or case, as they term it, of troubled conscience.” “Unquestionably,” said the Bishop, “it is my duty, as I have already said, to give no occasion this day for the shedding of blood, or the breach of peace; and I must charge you, as my penitent, that upon your soul’s safety, you do not minister any occasion to affray or bloodshed, either by maintaining such in your own person, or inciting others to the same; for by following a different course of advice, I am certain that you, as well as myself, would act sinfully and out of character.” “So I will endeavour to think, reverend father,” answered the huntsman; “nevertheless I hope it will be remembered in my favour, that I am the first person bearing the surname of Turnbull, together with the proper name of the Prince of Archangels himself, who has at any time been able to sustain the affront occasioned by the presence of a southron with a drawn sword, and was not thereby provoked to brandish his own weapon, and to lay about him.” “Take care, my son,” returned the Prelate of Glasgow, “and observe, that even now you are departing from those resolutions which, but a few minutes since, thou didst adopt upon serious and just consideration; wherefore do not thou be, O my son! like the sow that has wallowed in the mire, and, having been washed, repeats its act of pollution, and becomes again yet fouler than it was before.” “Well, reverend father,” replied the wounded man, “although it seems almost unnatural, and even unkindly, for Scottish men and English to meet and part without a buffet, yet I will endeavour most faithfully to minister no occasion of strife, nor, if possible, to snatch at any such occasion as shall be ministered to me.” “In doing so,” returned the Bishop, “thou wilt best atone for the injury which thou hast done to the law of Heaven upon former occasions, and thou wilt prevent the causes for strife betwixt thee and thy brethren of the southern land, and eschew the temptation towards

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blood-guiltiness which is so rife in this our day and generation. And do not think that I am imposing upon thee, by these admonitions, a duty more difficult than it is in thy covenant to bear, as a man and as a Christian. I myself am a man, and a Scottishman, and, as such, I feel offended at the unjust conduct of the English towards our country and sovereign; and thinking as you do yourself, I know what you must suffer when you are obliged to submit to national insults, unretaliated and unrevenged. But let us not conceive ourselves the agents of that retributive vengeance which Heaven has, in a peculiar degree, declared to be its own attribute. Let us, while we see and feel the injuries inflicted on our own country, not forget that our own raids, ambuscades, and surprisals, have been at least equally fatal to the English as their attacks and forays have been to us.” “Thank Our Lady for that,” said the dying man. “And, in short,” continued the Bishop, not much edified with the state of his penitent, “let the mutual injuries of the crosses of Saint Andrew and of Saint George be no longer considered as hostile to the inhabitants of the opposite district, at least during the festivals of religion; but as they are mutually signs of redemption, let them be, in like manner, intimations of forbearance and peace on both sides.” “I am contented,” answered Turnbull, “to abstain from all offences towards others, and shall even endeavour to keep myself from resenting those of others towards me, in hopes of bringing to pass such a quiet and godly state of things as your words, reverend father, induce me to expect.” Turning his face to the wall, the Borderer lay, with an aspect like the Dying Gladiator, in stern expectation of approaching death, which the Bishop left him to contemplate while he visited other parts of the church. The peaceful disposition which the prelate had inspired into Michael Turnbull, had made somewhat of a general progress among the parties of both nations, who heard with awe the spiritual denunciations by which the clergyman endeavoured to suspend the national antipathy both of English and Scottish, and induce them, from veneration to the day at least, to remain in truce and amity with each other. Heaven had, however, decreed that the national quarrel, to which so much blood had been sacrificed, should that day again be the occasion of deadly strife. A loud flourish of trumpets sounded in the apartments beneath and, seeming to proceed from the very bottom of the earth, now rung through the church, and roused the attention of the soldiers and worshippers then assembled, “sign of nigh battle or got victory.” Most of those who heard these warlike sounds, bustled to betake themselves to their weapons, as if they considered it useless to wait any longer for

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the signal of conflict. Hoarse voices, rude exclamations, the rattle of swords against their sheathes, or their clashing against other pieces of armour, gave an awful presage of an onset, which, however, was averted by the exhortations of the clergyman. A repeated flourish of trumpets to the number of three times having taken place, a voice as of a herald made a proclamation to the following purpose:— “That whereas there were many noble pursuivants of chivalry presently assembled in the church of Douglas, and whereas there existed among them the usual causes of quarrel and points of debate for their advancement in chivalry, therefore the English knights were ready to fight any number of the Scottish as might be agreed, either upon the superior beauty of their ladies, or upon the national quarrel in any of its branches, or upon whatsoever point might be at issue between them, which should be judged satisfactory by both; and the knights who should chance to be worsted in such dispute, should first renounce the prosecution thereof, or the bearing arms therein thereafter, with such other conditions to ensue upon their defeat as might be agreed upon by a council of the knights present at the church of Douglas aforesaid. Wherefore it is required that the Scottish knights do intimate their consent that such trial of valour take place, which, according to the rules of chivalry, they cannot refuse, without losing utterly the reputation of valour, and incurring the diminution of such other degree of estimation as a courageous pursuivant of arms would willingly be held in, both by the good knights of his own country, and those of others.” The trumpets having again flourished lustily for three times, the reply of the Scottish knights was made in the following terms:— “That God forbid the rights and privileges of Scotland, and the beauty of her damsels, should not be asserted by her children, or that such Scottish knights as were here assembled, should show the least backwardness or slackness to accept the combat offered, whether grounded upon the superior beauty of their ladies, or upon the valour of her sons, who should here engage in indenture of combat to that purpose, or whether upon the general right or cause of the question of the supremacy of Scotland herself, or any of the subordinate causes of dispute between the countries, for either or all of which the knights of Scotland here present were willing to do battle in the terms of the indenture aforesaid, while sword and lance shall endure. But foremost of all, any number of Scottish knights, from one to twenty, will defend the quarrel which has already drawn blood, touching the freedom of Lady Augusta de Berkely, and the rendition of Douglas Castle to the owner here present.”

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Chapter Nine Upon Saint Andrew thrice can they thus cry, And thrice they shout on height, And then marked them on the Englishmen, As I have told you right. Saint George the bright, our ladies’ knight, To name they were full fain; Our Englishmen they cried on height, And thrice they shout again. Old Ballad

A        ensued after the last proclamation of the Scots, which was broken at length by the voice of an Englishman. Some of the English garrison began to feel that their northern brethren had a second time been too cunning, and too numerous for them, by their skill in partizan warfare, and it was declared that the English had no authority from their prince to wager the Castle of Douglas, which was so valuable to him, against the liberty or fate of a fair lady. Meantime Walton was absent, endeavouring to secure a road for the retreat of the Lady Augusta. Another pause ensued, which no one present thought himself of authority sufficient to break. The Bishop took the opportunity of making his voice heard among the multitude. “Pardon me,” he said, “noble knights, if my duty as a churchman induce me and command me here to interfere in your debates. I here consider myself less as a Scottish man than as a neutral person who wish well to both nations. Assuredly no single knight, or party of knights, have authority to pledge the public quarrel of their country upon their own success in single combat. Yet I should hold it competent for the Scottish knights here present to permit the Lady Augusta of Berkely to depart, under the guidance of Sir John Walton, in all safety and honour, reserving it to the two knights principally concerned, if they were so disposed, to fight out the quarrel in single combat, whenever a fair field could be found for such a purpose. Neither in this way would have the advantage which they have gained on this day, and if it pleased Sir John Walton, he might reside upon his parole within the kingdom of Scotland, under the protection of Douglas, until the displeasure of King Edward against him be appeased.” “He might, indeed, do so with safety,” said old Gilbert Greenleaf, whispering to the minstrel, whose company he had again fixed himself upon; “but his renown, his los——” “I have no more idea,” said the minstrel, “of such a high-spirited man submitting to live while one-half the world cry shame upon him, than of his growing without the sun and air; and, to tell the truth, a

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character so finely sensitive best becomes the noble deeds which he has done in Spain and France—See, here he comes; God knows what he bears in his mind, but methinks nothing could give his brow such a doubtful and dismal expression as the consideration of such a point as we have now stated.” Without speaking to any one, Sir John Walton advanced through the press. The Bishop repeated the conditions on which Lady Augusta de Berkely might, he hoped, be permitted to retreat to her own country, and hastily reported them as having met with her approbation. The knight approached the lady, desirous of making a full sacrifice of his own warlike fame, and ready to submit to any conditions, however severe or unreasonable, which should be attached to the Lady Augusta’s safety, although the consequence should be a traitor’s doom, justified in the eyes of all mankind, excepting only the lady whose wish had first chalked out to him this desperate adventure. “It was my lady,” ran his thoughts, “by whose direction I first undertook to keep this Dangerous Castle. Without my knowledge, she has thrown herself into the power of a party of the besiegers, and demands that I shall now provide for her freedom, by surrendering the important fortress as a ransom for her safety. I will not have the vanity to make a choice among the difficulties which surround me. But I will either surrender this castle, secure the Lady Augusta’s life and liberty at this sacrifice, and carry my own faults and failings to the footstool of the king, not regarding the offering up life and fortune, for a lady for whom it is impossible I can ever discharge all that I owe; or if, with the spirit of manly valour, which is her characteristic, she says with resolution, ‘Sir John Walton, fight it to the last,’ my character is but little known in the world, if there breathes a man who expects the Lady of Berkely’s knight to yield himself and the prize for which he fights. Let her but appear and demand the sacrifice, and the marshals of the north shall, for once, see a field fought with an obstinacy unknown since the time of King Malcolm. Douglas is stronger than I am, perhaps more skilful, but the combat shall be tried to the very last. Life is short and fame immortal.” Sir John Walton, emboldened by the recollection of the high consequence of his character as the lady’s protector, with which capacity he stood fairly invested, resolved to take upon him and be bold accordingly. Nor was his boldness without its effect. When the lady saw him, the rashness of her original plan having, after such variations, thrown her again upon the protection of Sir John Walton, she formed the not unnatural resolution, to inspire into him courage for the stormy scene that was like to ensue, and received him with broader demonstrations of welcome than she had occasionally manifested when they met after

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a short absence. “Welcome,” she said, “most welcome, my gallant chief.” Time and place, fright and anxiety, were blotted out of Sir John Walton’s memory, and he rushed to throw himself on his knees before the lady of his affections. Fortune herself seemed to unloose the restraint of decorum, and to compel both lovers to see that their interest depended on their pursuing the same measures. The knight seized upon the fair lady’s hands, which were abandoned to him. “Walton,” said Augusta, with a sigh of confusion, “these people will think us mad; but let them do so. To whom should a lady trust her safety and liberty, unless to one of the most gallant knights, whose renown is among Fame’s list of worthies? and unless she should be courteous and debonair to him, how should she cultivate those noble virtues with which his mind is stocked, in hopes that she may have some share in rendering him equal to the height of chivalry which he is called upon to perform? Even this,” she said, dropping a kiss from her ruby lips upon the brow of him who still knelt at her feet, “Even this favour, impressed through a grated vizor, I do not, as a lady of free birth, grudge to him who has taken upon him so much labour, in order to defend all that a poor maid can call her own, against discourtesy, calumny, and oppression of every kind.” “Command your vassal,” said the knight, “who has no thought save to oblige you. Believe me, it is impossible that you can be in the debt of the man who is so much in yours.” The importance of the occasion supported both: the beautiful aspect of the Lady Augusta of Berkely, blushing between the real pleasure and pride which she felt in acknowledging that affection which was the due of heroic love, and the manly pride of Sir John Walton, inspired by a reliance on the valour and knightly character which his lady’s favour had raised, by such liberal encouragement, to a devoted pitch. The scene itself, the dignity of the lovers personally considered, the extreme beauty of the lady, and the manly appearance of the tall handsome warrior who knelt before her, called forth and united the good wishes, at least the admiration, not only of all the English, but even, more reluctantly, of the Scottish themselves, who forgot the grumblings amongst them against this Sir John Walton, famous so wide among them as a strict and severe lord; and said to each other, that in favour of the generous and chivalrous nature of his object, they forgot that the impositions had been resented by them as injuries and insults. They murmured that the Black Douglas did well and worthily in redeeming the castle of his forefathers, with which they had been endowed by the Kings of Scotland, and that they would hold it their

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duty to see him replaced in every span-length of the ancient barony; but, on the contrary, there seemed a general feeling, that this resolution should be made without imposing upon Walton any condition which might infer him dishonour in the eyes of his sovereign. Some pity for the slaughter which was likely to ensue, might probably have its share in inducing the rude warriors to arrive at a resolution more pacific than was usual in their age; and the halt and species of truce which ensued, were of a nature which seldom interrupted the ferocity of an assembly of that period. It is true, that the followers of Bruce had long cherished the remembrance of the injuries which their master had sustained from the English; and their belief that the Dangerous Castle should be retaken on Palm Sunday, to the scorn of the English knight who now held it, had been a cherished article of faith among them, the giving up of which seemed to many an act of ingratitude for the good fortune which seemed about to crown their wishes, and, in some degree, to Heaven itself, whose pleasure they seemed less anxious to execute than became their patriotic zeal. On the other hand, the respect for an honourable lady, as also for her lover, both of them only concerned very remotely in the offence given to Douglas— courage and reputation on the knight’s part, beauty and rank on that of the lady—were charms of which that age well knew the force, and it was in the habit of being directed and guided by them. It seemed as if the fury of the military part of the crowd had lulled itself to sleep, and silence, like an evening cloud, exercised its sullen influence upon all the warriors who were present. In the mean time, the Bishop exercised his authority as became a friend to peace, and a protector of the oppressed, and used his intercession with Douglas and his companions to dismiss the Lady of Berkely and her lover without any farther evil treatment. “Bethink you,” he said, “noble knight, that a military tumult made in the open church, upon this holy festival, cannot be a matter of indifference to the Scottish cause, against whom it is too often objected, that if the business in question is homicide, it is exercised without scruple even in places where it is forbidden by the express voice of the church. Remember the great error of the Bruce himself, when he slew the Red Cumming in the Dominican church of Dumfries, before the high altar, and remember, that since that deed, so deserving of execration, our cause, holy as it is, and nobly as I must say it has been supported, has been deserted by all who were able to do it good one after another, and is now upheld chiefly by desperate men, the very scum of earth, and the detestation of civil war.” “It is false!” replied Douglas; “Wallace, Athole, Errol, my sainted father, were men who attempted the rescue of Scotland, with hands as

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pure as monk ever employed in performing the good works which he registers.” “True, young knight,” said the Bishop, “but I beseech you to consider where are these heroes now? The prison, the field of exile, the place of execution, have witnessed their dying day, and their hasty crimes and violence committed in the course of this war, authorise us to conclude, that however praiseworthy their general course of action, yet they must pay the penalty, after death, in order to suit them for that better world, in which, I doubt not, they are finally doomed to live for ever.” “Worthy prelate,” said Douglas, “I should wish to be thought incapable of contradicting with violence that which you so positively affirm; yet let me remind you, that if this lord and lady may claim rights with respect to me, as a warrior trained in the paths of chivalry, they must also acknowledge my rights upon them to the same extent. I wish, as is my duty, good luck to every knight and lady who love, as the minstrels say, par amours, and give each other proofs of the courage and the truth of their mutual attachment; but their doing so can, touching me, give them no right to pull down the banner of my fathers from the walls of Douglas Castle, hanging up in its stead the standard of England, which has no proper place there, and demean themselves like lords of my inheritance, without paying more regard to my wishes than those of any poor borderer outlawed for stealing cattle, the ancient vice of this country. Does the King of England suppose that Edward of Caernarvon will be permitted to go on with insulting the rights of so many men as broad Scotland yearly nourishes? We are descended, most of us, from ancient race; nor need the Plantagenets themselves blush if chance should mingle their blood with that of one of the Douglasses or their allies.” “Why say you all this to me, James of Douglas?” said the Bishop; “is it that I disown you in the cause of your country? far be it from me, for although I wear no basnet upon my head and this bare foot is only covered with a sandal, yet even your own mail-clad step shall not be more forward than mine in the lists when they are combating—But I would have you use mercy, as one who may yourself need it, and agree to give this knight and lady a free dismissal and a safeguard to their own country.” “I have no objection,” said the Douglas, “since such is the opinion of you, my reverend father, to whom I owe so much; but to be obtained, it is proper that this boon be asked, and that Sir John Walton must therefore confess himself obliged to withdraw from a combat which he is not able to sustain.” “Not so,” said Walton. “I have already met with Douglas, nor has he

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cause to say that he was superior in the encounter. It is to secure this lady’s safety that I unwillingly leave the front of a forward adversary; and if Douglas will receive my pledge to meet him on a day fixed, when I have placed the Lady Augusta in safety, he shall have no reason to say that he who placed himself in the seat of Douglas, when the fortress was in possession of the crown of England, did dishonour even to that celebrated name.” “My poor voice,” said the lady, “is likely enough to be drowned among such angry tones as are raised on both sides in this debate; yet do I think so well of the Douglas, who certainly has no reason to fear diminution in reputation, as to request him to dismiss us from this place and this presence, in which he has gotten far too strong a majority for the triumph of much valour; and if my petition be granted, I would propose that the conditions of our departure should be referred to this worthy Bishop, especially as my companion, as well as myself, has a just right to claim his protection as a dignitary of the Holy Church.” The eyes of all persons present turned to the veiled form which stood by the Lady Augusta’s side, and which, raising the sort of mantle in which it was wrapt, showed to all in the church who knew her, Margaret de Hautlieu, lamentably damaged as she was by her late attempt to escape from the convent of Saint Bride. At first the unfortunate recluse fixed upon the earth the single eye which her misfortunes had left her, while she hoped by degrees to attract the gaze of her lover, a handsome, martial, and good-humoured looking youth, tall in size, and ruddy in complexion, who unhappily had hitherto proved totally unable even to suspect the presence of a lady, betwixt whom and himself so much intimacy had at one time subsisted. The Lady Augusta felt that in compelling, as it were, sister Ursula’s romance to come to an untimely close, she was acting perhaps unkindly towards one who had evinced much fidelity in her own case. She became anxious to give her relief and assistance, and thus pursued her speech, though faltering as she said it: “If the worthy Bishop does not choose to embrace the charge of this noble lady, she who, I am proud to acknowledge, has behaved to me as a sister of the same blood, will do best to accept of my poor protection, and make a short abode in England, until her estates in this country shall be placed in her own lawful possession.” The Lady of Berkely viewed this proposal as a preliminary stipulation for the means of gaining some space for the Lady de Hautlieu to take her resolution, and at leisure, if it were possible, to renew the bonds which had formerly existed between her and Malcolm Fleming;

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but Margaret de Hautlieu was too serious in her love attachment, too much flattered by what seemed a surviving opportunity in the midst of evil auspice and misadventure, to permit her to choose the wisest way of turning it to advantage. She disclosed her countenance entirely, and bent the only eye of which she retained command upon Malcolm Fleming. Even when poor Margaret de Hautlieu’s lovers had talked to her of her beauty and powers of conquest, Malcolm Fleming had been too open and honest to speak of charms which did not belong to her; he had not mixed more of that sort of adulation than is commonly adjudged to be the right of women, who are young, well-born, and without any precise blemish, and who therefore are said to be, and have not themselves much doubt upon the subject, beauties, in the eyes at least of those who admire them. A bold daring temper, decisive as his own, had agreed with Malcolm Fleming in his principles of loyalty and of patriotism, and it was no wonder that he held the young lady, who had chosen him for her bachelor, as a pattern of beauty. By some accident, he had been dispatched to the King Robert Bruce at Rachrin in Ireland, after the attempt to carry off the Lady of Hautlieu, and remained absent from Douglasdale until the night preceding Palm Sunday, when both he and Douglas had held their course from the marches of Scotland, in which they had been lurking, with the purpose of surprising the English garrison. There is some doubt whether, if he had really known exactly the situation of that unfortunate lady, he would have thought it safe to trust himself within the reach of a person who seemed to hold her pretensions upon her lover somewhat tenaciously, and instead of a good-looking Scottish young woman, animated with love and patriotism, was now a mere one-eyed spectre, reduced to the situation almost of a maniac, by the anxiety that yet remained concerning the possibility of an alliance with her lover. At first Fleming, merely attracted by the gestures of the once personable object before him, stared, and wondered what made her fix upon him the strange expression of her disfigured countenance, which seemed labouring to express feelings of which he could not apprehend the import. On the other hand, the Bishop and the other persons who acknowledged their relationship with the powerful family of Hautlieu, felt that past events had rendered an ecclaircissement necessary, and that both parties, from respect to each other, and to themselves, ought to study to make this meeting as short and decisive as possible. Men in these iron days were still men as they are at present. When Malcolm Fleming heard how severely the Lady Margaret had been wounded in her attempt to escape, he considered, as most men would have done,

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that every thing between them was at an end, excepting the mutual respect which neither had forfeited, and the knight held himself fairly absolved from those vows which he had offered, from a sincere preference of the lady to others of her own sex. An appeal, therefore, of the kind, which subsisted in the looks of the unfortunate lady, struck the knight with a species of sudden infliction, proportionate to the extreme displeasure which he felt in this ill-assorted match. He was leaving the spot which he occupied, and taking the speediest method in his power to withdraw himself from the presence of Lady Margaret de Hautlieu, with the intention doubtless of making his explanation by letter, when the Bishop, pitying at once the embarrassment of the good knight, and that of the high-spirited lady, at length spoke to Fleming. “I know well, gallant knight, what will be the triumph of your enemies, when it is spread abroad that Sir Malcolm Fleming has deserted for a little eye-sweetness and misliking, the lady whose misfortune it has been to adhere to him to the last. Think—take time. We reconcile ourselves to plain looks, and time may amend them or it may render us insensible to their effects. A breach of faith and honour is not cured so easily.” “It is easy to say so, reverend father,” said the knight, “but look upon that lady, that is, with such steadiness as you can command, and tell me what man of earthly mould could have the courage to fulfil any true love vows which have for their object her and wedlock.” “My son,” said the prelate, “engagements are not fulfilled in this manner; and something different from misfortune must be alleged as a satisfactory reason of evading the due discharge of them.” “Reverend father,” said Fleming, in a low voice, “press me not for an answer at this time or place; the subject is weighty, no less to me than to the lady. Boghall, in the neighbourhood of Biggar, is my own rich inheritance; I will resign that and its appurtenances to the Lady Margaret de Hautlieu, and thereby make amends for my ever having had the boldness to lift my eyes towards her.” The words were not generally heard, but the murmuring voice, and the discomforted look, of the young Lord of Boghall, fully inferred that his answer was such as was unfavourable to the hope of the lady. She herself, between distress of mind, and depth of mortification, sunk down on the floor, where the various efforts of the assistants with difficulty supplied her with restoratives to keep her from fainting, although little liable to such weaknesses. The sight attracted universal compassion, and the few females who were present, seemed to make common cause against the recreant young Lord of Boghall, as if it had been such an easy thing to have

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wedded a person so ill-favoured as the Lady Margaret de Hautlieu, and constitute her his daily companion, as he had promised to do when she was universally reckoned young and well-looked. The women’s judgment was unanimous, and pronounced so decidedly, that the few men who had boldness enough to take Fleming’s part, did so in some degree with the consciousness of suffering upbraiding from wife, mother, aunt, mistress, or whatsoever female, in short, retained authority over them; so they might be said rather to attempt the young knight’s excuse, than positively to state his exculpation. Douglas interfered to screen his friend and companion in arms, as much as he could do so, without exposing himself at a moment when his own interest was at stake,—and the best way which occurred to him was to divert the subject. “I wait,” said he, loudly, “to know whether Sir John Walton requests leave of James of Douglas, to evacuate his castle without further wasting that daylight which might show us to judge a fair field, and whether he craves Douglas’s leave and protection in doing so?” The Knight of Walton drew his sword. “I hold the Castle of Douglas,” he said, “in spite of all deadly,—and never will I ask the protection from any one which my own sword is competent to afford me!” “I stand by you, Sir John,” said Aymer de Valence, “as your true comrade, against whatever odds may oppose themselves to us.” “Courage, noble English,” said the voice of Greenleaf; “take your weapons, in God’s name. Bows and bills! bows and bills!—A messenger brings us notice that Pembroke is in full march hither from the borders of Ayrshire, and will be with us in half an hour. Fight on, gallant English! and long life to the gallant Earl of Pembroke!” Those English within and around the church no longer delayed to take arms, and Walton, crying out at the height of his voice, “I implore the Douglas, as he would be held a noble enemy, to look to the ladies’ safety nearly,” fought his way to the church door, the Scottish soldiers finding themselves unable to resist the impression of terror which affected them at the sight of this renowned knight, seconded by his brother-in-arms, both of whom had been so long the terror of the district. In the meantime, it is possible that Walton might altogether have burst his way out of the church, had he not been met boldly by the young son of Thomas Dickson of Hazelside, while his father was receiving from Douglas the charge of preserving the ladies from all harm from the action, which, so long suspended, seemed now on the point of taking place. Walton cast his eye upon the ladies, with a desire of charging with his men and rushing to the rescue; but was forced to conclude, that he

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provided best for their safety in leaving them under protection of Douglas’s honour. Young Dickson, in the meantime, heaped blow on blow, seconding with all his juvenile courage every effort he could make, in order to attain the prize due to the conqueror of the renowned Walton. “Silly boy,” at length said Sir John, who had for some time forborne the stripling, “take, then, thy death from a noble hand, since thou preferrest that to peace and length of days.” “I care not,” said the Scottish youth, with his dying breath; “I have lived long enough, since I have kept you till this instant in the place where you now stand.” And the youth said truly, for as he fell never again to rise, the Douglas stood in his place, and without a word spoken, again engaged with Walton in the same formidable sword combat, by which they had already been distinguished, but with even additional fury. Aymer de Valence drew up to his friend Walton’s left side, and seemed but to desire the apology of one of Douglas’s people attempting to second him, to join against the Scottish leader; but he saw no person who seemed disposed to interfere in a battle which was so fairly fought on both sides. At length he observed that Fleming, who stood foremost among the Scottish knights, was desirous as ever was belted knight to join in the conflict before him. Aymer himself, burning with the same desire of combat, called out, “Faithless Knight of Boghall! step forth and defend yourself against the imputation of the lady, who accused thee but a minute since, of being a mansworn lover, and a disgrace to the rolls of chivalry!” “My answer,” said Fleming, “even to a less gross taunt, hangs by my side.” In an instant his sword was in his hand, and even the practised warriors who looked on around, felt difficulty in discerning the progress of the strife, which rather resembled a thunder-storm in a mountainous country, than the stroke and parry of two swords, offending on the one side, and keeping the defensive on the other. Their blows were exchanged with surprising rapidity; and although the two combatants did not equal Douglas and Walton in maintaining a certain degree of reserve, founded upon a respect which these knights mutually entertained for each other, yet the want of art was supplied by a degree of fury, which gave chance at least one half of the obstinate conflict. Seeing their superiors thus desperately engaged, the partisans, as they were accustomed, stood still on either side, and looked on with the reverence which they instinctively paid to their commanders and leaders in arms. One or two of the women were in the meanwhile attracted, according to the nature of the sex, by compassion for those

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who had already experienced the casualties of war. Young Dickson, breathing his last among the feet of the combatants, was in some sort rescued from the tumult by the Lady de Berkely, in whom the action showed less strange, owing to the pilgrim’s dress which she still retained, and who in vain endeavoured to solicit the attention of the father to the task in which she was engaged. “Cumber yourself not, lady, about that which is bootless,” said old Dickson, “and distract not your own attention and mine from preserving you, whom it is the Douglas’s wish to rescue, and whom, so please God and Saint Bride, I consider as placed by my chieftain under my charge. Believe me, this youth’s death is in no way forgotten, though this be not the time to remember it. An hour will come for recollection, and an hour for revenge.” So said the stern old man, reverting his eyes from the bloody corpse which lay at his feet, a model of beauty and strength in the age which the deceased had attained. Having taken one rapid and anxious look, he turned his person, and planted himself where he could best protect the Lady of Berkely, not a second time turning his eyes on his son’s body. In the interim the combat continued, without the least cessation on either side, and without a decided advantage. At length, however, fate seemed disposed to interfere; the Knight of Fleming, pushing fiercely forwards, and brought by chance almost close to the person of the Lady Margaret de Hautlieu, missed his blow, and his foot sliding in the blood of the young victim, Dickson, he fell before his antagonist, and was in eminent danger of leaving the combat at disadvantage; but Margaret de Hautlieu had inherited the soul of a warrior, and, besides, was a very strong, as well as an undaunted person. A mace lay on the floor, where it had been dropt by the fallen Dickson; it at once caught her eye, armed her hand, and intercepted or struck down the sword of Sir Aymer de Valence, who would otherwise have remained the master of the day at that interesting moment. Fleming had more to do to avail himself of an unexpected chance of recovery, than to make a commentary upon the manner in which it had been so singularly brought about; he instantly recovered the advantage he had lost, and was able in the ensuing close to trip up the feet of his antagonist, who fell on the pavement, while the voice of his conqueror, if he could properly be termed such, resounded through the church the fatal words, “Yield thee, Aymer de Valence—rescue or no rescue—yield thee!—yield thee!” he added, as he placed his sword to the throat of the fallen knight, “not to me, but to this noble Lady Margaret de Hautlieu— rescue or no rescue.” With a heavy heart the knight perceived that he had fairly lost so

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favourable an opportunity of acquiring fame, and was obliged to submit to his destiny, or be slain upon the spot. There was only one consolation, that no person among the spectators ever heard of or saw a battle more honourably sustained, being gained as much, in the opinion of those who looked on, by accident as by valour. The decision of the protracted and desperate combat between Douglas and Walton did not long remain suspended; indeed, the number of conquests in single combat achieved by the Douglas in these wars, was so great, as to make it doubtful whether he was not, in personal strength and skill, even a superior knight to Bruce himself, and he was at least acknowledged nearly his equal in the art of war. So however it was, that when three quarters of an hour had passed in hard contest, Douglas and Walton, whose nerves were not actually of iron, began to show some signs that their human bodies were feeling the effect of the severe exercise to which they had been subjected. Their blows were slower drawn, nor were they parried with the same celerity, which resembled rather the process of thought, than the consequence of reflection. Douglas generously made a signal, desiring his antagonist to hold his hand for an instant. “Brave Walton,” he said, “there is no mortal quarrel between us, and you must be sensible that in this passage of arms, Douglas, though he is only worth his sword and his cloak, has abstained from taking a decisive advantage more than once when the chance of arms has offered it. My father’s house, the broad domains around it, the dwelling, and the graves of my ancestors, form a reasonable reward for a knight to fight for, and call upon me in an imperative voice to prosecute to the last the strife which has such an object, while on the other hand you are as welcome to the noble lady, in all honour and safety, as if you had received her from the hands of King Edward himself; and I give you my word, that the utmost honours which can attend a prisoner, and a careful absence of every thing like injury or insult, shall attend Walton when he yields himself to James of Douglas.” “It is the fate to which I am perhaps doomed,” replied Sir John Walton; “but never will I voluntarily embrace it, and never shall it be said that my own tongue, saving in the last extremity, pronounced upon me the fatal sentence to sink the point of my own sword. Pembroke is upon the march with his whole army, to rescue the garrison of Douglas. I hear the tramp of his foot even now; while I can maintain my ground, therefore, I am within immediate reach of support; nor do I fear that the breath which now begins to fail will not last long enough to uphold the struggle till the arrival of succour. Come on, then, and treat me not as a child, but as one who, whether I stand or fall, fears not to encounter the utmost force of my knightly antagonist.”

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“So be it then,” said Douglas, a darksome hue, like the lurid colour of the thunder-cloud, changing his brow as he spoke, and intimating that he meditated a speedy end to the contest, when, just as the noise of horses’ feet drew nigh, a Welsh knight, known by the diminutive size of his steed, his naked limbs, and his bloody spear, called out with a loud but exhausted voice to the combatants to hold their hands. “Is Pembroke near?” said Walton. “No nearer than Loudon Hill,” said the Prestantin; “but I bring his commands to John Walton.” “I stand ready to obey them through every danger,” answered the knight. “Woe is me,” said the Welshman, “that my mouth should bring to the ears of so brave a man so unwelcome tidings! The Earl of Pembroke yesterday received information that Walton and the Castle were both attacked by the son of the deceased Lord of Douglas, and the whole inhabitants of the district. Pembroke resolved to march to your support, noble knight, with all the forces he had under his disposal. He did so, and accordingly entertained every assurance of relieving the castle, when on a sudden he met, on Loudon Hill, a body of men of no very inferior force to his own, and having at their head that famous Bruce whom the Scottish rebels acknowledge as their king. He marched instantly to the attack, swearing he would not even draw a comb through his grey beard until he had rid England of this recurring plague. But the fate of war was against us.” He stopt here for lack of breath. “I thought so!” exclaimed Douglas. “Robert Bruce will now sleep at night, since he has paid home Pembroke for the slaughter of his friends and the dispersion of his army at Methven Wood. His men are, indeed, accustomed to meet with dangers, and to conquer them: those who follow him have been trained under Wallace, besides being partakers of the perils of Bruce himself. You thought that the waves had swallowed them when they shipped themselves from the west; but know, that the Bruce was determined with the present reviving spring to awaken his pretensions, and that he retires not from Scotland during his life, or while a lord remains to set his foot by his sovereign, in spite of all the power which has been so feloniously employed against him.” “It is even too true,” said the Welshman Meredith, “although it is said by a proud Scottishman,—The Earl of Pembroke, completely defeated, is unable to stir from Ayr, to which he has retreated with great loss; and he sends you his instructions to make the best bargain you could for the Castle of Douglas, and trust nothing to the possibility of his support.”

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The Scottish, who heard this unexpected news, joined in a shout so loud and energetic, that the ruins of the ancient church actually rocked, and threatened to fall on the heads of those who were crowded within it. The brow of Walton was overclouded at the news of Pembroke’s defeat, although in some respects it placed him at liberty to take measures for the safety of the Lady of Berkely. He could not, however, claim the same honourable terms which had been offered to him by Douglas before the news of the battle of Loudon Hill had arrived. “Noble knight,” he said, “it is entirely at your pleasure to dictate the surrender of your paternal castle; nor have I a right to claim from you those conditions which, a little while since, your generosity put in my offer. But I submit to my fate; and upon whatever terms you think fit to grant me, I must be content to offer to surrender to you the weapon, of which I now put the point in the earth, in evidence that I will never more direct it against you until a fair ransom shall place it once more at my own disposal.” “God forbid,” answered the noble James of Douglas, “that I should take such advantage of the bravest knight out of not a few who have found me work in battle! I will take example from the Knight of Fleming, who has gallantly bestowed his captive in guerdon upon a valiant damsel here present; and in like manner I, who pretend no claim on the person of this redoubted Knight of Walton, transfer any such right which I may have acquired to the high and noble Lady Augusta of Berkely, who, I hope, will not scorn to accept from the Douglas a gift which the chance of war has thrown into his hands.” Sir John Walton, on hearing this unexpected decision, looked up like the traveller who discerns the beams of the sun breaking through and dispersing the tempest which has accompanied him for a whole morning. The Lady of Berkely recollected what became her rank, and showed her sense of the Douglas’s chivalry. Hastily wiping off the tears which had unwillingly flowed to her eyes, while her lover’s safety and her own were resting on the precarious issue of a desperate combat, she assumed the look proper to a heroine of that age, who did not feel averse to accept the consequence which was bestowed upon her by the general voice of the chivalry of the period. Stepping forward, bearing her person gracefully, yet modestly, in the attitude of a lady accustomed to be looked to in such difficulties as had lately taken place, she addressed the audience in a tone which might not have misbecome the Goddess of Battle dispersing her influence at the close of a field covered with the dead and the dying. “The noble Douglas,” she said, “shall not pass without a prize from the field which he has so nobly won. Let us suppose, since we have

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seen the contest, that it was not unworthy of the victor, and let us grant that the right of the valiant Douglas to his own castle has sat upon his sword during the combat, and that the justice of his cause may have borne down the strength and bravery of his enemy. This rich string of brilliants, which my ancestor won from the Sultan of Trebisond, itself a prize of battle, shall be honoured by sustaining, under the Douglas’s armour, a lock of hair of the fortunate lady whom the doughty lord has adopted for his guide in chivalry; and if the Douglas, till he shall fill up the space for receiving that lock, will permit the honoured lock of hair to retain its station in the casket, she on whose head it grew will hold it as a signal that poor Augusta de Berkely is pardoned for having wagered on any mortal man alive in strife with the Knight of Douglas.” “Woman’s love,” replied the Douglas, “shall never divorce this locket from my bosom, which I will keep till the last day of my life, as emblematic of female worth and female virtue. And, not to encroach upon the valued and honoured province of Sir John Walton, be it known to all men, that whoever shall say that Lady Augusta de Berkely has, in this entangled matter, acted otherwise than becomes the noblest of her sex, he will do well to be ready to maintain such a proposition with his lance, against James of Douglas, in a fair field.” This speech was heard with approbation on all sides; and the news brought by Meredith of the defeat of the Earl of Pembroke, and his subsequent retreat, reconciled the fiercest of the English soldiers to the surrender of Douglas Castle, already nearly overpowered by the number of enemies who had forced entrance into it, and at the same time secured the safety of the garrison, which might have otherwise been in danger. The necessary conditions were hastily adopted, which put the Scottish in possession of the castle and the stores, both of arms and ammunition, of every kind, which it contained while under the government of Sir John Walton, whose soldiers had it to boast, that they obtained a free passage, with their horses and weapons, to return by the shortest and safest path to the marches of England, without either suffering or inflicting damage. This surrender of Douglas Castle upon the Palm Sunday of 19th March, 1306–7, was the beginning of a career of conquest which was uninterrupted, until the greater part of the strengths and fortresses of Scotland were yielded to those who asserted the liberty of their country, and the crowning mercy was gained in the celebrated field of Bannockburn, where the English sustained a defeat more disastrous than is mentioned upon any other occasion in their annals. Little need be said of the fate of the persons of this story. King Edward was greatly enraged at Sir John Walton for having surren-

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dered the Castle of Douglas, and nevertheless secured at the same time his own object, the envied hand of the heiress of Berkely. Those to whom he referred the matter as a subject of enquiry, gave it nevertheless as their opinion that the knight was void of all censure, and had discharged his duty in its fullest extent, till the commands of his superior officer obliged him to surrender the Dangerous Castle, and to this honourable acquittal the Monarch was obliged to submit. A singular renewal of intercourse took place, many months afterwards, between Margaret of Hautlieu and her lover, Sir Malcolm Fleming. The use which the lady made of her freedom, and of a doom of the Scottish Parliament, which put her in possession of her father’s inheritance, was to follow her adventurous temper through dangers not usually encountered by those of her sex; and the Lady of Hautlieu was not only a daring pursuer of the chase, but it was said that she was never hindmost even in the field of battle, and remained faithful to the political principles which she had adopted at an early period. It seemed as if she had formed the gallant resolution of shaking the god Cupid like a dew drop from her horse’s mane, and treading him beneath her horse’s feet. The Fleming, although he had vanished from the neighbourhood of the counties of Lanark and Ayr, had endeavoured to state his apology to the Lady de Hautlieu herself, who returned his letter unopened, and remained to all appearance resolved never again to enter upon the topic of their original engagement. It chanced, however, at a later period of the war with England, while the Scottish knight was travelling upon the Border, after the ordinary fashion of one who sought adventures, a waiting-maid, equipped in a fantastic habit, knelt before him and asked the protection of his arm in the name of her lady, who, late in the evening, had been made captive, she said, by certain ill-disposed caitiffs, who were transporting her by force through the forest. The Fleming’s lance was, of course, in its rest, and woe betide the faitour whose lot it was first to encounter its thrust; he fell, incapable of further combat, and another of the felons encountered the same fate with little more resistance. The lady, released from the uncivil bond of a cord which restrained her liberty, now did not hesitate to join company with the brave knight by whom she had been delivered; and although the darkness did not permit her to recognise her old lover in her liberator, yet she could not but lend a pleased ear to the conversation with which he entertained her, as they proceeded on the way. He spoke of the fallen caitiffs as being Englishmen, who found a pleasure in exercising oppression and barbarities upon the wandering damsels of Scotland, and whose cause, therefore, the champions of that country were bound to avenge while the blood

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throbbed in their veins. He spoke of the injustice of the national quarrel which had afforded a pretence for such deliberate oppression; and the lady, who herself had suffered so much by the interference of the English in the affairs of Scotland, readily acquiesced in the sentiments which he expressed on a subject which she had so peculiar reason for regarding as an afflicting one. Her answer was given in a spirited manner, as that of one who felt no objection, if the time should call for such an example, to defend even with her hand the rights which she asserted with her tongue. Pleased with the sentiments which she expressed, and recognising in her voice that secret power of the sound of the charmer, which, once impressed upon the human heart, is rarely wrought out of the remembrance by a long train of subsequent events, Fleming almost persuaded himself that such tones were familiar to him, and had at one time formed the key to his innermost affections. In proceeding on their journey, the knight’s troubled state of mind was augmented instead of being diminished. The scenes of his earliest youth were recalled by circumstances so slight, as would in ordinary cases have produced no effect whatsoever; the sentiments appeared similar to those which his life had been devoted to enforce, and he half persuaded himself that the dawn of day was to be to him the beginning of a fortune equally singular and extraordinary. In the midst of all this anxiety, Sir Malcolm Fleming had no exact anticipation that the lady whom he had heretofore rejected was again thrown into his path, after years of absence; still less, when daylight gave him a partial view of his fair companion’s countenance, was he prepared to believe that he was once again to term himself the champion of Margaret de Hautlieu, but it was so. The lady, on that direful morning when she retired from the church of Douglas, had not resolved (indeed what lady ever formed such a resolution?) to renounce, without some struggle, the beauties which she conceived proper to her as a woman. A long process of time employed under good artists had supplied the place of those who had not been successful in mending the wounds which remained as the marks of her fall. Those were now obliterated, and the lost organ of sight was no longer an object of disgust or horror to the spectator, concealed, as it usually was, by a black ribbon, and the arts of the tirewoman, who made it her business to shadow it over by a lock of hair. In a word, he saw the same Margaret de Hautlieu, with no very different style of expression from that which her face, partaking of the high and passionate character of her soul, had always presented. It seemed to both that their fate, by bringing them together after a separation which appeared so decisive, had intimated its fiat that their fortunes were inseparable from each

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other. By the time that the summer sun had climbed high in the heaven, the two travellers rode apart from their retinue, conversing together with an eagerness which marked the important matters in discussion between them; and in a short time it was made generally known through Scotland, that Sir Malcolm the Fleming and the Lady Margaret de Hautlieu, agreeably to a contract dated two years back, were to be united at the court of the good King Robert, and the husband invested with the honours of Wigton and Cumbernauld, an earldom long known in the family of Fleming. If any fair lady shall think less worthily of the knight’s fidelity, because it did not hold its place without changing, more cannot be said for him, than the prevalence of that superiority which general taste has asserted in preference of two visual organs; while, on the other hand, most people have witnessed occasions, in which even an organ of sight has been dispensed with, in cases where the party submitted to the loss as a misfortune, as smoothed by the feelings of gratitude, and supported by the aggrieved party herself with unfailing good humour. —————— Thus concludes the latest tale which it will probably be the lot of the present author to submit to the consideration of the gentle reader. He is now on the eve of visiting foreign parts, in the lamentable hope of replacing that health which has of late no longer served him for the various demands consequent upon a life which has obtained its sixtieth year. Whatever study of any kind he had followed, it seems natural that at such a period the bowl, to use the pathetic expression of Scripture, must have been nearly broken at the fountain; or, in other words, that some bodily infirmity would probably have been paving the way, and preparing for that which is mental. Such a misfortune may be regretted, but not repined at. Least of all has he, who has enjoyed an uncommon share of that inestimable blessing which we term good health, any right to complain that life, advancing to its period, should be attended with its usual proportion of shadows and storms. They have affected him at least in no more painful manner than as they are generally acknowledged to affect such as must inevitably receive them as a part of the debt of humanity. Those are now no more, whose relation to me in the ranks of life might have induced me to have hoped for the expression of their sympathy during my complaint, or my share of human suffering; and those who follow in my wake, are at least entitled to expect from me, in bearing inevitable evils, an example of firmness and patience, more especially on the part of one who has received no small good fortune during the course of a life of the usual length.

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I saw it lately remarked in a small German volume, which affected to contain the history of my life, that I had pledged my pen for the purpose of redeeming those heavy losses which had befallen me about the year of God 1826. To this it was added, that in all probability I would follow the fate of the emperor of Germany, who left his hand to wither unredeemed among the enemies to whom he pledged it. If it should be so, I can only regret what I cannot prevent. As far, however, as a man may venture to conjecture what is likely to happen from that which is past, I can assure the reader, with feelings of pride as well as pleasure, that the ornamented edition of Waverley, lately published, has now, when near its conclusion, so nearly accomplished the purpose of its publication, as leaves me a reasonable hope of entirely fulfilling such obligations of a pecuniary nature as are incumbent upon me in this world, while what balance remains is secured in such a manner as puts the final conclusion of the transaction within the compass of a year or two, or thereabouts. I ought to express my individual gratitude upon an occasion which is, I believe, almost a novelty in literature, but I feel the difficulty of dwelling long upon a subject so strictly personal. If the readers have been in any respect amused by the tale of Waverley, and its numerous successors, the author has only to remind them that to their generosity and to the unexampled encouragement with which these works have been received, is in a great measure owing the restoration of their author to easy and independent circumstances, which his misfortunes had for a certain time deranged. This favour he feels; and is here desirous to express his thanks in one word, with the gratitude naturally paid by him who knows the value of the independence which he has regained. With these remarks the author takes his leave of the reader, for a short period certainly, if not for ever. It is certain he will resist every temptation again to resume the pen, after the recent attempt upon the attention of the public, and he will scarcely for his own sake renew a task which is no longer gilded by youth, nor recommended by the studies of the day, and which cannot, therefore, be made subject of daily labour without a failing of the heart, which chills the progress of what is otherwise amusing in some degree to the author.  

APPENDIX TO THE TEXT The idea that Count Robert of Paris and Castle Dangerous should be published together, as Tales of my Landlord (Fourth and Last Series), was suggested by John Gibson Lockhart on 16 September 1831. As explained in the Essay on the Text the  restores the author’s original intentions, thus making redundant the Tales title-page and Jedidiah Cleishbotham’s Introductory Address. These materials are reproduced here. Scott wrote the Jedidiah introductory address to Tales of My Landlord: Fourth Series in London in October 1831 (see Essay on the Text, 215–16). The manuscript does not survive, but the galley set in London with Scott’s corrections does ( 23052), though not his revise. There are also three proofs set and printed in Edinburgh by Ballantyne in  3777, as well as the text of Ed1. A. The galley prepared for Scott in London ( 23052) has fairly extensive authorial holograph corrections, mostly stylistic and clarificatory, and including a ‘paper apart’ with an expansion of the Cervantes material. The revise Scott corrected has been lost, but the first surviving Edinburgh proof suggests that the print of the revise incorporated Scott’s first set of corrections very faithfully, and that his work on the second set was much less extensive than that needed for the first galley. It is likely that some of the changes between  23052 and the first Edinburgh proof text were introduced by Cadell and/or other intermediaries. B1. The first surviving Edinburgh proof ( 3777, ff. 77r–101v (1.[iii]–li; Ed1 1.[v]–xliii)) has many corrections by Cadell: some of these are simple eliminations of awkward repetitions, but there are numerous and often quite extensive stylistic changes and clarifications, very few of which are necessary, however desirable they may have seemed to Cadell himself. B2. The second surviving Edinburgh proof ( 3777, ff. 125r– 148v (1.[iii]–l; Ed1 1.[v]–xliii)) has the same printed text as B1, and has been extensively re-written by Lockhart. Lockhart’s main object seems to have been stylistic enhancement, and he is particularly fond of learned or pseudo-learned Latin tags and similar jargon. He also prunes severely Scott’s extended references to Cervantes. Much of this interference seems uncalled for, but Lockhart does effect several useful clarifications and eliminations of repetitions. In the central section he has used both brown and red ink, suggesting two stages of correction. 191

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C. The third surviving Edinburgh proof ( 3777, ff. 103r–123r (1.[iii]–xliii; Ed1 1.[v]–xliii)) incorporates Lockhart’s corrections from B2, as well as a couple of small changes from those made by Cadell in B1. There are some 35 further holograph corrections by Cadell: these are limited, taking in a few of his own from B1, but 13 or so affect the sense, including some deleted phrases or sentences. A further revision took place between C and Ed1, when another 35 or so corrections were made, mostly very minor matters of spelling and punctuation, but including a couple of stylistic changes. The American editions derive from a later stage of proofs, which has not survived, and which left only a handful of corrections, almost all of them non-verbal, to be made before the Ed1 text was finally arrived at. Scott’s approval in his letter of c. 19 October of the proposal by Cadell (see Essay on the Text, 215–16) appears confused, and it is not clear what he is referring to. Lockhart deleted an extended apologetic passage from near the end of the Jedidiah introduction, perhaps because there was in type another apology (though of a different sort) intended for the conclusion of Count Robert ( 3777, ff. 15v–19v), but which does not appear in Ed1 (it is restored in the present edition,  23a, 361–65). A few phrases from the material cut from the Jedidiah introduction were used by Cadell in re-working the very brief postscript to Castle Dangerous (compare 189–90). Since the text of the earliest surviving Edinburgh proof generally makes good sense and incorporates Scott’s own corrections made in the London galley proof and revise, it is now used as the base-text for the introduction; and as is customary in the  it is a specific proof, B1, which is chosen. As throughout the novel, Lockhart and Cadell do valuable work on the B proof in sorting confusions, but much of their rewriting seems unnecessary: either fussy or just intrusive. Only essential and highly-desirable corrections are introduced from the later proof-stages (printed and holograph) described above, together with a handful of Editorial changes. A very few emendations are introduced from the London galley proof, where it seems that errors were made in interpreting it. ‘Gandercleugh’, and ‘Pattieson’ are silently adopted to match the earlier series of Tales of my Landlord, and ‘Jedidiah’ is preferred to ‘Jedediah’ in line with the decision made for the first series of the Tales ( 4a, 174). The typographical layout of indented quotations has been standardised.

INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS,  J E D I D I A H C L E I S H B O T H A M , M.A. —————— To the loving Reader—wishing him health and Prosperity. I  would ill become me, whose name has been spread abroad by those former collections, under the title of “Tales of my Landlord,” and who have, by the candid voice of a numerous crowd of readers, been taught to think that I merit not the empty fame alone, but also the more substantial rewards attached to successful literature—it would, I say, ill become me to suffer this, which I may term my youngest literary babe, and, probably, at the same time, the last child of mine old age, to pass into the world without some such modest apology for its defects, as has been my custom to put forth in the case of its predecessors. It has been occasionally intimated formerly, that I am not individually the person to whom is to be ascribed the actual labour of having planned the scheme upon which these Tales, which the world have found so pleasing, have been ingeniously founded, though the fabrication of their various parts has been intrusted to other hands. Neither am I the actual manufacturer, who, furnished by a skilful architect with an accurate plan, including elevations and working plans and directions general and particular, has from thence furnished and completed them. Nevertheless I have been indisputably the man, who, in placing my name at the head of the undertaking, have rendered myself responsible for its general success. Thus, if a ship of war goeth forth to battle, her crew, though consisting of sundry foremast men and various officers, are not said to gain or lose the vessel which they have manned, (although each was natheless sufficiently active in his own department;) but it is generally said, without further phrase, that Captain Jedidiah Cleishbotham hath lost such a vessel, or won that which is taken from the enemy. In the same manner, shame and sorrow it were, if I, who have taken upon me the adventure of these publications, should, after having upon other occasions assumed to myself the emoluments and reputation belonging to these novels, now, on the present occasion, withdraw myself from risk and failures, as might be discerned in these, now offered, for the last time, to the critical public. Let it not be supposed that I am a person likely to be guilty of such poverty of spirit; I who am well known as the person from whom Jeanie Deans first derived her

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pretentions to celebrity. No! I will address my associates in this undertaking with the constant spirit of Matthew Prior’s heroine: Did I but purpose to embark with thee On the smooth surface of some summer sea, But would forsake the waves and make the shore When the winds whistle and the billows roar?

In compliance with this determination to defend my new adventure under an old and esteemed title, I must be candid enough to point out and admit without cavil, the errors which may justly be pointed out in these concluding “Tales of my Landlord,” in which it becomes my public duty to mention that much must unhappily now be imputed to the rashness of my worthy assistant, Paul Pattieson, brother and heir to the Mr Peter Pattieson, now no more, repeatedly mentioned in these Introductory Essays, and never without that tribute to his good sense and talents, nay, even that genius, which his former services well entitled him to claim as the natural reward of his labours to forward a publication which he contributed so much to ornament. But even the giddiness attendant on a journey in the Manchester steam engine is not so perilous to the nerves as too frequent exercise in the merry-go-round of the ideal world, is, in its tendency to render the fancy confused and powerless, and the judgment inert and indecisive. Whether it is that the author is too much elated by the rapidity at which he travels, where a single wish can be as active as Prince Hosein’s tapestry, or that mere man’s mortal brain is subject to such alterations in the course of a rapid change of place as the current of his blood is said to experience in consequence of a great elevation of atmosphere, true it is, that even persons of the highest character in the profession are found under the necessity of apologizing for errors and inaccuracies in the detail of the story which they themselves would be the first to expose and condemn, if they occurred in the fable of another. It is affecting to see the great Michael Cervantes, even like the sons of meaner men, defending himself against the critics of the day, who assailed him upon such little discrepancies and inaccuracies as these, which are apt to cloud the progress even of a mind like his, when the evening is closing around it. This deeply experienced author flatly places such errors to the charge of the printer. It is quite a common thing, he says, in the character of Don Quixote, for men who have gained a very great reputation by their writings before they were printed, to lose it afterwards wholly, or, at least, the greater part. “The reason is plain,” said Carrasco; “their faults are more easily discovered after the books are printed, as their being more read, more narrowly examined, especially if the author has been much cried up before, for then the severity of the scrutiny is so much the greater. All those who have raised themselves a name by their own ingenuity, great

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poets and celebrated historians, are most commonly, if not always, envied by a set of men who delight in censuring the writings of others, though they could never publish any of their own.”—“That is no wonder,” said Don Quixote; “for there are many divines that would make very dull preachers, and yet are very quick at finding faults and superfluities in other men’s sermons.”—“All this is true,” said Carrasco, “and therefore I could wish these censurers would be more merciful and less scrupulous, and not dwell ungenerously upon small spots that are in a manner but so many atoms on the face of the clear sun they murmur at. And if sometimes aliquando dormitat Homerus, let them consider how many nights he kept himself awake to bring his noble works to light as little darkened with defects as might be. Nay, many times it may happen, that what is censured has been invented with purpose of originating some pleasing incident; but gets lost and forgotten in the course of the narrative, and becomes an incumbrance and an embarrassment to the reader, as would be the foundation of some ornament which had been left uncompleted in an edifice which is supposed to remain an anomalous embarrassment to the structure which it was designed to have adorned.” With such remarks the immortal Cervantes has dismissed the charge brought against him of inaccuracies and inconsistencies occurring in his enchanting work. It must be observed, that he pleads guilty to some of these errors as owing to chance, or the error of the printer, and that his reply is made more in the tone of a defence than an apology, for the particular mentioned there. It must not be forgotten that what chiefly called forth the complaint of the genuine author of “Don Quixote,” was the conduct alike unfair and ungrateful of the author of a spurious second part, or pretended imitation of that immortal, a conduct in itself the extremity of meanness, not at all extenuated, but, on the contrary, augmented by the malicious ingratitude which raked together and overcharged the trifling errors which had crept into the original, to which he was indebted for the conception of his plagiary, as if an artist should wilfully deface a painting which had acquired him great celebrity to raise the value of an indifferent copy by himself. This will appear more plainly, when, in a conversation on the author’s own work, the neighbours of Don Quixote descant more specially on the faults with which he has been charged. “Only some there are,” that except against the general reputation of the work, “who have taxed the author with want of memory or sincerity, because he forgot to give an account who it was that stole Sancho’s Dapple, only we find, by the story, that it was stolen. Yet, by and by, we find him riding the same ass again, without any previous light given us into the matter. Then they say that the author forgot to tell the reader what Sancho did with the hundred pieces of gold he found in the portmanteau in the Sierra Morena, for there is not a word said of them

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more; and many people have a great mind to know what he did with them, and how he spent them, which is one of the most material points in which the work is defective.” Sancho, accordingly, on having some time allowed him, undertakes to give an account of the stealing of Dapple from under him, while he slept, and his lamentation accordingly; and how, some time after, he discovered his ass, and found his new rider to be the galley-slave, Gines de Passamonte, whom his master and he had saved from the galleys. Here the squire is opportunely checked by Sampson Carrasco. “The mistake doth not lie there,” quoth Carrasco, “but only that the author sets you upon the same ass that was lost, before he gave an account of her being found.”—“As to that,” replied Sancho, “I do not know very well what to say. If the man made a blunder, who can help it? But, mayhap, it was a fault of the printer.”—“I make no question of it,” said Carrasco; “but pray what became of the hundred pieces? Were they sunk?”—“I fairly spent them on myself,” quoth Sancho, “and on my wife and children; they helped me to lay my spouse’s clack, and made her take so patiently my rambling and trotting after my master, Don Quixote; for had I came back with my pockets empty, and without my ass, I must have looked for a woeful greeting.”* Such is the defence which the ingenious Spaniard has deigned to make for the occasional errors and mistakes, whether of the pen or of the memory, which his adversaries found scattered up and down his immortal work, and against which charges we may see he hardly condescends to state any defence, but rests upon the noble confidence that the merits of his labours were sufficient to call upon men to shut their eyes against a few casual errors; and that in filling up, during the perusal, such sketches as the carelessness of the author had suffered to remain loose, they will not do more than manifest becoming gratitude for the exquisite feast which has been spread to their imaginations in the adventures of the Knight of La Mancha. There can be no doubt also, and it brings his case near to our own, that if Cervantes had deigned to use it, he was also open to use the pitiable apology of indifferent health, under which that memorable author laboured while finishing the second part of “Don Quixote.” This is proved by an introductory essay to the “Romance of Pericles and Sigismunda,” written about the same time. From this very curious treatise we learn, that at the approaching close of his labours of every description, Cervantes was struggling with the dropsy, a malady, the fatal progress of which he felt himself incapable of retarding by practice of the abstinence from liquids, which physicians recommended as the only means of procuring a possible alleviation or cure of the disorder. It may be taken, therefore, as granted, that the intervals of such an * Don Quixote, Edit. Edinburgh, 1822, vol. iii, pp. 167, 170, &c.

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incurable malady, attended as it must necessarily be by anxious feelings respecting those who were likely to survive the suffering patient, are not the most favourable in the world for revising lighter compositions, and correcting, at least, those grosser errors and imperfections which each author should, if it were but for shame’s sake, remove from his work, before bringing it forth into the broad day-light, where they will never fail to be distinctly seen, nor lack ingenious persons, who, should their assistance be necessary, will be too happy in discharging the office of pointing them out. It is more than time to explain with what purpose we have called thus fully to memory the many venial errors of the inimitable Cervantes, and those passages in which he has rather defied his adversaries than pleaded his own defence; for I suppose it will be readily granted, that the difference is too wide betwixt that great wit of Spain and ourselves, to permit us to use a buckler which was rendered formidable only by the strenuous hand in which it was placed. The history of my first publications is sufficiently well known. Nor did I relinquish the purpose of concluding these “Tales of my Landlord,” which had been so remarkably fortunate; but Death, which steals upon us all with an inaudible foot, cut short the ingenious young man to whose memory I composed that inscription, and erected, at my own charge, that monument which protects his remains, by the side of the river Gander, which he has contributed so much to render immortal, and in a place of his own selection, not very distant from the school.* In a word, the ingenious Mr Pattieson was removed out of his place. Nor did I confine my care to his posthumous fame alone, but inventoried and preserved the small effects which he left behind him, namely, the contents of his wardrobe, and a number of printed books, somewhat more valuable, together with a balance, for which I made myself his debtor, upon the sale of two manuscripts in his possession, being the present last collection of the “Tales of my Landlord.” On looking these over, I found them to contain the tales called “Count Robert of Paris,” and “Castle Dangerous,” and was seriously disappointed at finding them by no means in that state of correctness, when as we say of a writing, it is prepared for press. There were not only parts of the manuscript omitted, and others, intended doubtless to be detailed, and united with the principal story, left incompleted, but there were evident mistakes, which a careful revision would have cleared away. After a considerate perusal, I found these manuscripts, with all their faults, contained other passages, which seemed plainly to intimate that disease itself had been unable to extinguish the brilliancy of that genius which had been made celebrated by the creations of Old * See volume IX. of the new edition of the Waverley Novels, p. 241, for some circumstances attending this erection.

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Mortality, the Bride of Lammermoor, and other children of his imagination. I immediately threw the manuscripts into my drawer, resolving not to think of sending these papers to press in their present state, until I could either obtain the assistance of some capable person, to supply deficiencies, and correct errors, so as they might face the public with credit, or perhaps my numerous avocations and infirm state of health might permit me to dedicate my own time and labour to that task. While I was in this uncertainty, about a year since, I had a visit from a stranger, who was announced as a young gentleman desirous of speaking with me on particular business. I immediately augured the accession of a new boarder, but was at once checked by observing that the outward man of the stranger was, in a most remarkable degree, what mine host of the Sir William Wallace calls, in his phraseology, seedy. His black coat had seen service; the waistcoat of grey plaid bore yet stronger marks of having encountered more than one campaign; his third piece of dress was an absolute veteran compared to the others; his shoes were so loaded with mud as showed his journey must have been pedestrian; and a grey maud, which fluttered around his wasted limbs, completed the equipment which, since Juvenal’s days, has been the livery of a poor scholar. I therefore concluded that I had before me a competitor for the office of usher, and prepared to listen to his proposals with the dignity becoming his character; but what was my surprise when I found I had before me, in this rusty student, no less a man than Paul, the brother of Peter Pattieson, come to gather in his brother’s succession, and possessed, it seemed, with no small idea of the value of that part of it which consisted in literary property. By the rapid study I made of him, this Paul was a sharp lad, imbued with some tincture of letters, like his regretted brother, but totally destitute of those amiable qualities which made his brother Peter, like the famous John Gay,— In wit a man, simplicity a child.

He set little by the legacy of his deceased brother’s wardrobe, nor did the books hold much greater value in his eyes: but he peremptorily demanded to be put in possession of the manuscripts, alleging, with obstinacy, that no definite bargain had been completed between his late brother and me, and at length bringing the opinion of a writer, or man of business, to that effect—a set of persons with whom I have always chosen to have as little concern as possible. But I had one defence left, which came to my aid, tanquam deus ex machinâ. This rapacious Paul Pattieson could not pretend to wrest the disputed manuscripts out of my possession, unless upon repayment of a considerable sum of copy money, which I had advanced from time to time to the deceased Peter, and particularly to purchase a small

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annuity to his aged mother. These advances, with the charges of the funeral and other expenses, amounted to a considerable sum, which the poverty-struck student and his acute legal adviser foresaw great difficulty in liquidating; they, therefore, both listened to a suggestion which I dropped as if by accident, that if Mr Paul Pattieson thought himself capable of filling his brother’s place of carrying the work through the press, I would make him welcome to bed and board within my mansion while he was thus engaged, only requiring his occasional assistance at hearing the more advanced scholars. This seemed to promise a close of our dispute, alike satisfactory to all parties, and the first act of Paul was to draw on me for a round sum, under pretence that his wardrobe must be totally refitted. To this I made no objection, though it certainly showed like vanity to purchase garments in the extremity of the mode, since not only great part of the defunct’s wardrobe was very fit for a twelve-month’s use, and as I was myself to be equipped in a becoming new stand of black clothes, Mr Pattieson was welcome to the use of such of my quondam raiment as he thought suitable, as had always been the case with his deceased brother. The school, I must needs say, came tolerably on. My youngster was very smart at his learning, and seemed to be so active in carrying on that branch of his duty, that he even overdid his part therein, and I began to feel myself a cipher in my own school. I comforted myself with the belief that the publications were advancing as fast as I could desire. On that subject, Paul Pattieson, like ancient Pistol, “talked bold words at the bridge,” and that not only at our house, but in the society of our neighbours, amongst whom, instead of imitating the retired and monastic manner of his brother deceased, he became a gay visiter, and such a reveller, that he became tired of the modest fare which was at first esteemed a banquet by his hungry appetite, and thereby highly displeased my wife, who, with justice, applauds herself for the plentiful, cleanly, and healthy viands wherewith she maintains her ushers and boarders. Upon the whole, I rather hoped than entertained a sincere confidence that all was going on well, and was in that unpleasant state of mind which precedes the open breach between two associates who have been long jealous of each other, but are as yet deterred by a sense of mutual interest from coming to an open rupture. The first thing which alarmed me was a report in the village that Paul Pattieson intended to undertake a voyage to the Continent—on account of his health, as was pretended, but, as the same report averred, much more with the view of gratifying the curiosity which his perusal of the classics had impressed upon him, than for any other purpose. I was rather alarmed at this report, and began to reflect that the retirement of Mr Pattieson, unless his loss could be supplied in good time, was like to be a blow to the establishment, because Paul

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had a winning way with the boys, especially those who were gentletempered; so that I question if I myself could have fully supplied his place in the school, with all my authority and experience. My wife, jealous, as became her station, of Mr Pattieson’s intentions, advised me to take the matter up immediately, and go to the bottom at once; and, indeed, I had always found that way answered best with my boys. Mrs Cleishbotham was not long before renewing the subject; for, like most of the race of Xantippe (though my helpmate is a well spoken woman), she loves to thrust in her oar when she is not able to pull it to purpose. “You are a sharp-witted man, Mr Cleishbotham,” would she observe, “and a learned man, Mr Cleishbotham—and the schoolmaster of Gandercleugh, Mr Cleishbotham, which is saying all in one word; but many a man almost as great as yourself, has lost the saddle by suffering a deputy to ride behind him; and though you have the name of doing every thing, both in directing the school and in this new profitable book line which you have taken up, yet it is well known to all Gandercleugh, both up the water and down the water, that the usher writes the dominie’s books; and every callant in the establishment knows that the usher teaches the dominie’s school, and the least gaitling among them all comes to Paul Pattieson with his lesson as naturally as they come to me for their four-hours, puir things; and no one thinks of applying to you to construe a sentence or explain a difficult one, or for any thing else, unless it were for licet exire, or the mending of an old pen, or the like of that.” Now, this address on Mrs Cleishbotham’s part, assailed me on a summer evening at the time that I was whiling away my leisure hours with the end of a cutty-pipe fu’ of nicotian, and indulging in the bland imaginations which tobacco is wont to produce. I was naturally loth to leave my misty sanctuary, and endeavoured to silence the clamour of Mrs Cleishbotham’s tongue, which has something in it peculiarly shrill and penetrating. “Woman,” said I, with a tone of domestic authority befitting the occasion, “res tuas agas;—mind your washings and your wringings, your stuffings and your physicking, or whatever concerns the outward person of the pupils, and leave the progress of their education to my usher, Paul Pattieson, and myself.” “I am glad to see,” added the accursed woman, (that I should say so!) “that ye have the grace to name him foremost, for there is little doubt that he ranks first of the troop, if you heard what the neighbours say about you.” “What do they say, thou sworn sister of the Eumenides?” said I,— the irritating power of the woman’s objurgation totally counterbalancing the sedative effects both of pipe and pot. “Say?” resumed she in her shrillest note—“why, they say the schoolmaster of Gandercleugh is turned a doited auld woman, and spends all his time in tippling strong drink with the keeper of the

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public house, and leaves school and book-making, and a’ the rest o’t, to the care of his usher; and, also, the wives in Gandercleugh say, that you have engaged Paul Pattieson to write a new book, which is to beat a’ the lave that gaed afore it; and, to show how much you have to do with the job, you didna sae muckle as ken the name o’t, pretty much the same, I reckon, as if a man should claim a child as his, without kennin sae muckle of the bairn as its very name.” This was said with such bitterness that it penetrated to the very quick, and I hurled the poor old pipe like one of Homer’s spears, not in the face of my provoking helpmate, though the temptation was strong, but into the river Gander, which pursued its quiet meanders beneath the bank on which the school-house is pleasantly situated; and, starting up, fixed on my head the cocked hat, (the pride of Messrs Grieve and Scott’s repository,) and, plunging into the valley of the brook, pursued my way upwards, Mrs Cleishbotham accompanying me in my retreat with something like the clamorous angry note of triumph with which the brood-goose pursues the flight of any intrusive cur or idle boy who has invaded her premises, and fled before her. Indeed, so great was the influence of this clamour of scorn and anger which hung upon my rear, that, while it rung in my ears, I was so moved that I instinctively tucked the skirts of my black coat under my arm, as if I had been in actual danger of being seized on by the grasp of the pursuing enemy. Nor was it till I had almost reached the well known burial-place, in which it was Peter Pattieson’s hap to meet the far-famed personage called Old Mortality, that I made a halt for the purpose of composing my perturbed spirits, and considering what was to be done; for as yet my mind was agitated by a chaos of passions, of which anger was predominant; and for what reason, or against whom, I entertained such tumultuous displeasure, it was not easy for me to put into an intelligible shape. Nevertheless, having settled my cocked hat with becoming accuracy on my well powdered wig, and suffered it to remain uplifted for a moment to cool my flushed brow, having, moreover, re-adjusted and shaken to rights the skirts of my black coat, I came into case to answer to my own questions, which, till these manœuvres had been sedately accomplished, I might have asked myself in vain. In the first place, therefore, to use the phrase of Mr Docket, the writer, (that is, the attorney) of our village of Gandercleugh, I became satisfied that my anger was directed against all and sundry, or, in law Latin, contra omnes mortales, and more particularly against the neighbourhood of Gandercleugh, for circulating reports to the prejudice of my literary talents, as well as my accomplishments as a pedagogue, and transferring the fame thereof to mine own usher. Secondly, against my spouse, Dorothea Cleishbotham, for transferring the said calumnious reports to my ears in a disrespectful manner, and without

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due regard either to the language which she made use of, or the person to whom she spoke,—treating affairs in which I was so intimately concerned as if they were proper subjects for jest among gossips at a christening, where the womankind claim the privilege of worshipping the Bona Dea according to their secret female rites. Thirdly, I became clear that I was entitled to respond to any whom it concerned to enquire, that my wrath was kindled against Paul Pattieson, my usher, for giving occasion for the neighbours of Gandercleugh entertaining such opinions, and for Mrs Cleishbotham disrespectfully urging them to my face, since neither circumstance could have existed, without he had furnished misrepresentations of transactions between us which could not otherwise have become matter of town-talk. This arrangement of my angry ideas having contributed to soothe the stormy atmosphere of which they had been the offspring, gave reason a time to predominate, and to ask me, with her calm but clear voice, whether, under all the circumstances, I did well to be angry? And, on closer correspondence, the various objects of indignation against other parties, began to be merged in that resentment against my perfidious usher, which, like the serpent of Moses, swallowed up the displeasure which I entertained against subordinate objects. To quarrel with my whole neighbours, unless I had been certain of some effectual mode of avenging myself upon them, would have been an undertaking too weighty to be undertaken, and would, it might be, prove my ruin in the attempt. To make a public quarrel with my wife, on such an account as her opinion of my literary accomplishments, would sound ridiculous; and, besides, Mrs C. was sure to have all the women on her side, who would represent her as a wife persecuted by her husband for offering him good advice, and urging it upon him with severe enthusiasm and sincerity. This, it would be difficult to dispute, (although God only knows the truth), would prove to be a defence generally supported, and very difficult to confute. Paul Pattieson remained the most natural and proper object of my displeasure, whom I might be said to have in my own power, and might punish by dismissal, at my pleasure, for his ingratitude, in accepting a liberal compensation at my hand, and privately taking measures to vindicate the fame of the work which he had, in fact, sold to me. Yet even vindictive measures against Paul Pattieson, though easy to be enforced, might be productive of very serious consequences to my own project, and I began to reflect, with anxiety, that in this world it is very seldom that the gratification of our angry passions lies in the same road with the prosecution of our interest, and that a wise man seldom hesitates which he ought to prefer. I recollected also that I was quite uncertain how far the present usher had really been guilty of the actual acts of assumption and breach of contract charged against him; to what extent, and in what

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circumstances, we broke up a joint stock adventure, or society, as civilians term it, which, if profitable to him, Pattieson, was no less so to me, Jedidiah Cleishbotham, A.M. I, therefore, resolved to proceed with becoming caution on the occasion, and not, by stating my causes of complaint too hastily in the outset, exasperate into a positive breach what might only prove a small misunderstanding, easily explained or apologized for, and which, like a leak in a new vessel, being once discovered and carefully stopped, renders it more sea-worthy than it was before. About the time that I had adopted this healing resolution, I reached the place where the brook, entitled the Gander, begins to change its character, its course upwards being interrupted by the almost perpendicular face of a steep hill, which seems to terminate the valley, or at least divides it into two dells, each of which serves as a cradle to its own mountain-stream, which, at their union, form the Gander, properly so called, while the smaller, but more noisy stream, on the left hand, rejoices in the name of the Gusedub. Each of these little valleys has a walk winding up its recesses, rendered more easy by the labours of the poor during the late hard season, and one of which bears the name of Pattieson’s path, while the other had been kindly consecrated to my own memory, by the title of the Dominie’s Daidling bit. Here I made certain to meet my suspicious associate, Paul Pattieson, for, by these roads, which, though assuming different directions, were ingeniously formed so as to connect with each other, he was wont to return of an evening. Nor was it long before I espied him descending the vale by that tortuous path, marking so strongly the character of a Scottish glen. He was easily distinguished by his manner, which had a jaunty swagger, in which he presented to you the flat of his leg, like the manly knave of clubs, apparently with the most perfect contentment, both with his leg and boot, and every part of his body, the fashion of his garments, and, one would almost have thought, the contents of his pockets. In this, his wonted guise, he approached me, when I was seated near the meeting of the waters, and I could observe, that his first impulse was to pass me without any prolonged or formal greeting. But as that would not have been decent, considering the terms on which we stood together, he adopted, on reflection, as more to his purpose, a course directly opposite to that which he at first seemed determined to pursue, and bustled up to me with an air of familiarity, which approached to alacrity united with impudence, and hastened at once into the middle of the important affairs which it was my purpose to have brought under discussion in a manner becoming their gravity. “I am glad to see you, Mr Cleishbotham,” said he, with an inimitable mixture of confusion and effrontery; “the most wonderful news which

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has been heard in the literary world in my time—all Gandercleugh rings with it—they positively speak of nothing else, from Miss Buskbody’s youngest apprentice to the minister himself, and ask each other in amazement, whether the tidings are true or false—to be sure they are of an astounding complexion, especially to you and me.” “Mr Pattieson,” said I, “I am quite at a loss to guess at your meaning. Davus sum, non Œdipus—I am Jedidiah Cleishbotham, Schoolmaster of the parish of Gandercleugh; no conjurer, and no reader of riddles, or expounder of enigmata.” “Well,” replied Paul Pattieson, “Mr Jedidiah Cleishbotham, Schoolmaster of the parish of Gandercleugh, and so forth, all I have to inform you is, that our hopeful scheme is entirely blown up. The Tales, on publishing which we reckoned with so much confidence, have already been printed, and are abroad, over all America, and the British papers are clamorous.” I received this astounding information with the same equanimity with which I should have accepted a blow addressed to my stomach by a modern gladiator, with the full energy of his force. “If this be real information, Mr Paul Pattieson,” said I, “I must of necessity suspect you to be the person who have supplied the foreign press with the copy which the printers have thus made an unscrupulous use of, without respect to the rights of the undeniable proprietor of the manuscripts, and I request to know whether this American publication has undergone the alterations which you as well as I judged necessary, before the work was fitted to meet the public eye?” To this my gentleman saw it necessary to make a direct answer, for my manner was impressive, and my tone decisive. His effrontery enabled him, however, to keep his ground, as he answered with firmness— “Mr Cleishbotham, in the first place, these manuscripts, over which you claim a very doubtful right, were never given to any one by me, and must have been sent to America by yourself, or some other of the gentlemen intrusted with them by yourself.” “Mr Pattieson,” replied I, “I beg to remind you that it never could be my intention, either by my own hands, or through those of another, to remit these manuscripts to the press, until, by the alterations which I meditated, and which you yourself engaged to make, they were rendered fit for public perusal.” To this charge, Mr Pattieson answered with much heat:—“Sir, I would have you to know, that if I accepted your paltry offer, it was with less regard to its amount than to the honour and literary fame of my late brother. I foresaw that if I had declined it, you would not hesitate to throw the duty into incapable hands, or, perhaps, have taken it upon yourself, the most unfit of all men to tamper with the works of departed genius, and that, God willing, I was determined to prevent—but the justice of Heaven has taken the matter into his own hands. Peter

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Pattieson’s last labours shall now go down to posterity unscathed by the scalping-knife of alteration, in the hands of a false friend—least of all shall the unnatural weapon be wielded by the hand of a brother.” I heard this speech not without a species of vertigo or dizziness in my head, which would probably have struck me lifeless at his feet, had not a thought like that of the old ballad— Earl Percy sees my fall,

called to my recollection that I should only afford an additional triumph by giving way to my feelings in the presence of Mr Paul Pattieson, who I conceived must be more or less directly at the bottom of the transatlantic publication, and I doubted not had found his own interest in the transaction. To get quit of his odious presence I bid him an unceremonious good night, and marched down the glen with the air not of one who has parted with a friend, but who rather has shaken off an intrusive companion. On the road I pondered with an anxiety which did not release my vertigo in the smallest degree. Had I felt my faculties quite adequate to much exertion, I might have supplanted this spurious edition by introducing into a new copy, to be instantly published at Edinburgh, a correction of all the various inconsistencies and alterations, by which the “Remains” of Peter Pattieson would be so greatly improved: I anticipated no difficulty on recollecting the superiority of the conclusion to “Tales of my Landlord,” by the original editors, to a pirated copy of the same work by any inferior hands whatsoever. There would have been a pride of talent in this manner of avenging myself, which would have been justifiable in the case of an injured man; but the state of my health had for some time rendered the attempt highly imprudent and even dangerous. This same “whoreson tingling,” as Falstaff terms an apoplectic tendency, had been for some time hanging about me, and upon my consulting a medical man of high reputation, (and a member of the hebdomadal club of the Wallace Inn,) he assured me that in my case there was death in the cup, and that any attempt to take to the oars in a literary engagement was likely to be fatal. It was on this last circumstance alone, that I began this Introduction by quoting the situation of Cervantes as somewhat analogous to my own; and I think I may crave the compassion of my readers as a poor man who has worn out my health and faculties in a fruitless labour designed for their amusement, and may, at least while health allowed him, claim the palm of having been in some degree successful. I have little doubt—and here at least “I am no actor”—of receiving some indulgence for the faults of my later publications, from those who received my earlier attempts with so much more favour than they deserved.

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To drop an assumed buffoonery, which may be thought misplaced, the reader is now acquainted with the species of malady under which I have latterly struggled while compiling these fictions for his amusement, and may easily conceive the obstacles which have at different times occasioned my indifferent success. I have persevered, however, under the idea that a man’s firmness may prove successful even under the most disastrous circumstances of bodily disability. My plough, however, has, I fear, come to the furrow, so far as relates to the amusement of others; and if the evening of my life lowers heavy and stormy upon me, I think that I have some claim to receive marks of the most gratifying attention from those whose attention is of itself distinction, at a time when I fear it has been the fate of my betters to be treated far more coldly. I have mentioned the state of Cervantes struggling by turns with the imperious command of his disease, which demanded drink, and the denunciations of the medical men, who considered the gratification of this inexorable thirst as the positive emblem of death; and amidst this struggle with the most tyrannical of appetites, and the horrors of approaching death, were extinguished the last conceptions of Don Quixote’s adventures, and of the humour of Sancho. Some readers may desire to see the express words of this affecting little known passage. It exists in the prologue to Charles and Sigismunda, where Cervantes informs us that he had been on a journey to Erquivias for the benefit of country air, and was on his return to Madrid with some friends, when they were joined by a travelling student, in whose hearing the name of Cervantes was mentioned. The student sprung from his mule, and paid his compliments to Cervantes with all the amiable enthusiasm of youth suddenly finding itself in company with exalted genius. “We drew up,” said the author, “and rode on at a measured pace, and as we rode there was much talk about my illness. The good student annihilated my hopes by telling me my disease was the dropsy, and that I could not cure my thirst by drinking all the waters of the ocean. ‘Be chary of drinking, Señor Cervantes,’ said he, ‘but eat plentifully, for that is the only medicine that will do you any good.’ I observed that many had given me the same advice, but that, as for giving over drinking, they might as well desire a man to give up the sole purpose of his being. My pulse, I said, was becoming daily more and more feeble, and if it continued to decline as it had been doing so, I scarcely expected to outlive next Sunday; so I feared there was but little chance of my being able to benefit much farther by the acquaintance which had been so fortunately made.”* Here the travellers parted; and a very few days after, the melancholy * See the Life of Cervantes, prefixed to the edition of Edinburgh, 1822, which has the advantage of being ornamented with notes and bllads from the Spanish, and other illustrations, absolutely necessary for understanding the celebrated author.

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prediction of Cervantes was accomplished by his death, on the 23d of April, the same day when the mortal career of Shakspeare also terminated. Nor is my own fate less advantageous, compared with authors of a later date, who have been as unhappy in circumstances not dissimilar to mind, as their genius is justly rated as far superior. This is proved on contrasting the following circumstances: A ship of war is commanded by its Royal Master to carry the author of “Waverley” to climates in which it is supposed he may possibly obtain such a restoration of health as may serve him to spin his thread to an end in his own country. The fate of Fielding and of Smollet is recorded by each in his own immortal language, and shows us that, though weakened by the approach of the disease which was to extinguish them, the lamp of both these great men burned clear to its close,—amidst indigence and neglect, owing to the existing ignorance of their contemporaries, who gave, by the most cruel negligence, plain proofs that they knew not the treasure they possessed in these neglected men of genius. How much more advantageous is my own situation?—but it best becomes me to remember that the advantages of my condition Were meant for merit, though they fell on me.

In the meanwhile, I offer my thanks in my own character; and, like poor Kent, I lose, in the feelings of the moment, the power of maintaining my part of the masquerade. “I cannot daub it further.” I will not swagger about an indifference to the termination of my disorder, which I do not really feel; but I may be permitted to hope, that the powers of my mind, such as they are, may not have a different date from those of my body; and I may again meet my patronizing friends, if not exactly in my old fashion of literature, at least in some branch, neither too heavy for my mind, nor yet so dull as to make it be said, that— Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage.

A  , 15th October 1831.

ESSAY ON THE TEXT

1.      C A S T L E D A N G E R O U S 2.    : the Manuscript; from the Manuscript, Proofs, and First Edition to the Present Text 3.              : the Magnum; Tales and Romances 4.   :  . The following conventions are used in transcriptions from Scott’s manuscript: deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso; an insertion within an insertion is indicated by double arrows ‘thus’; the letters ‘NL’ (new line) are Scott’s own, and indicate that he wished a new paragraph to be opened, in spite of running on the text. Editorial comments within quotations are designated by square parentheses [thus]. The same conventions are used as appropriate for indicating variants between the printed editions. Full details of works referred to by authors or short titles in this essay can be found at the head of the Explanatory Notes, 392.

1.      CASTLE DANGEROUS Scott’s last three extended fictions (Count Robert of Paris and Castle Dangerous, which appeared together as Tales of my Landlord (Fourth and Last Series),1 and the imperfectly completed and still largely unpublished The Siege of Malta)2 had their origin in narratives known to him from his childhood or early youth. He was familiar with the story of Castle Dangerous in the versions by John Barbour and David Hume of Godscroft, which are discussed in the Historical Note (386–88). And he told it himself on three occasions before making it central to a work of fiction: in the ‘Essay on Chivalry’ (1817), the first series of Tales of a Grandfather (1828), and the first volume of his History of Scotland (1829). As early as 1802 Scott had written to Lady Anne Hamilton: ‘I am meditating just now quite a grand work being nothing less than a tragedy the title of which is to be “the perilous Castle of Douglas” ’.3 It seems that nothing came of this plan, and the next we hear of a similar project is on 12 December 1830, when the opening chapters of Count Robert of Paris had received an unfavourable response from James Ballantyne and Robert Cadell.4 Scott wrote to Cadell: ‘I cannot think of going on as I have begun with the Count & I have no confidence in getting a mo[re] successful line. I may attempt The Perilous Castle of Douglas but I fear the subject is too much used and that I may fail in it.’5 Scott is no doubt thinking principally of James Hogg’s re-working of the story in The Three Perils of Man (1822); he will also have remembered 209

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Jane Porter’s successful novel set in the same period, The Scottish Chiefs, first published in 1810, which attained a fifth edition in 1825.6 He persevered with Count Robert, but ‘The Perilous Castle’ was still in his mind, and on 8 February 1831 he said to Cadell that though ‘he thought of taking a new sort of title for his next Novel “S       ” or rather his last Novel, still he leant to the Douglas’ and thought a visit to Douglas Castle would be necessary some time before he commenced.7 On 12 May 1831 Scott recorded in his journal his decision to lay Count Robert aside for the time being. He had been discouraged by Ballantyne’s objections to Brenhilda’s pregnant combat, and began work on a second French series of Tales of a Grandfather as less taxing than fiction.8 (He had suffered a third stroke on 17 April.) But he did not confine himself to the French history, as Lockhart notes: . . . alas, the first use he made of this partial renovation, had been to expose his brain once more to an imaginative task. He began his Castle Dangerous—the ground-work being again an old story which he had told in print, many years before, in a rapid manner. And now, for the first time, he left Ballantyne out of his secret. He thus writes to Cadell on the 3rd of July:—“I intend to tell this little matter to nobody but Lockhart. Perhaps not even to him; certainly not to J. B., who having turned his back on his old political friends, will no longer have a claim to be a secretary in such matters, though I shall always be glad to befriend him.” James’s criticisms on Count Robert had wounded him—the Diary, already quoted, shows how severely.9 In that letter of 3 July Scott wrote to Cadell: I have put on the stocks a tale of arms love antiquities battle & so forth calld Castle Dangerous and the first volumes is ready for press I think as I have got through the worst part of the labour I will finish the whole at the rate of fifteen or twenty pages for six days a week & keep the other thinghs afloat at the same time When you come here I mwill tell you of them,o An attempt of this kind if it succeed at all must succeed greatlym,o & the only effct will be passion and the time requires that when we 〈reach〉 mdasho at such a time, we should do our best It is not my intention mto print o it 〈with〉 mtoo J. B. as it may be convenient to print elsewhere mifo in case, we should wish to be private at firstm,o I will talk to you about my plan when I see you, for which I am sufficiently eager and will shew you that I have thoughmto on Count Paris, but I fear it will always be like〈r〉 mended china than wholem;o However it must not be lost and I only wish to start with some thing on which I have bestowd the pains which I am now taking . . . Freind Laidlaw writes with great industry and I hope you will have a 〈cop〉 complete article before we almost go to press I do not know if you will understand all this but the 〈upshort〉 upshot is to bring out a new novel as soon as we can of [the]

   211 whole two volumes will be done by July [changed from ‘June’] one being complete in manner fore said by the 1st. of that month.10 Scott’s belief that he had composed a volume’s worth, or some 330 pages, turned out to be mistaken, as we shall soon see. Cadell responded to his letter reasonably positively on 4 July: ‘A small brochure such as 2 Vols might most certainly make a capital pilot baloon for Count Robert but I shall reserve any thing further till Wednesday morning—’,11 and on the 6th he proceeded to business: ‘For the Novel which you have partly written, and to be comprised in Two say Two Volumes post octavo, the title to be Castle Dangerous—I hereby agree to carry to your credit in Cash a/c with me. Twelve Hundred mPoundso, the work to go to press forthwith, but no announcement to be made of it in any way till it is completed—or I have your sanction—’.12 Cadell was at Abbotsford, and Scott accepted his offer immediately: ‘With reference to your Missive offering £1200 for the halfwritten novel calld Castle Dangerous I hereby accep[t] thereof and shall prepare to get 〈you〉 mthiso work through press immediatly in terms of the said offer’.13 Cadell’s own account of the transaction in his memorandum book runs as follows: . . . he showed me the commencement of a new Novel to be entitled “Castle Dangerous” to be in 2 Vols—to come out before Count Robert—the same as what he wrote me about—he showed me also the two first Vols: of the Second French Tales—he wished me to read Castle Dangerous which I commenced with—but met many interruptions from himself by occasional conversations— the story relates to the perilous Castle of Douglas, and to its being held amid many difficulties by an English Knight Sir John de Walton— . . . I made out a calculation of what he had done of Castle Dangerous—which was 113 pages of . about 120 printed pages— . . . I made out a calculation for 4250 or 4500 of Castle Dangerous 2 Vols £1200—we closed on this—he seemed very well pleased we passed missives forthwith.14 Scott still thought, as he had done in February, that he would need to visit Lanarkshire before making substantial progress with the novel: ‘I have written a plan of the Reliquiae & it will do very well, I cannot well move in the Dangerous till I go west for a day to D. Castle I wait for 〈Douglas〉 mLockharto to go with me and mean time as I shall work a sheet a day it does not much signify which work I take up.’15 Lockhart’s recollection is as follows: When I again saw him on the 13th of this month, he showed me several sheets of the new romance, and told me how he had designed at first to have it printed by somebody else than Ballantyne, but that on reflection, he had shrunk from hurting his feelings on so tender a point. I found, however, that he had neither invited nor received any opinion from James as to what he had written, but that he had taken an alarm lest he should fall into some blunder

    about the scenery fixed on (which he had never seen but once when a schoolboy), and had kept the sheets in proof until I should come back and accompany him in a short excursion to Lanarkshire. He was anxious in particular to see the tombs in the Church of St Bride, adjoining the site of his “Castle Dangerous,” of which Mr Blore had shown him drawings; and he hoped to pick up some of the minute traditions, in which he had always delighted, among the inhabitants of Douglasdale.16 Lockhart goes on to describe the visit to Douglas (see Historical Note, 389–91), and observes that on the return journey to Abbotsford: The little he said was mostly about Castle Dangerous, which he now seemed to feel sure he could finish in a fortnight, though his observation of the locality must needs cost the re-writing of several passages in the chapters already put into type. For two or three weeks he bent himself sedulously to his task— and concluded Castle Dangerous, and the long-suspended Count Robert.17 By 27 July Scott was able to inform Cadell that the first volume was ‘just finishing’ and that he thought (apparently forgetting the plan already made) that it would ‘do best in 〈three〉 two volumes only, not three’,18 and on the 29th he considered that it should appear before Count Robert.19 The manuscript of the first volume was really complete on 1 August,20 and on that day Cadell passed it to Ballantyne: ‘I have just had the satisfaction of receiving your comely packet, which within an hour will be in the Compositors hands—in consequence of what you said when we last talked on the subject I have put it into James Ballantynes hands—as I see you wish expedition I thought it better to place it in the old hands—in the other office there was a risk of delay— from want of strength—the number of men being small.’21 Although Cadell noted on 4 August that Ballantyne ‘praised it considerably’,22 the printer’s letter to Scott of the same date was less than encouraging: I send sheets C. D. of Castle Dangerous, with which I have had great difficulty, and in which I have probably shown great want of apprehension. Still, both, but more especially D., will require your very strict attention. Could not the long conversation betwixt Aymer and Bertram be shortened, or divided? It already occupies more than 30 pages, and is going on.23 Scott was evidently having his own problems, as Laidlaw—Scott’s amanuensis, who took down most of the novel from the author’s dictation—confided to Cadell on 9 August (the account is in the publisher’s memorandum book): [I] had another short talk with Laidlaw—who told me that the morning after I came [Friday 5 Aug] Sir Walter could not get on with Castle Dangerous his ideas get confused—& he has since then laid it aside—of the Tales of a Grandfather (French) Second 212

   213 Series—there is about two Volumes done—and as to Count Robert he has not touched it since I condemned the Third Volume—so that here are three unfinished works.24 On 17 and 18 August Cadell revised the first two sheets of the new novel.25 By 23 August Scott was complaining to him about both Ballantyne and Laidlaw: I return the proof I wish J B would keep one spelling when he gets it He should consider that what I correct once must be right & keep it though Mr Laidlaw may have a bravura spelling spelling of his own that is no reason that mine should be changed I keep pretty well but am scarce so able a work horse as I was getting better I begin to find Mr Laidlaw has so little the habits of exactness and punctuality for an amanuensis he leaves me whole mornings alone which may do—once or twice but is a cruel drag on my proceedings.26 In fact Laidlaw was unwell, for on 29 August Scott reported to Cadell: ‘I am nea[r]ly finishd with Castle Dangerous it is only Laidlaws illness which retards me.’27 On 2 September Cadell suggested that Count Robert, which Scott was now attempting to revise, should appear before Castle Dangerous, contrary to Scott’s proposal of 29 July: I write now to place before you a suggestion—and it is to bring out Count Robert before Castle Dangerous—I am led to this First—By the piracy, and the incessant demand this created for the book—I am assailed at all hands for it—Mr Whittaker writes me that the short extract will do good if the book follows soon— Second—It has been so long announced that it will not be so easy to give a good reason for keeping it back—the Dangerous Castle no one knows of and we may keep it as long as we like— On the whole I would say that it is more prudent to sail the Count into the market in October or in November and the Castle in February or March—I confess too I have a leaning to this from your late letters speaking less cheerily of the Castle— . . . If before you go you do not see the whole of Count Robert in proof the utmost care will be observed before it goes mto presso over and above Mr Lockharts revisal—28 In a letter of 4 September (misdated 4 August) Scott responded in a confused manner: ‘I am working away at Count Robert & Castle dangerous I am working at it and you can bring out it the first and I shall attend to that I am certainlly rather better upon the whole but the mith [the word is unclear] is the cursed thing this keep a grip I dont know I only hope there is a good deal of fancy in it.’29 Two days later Cadell observed this confusion vividly on his visit to Abbotsford: . . . he spoke of continuing & concluding Count Robert of Paris at the same time it was clear he meant Castle Dangerous—while we were conversing in this manner I asked him if he thought Count

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    Robert should come first—he agreed with me that it might be as well— . . . about this time Laidlaw came in—I was much surprised at the dryness which was apparent betwixt them. & I called to mind during the preceding part of our conversation, an allusion which he made to getting another amanuensis on his return— about this time I observed that the . lying before him was entitled—Continuation of Count Robert of Paris . . . we were talking of the completion of Count Robert when Sir Walter alluded to what he was doing as if it was part of it he had before him—I said “where do you commence the story—” or rather “where do you take up the story” his reply was “where I left off ” on this he paused—but in a few minutes said “but it is not Count Robert I am doing it is Castle Dangerous,” he seemed struck with the necessity of making this confession & remained silent—which I joined in—a few minutes after on my asking if he had the part of the Count that was printed—he said “No” sulkily—it was now clear that his ideas were confused and that he was not sensible of what he said, this was confirmed by the title of the writing as I have stated before . . . as soon as he got into his study and Laidlaw sat down he began dictating part of Castle Dangerous—he had never done this with me before . . . Sir Walter came again in the Library when we were all there, and evidently expecting to find me he had in his hand a mass of M.S. which he gave to me, it was part of Castle Dangerous. On this I went to his room, when he gave me also sundry proofs, and appeared to take very lightly any idea of the Printer having any difficulties with them, he said indeed, as to the  . if Ballantyne find it not to correspond it must not be cared for—he added “I will put it right when it comes to me—” . . . I had a long conversation with Laidlaw after Sir Walter left—& was much surprised to find that after Laidlaw came out and spoke with me in alarm about Sir Walters pulse—that Sir Walter had lighted up as it were and dictated what struck Laidlaw as very fine and very eloquent.30

At this stage Scott was thinking of providing ‘some few verses by way of L Envoy at the end of Castle Dangerous’, though nothing came of the idea.31 On 9 September, Cadell had become aware of a new problem. He was ‘doubtful of two Volumes being made out of it [Castle Dangerous] —the  received for Vol II will make but 170 pages of Print. or half a Volume’,32 but the setting of the second volume continued: on the 11th Scott sent Cadell the corrected proofs of Sheet F,33 and on the 13th James Ballantyne’s brother Alexander sent Scott ‘revises of sheets E & F. of Castle Dangerous. You will observe that in consequence of the alterations made on the last pages of E, it does not connect with F.’ His letter indicates that author’s copy for the third volume of Count Robert was being processed at the same time as that for the second of its companion.34 The discontinuity must have resulted from Scott’s altera-

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tion of the opening of Chapter 20 from the version reproduced in note 55 to this essay (284–85 below) to the later proof version from which the  text of the chapter is derived: the revised version better prepares the way for the conclusion of the plot.35 (In this essay, to avoid confusion, references to the  text employ the sequential numbering of chapters for the whole work found in the running heads for the righthand pages rather than those by volume and chapter number found on the left-hand pages.) It is not clear precisely when Scott finished Castle Dangerous. Cadell’s letter of 9 September suggests that it was, if not actually complete, very close to completion. (We know that Count Robert was finished on 14 September.)36 On 16 September Cadell noted an important exchange in his memorandum book: . . . had a long conversation [with Lockhart] about Sir Walter, Count Robert & Castle Dangerous—Mr L. made a most excellent suggestion as to these two—on my expressing my fears as to Castle D. ever appearing after Count Robert with any kind of success he suggested making them into a Tales of my Landlord, and getting Sir Walter to write a short Jedediah Cleishbotham Introduction for them—I liked this idea much, the more as Castle Dangerous is only a Volume and a half. . . . I . . . hinted [to Scott] at making Count Robert & Castle Dangerous into four Volumes as a Series of Tales of My Landlord if he would give me a Jedediah Cleishbotham Introduction—he replied “I have no objections to this but am not in the vein for such an Introduction” . . . he . . . showed me a kind of 〈Introduction〉 Conclusion to Castle Dangerous, he seemed damped on my stating that it would suit better as a note to the reprint for the New Edition [the Magnum].37 Lockhart’s suggestion was duly adopted, providing a neat solution to the publisher’s conundrum. On 23 September Cadell noted in his memorandum book that Scott would provide a Jedidiah introduction to the now agreed four-volume Tales of My Landlord (Fourth Series) when he arrived in London on his way to join the warship which was to carry him to Malta. He also recorded: ‘I had a short confab with Lockhart about Count Robert & Castle Dangerous—which we agreed that I should send to him in London after Sir Walter had left for Portsmouth’.38 Scott reached London on 28 September. There he wrote his Jedidiah introduction, and it was set in type.39 On 11 October he wrote to Cadell that he had corrected the proof,40 and on the 14th he sent a revise to Edinburgh for Ballantyne to re-set: ‘I send you the revise of the Introduction to the two tales which I hope will meet your wish after such verbal 〈alteral〉 alterations as shall be making of which you are sole judge and will now get it to the world in your own.’41 Cadell’s response does not apparently survive, but in a letter received by him on 21 October, so probably written two or three days earlier, Scott took

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up a point he had evidently made: ‘I entirely agree with you in making the correction you propose in the Introductions of Robert of Paris & Castle Dangerous & letting the apology stand as in Jedidiah’s preface & beg you will make the alteration which I intended but forgot owing to the many interruptions of this place’.42 It is clear that Lockhart and Cadell had it in mind to effect radical revisions once the author was out of the country. Lockhart observes that Cadell ‘so managed that the Novels just finished should remain in types, but not thrown off, until the author should have departed; so as to give opportunity for revising and abridging them’.43 During October, numerous diary entries indicate that Cadell was busy revising Castle Dangerous, and on 7 November he received a parcel from Lockhart with corrected proofs of the novel, which he set about dealing with.44 On 10 November he was ‘very busy all the evening with sheets of C. Dangerous—sorely troubled with the conclusion of it’.45 Cadell worked on both novels on the next two days, on the 12th dealing with the Jedidiah Introduction. This work continued until the 19th, when the final proofs were corrected.46 On 26 November 4000 copies of the four-volume Tales of My Landlord (Fourth Series) were despatched in bales to London on the steamer Soho.47 The date of publication in both London and Edinburgh was 1 December 1831, though the volumes are dated 1832.48 2.     Most of the manuscript of Castle Dangerous survives, in the New York Society Library, New York. The National Library of Scotland holds multiple sets of fragmentary proofs of different stages for the different sections of the novel. There is also the first edition, and the Magnum and three formats of Tales and Romances, as well as evidence of a late proof stage of certain parts of the novel, deriving from American editions, which were partly set up from late proof sheets.49 The material is presented as follows. First, there is a brief description of the manuscript. Then, most importantly, the novel is discussed sequentially in 27 sections as described below: for each section there is a description of progression from the manuscript (where it survives) through proof stages to the first edition, and thence to the present text. The division into sections is necessary because the surviving materials for each section are different. For convenience, the discussion of the later editions (the Magnum and the three formats of Tales and Romances) is reserved for the third part of the essay, and in the final fourth part there is an overview of the procedures adopted in arriving at the present text and a characterisation of that text. The earliest complete and extant version of the novel is the first edition, but the first edition departs so radically from what Scott had written or dictated that it is essential that all remaining proof materials are sequentially ordered, so that the publisher’s progressive departure

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from Scott’s text can be determined. What follows is therefore not just a description of the textual witnesses, but the record of an elaborate process of detection and reconstitution. The Manuscript. The manuscript of Castle Dangerous, in the New York Society Library, is in the hand of William Laidlaw, except for three short passages in Scott’s own hand, and Scott has corrections and insertions in Laidlaw’s text (the footnote gives the editorial foliation used in this essay).50 Laidlaw averages some 160 words per page, Scott nearly double that number. Both Laidlaw and Scott write on the recto, leaving the verso blank for insertions. The manuscript has 450 leaves and is complete except for the following passages: 137.35 (‘for myself ’) to 146.22 (‘through the lady’s’); 155.18 (‘of every persuasion’) to 164.13 (‘than the diocesan’); and 181.21 (‘to join in the conflict’, for which the manuscript has ‘to measure his sword’) to 182.5 (‘still retained, and’). It was used by the printers, with numerous proof page numbers (usually inserted in ink) and indications of divisions of labour (in pencil).51 Scott has corrected the first third of Laidlaw’s manuscript (to f. 168,  72.32) quite heavily. Thereafter there are three passages in Scott’s hand, the only parts of the main text so composed: 127.29–30, 149.38 (‘And if thou hast slain him’) to 150.36 (‘that he might’), and 172.39 (‘but his renown’; the manuscript begins with the phrase ‘sold to the Scots’ several lines before ‘but his renown’, the lines disappearing before the proof from which the  text of this passage is derived) to 180.14 (‘ “I wait” said he loudly’). Otherwise there are only a handful of small Scott corrections, most of them of a mechanical nature. In the first third of the novel Scott has 500 or so corrections, some of them substantial. They occur mostly in clusters as his attention was briefly engaged. Of these some 160 may be classed as clarificatory; some 120 are stylistic; over 50 add details; some 40 correct errors; and some 30 involve changes to the sense. Smaller groups of corrections include: a series of linked adjustments of the plot; those designed to avoid verbal repetition; indications of speakers; changes to names; and grammatical corrections. When Scott engages with his text, many of his corrections are creative, though on a dozen or so occasions he produces a confusing change. Most of Scott’s clarifications are helpful, though 20 or 30 of them might be thought fussy or unnecessary, of the sort that Cadell in particular favoured. Among the routine clarifications likely to help the reader are the addition of ‘unconscious of this addition to his audience’ at 48.23, and the insertion of ‘as to numbers & arms and 〈establish〉 especially in preserving a balance of force 〈b〉 on the part of the English 〈garrison〉 soldiers’ at 54.41–43. There is a set of useful clarificatory changes at 72.27–30: ‘but though two vessels mladen with sucho

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came into Ayr said to be for the English army yet I believe never one half of them 〈came〉 mhaveo c〈a〉moome into English hands. These 〈however〉 mtwoo grew in Sherwood’. Finally, an example of creative clarification can be found at 68.2–5, where Scott inserts the sentence (adjusted in proof) ‘But the Ea[r]l . . . embroiled the fray’ with its quotation from Paradise Lost. Scott’s attention to stylistic refinement is evident from the first of the two mottoes to the first chapter: ‘Once such name was known/ Had terror in the 〈sound〉 maccent,o & was 〈a〉 war mao crym,o/ A gathering wordm,o a banner & a 〈sound〉 mshouto/ Of 〈deadly〉 minstanto onset & of 〈fatal〉 mheadidyo strife’. Typical of the stylistic refining of the narrative is the change to 56.30–31: ‘The poor mo’erlabourdo drudge who has served out his mday ofo life’. Scott’s most frequent, and often his most effective, stylistic enhancements are rhetorical, e.g.: ‘my own good breeding is not so mfirmlyo sewed to me but what I can lay it aside’ (8.13–14, adjusted—as are many of these examples—in proof); ‘There is no fear of a grey goose shaft 〈of theirs remaining behind so that you sing for〉 myou singo a reveillez’ (22.17–18); and ‘I would wish to have prolonged a moment beyond your mhonourablo pleasure’ (69.12–13). About a quarter of the stylistic enhancements involve the changing of a single word to one more appropriate or imaginative, e.g.: ‘triads’ for ‘proverb’ (46.21); ‘limits’ for ‘virtues’ (51.5); and ‘exhibited’ for ‘made’ (68.10). The most consistently creative type of correction involves the addition of detail. Often this is a matter of a few words, e.g. the insertion of ‘and sparkles flew from them as from the smith’s 〈smithy〉 stithy while the elephant caught to its fuel’ (40.21–22), and of ‘and compells us to to summon to our assistances a number of the Scots was evil disposition towards us we well know’ (see 53.16–17). Sometimes it involves a longer addition. The psychological touch added at 65.31–33 is typical of several insertions: ‘mWell we will owe him a revenge for this Sir Philip? shall we not? this is not a 〈knight〉 night keep a man at the gateo’. The relationship between De Valence and Walton attracts several such enhancements, as at 54.1–6: ‘mbut still there was wanting one kind heartfelf word from the one or the other to break as it were the ice which was fast freezing upon their intercourse and neither chose to be the first in making their advanc〈ing〉 with the necessary cordiality though either of the knights would have gladly met the approach to perfect reconcilialiation had the other made the advanceso’. Sometimes Scott is concerned to fill in the action, as at 62.5–6: ‘mThe archers thickend around the hunter but had not yet laid hold 〈m〉 on him none of them being willing to be the first who broke peaceo’. One may compare the sentence inserted at 37.27–29: ‘mThe cattle particularly had become sensible of their fate and with awkward resistance and pious cries testified that reluctance 〈which〉 with they look

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instinctively on a shambleso’. The five paragraphs at 15.25–40 were an afterthought: they were inserted after 13.38 in the print of II A and transferred by Cadell to their present position in correcting II B (see 226 below, and for the nomenclature adopted in this essay 220–21). Scott’s corrections of errors sometimes involve words that Laidlaw has misheard or just stumbled over, e.g. writing ‘leasing’ for ‘losing’ (8.14) and ‘great’ for ‘grave’ (37.1). They can also be addressed to errors in spelling or in quotations, or to slips presumably made by Scott himself when dictating, as at 65.14–15: ‘strict orders for 〈raising〉 mletting downo the portcullis & elevating the drawbridge’. Most of the corrections affecting the sense in ways not covered in the preceding paragraphs are very minor, e.g.: ‘riding mofteno at full speed’ (56.12); ‘he fled in the usual case almost 〈forty〉 mtwentyo miles’ (58.11–12); and ‘it 〈will〉 mmayo be long ere I see you again’ (62.31–32). A handful of changes of sense are more substantial. The very first sentence of the novel is an example: ‘It was the closing of 〈a fine sumer, or rather autumnal day〉 man earlyo spring day when nature seemed reviving from her winters sleep min a cold province of Scotlando’. At the beginning of the sixth chapter Scott deleted his original dictated motto from A Midsummer Night’s Dream (4.1.124–30), beginning ‘My hounds are bred out of the spartan kind’, and substituted lines from ‘Christabel’ further developing the relationship between De Valence and Walton. Of the smaller categories of handwritten correction by Scott only the fine tuning of the plot need detain us here. As usual, there are few signs of uncertainty in the conduct of the story. The extensive corrections centre on Augustine’s movements. In the dictated manuscript, Augustine accompanies his supposed father to Douglas Castle, but as the plot develops ‘he’ is to join Ursula in flight. Scott has a series of corrections, but they run into difficulties. He first introduces the convent of Saint Bride in a preparatory manner, inserting 11.25–38 (‘About a mile further was a gothick building . . . where we shall have more prudent hosts” was instantly replied.’) Further insertions carry through the plan for Augustine to be committed to Abbot Jerome’s care,52 and finally at 25.36–40 Scott deletes Augustine from the party bound for the castle (the manuscript had prepared the way for the extended conversation between Bertram and De Valence by having the presumed boy fall back with the archers ‘out of earshot of that does not concern 〈thee to〉 you to know’). Unfortunately, by the time he had finished correcting the conversation Scott forgot that Augustine had been left at the convent and had him part with his supposed father again in order to return thither. The matter was not finally cleared up until Cadell’s correction of the first surviving proofs. From the Manuscript, Proofs, and First Edition (Ed1) to the

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Present Text. In Castle Dangerous (and Count Robert of Paris) the editor is confronted with certain important features unique in the Waverley Novels. These features have necessitated modifications to the procedures adopted in the other  volumes. Castle Dangerous was as we have seen mostly dictated to William Laidlaw. Where it survives the manuscript is broadly coherent, but locally it is often faulty or clumsy in expression. It is clear from the surviving proofs that Robert Cadell (and his wife) and Lockhart not only corrected obvious errors and clumsinesses of expression but introduced extensive local improvements, as they considered them. Scott himself corrected proofs at various stages, but his corrections were sometimes faulty. Finally, after Scott had left Britain Cadell and Lockhart radically pruned the last part of the narrative. As a final complication, Scott made some corrections in Naples to the novel in the edition by Galignani of Paris, but no direct record of these has survived. The aim of the present edition is to recover as much of Scott’s work as is feasible. In accordance with the overall  textual policy the first edition has been used as the base-text for the present edition except for the conclusion (and the Appendix to the Text), though for the extended passage now restored at 172.21–180.14 the text is derived from proofs (see 277–78 below). The base-text has, however, been extensively emended. Necessary corrections of error and faulty expression are always accepted, but manuscript readings or (in the absence of the manuscript) early proof readings that are coherent are preferred to first-edition readings, except where the latter are known to be Scott’s, or judged to involve the sort of creative input that usually characterise his corrections other than those that are merely mechanical. Whereas the normal  policy has been to avoid adopting part of a proof correction and rejecting the rest, it is often the case in Castle Dangerous that a correction by Cadell or Lockhart is partly necessary, partly not: in such cases the  emendation will be restricted to the necessary (or the highly desirable). As with all the  texts, to a greater or lesser extent, the incompleteness of the surviving evidence means that some corrections made by Scott will be rejected, but the resulting text of Castle Dangerous will contain much more of Scott, and much less of his enthusiastic intermediaries, than those hitherto available. Specific examples of emendations are introduced as appropriate in the following analysis of the surviving manuscript and proof material, and fuller illustrations of the different types of emendation can be found in the overview of the present text at 263–80. The proofs of Castle Dangerous are found in  3778, 3779, and 3780 (with two leaves in   3777). They are of different stages, and mostly fragmentary. They are not bound in order, and sometimes different stages are bound as though they were one stage. The description of these proofs is necessarily complex. In the following analysis the novel

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is divided editorially into 27 sections, numbered in roman numerals, a new section beginning when there is a major change in the sets of proofs surviving (or in the case of Section IV where the surviving manuscript begins). Within each section, each batch is given an identifying letter, or letter and number, so as to indicate the continuity of sets of proofs. These sets will normally be of a single stage of the text, but sometimes, as indicated in the descriptions, there may be a mixing of batches of different stages. The first surviving state of the text is called ‘A’, the next ‘B’, the third ‘C’ etc. Parallel batches of proofs with the same text but different handwritten corrections (or occasionally no corrections) are identified as ‘A1’, ‘A2’ etc. It should be noted that a set of proofs extending over more than one section is very likely to change its identifying tag as its status shifts depending on the other batches surviving for the new section. It should also be noted that since batches of different proof stages do not end at precisely the same point there is often an overlap of several lines between a section and its predecessor and/or successor. There follows an overview of the proofs, and then a detailed sequential analysis, indicating the editorial approach to each section. The overview begins with Sections I to IX. There is present for all these sections of the novel except III and IV an early proof, close to the manuscript but tidying it up to some extent. There are very occasional small corrections by Ballantyne (or sometimes probably by his colleague in the printing house John Hughes: with very small corrections it is usually impossible to tell who was responsible), and one (in V) which may well be by Scott. These early proofs are often marked by Ballantyne ‘Not to be read’ or ‘Not this’. There was at least one stage, presumably involving (if not simply consisting of) author’s proofs, before the surviving sets corrected by Cadell and Ballantyne. Unfortunately none of the main author’s proofs for the earlier part of the novel has survived. Anne and Robert Cadell were involved in at least two proof stages after the presumed author’s proofs, and at least one of these stages survives for all the sections except VIII. The text of the proofs corrected by Lockhart for Sections I to IX was the product of the earlier stages described. As well as the most up-to-date stage of proofs, blank for his correction, he was typically sent the most recent lightly corrected preceding stage, or sometimes a lightly corrected set with a setting identical to that in his own set: occasionally he would copy into his own set a handwritten correction from the other set which had not thus far been adopted. In the case of III:B (the set preceding that intended for his corrections) he wrote comments on several of the later pages. The surviving late proofs for Sections VII and VIII suggest that Cadell transcribed Lockhart’s corrections into a fresh set, which was the result of a further correction stage, and in which Cadell and perhaps Ballantyne

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made further corrections. Section I has a fragment of a very late proof, in which handwritten corrections of a typographical nature only have been made, and this would no doubt have been normal practice. For the portion of the novel covered by Sections X to XIX, an earlier stage of proofs was sent to Lockhart (though one incorporating substantial corrections from the initial stages, including, it is to be presumed, author’s proofs). The Cadells and Lockhart corrected these sections in parallel. Cadell usually produced three or four successive stages, and eventually combined Lockhart’s work with his own, sometimes giving his own work priority when he preferred it. There would have been another stage or two of correction in Edinburgh before the firstedition text was finalised. For the final portion of the narrative, covered by Sections XX to XXVI, Lockhart’s proofs do not survive, but it is to be presumed that he continued his correction to the end of the novel and that his work was taken in between the last surviving set, corrected by Cadell, and the first edition. For Sections XXI to XXVII (the last being the conclusion) author’s proofs exist, unusually as the second surviving stage: the nature of changes preceding these proofs in Sections XXV and XXVII suggests that they were authorial revises, and this procedure may well have been followed in other sections. Lockhart’s set of proofs for the Conclusion (Section XXVII) survives, and the relationship of the 9 sets of proofs is described below. In the sequential analysis that follows the heading for each section gives the  page and line references. Since, as noted above, the batches of proofs do not always end at the same place the reference in the heading covers the maximum number of pages found in the section to accommodate the overlap between sections. For each batch the manuscript foliation is followed by the proof page and line numbers, the corresponding first-edition numbers when these differ from the proofs, and the  numbers when these differ from those given at the head of the section. Information is not repeated unnecessarily. There follows an indication of the relationship of the batch to its predecessor and successor, where these survive. An indication is given of the numbers and principal types of changes appearing for the first time in the text and in the handwritten corrections at each stage, and an indication is given of the number that have been rejected for the  . The figures are to be treated as approximate, since it is impossible to distinguish rigorously between a single large correction and a cluster of linked small corrections, and also because the categories are necessarily somewhat arbitrary. Furthermore, the relationship between the stages is often complex, the first-edition reading being frequently the result of work at more than one stage. The figures for readings rejected by the  refer to specific rejections of readings found in the first edition: the number of changes made at any stage which do not appear in the first

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edition or the  will usually be significantly greater than the figure given in this essay. Section I: 3.1–10.42 (‘all the rest of the way.” ’). For this section there are five extant sets of proofs representing five stages in the development of the text. The motto on the half-title at 3.213 in the first edition (the first two stanzas of a Burns song, rejected for the  ) was supplied by Lockhart in   3779, f. 15r. It also appears on the titlepage of Volume 4 of the first edition. I:A] M S 3780, ff. 25r–36v (proof 1.1–24; Ed1 3.213.1–234.13): continues as II:A. This is a very early proof without handwritten corrections, endorsed by Ballantyne ‘Not this’. It represents a faithful transcription of the manuscript with the usual liberal supply of additional punctuation. There are only some 43 verbal changes (averaging 2 per first-edition page). Roughly half of these involve tidying the manuscript in very minor ways (most commonly sorting confused words in Scott’s handwritten insertions), and generally sensibly. There are some 12 likely misreadings, usually of single words: 5 of those which survive to the first edition are rejected for the  . The other changes include corrections of typographical errors and substitutions of one small word for another. Once (4.35–36) a gap in the manuscript is left to be filled in by a corrector. In all, 8 of the changes that survive to the first edition have been rejected for the  . I:B] M S 3778, ff. 1r–12v (as I:A): no successor. The print of this proof, endorsed by Cadell ‘First proof ’, has some 119 changes (5.7 per first-edition page) from I:A. Roughly 33 of these involve various sorts of clarification, varying from the helpful to the fussy: 13 of these are rejected for the  . Some 13 are general stylistic enhancements (8 rejected), and 6 involve eliminations of tautology (2 rejected): most of the stylistic changes are sensible, but there is a slight tendency to replace unusual words with more conventional ones (e.g. ‘traveller’ for ‘voyager’ at 7.31, and ‘dance’ for ‘jump’ at 10.42). Some 20 changes involve replacing a single word repeated in close proximity to the same word: most of these replacements are sensible, but 3 have been rejected for the  as involving rhetorical repetition. On 7 occasions a presumed mot juste has been substituted for the existing word: 2 of these are rejected for the  (thus, at 7.11 ‘churchman’ for ‘monk’ has been accepted, but at 4.19 the ‘tempest’ in the manuscript and the print of I:A has been restored in preference to the I:B print ‘inundation’). There are some 12 sortings of I:A (all but one accepted for the  ), varying from typographical corrections to an important change to the first motto to the opening chapter: this has ‘headless’ in I:A and ‘heady’ in I:B; Scott’s correction of Laidlaw in the manuscript is illformed, but probably an attempt at the latter. A lacuna in the manuscript and the print of I:A at 4.35–36 is filled: ‘desolate and partly inaccessible

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mmoorland country.o’. Other changes introduced in the print of I:B include some 6 improvements of grammar or syntax (all but one accepted for the  ), and a handful of changes to punctuation. Changes markedly affecting the sense are rare. At 4.12–15, I:A has: ‘The men by consequence used their own sturdy limbs, or, at least in traversing the country, their horses, to transport them from place to place; and the latter, in particular, experienced no small inconvenience from the rugged nature of the country they had to traverse.’ This is changed in the print of I:B to: ‘. . . from place to place; and travellers, the females in particular, experienced no small inconvenience . . .’. Both readings make sense, but different sense, and it seems that the reviser was out of touch with what Scott had written. Scott is likely to have been involved at some stage in the conversion of the I:A text to the I:B text, and may of course himself have been the reviser in any case of this sort. A rather confused paragraph is entirely omitted by I:B on page 6. In all, some 32 of those of the 119 changes that survived to the first edition have been rejected for the  . In this proof points for attention (notably repetitions) have been underlined in pencil. Cadell deals with these in his handwritten corrections and makes many further changes. Some of the corrections respond to pencil markings, probably by his wife Anne. There are some 96 handwritten corrections in all (4.6 per first-edition page), principally: 21 general stylistic changes, which have a tendency to iron out what Cadell saw as eccentricities (16 rejected for the  ); 20 eliminations of tautology (11 rejected); 20 clarifications (13 rejected); and 19 eliminations of repeated words (4 rejected). In all, some 46 of the 96 corrections (of those of them, that is, that survived to the first edition) have been rejected for the  . I:C] M S 3778, ff. 382r–393r (proof 1.3–23; Ed1 3.213.1–234.13): continues as II:C. This proof has been endorsed by Ballantyne ‘running Copy’. The print incorporates the corrections made in I:B, deletes a comma, and changes two commas to semicolons as part of larger corrections. There is only one significant handwritten correction, probably by Ballantyne, which was eventually adopted (9.3–4: to 〈the〉 boot), but only after the correction had also been made by Lockhart in I:D: Lockhart may well have seen I:C (compare III:B). The manuscript reading is restored in the  . I:D] M S 3778, ff. 315r–325r (as I:C): continues as II:F. This proof has been endorsed by Cadell: ‘C. Dangerous as 〈altered〉 revised by Mr Lockhart & R C Nov 31’. The print shows some 55 changes from I:C (2.6 per first-edition page), made in a proof that has not survived. Some 14 of these are general stylistic changes (11 rejected for the  ), and some 5 changes eliminate tautology (2 rejected). There are some 12 eliminations of verbal repetition (6 rejected) and some 9 designed to clarify the print (2 rejected), including 3 speech assigna-

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tions. The remaining changes to the print include grammar and spelling. Only two changes affect the sense substantially, both by deletions: at 5.20–23 wolves ‘used to frequent . . . the abodes of living men, there to watch for children, 〈and young females in particular,〉 their defenceless prey’, and at 6.3–4 the reflection of the evening sun is described as ‘sometimes 〈catching and〉 resting on grey rocks’. In the  the changes to the sense have been rejected, along with some 16 of the other changes in this proof surviving to the first edition. There are some 46 handwritten corrections (2.2 per first-edition page) by Lockhart. These include: 12 eliminations of verbal repetition (3 rejected for the  ); 8 general stylistic changes (6 rejected); 7 clarifications (5 rejected); 6 eliminations of tautology (5 rejected); 4 grammatical changes (3 rejected); and only 4 changes substantially affecting the sense (all rejected). In addition Lockhart eliminates the first motto to the opening chapter. In all, some 29 of Lockhart’s corrections have been rejected for the  . I:E] M S 3777, ff. 74r–75v (proof and Ed1 3.213–216; E E W N 3.1–4.9 (‘and for the most’)): no successor. This is a very late proof, its text incorporating the corrections from I:D. The printer’s handwritten corrections are of typographical errors only. There are nearly 50 further changes (2.4 per first-edition page) between I:E and the first edition including 9 spellings, 8 commas added and 5 deleted, and 7 other punctuational changes. The most substantial changes are on the final page (10.34–42), one made apparently for clarity, the other affecting the local sense. Nine of these post-proof changes have been rejected for the  . Section II: 11.1 (‘Chapter Two’)–20.33 (‘think so,” ’). For this section there are six extant sets of proofs representing six stages in the development of the text. II:A] M S 3780, ff. 37r–48v (proof 1.25–48; Ed1 3.235.1–258.7 (‘cannot steer his’); E E W N 11.1–20.10): I:A ctd; no successor. This proof (of Sheet B) is endorsed by Ballantyne ‘Not to be read’. As with I:A it follows the manuscript, with the usual supplying of liberal additional punctuation. There are some 36 verbal changes (1.8 per first-edition page). Over half of these are accounted for by tidying-up, generally sensible, of the manuscript and by misreadings or misinterpretations. Other changes involve the substitution of one small word for another and a couple of typographical errors. Some 13 of the changes are rejected for the  , most of them misreadings or misinterpretations. There are no handwritten corrections. II:B] M S 3779, ff. 289r–300v (as II:A): no predecessor; continues as III:A. This proof is endorsed by Cadell ‘First proof ’ and by Ballantyne ‘Revise’. The print shows some 166 variants against II:A (7.2 per page). Of the 164–odd changes, some 50 were apparently intended to clarify

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matters for the reader. Some 27 are generally stylistic (17 of them rejected for the  ), and some 5 designed to eliminate tautology (4 rejected). There are some 15 eliminations of verbal repetition (4 rejected), some 10 changes in sense (3 rejected), some 8 corrections of II:A, the substitution of 5 presumed mots justes (4 rejected), and some 15 changes in punctuation. While none of the changes conclusively proves authorial involvement, more than a dozen of them are sufficiently creative to suggest that Scott was one of those involved. Thus at 12.6 ‘his son, Charles,’ is inserted, and at 16.42 ‘upon the sixth day before the annunciation of our Lady’ becomes ‘upon the fourteenth day before Palm Sunday’. One neighbouring piece of evidence strongly points to Scott’s having been involved in the II:B print: at 16.43–17.1 the reference in II:A to ‘the house, which you hold by orders from the English governor Sir John Walton’ becomes ‘his house of Hazelside, in which you hold governor, by orders from the English Sir John Walton’. It seems likely that in incorporating a proof correction, probably by Scott, ‘garrison’ (which Ballantyne restores in one of his handwritten corrections to II:B) was misread as ‘governor’, leading to the deletion of ‘governor’ in the next line. In all, some 52 of the 166 changes have been rejected for the  . Ballantyne is responsible for some 22 (one per first-edition page) of the 56 or so handwritten corrections in II:B, most of his contributions being small matters of punctuation and straight correction, but a couple relating to style and clarification. His work is almost entirely acceptable. Cadell made the other 34 corrections (1.5 per first-edition page), of the same sorts as in I:B: 16 of these have been rejected for the  . The likelihood is that he had done the bulk of his early revisions for this section in an intervening proof which has not survived. He also sensibly transferred the exchange at 15.25–40 from its original position at 13.38: it appears in the manuscript as a verso insert in Scott’s hand, and even if Scott has located it correctly Cadell’s repositioning makes good narrative sense. II:C] M S 3778, ff. 393v–405v (proof 1.24–48; Compare Ed1 3.235.1– 258.18 (‘guide upon such an occasion.” ’); E E W N 11.1–20.18): I:C ctd; continues as III:B. This proof is endorsed by Ballantyne on page 25 ‘running copy’. The print incorporates corrections from II:B, deletes a comma and corrects a typographical slip. There is one handwritten correction, probably by Ballantyne (15.30: ‘we〈a〉thers’), which was eventually adopted after being made by Lockhart in II:F: Lockhart may well have seen II:C (compare III:B). II:D] M S 3779, ff. 163r–174v (proof 1.25–48; Ed1 3.236.1 (‘more exposed sides’) to 258.18; E E W N 11.15–20.18): no predecessor or successor. This proof is endorsed by Ballantyne ‘Revise’, and by Cadell ‘I must see this again’. The print incorporates the corrections made in II:C and exhibits only a couple of typographical corrections by way of

   

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variants. There are some 104 handwritten corrections by Cadell (4.7 per first-edition page). Some 48 of these are attempts at general stylistic improvement (37 rejected for the  ); some 17 eliminate tautology (11 rejected), and 9 change single repeated words (5 rejected). Some 9 of the changes affect the sense locally (6 rejected), and 3 are apparently made for clarification (2 rejected). Anne Cadell has marked in pencil points that she thought might need attention: Robert tends to accept her hints, but at 19.30–31 two stylistic changes suggested in pencil were not adopted (‘my son, 〈who is〉 a delicate stripling, 〈and〉 not accustomed . . .’). In all, some 71 of the 104 corrections have been rejected for the  . II:E] M S 3779, ff. 150r–161v (proof 1.25–48; Ed1 3.236.1–259.16 (‘think so,” ’); E E W N 11.1–20.33): no predecessor or successor. The print incorporates the corrections made in II:D and has only a handful of variants, chiefly typographical. There are 11 handwritten changes, mostly by Cadell, occasionally at Anne’s pencil prompting (0.5 per first-edition page, but they are concentrated on the first two pages), 7 of them rejected for the  . These are made for clarification, for intended stylistic improvement, to correct typographical errors, and on two occasions for the sense. A comma after ‘abbot’ at 20.28 is deleted, by either Cadell or Ballantyne. II:F] M S 3778, ff. 325v–337v (proof 1.24–48; Ed1 3.235.1–259.16): I:D ctd; continues as III:C. The print incorporates the corrections made in II:E and has only one variant, a typographical one. Lockhart has made 20 changes (0.9 per first-edition page), principally: 5 grammatical corrections (4 rejected for the  as fussy); 5 attempts at stylistic enhancement (3 rejected); 2 eliminations of tautology; and 2 changes of repeated words. Only 2 of the changes affect the sense (one rejected for the  ). In all, 10 of Lockhart’s corrections have been rejected for the  . There were some 90 changes (3.9 per first-edition page) between II:F and the first edition. Over a third involve punctuation: including 12 commas added and 5 deleted, and 6 changes of comma to semicolon. Some 18 involve spelling or the forms of words (5 rejected for the  ), and 7 inserted ‘de’s in ‘Sir John de Walton’ (all rejected). Some 5 changes were made for clarification (4 rejected), 5 for general stylistic improvement (3 rejected), and 4 to change repeated words (one rejected). Some 7 changes affect the sense (5 rejected), including minor plot business. In all, some 26 of the 90 changes have been rejected for the  . Section III: 20.10 (‘his course fairly through’) to 38.43 (‘something that was not’). For this section there are three extant sets of proofs representing three stages in the development of the text. III:A] M S 3779, ff. 175r–200v (proof 1.49–98; Ed1 3.258.7 (‘his course

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fairly through’) to 303.10 (‘convey its exact’); E E W N 20.10–38.41): II:B ctd; continues as IV:A. At the head of the first gathering of this batch Cadell has written ‘First proof [new line] revise wanted’ and Ballantyne ‘Revise’; at the head of the second gathering (29.3) Ballantyne has written ‘Revise’ and Cadell ‘I must see a revise’. There are some 240 verbal changes between manuscript and the print (5.3 per first-edition page). The main categories of change are: 50 clarifications (18 rejected for the  ); 30 tidyings (almost all accepted); 26 general stylistic changes (half rejected); 10 eliminations of tautology (3 rejected); 15 straight corrections; 15 changes of repeated words (one rejected); 15 changes to the forms of words (6 rejected); 6 changes to mots justes (one rejected); 6 misreadings (all rejected, or corrected at later stages); and 5 grammatical changes. Scott’s involvement at one of the stages is strongly suggested by a dozen or so additions and enhancements unlikely to be from the hand of an early intermediary. In all a quarter of the changes have been rejected for the  . The handwritten corrections are mostly by Cadell, many of them prompted in pencil by Anne, and there are a few punctuational corrections and corrections of clear errors made in ink, probably by Ballantyne. There are again some 240 corrections (5.3 per first-edition page) by Cadell, the main categories being: 63 general stylistic changes (51 rejected for the  ); 37 eliminations of tautology (17 rejected); 26 changes of repeated words (14 rejected); 24 clarifications (10 rejected); 25 changes to the sense, including 3 involving local plot business (3 rejected); 10 straight corrections of error (one mistaken one rejected); 7 changes to the forms of words (5 rejected); 7 changes to mots justes, sometimes to more conventional words (5 rejected); and 5 grammatical corrections (3 rejected). In all, exactly half of Cadell’s corrections have been rejected for the  . III:B] M S 3778, ff. 406r–429v (proof 1.49–96; Ed1 3.259.17 (‘answered the minstrel’) to 303.10; E E W N 20.33–38.41): II:C ctd; continues (after a 4–line hiatus filled in by Cadell) as IV:C. This batch is endorsed by Cadell ‘running Copy’ (20.33), and by Ballantyne ‘Revise’ (30.1). The print incorporates almost all the handwritten changes from III:A, but a few have been missed, and one or two others have been overlooked or erroneously handled. There are some 20 changes (0.4 per first-edition page) from the corrected III:A, all very minor matters of spelling or punctuation, and all accepted for the  . There are hardly any marks: at 23.6 there is a correction (in pencil): ‘examina〈nt〉mteo’ (incorporated in the print of III:C); at 27.11 ‘to express either’ is reversed to read ‘either to express’ (repeated by Lockhart as a handwritten correction in III:C); and typographical errors are corrected. At 38.3 ‘although’ is underlined, with an ‘X’ in the margin. There are three factual comments by Lockhart, who himself dealt with two of them in III:C; the third (De Valence’s ‘hope of knighthood’: com-

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pare 35.7) was corrected for the first edition (Lockhart wrote ‘he is a kn[i]ght’). III:C] M S 3778, ff. 338r–361v (proof 1.49–96; Ed1 3.259.17 to 303.4 (‘something that was not’); E E W N 20.33–38.43): II:F ctd; continues as IV:D. The print has some 36 changes (0.8 per first-edition page) from III:B, almost all verbal, and including 8 changes to eliminate tautology (5 rejected for the  ), and 5 general stylistic changes (one rejected). In all, a quarter of the 36 changes have been rejected for the  . There are over 60 mostly verbal corrections by Lockhart (1.4 per firstedition page) . The main categories are: 13 changes of repeated words (6 rejected for the  ); 8 grammatical corrections (4 rejected); 8 general stylistic changes (5 rejected); 7 substitutions of mots justes (4 rejected); 7 clarifications (one rejected); and 5 eliminations of tautology (2 rejected). Notably Lockhart eliminates the anachronistic passages on Froissart (27.27–28.10) and a reference to Chaucer (29.25–27) which he had noted in III:B. Both are restored in the present text, which rejects nearly half of Lockhart’s changes. Between III:C and the first edition a further 150 or so changes were made (3.4 per first-edition page). Around 60 of these involved punctuation, notably the addition of over 20 commas. Of the verbal changes the principal categories are: 14 changes of sense (6 rejected for the  ); 12 general stylistic changes (4 rejected) and 2 eliminations of tautology (one rejected); 9 clarifications (4 rejected); 9 changes of repeated words (one rejected); 9 spelling changes; 8 substitutions of mots justes (5 rejected); and 8 changes to the forms of words (3 rejected). In all, 25 of the post-proofs changes have been rejected for the  . Section IV: 38.41 (‘figure to Hugonet’) to 46.11 (‘and in returning’). For this section there are four extant sets of proofs representing four stages in the development of the text. IV:A] M S 3779, ff. 201r–210v (proof 1.99–118; compare Ed1 3.303.10 (‘figure to the mind’) to 321.13 (‘and in reverting’); E E W N 38.41–46.11): III:A ctd; continues as V:B. Between the manuscript and the print of IV:A there were some 90 changes (5 per first-edition page), principally: 21 general stylistic changes and tidyings (8 rejected for the  ), and 5 eliminations of tautology (one rejected); 18 clarifications (7 rejected for the  ); 6 corrections (one rejected); and 5 changes of repeated words (one rejected). Half a dozen additions of details and elaborations suggest that Scott was most likely involved at one of the stages, and there are some local reworkings to eliminate ‘Augustine’, who has been deposited at Saint Bride’s but who in the manuscript persists in being present (see 219 above). Approximately a quarter of the 90 changes have been rejected for the  . Cadell has similarly made over 90 changes (5 per first-edition page), many in response to pencil promptings by Anne. The principal categories are: 25 clarifications (15 rejected

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for the  ); 20 general stylistic changes (15 rejected) and 7 eliminations of tautology (5 rejected); 7 mots justes (3 rejected); 6 changes of repeated words (2 rejected); 6 changes in word order (5 rejected); 5 changes affecting the sense (3 rejected); 5 clear corrections of error (all accepted); and 5 changes in the forms of words (all rejected). In all, rather more than half of Cadell’s corrections have been rejected for the  . IV:B] M S 3779, ff. 301r–310r (proof 1.97–115; Ed1 3.303.14 (‘mortal; nevertheless’) to 321.12 (‘an air some[thing]’); E E W N 39.1–46.10): no predecessor; continues as V:C. The batch is headed ‘Revise’ by Ballantyne. The print incorporates all the changes made in IV:A, adding only a typographical slip and the change of a comma to a semicolon. Anne Cadell corrects 6 clear errors, and prompts her husband in pencil on many other occasions: most of her suggestions were taken up. Cadell makes some 67 changes (3.7 per first-edition page), including: 8 general stylistic changes (7 rejected for the  ) and 19 eliminations of tautology (12 rejected); 9 clarifications (5 rejected); 8 changes affecting the sense (5 rejected); 7 changes of word order (5 rejected); 5 changes to produce what were considered mots justes (3 rejected); and 4 changes of repeated words (one rejected). In all, of Cadell’s 67 changes approximately 40 are rejected for the  . IV:C] M S 3778, ff. 430r–438v (proof 1.97–114; Ed1 3.303.14– 321.5 (‘hospitality had been’); E E W N 39.1–46.5): III:B ctd; continues as V:D1. The print of IV:C incorporates the corrections from IV:B. The only changes are a typographical correction, 2 minor punctuational changes, and three small verbal corrections: in one of these last, at 43.26, there is a substitution of ‘matter’ (rejected for the  ) for the manuscript’s ‘point’: the latter is deleted in pencil in IV:B, but nothing is there substituted. There are no handwritten corrections, but there is a small ‘X’ in the margin at 42.25–26, probably indicating a clumsy sentence. IV:D] M S 3778, ff. 362r–370v (as IV:C): III:C ctd; continues as V:D2. There are no changes from IV:C in this batch, apart from 2 punctuational corrections, one to the print and one to a handwritten correction. Lockhart has made some 20 corrections (1.1 per first-edition page), principally: 5 changes of repeated words (one rejected for the  ); 5 changes to the sense (4 rejected); 4 general stylistic changes (all rejected) and one elimination of a tautology (accepted); and 3 grammatical corrections (2 rejected). In all, 12 of the 20 Lockhart corrections have been rejected for the  . Between IV:D and the first edition some 70 further changes were made (3.9 per first-edition page), 20 of them punctuational (all accepted for the  , including 8 added commas), and 13 of them adding ‘de’ in ‘Sir John de Walton’ (all 13 rejected for the  ). The main remaining categories are: 6 stylistic changes (4 rejected); 6

   

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spelling changes; 6 changes to the forms of words (4 rejected); 5 corrections of typographical errors; 4 changes of repeated words (one rejected); and 3 changes affecting the sense (all rejected). In all, 28 of the 70 changes have been rejected for the  . Section V: 46.5 (‘duly observed’) to 50.7 (‘James, the young’). For this section there are five extant sets of proofs representing four stages in the development of the text. V:A] M S 3780, ff. 49r–53r (proof 1.121–29; Ed1 3.322.23 (‘terms of affection’) to 330.2 (‘ruled as by’); E E W N 46.34–50.3): no predecessor; continues as VI:A. Some 20 significant changes were made to the manuscript in the print (2.9 per first-edition page), notably 5 tidyings, 4 misreadings, and 3 corrections of typographical errors. Two lacunae were left to be filled by higher authority. Almost all of the 20 changes have been accepted for the  . There is one handwritten correction only, probably by Scott: at 46.34 ‘intimate’ is substituted for ‘a common’ (though only the ‘a’ is deleted), although the change was not adopted for V:B. The present edition accepts ‘intimate’ on Scott’s authority. V:B] M S 3779, ff. 211r–216r (proof 1.119–29; Ed1 321.13 (‘to his former invitation’) to 330.7 (‘James, the young’); E E W N 46.11–50.7): IV:A ctd; continues as VI:B. The print shows some 33 changes from V:A (3.7 per first-edition page), principally 9 clarifications and 8 clear corrections. There are 3 changes to the sense as well as a distinct elaboration (47.17–18) which may point to Scott’s involvement: the phrase ‘who could hardly listen even to his commander without indulging a humour of contradiction’ is inserted (Cadell changes ‘a humour’ to ‘the humour’ here and in V:C). All except 8 of the 33 changes have been accepted for the  . There are 63 Cadell corrections (6.8 per first-edition page), principally: 18 general stylistic changes (9 rejected for the  ) and 8 eliminations of tautology (4 rejected); 8 mots justes (6 rejected); 7 changes of sense (4 rejected); and 7 clarifications (2 rejected). In all, almost half of Cadell’s corrections have been rejected for the  . V:C] M S 3779, ff. 310v–312v (proof 1.116–20; Ed1 3.321.12 (‘[some]thing more distant’) to 325.19 (‘his master.’); E E W N 46.10–48.11): IV:B ctd; no successor. The print of V:C incorporates the corrections in V:B for most of the batch; it also deletes a hyphen, corrects a typographical error, and creates a lacuna by omitting some words. In the last few lines of the batch, none of the handwritten corrections in V:B has been incorporated, and Cadell repeats them, with a few variations. These repeated corrections are not included in the tally for the batch. There are some 30 Cadell corrections (7.5 per first-edition page), principally 9 general stylistic changes (5 of them rejected for the  ) and 9 eliminations of tautology (6 rejected). In all, over half of Cadell’s corrections have been rejected for the  .

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V:D1] M S 3778, ff. 439r–442v (proof 1.115–22; Ed1 3.321.6 (‘duly observed’) to 329.4 (‘Sir Aymer de Valence;’); E E W N 46.5–49.30): IV:C ctd; continues as VI:C1. When compared with V:C, up to 48.11 where that batch ends, the print of V:D1 incorporates the corrections made on it, though at 47.38–39 Cadell’s ‘Walton, 〈a〉 tall and handsome 〈man〉 mof figureo’ is changed (perhaps misread) to produce ‘Walton, of a tall and handsome figure’. There are 5 punctuational changes. There is only one handwritten correction, reinstating ‘turn’ at 48.10: this had been inadvertently deleted by Cadell in V:C, and its reinstatement may be his work. From 48.10 to the end of the section, when compared with V:B the print of V:D1 incorporates its handwritten changes, though one of them is imperfectly executed. There is a handful of small changes: two typographical errors are introduced and one is corrected; a comma is added; and a sentence division is introduced. There are only 2 handwritten corrections: a mot juste, and a typographical correction: these may be by Cadell or Ballantyne. V:D2] M S 3778, ff. 371r–374v (as V:D1): IV:D ctd; continues as VI:C2. The print reproduces precisely that of V:D1 and must be the same setting. Thus the three handwritten corrections in V:D1 have not been made, but Lockhart repeats them here. He makes a further 14 corrections (1.8 per first-edition page), of the usual sorts, most notably deleting a modern reference to ‘a French or Gascoigne chateau’ at 48.19–22. Six of these corrections have been rejected for the  . Between V:D2 and the first edition there were a further 30 changes (3.7 per first-edition page), very miscellaneous except for 9 insertions of ‘de’ in ‘Sir John de Walton’ (which form the bulk of the 11 readings rejected for the  ) and the addition of 6 hyphens. Only one change (‘any thing 〈very〉 insolent’ at 48.16) can be said to have affected the sense at all: this is accepted, since ‘very’ was substituted by Cadell in B for the strange manuscript reading ‘extraordinary’. Section VI: 49.30 (‘while all that the governor’) to 55.14 (‘in case of need.’). For this section there are four extant sets of proofs representing three stages in the development of the text. VI:A] M S 3780, ff. 53v–60v (proof 1.130–44; Ed1 3.330.2 (‘his natural disposition’) to the end; E E W N 50.3–55.14): V:A ctd; continues as VII:A. VI:A reproduces the manuscript faithfully, with the usual processing. There are only 20 or so verbal changes (1.3 per first-edition page), including tidying and clear corrections on the one hand, and misreading, and changing or omission of small words on the other. Five of the changes involving misreadings or small words have been rejected for the  . There are no handwritten corrections. VI:B] M S 3779, ff. 216v–223v (proof 1.130–44; Ed1 3.330.8 (‘Lord Douglas.’) to the end; E E W N 50.7–55.14): V:B ctd; continues as VII:B.

   

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The print shows some 44 changes when compared with VI:A (3.1 per first-edition page), principally: 10 clarifications (of which 4 are rejected for the  ); 8 clear corrections; and 3 grammatical corrections (2 rejected). Only 5 of the changes affect the sense, one of these being the footnote added at 55.37–41 (to a passage cut by Lockhart in VI:C2 but restored in the present text): one of these changes is rejected for the  . In all, 10 of the 44 changes have been rejected. There are some 75 corrections by Cadell (5.4 per first-edition page), often in response to Anne’s pencil suggestions. Ballantyne capitalises ‘Evil One’ at 50.23. The main categories are: 18 general stylistic changes (11 rejected for the  ), and 13 eliminations of tautology (7 rejected); 11 clarifications (7 rejected); 6 changes of repeated words (5 rejected); 6 changes of word order (4 rejected); 6 mots justes (3 rejected); and 4 changes for grammar (all rejected). Only 3 of the changes affect the sense fundamentally. In all, 46 of Cadell’s 75 changes are rejected for the  . VI:C1] M S 3779, f. 518r–v, ff. 140r–146r (proof 1.123–37; Ed1 3.329.5 (‘while all that the governor’) to the end; E E W N 49.30–55.14): V:D1 ctd; continues as VII:C. The print takes in the corrections in VI:B. In the first of these two batches (f. 518r–v) the print has two further changes: an elimination of tautology, and the creation of a typographical slip. This, and an existing typographical error, are corrected in ink, probably by Ballantyne. In the second batch (ff. 140r–146r, which is not necessarily the same set) there are no handwritten corrections; the print continues to take in the corrections in VI:B with a further 6 mechanical changes. VI:C2] M S 3778, ff. 375r–381v, f. 443r (as VI:C1): V:D2 ctd; continues as VII:D. The print is the same setting as VI:C1. Lockhart makes 35 corrections (2.5 per first-edition page), principally: 10 changes of repeated words (3 rejected for the  ); 7 clarifications (4 rejected); and 5 general stylistic changes (one rejected) and 3 eliminations of tautology (one rejected). Only two of the changes affect the sense, the more important being the deletion of the final paragraph (which would certainly be awkward at the end of a volume: Lockhart writes ‘End of Vol. III’, in line with the decision to publish Castle Dangerous along with Count Robert of Paris). This deletion and 13 of the other changes are rejected for the  . After Lockhart’s corrections, a further 40 or so changes were made before the first edition (2.9 per first-edition page), principally: 6 commas added and 5 deleted; 4 repeated words changed; 4 spelling changes; 3 initial letters capitalised; and 3 ‘de’s inserted in ‘Sir John de Walton’. The ‘de’s and 5 other post-proofs changes have been rejected for the  . Section VII: 55.15 (‘Chapter Seven’) to 58.16 (‘courageous ani-

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mal.’). For this section there are five extant sets of proofs representing five stages in the development of the text. VII:A] M S 3780, ff. 61r–64r (proof 1.145–51; Ed1 4.5.1–11.11 (‘of its ravages,’); E E W N 55.15–58.9): VI:A ctd; continues as VIII:A. The print is a faithful transcript of the manuscript, with the usual processing. There are 14 variants (2.3 per first-edition page), including 7 misreadings (5 corrected for the first edition, the other 2 corrected for the first time for the  ), and 6 tidyings of various sorts (one rejected). There are no handwritten corrections. VII:B] M S 3779, ff. 224r–226v (proof 1.145–50; Ed1 4.5.1–10.14 (‘The deer,’); E E W N 55.15–57.37): VI:B ctd; no successor. Ballantyne endorses this batch ‘Revise’, and Cadell ‘I must see this again’. The print has some 33 changes from VII:A (6.7 per first-edition page), principally: 8 clarifications; 7 clear corrections of error; 5 stylistic changes (3 rejected for the  ); and 5 mots justes (one rejected). One addition of a detail suggests Scott’s involvement in this transition: at 57.22–23 ‘run down by dogs’ becomes ‘run down and worried by large greyhounds’. There are also some 34 changes by Cadell (6.8 per first-edition page), and one comma added probably by Ballantyne: Cadell makes one or two of his changes in response to Anne’s pencil promptings. The principal categories are: 10 general stylistic changes (5 rejected for the  ) and 6 eliminations of tautology (all rejected); 4 changes in word order (3 rejected); 4 changes of repeated words (one rejected); 3 clarifications; and 3 changes affecting the sense (2 rejected). In all, 18 of Cadell’s 34 changes are rejected for the  . VII:C] M S 3779, ff. 146v to 149v (proof 1.138–44; Ed1 4. 5.1–11.21 (‘courageous animal.’); E E W N 55.15–58.16): VI:C1 ctd; no successor. Up to 10.14, where VII:B ends, the print of VII:C follows it closely, with just two variations, both probably errors. There are 5 minor corrections, probably by Ballantyne. At the beginning, Cadell writes: ‘Volume IV might commence here—’, and there is a thick ink line through the first page. On page 11 the print of VII:C has some 17 differences from VII:A, principally: 6 general stylistic changes (2 rejected for the  ) and 5 tautologies (all rejected). There are corrections to the Latin quotation, and a few handwritten typographical corrections. In all, 8 of the 17 changes have been rejected for the  . VII:D] M S 3778, ff. 443v–446v (as VII:C): VI:C2 ctd; continues as VIII:B. The print of VII:D follows the corrected VII:C faithfully, though at 58.15 a handwritten new sentence is not taken up. Lockhart repeats the instruction, one of some 25 corrections (4.2 per first-edition page), principally: 5 general stylistic changes (5 rejected for the  ) and 2 eliminations of tautology (both rejected); and 4 changes to the sense (all rejected). Lockhart deletes the third stanza in the motto. In all, 12 of Lockhart’s changes have been rejected for the  . VII:E] M S 3778, ff. 93r–98r (proof 4.1–11; compare Ed1 4.1.1–11.21;

   

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E E W N 55.15–58.16): no predecessor; continues as VIII:C. Cadell notes at beginning: ‘If all these alterations are made with great care this sheet need not come to me again—but it must all be carefully read and the note at pp 11. 12. 13 most pointedly attended to—Go to press, the moment it is read if the quantity of matter for Vol III enables you to 〈m〉 keep this still A of Vol IV—’. There is also a note by John Hughes: ‘Speedy last proof to me’. The print shows 13 changes from VII:D (2.2 per first-edition page), including 3 clarifications and 2 each of stylistic changes, mots justes, and corrections of typographical errors. In the text the chapter number has been changed from ‘VI’ (of the original Volume 1) to ‘I’ (of Tales of My Landlord (Fourth Series) Volume 4). In his handwritten corrections, Cadell repeats all of Lockhart’s instructions in VII:D, except for two where the changes had been made independently in the print, and he adds a stylistic change of his own (rejected for the  ). There are also 6 minor corrections correcting new typographical errors and making changes to punctuation: some at least of them are by Ballantyne. Between VII:E and the first edition 6 further corrections were made, 3 of them affecting punctuation, one a spelling change, one changing a repeated word, and one inserting ‘wolf,’ at 58.7. All except the last of these have been accepted for the  .

Section VIII: 58.1 (‘As the hunters’) to 63.7 (‘trace his footsteps.’). For this section there are three extant sets of proofs representing three stages in the development of the text. VIII:A] M S 3780, ff. 64v–71r (proof 1.152–65; Ed1 4.11.12 (‘was the most obnoxious’) to 24.3 (‘trace his footsteps.’); E E W N 58.9–63.7): VII:A ctd; continues as IX:A. The print follows the manuscript closely, with the usual processing, except for 13 misreadings (the current compositor was evidently less accomplished at this task than most of his colleagues) and a further 14 small changes of the usual sorts (overall 2 changes per first-edition page). Most of the misreadings were corrected for the first edition, but 2 are sorted for the  , and 2 of the 14 small changes have also been rejected. There are no handwritten corrections. VIII:B] M S 3778, ff. 447r–453r (proof 1.145–57; compare Ed1 4.11.22 (‘The wild cattle’) to 24.3 (‘trace his footsteps.’); E E W N 58.17–63.7): VII:D ctd; continues as IX:B2. The print shows some 130 changes from VIII:A (10 per first-edition page). The principal categories are: some 36 general stylistic changes (18 rejected for the  ) and 8 eliminations of tautology (4 rejected); 25 clarifications (8 rejected); 15 changes affecting the sense (2 rejected), some of which suggest Scott’s involvement (e.g. a detail added at 60.30: ‘a rusted myet massiveo partizan’); and 5 changes of repeated words (one rejected). In addition there are some 14 clear corrections, mostly of the misreadings in

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VIII:A, where there has evidently been a checking against the manuscript: the clearest evidence for this is in the change of ‘huntsman’ back to the manuscript’s ‘hunter’ at 62.5. In all, 39 of the changes in the text have been rejected for the  . Lockhart has rearranged the division between text and notes at the beginning of the section and has made another 16 or so corrections (1.2 per first-edition page), principally 6 stylistic alterations (5 of them rejected for the  ), 3 clarifications, and 3 changes of the sense (one rejected). In all, 7 of Lockhart’s corrections have been rejected for the  . VIII:C] M S 3778, ff. 98v–104v (proof 4.12–24; compare Ed1 and E E W N (as VIII:B)): VII:E ctd; no successor. The print follows that of VIII:B closely with only 6 variants (0.5 per first-edition page and all accepted for the  ): one stylistic, one eliminating tautology, one changing the sense slightly, one correcting a clear error, one introducing a typographical error, and one deleting a comma. But the page numbers have been changed, as a result of the decision to publish Castle Dangerous as the concluding narrative of a fourth series of Tales of My Landlord rather than on its own. Cadell copied Lockhart’s handwritten changes made in VIII:B, though he twice did so imperfectly, or made deliberate changes. There are a further 20 or so handwritten changes (1.7 per first-edition page), almost all to punctuation, including the addition of 6 commas: these seem to have been made in the printing house, either by Ballantyne or (more likely, judging from the form of the deletion sign) by his colleague John Hughes. One fancied mot juste has been rejected for the  . Between VIII:C and the first edition a further 29 changes were made (2.4 per first-edition page), 12 of them inserting ‘de’ or ‘De’ in ‘Sir John Walton’, and the rest mostly involving punctuation. Two stylistic changes and two clarifications have been rejected for the  , along with the inserted ‘de/De’s. Section IX: 63.8 (‘Chapter Eight’) to 64.9 (‘formal politeness which’). For this section there are three extant sets of proofs representing two stages in the development of the text. IX:A] M S 3780, ff. 71v–72v (proof 1.166–68; compare Ed1 4.25.1 (‘CHAPTER II.’) to 27.22 (‘formal politeness which’)): VIII:A ctd; perhaps continues as X:A1. The print reproduces the manuscript faithfully, with the usual processing: there are 3 tidyings and corrections (all accepted for the  ). At 64.8 ‘grave’ is misread as ‘grace’ (it is corrected for IX:B1). There are no handwritten corrections. IX:B1] M S 3779, f. 517r–v (proof 1.159–60; compare Ed1 4.25.15 (‘who had attended’) to 27.22; E E W N 63.18–64.9): no predecessor or successor. The print has some 27 changes (13.5 per first-edition page) from the corresponding portion of IX:A, including 8 general stylistic changes (3 rejected for the  ) and 3 eliminations of tautology (2

   

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rejected), and 4 clarifications (one rejected). Three changes (all rejected) affect the sense locally. There are no handwritten corrections. In all, 10 of the changes have been rejected for the  . IX:B2] M S 3778, ff. 453v–454v (proof 1.158–60; compare Ed1 4.25.1–27.22): VIII:B ctd; continues as X:A3. The print setting is the same as IX:B1. Lockhart has two corrections, one grammatical, the other typographic. Between IX:B2 and the first edition 9 further changes were made, including insertions of 2 ‘de’s and one ‘De’, and the renumbering of the chapter from II to VII. Section X: 64.9 (‘which one knight’) to 81.19 (‘assuage their fury.” ’). For this section there are three extant sets of parallel proofs. X:A1] M S 3779, ff. 519r–541r (proof 1.169–213; Ed1 4.27.22 (‘which one knight’) to 71.16 (‘assuage their fury.”’)): perhaps IX:A ctd; continues as XI:A1. The print shows nearly 170 changes from the manuscript (3.8 per first-edition page) apart from the usual processing. The main categories are: 43 clarifications (22 rejected for the  ); 28 general stylistic changes (14 rejected) and 4 eliminations of tautology (one rejected); 21 changes in sense (6 rejected), some of which are minor elaborations pointing to Scott’s involvement; 11 straight corrections; 9 mots justes (5 rejected); 12 changes of repeated words (3 rejected); 3 changes leading to inadvertent repetition (all rejected); 11 misreadings (7 needing correction for the  ); and 5 general tidyings. In all, 66 of the changes have been rejected for the  . There is one handwritten change probably intended as a clarification, not adopted, made in pencil by Anne Cadell. X:A2] M S 3779, ff. 240r–262r (as X:A): no predecessor; continues as XI:A2. The batch is endorsed ‘Revise’ by Ballantyne. The print is the same setting as that of X:A1. Cadell has corrected this batch independently of Lockhart, making some 244 changes (5.4 per first-edition page), the principal ones being: 103 general stylistic changes (81 rejected for the  ) and 32 eliminations of tautology (21 rejected); 27 clarifications (15 rejected); 18 changes of repeated words (3 rejected); 16 mots justes; 10 grammatical changes; 10 changes affecting the sense (7 rejected); and 9 changes of word order (8 rejected). Many of the corrections seem unnecessary. In all some 156 of the 244 Cadell corrections have been rejected. There are 5 mechanical changes probably attributable to Ballantyne, and Anne is as usual responsible for much pencil prompting of her husband. X:A3] M S 3778, ff. 455r–477r (as X:A): IX:B2 ctd; continues as XI:A3. Ballantyne notes at the head of the batch: ‘Mem.—The difference in the Paging arises from 8 pp. having been taken in on the first 7 sheets.’ The print is the same setting as that of X:A1. Lockhart has made some 74 corrections (1.7 per first-edition page), principally: 22

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changes of repeated words (6 rejected for the  ); 22 general stylistic changes (14 rejected); 11 clarifications (4 rejected); and 5 corrections of grammar (4 rejected). In all, some 36 of Lockhart’s corrections have been rejected for the  . Cadell must have combined his own and Lockhart’s corrections. Between X:A2 and X:A3 combined and the first edition there are a further 135 corrections (3.1 per first-edition page), as well as 28 insertions of ‘de’ or ‘De’. Some 54 are verbal, notably: 16 stylistic changes (13 rejected for the  ); 8 changes of repeated words (3 rejected); 7 changes of form (2 rejected) and 5 of spelling; 4 clarifications (3 rejected); and 4 clear sortings of error. Of the 54 verbal changes, 28 have been rejected for the  . Of the 80–odd changes in punctuation the most prevalent are 37 insertions and 11 eliminations of commas. For the  only two new sentences and one change from italics to roman have been rejected. Section XI: 81.20 (‘Chapter Nine’) to 82.37 (‘to break the’). For this section there are six extant sets of proofs representing three stages in the development of the text. XI:A1] M S 3779, ff. 541v–542v (proof 1.214–16; Ed1 4.72.1 (‘CHAPTER III.’) to 74.3 (‘threatened with exami[nation]’); E E W N 81.20– 82.35): X:A1 ctd; no successor. The print follows the manuscript, with the usual processing, but there are 5 verbal corrections of the usual sorts (2.5 per first-edition page). There are a couple of pencil corrections to the motto, probably by Anne. XI:A2] M S 3779, ff. 262v–263v (as XI:A1): X:A2 ctd; continues as XII:A2. The print of A2 is the same setting as that of A1. Cadell has made 12 handwritten corrections (6 per first-edition page), 5 of them stylistic. Three of the last have been rejected for the  , along with 3 other Cadell corrections. XI:A3] M S 3778, ff. 477v–478v (as XI:A1): X:A3 ctd; continues as XII:A3. The print is the same setting as that of XI:A1. In addition to his pruning of the motto, Lockhart has made 10 corrections (5 per first-edition page), 3 of them stylistic (2 of these rejected for the  ), and one of them repeating Ballantyne in XI:A1. XI:B] M S 3779, f. 46r–v (proof 4.73–74; Ed1 4.72.1–74.6 (‘to break the’)): no predecessor; continues as XII:B. The print has 4 differences in punctuation and the form of a word from that of X:A1, as well as incorporating many of Cadell’s handwritten changes made in A2. There are two minor handwritten corrections by Cadell. It has not been found necessary to reject any of the readings in this batch. XI:C1] M S 3779, f. 70r–v (as XI:B): no predecessor; continues as XII:C. The print follows that of XI:B, incorporating the handwritten changes by Cadell without further variants. There are no handwritten corrections in this small section.

   

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XI:C2] M S 3778, f. 117r–v (as XI:B): no predecessor; continues as XII:D. The batch is headed ‘Revise’ (Ballantyne) and ‘I must see this again [new line] Friday m[ornin]g’ (Cadell). The print is identical with that of XI:C1. In this short section, Cadell copies 6 of Lockhart’s revisions from XI:A3, though at 82.11 he rejects one with a ‘Stet’: ‘no priest m, 〈the order of men 〈〈of〉〉 ‘at’ that〉o time’. Between XI:C2 as corrected and the first edition two very minor further changes were made. Section XII: 82.22 (‘show, though not’) to 91.37 (‘my poor ha[bitation]’). For this section there are six extant sets of proofs representing four stages in the development of the text. XII:A1] M S 3779, ff. 454r–465v (proof 1.217–40; compare Ed1 4.74.4 (‘[exami]nation under torture’) to 96.4 (‘sagacious, and venerable,’); E E W N 82.35–91.21): no predecessor; continues as XIII:A1. The print has some 55 verbal variants from the manuscript (2.5 per firstedition page), most notably 22 changes made for the purposes of clarification (6 rejected for the  ), and 4 misreadings (all corrected for the  ). In all, 20 of the 55 changes have been rejected for the  . Cadell has some 70 changes (3.5 per first-edition page), principally: 19 general stylistic changes (11 rejected) and 9 eliminations of tautology (2 rejected); 17 clarifications (3 rejected); and 12 changes of repeated words. In this batch, many of these handwritten changes were superseded by later changes, and a number of others were never adopted. As always in this essay the figures for rejected readings refer to corrections surviving to the first edition. In all, 19 such rejections have been made for the  to the handwritten corrections in this batch. XII:A2] M S 3779, ff. 276r–286v (proof 1.217–38; Ed1 4.74.4– 94.8 (‘will be busy’); E E W N 82.35–90.33): XI:A2 ctd; no successor. The print is the same setting as that of XII:A1. The batch is headed by John Hughes ‘Revise’. Cadell has made nearly 90 corrections (4.5 per first-edition page), some in response to pencil promptings, and some 20 of them duplicating (perhaps spontaneously) corrections he had made in XII:A1. Of the new corrections the principal categories are: 19 clarifications (2 rejected); 19 clarifications (2 rejected); 17 general stylistic changes (6 rejected for the  ) and 11 eliminations of tautology (one rejected); 11 changes to the sense, some of them for local business (3 rejected); 6 mots justes (2 rejected); and 6 changes of repeated words (3 rejected). In all, some 19 of the corrections have been rejected for the  . XII:A3] M S 3778, ff. 479r–490v (as XII:A1): XI:A3 ctd; continues as XIII:A3. The print is the same setting as that of XII:A1 and A2. Lockhart has made over 80 corrections (3.5 per first-edition page), principally: 18 general stylistic changes (10 rejected for the  ) and 7

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eliminations of tautology (4 rejected); 18 clarifications (9 rejected); 17 changes of repeated words (8 rejected); 6 changes fundamentally affecting the sense (4 rejected); and 5 changes in punctuation (one rejected). In all, half of the 80 corrections are rejected for the  . XII:B] M S 3779, ff. 47r–57v (proof 4.75–96; Ed1 4.74.7 (‘oath which I’) to 95.15 (‘natives of Douglas’); E E W N 82.37–91.12): XI:B ctd; no successor. The print has some 27 changes (1.3 per first-edition page), almost all in punctuation, or in the forms and spellings of words, from that of XII:A1, as well as incorporating many of Cadell’s handwritten changes made in XII:A1 and A2. All of these changes are accepted for the  . It seems that Cadell copied many, though by no means all, of his handwritten corrections in XII:A1 and A2 into a proof that has not survived, modifying some of them, and perhaps making some of the 27 additional small changes in the process. Cadell makes a further 32 or so corrections (1.3 per first-edition page) in XII:B, some 10 of them punctuational or affecting the forms of words. Of the more substantial changes, 6 involve changing repeated words (4 rejected for the  ), and another 6 (3 rejected) affect the sense, including substantial deletions relating to the local plot business on p. 83. In all, 13 of the 32 handwritten corrections have been rejected for the  . XII:C] M S 3779, ff. 71r–81v (proof 4.75–96; Ed1 4.74.7–96.14 (‘young man?”); E E W N 82.37–91.28): XI:C1 ctd; no successor. The print follows that of XII:B, incorporating the handwritten changes by Cadell without further variants. There is a handful of small corrections by Cadell and Ballantyne, mostly in the first ten pages of the section. Cadell also has an attempt (on page 85) to sort the confusion about Augustine’s movements, and at the end of the batch, for which XI:A2 does not survive, six variants probably derive from Cadell’s handwritten corrections to A2. Most of the Cadell corrections have been rejected for the  . XII:D] M S 3778, ff. 118r–128v (proof 4.75–96; compare Ed1 4.74.7– 96.4; E E W N 82.37–91.21): XI:C2 ctd; continues as XIII:B. The print is to be compared with that of XII:C and Lockhart’s handwritten revisions in XII:A3. It follows that of XII:C incorporating the handful of handwritten corrections made there. Cadell copied into his set more than two-thirds of Lockhart’s revisions, though when he preferred his own he let those stand. As well as copying the Lockhart corrections Cadell makes a further 14 changes of his own (0.6 per first-edition page), most notably 6 clarifications. Two of the 6 clarifications are among 5 of these corrections in all rejected for the . Between XII:D and the first edition some 50 further corrections were made (2.2 per first-edition page). Nearly half of them involve punctuation, notably the addition of 8 commas and the deletion of the same number, and 4 substitutions of semicolons for commas. Prominent among the verbal corrections are 5 insertions of ‘de’ or ‘De’. The

   

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other verbal corrections are also of the usual variety, apart from the shift to two Scots forms at 90.41 and 43 (‘weel’ for ‘very well’ and ‘ye ken’ for ‘you know’). For the  8 of the corrections have been rejected, together with the inserted ‘de’s. Section XIII: 91.21 (‘indicating,’) to 100.25 (‘his behaviour.”’). For this section there are four extant sets of proofs representing two stages in the development of the text. XIII:A1] M S 3779, ff. 466r–478r (proof 1.241–65; compare Ed1 4.96.4 (‘indicating,’) to 120.17 (‘appearing to fail’); E E W N 91.21– 100.21): XII:A1 ctd; continues as XIV:A1. The batch is headed ‘Revise’ by Ballantyne. There are some 66 differences (2.75 per first-edition page), apart from the normal processing, between the manuscript and the print of XIII:A1, principally: 16 clarifications (7 rejected for the  ); 8 general stylistic changes (5 rejected) and 3 eliminations of tautology (2 rejected); 6 mots justes (3 rejected); 6 changes of repeated words (one rejected); 6 straight corrections of error (one rejected as mistaken); and 6 changes of sense (3 rejected). In all, some 25 of the 66 changes in the print have been rejected for the  . Cadell has made a further 19 handwritten corrections (0.8 per first-edition page), 5 of them being accounted for by substituting ‘sexton’ for ‘sacristan’ (the manuscript reading is restored for the  ); there are 4 repeated words changed (one rejected for the  ), and only one change significantly altering the sense. XIII:A2] M S 3779, ff. 443r–453v, f. 287r (proof 1.241–62, 265; compare Ed1 4.96.4–117.18 (‘sooner or later’), 119.19 (‘[ex]pected, were I’) to 120.17; E E W N 91.21–99.15, 100.5–21): no predecessor; continues as XIV:A2. The print of the main batch of XIII:A2 is the same setting as that of XIII:A1. Cadell has repeated 8 corrections (mostly of ‘sexton’ for ‘sacristan’) which he had already made in XIII:A1, and he has made some 26 further changes (1.2 per first-edition page), principally: 9 general stylistic changes (4 rejected for the  ) and one elimination of tautology (rejected); 4 clarifications (one rejected); 3 changes of repeated words; and 2 changes affecting plot business (one rejected). Of these 26 corrections, 10 have been rejected for the  . In addition one correction has been made only in pencil, by Anne, in a passage later entirely deleted. The small batch covering 100.5–21 (which may or may not be a continuation of the main batch) has 5 handwritten corrections by Cadell, 2 of them apparently mots justes, and all eventually adopted: 3 of them are rejected for the  . XIII:A3] M S 3778, ff. 491r–503r (as XIII:A1): XII:A3 ctd; continues as XIV:A3. The print is the same setting as that of XIII:A1. Lockhart has made some 60 corrections (2.6 per first-edition page), principally: 13 changes of repeated words; 9 general stylistic changes (6 rejected for the  ) and 5 eliminations of tautology (one rejected);

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12 clarifications (7 rejected); 5 changes affecting the sense (3 rejected); and 5 changes in punctuation (one rejected). He added the motto on p. 115 ( 98): it is now rejected. In all, some 25 of the 60 handwritten corrections have been rejected for the  . XIII:B] M S 3778, ff. 131r–142v (proof 4.97–120; compare Ed1 4.96.4–120.24 (‘his behaviour.” ’); E E W N 91.21–100.25): XII:D ctd; no successor. Cadell must have combined his handwritten corrections in XIII:A1 and A2 in a proof which has not survived. He did not include all of his corrections. At this stage, whether Cadell’s doing or not, some 30 other corrections were made (1.2 per first-edition page) to result in the print of XIII:B. One third of these are punctuational or very minor, but another third affect the sense, sometimes with substantial changes relating to business (5 are rejected for the  ). Cadell copied some 50 of Lockhart’s corrections in XIII:A3 into XIII:B: the rest were either rejected in favour of what he himself had done, or had been anticipated in his own work. Cadell also added two changes of his own correcting the sense, both of them accepted for the  . Between XIII:B and the first edition there were some 40 further corrections (1.7 per first-edition page), half of them involving punctuation (notably the addition of 9 commas, as against 3 deleted, and the conversion of 4 commas into semicolons). None of the verbal corrections affected the sense. Five of the changes are rejected for the  : 3 presumed mots justes, 2 stylistic, and one repeated word. Section XIV: 100.21 (‘his pupil’) to 109.4 (‘than let the’). For this section there are five extant sets of proofs representing three stages in the development of the text. XIV:A1] M S 3779, ff. 478v–489v (proof 1.266–88; compare Ed1 4.120.17 (‘his pupil’) to 142.19 (‘sister Ursula,’); E E W N 100.21–109.1): XIII:A1 ctd; continues as XV:A. The print has some 76 verbal changes from the manuscript (3.5 per first-edition page), principally: 19 clarifications (12 rejected for the  ); 14 general stylistic changes (9 rejected) and 3 eliminations of tautologies; 7 straight corrections of error; 6 changes of repeated words; and 5 changes affecting the sense, sometimes involving plot business (one rejected). In all, some 33 of the 76 changes in the print have been rejected for the  . The motto (probably by Scott) on 106 was supplied at this stage. Cadell and Ballantyne made 10 corrections of the usual sorts, Cadell occasionally responding to pencil marks by Anne. None of these appears to have been adopted, except when proposed again by Lockhart in XIV:A3. XIV:A2] M S 3779, ff. 287v–288v, ff. 408r–417v (as XIV:A1): XIII:A2 ctd; continues as XV:B1. The print is the same setting as that of XIV:A1. There are some 33 Cadell changes (1.5 per first-edition page, a handful of them repeating corrections made in XIV:A1), principally: 9 general stylistic changes (2 rejected for the  ) and 2 eliminations

   

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of tautology; 5 clarifications (2 rejected); 3 assignations of speeches; and 4 changes of repeated words. In all, 10 of the corrections have been rejected for the  . XIV:A3] M S 3778, ff. 503v–514v (as XIV:A1): XIII:A3 ctd; continues as XV:B2. The print is as that of XIV:A1. Lockhart has made some 36 corrections (1.6 per first-edition page), principally: 9 general stylistic changes (5 rejected for the  ) and one elimination of tautology (also rejected); 4 grammatical corrections (3 rejected); 5 changes affecting the sense (2 rejected); 4 changes of repeated words (one rejected); and 4 mots justes (2 rejected). In all, half of Lockhart’s 40 corrections have been rejected for the  . (His corrections in this batch were not taken into the first-edition text until a late stage, and even then a third of them were not accepted.) XIV:B] M S 3778, ff. 81r–91v (proof 4.121–42; Ed1 4.121.1 (‘“In what respect’) to 142.23 (‘let such an in[valuable]’); compare E E W N 100.26–109.4): no predecessor; continues as XV:C. The print derives from that of XIV:A2 incorporating Cadell’s handwritten corrections there (but not those in XIV:A1). In addition some 30 changes (1.3 per first-edition page) have been made in the print, none of them involving verbal change. Cadell has made a dozen corrections, notably a set of four to sort out confusion over the message to Augustine on 102. In all, half of this dozen are rejected for the  . XIV:C] M S 3778, ff. 45r–55v (as XIV:B): no predecessor; continues as XV:D. The print derives from that of XIV:B, incorporating Cadell’s handwritten corrections there. In addition 14 changes (0.6 per firstedition page) have been made in the print, a mixture of very minor changes (typographical errors and spellings), 3 mots justes (all rejected for the  ), and 2 changes affecting the sense (both also rejected). In all, 6 of the 15 changes have been rejected for the  . There are 5 handwritten corrections, all or mostly by Ballantyne. Two of these are clear corrections and were adopted; one is a stylistic change of ‘effect’ to ‘effects’, which was adopted at 101.42 (it is rejected for the  ); one deletion had also been made by Lockhart, whose version was adopted, as was the change of ‘mother’ to ‘sister’ (107.2), perhaps by Ballantyne (though that of ‘daughter’ to ‘sister’ at 107.14 was not). Between XIV:C and the first edition some 66 corrections were made (3 per first-edition page), some 26 of these being taken from Lockhart’s work in XIV:A3. Some 17 of the 40 fresh changes were punctuational, 5 involved insertion of ‘de’ or ‘De’, and the rest were of the usual sorts, only 2 affecting the sense. Apart from the ‘de’s and ‘De’s only 5 of these late changes have been rejected for the  . Section XV: 109.1 (‘ “who should think so!’) to 109.36 (‘that my resolu[tion]’). For this section there are five extant sets of proofs representing four stages (not wholly distinct) in the development of the text.

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XV:A] M S 3779, f. 490r–v (proof 1.289–90 [numbered 291]; Ed1 142.20 (‘ “who should think so!’) to 144.20 (‘Perhaps you, my’); E E W N 109.1–33): XIV:A1 ctd; continues as XVI:A. The print has 5 verbal changes from the manuscript and no handwritten corrections. XV:B1] M S 3779, f. 418r–v (proof 1.289–90 [numbered 291]; Ed1 142.20 to 144.22 (‘from the resolution’); E E W N 109.1–34): XIV:A2 ctd; continues as XVI:B. The print shows 7 changes from that of XV:A: 3 clarifications (all rejected for the  ), a stylistic change (also rejected), a new sentence, a partial change of tense, and a typo corrected. Cadell has 8 miscellaneous handwritten corrections. XV:B2] M S 3778, f. 515r–v (as XV:B1): XIV:A3 ctd; continues as XVI:C. The print is that of XV:B1, except for a correction of ‘seige’ to ‘siege’ (not in the present text), and an inserted comma at 109.18. Lockhart has four handwritten corrections, one rejected for the  . XV:C] M S 3778, f. 92r–v (proof and Ed1 4.143.1 (‘[in]valuable opportunity’) to 144.24 (‘that my resolu[tion]’); compare E E W N 109.4–36): XIV:B ctd; no successor. The print derives from that of XV:B1 incorporating most of Cadell’s handwritten corrections there, with the addition of a ‘de’ at 143.22. The comma inserted in the XV:B2 print is present, but so is the erroneous ‘seige’ of XV:B1. There are no handwritten corrections. XV:D] M S 3778, f. 56r–v (as XV:C): XIV:C ctd; continues as XVI:E1. The print is that of XV:C, except that at 109.21 ‘chevalier’ has become ‘cavalier’, but with an inverted ‘a’ which Ballantyne marks for correction. Between XV:D and the first edition Lockhart’s 4 corrections in XV:B2 were incorporated, with a handful of small changes, mostly punctuational. Section XVI: 109.33 (‘dearest sister, may’) to 120.16 (‘truths which the’). For this section there are six extant sets of proofs representing five stages in the development of the text. XVI:A] M S 3779, ff. 491r–502v (proof 1.291–314; Ed1 4.144.20 (‘dearest sister, may’) to 168.21 (‘truths which the’)): XV:A ctd; continues as XVII:A. The print has some 63 verbal changes from the manuscript (2.6 per first-edition page). The principal categories are: 14 general stylistic changes (7 rejected for the  ); 12 clarifications (6 rejected); 7 straight corrections; 6 changes in the sense (2 rejected); and 5 changes of repeated words (3 rejected). In all, some 28 of the 63 changes have been rejected for the  . Cadell has made a further 8 handwritten changes, all minor. XVI:B] M S 3779, ff. 419r–430v (proof 1.291–314; Ed1 4.144.22 (‘which I had laid down’) to 168.21; E E W N 109.34–120.16): XV:B1 ctd; no successor. The print has some 76 changes (3.2 per first-edition page) from that of XVI:A, principally: 23 clarifications (11 rejected for the  ); 11 changes of sense (several of them relating to busi-

   

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ness, and several suggesting Scott’s involvement at this stage: 3 of the 11 are rejected); 10 general stylistic changes (6 rejected); 8 changes of repeated words (one rejected); 5 mots justes (3 rejected); and 5 corrections of error (one rejected as mistaken). In all, some 26 of the 76 changes are rejected for the  . Cadell has made some 45 further corrections (1.9 per first-edition page), principally: 9 general stylistic changes (all rejected for the  ) and 2 eliminations of tautology; 7 changes of repeated words; 6 corrections of error (one rejected as mistaken); 5 clarifications (all rejected); and 6 changes in the forms of words (3 rejected). In all, some 24 of these 45 corrections have been rejected for the  . Ballantyne is likely to have been responsible for all or most of some 20 further small changes (all accepted for the  ), notably 8 straight sortings, including the correction of misreadings of proof corrections (probably Scott’s). XVI:C] M S 3778, ff. 516r–527v (as XVI:B): XV:B2 ctd; continues as XVII:B. The print derives from that of XVI:B: Ballantyne’s corrections (but not Cadell’s) have been made. Lockhart has made another 40–odd corrections (1.7 per first-edition page), principally: 10 clarifications (7 rejected for the  ); 10 general stylistic changes (7 rejected) and 2 eliminations of tautology (both rejected); 5 changes of repeated words; and 5 changes in the sense (4 rejected). In all, some 23 of these corrections have been rejected for the  . XVI:D] M S 3778, ff. 155r–167r (proof 4.145–69; Ed1 4.145.1 (‘[resolu]tion was the consequence’) to 168.17 (‘with a single’); E E W N 109.36– 120.13): no predecessor; continues as XVII:C. The print derives from that of XV:B, incorporating the handwritten corrections there. In addition, some 28 changes, almost all of them very small, have been made to the print (1.2 per first-edition page), principally: the introduction of 8 typographical errors; the insertion of 6 commas, and the deletion of 5. All except two of these have been accepted for the  . There are some 28 handwritten corrections (1.2 per first-edition page), mostly by Cadell and principally: 5 clarifications (2 rejected for the  ); 4 changes in the sense (3 rejected), including plot business on a ‘paper apart’ which has not survived (113.11); 4 corrections of typographical errors; and 4 general stylistic changes (2 rejected) and 2 eliminations of tautology (both rejected). Ballantyne was probably responsible for some of the mechanical corrections. In all, some 13 of the 28 corrections have been rejected for the  . XVI:E1] M S 3778, ff. 57r–69r (proof 4.145–69; compare Ed1 4.145.1– 168.18 (‘could not find’); E E W N 109.36–120.14): XV:D ctd; continues as XVII:D1. The print derives from that of XVI:D incorporating the handwritten changes there, and introducing 2 typographical errors. Ballantyne has deleted a comma and corrected a verbal error, and Cadell has made a deletion for clarification of business. XVI:E2] M S 3778, ff. 208r–219v; M S 3779, f. 227r (as XVI:E1): no

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predecessor; continues as XVII:D2. Cadell has written at the head of this batch: ‘I think I should see this again but if the corrections are properly made it it is uncalled for. RC [new line] Sat[urda]y m[ornin]g’. At the beginning of  3779, f. 227r he writes: ‘I must see this again—quick RC [new line] Monday m[ornin]g’. The print is the same setting as that of XVI:E1. Cadell has copied 35 of Lockhart’s corrections from XVI:C and has added only two of his own, though one is a substantial correction to the business. Ballantyne has a couple of small corrections, one of them duplicating what he had already done in E1. Between XVI:E2 and the first edition nearly 50 further corrections were made (2.1 per first-edition page), one of them affecting the sense, but mostly very minor and including: 8 commas added and 3 deleted; 6 typographical errors corrected; 4 full stops converted to question marks; 4 changes of repeated words (2 rejected for the  ); and 4 changes to the forms of words. In all, 4 of the changes have been rejected for the  . Section XVII: 120.13 (‘eye a manuscript’) to 129.26 (‘this difficult navigation.” ’). For this section there are five extant sets of proofs representing four stages in the development of the text. XVII:A] M S 3779, ff. 503r–515r (proof 1.315–39; compare Ed1 4.168.22 (‘abbot would have’) to 193.4 (‘her retreat.”’); E E W N 120.16– 129.26): XVI:A ctd; no successor. There are some 52 verbal differences (2.2 per first-edition page) between the print of XVII:A and the manuscript, principally: 16 changes of sense (4 rejected for the  , mostly local and minor, but some suggesting Scott’s involvement; 8 changes of repeated words; 12 stylistic changes (6 rejected); 5 misreadings (3 rejected); 5 clarifications (2 rejected); 4 straight corrections of error; and 4 misreadings (3 rejected, one corrected later). In all, some 17 of the 52 changes have been rejected for the  . Cadell has made 11 corrections of the usual sorts (4 rejected for the  ), and Ballantyne has one spelling correction. The gathering beginning on f. 514r is marked by Ballantyne ‘Revise’. XVII:B] M S 3778, ff. 528r–540r (as XVII:A): XVI:C ctd; no successor. The print derives from that of XVII:A: the handwritten corrections made in that batch have not been incorporated, but other corrections have been made. The part of the gathering in this batch beginning with proof 1.337 ( 128.21) is identical with XVII:A. Up to this point there are some 34 corrections (1.4 per first-edition page) to the XVII:A print, principally: 10 clarifications (7 rejected for the  ); 8 changes to the sense (2 rejected); and 7 stylistic changes (3 rejected). Scott may have been involved at this stage. In all, 13 of the 34 corrections have been rejected for the  . Lockhart has made a further 52 or so corrections (2.2 per first-edition page), principally: 13 general stylistic changes (all but one rejected for the     and 3

   

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eliminations of tautology (one rejected); 11 changes of the sense, some of them substantial and affecting the business (all but one rejected); 8 clarifications (4 rejected); and 7 changes of repeated words (2 rejected). Two of these corrections duplicate handwritten changes in XVII:A. In all, some 31 of these corrections have been rejected for the  . XVII:C] M S 3778, ff. 167v–178v (proof 4.170–92; Ed1 4.168.18 (‘eye a manuscript’) to 191.7 (‘hopes; perhaps’); E E W N 120.13–128.38): XVI:D ctd; no successor. The print follows XVII:B, without incorporating Lockhart’s handwritten corrections there, and making some 26 changes (1.2 per first-edition page), principally 5 general stylistic changes (3 rejected for the  ) and 2 eliminations of tautology, and 4 changes of repeated words. In all, 5 of the 26 changes have been rejected. An obvious misprint (127.25: ‘thall’) persists from XVII:B, and at 128.3 ‘shew’ is changed to ‘show’. Cadell (probably with some input from Ballantyne) has made a further 21 corrections (one per firstedition page), principally: 8 general stylistic changes (5 rejected for the  ) and one elimination of tautology (rejected); 6 changes of sense, including plot business (3 rejected); and 6 clarifications (5 rejected). In all, 14 of the 21 corrections have been rejected for the  . XVII:D1] M S 3778, ff. 69v–80v (proof 4.170–92; compare Ed1 4.168.18 (‘find intelligible’) to 191.7; E E W N 120.14–128.38): XVI:E1 ctd; no successor. The print derives from that of XVII:C, incorporating Cadell’s handwritten corrections there. In addition Cadell makes a further 3 corrections: 2 of these (a clarification and a stylistic change) are not adopted later. Ballantyne was probably responsible for 3 corrections of typographical errors and an elimination of tautology, which he repeated in XVII:D2. XVII:D2] M S 3779, ff. 227v–238v, 239r (paper apart), f. 264r–v (proof 4.170–96; compare Ed1 4.168.18 (‘find intelligble’) to 193.4): XVI:E2 ctd; continues as XVIII:B. The print is that of XVII:D1. Cadell has copied into his set 44 of Lockhart’s handwritten corrections made in XVII:B; from proof 4.195 ( 128.38) to the end of the batch a further 6 of Lockhart’s corrections are copied, so that virtually all of his work has on this occasion been taken in. In addition Cadell makes a dozen or so changes of his own (0.5 per first-edition page), including 4 clarifications (one rejected for the  ), and 3 stylistic changes (one rejected). From 128.38 to the end of the batch he makes 2 substantial changes in the sense, for business (both rejected). At least four small changes (as noted under XVII:D1) are made by Ballantyne. Between XVII:D2 and the first edition some 60 further corrections were made (2.4 per first-edition page), nearly half of them punctuational, including the insertion of 10 commas. There were 10 insertions of ‘de’ or ‘De’. Four of the corrections involved a change to the sense (one rejected for the  ), and 3 clarifications are also rejected. In

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all some 20 of the 60 corrections have been rejected for the  , including the 10 ‘de’s and ‘De’s. Section XVIII: 129.27 (‘Chapter Three’) to 137.39 (‘offer of protection’). For this section there are five extant sets of proofs representing two stages in the development of the text. XVIII:A1] M S 3779, ff. 93r–103v (proof 2.3–24; compare Ed1 4.194.1 (‘CHAPTER VII.’) to 215.22 (‘answer must neces[sarily]’); E E W N 129.27–137.37): no predecessor or successor. Apart from the usual processing, the print of XVIII:A1 has some 41 changes from the manuscript (1.4 per first-edition page), principally 13 clarifications (7 rejected for the  ) and 5 changes in the sense (4 rejected). In all, 19 of the 41 changes are rejected for the  . Cadell has 8 handwritten corrections (2 rejected for the  ), mostly clarificatory or stylistic. (The manuscript is present only to 137.35.) XVIII:A2] M S 3779, ff. 2r–12v (as XVIII:A1): no predecessor; perhaps continues as XIX:A2. The print is the same setting as XVIII:A1. Cadell has made some 48 corrections (2.3 per first-edition page), principally: 18 general stylistic changes (13 rejected for the  ) and 2 eliminations of tautology; 5 mots justes (one rejected); 5 changes in the forms of words 4 rejected); 5 changes of repeated words (one rejected); and 5 changes affecting the sense (2 rejected). Five of these corrections are duplications of ones he had made in XVIII:A1. In all 21 of the new corrections are rejected for the  . XVIII:A3] M S 3779, ff. 16r–26v (as XVIII:A1): no predecessor; continues as XIX:A1. The print is the same setting as XVIII:A1. Cadell has copied into this batch 38 of his own handwritten corrections in A2 and has added some 37 others (1.8 per first-edition page), principally: 14 general stylistic changes (12 rejected for the  ) and 2 eliminations of tautology (one rejected); 9 clarifications (3 rejected); and 3 changes of the sense (one rejected). In all some 20 of the 37 corrections are rejected for the  . XVIII:A4] M S 3778, ff. 195r–205v (as XVIII:A1): no textual predecessor, though this is Lockhart’s set (compare XVII:B); continues as XIX: A3. The print is the same setting as XVIII:A1. Lockhart has made some 75 changes (3 per first-edition page), principally: 27 general stylistic changes (18 rejected for the  ) and 4 eliminations of tautology (3 rejected); 11 changes in the sense (8 rejected); 11 clarifications (all rejected); 9 changes of repeated words (3 rejected); and 5 mots justes (4 rejected). He composed a motto for Chapter 3, which is not accepted for the present edition. In all, some 50 of the 75 corrections have been rejected for the  . XVIII:B] M S 3779, ff. 265r–275v (proof 4.195–216; Ed1 4.194.1– 216.1 (‘offer of protection,’)): XVII:D2 ctd; continues as XIX:B. The print derives from that of XVIII:A3, incorporating Cadell’s hand-

   

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written corrections there, and with the insertion of a comma. Cadell has copied almost all of Lockhart’s handwritten corrections from XVIII:A4, and has added only a dozen of his own (0.5 per first-edition page), 4 of them affecting the sense (3 rejected for the  ). In all, 6 of the 12 corrections have been rejected for the  . A mot juste seems likely to be from Ballantyne. Between XVIII:B and the first edition there were a further 43 or so corrections (2 per first-edition page), mostly punctuational, including the addition of 12 commas and the deletion of three. Six initial letters were capitalised. Only 3 of these changes have been rejected for the  . Section XIX: 137.37 (‘[neces]sarily be’) to 139.20 (‘bewildering the Lady’). The manuscript for this section does not survive. There are four extant sets of proofs representing two stages in the development of the text. XIX:A1] M S 3779, ff. 27r–28v (proof 2.25–28; compare Ed1 4.215.23 (‘[neces]sarily be’) to 219.13 (‘country, and which,’); E E W N 137.37– 139.10): XVIII:A3 ctd; continues as XX:A1. Since the manuscript does not survive, it can only be presumed that this print is close to it, as in previous batches. On the first page Cadell has made one clarificatory correction (rejected for the  ); he has drawn a line at the bottom of the page, presumably to indicate that his attention shifted to XIX:A2. XIX:A2] M S 3779, ff. 431r–432v (as XIX:A1): perhaps XVIII:A2 ctd; continues as XX:A3. The print is identical with that of XIX:A1. Cadell has revised these 3 pages extensively, for the sake of clarification, general stylistic improvements, elimination of tautology, and at one point sense (though that was not adopted). He has copied his own correction on the first page from XIX:A1. Approximately half his corrective work has been accepted for the  . XIX:A3] M S 3778, ff. 206r–207v (as XIX:A1): XVIII:A4 ctd; no successor. The print is identical with that of XIX:A1. Lockhart has corrected 2 errors and made a substantial change in the sense (rejected for the  ). XIX:B] M S 3779, ff. 335r–336v (proof 4.217–220; Ed1 4.216.2 (‘in the modified way’) to 220.2 (‘bewildering the Lady’); E E W N 137.39– 139.20): XVIII:B ctd; continues as XX:B. The print follows XIX:A2, incorporating Cadell’s handwritten changes there. Since the procedures on these pages are rather complex, a sequential commentary seems called for. At the head of the batch Ballantyne has written ‘Revised’ and Cadell ‘I must see all this again’. There is a handwritten deletion affecting the sense (Cadell in ink, over Anne’s pencil), and the print has a variant in 138.3 (‘universal’ becomes ‘the highest’). At 138.12–17 Cadell has replaced the print incorporating his earlier handwritten changes with Lockhart’s version from XIX:A3. He has changed ‘duty’ to ‘duties’

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in line 22 and made several changes in response to Anne’s pencil promptings. Between XIX:B and the first edition ‘herself ’ and ‘as’ are inserted in 138.39: the latter was missed out by the compositor when processing Cadell’s correction. On 139 Cadell changes ‘place’ to ‘spot’ in line 13 to avoid repetition. He consequently changes ‘spot’ to ‘ravine’ in line 17, and before the first edition this was further changed from ‘though the ravine itself was’ to ‘though that ravine was’, probably partly to avoid repeating ‘itself ’ from line 15. Also before the first edition a comma was inserted after ‘which’ in line 10, and a hyphen was introduced into ‘hunting-match’ in 14. For the  it has been possible to restore several of the XIX:A1 print readings, most of which are likely to derive from the manuscript. Section XX: 139.10 (‘winding among’) to 146.14 (‘proposed, and’). The manuscript for this section does not survive. There are four extant sets of proofs representing two stages in the development of the text. XX:A1] M S 3779, ff. 29r–38v (proof 2.29–48; Ed1 4.219.13 (‘winding among’) to 237.20 (‘whatever, otherwise’); E E W N 139.10–146.11): XIX:A1 ctd; continues as XXI:A1. There are no handwritten corrections. XX:A2] M S 3778, ff. 245r–254v (as XX:A1): no predecessor; continues as XXI:B1. The print is as that of XX:A1: again, there are no handwritten corrections. XX:A3] M S 3779, ff. 433r–442v (as XX:A1): XIX:A2 ctd; continues as XXI:B3. The print is as that of XX:A1. Cadell has made some 46 corrections (2.6 per first-edition page), principally: 11 general stylistic changes (8 rejected for the  ) and 5 eliminations of tautology (all rejected); 8 changes of repeated words (2 rejected); 8 mots justes (5 rejected); 6 changes in the sense, sometimes arising from local business (3 rejected); and 5 clarifications (3 rejected). In all, some 28 of the 46 corrections are rejected for the  . XX:B] M S 3779, ff. 337r–344v (proof 4.221–38; Ed1 220.3 (‘Augusta amidst’) to 237.23 (‘proposed, and’); E E W N 139.20–146.14): XIX:B ctd; continues as XXI:C. The print derives from that of XIX:A3, incorporating most of Cadell’s handwritten corrections, and with one verbal variant (rejected for the  ) and a very few minor changes in punctuation and spelling. Cadell has made a further 31 or so corrections (1.7 per first-edition page), principally: 7 general stylistic changes (5 rejected for the  ) and 6 eliminations of tautology (5 rejected); 6 changes of the sense (5 rejected); 5 clarifications (2 rejected); and 4 changes of repeated words (one rejected). Many of these changes are in response to pencilled suggestions by Anne; Ballantyne is responsible for two corrections of typographical errors. Some 20 of the 31 corrections have been rejected for the  .

   

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Between XX:B and the first edition some 56 further corrections were made (3.1 per first-edition page), principally: the insertion of 11 commas (2 deleted); 7 changes of spelling; 6 changes of repeated words (3 rejected for the  ); 5 clarifications (3 rejected); 5 changes to the form of words (4 rejected); 4 general stylistic changes (3 rejected) and one elimination of tautology (rejected); 4 corrections of error or fancied error, mostly affecting the time-scheme (2 rejected); and 4 insertions of ‘de’ or ‘De’ (all rejected). Only 2 corrections affected the sense: both are now rejected. In all, some 25 of the 56 changes have been rejected for the  . Section XXI: 146.11 (‘than is necessary’) to 149.15 (‘men whom you’). For this section there are six extant sets of proofs representing three stages in the development of the text. XXI:A1] M S 3779, ff. 39r–42v (proof 2.49–56; Ed1 4.237.21 (‘than is necessary’) to 245.16 (‘honour, and the’); E E W N 146.11–149.15): X:A1 ctd; continues as XXII:A1. The print follows the manuscript closely, with the normal processings, apart from 10 changes of the usual sorts (5 of them rejected for the  ). There are no handwritten corrections. XXI:A2] M S 3778, ff. 105r–108v (as XXI:A1): no predecessor; continues as XXII:A2. The print is that of XXI:A1. Scott has made 8 handwritten corrections (one per first-edition page, all accepted for the  ), mostly of a very routine nature: 2 changes of repeated words; 2 clarifications; one stylistic change; one mot juste; and one correction of error, where Laidlaw misheard ‘pacifick’ as ‘specific’ (147.19). There is one minor change in the sense. Scott has not responded to Ballantyne’s ‘Incomplete’ at 148.24, if that was present when he saw the proofs. All of Scott’s corrections have been accepted, with the exception of the first: at 146.15 Scott pruned the repetitive phrase ‘each maintaining silence and pondering’ to read ‘and pondering’, but in XXI:B3 Cadell spotted that this did not fit perfectly with the required sense and came up with the more satisfactory first-edition reading ‘each pondering’. XXI:B1] M S 3778, ff. 255r–258v (proof 2.49–56; Ed1 4.237.21– 245.17 (‘men whom you’)): XX:A2 ctd; continues as XXII:B1. The print derives from that of XXI:A2 incorporating Scott’s handwritten corrections there. At 146.28 Scott’s ‘selfish’ has been printed as ‘selfisb’ and has been corrected in red ink (used by John Hughes). There are no other handwritten corrections. XXI:B2] M S 3778, ff. 13r–16v (as XXI:B1): no predecessor; continues as XXII:B2. The print is that of XXI:B1. Ballantyne has a handwritten change of the spelling of ‘reconcil〈e〉able’ at 146.42 and a few mechanical markings. XXI:B3] M S 3779, f. 516r–v, ff. 346r–348v (as XXI:B1): XX:A3 ctd; resumes after 2 pages as XXII:B3. The print is that of XXI:B1.

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Cadell has some 24 corrections (3 per first-edition page): 13 general stylistic changes, mostly very minor (11 rejected for the  ), and 2 eliminations of tautology (both rejected); and 4 clarifications (3 rejected). Some of these take up or respond to Anne in pencil. In all, 19 of the 24 corrections have been rejected for the  . XXI:C] M S 3779, f. 345r–v (proof 4.239–40; Ed1 4.237.24 (‘remained silent’) to 239.22 (‘only known’); E E W N 146.14–147.3): XX:B ctd; no successor. Ballantyne’s spelling correction from XXI:B2 has been incorporated in the print; Hughes’s correction of ‘selfisb’ from XXI:B1 is also adopted. The print incorporates Cadell’s handwritten corrections from the corresponding two pages of XXI:B3. In addition Cadell makes two stylistic changes. Between the two pages of XXI:C as corrected by hand and the first edition a phrase is deleted, probably as tautologous (it is restored for the  ), and there is a change to a fancied mot juste (rejected); four commas and a ‘de’ are inserted. For the main part of the batch, between XXI:B3 and the first edition some 30 corrections (5 per first-edition page) were made, principally 6 insertions of ‘de’ (rejected for the  ) and 4 commas inserted (2 deleted). In all, 15 of the 30 changes are rejected for the  . Section XXII: 149.15 (‘lady’s happiness,’) to 152.29 (‘rules of the bless[ed]’). For this section there are five extant sets of proofs representing two stages in the development of the text. XXII:A1] M S 3779, ff. 43r–45bv (proof 2.57–64; Ed1 4.245.16 (‘lady’s happiness’) to 254.8 (‘rules of the bless[ed]’)): XXI:A1 ctd; no successor. The print follows the manuscript closely, with the usual processing. There are some 18 changes (2 per first-edition page): 5 corrections of error; 4 stylistic changes (2 rejected for the  ); 4 clarifications (one rejected); 3 tidyings (one rejected); and one misreading (now corrected). In all, 5 of the 18 changes are rejected for the  . There are no handwritten corrections. XXII:A2] M S 3778, ff. 109r–112v (as XXII:A1): XXI:A2 ctd; perhaps continues as XXIII:A. The print is that of XXII:A1. Scott (and Ballantyne working mechanically) have made 14 handwritten corrections (1.6 per first-edition page), notably several changes to the sense, all of them substantial and/or distinctively authorial (most notably the addition of the paragraph at 149.40–150.3), and two of them involving small ‘papers apart’ (bound as ff. 129r and 130r). All of the corrections are accepted for the  , except for one that is clearly erroneous and one that creates repetition. XXII:B1] M S 3778, ff. 259r–262v (proof 2.57–64; Ed1 4.245.17 (‘have done every thing’) to 253.20 (‘“for your’); E E W N 149.15–152.20): XXI:B1 ctd; continues as XXIII:B1. The print derives from that of XXII:A2 incorporating Scott’s handwritten corrections there, with the

   

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usual processing of the longer material and one misreading or change (‘who’ to ‘which’ at 151.34). Two commas are elsewhere deleted. There are no handwritten corrections. XXII:B2] M S 3778, ff. 17r–20v (as XXII:B1): XXI:B2 ctd; continues as XXIII:B2. The print is that of XXII:B1. Ballantyne has filled a gap left because of a deletion in a Scott handwritten correction in XXII:A2. (The gap is simply closed in the first edition.) He has indicated an incomplete sentence in the same passage. XXII:B3] M S 3779, ff. 349r–351v (proof 2.59–64; compare Ed1 4.247.20 (‘and the safeguard’) to 253.20 (‘ “for your’); E E W N 150.6– 152.20): XXI:B3 resumed after 2–page gap; continues as XXIII:B3. The print is that of XXII:B1. Cadell has made 9 corrections (1.3 per firstedition page): 4 stylistic changes (3 rejected for the  ); 3 changes of repeated words (one rejected); one grammatical correction; and one change in the sense (perhaps to eliminate tautology: it is rejected). In all, 5 of the 9 corrections are rejected for the  . Between XXII:B3 and the first edition some 27 further changes of the usual sorts at that stage were made (3 per first-edition page), principally: 5 insertions of ‘de’ (rejected for the  ); 4 stylistic changes (2 rejected); and 3 commas added (2 deleted). In all, 6 of the 27 changes are rejected for the  . In addition, 6 changes were made subsequent to the print of XXII:B2 in the portion for which XXII:B3 does not survive (149.15–150.5): 5 of these are rejected for the . Section XXIII: 152.20 (‘own sakes,’) to 155.13 (‘at once conferred’). For this section there are four extant sets of proofs, representing two stages of the development of the text (though in this case only a difference in page division up to the end of Chapter 7 is involved). XXIII:A] M S 3778, ff. 113r–116v (proof 2.65–72; Ed1 4.254.8 (‘[bless]ed church,’) to 261.12 (‘at once conferred’); E E W N 152.29– 155.13): perhaps XXII:A2 ctd; perhaps continues as XXIV:A. The print follows the manuscript fairly closely, with the normal processing. There are 8 verbal changes to the manuscript (1.1 per first-edition page) of the usual sorts: clarification (2, both rejected for the  ), tidying, forms of words, grammar, and style. A gap has been left in one of the clarifications (see the Emendation List entry for 154.43), suggesting difficulty in reading a handwritten correction at the preceding proof stage (in XXIII:B3 Cadell fills the gap with ‘absence’; see the entry in the Emendation List). This may possibly be Scott’s set (linking XXII:A2 and XXIV:A), but there are no handwritten corrections, and one would expect Scott to have filled the lacuna mentioned. XXIII:B1] M S 3778, ff. 263r–266v (2.65–72; Ed1 4.253.21 (‘own sakes,’) to 261.12): XXII:B1 ctd; continues as XXIV:B2. The print follows that of XXIII:A, except for the pagination up to the end of Chapter 7. There are no handwritten corrections.

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XXIII:B2] M S 3778, ff. 220r–223v (as XXIII:B1): XXII:B2 ctd; continues as XXIV:B3. The print is that of XXIII:B1. A couple of house typographical corrections have been made in ink. XXIII:B3] M S 3779, ff. 352r–355v (as XXIII:B1): XXII:B3 ctd; continues as XXIV:B4. The print is that of XXIII:B1. Cadell has entered some 41 corrections (5.9 per first-edition page), many in response to Anne’s pencil, principally: 10 general stylistic changes (8 rejected for the  ) and 6 eliminations of tautology (2 rejected); 9 changes of sense, some relating to local business (7 rejected); 5 changes of repeated words (one rejected); and 4 clarifications (all rejected). In all, some 26 of the 41 corrections are rejected for the  . Between XXIII:B3 and the first edition a further 37 or so corrections were made (5.3 per first-edition page), principally: 8 stylistic changes (5 rejected for the  ); 5 commas added and 3 deleted; and 4 corrections of error or perceived error (one rejected). In all, 9 of the 37 changes have been rejected for the  . Section XXIV: 155.14 (‘by the slap’) to 164.7 (‘consisting of some’). There is no manuscript surviving for this section. There are five extant sets of proofs representing two stages in the development of the text. XXIV:A] M S 3778, ff. 21r–32v (proof 2.73–96; Ed1 4.261.13 (‘by the slap’) to 283.14 (‘consisting of some’)): perhaps XXIII:A ctd; continues as XXV:B1. Ballantyne has headed the first gathering ‘Revise’. Since there is no manuscript for this section, nothing can be said about the differences between it and the print. There are some 50 handwritten corrections (2.3 per first-edition page), at least 6 of the mechanical ones by Ballantyne. Scott was responsible for most, if not all, of the remainder, which include principally: 12 clarifications; 8 general stylistic changes and one elimination of tautology; 5 changes affecting the sense; the sorting of 4 repetitions; and the insertion of 4 commas. All of the corrections have been accepted for the  , apart from 4 which are clearly confused or otherwise erroneous and one which creates a repetition. XXIV:B1] M S 3779, ff. 104r–115v (as XXIV:A): no predecessor; continues as XXV:B2. The print derives from that of XXIV:A, incorporating Scott’s handwritten corrections there, sometimes tidied up, and with at least one major misreading. At one point Cadell notes: ‘all this confused and requiring careful revision’. He makes only 7 corrections: 4 stylistic, one elimination of tautology and 2 clarifications. One of the stylistic changes leads to a repetition. Apart from one correction these changes do not appear in the first edition. XXIV:B2] M S 3778, ff. 267r–278v (as XXIV:A): XXIII:B1 ctd; continues as XXV:B3. The print is that of XXIV:B1. There are no handwritten corrections.

   

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XXIV:B3] M S 3779, ff. 58r–69v (as XXIV:A): XXIII:B2 ctd; no successor. The print is that of XXIV:B1. Ballantyne has headed the first gathering ‘Revise’. There are 5 handwritten corrections, mostly of punctuation and spelling, some or all of which are probably Ballantyne’s (there are also a few purely mechanical marks). On 161–62 there are two verbal corrections introducing the precise form of Scott’s handwritten corrections in XXIV:A. These may be Ballantyne’s, though the form of ‘and’ is not his normal one: the verbal corrections were never adopted, but some of his minor changes were. XXIV:B4] M S 3779, ff. 356r–367v (as XXIV:A): XXIII:B3 ctd; continues as XXV:B4. The print is that of XXIV:B1. Cadell has made some 64 corrections (2.9 per first-edition page), a few responding to Anne’s pencil, principally: 12 changes in the sense, including several deleted passages (4 rejected for the  );53 11 general stylistic changes (6 rejected) and 8 eliminations of tautology (2 rejected); 10 changes of repeated words (one rejected); and 8 clarifications (4 rejected). In all, some 20 of the 64 corrections are rejected for the  . Between XXIV:B4 and the first edition some 80 further changes were made (3.6 per first-edition page), half of them alterations of punctuation and spelling (including some of Ballantyne’s from B3), and the insertion of ‘de’ before ‘Walton’. The verbal changes include 10 general stylistic alterations (6 rejected for the  ) and 6 clarifications (5 rejected). In all, some 32 of the 80 changes are rejected for the  .54 Section XXV: 164.7 (‘churchman of rank,’) to 171.42 (‘here present.” ’). For this section there are six extant sets of proofs representing three stages in the development of the text. XXV:A] M S 3780, ff. 73r–84v (proof 2.97–120; compare Ed1 4.283.14 (‘churchman of rank’) to 303.24 (‘under his orders.” ’); E E W N 164.7– 171.42): no predecessor; continues sas XXVI:A1. The batch is headed ‘Duplicate’. The print follows the manuscript faithfully, with the usual processing. There is one clarification (rejected for the  ), one misreading, one word changed for no apparent reason, one change of a repeated word, and one correction of error. At the end there are four paragraphs with an apparently abortive beginning for Chapter 20.55 There are no handwritten corrections. XXV:B1] M S 3778, ff. 33r–43r (proof 2.97–117; compare Ed1 4.283.14–303.24): XXIV:A ctd; continues as XXVI:B1. The print has some 69 differences from that of XXV:A (3.5 per first-edition page), several of the corrections suggesting Scott’s involvement. The principal categories are: 19 clarifications (5 rejected for the  ); 15 general stylistic changes (4 rejected) and one elimination of tautology (rejected); 10 changes of repeated words (one rejected); and 10 changes in the sense (2 rejected). In all, some 15 of the 69 changes have been rejected for the  . Scott made a further 30 changes (1.5 per

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print, principally: 17 general stylistic changes; 16 clarifications; 11 firstedition page), principally: 11 clarifications; 6 changes of sense; 6 mots justes; and 5 stylistic changes. These were not adopted, but they are accepted for the  unless there is good reason for not doing so: 6 of them are clearly unsatisfactory, often because they create repetition. XXV:B2] M S 3779, ff. 116r–126r (as XXV:B1): XXIV:B1 ctd; continues as XXVI:B2. The print is that of XXV:B1. Cadell has made a handwritten correction at 165.24 (‘Bishop’ to ‘Archbishop’), which he repeats in XXV:B4 (it was adopted) and a consequent change at 165.41 (it was not adopted). XXV:B3] M S 3778, ff. 279r–289r (as XXV:B1): XXIV:B2 ctd; continues as XXVI:B3. The print is that of XXV:B1. There are no handwritten corrections. XXV:B4] M S 3779, ff. 368r–378r (as XXV:B1): XXIV:B4 ctd; continues as XXVI:B4. The print is that of XXV:B1. Cadell has made some 94 corrections (4.7 per first-edition page), sometimes taking up pencil suggestions probably by Anne, principally: 30 general stylistic changes (24 rejected for the  ) and 10 eliminations of tautology (5 rejected); 13 changes of repeated words; 11 clarifications (6 rejected); 9 presumed corrections (8 rejected); 8 changes affecting the sense (7 rejected); and 7 mots justes (5 rejected). In all, some 57 of the 94 corrections have been rejected for the  . XXV:C] M S 3779, ff. 395r–403r (proof 4.289–303; Ed1 4.288.21 (‘various nature’) to 303.24; E E W N 166.9–171.42): no predecessor; continues as XXVI:C. The batch is headed by Cadell: ‘A Revise with all possible speed — RC Friday [new line] 5 oclock PM’. The print derives from that of XXV:B4, with 9 small changes, and incorporating the corrections entered by Cadell there. In addition, Cadell has made some 15 corrections (one per first-edition page), principally 5 general stylistic changes (4 rejected for the  ) and one elimination of tautology, and 5 changes affecting the sense, including the insertion of three paragraphs of local business after 166.23: this last is one of 4 such changes now rejected. In all, 9 of the 15 corrections have been rejected for the  . Between XXV:C and the first edition there are some 24 further small corrections (1.2 per first-edition page), principally: 8 commas added; 4 changes in the forms of words (3 rejected for the  ); 3 grammatical corrections (one rejected); and 3 substitutions of semicolons for commas. As with the previous section, the evidence from the American editions shows that at least two stages were involved before the first-edition text was finalised. In the opening pages of the batch, not present in XXV:C, there are half a dozen changes between XXV:B4 and the first edition, 3 of them rejected for the  . Section XXVI: 172.1 (‘Chapter Nine’) to 189.17 (‘good humour.’).

   

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For this section there are seven extant sets of proofs representing three stages in the development of the text. XXVI:A1] M S 3778, ff. 143r–154v; M S 3780, ff. 85r–94r (proof 2.121 (‘they might escape’) to 2.163; Ed1 after 4.304 to 4.328.9 (‘family of Fleming.’); E E W N 172.34–189.17): XXV:A ctd; continues as XXVII:A1. The print follows Scott’s and then Laidlaw’s written manuscript very closely, leaving gaps where it was not possible to decipher a word. It begins a few lines into the manuscript’s f. 402r, the leaf originally numbered 2 by Scott, which with a preceding leaf now missing carries the original opening of Chapter 20 (see the description of XXV:A above). On ff. 143v–151r (the long section excised for the first edition but restored for the  ) there are some 27 verbal changes to the manuscript: half of them tidying sensibly, but including 6 misreadings (the misreadings that survived to XXV:B1 are corrected for the present text). In the published section there are some 20 changes (0.8 per first-edition page), including 5 straight corrections of error (all accepted for the  ). In all, 4 of the 20 changes surviving to the first edition have been rejected for the  . The  3778 portion has corrections by Cadell affecting only the last two lines; the   3780 portion is headed ‘Duplicate’, probably by Cadell, who has made three handwritten corrections on one page (one a sorting of error, one a speech attribution, and one a clarification—all accepted for the  ). Later there is a correction of the punctuation, perhaps by Ballantyne. XXVI:A2] M S 3779, ff. 82r–90r (proof 2.147–63; Ed1 4.312.18 (‘There was only one’) to 328.9; E E W N 183.2–189.17): no predecessor; continues as XXVII:A2. The print is that of the later part of XXVI:A1. There are no handwritten corrections. XXVI:B1] M S 3778, ff. 43v–44v, 193r–194v, 224r–231v, 179r– 190r (proof 2.118–63; Ed1 4.304.1 (‘Chapter V.’) to 328.9; E E W N 172.1–189.17): XXV:B1 ctd; continues as XXVII:B1 This print begins with a new opening for Chapter 20 which joins up with XXVI:A1 in Greenleaf ’s speech at 172.37–39. The print of the long section excised for the first edition has some 100 differences from that of A1 (4.3 per first-edition page), principally: 40 clarifications; 20 changes to the sense; 15 general stylistic enhancements; and 8 mots justes. Scott is likely to have been involved in the process that resulted in the print, though most of the work is routine or fussy. In all, half of the changes have been rejected for the  , principally some 27 clarifications and 8 general stylistic changes. Scott has some 63 handwritten corrections to the unpublished section, principally: 18 clarifications; 13 general stylistic enhancements; 9 mots justes; 7 changes of sense; and 5 corrections of error. Almost all of his corrections have been accepted for the  . Three tiny corrections are probably Ballantyne’s work. In the rest of the section, which survived to the first edition with further corrections, there are some 77 changes from the XXVI:A1

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mots justes; and 8 changes to the sense. In all, 17 of the changes that survived to the first edition have been rejected for the  . Scott has some 60 handwritten corrections in this published portion (2.6 per first-edition page), principally: 16 clarifications; 13 stylistic enhancements; 9 changes of the sense, and 5 mots justes. Almost all of his corrections have been accepted for the  . Three tiny corrections are likely Ballantyne’s work, and he may have been responsible for a few of the other small corrections. Scott notes at the top of f. 224r (beginning ‘vows, which ought to have been’: see the entry for 174.31 in the Emendation List), and then deletes his comment: ‘Here a blank uncor-rected of four or five pages which runs the risque of rendering the whole incorrect & my time reduced to two days of leaving Abbotsford’. XXVI:B2] M S 3779, ff. 126v–139v; M S 3778, ff. 233r–242r (as XXVI:B1): XXV:B2 ctd; continues as XXVII:B2. The print is as that of XXVI:B1. Certain passages are marked in the margin. There are 2 typographical handwritten corrections by Cadell or Ballantyne. There is also a comment by Cadell on f. 128v (at ‘He now discovered the lady’: see the entry for 173.33 in the Emendation List): ‘he had his eye on her on last page’, and a ‘Confused’ beside part of the previous page. Cadell has also repaired missing words (differently from his work on XXVI:B3). He has cut the sentence at 182.16–19, a change not adopted for the first edition. At 182.35 he has cut the first ‘he’ (not adopted), and ‘lately’ before ‘lost’ (adopted). He has marked several miscellaneous passages in the margin. There are no other handwritten corrections. XXVI:B3] M S 3778, ff. 289v–312r (as XXVI:B1): XXV:B3 ctd; continues as XXVII:B3. The print is that of XXVI:B1. Several letters or words have dropped out, and at 182.12 they have been repaired in ink by Cadell, in a form which was adopted (but which is rejected for the  ). At 182.14 he mistakenly changed ‘reverting’ to ‘reverted’, which was not adopted. There are no other handwritten corrections. XXVI:B4] M S 3779, ff. 378v–394v, 322r–330v (as XXVI:B1): XXV:B4 ctd; continues as XXVII:B4. The print is that of XXVI:B1. Cadell has made some 85 corrections (3.4 per first-edition page). The principal categories are: 17 general stylistic changes 9 (13 rejected for the  ), and 6 eliminations of tautology (4 rejected); 15 mots justes (11 rejected); 15 changes to the sense (8 rejected); 11 clarifications (7 rejected); 8 corrections of perceived error (2 rejected); and 6 changes of repeated words (one rejected). In all, some 52 of the 85 corrections which survived to the first edition have been rejected for the  . At the beginning of the batch, Cadell has made a major cut in the proofs (after first marking a few corrections, mostly of clear error). He replaces this material with a page of narrative (see the entry for 172.11 in the Emendation List).

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XXVI:C] M S 3779, ff. 403v–407v, 315r–320v and ‘paper apart’ at 321r, 313r–314r (proof 4.304–328; Ed1 4.304.1–328.9: XXV:C ctd; continues as XXVII:C1. The print derives from that of XXVI:B4, incorporating Cadell’s handwritten corrections there. Some 30 small corrections were made in the print (1.3 per first-edition page), 6 of them inserted ‘De’s. In addition, Cadell has made some 55 corrections (2.4 per first-edition page), principally: 14 stylistic changes (9 rejected for the  ) and 7 eliminations of tautology (4 rejected); 12 clarifications (11 rejected); and 10 changes in the sense (7 rejected). In all, some 38 of the 55 corrections have been rejected for the  . Between XXVI:C and the first edition some 40 further corrections were made (1.7 per first-edition page), mostly punctuational and spelling, but with 5 stylistic changes (one rejected for the  ), 3 clarifications (2 rejected), and 3 changes in the sense (2 rejected). In all, 7 of the 40 changes have been rejected for the  . As with the previous two sections, the evidence from the American editions shows that at least two stages were involved before the first-edition text was finalised. Section XXVII: 189.19 (‘Thus concludes’) to the end. For this section there are ten extant sets of proofs representing six stages in the development of the text. XXVII:A1] M S 3780, ff. 94v–95v (proof 2.164–66; compare Ed1 4.328.11 (‘The gentle reader’) to the end : XXVI:A1 ctd. This is Scott’s ending, now restored for the  from the B1 print as authorially corrected. Apart from two misreadings and a clear correction of error the print follows the manuscript with the usual processings. There are no handwritten corrections, apart from a mechanical mark. XXVII:A2] M S 3779, ff. 90v–91v (as XXVII:A1): XXVI:A2 ctd. The batch is headed by Cadell: ‘In consequence of the Jedediah Introduction this conclusion is uncalled for—’. The print is that of XXVII:A1. There are no handwritten corrections. XXVII:B1] M S 3778, ff. 190v–192r (as XXVII:A1): XXVI:B1 ctd. The print is that of XXVII:A1 with some 13 corrections, mostly clarifications or small changes in the sense. Scott may well have been involved. Half of these have been rejected for the  . Scott has 16 handwritten corrections, including 4 stylistic changes, 3 clarifications, and 3 changes to the sense. Almost all of these are accepted for the present text. XXVII:B2] M S 3778, ff. 242v–244r (as XXVII:A1): XXVI:B2 ctd. The batch is headed by Cadell: ‘All of what follows might most safely be left out I have hinted to the Author that the Introduction told nearly the same—’. The print is that of XXVII:B1. There are no handwritten corrections. XXVII:B3] M S 3778, ff. 312v–314r (as XXVII:A1): XXVI:B3 ctd. The batch is headed by Cadell: ‘The Introduction of Jedidiah renders

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the following unnecessary’. The print is that of XXVII:B1. Lockhart has extensively rewritten the first paragraph and has replaced the last two with a short paragraph largely of his own devising. XXVII:B4] M S 3779, ff. 330v, 333r–334r (as XXVII:A1): XXVI: B4 ctd. The print is that of XXVII:B1. There are 3 handwritten corrections, probably by Ballantyne: all are clear corrections of error, including the change of ‘1827’ to ‘1826’. The whole has subsequently been deleted by Cadell. XXVII:C1] M S 3779, f. 314r; M S 3778, f. 232r (proof and Ed1 4.328.11 to the end): XXVI:C ctd. The beginning and end of this batch seem to be new (the latter salvaged from the deleted end of the Jedidiah introduction). The rest of the (galley) print is derived from that of XXVII:B3 with Lockhart’s handwritten corrections made there incorporated, and with the addition of two commas, a stylistic change, and a mot juste introduced. There are no handwritten corrections: Cadell has endorsed the beginning of the section ‘revised already & sent this forenoon’. XXVII:C2] M S 3779, f. 332r (as XXVII:C1): no predecessor. The print is that of XXVII:C1. Cadell has made a stylistic change at the beginning (prompted by Anne in pencil), and there is a deleted pencil remark affecting ‘commanded’ in Ed1 4.328.14. Cadell also changes the sense of Ed1 4.330.4. He has headed the (galley) proof ‘This will do [new line] Friday m[ornin]g’. XXVII:D] M S 3779, f. 331r (as XXVII:C1) to the end): no predecessor. Cadell’s handwritten changes in XXVII:C2 have been adopted in the print of this galley proof. At Ed1 4.328.14 the print has ‘commissioned’, which is changed, probably by Cadell, to ‘commanded’ (but Ed1 still has ‘commissioned’). There are no other handwritten corrections. Between XXVII:D and the first edition two commas were deleted. XXVII:E] M S 3779, ff. 13r–15r. This is a fragment in Lockhart’s hand ‘to be added to the postscript of Castle Dangerous’. It ends with a version (perhaps the first) of Ed1 4.328.13–18, and is keyed to lead into a paragraph beginning ‘I will not swagger &c’. Cadell has endorsed it ‘This not made use of—written by Mr Lockhart Nov 1831’. The material is based on some of that which Lockhart had cut from the end of the Jedidiah introduction. 3.    Scott read Count Robert of Paris, at least, in Naples, for on 16 February he wrote to Cadell: ‘I sent Lockhart a set of errata with a correction of errors from Count paris It grieves me that they are taken from Galignanis edition but I suppose it can easily be transferrd to yours I hope it will come save.’56 He would appear to have similarly corrected Castle Dangerous, for the Magnum edition of the novel contains an introduction ‘forwarded . . . from Naples in February 1832, together with some corrections of the text, and notes on localities mentioned in the Novel’

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(47. 245). There is no way of telling how many corrections Scott made, or their nature. Nor can we know how many, if any, of them were incorporated in the Magnum edition (1833) and the collected Tales and Romances in the three usual formats (also 1833). Given the peculiar nature of the production of Castle Dangerous and Scott’s probable involvement to some extent, by way of Galignani, in the development of the Magnum text, it has seemed advisable to diverge from the normal  procedure and adopt from the Magnum not only clear rectifications of error but changes that may be considered as likely authorial stylistic enhancements. The Magnum footnotes, however, appear in Volumes 25a and 25b of the  . From the Magnum derive (probably independently, though one cannot rule out some sporadic marking up of a copy of the Magnum version in the printing house)57 the texts of this novel in the three versions of Tales and Romances published in 8vo, 16mo, and 18mo formats in May 1833. A hypothetical stemma, or family-tree, of editions, reads thus: First Edition (1832) o [Scott’s corrections to the Galignani edition (1832)] o bbbbbbbbbbMagnum (1833)dddddddddd o o o 8vo Tales and Romances 16mo Tales and Romances 18mo Tales and Romances (1833) (1833) (1833)

The Magnum. Castle Dangerous appeared as Volume 47 of the Magnum edition in April 1833. There are some 90 verbal changes to the firstedition text, in addition to the provision of footnotes and chapter endnotes. Some 25 of the changes appear to have been made on general stylistic grounds, and some 20 to avoid verbal repetition. Some 7 changes are grammatical corrections, and another 10 or so involve other sorts of corrections, half of them historical. There are some 7 clarifications, a similar number of changes affecting the sense, though not radically, and again a similar number of corrections made to clarify the plotting. Between the first edition and the Magnum there were some 225 non-verbal changes, principally: 41 commas added, and 58 deleted; 37 changes in spelling or the forms of words; 14 lower case initial letters raised, and half the number of initial capitals lowered; 11 hyphens inserted; and 10 substitutions of semicolons for commas as against 8 going in the opposite direction. The present text accepts a third of the verbal changes in the Magnum for the reasons given above, resulting in nearly 30 emendations in addition to those already examined (7 of them involving repetitions). A handful of helpful changes to the firstedition punctuation have also been adopted.

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Tales and Romances. Some of the changes made in the Magnum may have derived from Scott’s work on the Galignani edition, but he could have had no hand in the texts of Castle Dangerous which appeared in the three formats of Tales and Romances in May 1833. They are however described briefly to complete the publishing history. Castle Dangerous occupies the second part of Volume 13 and the first part of Volume 14 of the 14–volume octavo Tales and Romances, of which the first seven volumes appeared in 1827, and the last seven in 1833. The text makes 7 verbal changes to the Magnum text, some of them clearly erroneous. As with all of the Tales and Romances texts, the long notes are reserved for the ‘Introductions, and Notes and Illustrations’ in supplementary volumes. There are some 420 unique non-verbal changes, suggesting the activity of a restless compositor in Volume 14 (printed by Andrew Shortrede), principally: some 120 commas added and some 30 deleted; some 70 changes in spelling; nearly 50 raisings of initial lower case letters, and nearly 20 substitutions of semicolons for commas. Over 15 of these changes revert to first-edition readings, but they may all have been spontaneous. The present text adopts 3 nonverbal readings from the octavo Castle Dangerous to correct typographical anomalies in the base-text. Castle Dangerous occupies the second part of Volume 16 in the 17–volume 16mo Tales and Romances, of which the first nine volumes appeared in 1827 and the last eight in 1833. There are a mere 40 unique changes to the Magnum text, all non-verbal: three of the readings are reversions to the first edition, probably spontaneous. The present text adopts one non-verbal reading from the 16mo Castle Dangerous (a comma called for by the sense at 17.4). Castle Dangerous occupies the second part of Volume 12 and the first part of Volume 13 of the 13–volume 18mo Tales and Romances, of which the first seven volumes were published in 1827 and the last six in 1833. The text makes 4 verbal changes to the Magnum, and there are a further 35 or so non-verbal changes, 10 of them typographical errors. The 18mo reverts to first-edition readings on three occasions, probably spontaneously. 4.   :           The first significant intermediaries in the conversion of Scott’s late manuscripts into print were normally the compositors. They would be responsible for punctuating the text, and in the case of Castle Dangerous they interpreted Laidlaw’s manuscript sensibly in accordance with the conventions of the period. (Laidlaw provides very little internal punctuation in sentences.) Consequently, only very occasional emendations of the base-text punctuation have been considered necessary, especially since Laidlaw’s punctuation is of much less importance for the editor than Scott’s own.

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Compositorial misreadings are not numerous, since Laidlaw’s hand is admirably clear (apart from a curious failure to distinguish between the upper and lower case forms of several initial letters), and the skilled labourers in the printing house followed him faithfully. The rare misreadings of words include: ‘parcel hose’ for ‘paned hose’ (6.19); ‘cordon’ for ‘cincture’ (6.31); ‘discontented’ for ‘disconcerted’ (13.13); ‘quarter’ for ‘guesten’ (16.39); ‘dark’ for ‘dank’ (25.8 and 86.16); ‘hand’ for ‘pang’ (37.31); ‘house’ for ‘hunt’ (61.19); ‘put’ for ‘trust’ (89.1); and ‘inclined’ for ‘induced’ (106.10). Apart from Sections XXVI and XXVII, where the extensive rewriting at proof stage makes meaningful calculations impossible, some 6000 changes in the various stages of the text can be traced, excluding the very numerous non-verbal changes at the initial stage (particularly the provision of punctuation). Of these 6000 changes the surviving proof corrections indicate that some 1900 are by Cadell, some 650 by Lockhart, and some 150 by Scott, with a small number of mechanical corrections by Ballantyne. More than half of the changes (those found in the different print stages) cannot be attributed to a particular corrector: most of them will be by either Cadell or Scott himself—it will be recalled that most of the author’s proofs have not survived—and a much smaller number will be by Lockhart (especially in Sections XX–XXV, where his set of proofs is wanting). The manuscript of Castle Dangerous is often very faulty, though the bulk of it, in Laidlaw’s hand, is less so than the short passages written by Scott himself: this may be because Laidlaw exercised some discretion as he wrote from dictation, or because Scott found he could compose more fluently when dictating than when struggling to write, or most likely from a combination of these factors. Much correction was necessary at the various proof stages to render the manuscript publishable. Cadell, Lockhart, Ballantyne, and Scott himself all contributed to this correcting process. For the editor, Scott’s handwritten corrections are the most straightforward to deal with. Since they are unquestionably authorial, they are accepted unless there are compelling reasons for not doing so, which is not often the case. The most common reasons for rejecting a Scott correction are that it is clearly mistaken in some way, or that it inadvertently creates repetition. A mistaken correction can be observed at 149.22–23. Scott was misled by the punctuation of XXII:A2: ‘think of this, lady, as being in any hands but those which are safe’ and inserted ‘place’ after ‘this’. At a stage subsequent to the existing proofs the commas, which do not occur in Laidlaw’s manuscript, were removed to leave the first-edition reading ‘think of this lady as being in any hands but those which are safe’. Another simple mistake is Scott’s insertion of ‘who’ in ‘There shall no poor man mwhoo say whose man he is’ at 156.18. A more complex mistaken correction occurs at 164.39–40,

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where XXV:B1 (essentially as the manuscript) reads: ‘company; and at the signal of the minstrel withdrew from the churchyard, where they might be seen and watched by Richard Greenleaf or others, to the inside of the church’. Scott corrects this to read: ‘company. At the signal of the minstrel, he withdrew with his mistress from the churchyard . . .’. This has not addressed the essential incoherence of the passage, however, and it was left to Cadell in XXV:B4 to produce the satisfactory firstedition text: ‘company; on a signal by the minstrel, they withdrew to the inside of the church’. A few lines earlier, one can see Scott inadvertently creating a repetition at 4.285.2 (compare  164.31), where he substitutes ‘devoutly’ for the XXV:B1 ‘proudly’, overlooking the ‘devotion’ later in the sentence: a return to the manuscript, which has no adverb, sorts this problem. Scott’s proof corrections for the earlier Waverley Novels are often creative, but creative corrections are very much the exception in Castle Dangerous. When they occur they range from the very small to substantial changes to the sense. Among the smaller creative corrections one may note: the insertion of ‘almost at unawares’ at 149.32–33; the addition in the description of the dying Turnbull of the phrase ‘with an aspect like the Dying Gladiator’ at 170.25–26; and the expansion of a sentence a few lines later (170.38–41): ‘A loud flourish of trumpets, msounded in the apartments beneat &o seeming to proceed from the very bottom of the earth, now rung through the church, and seemed to rouse the attention of the soldiers and worshippers then assembled m“sign of nigh battle 〈and g〉 or got victory”o.’ Larger corrections include the insertion of the paragraph at 149.40–150.3 (the first-edition version has some later changes), necessary to dispose of Turnbull, but doing more than is merely necessary, and the addition of a culminating sentence to Walton’s speech at 151.41–43. For the most part, though, Scott’s proof corrections for this novel are at best workmanlike, and it is often difficult to see that he has improved the text before him. Some of his many clarifications are certainly helpful, as with ‘some care appeared to have been taken to pre〈serve〉mpareo it [the church] for the service of the day’ (165.3–4: this may be a recovery of his original intention, missed in the process of dictation, and it was adopted for the first edition), and ‘the glimmer of msome specialo bearings particularly gay in emblazonry’ (165.9: this was not adopted and is included for the first time in the present text). Other clarifications seem no better than unobjectionable, though they are accepted as authorial in the  text: ‘I have need to pray that I have not been mmyselfo misled from the true path’ (168.3–4); ‘repent with sincerity of having done to others mthat to 〈others〉 others with the swordo that which he would not willingly have suffered at their hand’ (168.15–17); and ‘“The crime of murder . . . consists not in the mkind ofo weapon with which the 〈crime〉 mdeatho is inflicted . . .’

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(though the avoidance of repetition there is a definite improvement: 168.34–35). Scott’s stylistic enhancements are sometimes welcome: ‘she 〈spoke〉 mexclaimdo, like one almost beside herself with fear— “Help me, Walton!”’ (149.28–30); ‘the msolemno diapason of the thunder’ (166.15–16). But again more often than not they seem to be hardly worth the making: ‘and springing from his horse, 〈he〉 approached Turnbull with his drawn sword’ (147.12–13: this deletion was adopted for the first edition); ‘thou 〈shalt〉 mwilto prevent the causes for strife betwixt thee and thy brethren of the southern land, and 〈shalt〉 eschew the temptation towards 〈that〉 blood-guiltiness which is so rife in this our day and generation’ (169.42–170.1); ‘any number of the Scottish wh〈o〉micho might be agreed mupono’ (171.11: for the first of these changes, neither of which was adopted for the first edition, the original ‘as’ of the manuscript is preferred for the present text). The corrections known to be by Cadell and by Lockhart are often appropriate, but just as frequently they seem to be quite unnecessary (though they must have appeared desirable to Cadell and Lockhart), and sometimes they are positively deleterious. The aim of the present edition is to restore as much as possible of what Scott wrote. Whereas Scott’s own corrections have been accepted unless there are strong reasons for not doing so, those known to be by Cadell or Lockhart have been rejected when the manuscript seems to work satisfactorily, or when it can be made to work with a minimum of editorial intervention. Of Cadell’s 1900–odd changes (before Section XXVI), some 1000 have been rejected. Of Lockhart’s 650, some 347 have been rejected. The rejection rate is thus the same, a little over half. When broken down, the rejection rates for more than half of the main types of correction are mostly very similar: for general stylistic changes 70% for Cadell and 65% for Lockhart; for the excision of tautologies 53% for Cadell and 52% for Lockhart; for clarifications 52% for Cadell and 44% for Lockhart; for mots justes 62% for Cadell and 58% for Lockhart. The other three most common types of correction show more variation. Some 72% of Lockhart’s grammatical corrections have been rejected, as against only 50% of Cadell’s: this reflects Lockhart’s more pronounced grammatical pedantry. The same pedantic tendency probably accounts for the greater rejection rate for Lockhart’s elimination of repetitions (33% against Cadell’s 24%). Some 68% of Lockhart’s corrections affecting the sense have been rejected, as against only 57% of Cadell’s: this difference is accounted for by Lockhart’s greater willingness to rewrite his father-in-law’s work radically. There will be an opportunity to observe some of Cadell’s necessary proof corrections later in the essay. The focus at this stage is chiefly on those judged by the present editor to be unnecessary, and consequently rejected, leading to emendations to the first-edition base-text. The

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proof text in front of Cadell was frequently in need of tidying, but as often as not he rewrote unnecessarily. Scott’s late style inclines to the tautologous, but sometimes this tautology is appropriate to the character speaking. Cadell tends not to recognise this. The minstrel Bertram is a case in point: ‘before I awake 〈again〉 . . . two other strangers 〈besides〉’ (compare 16.17, 20: Anne changes ‘awake’ to ‘awaken’ in pencil); ‘we must be on foot early〈, as you have already apprised me〉’ (21.12); ‘Thank thee . . . as well for thy present intentions, as I shall for thy future performance 〈when that shall come〉’ (28.29–31). Even in the case of Augustine, what seemed to Cadell tautologous can be seen as perfectly natural, and like the other examples discussed it may well have been a happy result of the dictation process: ‘not a word has escaped me that passed 〈between the English soldiers, my father, and thy self,〉 concerning my proposed residence at the cloister’ (21.31–33). This pruning of tautology can be merely fussy (‘the two garments which it was the office of these strings to combine 〈together〉’: 6.32–33). It can also be positively deleterious to the rhetoric and the sense: ‘beware that thou readest the words letter for letter as they are 〈there〉 set down’ (18.30–31); ‘conducting themselves in 〈this〉 mallo mattermso〈, and in all other duties,〉 civilly and courteously to the people of the country, and to those who travel in it’ (19.18–20). The deletion of the phrase ‘not by way of diminishing my guilt, but to show my sense of it’ (125.31–32) is curious, and may again be the result of a perception of tautology, but Walton’s complexity is reduced, as it is by another excision at 68.11–14, and as Sir Aymer’s is by a deletion at 65.1, and Richard Greenleaf ’s by one at 159.37–160.2. Other sorts of stylistic change from Cadell’s pen can also be deleterious, and often this is because of a conventionalising tendency. At 22.9 Augustine originally ‘subjoined’, suggesting that what follows was said sotto voce: Cadell’s ‘answered’ is seriously misleading. Further examples of a substitution of more conventional phraseology for what Cadell must have found unusual can be found at 67.21 (‘unknown to’ for ‘secret from’) and 68.3 (‘become’ for ‘choose the office of ’). The conventionalising sometimes involves a toning down of what might be thought disturbing. In the manuscript and the print of XIV:B the Abbot Jerome is made to say of Augustine: ‘he is at present composed, and if your worship chooses to see him, he is at your command, although little, I fear me, to your satisfaction, for of all the fantastic, monkeybrained youths whom I have met in this world, this I think the most whimsical’. Cadell ends the sentence with ‘command’ (102.37–40). One biblical echo was no doubt considered to be in dubious taste: ‘my father’s house . . . hath more 〈mansions〉 mroomso than one’ (14.22– 23). Another sort of conventionalising springs from the failure to recognise a period idiom, so that ‘done to die’ is changed to ‘done to death’ (141.35).

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All the rejected corrections discussed in the previous paragraph have resulted in emendations for the present text. Further entries in the Emendation List are needed when Cadell makes corrections that lead to inadvertent errors. Thus at 24.29–30 in changing ‘too much wrought’ to ‘over exerted’ (itself another conventionalising) he overlooks the repetition with ‘over walking’ (that first ‘over’ was inserted for the III:A print, very likely by Scott, and at that stage the manuscript’s ‘over wrought’ was changed to the ‘too much wrought’ that Cadell had in front of him). A purely erroneous correction occurs at 29.16 where Cadell changes ‘lord’ to ‘lords’ in the reference to Douglas Castle ‘so often won back by its ancient lord’: in fact, according to the fictional accounts followed by Scott, James Douglas won it back three times. As well as rejecting corrections by Cadell that are positively faulty, the present edition also rejects his changes when the manuscript makes good sense, even if Cadell’s version is acceptable in itself. For example, at 22.2 he changes the expression ‘any thing he asks, reasonable or unreasonable’ to ‘any thing he asks in reason’, which makes good sense, but a different sense from what Scott evidently had in mind. At 112.13–17 he was faced with the sentence ‘The champion . . . leaped with the purpose of breaking his own fall and mine, which must otherwise have precipitated us both into the moat of the abbey’, which he changes to read: ‘The champion . . . leaped free of the moat of the convent into which we must otherwise have been precipitated’. Again there is nothing wrong with Cadell’s version, but the manuscript is perfectly satisfactory. Cadell had a sharp eye for discrepancies in Scott’s texts, and he sorted several of these well in Castle Dangerous. The inconsistencies are sometimes purely local. Thus at 25.1–2 Cadell rightly has Sir Aymer say ‘let us move on’ rather than ‘let us to our saddles’, since he, at least, is already mounted (see 24.32). A less localised example occurs at 38.28–30, where the text before Cadell had Bertram ‘thinking within himself upon the uncommon mixture of the mystical scholar and warrior in his old master, and was wondering whether the damps and severities of an English prison had yet encroached upon his health’. William has in fact already died in prison (35.23–27), so Cadell was right to excise the last clause. A little later, Cadell had to delete Augustine from the narrative, since he has been left behind at Saint Bride’s (see 219 above). Further on, he had to take action when in the paragraph at 102.3–7 Sir Aymer originally gave the Abbot Bertram’s letter to Augustine: Scott had forgotten that it had already been delivered to the supposed lad (83.25). Cadell excised the offending material (principally ‘Here is a letter from his father which intimates that the boy is in possession of an important secret, and that it is in his power instantly to solve it. I trust you, father, entirely’ and ‘and to take notice especially of whatever drops from him on first reading his

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father’s letter’), and shortly afterwards, when Jerome reported on his delivery of the letter, he completed the job: ‘〈I glided in beneath the door the billet from his father, since there was no room so to transmit it but by that means〉 mI intimated to him as I best could that he must attend you without delay & prepare to accompany you to the Castle of Douglaso’ (102.23–25). In such cases no emendation to the first-edition text is called for. However, not all of Cadell’s sortings of business are accepted for the present text. At 22.6–7 Bertram advises his supposed son in the III:A proofs: ‘believe me thou must go to bed now, and sleep off the fatigue of yesterday’. Cadell spotted a missing stage and came up with ‘I shall presently mget our host too send 〈you〉 mtheeo 〈some〉 food befitting thy weak constitution, after partaking of which thou must go to bed and sleep off the fatigue of 〈this da〉 mtooday’. In the unlikely event of readers being worried by Augustine’s lack of supper they should not have any difficulty in imagining that he was given refreshment by Dickson. The insertion is unnecessarily clarificatory, as is a good deal of Cadell’s work. Another example can be found in the Emendation List entry for 85.27, where the manuscript presents Walton’s interpretation, or presentation, of matters, and Cadell changes the sense by attempting to tie up loose ends. At 121.41–122.4 Cadell decided to lessen a curious piece of mystification on Sir Aymer’s part. The proof in front of him (XVII:C) reads: ‘I have the youth’s permission, to request or rather to require him to tell the secret, which I conceive to lie in a single word. Should I be right, I put in your hand the piece of paper, which will then be found to ascertain the truth of my conjecture. Should it be otherwise, I throw it into the fire, and thus renounce the conceited idea of having penetrated a mystery to which the sagacity of my betters has not been equal.’ In the XVII:B and C prints the first sentence was altered from the manuscript ‘I have his son’s permission & request to him to tell the secret which I conceive to lie in a single word noted down in this scroll’, which makes the nature of the mystification clearer (a brief memorandum is apparently involved). Responding to the XVII:C text, Cadell came up with: ‘I have in my possession a letter from the young person who was entrusted to the care of the Abbot Jerome, it is written in a delicate female hand and gives authority to the minstrel to declare the purpose which brought them to this vale of Douglas.’ This makes near nonsense of Walton’s reply: ‘. . . I can scarce see occasion for adding so much form to a mystery which can be expressed in such small compass’. The manuscript is restored for the present text and in respect of an associated correction by Lockhart at 123.36–42. An example typical of Cadell’s many small clarifications, dotting every ‘i’ and crossing every ‘t’, can be found at 105.2, where to Jerome’s assurance that Augustine’s door is guarded by an archer he added ‘but to content you I shall secure the door in your presence’.

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There are times when Cadell decided, after wrestling with it, that a passage (however interesting in itself) was simply irrecoverable for public appearance, and the present editor reluctantly agrees with his verdict. At 46.17, after ‘currency.’ the following sentence appears in the V:B proof, first corrected by Cadell as indicated and then deleted: If, for example a friend 〈happens to〉 mshouldo say he would be happy to 〈suffer〉 mleto you 〈to〉 taste a high flavoured and particularly choice cup of wine, provid〈ing〉medo he had not mislaid the key of the cellar, your friend, if 〈he is〉 myou areo a man of the world, mwouldo never intimate〈s〉 a doubt of 〈your〉 mhiso good faith, 〈and admits that the key is in reality far out of the way,〉 but in his heart only infers that you are either sparing of your wine, or unwilling to produce it on the present occasion, and so thanks you for tying yourself to the offer by a sort of loop-knot, which can free you from your engagement the instant 〈when〉 mthato you choose to draw the end of the string. At other times, though, a passage deleted by Cadell can be saved by a simple editorial procedure. The entry for 140.4 in the Emendation List indicates a good case in point. The problem with the proof reading there is that the Knight of the Sepulchre did not say what he is said to have said, but a limited excision gets rid of this problem. Other examples can be found in the entries for 48.28 and 86.21. The corrections executed by Lockhart are very much in line with those by Cadell, and as with Cadell’s work about half of them are necessary. There will be an opportunity to observe some of Lockhart’s routine corrections later. As with Cadell, the discussion at this point focuses mainly on changes rejected for the present text. Many of Lockhart’s corrections are undistinguishable in nature from those made by Cadell. He frequently deletes what he apparently takes to be tautological material. At 135.24–25 and 35–38 he cuts the conclusions of two successive utterances by the Knight of the Tomb: ‘are you not aware, that those who meet with me must consider their business of life as drawing to a close’, and ‘But pursue me as a guide upon the way, and trust to me implicitly, without expecting at once to be troublesome to me with your company, and with your conversation’. But both are telling variations on what has been said, and the second in particular is tonally fascinating. Like Cadell, Lockhart tends to conventionalise morally: at 127.9–12 he deletes the sentence ‘The connexion which is in the other case but casual and of no consequence, becomes in that of a lover and a mistress, a tie the most sacred upon earth, and the breach of which is most unpardonable’. Similar qualms may account for the deletion of the clause referring to the sisterhood of Saint Bride’s at 101.30–32: ‘nor were their qualities of the understanding in any degree so attractive as to compensate their want of charms to a youth of Augustine’s age’.

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Lockhart also conventionalises stylistically: the orally convincing ‘it will be your safest and best way’ becomes the stiffer ‘that will be the safest and best way’ (20.4–5); at 37.15–22 a smoothing-out of character is evident (see the Emendation List entry); and there is a dignifying of Augustine as ‘youth’ rather than ‘boy’ at 21.38. An awkwardness present in the proofs before him led him to a conventionalising substitution at 79.6–7, where Bertram’s power of words becomes ‘not unworthy of his aspect & bearing’ rather than ‘great, and even select’. The awkward proof phrase results from a change for the X:A1 print from the manuscript’s ‘numerous & even select’, where ‘numerous’ repeats a neighbouring occurrence. The present text solves the problem by substituting ‘great’ for the first rather than the second ‘numerous’. Again like Cadell, Lockhart has a tendency to over-clarify: he was mainly responsible for the laborious spelling-out of the matter of Sir Aymer’s memorandum at 123.36–42. And he sometimes deletes material unnecessarily. Other deleterious deletions by Lockhart can be seen when Sir Aymer’s quotations from Lady Augustina’s letter at 126.11–15 and 23–27 are cut, seriously diminishing the rhetorical effect, and two further unnecessary deletions can be observed in the Emendation List entries for 41.43 and 55.4. Lockhart has certain specialities of his own which can lead him beyond the bounds of necessary correction. It was noted above that he is particularly keen on eliminating verbal repetition. Of course this has often to be done, but some of the repetitions eliminated make good rhetorical sense, and the original words are now restored: ‘the gallant defenders of a place so often won back by its ancient lords, and 〈so often〉 with msucho circumstances of 〈equal〉 valour and cruelty’ (29.15–17); ‘〈or, if you will〉 be angrym, 〈let it be〉 if you will,o with the lady who has committed such a piece of folly, or 〈be angry〉 with me’ (124.43–125.1: an editorial comma after ‘will’ solves the problem economically). Lockhart is a grammatical pedant, and this results in some very fussy changes: for example, the substitution of ‘ye shall’ for ‘thou shalt’ and ‘your’ for ‘thy’ at 14.24–25 to match the first part of the speech, and similar changes at 16.30 and 33. He takes it on himself to delete mottoes or parts of mottoes (3.6–10, 55.24–27), to provide one (98.16/17), and even to compose one of his own (129.27/28). He is also, as one would expect, more creative than Cadell. Since the aim of the present edition is to restore Scott rather than preserve Lockhart, some curbing of the younger man’s work has been deemed appropriate: hence ‘Edward the first’ is restored in place of ‘Longshanks’ (49.21), and ‘the ancient family who lived here before the conquest’ for ‘the savage family that lived here, perhaps before the 〈f〉mFolood’ (90.8–9: the ‘savage’ avoids repetition, but it involves a major change in the sense). Lockhart’s change in I:D at 9.43–10.1 of ‘one of the most thriving men that lives near the river’ to ‘one of the most honest fellows of the dale’ is

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indulgent (the manuscript’s ‘one of the most thriving men that lives upon the property of Lord Douglas’ was changed for the I:B print, probably by Scott, to ‘one of the most thriving men that lives upon the river’, which is adopted for the present text). The substitution of ‘shrewd & wise men wax weak in the brain’ for ‘the old man waxes weak in the brain’ (15.28–29), may or may not be an improvement, but it is not called for. The same goes for Lockhart’s replacement at 87.6–9 of ‘and thus evinced both the greatness of the powerful family to which it had belonged, and the power exercised by the enemies by whom it was occupied’ with his own ‘still sufficiently evinced the greatness of the family at whose cost it had been raised, & whose bones had, from 〈time〉 immemorial time, been entombed in its crypts’. Cadell’s less imaginative reading adopted for the present text is closer to the manuscript’s ‘& 〈cost〉 thus evinced both the greatness of the powerfull family to which it had belonged & the power exercised by the enemies by whom such it was occupied’. (This whole scene is extensively reworked by Lockhart, with little justification, as the Emendation List indicates.) At 56.11–13 Lockhart rewrites the descrip-tion of the huntsmen: ‘The figures of the cavaliers, 〈who were riding, often at full speed, through〉 mnow halfseen, now exhibited fully, ‘&’ at the height of strenuous exertion, according to the character of theo dangerous and broken ground’. He provides a rhetorical flourish to end a long speech by Sir Aymer at 125.6–8: ‘punish him for that for which he better deserves a chain of gold 〈than fetters or a dungeon, since he was obviously determined to sacrifice his own life rather than betray his lady’s fancy〉. mLet passion out, if you will, but chase this desponding gloom from the brow of a man and a belted knight.o’. Scott’s son-in-law is particularly keen on eliminating anachronisms, though these are part and parcel of Scott’s creative handling of history. His deletion of the passages involving Froissart and Chaucer are noted in the Emendation List, principally in the entries for 27.23, 28.33, and 29.25. Lockhart also deletes modern references at 48.19–22 and 57.14–16. Lockhart was responsible for several larger-scale corrections which anticipate his extensive rewriting of the conclusion in Section XXVII discussed below. Most notably, he made a substantial adjustment on p. 58 at the beginning of the description of the chase: he transferred the second paragraph of the footnote there from the main text, and at the same time he substituted his own sentence ‘The wild cattle, the most formidable of all the tenants of the ancient Caledonian forest, were however to the English Cavaliers by far the most novel & interesting objects of pursuit.’ for a sentence which in the proof before him (VIII:B) ran: Keen sportsmen, therefore, since the days of Æneas and Ascanius,* have, like the Trojan youth, esteemed their game of

    each species, in proportion to the degree and spirit of resistance or ingenuity of making their escape. [footnote:] * Spumentumque dari [p]ecora inter inertia votis/ Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.58 Lockhart’s correction in this case seems well judged. Even as revised for VIII:B the Classical sentence sits awkwardly in the context, and the material transferred is appropriate for a footnote rather than the main narrative. Of the 3000-odd changes that appear for the first time in the surviving proofs in print rather than as handwritten corrections, and whose authorship therefore cannot be determined with certainty, some 900 have been rejected for the present text. The lower rejection rate than the 50% for Cadell and Lockhart is partly owing to a larger number of non-verbal changes in the surviving stages after the first (non-verbal changes are not included in the calculations for the first surviving proof where the routine initial punctuation supplied by the compositors first appears); but more of a factor is the editor’s awareness that many of the unidentified changes, particularly in the earlier stages of proofs, will have been authorial. Although Scott’s proof corrections at this point in his life are not often strikingly creative, quite a number of changes can be attributed to him with reasonable confidence, and in such cases there can be no question of emendation when his reading has been adopted for the first edition. The proof enhancements likely to be authorial can be very small-scale: the insertion of ‘so give o’er thy grumbling’ at 16.9–10, ‘sullen-browed’ (of Dickson) at 16.15, and ‘by the grace of Our Lady’ at 28.26; the addition of ‘dryly’ to the speech attribution at 30.32 and of ‘somewhere in the North’ to the mention of Angus at 33.5–6; the substitution of ‘none of the ripest’ for ‘none of the greatest’ referring to Sir Aymer’s age at 31.7–8, and ‘to crack his voice by crowing’ for ‘to crow’ at 32.35–36. They can be more extensive. The sentence at 24.10–11 must be an authorial insertion: ‘Believe me, all the old songs since Merlin’s day shall not make me forget thee.’; and it is very likely that an insertion in Ursula’s narrative at 111.25–30 is Scott’s (the style is felicitous): ‘but I had not taken the vows, and I thought Wallace and Fleming had the same charms for every body as for me, and the artful woman gave me reason to believe that her loyalty to Bruce was without a flaw of suspicion, and she took part in a plot, of which my freedom was the object’. Small factual, or quasi-factual, changes to the fiction are likely to be Scott’s, as when ‘a mile further’ becomes ‘half a mile farther’ at 11.25, when Dickson’s son is named as Charles at 12.6, when a flock of sheep has goats added at 12.22, and when ‘the sixth day before the annunciation of our Lady’ becomes ‘the fourteenth day before Palm Sunday’ (16.42). Most of the unidentified corrections are more routine, and have to be judged simply on their merits. As with the corrections known to be 272

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by Cadell or Lockhart, the rule of thumb adopted in arriving at the present text is that if the manuscript—which is certainly essentially Scott’s work—is sound it should be accepted, and if a necessary repair can be effected in a way that preserves more of the manuscript that course should be taken. The sorts of correction rejected for the present text are thus very similar to those already discussed with reference to Cadell and Lockhart. There are supposed stylistic enhancements that appear either neutral or actually deleterious, e.g.: ‘An ancient hunting-match (the 〈degree〉 mnatureo of mtheo carnage excepted) was almost equal to a modern battle’ (57.12–13); ‘what should rush 〈forth〉 from the covert’ (58.6); ‘the men’s wild shouts of exultation’ becoming ‘the wild shouts of exultation of the men’ (59.2); and ‘Several hours of the morning were this way spent’ becoming ‘A large portion of the morning was spent in this way’ (59.21). Appropriate tautologies are mechanically eliminated. At the second wedding of Alexander III ‘a ghastly spectre made its appearance unexpectedly in the form of a skeleton’ (30.22–24): the adverb ‘unexpectedly’ is effective here (unexpected even in a pageant), but it was cut before the first surviving proof. There are other changes suggesting that the corrector was out of touch with the original text. At 17.26–30 Anthony questions ‘if our commander would not rather hear that the Black Douglas, with a hundred devils as black as himself, had taken possession of the gateway with sword and battle-axe, rather than that one person suffering under this fell sickness had entered peaceably, and by the opened wicket of Castle Douglas’: an unnecessary ‘, since such is his colour,’ was inserted after ‘himself ’, and ‘gateway’ was changed to the much less telling ‘outpost of Hazelside’. The effective ‘ “ ‘Garrison,’” proceeded the minstrel, reading, “‘a lance . . .’ ” ’ is conventionalised to ‘ “ ‘His garrison,’ ” proceeded the minstrel, reading, “‘consists of a lance . . .’ ” ’ (19.1). The orally effective is also weakly formalised: ‘Shame of thyself, Anthony, . . . a good archer thou as ever wore Kendal green, and 〈to〉 myeto affect to be frightened for two tired travellers’ (16.23–25). Changes in the sense sometimes excise the unusual or disturbing: wolves ‘watch for children〈, and young females in particular〉, their defenceless prey’ (5.22–23); ‘in the very teeth of my reason and understanding’ is conventionalised to ‘in very opposition to my reason and understandng’ (113.20–21). The tendency to dignify is apparent in the substitution of ‘man’ for ‘fellow’ with reference to Bertram (12.15). There are many unnecessary clarifications, e.g.: ‘a small harp, rote, or viol, or some such species of musical instrument mfor accompanying the voiceo’ (6.16–17); ‘I acknowledge that a thought, which had already intruded itself on my imagination, became, after this interview, mby frequent recurrence,o more familiar, and more welcome to me’ (107.40–42). There are apparently pointless substitutions of one word for another, e.g. ‘traveller’ for ‘voyager’ at 7.31. The

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indiscriminate elimination of stylistically effective repetitions is again evident. Thus, at 10.10 the ‘enemies’ echoing the previous speaker is changed to ‘foes’, and a telling repetition in narrative is removed at 28.12–14: ‘his countenance kindling at the same theme, which, after a short time, expressed itself with 〈the same〉 ma likeo vivacity’. An unidentified intermediary decided that a paragraph from the opening description of the novel was beyond saving, and with reluctance the present editor concurs (Scott often had difficulty with such descriptions). The paragraph, which came after ‘every feature around.’ at 6.12, was deleted for the I:B print. In the manuscript it reads: So far therefore our landskape has nothing remarkable in itself or which may not be seen in any hilly district in Scotland to which the attention of the traveller is not directed by any peculiarity of scenery. mWhat is in itself more peculiar〈ly〉 interest much of which scenery is found in this unpromising scenery of which we have given an abstract deniation which on closer examination shews a great teal that is striking & beautiful The dark & shaggy entrance of the swart scene is found in such regions the remains of the ancient feudal castle 〈intimates〉 interests the artist and the lonly Botanist supplies his Flora of dried plants with the most interesting specimenso It is worth noting that the paragraph which follows immediately in the manuscript was eventually similarly deleted (probably wisely) by Lockhart in I:D: The figures, to speak technically, whom we present m〈lads〉 lantscape offerd too to our readers as peopling & relieving this desolate scene were not of a 〈morn〉 modern date although the landscape itself 〈be〉 mwaso except in so far as it has been altered by the innovations of man not extremely different from what it is at present. We must therefore give a more minute description of what we cannot with the same [hole in manuscript] propriety trust to the immagination of the reader after having given a few words of 〈explanation〉 introduction. The editorial procedures of the present edition can usefully be observed in operation in an unusually dense, but otherwise typical, example of the processing of the manuscript through the various proof stages shortly after the beginning of the narrative (4.8–22). The manuscript reads as follows: wheel carriges except mof the most clumsy kind &o for the most simple operations of agriculture mor rural purposeso were totaly unknown for transporting meveno the human person; the most delicate femal had no resourse save that of a horse or in case of great infirmity of a litter. The men by consequence used their own sturdy limbs or in 〈that〉 mat least in travesilgngo country their

   275 lhorses to transport them from place to place & the latter in particular experienced no 〈^〉 in 〈^〉 msmallo inconvenience from the rugged nature of the county they had to trav〈el〉. A swollen torrent some times crossed their path & compelled them to delay their course untill the waters had abated their unusual frenzy. The bank of a msmallo river was some times torn away by the effects of a thunder storm ma recent tempesto or such like convulsion of nature and the traveller relied 〈of〉 upon his knowledge of the features of the county or obtained the best local information in his power how to direct his path so as to surmount an unexpected obstacle The first surviving proof (I:A) follows the manuscript closely, with the usual tidying and punctuating, with three new readings: ‘even for transporting the human person’; ‘or, at least in traversing the country, their horses’; and ‘the country they had to traverse’. The manuscript version of the first of these seems acceptable, and that is restored in the present text. The second may be what Scott intended in his second thoughts, but it hardly makes sense in context and leads to a repeated ‘country’ below: an editorial simplification to ‘or their horses’ has been judged the most economical way of resolving the matter. The proof ‘traverse’ no doubt recovers Scott’s second thought in the manuscript, and ‘country’ may well have also been his intention, so no emendation is called for. The next surviving proof (I:B) reads as follows, with Cadell’s handwritten corrections indicated: Wheel-carriages, except of the most clumsy description, and for the most simple operations of agriculture, were totally unknown. Even 〈for transporting the human person,〉 the most delicate female had no resource save a horse, or, in case of great infirmity, 〈of〉 a litter. The men 〈by consequence〉 used their own sturdy limbs, or, at 〈least〉 mtimeso 〈in traversing the country,〉 their horses, to transport them from place to place; and travellers, 〈the〉 females in particular, experienced no small inconvenience from the rugged nature of the country 〈they had to traverse〉. A swollen torrent sometimes crossed their path, and compelled them to 〈delay their course〉 mwaito until the waters had abated their unusual frenzy. The bank of a small river was occasionally torn away by the effects of a thunder-storm, a recent inundation, or such like convulsionmso of nature; and the traveller relied upon his knowledge of the 〈features of the〉 country, or obtained the best local information in his power, how to direct his path so as to surmount 〈an〉 unexpected obstaclemso. The changes made between I:A and the text of I:B are treated as follows. The substitution of ‘description’ for ‘kind’ is rejected as unnecessary and indeed deleterious (jingling with ‘perfection’). The

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deletion of Scott’s manuscript insertion ‘or rural purposes’ is fair, since it does not work as it stands, but it is saved for the present text by a simple editorial emendation to ‘or other rural purposes’. The introduction of a new sentence at ‘Even’ is rejected in favour of the entirely satisfactory sense in the manuscript and proof I:A. The manuscript ‘save that of a horse’ is restored: the excision of ‘that of ’ is unnecessary and increases the prominence of the ‘resource’/‘horse’ jingle. The change of ‘the latter’ to ‘the females’ results from a misunderstanding of the manuscript, which refers to the horses. The replacement of ‘sometimes torn away’ by ‘occasionally torn away’ is necessary to avoid repeating ‘sometimes’, but there is no good reason for preferring ‘inundation’ to ‘tempest’ (wind and rain). Cadell’s corrections in I:B are treated as follows. His deletion of ‘for transporting the human person,’ is not necessary with the restoration of the manuscript structure, and his deletion of ‘of ’ before ‘a litter’ is merely his personal preference. On the other hand, his excision of ‘by consequence’ seems sensible, since it does not really follow from what immediately precedes it. His change of ‘at least’ to ‘at times’ and his excision of ‘in traversing the country,’ are superseded and embraced respectively in the editorial emendation noted above. The deletion of ‘the’ before ‘females’ is superseded by the reversion to the manuscript ‘the latter’. His deletion of ‘they had to traverse’ was no doubt made on the grounds of tautology, but the phrase is perfectly acceptable. The substitution of ‘wait’ for ‘delay their course’ is another example of Cadell’s stylistic preference, and it was not necessary to make ‘convulsion’ and ‘obstacle’ plural or to delete ‘features of the’. The proof I:C simply incorporates Cadell’s corrections to I:B, and there are no handwritten corrections. The I:D text changes ‘them’ to ‘themselves’, probably wisely to avoid ambiguity. Otherwise it is identical with that of I:C. Lockhart has several handwritten corrections to the passage in I:D. His change of ‘great’ to ‘sore’ is a personal stylistic preference, and Scott’s word is restored in the present text. The adjective ‘hardy’ is his replacement for ‘at times their’, and it is superseded by the editorial emendation noted above. His deletion of ‘unusual’ is another personal stylistic preference, as is ‘the’ for ‘such’. Lockhart changes ‘traveller’ to ‘wayfarer’ to avoid repeating the earlier ‘traveller’, but that is no longer an issue with the restoration of the manuscript reading. His change of ‘country’ to ‘district’, though, is still appropriate for avoidance of repetition. Finally, Lockhart’s ‘such untoward obstacles’ for Cadell’s ‘unexpected obstacles’ is in itself unnecessary and is superseded by the return to manuscript. The last surviving proof (I:E) ends a couple of lines into the passage under examination, and has only very late typographical corrections. So far, the discussion of the present text has excluded the last part of the novel (Sections XXVI and XXVII) with their extensive rewrit-

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ing. The unpublished section (172.20–180.14) is deleted by Cadell in XXVI:B4, where he provides yet another revised opening for Chapter 20 to cover the lacuna in the action: this is the version adopted for the first edition. There is no indication as to why Cadell made this major excision. It is possible that Lockhart may have been involved in the decision (Lockhart’s proof sets do not survive for the narrative after Section XIX), but alterations in the process of composition indicate that the replacement paragraphs are certainly Cadell’s. It may be helpful to recapitulate the events in the excised section. After the mutual challenges at the end of the preceding chapter, the Archbishop now continues his efforts to preserve peace between the parties, suggesting that the Scots should let Lady Augusta depart, and leaving it to Walton and Douglas to engage in single combat if they wish. Walton may be permitted to continue to reside in Scotland on parole, though Greenleaf and Bertram doubt whether his sense of honour would permit this. Walton, who has been absent trying to secure a place for Lady Augusta, now arrives and the passionate encounter between knight and lady impresses both sides and inclines them to make peace. The Archbishop urges Douglas to agree to a peaceful dismissal of Walton and Lady Augusta, but he insists on Walton making a request to the purpose and owning Douglas’s military superiority. This Walton is unwilling to do, and Lady Augusta asks the Douglas to agree to the Archbishop’s suggestion, the terms to be referred to the prelate, especially since Margaret de Hautlieu and she are entitled to the protection of the Church. Margaret is hoping to attract Malcolm Fleming’s attention, but he is horrified by her disfigurement and begins to withdraw. The Archbishop tries to convince him to reconsider his attitude, but he is prepared only to offer Margaret his castle as compensation. Margaret and the few women present are horrified, and to spare his friend Fleming further embarrassment Douglas renews his demand for Walton’s capitulation, precipitating the breakdown of negotiations. At this point the first-edition text takes over. One can only conjecture about the reason for the excision. Length would not seem to have been an issue. The fourth volume of Tales of My Landlord as published has 330 pages, the normal volume length, and the excised material would have added a further 20 pages, but that would not have been an excessive length (several volumes of the previous four novels are as long or longer, the last volume of Anne of Geierstein having no fewer than 381 pages). It is very likely that the unflinching presentation of Fleming’s attitude to Lady Margaret seemed unacceptable to Cadell (and possibly also Lockhart): that would be this novel’s equivalent to the pregnant combat excised from Count Robert of Paris. It would have been possible to cover this objection by cutting only the second half of the section. It may be that the protracted to-ing and fro-ing of the negotiations seemed excessive, though they were certainly part of

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Scott’s conception of the dynamics of the scene and of the characters’ roles in it. The whole passage is now restored, derived from Scott’s corrected proof (XXVI:B1), and emended mainly on the authority of the manuscript in the usual way. There is one major editorial correction. Shortly after the beginning of the unpublished section, Cadell had noted in his comments on XXVI:B2 the confusion in the meeting of Walton and Lady Augusta. In the manuscript and A and B proof texts the meeting is inadvertently described twice. The matter was not sorted before the whole section was deleted. An editorial deletion and repair has been made to put things right (see the entries for 173.10 and 33 in the Emendtion List). The other major rewriting involves Section XXVII. Cadell prompted Lockhart when sending a set (XXVII:B4) to him for correction, noting that the Jedidiah introduction to Tales of My Landlord (Fourth Series) covered some of the same ground as Scott’s original ending. Lockhart consequently rewrote the conclusion as described above (261). Since the Jedidiah piece is now confined to the Appendix to the Text (191–208), the overlap is no longer material. The original conclusion is now restored, taking Scott’s corrected proof (XXVII:B1) as base-text, corrected mainly from the manuscript as necessary. In the present edition as a whole emendations introduced editorially are kept to a minimum. There are 70–odd entries categorised as ‘(Editorial)’. Some of these are concerned to stay as close as possible to the manuscript by adopting a less radical form of emendation than that resulting in the first-edition text: see the Emendation List entries for 24.27, 56.16, 113.25, and 180.32. Others correct clear errors, such as the terming Fabian ‘page’ rather than ‘squire’ (49.12, 88.14, 155.3), or other sorts of simple factual mistakes (82.9, 184.15, 190.10). A handful of clear grammatical errors are editorially sorted (31.28, 41.5, 94.25). Very occasionally, punctuation is adjusted when it is essential, or highly desirable, for the sense to do so (5.36, 6.5, 32.29). The passages published from proof and manuscript for the first time inevitably require some editorial intervention, though this has also been done sparingly. There is also an editorial element in a similar number of entries categorised as ‘(  derived)’ or some form of ‘(proof derived)’. The manuscript is inconsistent in its use of the plain ‘Walton’ and ‘de Walton’ or ‘De Walton’. For the first third of the novel the simpler form is used almost exclusively. In the middle third the ‘de/De Walton’ form is found several times, and in the last third it approaches, but does not attain, parity with the plain ‘Walton’. The first edition standardises (almost exclusively) as ‘de/De Walton’: this regularisation was carried out at a late proof stage, after Scott’s involvement had ceased. The present text accepts the need for regularisation, to avoid a peculiar effect and the appearance of a significant shift when it is clear that none was intended. It standardises the name as plain ‘Walton’, for the

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following reasons: (1) Scott’s principal source for the Walton story (Hume of Godscroft) has ‘Walton’ and ‘de Valence’ (Barbour’s form of the name is once ‘Schyr Jhone of Webetoun’ and once ‘Schyr Jhone Webetoun’); (2) the ‘de’ form never becomes predominant, as one would expect it to if Scott had changed his mind, whether consciously or unconsciously; and (3) the ‘de’ form looks more like a seepage from ‘de Valence’ and a sign of confusion rather than a serious imaginative shift. No such emendations are needed for ‘Bertram’, for while Laidlaw usually spells the name ‘Bartram’ Scott uses the ‘Ber’ spelling and once actually corrects Laidlaw’s handwriting. Lady Augusta normally appears as ‘Lady Augusta of Berkely’ or (less frequently) ‘Lady Augusta de Berkely’: the eight anomalous occurrences of ‘Lady Augusta Berkely’ are editorially normalised as ‘Lady Augusta of Berkely’. The last feature of the present text calling for notice is the volume division between Chapters 11 and 12. Since Castle Dangerous is now treated separately from Count Robert of Paris rather than together with it as Tales of My Landlord (Fourth Series) it is presented as a twovolume novel as originally conceived. In Laidlaw’s manuscript the second volume began with Chapter 12. Scott changed this with ‘continuation of Vol. 1’, and the volume then took in two further chapters, ending with Chapter 13. Although there is no external evidence to explain the change of plan, it seems very likely that Ballantyne alerted Scott to a shortfall in the first volume, for which there were only 306 pages in the first proofs (short measure was apparently frowned on, whereas an extra gathering or two was acceptable). The additional material brought the volume up to size at 339 pages. Since the number of pages is not a consideration in the present edition the original volume division has been restored. A manuscript as faulty as that of Castle Dangerous presents the editor with many problems. Mercifully, the overall narrative is in general coherent. (If it were not, probably nothing could be done about it.) The reader soon accepts that this is a dreamlike fiction, in which transitions are sometimes abrupt and characters like the sacristan appear and disappear in response to imaginative requirements rather than as part of more conventional plotting. The characters are less stable than in Scott’s earlier fiction, and their rhetorics are often edgy and unpolished. There is a strong sense that this is an oral narrative, deriving from its peculiar manner of composition. Faced with this disconcerting manuscript (or the generally faithful version of the manuscript in the earliest proofs) Anne and Robert Cadell and Lockhart did much sterling and intelligent work in sorting things that obviously had to be sorted, from local stumbles and impossible infelicities to clear discrepancies in the plotting. As noted above, about half of what they did is reasonably uncontroversial. But they felt free to rewrite Scott’s work as they thought it should have been written, and the result is a smoother

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but much less interesting and exciting document. By constantly asking the basic question ‘Does the manuscript work, and if not can it be made to work with a minimum of editorial intervention?’ the present editor has been able to arrive at a plausible text that retains much more of Scott’s work and has much less of Cadell and Lockhart. This edition of Castle Dangerous carries forward and extends the procedures developed by the  for the earlier novels. There is much more emendation, and (unlike in the earlier novels) the editor has often been obliged to accept some corrections in a particular passage as necessary and reject others as unnecessary. In the process adopted, not a few unattributable authorial corrections found in the first-edition base-text will inevitably have been rejected, but the editor and reader can take comfort from the fact that most of these will be of little significance and that they will be far outweighed by the Scott material recovered. The Castle Dangerous now presented can still hardly be numbered among the finest of the Waverley Novels, but it provides a disturbing and haunting reading experience. Once encountered, it is unlikely to be forgotten.  All manuscripts referred to are in the National Library of Scotland, unless otherwise stated. For the shortened forms of reference employed see 392. 1 The title-page of Volume 1 is reproduced at 193 above and discussed in the accompanying explanatory note on 412–13 below. 2 See Donald Sultana, ‘The Siege of Malta’ Rediscovered (Edinburgh, 1977). 3 Letters, 1.151: 10 August 1802. 4 See the ‘Essay on the Text’ for Count Robert of Paris,     25a, 386–90. 5 Letters, 11.438. 6 The two novels were on the same shelf in the Abbotsford library: CLA, 335. 7  21043, f. 90v. 8  15980, f. 95r: Scott to Cadell, 14 May 1831. Scott did not complete the second French series: what he did finish has been edited by William Baker and J. H. Alexander as Tales of a Grandfather: The History of France (Second Series) (DeKalb, Illinois, 1996). 9 Lockhart, 7.289. 10  15980, ff. 113r–114r. Cadell has made some corrections to Scott’s hand in this letter. The original word ‘reach’ is not certain; neither is ‘time’; towards the end the ‘of ’ may originally have been ‘if ’. 11  3918, f. 148r. 12  15980, f. 115r. 13  15980, f. 117r. 14  21043, f. 99r–v. 15  15980, f. 120r: 12 July 1831, to Cadell. The reference is to the Reliquiæ Trotcosienses, Scott’s semi-fictionalised account of Abbotsford:

 16 17

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42

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see the edition by Gerard Carruthers and Alison Lumsden (Edinburgh, 2004). Lockhart, 7.290. Lockhart, 7.297–98. There seems to be little evidence in the early part of the novel of any extensive proof correction arising from Scott’s visit to Douglas. Perhaps Scott had in mind a passage such as 5.29–32. In I:A this reads: ‘The setting sun cast his gleams along a broken and moorish country, which already broke into larger swells, terminating in the large mountain termed Cairntable, and Lesser Cairntable’. The I:B print makes small adjustments that might have arisen from personal observation and local discussion: ‘The setting sun cast his gleams along a moorish country, which, as it retreated westward, broke into larger swells, terminating in the mountain termed the Larger and Lesser Cairntable’.  15980, f. 134r.  15980, f. 136r: to Cadell.  15980, f. 141v: to Cadell.  3919, f. 1r.  21043, f. 103r.  3919, f. 9r. The conversation occupies over 40 pages in the first edition.  21043, f. 110r.  21021, ff. 35v, 36r.  15980, f. 154r.  15980, f. 157r.  3919, f. 113r–v. For the ‘piracy’ see 205.12–15 and explanatory note.  15980, f. 163r.  21043, ff. 112r–115r.  15980, f. 169r: [7 September], to Cadell.  3919, f. 126r: to Scott.  15980, f. 176r.  5317, f. 101r. The proof sent by Alexander Ballantyne would have come between XXV:A and XXVI:A1: see 257.  15980, f. 186r–v: Laidlaw at Scott’s dictation, to Cadell. On 10 September Scott wrote to Cadell: ‘I have not yet got the running copy which I not [for ‘now’] want very much I must appeal to your authority There is Volumes I & II of Castle dangerous wanted and all three volumes of Count Robert that I may see distinctly what I have been doing [new paragraph] The inclosed makes up great part of castle Dangerous The printer has the rest’ (  15980, f. 172r). This would suggest that Castle Dangerous is approaching completion.  21043, ff. 116r–117r.  21043, ff. 122v–123r.  15980, f. 217r: Scott to Cadell, [7 October 1831].  15980, f. 219r.  15980, f. 224r. The same day Lockhart handed the original corrected proof of the introduction to Cadell ‘at his own house’ in Edinburgh:  23052, p. 1.  15980, f. 235r.

   

282 43 44 45 46

47 48 49

50

Lockhart, 7.303.  21021, f. 47v.  21021, f. 48r.  21021, ff. 48r–49r. On 15 November Cadell ‘sent sheets to Printer as well as Jedediah Introduction just recd with heavy corrections in a parcel from Lockhart—sent to Printer last proof of Count R. & completion of Copy of C. Dangerous’. The 17th saw him ‘very busy with Lockharts altered Jedediah Introduction till breakfast’.  797, f. 127r: Cadell to Whittakers. The print run was 5000. William B. Todd and Ann Bowden, Sir Walter Scott: A Bibliographical History 1796–1832 (New Castle, Delaware, 1998), 720. The edition published in New York by Harper is identical with Carey and Lea’s published in Philadelphia, both appearing in 1832. Unlike the edition of Count Robert of Paris the companion Paris edition of Castle Dangerous shows no signs of any setting from proof sheets. Nor does the Baudry edition dated 1831, also published in Paris. The manuscript does not have an identifying number. The quarto-type leaves are between 25.5cm and 26.5 cm high and some 20.5 cm wide, and were formed by the folding in two of two sets of folio-type leaves derived from demy sheets. The leaves have been folded length-wise at the left edge and unfolded again to produce a creased margin 2 cm wide. The watermark is, as normal with the paper used by Scott, a crowned post horn device (compare Heawood 2760), and the countermarks indicate several batches of paper made by A. Cowan in 1822 and 1825, and in 1829 by A. Cowan & Son and by J. Whatman. Laidlaw, and sometimes Scott, have numbered the leaves, not entirely consistently. As there is no library foliation, the leaves have been given editorial numbers as set out in the following table: Editorial 1–112 113 114–289 290 291 292–96 297–326 327–51 352–76 377–85 386 387–93 394 395–400 401

Laidlaw’s and Scott’s foliation 1–112 *113 113–288 [289, numbered 299 by Scott] 290 1–5 [leaf 6 is missing] 7–36 〈37〉 changed to 1 to 〈61〉 changed to 25 [leaves 26–51 are missing] 52–76 [leaves 77–104 are missing] 105–113 113 bis 114–120 120 bis 121–126 127 (only one line) [leaf 128, perhaps originally numbered 1 by Scott, is missing]

 402–06 407–22 423–50

283

129–133 (originally numbered 2–7 by Scott) 134–[14]9 [2 leaves are missing] 59–86

51 The names of the compositors are sometimes given, and there is a calculation of the number of sections set by each on f. 245v. 52 The main insertions are: 19.37–20.8 (‘mTo comfort thee . . . I have known life foro 〈“Thou mayest say it” said the minstrel “〉I have known every style’); 23.25–30 (‘mHe kindly and liberally consented . . . the English garrisono’); and 23.33–24.17 (‘mThey rendezvousd accordingly . . . being himself sensible. End of Chapter IIIo’). In transcribing Scott’s difficult late hand the editor has adopted the following rule of thumb: when the individual letters of a word can be distinguished with reasonable certainty, that word is presented exactly as it appears in the manuscript; when they cannot be so distinguished and Scott’s intention is clear, the word is given in its usual form. 53 One of the passages deleted (following ‘the attempt.” ’ at 159.7) forgets that Bertram and Greenleaf have already agreed to go to Douglas church (154.22–27): ‘“Or perhaps,” said the minstrel, “if we do not find out the fated dingle which bears a name so ominous, we may have an opportunity of visiting some church, where we may join in the service of the day, as well becomes a pilgrim whose travels have been as far as to the Holy Sepulchre, and a loyal archer, who may be the better called upon and expected to keep his conscience clear towards Holy Church, since he knows not the moment in which he may be called to lay down his life for his country.”’ 54 The changes in this batch must have been made in at least two stages, since the American editions of this section are set up from a very late proof with only a handful of verbal and punctuational differences from the first-edition text. 55 This first version of Chapter 20 (Chapter 5 of the fourth volume of Tales of my Landlord (Fourth Series)) continues for a few lines on  3778, f. 143r (XXVI:A1). It was set from a missing leaf in Scott’s hand (which he would have numbered 1 and Laidlaw would have renumbered 128) between ff. 401 and 402. Scott rewrote this passage between proofs XXV:A plus XXVI:A1 and XXV:B1 plus XXVI:B1 to prepare the way better for the conclusion of the plot: the total rewriting ends shortly after the beginning of Greenleaf ’s speech, dovetailing with the     base-text (at 172.39). Many of Scott’s confusions are reproduced in this proof, and the compositor has left spaces where he was defeated by the manuscript. CHAPTER V. [space for motto] The Castle of Douglas, to which both nations looked with an awe inspired by ancient tradition, became, as repeated alarms brought the contending parties against each other, and impelled those who were foremost in the secruel broils. On the other hand, certain Englishmen, belonging to

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the garrison, returned to the precincts of the castle, and plainly [space] that, if there was a massacre there that year, as minstrels reported for certain, the Scots, who had been twice the conquerors in an attempt of this kind, should rise in the ruin they had [space] in this cruel and unsparing species of warfare. The remembrance of past quarrels, when the Scottish had made up by the ferocity of assault, and at the same time a secrecy of attempting this by such secret means that the national character of a bold and open people began under changing their own nature, and working an alteration with that of the nation with whom they were at war. In the meantime the rivals prepared to fight desperately with such weapons as they had with them. Some called out on both sides to remember the sanctity of the day, which the soldiers seemed more distinctly to perceive the propriety of availing themselves of the [space] . And as neither party took the rash step of feathering any weapon [space] . Some of the old men on both sides [space] . They assembled in groups, and stared on each other with sullen aspect, but still forbearing blows, because both parties had made preparation that one single stroke might have brought as many combatants as the Iliad itself contained. While this scene of suspense was passing, Greenleaf again approached the minstrel, and said,— “There appears a deep feeling of dissatisfaction among the English garrison. They say they are [f. 402r of the manuscript begins here] sold to the Scots by their officers, and that the posts which the Scots have occupied round the castle under various disguises, are tamely yielded, instead of being boldly defended to the last. These are ominous sayings, and there will fruit come of them. Our sovereign lord is not like my lord his father, who was cautious in laying blame even upon the Scottish, if reason bade him turn his indignation a different way; but I think it fair to tell you, for your mistress’s information, that if he goes up the country upon this paction, his head will have chance of lying low.” “That,” said Bertram, “I have foreseen; but how can it be prevented? I know, would they but disguise themselves in obscure dresses, they might escape the [space: none in the manuscript] of England’s warder, and any court of law appointed to try De Walton, until at least the heat of the king’s resentment was somewhat forgotten.” “True,” answered the archer; “but his renown is lost.” 56  15980, f. 280r. The Galignani Tales of My Landlord (Fourth Series) is a fairly faithful reprinting of the first edition. Count Robert preserves readings from a very late stage of proofs, but the single verbal variant found in Castle Dangerous appears to be spontaneous. 57 The 8vo shares 8 readings with the 16mo and 5 readings with the 18mo; the 16mo shares one reading with the 18mo; the 8vo, 16mo, and 18mo share 3 readings. All of these are against the Magnum, and almost all of them are non-verbal. They are probably mostly independently arrived at, and they may all be so. 58 The Latin quotation, from Virgil’s Aeneid, 4.158–59 (the first word is ‘Spumantum’), means ‘[Ascanius] prays that amid the timorous herds a foaming boar may be granted to his vows or a tawny lion come down from the mountain’. The passage in VIII:B has been much altered and pruned

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from that in the manuscript, which reads: ‘m. . . The keen sportsmen thereforeo who since the days of Æneas & Ascanius have been, like the Trojan youth fond of their game in proportion to the degree of spirit of resistance or mtheiro art of making its mtheiro escape in which last the ordinary hare has so much stratagem as to rank among the first objects of the chase mgreatly preferd many of the apparently humbler beasts of 〈prey to〉 chase to those which were more rare and often more dangerous to encounter NLo [footnote:] Spumentumque dari pecora inter inertia votis/ Optat, 〈o〉maout out fulvum descendere monte leonem’.

EMENDATION LIST

The base-text for most of this edition of Castle Dangerous is a specific copy of the first edition, owned by the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels. For the conclusion (and the Appendix to the Text) another base-text has been chosen, and for the extended passage now restored at 172.21–180.14 the text is derived from proofs (see Essay on the Text, 277–78): this is noted at the appropriate points in the list. The sections I to XXVII designated for editorial purposes correspond to those described in the Essay on the Text, 221, where it is pointed out that a section may overlap to the extent of several lines with its predecessor and/or successor. All emendations to the base-text, whether verbal, orthographic, or punctuational, are listed below, with the exception of certain general categories of emendation described in the next paragraph, and of those errors which result from accidents of printing such as a letter dropping out, provided always that evidence for the ‘correct’ reading has been found in at least one other copy of the first edition. In manuscript Scott almost invariably prefers ‘Saint’ to ‘St’, and the full form is used throughout the present text, except for the place name ‘St Andrews’ and the French ‘St Palaye’. Inverted commas are sometimes found in the first edition for displayed verse quotations, sometimes not; the present text has standardised the inconsistent practices of the base-text by eliminating such inverted commas, except when they occur at the beginnings or ends of speeches. The typographic presentation of mottoes, volume and chapter headings, and the opening words of volumes and chapters, has been standardised. Ambiguous end-of-line hyphens in the base-text have been interpreted in accordance with the following authorities (in descending order of priority): predominant first-edition usage; Magnum; 8vo; 16mo; 18mo. Each entry in the list below is keyed to the text by page and line number; the reference is followed by the new,  reading, then (normally) in brackets the reason for the emendation, and after the slash the base-text reading that has been replaced. On certain occasions it has been found appropriate or convenient to conclude an entry with a note giving the editorial thinking behind, or authority for, the emendation, or part(s) of it. The great majority of emendations are derived from the manuscript or from the proofs. Most merely involve the replacement of one reading by another, and these are listed with the simple explanation ‘()’ and, for example, ‘(proof I:A)’. The spelling and punctuation of some emendations from the manuscript have been normalised in accordance with the prevailing conventions of the base-text. Where a manuscript reading adopted by the  has required editorial 286

  287 intervention to normalise spelling or punctuation, the exact manuscript reading is given in the form: ‘( actual reading)’. The same distinctions are made with readings derived from proofs. Where the new reading has required further editorial interpretation of the manuscript the explanation is given in the form ‘( derived: actual reading)’. When the authority for an emendation is the print of a proof, this is indicated by e.g. ‘(proof I:A)’, this being the first stage at which the reading adopted occurs in the text. (A designation such as ‘A1’ will also silently include ‘A2’ and ‘A3’, since the print of such parallel sets of proofs is identical.) When the authority for an emendation is a proof correction this is noted as, e.g., ‘(Cadell proof correction I:A)’. When holograph evidence makes it possible to identify the person wholly or chiefly responsible for the correction adopted in Ed1 but rejected for the present text, his name is given in square brackets after the Ed1 reading, together with the identifying tag for the set of proofs in which the correction was made. In these identifications ‘Scott’ and ‘Lockhart’ are self-explanatory. ‘Cadell’ covers corrections by Robert Cadell and his wife Anne (see Essay on the Text, 224). ‘Ballantyne’ denotes James Ballantyne. It should be borne in mind that some of Lockhart’s corrections, particularly towards the end of the novel where the set of proofs he corrected has not survived, are almost certainly credited to Cadell, who will have continued his practice of copying his colleague’s changes into another set. Where more than one person had a substantial input into the Ed1 reading, their names and the tags denoting the relevant stages are given, separated by a semicolon. The same applies to changes first appearing in a proof text, indicated simply by the identifying tag in square parentheses at the end of the entry; ‘postproofs’ indicates that the Ed1 reading does not appear in any of the surviving proofs. On a few occasions, when more than one authority has contributed to the  text, both readings are given, separated by a vertical line. In transcriptions from the manuscript and proofs: deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso. Insertions within insertions are enclosed ‘thus’. In spite of the incessant attention of intermediaries, some local confusions in the manuscript persisted into the first edition. When straightening these, the editor has studied the manuscript or proof context so as to determine Scott’s original intention, and where that intention is discernible it is of course restored. But from time to time such confusions cannot be rectified in this way. In these circumstances, the reading from the earliest edition to offer a satisfactory solution is adopted as the neatest means of rectifying a fault. Readings from the later editions are indicated by ‘(Magnum)’, ‘(8vo)’, or ‘(18mo)’. Emendations of this sort which have not been anticipated by a contemporaneous edition are indicated by ‘(Editorial)’. Magnum readings are also adopted as possibly resulting from Scott’s correction of the Galignani edition (see Essay on the Text, 262), where they correct errors, or otherwise conform to Scott’s known practices and preferences.

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I. 3.1–10.42 (‘all the rest of the way.” ’) Proof I:A (M S 3780, ff. 25r–36v); Proof I:B (M S 3778, ff. 1r–12v); Proof I:C (M S 3778, ff. 382r–393r); Proof I:D (M S 3778, ff. 315r–325r); Proof I:E (M S 3777, ff. 74r–75v) 3.2                        (  A Romance of the Middle ages) / [no text] [I:A] 3.6 One such name . . . heady strife. ( derived: Once such name was known/ Had terror in the 〈sound〉 maccent,o & was 〈a〉 war mao crym,o/ A gathering wordm,o a banner & a 〈sound〉 mshouto/ Of 〈deadly〉 minstanto onset & of 〈fatal〉 mheadidyo strife) / [no text] [Lockhart I:D] 3.10 Old Play (Lockhart proof correction I:D: Old Play) / [no text] [Lockhart I:D] Lockhart added the attribution and then deleted it together with Scott’s motto. 3.14 nature seemed reviving . . . Scotland, and (  nature seemed reviving from her winters sleep min a cold province of Scotlando, &) / nature, in a cold province of Scotland, was reviving from her winter’s sleep, and [I:B; Cadell I:B] 3.16 amendment ( ) / abatement [I:D] 3.18 perfectly () / sufficiently [Cadell I:B] 3.18 and, in ( & in) / which, in [Cadell I:B] 3.19 secured them a ( ) / secured a [I:D] 3.22 the celebrated river ( ) / the river [Lockhart I:D] 3.22 river bearing the same name, whose dale (proof I:B) / river of that name, whose dale [I:D] (  river 〈on〉 mwhose daleo) 3.23 afforded, by its acclivity, a (  afforded by its aclivity a) / afforded a [I:D] 3.26 and thus afforded (  & thus afforded) / and at the same time afforded [I:D] 3.28 their ( ) / this [I:B] 3.29 been yet ( ) / been as yet [Lockhart I:D] 3.29 these ( ) / those [I:A] 3.30 modern times (proof I:A) / all the world [Lockhart I:D] ( dodern times) 4.1 declivity () / base [Cadell I:B] 4.3 passage over the height more ( ) / passage more [Lockhart I:D] 4.5 expounded to his astonished countrymen. And (  expounded to his astonished country men; And) / expounded. But [Lockhart I:D] 4.7 the principles, if ( the principles if) / his principles, even if [I:B; I:D] 4.9 kind ( ) / description [I:B] 4.9 agriculture, or other rural purposes, were (  derived: agriculture mor rural purposeso were) / agriculture, were [I:B] 4.10 unknown for transporting even the human person; the ( unknown for transporting meveno the human person; the) / unknown. Even the [I:A; I:B; Cadell I:B] 4.11 save that of a ( ) / save a [I:B] 4.12 great () / sore [Lockhart I:D] 4.12 infirmity, of a ( infirmity of a) / infirmity, a [Cadell I:B] 4.13 or their horses (  derived: or in 〈that〉 mat least in travrsilgngo country their horses) / or hardy horses [I:A; Cadell I:B; Lockhart I:D] Scott’s alteration of Laidlaw’s manuscript is unclear. 4.14 and the latter, in (  & the latter in) / and travellers, females in [I:B;

  4.15 4.17 4.17 4.19 4.19 4.20 4.20 4.22 4.23 4.24 4.26 4.28 4.28 4.29 4.31 4.31

4.41 4.43

5.1 5.3 5.10 5.12 5.13 5.14 5.15

5.15 5.17 5.19 5.20 5.22

289

Cadell I:B] The   refers to the horses. country they had to traverse (proof I:A) / country (  county they had to trav〈el〉) [Cadell I:B] delay their course () / wait [Cadell I:B] their unusual frenzy ( ) / their frenzy [Lockhart I:D] tempest () / inundation [I:B] such like convulsion () / the like convulsions [Cadell I:B; Lockhart I:D] traveller () / wayfarer [Lockhart I:D] of the features of the ( ) / of the [Cadell I:B] an unexpected obstacle ( ) / such untoward obstacles [Cadell I:B; Lockhart I:D] The river, or brook, of Douglas escapes (  The river or Brook of Douglas escapes) / The Douglas issues [Lockhart I:D] close its () / bounds the [I:D] Their general aspect is (  Their general aspect was) / The general aspect of the country is [Cadell I:B] no length from ( ) / no great length of time from [Cadell I:B] while some of them attest their former state by the (  derived: while some of them attest their former by the) / as some of them still attest by bearing the [I:B; I:D] is, a wild (Proof I:A) / is, wild [I:B; I:D] (  it a wild) Proof I:B has ‘of’ for ‘a’, and proof I:D deletes ‘of’. was level flat ( ) / was flat [Cadell I:B] rye, and afforded what the inhabitants needed ( derived: rye and afforded them what crops the inhabitats needed) / rye, supplying the inhabitants with what they required of these productions [I:B; Cadell I:B] unnecessary for them by their personal labour to ( ) / unnecessary to [Cadell I:B] other countries (  derived: otherm〈s〉 & often 〈from〉o countries) / other more open countries [I:A; I:B] The ‘s’ may have been added by Laidlaw and deleted by Scott when making the rest of his abortive correction. supplied by () / supplied, as we have already said, by [Cadell I:B] and the forest (  & the forest) / and forest [Cadell I:B] of the deer tribe were ( ) / of deer were [Cadell I:B] themselves. And (Editorial) / themselves, and ( themselves mand . . . o) Scott inserts ‘and other animals . . . now visible.’ on the facing verso. country, were now visible: the (  derived: m. . . Country was now visible.o. The) / period. The [Cadell I:B; proof I:D] occasionally () / frequently [Cadell I:B] thickets which it inhabits; and (proof I:C) / thickets; and [I:D] (  thickets which that animal inhabits &) Cadell substitutes ‘it’ for ‘animal’ in I:B, to avoid a repetition, but he mistakenly then deletes the whole phrase. His intention is followed in proof I:C text. The phrase is then deleted in the I:D text. the lower or more () / the more [Lockhart I:D] mankind () / man [post-proofs] the wolves ( ) / these savage animals [Cadell I:B] by want ( ) / for lack [Cadell I:B] for children, and young females in particular, their ( for 〈their

290 5.24 5.27 5.28 5.30 5.30 5.33

5.33 5.34 5.35 5.36 5.37 5.38 5.41 6.2 6.3 6.5 6.7 6.7 6.8 6.9 6.10 6.15 6.15 6.17 6.19 6.20 6.25 6.26 6.27 6.27 6.31 6.31

6.31 6.32

  prey〉 mchildreno mand young females in particular their . . .o) / for children, their [I:D] prowl boldly near ( prowl mboldlyo near) / prowl near [Cadell I:B] apt () / able [Cadell I:B] the banks of the wilder ( ) / the wilder [Cadell I:B] moorish ( ) / moorland [Cadell I:B] which, as it retreated westward, broke (proof I:B) / which to the westward broke [I:D] (  which already 〈imi〉 broke) neighbourhood and (Editorial) / neighbourhood, the source of an hundred streams, and Scott makes an uncertain, but apparently incongruous, insertion in Laidlaw’s : ‘neighbourhood mof the surce of sooglaiso &’ (‘sooglais’ might be read as ‘100 glens’). largest in ( ) / largest of [I:B; Cadell I:B] bosom and the ravines ( bosom & mtheo ravins) / bosom, and in the ravines [I:B] that ancient forest ground with which all the mountains of (  that antient forest ground with wh all the mountains of) / those ancient forests with which all the high grounds of [Cadell I:B; I:D] covered (Editorial) / covered, (  as Ed1) hills ( ) / hills, [post-proofs] west and (  west &) / west to [I:D] Holms (  holms) / Holm [I:A] or stream . . . lady of the valley; ( derived: or 〈stream of the brook which was〉 mstream of the brook which shone forth ato the lady of the valley;) / or stream; [I:B; Cadell I:B] sometimes catching and resting ( sometimes catching & resting) / sometimes resting [I:D] removed; and (Editorial) / removed, and ( removed &) they themselves () / the ground itself [I:B] of grizzled rock (  of 〈grey〉 grizzld rock) / of rock [Cadell I:B] mound, looking ( mound looking) / mound, or looked [I:B] it rested () / the eye rested [I:B] as it () / as the sunbeam [I:B] who () / and [I:D] minstrels wont () / minstrels were wont [I:B] instrument. The ( instrument 〈though〉 The) / instrument for accompanying the voice. The [I:B] paned hose () / pantaloons [I:B] Proof I:A has a misreading of ‘paned’ as ‘parcel’, prompting the change to ‘pantaloons’ in proof I:B. same stuff (Editorial) / same colour (  same mcolouro 〈stuff〉) Scott’s correction to Laidlaw’s manuscript leads to a repetition. the packing ( ) / it [Cadell I:B] a traveller who ( ) / a practised traveller, who [I:D] long engaged in his journey, and was accustomed (  long engaged in his journey & was accustomed) / long accustomed [I:D] kind of dexterity ( ) / resource [Cadell I:B] cincture ( ) / cordon [I:A] knots of blue and violet, which (  derived: m. . . knots blue ‘and violet’o of blue or violet which) / knots of blue or violet, which [I:A] Scott’s inserted phrase supersedes the version in Laidlaw’s , which he failed to delete when making his correction. went round his ( ) / surrounded the traveller’s [I:B] corresponded () / assimilated [post-proofs]

  6.33 6.35

6.37 6.37 6.43

7.4 7.6 7.8 7.19 7.21 7.21 7.27 7.28 7.31 7.32 7.33 7.37 7.37 7.41 7.41 7.41 7.42

8.4 8.5 8.5

8.6 8.14

291

combine together. () / combine. [Cadell I:B] painted, and fitter, from the gay stuff it was made of, to (  painted & fitter from 〈its lon〉 the mgayo stuff it was made of to) / represented. It was more fitted, from the gay stuff of which it was composed, to [I:B; Cadell I:B] bear out ( ) / encounter [Cadell I:B] composed () / made [Cadell I:B] without paying him more attention () / without more minute attention [I:D] Laidlaw has written ‘notice’ above ‘attention’ but not deleted ‘attention’: ‘noticing’ appears at 7.4. it an ( ) / it, nevertheless, an [Lockhart I:D] who met the traveller (  who met the travenles) / whom the traveller met. [Cadell I:B] The last word of the   reading is unclear. in emptying ( ) / to empty [I:D] afraid ( ) / apprehensive [I:B] upon ( ) / of [I:D] and such ( & such) / or such [I:A] in his ( ) / on his [Cadell I:B] have been discerned ( ) / be guessed at [Cadell I:B] voyager ( ) / traveller [I:B] gown, as the ( gown 〈or〉 mas the . . .o) / gown, the [I:B] than it would seem . . . recommended (  than it would seem the coldness of the weather authorised mor recommendedo) / than the coldness of the weather seemed to authorize or recommend [I:D] to comply with fashion ( ) / in compliance with general fashion [I:B; Cadell I:B] hostile purpose. (  hostil [end of line] purpose.) / violent purpose that he did so. [Lockhart I:D] also of ( ) / also in [Cadell I:B] which had left (  derived: which hap left) / which left [I:A] marks (Magnum) / traces (  as Ed1) two assumed . . . attitude and manner. (  two assumed the differential manner 〈peculiarly〉 peculiar to a man of 〈inferior〉 mlowero rank addressing one to whom he is willing to pay the respect due 〈to〉 by an inferior to his superior, & had even in his tone something that amounted to interest & affection though couched in the most respectfull attitude & manner.) / two, while he assumed the deferential air proper to a man of inferior rank addressing a superior, showed, in tone and gesture, something that amounted to interest and affection. [I:A; I:B; Cadell I:B; Lockhart I:D] Lockhart’s ‘air’ for ‘manner’ in proof correction of I:D has been adopted as a neat way of avoiding repetition, but it has not been judged necessary to accept his more extensive rewriting of this passage. youngest ( ) / younger [Lockhart I:D] further ( ) / farther [post-proofs] than thirty miles, which thou didst say was (  than m〈the thirty〉 ‘tirty’ mileso 〈thou saidst〉 mwhch thou didst sayo was) / than the thirty miles, which thou didst say was [I:A] Laidlaw inserts ‘the thirty miles’; Scott replaces ‘the thirty’ with ‘tirty’; Scott deletes ‘thou saidst’ and inserts ‘whch thou didst say’’. Cummock () / Cammock [I:B] without losing a stitch of it; (  without 〈leasing〉 mlosingo a stitch of it;) / without its losing a stitch; [post-proofs]

292 8.17 8.27 8.36 8.39 8.40 8.42 8.43 9.2 9.3 9.5 9.7 9.10 9.11 9.12 9.16 9.18 9.22 9.22 9.28 9.28 9.33 9.34 9.36 9.43 10.1 10.3 10.10 10.12 10.14 10.18 10.19 10.19 10.22 10.27 10.30 10.33 10.36 10.41 10.42

  were if I am not able to ( ) / were to me if I were not to [I:B; I:D] has ( ) / hast [post-proofs] knave ( ) / friend [post-proofs] making (Magnum) / meeting (  as Ed1) ladyship—that is, how you, Master Augustine, can (  ladyship—that is how you Master Augustine can) / ladyship can [Lockhart I:D] Scotch () / Scots [Cadell I:B] sometimes (proof I:B) / often [Lockhart I:D] (not in  ) Scotch (proof I:A) / Scots [Cadell I:B] ( Scottish) to the boot (  to [end of line] to the boot) / to boot [I:C (probably Ballantyne)] a sort of sigh () / a sigh [I:B] must have been locked long, long before (  must have been locked long long before) / must be locked long before [I:B; post-proofs] your own ( ) / our own [I:A] takes () / take [I:D] will be ( ) / shall be [Cadell I:B] you () / thee [I:D] be a rich man’s or that of a poor () / belong to rich or poor [Cadell I:B; I:D] ourselves ( ) / we carry with us [Lockhart I:D] should ( ) / might [I:B] disguises ( ) / disguise [Cadell I:B] make you resemble the () / trick out that [Lockhart I:D] Proof I:B has ‘make you the’. Lockhart changes this to ‘trick out that’ in correcting I:D. presently ( ) / now [Lockhart I:D] those () / the [I:B] which mingled () / which has mingled [I:B] of Tom (  of T〈h〉om) / of one Tom [Lockhart I:D] thriving men that lives upon the river (proof I:B) / honest fellows of the dale (  thriving men that lives upon the property of Lord Douglas) [Lockhart I:D] who rides ( ) / that rode [Lockhart I:D] enemies to () / foes to [I:B] make our ( ) / make good our [I:B] providing ( ) / provided [Cadell I:B] in the middle of ( ) / amidst [I:D] the house affords () / such house as Dickson’s affords [I:B; I:D] or rather his patroness ( ) / fair lady [Lockhart I:D] Minstrel?” ( Minstrel.”) / Minstrel, what it is your pleasure to do in this matter?” [I:B] land (Magnum) / estate (  〈farm〉 mestateo) upon his () / upon this [post-proofs] of beasts formerly in () / of the beasts in [I:D] supposing me . . . language, it (  supposing me completely acquainted with the knowledge of written language it) / although not so deeply skilled in the knowledge of written language as you are, it [post-proofs] four or five ( ) / a few [post-proofs] jump () / dance [I:B]

II. 11.1 (‘Chapter Two’) to 20.33 (‘think so,”’) Proof II:A (M S 3780, ff. 37r–48v); Proof II:B (M S 3779, ff. 289r–300v); Proof II:C (M S 3778, ff. 393v–405v); Proof II:D (M S 3779, ff. 163r–174v); Proof II:E (M S 3779, ff. 150r–162v); Proof II:F (M S 3778, ff. 325v–337v)

  11.9 11.11 11.11 11.12 11.16 11.19

11.22 11.25 11.25 11.28 11.30 11.31

11.33 11.33 11.33 11.39 11.40 12.1 12.2 12.7 12.14 12.14 12.15 12.17 12.19 12.23 12.28 12.28 12.30 12.31 12.38 12.40

293

unequal state ( ) / broken face [II:B] a wild () / the wild [II:B] picture ( 〈feature〉 mpictureo) / features [II:B] braken,” (Editorial) / braken;” ( braken”) mansion-house, of its proprietor, (for, from size (  mansion house of its proprietor for for size) / mansion-house, (for, from its size [II:A; II:B; Cadell II:D] to protect what they might contain . . . a greater extent (proof II:B) / to resist any band of casual depredators. There was nothing, however, which could withstand a more powerful force [Cadell II:D and II:E] (  to protect what stock they might contain against any depredators whose violence might be 〈attempted〉 mapprehendedo & further there was no preparation〈s〉 against force which might be used to a greater extent) was of course then ( ) / was then [Cadell II:D] further () / farther [II:A] was a ( ) / was seen a [post-proofs] Bride’s, “which,” said he, “I (  Brydes which said he I) / Bride. “The place,” he said,” I [II:B; Ballantyne II:B; post-proofs] harbour ( ) / give relief to [Cadell II:E] have taken ( had taken | Cadell II:B proof correction: have accordingly taken) / have accordingly taken Cadell corrects the tense sequence, but adds an unnecessary ‘accordingly’. their guests ( derived: thir guests) / these guests [II:A] have any secrets to tell (proof II:A) / happen to reveal any secrets [Cadell II:E] (  having any secrets to tell) are pretty generally believed () / are, by some means or other, believed [post-proofs] coming towards (  comming towards) / to approach [Cadell II:E] those persons we have first introduced (  those mpersonso we 〈first mentioned〉 mhave first introducedo) / the travellers [Cadell II:B] hear the raised tone of their ( hear the 〈rised〉 raised tone of their) / distinguish their [Cadell II:B; post-proofs] at the distance . . . they stood (proof II:B) / though the distance was considerable [post-proofs] (  at the distance of nearly half a mile where they stood) ago, when I was in this country? (  ago when I was in this country.) / ago. [Cadell II:D] The question mark is provided by Magnum (after ‘ago’). house () / castle [Cadell II:B] nobleman, or true subject.” (  nobleman〈”〉 mor true subject.”o) / nobleman.” [Cadell II:B] fellow ( ) / man [post-proofs] evil () / what he wills [Lockhart II:F] battle, and like honourable men, on (  battle & like honourable men on) / battle on [Cadell II:D] foe whom ( ) / foe from whom [II:A] in his armour () / in armour [Cadell II:D] is as it were a ( ) / is a [II:B] and whose landlord (  derived: & 〈that man〉 mhis landlordo) / and when his landlord [II:A; Cadell II:D] when ( ) / as [Cadell II:D] farmer ( ) / Scotchman [II:B; post-proofs] two human figures () / two figures [Cadell II:B]

294 12.40 12.42 13.2 13.3

13.4 13.6 13.6 13.7 13.10

13.13 13.15 13.16 13.18 13.20 13.30 13.32 13.33 13.36 13.36 13.42 14.1 14.3 14.9 14.12 14.12 14.12 14.14 14.14 14.17 14.19 14.22 14.23 14.24 14.25 14.26

  it. As (Editorial) / it. [new paragraph] As (  as Ed1) valley, he wrapped (  valley he 〈twitched〉 mwrapdo) / valley to meet them, the Douglas Dale farmer wrapped [II:B; Ballantyne and Cadell II:B; Lockhart II:F] and, although (  & although) / and which, although [II:B] military looking tartan mantle ( military looking tartanmso mmantleo) / military tartan mantle [II:B] Laidlaw added the ‘s’ to tartans and Scott added ‘mantle’, perhaps deleting the ‘s’ imperfectly. Highland country ( ) / Highlands [Cadell II:D] guide’s (proof II:A) / guide [II:B] (  guides) middle life (proof II:B) / middle of life [Cadell II:B] (  middle age) infirmity () / infirmities [II:B] had occasion for looking around him with shrewdness and caution. (  had occasion for 〈sharp observ〉 mlooking around him with shrewdness & cautiono.) / had constant occasion for looking around him with caution. [II:B; Cadell II:D] disconcerted ( ) / discontented [II:A] in () / on [II:A] at least as much affected by anger as by remorse (proof II:B) / at once affected by anger and remorse [Cadell II:D] ( at least as much affected by indignation as by remorse) distance fit for () / distance for [Cadell II:D] Englishman () / English minstrel [II:B] heart belonging to the country ( ) / Scotchman [Cadell II:D; postproofs] beside () / besides [Cadell II:B] pages, coistrels, and (  pages Koistrals &) / pages, and [II:B] Proof II:A misreads ‘Koistrals’ as ‘koiskals’. more cold ( ) / colder [Cadell II:D] former () / other [Cadell II:D] him a quiet bed . . . food, there’s (  him a quiet bed for the night & some little matter of food there’s) / him some little matter of food, and a quiet bed for the night, there’s [Cadell II:D] what () / that [Cadell II:D] chances ( ) / chance [Cadell II:D] an artist shall nourish it under () / it be nourished under [Cadell II:D] desire for himself such ( ) / desire such [Cadell II:D] lodgings ( ) / lodging [II:A] as will hardly satisfy in the present day such () / as, in the present day, will hardly satisfy such [Cadell II:D] delicate ( ) / over nice [post-proofs] but I must request of you, for other reasons, a (  but I must request of you for other reasons a) / but, for other reasons, I must request of you a [Cadell II:D] hath had a ( ) / hath a [Cadell II:D] folks () / folk [Cadell II:B] mansions () / rooms [Cadell II:B] one which is well-aired ( one which is well aired) / one well-aired [Cadell II:D] thou shalt . . . a jolly sirloin (  thou 〈mpreparedo〉 shalt have thy favourite slice of a jolly sirloin) / ye shall have a part of what is [Cadell II:D; Lockhart II:F] thy ( ) / your [Lockhart II:F] company. If I were . . . yet they will ( company mtheyo mif I were

 

14.27 14.32 14.33 14.34 14.36 14.41 14.41 14.42 14.43 15.2 15.4 15.6 15.8 15.8 15.8 15.9 15.10 15.11 15.11 15.19 15.20 15.20 15.22 15.23 15.27 15.28 15.32 15.34 15.35 15.38 15.39 15.39 15.41 15.41 15.42

295

to receive a score of my own starving country men yet theyo will) / company. Since I am bound to feed a score of them, they will [II:A; II:B; Cadell II:D] Scott inserts ‘they’ in the text, and then makes a longer insertion on the facing verso. The sentence break is introduced in II:A, which also has ‘relieve’ for ‘receive’, a possible reading. a minstrel () / a skilful minstrel [II:B] like the southern (proof II:A) / like a southron [II:B; Cadell II:B] (  like the southen) I once have ( ) / I have [II:B] and not ( & not) / when not [II:B] six inches at least () / at least six inches [Cadell II:D] point of view () / light [II:B; Cadell II:B] the wisest man, the richest man, or () / the wisest, the richest, or [Cadell II:D] man has () / man in this world has [II:B] is the weaker, the more ignorant ( is the weaker the more ignorant) / is the more weak, ignorant [Cadell II:D] to him who possesses wealth, strength, and health (proof II:B) / to wealth, strength, and health [Cadell II:D] (  to him who possesses it in ordinary life) weaker, if he uses the faculties which he has to (  weaker if he uses the faculties which he has to) / weaker party, if he use his faculties to [II:B; Cadell II:D and II:E] and that ( & that) / which [II:B] sillily ( ) / foolishly [II:B] Scottish man () / Scotchman [post-proofs] sustains () / sustain [Cadell II:D] endeavours () / endeavour [Cadell II:D] before the time . . . appointed ( before the 〈appointed〉 time has arrived which Heaven has appointed) / before Heaven’s appointed time has arrived [Cadell II:D] But I (  but I) / But if I talk thus, I [II:B] frightened ( ) / scared [Cadell II:D] said Thomas Dickson ( ) / said Dickson [Cadell II:D] my old abode () / my abode [Cadell II:D] save those of (  save 〈one〉 those of) / save of [Cadell II:D] after in your present condition as ( ) / after as [Cadell II:D] science, of which thou art a professor. (  science of which thou art a professor.) / science. [Lockhart II:F] could () / had time to [Cadell II:D] but the old man waxes weak ( but the old man wacches weak) / but shrewd and wise men wax weak [Lockhart II:F] jaws of one of the wolves (  derived: jaws of one the wolves) / jaws that would have devoured them [Cadell II:B] Doest ( doest) / Dost [II:A] the very wolves () / the wolves [II:B] let it pass for the present ( ) / for the present let it pass [Cadell II:D] minstrel accordingly, perceiving (  derived: minstrel according perceiving) / minstrel, perceiving [Cadell II:B and II:D] Scotsman () / Scotchman (post-proofs) moment they were ( ) / moment, in [Cadell II:D] Dickson’s farm house, and (  Dicksons farm house &) / Dickson’s house, they [II:B; II:E] with the sounds from within (  with mtheo sounds from within) /

296 16.1 16.4 16.7 16.10 16.17 16.20 16.24 16.25 16.25 16.28 16.30 16.30 16.32 16.32 16.33 16.33 16.39 16.39 16.40 16.40 16.43 17.3 17.3 17.4 17.7 17.12 17.12 17.13 17.20 17.23 17.23 17.24 17.24 17.25 17.28 17.28 17.29 17.30 17.32 17.32 18.6

  with sounds from two English soldiers within [Cadell II:D] Hood, it is said, never (  Hood it is said never) / Hood himself never [II:B; Cadell II:D] the share of the knave Dickson ( ) / the knave Dickson’s share [Cadell II:D] beef as is not necessary (proof II:B) / provisions as are not necessary [Cadell II:D] (  beef as is necessary) captain, you know, hath discharged ( captain you know hath discharged) / captain, as we all know, hath prohibited [Cadell II:B; Lockhart II:F] awake again ( ) / awaken [Cadell II:D] Scottish men besides, hungry ( Scottish men besides hungry) / strangers, hungry [II:B; Cadell II:D] to affect () / yet affect [II:B] or () / and [II:B] inroad that their () / inroad their [Cadell II:D] Scottishmen () / Scotchmen The ‘tish’ is changed to ‘s’ by Cadell in II:B, and to ‘ch’ post-proofs. say’st thou, quartermaster ( sayst thou Quarter master) / say ye, quartermaster [Lockhart II:F] thou knowest ( ) / it is no secret [Lockhart II:F] friends () / guests [II:B] over and above ( over & above) / besides [Cadell II:D] guests () / inmates [II:B] thou art as ( ) / you are as [Lockhart II:F] guesten () / quarter [II:A] house in such capacity for (  house min such capacityo for) / house for [Cadell II:E] so ( ) / two [II:A] will () / must [Cadell II:D] Hazelside, which you hold by ( house which you hold by | proof II:B: Hazelside, in which you hold governor, by) / Hazelside, in which you hold garrison, by [Cadell II:B] so () / it [Cadell II:D] or () / and [Cadell II:D] they, (16mo) / they (  as Ed1) queries (  querries) / questions [II:B] years back, and (  years back &) / years, and [Cadell II:D] thing, save ( thing save) / thing of him, save [II:B] of () / from [Cadell II:B] Bend-the-Bow, (Magnum) / Bend-the-Bow; (not in ) elder () / older [II:A] would () / may [II:B] equally () / so [post-proofs] carry into ( ) / give free passage, into [post-proofs] ranks, a ( ranks a) / ranks, to a [post-proofs] himself, had (  him self had) / himself, since such is his colour, had [II:B] gateway ( ) / outpost of Hazelside [II:B] suffering (Magnum) / who suffered (  as Ed1) Castle Douglas () / the castle [post-proofs] and yet, considering (  & yet considering) / and considering [postproofs] captain (  Captain) / governor [post-proofs] without any tarriance (  without any 〈tarryings〉 tarriance) / without

  18.8 18.10 18.11 18.12 18.13 18.16 18.17 18.18 18.19 18.20 18.23 18.24 18.24 18.24 18.28 18.29 18.30 18.31 18.32 18.37 18.42 18.43 19.1 19.2

19.7 19.11 19.12 19.16 19.16 19.19 19.22 19.26 19.28

19.30 19.32

297

tarriance [Cadell II:D] day’s walk of considerable (  days walk of considerable) / day of no small [Cadell II:D; post-proofs] who live like us by ( ) / who, like us, live by [Cadell II:D] examinations, () / examinations; [post-proofs] we can permit ( ) / we permit [Cadell II:D] where his errand, you say, leads (  where his errand you say leads) / where you say his errand leads [Cadell II:D] shall ( ) / may [Cadell II:D] sending you yourself ( ) / sending yourself [Cadell II:D] remain here in ( ) / remain in [Cadell II:D] warrant me is () / warrant is [Cadell II:D] he be ( ) / he is to be [Lockhart II:F] garrison which is stationed ( ) / garrison stationed [Cadell II:D] leather () / leathern [II:A] Minstrel (8vo) / minstrel (  as Ed1) thou canst ( ) / canst thou [II:B] therefore read aloud ( ) / therefore do thou read these regulations aloud [II:B] read as often as I can to me (  read 〈over〉 mas often as I cano to me) / read over to me as often as I can [II:B] the sense () / their sense [Cadell II:D] are there set ( ) / are set [Cadell II:D] readest at ( ) / dost so at [Cadell II:E] at Hazelside peel, the ( at 〈Lillie’s know〉 mHazelside peelo the) / at Hazelside, the [II:B] Proof II:A misreads ‘peel’ as ‘field’, which proof II:B deletes. tongue,” said (  toungue said) / tongue, minstrel,” said [post-proofs] like () / disposed [II:B] “‘Garrison,’ ” proceeded the minstrel, reading, “‘a lance (  “Garrison” proceeded the minstrel, reading a lance) / “‘His garrison,’” proceeded the minstrel, reading, “‘consists of a lance [II:B] furniture.’ A lance in this party?” (  derived: furniture [new paragraph] “A lance replied Bartram in this party?”) / furniture.’ What, then, a lance, in other words, a belted knight, commands this party?” [II:B; post-proofs] head with my bow if ( ) / head if [II:B] our own native () / our native [Cadell II:D] and proceeded ( & proceeded) / and he proceeded [Cadell II:D] or Douglas ( ) / or to Douglas [II:B] Castle, if they see it convenient, always (  Castle if they see it convenient always) / Castle, always [Cadell II:D] in this matter, and in all other duties, civilly ( in this matter & in all other duties civilly) / in all matters civilly [Cadell II:D] is () / are [II:A] in discharge of the duties of my post () / in the discharge of my duties [Cadell II:D; post-proofs] complain of the return we may make you (proof II:A) / complain. [II:B; Cadell II:D] (  complain of the return 〈we〉 mmayo make you) Scott changes Laidlaw’s ‘we’ to ‘may’. The present text recovers his likely intention. “So I trust,” said the minstrel, “your ( “So I trust said the minstrel your) / “I hope, at all events,” said the minstrel, “to have your [II:B; post-proofs] for the present man ( ) / inhabit [II:B; Cadell II:D]

298 19.33 19.33 19.33 19.36 19.36 19.40 19.41 20.4 20.9 20.10

  other () / elder [II:B] civiller ( civiler) / more civil [Cadell II:B] archers, in answer to Bertram’s last observation, “if ( archers in answer to 〈the〉 mBartram’so last observation if) / archers, “if [Cadell II:D] have ( ) / hast [Lockhart II:F] and to spare of that commodity (  & to spare of that commodity) / of skill to use thy compass [II:B; Cadell II:D] residing in ( ) / residing here in [II:B] near ( ) / nearly [II:B] it will be your () / that will be the [Lockhart II:F] years since I have been a traveller in it; and ( years since I have been a traveller in it, &) / years; and [Cadell II:D] his helm . . . the world ( his helm & keep his course fairly through the world) / his course fairly through it [Cadell II:D]

III. 20.10 (‘his course fairly through’) to 38.43 (‘something that was not’) Proof III:A (M S 3779, ff. 175r–200v); Proof III:B (M S 3778, ff. 406r–429v); Proof III:C (M S 3778, ff. 338r–361v) 20.12 taught to box his compass, were ( taught to box his compass were) / taught, were [III:A; Cadell II:D] 20.16 others, in a way where (  others in a 〈ca〉 way where) / others, where [Cadell II:D] 20.18 the occasion ( ) / such an occasion [Cadell II:D] 20.22 comrade ( ) / comrades [III:A] 20.23 if we can find an English gold piece to ( ) / while we can find an English piece of money to [III:A; post-proofs] 20.28 this night () / soon [post-proofs] 20.28 abbot for which he must hold himself prepared to-morrow, for ( m . . . Abbot foro which he must hold him [end of line] self prepared tomorrow, for) / abbot to-morrow, for [Cadell III:A] 20.30 for a () / for the convent a [III:A] 20.31 possessed by laziness and love ( possest by laziness & love) / prone to laziness and a love [Cadell III:A] 20.35 than my Augustine will () / than will my Augustine [Cadell III:A] 20.37 only pray ( ) / only further pray [III:A] 20.38 company,—being a ( company being a) / company,—a [Cadell III:A] 20.42 who hath ( ) / having [III:A] 21.1 the devils themselves the () / even devils the [Cadell III:A] 21.2 lacking therein ( ) / lacking [Cadell III:A] 21.10 holds youth and innocence ( holds youth & innocence) / holds innocence [Lockhart III:C] 21.11 to inform Augustine that () / to Augustine, that [Cadell III:A] 21.12 early, as you have already apprised me ( early as you have already apprised me) / early [Cadell III:A] 21.16 promise you () / promise thee [Lockhart III:C] 21.16 will faithfully be ( ) / am [Cadell III:A] 21.18 said Thomas Dickson ( ) / said Dickson [Cadell III:A] 21.18 you in what corner of the building (Cadell proof correction III:A) / thee where [Lockhart III:C; post-proofs] ( you in what corner of this building) 21.23 Augustine, to apprise you . . . morning song. (proof III:A: Augustine, to apprise you of the order of march for to-morrow. But how now,” seeing with some surprise that the young person was still fully

 

21.28 21.29 21.31 21.32 21.33 21.36 21.36 21.38 21.38 21.40 22.2 22.3 22.6

22.8 22.9 22.10

22.14 22.16 22.20 22.21 22.22 22.24 22.25 22.26 22.26

299

dressed, “are you in your full apparel so late at night? This is a mistake, or you have taken the vespers of my neighbour, St Bride’s chapel, for morning song.) / Augustine. [Cadell III:A; III:C] ( Augustine to apprise you of the order of march for tomorrow;—but how now mseeing with some surprize that the young person was still fully dressdo are youm,o dressed in your full apparel so late at night? this is a mistake or you have taken the 〈complines〉 mvesperso of my neighbour St. Brides Chapel for morning song.m)o) as I sleep () / this room being [Cadell III:A] and as the flooring is not ( & as the flooring is not) / and the flooring not [Cadell III:A] practices of an eavesdropper ( practices of an evesdropper) / practice of eavesdropper [Cadell III:A] passed between . . . concerning ( passed between the English soldiers my father & thy self concerning) / passed concerning [Cadell III:A] concerning our ( ) / concerning my proposed residence at the abbey, our [III:A; post-proofs] doest () / dost [post-proofs] under ( ) / with [post-proofs] boy ( ) / youth [Lockhart III:C] he () / the abbot [post-proofs] out their hand to the sword (proof III:A) / out the sword [Cadell III:A] ( out their hand to sword) asks, reasonable or unreasonable (  asks reasonable or unreasonable) / asks in reason [Cadell III:A] Scotsman (Cadell III:A proof correction) / Scotchman [post-proofs] (not in  ) travelling, believe me thou must go to bed now, and (  traveling believe me thou must go to bed now &) / travelling, I shall presently get our host to send thee some food, after partaking of which thou shouldst go to bed and [Cadell III:A; post-proofs] labours ( ) / work [post-proofs] subjoined (III:A proof) / answered [Cadell III:A] (not in ) “my purse. . . if our guides are (  derived: my purse thou knowest is somewhat heavier than thine, but there is no provisions for which the 〈road〉 mconvento can supply that we are not fit & will not be willing to call for & pay for if our doing so can pleasure our guides, & if our guides are) / “I hope you will be able to do what will give pleasure to our guides, if they are [Cadell III:A; III:B; III:C] men.” So speaking . . . silken purse. (proof III:A) / men.” [Cadell III:A] (  men. I have a small purse yet it is well adequate to keep your promise concerning the archers & their morning draught.”) that magic sound which ( ) / what [Cadell III:A; post-proofs] then, ere you depart ( then 〈for〉 mere you departo) / then,” said the seeming youth, “when you depart [III:A; post-proofs] you say () / I suppose [post-proofs] fear of keeping you waiting through my sloth ( ) / fear, through my sloth, of keeping you or your company waiting [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C; post-proofs] minstrel to the supposed young man (  minstrel mto the supposed 〈youth〉 young mano) / minstrel [III:C] alarm I will ( ) / alarm will [III:A] Recommend (  recom [end of line] 〈Good〉 -mend) / I need scarce bid thee recommend [III:A] is friend . . . his protection (  is friend & father to us all who have

300 22.28 22.30 22.32 22.33 22.33 22.34 22.35 23.6 23.6 23.6 23.7 23.9 23.11 23.12 23.13 23.14 23.17 23.17 23.18

23.19 23.21 23.23 23.26 23.26 23.27 23.28 23.30 23.33 23.33 23.34 23.36 23.37 23.38 23.39 23.41 23.42 24.1 24.1 24.2

  innocence to entit〈t〉le us to his protection) / is the friend and father of us all [III:A; Cadell III:A] youth () / pilgrim [III:A] which naturally thronged upon her, the ( which naturally thronged upon her. 〈Her〉 The) / which, the [Cadell III:A] considered () / considered, naturally thronged upon her [Cadell III:A] A horseman shortly after stopped at ( A horseman shortly after stopt at) / The tramp of a horse’s foot was not long after heard at [III:A; post-proofs] and was (  & was) / and the rider was [III:A] acclamation and (  acclamation &) / marks of [post-proofs] wardours () / warders [III:A] monk ( ) / soldier [III:A] down such () / down in writing such [III:A] examinant ( ) / examinate [III:B proof correction] in respect ( ) / with regard [Cadell III:A] was ( ) / should be [Lockhart III:C] perhaps was ( ) / perhaps than was [III:A] confidence (  derived: confidents) / knowledge [III:A] stern in his looks or severe in his questions ( ) / stern or severe in his looks or his questions [Cadell III:A] meek (Magnum) / modest ( as Ed1) gentleness, De (Magnum) / gentleness, young Aymer de (  gentleness young Aymer de) greater ( ) / great [post-proofs] queries than the minstrel had hitherto undergone; and (  queries than the minstrel had hitherto undergone 〈mfo〉 &) / queries; and [III:A; Cadell III:A; post-proofs] Scott’s deleted inserted letter is uncertain. he did (Magnum) / the young knight did ( as Ed1) seaman whose goods are in peril through tempest () / seaman in a tempest [Cadell III:A] Aymer with (Magnum) / Aymer de Valence with ( as Ed1) monastery () / convent [post-proofs] fitter and quieter ( fittr & quieter) / fit and quiet [Cadell III:A] until Sir (Magnum) / until the governor, Sir (  until the Governor sir) upon () / on [Cadell III:A] contagion ( ) / disease [Cadell III:A] with ( ) / by [Cadell III:A] daybreak. (Magnum) / daybreak in the morning. ( day break in the morning.) heard their morning’s mass, and (  heard their mornings mass 〈with〉 and) / heard mass, after which [post-proofs] with permission ( ) / with the permission [Cadell III:A] of De Valence, to receive Augustine (Magnum) / of Sir Aymer de Valence, to receive young Augustine ( of Sir Aymer te valence to receive young Augustin) in consequence of ( ) / and for [Cadell III:A] or sum ( ) / in name [III:A] the father () / Bertram [post-proofs] will suffice ( ) / shall suffice [Lockhart III:C] and will () / and I will [post-proofs] at ( ) / to [III:A] Bride’s (  Brides) / Bride [post-proofs]

  24.8 24.13 24.15 24.16 24.21 24.25 24.28 24.29 24.30 24.31 24.34 24.35

24.38 24.39 24.40 24.40 24.41 24.41 25.1 25.2 25.8 25.17

25.24

25.29 25.31 25.32 25.38 25.42

301

boy; “thou (Magnum) / boy, “thou ( boy “Thou) Douglas () / the castle [Cadell III:A] towards breakfast () / the morning repast [Cadell III:A] which hour he ( ) / which he [Cadell III:A] Such ( ) / Sunk [post-proofs] accept. For any one well acquainted (  accept: 〈f〉mFoor any one well acquainted) / accept. Any one acquainted [III:A] to exchange it for riding (Editorial) / the exchange to riding [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] (  to exchange it for that of riding) too much wrought (proof III:A) / over exerted [Cadell III:A] (  over wrought) by change () / through change [Lockhart III:C] could by ( ) / could in [Lockhart III:C] knighthood, attended . . . detachment, who (  knighthood attended & completed the whole detatchment who) / knighthood, completed the detachment, which [Cadell III:A] at once disposed . . . others. (proof III:A, corrected by Cadell) / so disposed as to secure the minstrel from escape, and to protect him against violence. [III:C] ( at once disposed to prevent the traveller〈s〉 from any escape on the road mof their own contrivanceo & to ensure 〈them〉 mhimo against the 〈attack of any who might interrupt them〉 〈mhimo〉 〈mby violenceo〉 mthe violnce of other’s.o.) In   Scott deletes his inserted ‘by violence’. Laidlaw’s ‘attack of any who might interrupt them’ and Scott’s second inserted ‘him’ are deleted in pencil. Cadell deletes the phrase ‘of his own contrivance’ in III:A. any fear of () / usually danger in [Cadell III:A; III:C] quiet and obedient districts ( quiet & obedient districts) / quiet districts [Cadell III:A] may yourself have (  may your self have) / may have [III:C] broke ( ) / broken [III:C] occasioned () / caused [Cadell III:A] maintaining () / to maintain [Cadell III:A] watch than was heretofore found necessary () / watch [III:C] like what may be said to be the original meaning (  like what 〈was〉 mmay beo said to be the original meaning) / congenial with the original derivation [post-proofs] dank () / dark [III:A] only amounted . . . to a (  only amounted in the dullness of a March morning & at the early hour of a quarter past five to a) / were unable to surmount the dulness of a March morning, and, at so early an hour, produced a [III:A; Cadell III:A] Anxious as the minstrel . . . embraced (proof III:A, corrected by Cadell) / The minstrel, well pleased to pick up such information as he might be able concerning the present state of the country, embraced [postproofs] ( concern〈ing〉medo as 〈Bartram〉 mthe minstrelo was in picking up such information as he might be able to procure concerning the mpresent state ofo the castle which lay before them & its present inmates. He of course embraced) this heavy morning ( ) / this morning [post-proofs] seemst to be, a (  seemst to be a) / seemest, a [post-proofs] an unsettled country . . . time ( an unsettled country like this at such a wild & disorderly time) / a wild country like this, at such a time [Cadell III:A] no chance () / little chance [Cadell III:A] and have even ( ) / and even [Cadell III:A]

302 25.43 26.1 26.2 26.3 26.3 26.13 26.16 26.19 26.20 26.24 26.25 26.29 26.30 26.31 26.33 26.37 26.39 27.1 27.3 27.7 27.9 27.9 27.10 27.11 27.15

27.21 27.23

  as far as ( ) / to [Cadell III:A] attending of our ( ) / attending our [III:A] sword is for () / sword, for [III:C] and ready (  & ready) / is ready [III:C] provocation, for the purpose . . . bosom (  provocation 〈to sheath〉 mfor the purpose of sheathingo itself in a 〈neighbours〉 m〈 human 〉 neighbourso bosom) / provocation [III:C] or at best by () / or by [post-proofs] rhyming slave (  〈servant〉 mrhyming slaveo) / rhyming servant [post-proofs] us in () / us two in [III:A] eternal memory ( ) / immortality [Cadell III:A] the danger ( ) / the degrees of danger [Lockhart III:C] alike expose themselves () / are exposed [Cadell III:A] set up and presented (  set up & presented) / represented [IIIA; post-proofs] own bellicose and dangerous mode (  own bellicose m&o dangerous mode) / own mode [Lockhart III:C] save the memory . . . should ( save the memory of gallant feats & of the heros by whom they were performed should) / keep in memory the feats of gallant knights, should [Cadell III:A] crowded memory of life ( ) / achievement of valour [Cadell III:A] such a one as () / such as [Cadell III:A] forwards ( ) / forward [Cadell III:A] language, they will be speedily lost to posterity, with (proof III:A) / language, they must, with [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] (  language will be spedily lost to posterity with) edification. If ( edification [new paragraph] If) / edification, be speedily lost to posterity. If [Cadell III:A] and that I (  & that I) / and I [III:A] with () / against [Cadell III:A] that species of immortality () / that immortality [III:C] will long survive in my lay, even when my (  will long survive in my lay even when my) / will survive in my lay after my [III:A; III:C; postproofs] shall have . . . tune or tale ( shall 〈be〉 have become unable to express either tune or tale) / shall no longer be able either to express tune or accompany tale [III:A; Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] prepared to act like yourself, and to (Editorial) / prepared, like yourself, to [Cadell III:A; post-proofs] ( disposed to act like your self & to) Cadell deleted ‘to act’ and ‘and’ in III:A; ‘disposed’ was changed to ‘prepared’ between III:C and Ed1 to avoid repetition. reward—earth, and the things . . . since ( reward, earth, & the things of earth mlet us abandon to themo since) / reward—let us abandon to them earth, and the things of earth, since [III:A] others. But I have known . . . I acquire greater ability and delight.’ ”* [footnote:] *Memoirs of the Life of Froissart, translated by Col Johnes, of Hafod, from Monsieur De la Cusne de St Palaye. (proof III:A, emended as noted below) / others.” [Lockhart III:C] (  but I have known not poets only but even chroniclers, a very inferior generation who spared neither toil nor danger when the question was how to acquire a true knowledge of the facts which they intended to transmit to posterity〈”〉m—oAh rest thy soul mnoble Froissarto gentle canon of the collegiate church of 〈Schimay〉 mChimayo well was this shewn in thy example—was there an object worth loving mor admiringo

 

27.40 27.42 27.42 27.42 28.11 28.11 28.13 28.15 28.16

28.19 28.22 28.23 28.23 28.24 28.25 28.26 28.30 28.30 28.33

303

which had not for thee a charm unknown save to one of thy 〈warm〉 menthusiastico & searching mind. Didst thou not love alike or at least with the same species of affection the gallant steed & good stag [end of line] hound, wert thou not a proficient in mlike them ino music a gaymero member of assemblies, feasts, & Dancing parties? Didst thou not love dancing dress, good living, wine & 〈women〉 mbeautyo, & didst thou not search for every particular respecting all celebrated deeds of arms & frequent the forreign fields in which antient knights & squires 〈who〉 had been present at famous deeds of arms & had become well intitled to talk of them and didst thou not thus for thy noble history to which thou wert encouraged by thy very dear Lord & master Guy de Chatillon, Count de Blois, Lord of Avesne, of Chimay, of Beaumont of Shonone, of Goude! Did you not promise with 〈thine own〉 mao noble spirit of enthusiasm maltogether thine own owno that having already taken great pains in thy history thou wouldest through GOD’s grace continue it mthrough the wars of France ‘&’ & Flander〈der〉msoo so long as thou shouldst live for as thou sayest 〈The longer th I〉 The more I work at it, the greater pleasure I receive, like the gallant knight or squire enamoured with arms, by perseverance & attention he perfects & accomplishes himself, thus by labouring & working on this subject, I acquire greater ability & delight.” [footnote] mFoot noteo memoirs of the Life of Froissart) The following changes have been made to the text of proof III:A: ‘who spared’ for ‘who have spared’ ( ); ‘every’ for ‘each’ ( ); ‘wouldest’ for ‘wouldst’ (); and ‘sayest, ‘The’ for ‘sayest, with this writer, ‘The’ (). Maker is given to the poets in () / Maker stands for Poet (with the original sense of which word it exactly corresponds) in [Lockhart III:C] tribe () / tribes [III:A] epithet ( derived: epithed) / epithets [III:A] The   word may be ‘epitheet’: it is certainly not plural. of invention ( ) / of those who employ invention [III:A] recited these words ( ) / uttered these last words [Lockhart III:C] with enthusiasm, and ( with enthusiasm &) / with such enthusiasm, that [Cadell III:A] theme, which . . . vivacity ( theme which after a short time expressed itself 〈thus〉 mwith the same vivacityo) / theme, on which, after a short silence, he expressed himself with a like vivacity [III:A; post-proofs] hear ( ) / see [Lockhart III:C] living in this country . . . his columns (  living in this country as becomes the land of the heroes whom this glorious old chronicler has immortalised in his columns) / surviving in the world [III:A; Lockhart III:C] it is () / it shall be [III:A] hand ( ) / hands [III:A] shall full surely () / shall surely [III:A] own, were it but . . . author; ( own were it but for thy good taste of loving my favourite author;) / own; [Lockhart III:C] Aymer ( ) / Aymer de Valence [post-proofs] come ( ) / born [III:A] landless, I shall (  landless I shall) / landless, shall [III:A] I shall () / I hope I shall [post-proofs] performance when that shall come; (  performance mwhen that shall comeo;) / performance; [Cadell III:A] “An admirer of Froissart . . . the high-spirited canon. But (proof III:A)

304

29.7 29.9

29.11 29.13 29.16 29.16 29.17 29.23 29.25

29.28 29.29 29.32 29.36 30.7 30.11 30.16 30.17 30.20 30.21 30.22 30.23 30.34 30.36 30.37

  / “He who partakes the true thirst of noble fame,” said the young knight, “can have little room in his heart for the love of gold. But [Lockhart III:C] (  “An admirer of Froissart cannot at the same time be a lover of gold” said the young knight “but now I remember I believe the old chroniclers chief recommendation to you that he travelled to the very bottom of the highlands of Scotland on a white nag with his portmanteau behind him & some short time after made a scarcely less mountainous journey into north wales Evil to the gothic hands by whom the memoirs relating to the interesting tours which 〈he wasted〉 so curious an enquirer must have made in the course of his travels, & peace once more to the ashes of the high spirited Canon. But) that () / such adulation [III:A] have been done . . . defence ( have been done before it 〈&〉 in its mattack & in its owno defence) / it has witnessed [Cadell III:A; III:C; post-proofs] The present text follows proof III:A in omitting ‘own’. at name () / at the name [Cadell III:A] hospitality; but . . . empire. ( m. . . hospitalityo but wh. in our time has been made an unassaylable portion of the English empire.) / hospitality. [III:C] lord ( Lord) / lords [Cadell III:A] and so often . . . valour ( & so often with circumstances it is said of equal valour) / and with such circumstances of valour [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] bears the name, in England of, (  bears the name in England of) / bears, in England, the name of [Cadell III:A] Bertram, “I ( derived: Bertram “I) / Bertram—“I [III:A] interrupt me . . . the Tabard, whose history you well know. ( interrupt me by being such an impatient listener as our host Harry Baillie of the Tabard whose history you well know.) / prove an impatient listener. [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] “Well enough at least to understand your hint () / “Nay, for that matter [Lockhart III:C] is ( ) / be [Cadell III:A] apaid ( 〈paid〉 apaid) / paid [III:A] hundreds and hundreds (  hundreds & hundreds) / hundreds [postproofs] two (Magnum) / twelve ( as Ed1) heir () / heiress [Cadell III:A] cast ( ) / bestowed [Cadell III:A] supply the hopes which he had lost ( ) / make up for his loss [Cadell III:A] ceremony were () / ceremony, which took place in the town of Jedburgh, were [Cadell III:A] show ( shew) / display [III:A] occasion, in the town of Jedburgh, a (proof III:A) / occasion, a [Cadell III:A] ( occasion 〈the gastly〉 a) appearance unexpectedly in ( ) / appearance in [III:A] Norway shortly followed her grandfather, and ( Norway shortly followed her grandfather &) / Norway, his heiress, speedily followed her grandfather to the grave, and [III:A; post-proofs] homage, which ( homage which) / homage, due, he said, by Scotland, which [III:A] Scotland, ever heard of before even by rumour. (proof III:A) / Scotland, had ever before heard of. [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] (

  30.40 31.6 31.13 31.14 31.15 31.19 31.19 31.22 31.22 31.23 31.26 31.28 31.32

31.40 31.40 31.41 31.42 32.2 32.3 32.5 32.6 32.6 32.8 32.8 32.10 32.12 32.14 32.15 32.16 32.17 32.19 32.20 32.20 32.21 32.22

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Scotland never heard of before even by rumour.) pledge that () / pledge myself that [Cadell III:A] country; but (proof III:A) / country; and [Cadell III:A] (not in  ) seen few or no (  seen m〈few〉 few oro no) / seen no [Cadell III:A] for the truth of their conduct, they (  for the truth of their conduct they) / for truth, they [Cadell III:A] their countrymen (  〈your〉 mtheiro country [end of line] men) / they [Cadell III:A] untrue ( ) / unjust [Lockhart III:C] circumstances, takes it without a view ( circumstances takes it without a view) / necessity, takes the imposed oath without the intention [III:A; Cadell III:A] like () / likely [Cadell III:A] a faith which we () / the faith we [Cadell III:A] while ( ) / whilst [III:A] Castle Dangerous ( ) / Dangerous Castle [post-proofs] more (Editorial) / most (  as Ed1) who have founded . . . descent (  who have founded their house & dwelt from all antiquity in this valley are of an antient & honourable descent) / who founded this castle, are second to no lineage in Scotland in the antiquity of their descent [III:A; Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] man of the family of Douglas; and certain it ( man of the family of Douglas & certain it) / man named Douglas, who originally elevated the family; and true it [III:A; Lockhart III:C] far back (Magnum) / long ( as Ed1) people () / race [Cadell III:A] enterprise . . . effectual ( enterprise & have never wanted the power by which that greatness can be mad effectual) / enterprise, accompanied with the power which made that enterprise effectual [Cadell III:A] the great () / that great [Cadell III:A] the bold claims which they make to () / their bold claims to [Cadell III:A] “Well, then, you must have ( “well then, you must have) / “Without doubt you must also have [Lockhart III:C] that James ( ) / many things of James [Lockhart III:C] Douglas, is not . . . inheritance ( derived: Douglas is not at present in possession of inheritance) / Douglas [Lockhart III:C] I should suppose not ( ) / More than enough [Lockhart III:C] knight, “since he (  knight since he) / knight; “he [Lockhart III:C] and since (  & since) / and again [Lockhart III:C] again ( ) / anew [Lockhart III:C] King’s (  Kings) / Usurper’s [Lockhart III:C] though chastised repeatedly (proof III:A) / though repeatedly chastised (  so chastised) [Cadell III:A] field, yet still (  field yet still) / field, still [Cadell III:A] who defend . . . sovereign ( who defend the Castle of Douglas dale in name of his rightfull sovereign) / who, in the name of his rightful sovereign, defend the Castle of Douglas Dale [Cadell III:A] so,” replied ( so replied) / so, Sir Knight,” replied [III:A] Scottish ( ) / a Scot [Cadell III:A] should () / would [III:A] and who show . . . another way (  & who shew how the same tale can be told another way) / and whose account of his adventures shows how differently the same tale may be told [III:A; Lockhart III:C] the heir () / the present heir [III:A]

306 32.24

32.25 32.26

32.28 32.28 32.29 32.32 32.35 32.37 32.42 32.42 32.43 33.3 33.4 33.4 33.8 33.10 33.10 33.14 33.15 33.24 33.25 33.30 33.35 33.36 33.37 34.11 34.23 34.33 34.33 34.34

  reputation: a young man . . . meet in (  reputation A 〈youth〉 myoung mano of high spirit & ready to undergo what [end of line] ever peril he may be called upon to meet in) / reputation; ready, indeed, to undergo every peril in [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] Bruce, esteemed (  Bruce mesteemd . . .o) / Bruce, because the Bruce is esteemed [Lockhart III:C] and, seeing . . . himself, with (proof III:A, corrected by Cadell) / and sworn and devoted, with [Lockhart III:C] (  and who seeing his prince & country 〈Ci〉 against evey kind of equity assailed by the English hath bent himself with) The deleted letters are uncertain. may get together () / can muster [Cadell III:A] Southerns () / Southrons [III:A; post-proofs] thinks unjustly (Editorial) / thinks, unjustly (not in  ) general ( ) / governor [post-proofs] Douglas, being a mere chicken, takes (  Douglas being a mere chicken takes) / Douglas, a mere chicken, take [Cadell III:A] not great () / but brief [Cadell III:A] You are () / Thou art [Lockhart III:C] question ( ) / doubt [Cadell III:A] and that thou hast a true and wholesome ( & that thou hast a true m& wholesomeo) / and truly thou seemest to have a wholesome [Lockhart III:C] cut something with (Lockhart proof correction III:C: cut msome thingo with) / cut something huge with [post-proofs] ( cut it mouto with) these huge hills (Lockhart proof correction III:C: these 〈great〉 mhugeo hills) / these hills [post-proofs] (  these great hills) hills, like . . . in the North. (proof III:A) / hills. [Lockhart III:C] ( hills like the great 〈Earl of the North〉 Umphraville who they say is 〈an〉 now Earl of Angus—) and live or die thou (proof III:A) / and whether I live or die thou [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] (  & thou) every () / any [Cadell III:A] those ( ) / him [Cadell III:A] of the most prudent () / of prudent [III:A] not wish . . . untimely death ( ) / not, by an early death, wish thy country to be deprived [III:A; Cadell III:A] peaceful between themselves () / at peace with each other [Cadell III:A] all the rest of Europe () / the whole world [Cadell III:A: the mwholeo world] can be ended on the footing of () / can end in [Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C] intimate the () / intimate in our prayers the [III:A] end which we would wish ( end wh. we would wish) / end we wish [Cadell III:A] point out in our prayers to (  〈intimate〉 mpoint outo in our prayers to) / point out to [III:A] the office () / it [post-proofs] it ( ) / this [Cadell III:A] myself ( my self) / me [Cadell III:A] hast heard () / well knowest [Lockhart III:C] last commander on the part of England ( ) / last English commander [Cadell III:A]

  34.41 35.5

35.10 35.15 35.16 35.17 35.27 35.29 35.31 35.43 36.1 36.4 36.10 36.11 36.14 36.18 36.24 36.28 36.29 36.30 36.31 36.34 36.37 36.41 37.2 37.2 37.14 37.15

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moved () / removed [III:A] Larder a never to be forgotten record ( derived: m. . . largero a never to be forgotten m, ao record) / Larder never by me to be forgotten as a record [III:A; Cadell III:A] The  was misunderstood in revision. nearly two years since during the last months (proof III:A) / during two years or thereabouts [Cadell III:A] (  the last 〈year〉 mmontso) Marches, and ( Marches &) / Marches with an English army, and [III:A] wants, by which I ( wants by which I) / wants, I [Cadell III:A] who then and for ( who then & for) / who for [Cadell III:A] This () / The [Cadell III:A] provisions which, the ( provisions wh the) / provisions which he found in the castle, which, the [Cadell III:A; III:B] nor still less . . . his ease, the ( nor still the leisure to stay & consume at his ease, the) / nor the leisure to stay and consume, the [Cadell III:A] quarters of the cattle were (  derived: quarter of the cattle were) / flesh of these oxen was [III:A; Cadell III:A; III:B] were also ( ) / was also [Cadell III:A] ungodly () / unworthy [III:A] provisions such as have been arranged (  provisions such as 〈had been〉 have been arranged) / provisions arranged [Cadell III:A] Larder, very proper ( larder very proper) / Larder, proper [III:A] were dead ( ) / had just died [III:A; Cadell III:A] abhorrence () / abhorence [post-proofs] matter: we—I mean I myself and (  matter, we I mean I myself &) / matter, since its consequences were, that I myself, and [III:A] spare ( ) / hesitate [Cadell III:A] Scottish ( ) / Scots [Cadell III:A] round ( ) / around [post-proofs] petitions to Heaven for mercy with peculiar penitence ( ) / petitions with peculiar penitence to Heaven for mercy [Cadell III:A] other and on our fellow-creatures. (  other & on our fellow creatures.) / other. [Cadell III:A] I, I must say, upon recollection greatly () / I greatly [Cadell III:A] in respect of his () / for [Cadell III:A] conversation ( ) / converse [Cadell III:A] had ( ) / held [post-proofs] minstrel of () / minstrel, the ancient friend and servant of [postproofs] noble name. He was called . . . they had to complain of. (Proof III:A, corrected: noble name. He was called Hugo Hug〈e〉moonet, had fought by the side of that young lord at that last stormmingo which we have notic〈[?]〉meod, and been 〈concern〉mengagoed in the massacre which then took place; for although a man of kind and merciful mood, so far as concerned the prisoners and the horses which were put to death, he was 〈a man〉 moneo who felt no compunction where his master’s house was concerned, and took the readiest road to revenge upon their enemies all such injuries as they had to complain of.) / noble family. [Lockhart III:C] (  noble name. He had fought with that young Lord at that last storm which we have noticed & been concerned in the massacre which then took place for although a man of kind & mercifull mood so far as concerned the prisoners & the horses which were put to death he was a man who felt no compunction where his masters house was concerned & took

308

37.22

37.23 37.27 37.29 37.31 37.38 38.1 38.8

38.11 38.16 38.24 38.26 38.26 38.28 38.31

38.33 38.37 38.41 38.41 38.42 38.43

  the readiest road to revenge upon their enemies all such injuries as he had to complain of.) The proof corrections are by Cadell and Ballantyne. The deleted letter is illegible because of Ballantyne’s pen stroke: it was perhaps an inverted ‘e’. [no text] [new paragraph] “The castle (Editorial) / This minstrel, Hugo Hugonet by name, attended his young master when on this fierce exploit, as was his wont. [new paragraph] “The castle [III:A; Cadell III:A; Lockhart III:C; post-proofs] (  This minstrel the antient friend m& servanto of the house of Douglas attended his master the last time he rode with the Douglas to any military exploit, & it chanced to be this very 〈sorm〉 storm & intaking of the House of Douglas & I have already told you the onslaught which followed 〈that onset〉 on this occasion. The castle) tumult, being still . . . a storm; ( tumult mbeing still in the confusion which follows a storm;o) / tumult; [III:A] their fate ( ) / their impending fate [Cadell III:A] a shambles () / the shambles [Cadell III:A] pang () / stroke This was misread in III:A as ‘hand’, and changed to ‘stroke’ by Cadell there. so () / such [Cadell III:A] its arrival upon this world () / it came to pass [Cadell III:A] of this ancient bard’s works . . . ancient race (  of this antient bard〈s〉 works that they were supposed to contain much of a metrical nature particularly connected with the old house of Douglass & other chiefs of antient race) / of the works of this ancient bard, as many of his poems and predictions were said to be preserved in the castle, and were supposed to contain much especially connected with the old house of Douglas, as well as other families of ancient descent [III:A; Cadell III:A; III:B; post-proofs] the old ( ) / this old [post-proofs] where ( ) / in which [III:A] he naturally fell into a fit of reverie ( ) / he fell into a brief reverie [III:A; Cadell III:A] things ( ) / objects [post-proofs] eyes, engaged . . . destruction (  derived: eyes engaged him in on the very moment of their destruction) / eyes, now on the eve of destruction, engaged him at that moment [III:A; Cadell III:A] uncommon character . . . warrior (  uncommon character of the mixture of the scholar & mystic & warrior) / uncommon mixture of the mystical scholar and warrior [III:A] it lifted . . . as it were by ( it lifted from the desk on which it lay & plainly displaced & moved by | Cadell proof correction III:A: it slowly removed from the desk on which it lay, 〈and plainly displaced and moved〉 mas it wereo by) / it slowly removed from the desk on which it lay by [III:C] this () / the [III:A] render the contents . . . distinguished (  render the contents of the chair difficult to be distinguished) / render it difficult to distinguish any person in the chair [Cadell III:A] Hugonet () / the mind [IV:A] accurately ( ) / distinctly [Cadell IV:A] motion ( ) / action [Cadell IV:A] something that was not ( 〈an object〉 msome thingo that was not) / something not [Cadell IV:A]

 

309

IV. 38.41 (‘figure to Hugonet’) to 46.11 (‘and in returning’) Proof IV:A (M S 3779, ff. 201r–210v); Proof IV:B (M S 3779, ff. 301r–310r); Proof IV:C (M S 3778, ff. 430r–438v); Proof IV:D (M S 3778, ff. 362r–370v) 39.3 which (proof IV:A) / and they [Cadell IV:B] (not in  ) 39.6 phantom before him; and (  Phantom before him &) / phantom; and [Cadell IV:B] 39.9 themselves under (  them selves under) / themselves behind the person and under [IV:A] 39.10 person () / figure [Cadell IV:A] 39.12 recite gravely ( ) / recite so gravely [Cadell IV:B] 39.13 be placed well enough amid (proof IV:A) / pass well enough amid [post-proofs] (  m. . . beo well mplacedo enough placed amid) 39.17 violer, communicated the story to me when ( violer communicated the story to me when) / violer, when [Cadell IV:B] 39.19 Wales, where I heard the tale from him as ( Wales where I heard the 〈story〉 tale 〈&〉 mfrom himo as) / Wales, communicated the story to me as [Cadell IV:A and IV:B] 39.19 I tell it to you. Thus, as it (proof IV:A) / I now tell it. Therefore, as it [Cadell IV:A; post-proofs] (  I tell you; 〈that〉 mthus aso it) 39.20 I need not . . . communicating it ( I need not I flatter my self apologise for again communicating it) / I apologize not for relating it [Cadell IV:A and IV:B; post-proofs] 39.26 had lived respectably his ( ) / maintained a fair character during his [Cadell IV:A] 39.29 Scottish (  〈welsh〉 mScotisho) / Scots ‘Scottish’ was changed to ‘Scotch’ in proof IV:A, and corrected to ‘Scots’ by Cadell there. 39.41 the dead . . . to them both (  the dead from the living & enterest so strangely 〈the〉 limits which are accessible to them both) / them, and revisitest thus strangely the state thou hast so long bid adieu to [Cadell IV:and IV:B; Lockhart IV:D] 40.1 Speaker, or . . . my family. (  speaker or finally Thomas Learmonth from the name of my family.) / Speaker. [IV:A] 40.4 the shadows, clouds, and darkness ( the 〈the clouds〉 〈shad〈es,〉mows,o〉 mshadowso clouds, & darkness) / the shadowy clouds and darkness [IV:A] Laidlaw writes ‘the 〈the clouds〉 shades, clouds, & darkness’. Scott changes ‘shades,’ to ‘shadows,’ and also inserts ‘shadows’ above the line. 40.8 for the sake of the () / for their loyalty to the [IV:A; Cadell IV:B] 40.11 fathers, so is it the doom . . . the Dangerous Castle.’ ( derived: fathers so is it the doom of heaven that as often as Douglas Castle shall be burnt to the ground it by the heir himself in behalf of the freedom of Scotland so often shall it be again rebuilt still more stately & more magnificent 〈as〉 mthano the family have been before able to accomplish, & by the truth of this my present saying O Hugo Hugonet shalt thou mkonow how to establish the truth of the Rhymers words & the perpetuity which has been doomed to the 〈d〉mDoangerous Castle, which as often as its walls have been ruined shall arise again stronger & firmer to withstand the attempts of an enemy”) / fathers in the Bruce’s cause, so is it the doom of Heaven, that as often as the walls of Douglas Castle shall be burnt to the ground, they shall be again rebuilt still more stately and more magnificent than before.’ [Cadell IV:B; Lockhart IV:D] The passage is altered and trimmed at various proof stages, principally by Cadell and Lockhart.

310 40.19 40.21 40.21 40.25 40.28 40.30 40.30 40.33 40.37 40.38 40.40 40.40

40.42

41.5 41.6 41.6 41.13 41.15 41.15 41.20 41.24

41.25 41.26 41.27 41.30 41.31 41.32 41.36

  was heard () / was now heard [Cadell IV:A] catch ( ) / burst from [IV:A] sparkles () / sparks [Cadell IV:A] disappearing while in the act of doing so— (  disappearing while in the act of doing so.) / disappearing— [Cadell IV:B] had entirely vanished (proof IV:A) / had vanished [Cadell IV:B] (not in ) saw ( ) / beheld [post-proofs] scarce ( ) / scarcely [Cadell IV:A] hearer remained ( ) / hearer, the English knight, remained [IV:A] reared again as often (proof IV:A) / as often reared again [Cadell IV:B] (  reared up again as often) and by other (  & by other) / and other [Cadell IV:B] existed formerly () / formerly existed [Cadell IV:B] a place . . . borders. This (  a place so important to the safety of our Scottish borders This) / a position too important to the safety of our Scottish border to permit our yielding it up. This [IV:A; Cadell IV:A; post-proofs] But that I should therefore think . . . feats of the Douglasses. ( derived: But that I should therefore think that because 〈it〉 mthe Castlleo has been so destroyed 〈it is〉 moro doomed mito so to be repaired it is I think dubious considering that cruelties which surely cannot meet the approbation of Heaven 〈are in such a tale represented as being the direct produce of the decrees of Heaven〉.) / But I cannot think, that because the castle has been so destroyed, it is therefore decreed so to be repaired in future, considering that such cruelties, as surely cannot meet the approbation of Heaven, have attended the feats of the Douglasses. [IV:A; Cadell IV:A and IV:B] seems (Editorial) / seem ( as Ed1) indication (  indication〈s〉) / indications [IV:A] mayest ( ) / mayst [post-proofs] its purposes as it will; and I confess I look ( ) / its own purposes. I look [Cadell IV:B] has ( ) / may have [IV:A; post-proofs] of at least twenty ( ) / of twenty [Cadell IV:B] forwards () / forward [post-proofs] wood, which was partly drawn aside (  〈rock〉 mwoodo which was mpartlyo drawn aside) / rock, which appeared to have been pushed aside [IV:A; Cadell IV:A] Scott’s inserted ‘wood’ is malformed, probably involving a change from ‘work’. admit the () / admit a view of the [Cadell IV:A] were originally (  〈was〉 mwereo originally) / have been already [IV:A; Cadell IV:A] flowed more northerly (  flowd more 〈n〉orthrly) / became narrower [IV:A; Cadell IV:A] town and lordly (  mtown &o lordly) / towering and lordly [IV:A] mists, which overhung . . . encumber (  derived: mists which continued to over hang the buildings of both continud for some time to encumber) / mist which continued to encumber [IV:A; Cadell IV:A and IV:B] showing () / showed (post-proofs) pile . . . the centre of the town. (  pile even then extremely ruinous raised on an eminence in the centre of the town.) / pile raised on an eminence in the centre of the town, and even then extremely ruinous. [Cadell IV:A]

  41.42 41.43 41.43

42.5 42.5 42.6 42.7 42.9 42.12 42.15 42.17 42.18 42.25 42.25

42.28

42.33 42.34 42.39 42.41

311

battlement, and the ( battlement & the) / battlements; displaying, above others, the [IV:A] Lord Clifford’s Tower, or, as it was termed, the Clifford’s ( Lord Cliffords Tower or as it was termed the Cliffords) / Lord Henry’s, or the Clifford’s Tower [IV:A; Cadell IV:A and IV:B] This tower . . . heir of Douglas. (proof IVA, corrected by Cadell: This tower, with added battlements, or defences, bore witness to the 〈truth〉 massertiono of Sir Aymer de Valence, who affirmed, that such augmentations had been made to the fortifications 〈of Douglas Castle, since great strength had been added to them〉 since the first surprise of the fortress by the young heir of Douglas. |   with considerably added battlements or defences bore witness to the truth of Sir Aymey de Valence who affirmed that such augmentations had been made to the fortifications of Douglas Castle since great strength had been added to them since the 〈burning〉 mfirst surprizeo of the fortress by the young heir of Douglass.) / [no text] [Lockhart IV:D] “That is the Castle of Douglas,” (  “That is the castle of Douglass”) / “Yonder is the castle,” [Lockhart IV:D] pointing () / extending [Cadell IV:A] mayest ( ) / mayst [post-proofs] like () / likely [Cadell IV:A] quoted a verse from () / quoted from [Cadell IV:B] from that which you are willing to assert—more than () / thine; but, methinks, thou art more spiritually minded than [IV:A; Lockhart IV:D; post-proofs] the chances of this world (  the changes of this mheo world) / its purposes in this lower world [IV:A; Cadell IV:B] upon, even in (  upon even in) / upon, in [Cadell IV:B] and render ( & render) / and which render [IV:A] welcome to it, and (  welcome to it &) / welcome, and [IV:A; Cadell IV:B] Walton will not . . . knight’s bower; and (  Walton will not I am sure contradict me in so slight a matter as to receive a person of your profession who in general have free access to 〈all〉 hall, castle, or Knights bower; &) / Walton, I hope, will not refuse free access to hall, castle, or knight’s bower, to a person of your profession, and [IV:A; Cadell IV:B; Lockhart IV:D; post-proofs] somewhat in wisdom . . . the invitation, considering (proof IV:A somewhat in wisdom and honest learning. The minstrel gladly saw his acquaintance with the young knight terminate in an invitation to the castle; an offer which, however, Sir Aymer immediately clogged by an exception—“I dare not include your son in the invitation, considering |   somewhat in wisdom & honest learning. The minstrel gladly saw his acquaintance with the young Knight terminate in an invitation to the castle which he wished to see 〈He respectfully accepted the invitation to and approached〉 m‘NL’ Offer which however Sir Aymer immediately clog’d by an exception interposed by the young knight. I 〈day〉 dare not include your son in the invitation considering . . .o) / somewhat. I cannot, however, lead you to expect such indulgence for your son, considering [Cadell IV:B; Lockhart IV:D; post-proofs] grant ( ) / procure [post-proofs] will be permitted to stay there (proof IV:A) / will be there [Cadell IV:B] (  will permit to stay there) Abbot for his charity. (proof IV:A) / Abbot. [Cadell IV:B] (not in  ) subsist themselves by ( ) / subsist by [Cadell IV:A]

312 42.42 43.1 43.1 43.8 43.13 43.21 43.24 43.25 43.26 43.30 43.32 43.32 43.33 43.37

43.40 44.1

44.5 44.8 44.10 44.15 44.18 44.18 44.19 44.22 44.26 44.27

  cloisters (  ) / cloisters for a passing season [IV:A; IV:C] close () / closely [Cadell IV:A] stationed on the outside, and ( stationed on the out side &) / stationed, and [Cadell IV:B] de Valence, nephew (Magnum) / de Valence, uncle or nephew ( as Ed1) was coming (  was comming) / were to come [Cadell IV:A] worship’s (  worships) / worship [Cadell IV:B] my own () / mine (post-proofs) returns () / return [Cadell IV:B] point () / matter [IV:C] mayest ( ) / mayst [post-proofs] food and necessaries (  food & necessaries) / good cheer [postproofs] comes in ( ) / returns [Cadell IV:A] a person who has been admitted according to my (  〈his sons〉 ma persono who 〈have〉 mhaso been been admitted according to my) / a person admitted by my [Cadell IV:A and IV:B] hand. He ushered (Editorial) / hand, and resumed the grave and solemn manner of a sentinel upon his post. He first, however, ushered (  hand & resumed 〈his〉 mtheo m〈the〉 〈his〉o grave & solemn 〈watch upon〉 mmanner of ao his sentinel mupon hiso post. He first however ushered) advancing to a step of ( advanc〈ed〉mingo to 〈that〉 mao step of) / advancing a step in [IV:A; Cadell IV:A] vocation, gained him . . . besides somewhat (  vocation gained him the good will of all in the castle 〈& rendered〉 mas he himself said of sense and discipline together with the ridicule & ill will of young coxcombs but certainly the grave qualities certainly renderdo him besides somewhat | proof IV:A: vocation, gained him the good will of all in the castle, as he himself said, for sense and discipline, together with the ridicule and dislike of young coxcombs; but these grave qualities certainly rendered him besides somewhat) / vocation, while they gained him the confidence of all in the castle, subjected him, as he himself said, occasionally to the ridicule of the young coxcombs; and at the same time, we may add, rendered him somewhat [Cadell IV:A; Lockhart IV:D] higher in birth and rank than himself (  higher in mbirth &o rank than himself) / higher than himself in birth and rank [Cadell IV:A] commands to have done; for ( commands to have done, for) / commands; for [Cadell IV:B] various etiquettes proper to ( ) / various proper forms of [IV:A; Cadell IV:B; IV:C] throw especial blame (  thmroow 〈blame〉 especial blame) / throw blame [post-proofs] fortune and luck in life; (  fortune & luck in life;) / fortune; [Cadell IV:B] for to train () / for all which, by training [Cadell IV:A; perhaps Ballantyne IV:B; Lockhart IV:D] wars . . . has accounted (proof IV:A) / wars, Sir John has taken [Cadell IV:A and IV:B] (  wars he has 〈reckoned〉 maccountedo) the boy ( the Boy) / Fabian [Cadell IV:A] Sir John will (Editorial) / Sir John de Walton will In  Laidlaw changes his ‘sir John Walton’ to ‘he’. In proof IV:A this reverts to ‘Sir John Walton’, the ‘de’ being inserted post-proofs. himself hath had . . . sap within ( him self hath had in his time

  44.30 44.32 44.39 44.43 45.1 45.2 45.6 45.9 45.10 45.12 45.13

45.19

45.20 45.21

45.25 45.25 45.27 45.27 45.28 45.29 45.29 45.30 45.32 45.39

313

some green sap within) / himself had once some green sap in [Cadell IV:B] must once ( ) / must some day [Cadell IV:A] swelled ( ) / swoln [Cadell IV:A] is the more . . . transgressions (  is the more tempting opertunity for thy own trangressions) / is more like to stand thyself one day in good stead [Lockhart IV:D] sayings that will plead your apology, and (  sayings that will plead your apology &) / sayings, and [Cadell IV:A] title of ( ) / name of [Cadell IV:A] witty name ( ) / witty title [IV:A] a sort of general () / a general [IV:A] his eye () / the eye of the old sentinel [Cadell IV:A] sought () / rested upon [Cadell IV:A] in attendance . . . readiness in performing ( in attendance prompt to shew his extreme readiness in performing) / on the alert to perform [Cadell IV:A] require, with a degree . . . a sentinel. ( require with a degree of accuracy which should serve to shew how very well acquainted he was with the duty of a sentinel & how ready to perform it. | Cadell proof correction IV:A: require, with a degree of accuracy mtooo which should serve to shew how very well acquainted he was with the duty of a sentinel, 〈and how ready to perform it〉.) / require. [Lockhart IV:D] Cadell first inserted ‘and’ before ‘with’, but then deleted it. The whole phrase was deleted by Lockhart in IV:D. was trusted (Editorial) / was much trusted Cadell inserted ‘much’ in correcting IV:A, and substituted ‘considerably’ for the following ‘much’. This was changed to ‘very much’ postproofs to avoid a double repetition, but that correction itself resulted in a repetition. though much ( ) / though very much See the preceding entry. concerning the punctualities of discipline, which ( concerning the punctualities of the discipline of the wars which | Cadell proof correction IV:A: 〈concerning the punctualities of the〉 min upholding stricto discipline 〈of the wars〉, which) / in upholding strict discipline, which [Cadell IV:A] Unluckily (  〈Suddenly〉 mUnluckilyo) / Meantime [Lockhart IV:D] that in () / that though in [Lockhart IV:D] would merely do () / had merely done [Lockhart IV:D] rank, and vindicating his right to do so, as (  rank & vindicating his right to do so as) / rank, as [Cadell IV:A and IV:B; Lockhart IV:D] chivalry. The minstrel (proof IV:A) / chivalry—the self-styled minstrel [Lockhart IV:D] ( chivalry—The minstrel) might in reality be, or he might not be, a ( might in reality be or he might not be a) / might not in reality be a [Lockhart IV:D] worth of which he assumed the show. (  worth o〈r〉mfo which he assumed the shew.) / worth which he assumed. [Cadell IV:A] something about him that might be termed remarkable, at (  something about him mthat might be termd remarkableo at) / something in his conversation, at [IV:A] with ( ) / to [Cadell IV:A] reception . . . any stranger, was ( reception within the dangerous Castle or that of any stranger was) / reception, or that of any stranger, within the Dangerous Castle, was [Cadell IV:A]

314 45.41 45.41

46.1 46.1 46.2 46.5 46.5 46.5 46.11

  rules of his post () / line of his duty [Cadell IV:A] and he would have had . . . blame ( & he would have had praise & honour from his commanding officer instead of perhaps meeting discountenance & rebuke | Cadell proof correction IV:A: and he would have had praise and honour from his 〈commanding officer〉 msuperioro, instead 〈of〉 perhaps mofo meeting discountenance and 〈rebuke〉 mblameo) / and instead, perhaps, of discountenance and blame, he would have had praise and honour from his superior Cadell’s elimination of the repetitions of ‘commanding officer’ and ‘rebuke’ have been accepted. His revisions of the   word order in IV:A, and further in IV:B, have not. running in ( ) / passing through [Cadell IV:A] apprehension of ( ) / apprehension arose of [Cadell IV:A] commanding-officer arose. For ( commanding officer 〈whom〉 marose. For . . .o) / commanding-officer; for [Cadell IV:A] under pretence () / under the pretence [Cadell IV:A] seeing the (  seeing 〈that〉 the) / seeing that the [Cadell IV:A] rites (Magnum) / rights (  as Ed1) returning () / reverting [Cadell IV:A]

V. 46.5 (‘duly observed’) to 50.7 (‘James, the young’) Proof V:A (M S 3780, ff. 49r–53r); Proof V:B (M S 3779, ff. 211r–216r); Proof V:C (M S 3779, ff. 310v–312v); Proof V:D1 (M S 3778, ff. 439r–442v); Proof V:D2 (M S 3778, ff. 371r–374v) 46.13 his invitation to the castle should ( ) / effectual permission to enter the castle ought to [Cadell V:B and V:C] 46.13 Walton to be effectual () / Walton [V:B] 46.16 to accredit and receive (  to accredit & receive) / to receive [Cadell V:C] 46.22 his () / a [Cadell V:B] 46.25 But he could ( derived: But he said he could) / But I can [Cadell V:B and V:C] 46.26 rites (Magnum) / rights (  as Ed1) 46.26 disuse, and declared . . . did not invest ( derived: disuse & declared that 〈a scottish man〉 mman of publick charactero at least shd. not mdesire too receive meat or lodging where it was accounted so dangerous & he was not even surprised that he did not invest) / disuse, and why a man of public character like myself ought not to desire food or lodging where it is accounted so dangerous; and it can surprise no one why the governor did not even invest [VB; Cadell V:B and V:C] 46.32 as if he were ( ) / as insinuating, that he was [V:B; Cadell V:B] 46.32 judged () / held [Cadell V:C] 46.33 trustworthy . . . reposed in him, by (proof V:B: trust-worthy, or thought so prudent that faith should be reposed in him by) / trustworthy by [Cadell V:B] (  trustworthy or so prudent that faith should be reposed in him by) 46.34 of intimate affection (Scott proof correction V:A) / of affection (  of a common affection) Scott’s proof correction was not adopted. 46.37 being ( ) / having been [Lockhart V:D2] 46.41 alarm ( ) / stir [Cadell V:C] 46.42 ride in the neighbourhood. () / ride. [Cadell V:C] 46.43 sentinel seemed () / sentinel, seemingly [Cadell V:C] 47.1 sudden, more sharp . . . more conscious (  sudden, more sharp & in a more bussiness like manner & seemed inspired as mfully awake &o

  47.8 47.12 47.18 47.22 47.26 47.27

47.41 47.43

48.2

48.8 48.8 48.9 48.16

48.19

315

more conscious) / sharply, and seemed more fully awake and conscious [Cadell V:B and V:C] Bride’s (  Brydes) / Bride [post-proofs] time in this castle of ours () / time [Cadell V:C] a humour (proof V:B) / the humour [Cadell V:B] (not in  ) his art ( ) / the art [Cadell V:B] or more ( ) / or a more [V:A] man; and I desire . . . explanation.” (proof V:A derived: man; and I desire . . . explanation of [space].”) / man.” [V:B] (  man & I desire that all persons as they bear respect to their own safty will leave me the opertunity of communicating with Sir Aymer in person & not venture to inform him that I have 〈th〉 taken the least displeasure at him for exerting his own judgement where his office certainly permitted him the privilege of personal judgement although perhaps he might as well 〈tave〉 have taken the counsell of one whom he has never had room to term other than a most sincere friend mI know no more certain way of breeding dissensions between the best than 〈which〉 when any officious gobetween presumes tell the one what the other might think or say respecting him in a hurry or 〈w〉 without a full explanation ofo) The manuscript does not indicate where the verso insertion should appear. by Gilbert (  by 〈Richard〉 mGilberto)/ by trusty Gilbert [Cadell V:C] respectful towards the speaker . . . criticism. (  respectfull mtowards the speakero but as he was not seen he escaped the Governors criticism.) / respectful, but, from his position, he escaped observation. [Cadell V:B; Lockhart V:D2; post-proofs] person who heard . . . confutation. He was ( person who heard Sir John Waltons observations on the minstrels being chosen as a companion by Sir Aymer de Valence being very much attatched to the young knight was proportionally displeased with the insinuations or suspicions which to him, the animadversions appeared to 〈imply〉 mdirectly false and so easily capable of confutationo. He was | proof V:B: person who heard Sir John Walton’s observations on the minstrel’s being chosen as a companion by Sir Aymer de Valence, was no other than the page Fabian, who being very much attached to the young knight, was proportionally displeased with the insinuations or suspicions of Greenleaf, which, to him, appeared so easily capable of confutation. He was) / person was no other than the squire Fabian, who was [Cadell V:B]   and proof ‘page’ is editorially emended to ‘squire’. hob ( ) / hob [V:A; V:B] grate () / fireplace [Lockhart V:D2] studiously ( ) / carefully [Cadell V:B] Meantime a quantity . . . smouldering and (  derived: Meantime a quantity of fresh wood & thick smoke arising from a quantity of oak panelling being the fuel which lay nearest at hand carved in many cases with the crest & atchievement of the Douglas family lay smouldering &) / He was better screened from view, as a thick smoke arose from a quantity of oak panelling, carved in many cases with the crest and achievements of the Douglas family, which being the fuel nearest at hand, lay smouldering in the chimney, and [V:A; V:B; Cadell V:B; Lockhart V:D2] blaze. Such a sight . . . more rare. ( Such a sight many of my readers may have seen in a 〈Flemish〉 mFrencho or Gascoigne chateau though there is no harm in hoping that in future 〈the〉 msucho scenes of destruction will be considerably more rare.) / blaze. [Lockhart V:D2]

316 48.26 48.27 48.28

48.37 48.38 48.39 49.5 49.6 49.9 49.12 49.14 49.15 49.18 49.19 49.19 49.21 49.21 49.24 49.25 49.26 49.27 49.28

49.33 49.35 49.38 49.41 50.1

  honour, my affections, are (  honour, my affections are) / honour and affections are [post-proofs] Perilous (  perilous) / Dangerous [V:B] behalf; . . . the nearest road.” (  derived: m. . . behalfo & young de Valence if strictly keeped to his duty may win his spurs as laudably in the defence of this place upon a bulwark or bartizan, or in 〈the〉 msomeo onslaught 〈upon the〉 upon the baricades as he could gain them in a pi〈c〉tched field were it Cressy itself. mBut I can conceive that a fiery youth like my friend seems turning weary of watching for preferment though he expects it by the nearest roado”) / behalf, but I am troubled at the admission of this stranger; and young De Valence would have acted more strictly in the line of his duty, if he had refused to this wanderer any communication with this garrison without my permission.” [Cadell V:B] Valence is already a knight, but Cadell’s complete rewriting of the passage in V:B (on a paper apart at f. 198r) is unnecessary. A less drastic solution to the problem is offered here. bottle full of fermenting () / bottle of fermented [V:A; Cadell V:B] Marry! hang (  Mary hang) / Now hang [Lockhart V:D2] a soldier ( ) / the soldier [V:B] imposed () / impressed [Cadell V:B] you have ( ) / you, Greenleaf, have [V:B] hint, Greenleaf, the ( hint Greenleaf the) / hint, the [Cadell V:B] squire (Editorial) / page ( as Ed1) do all () / do towards all [V:B] was not ( ) / were not [Cadell V:B] was still () / is still [V:B] packet () / kind [Cadell V:B] open a private one ( ) / another [Cadell V:B] Edward the first () / Longshanks [Lockhart V:D2] this tale . . . the plot is intended; and ( this tale to my master for whose misfortune & disgrace the plot is intended &) / to my master this tale of thine evil intentions; and [Cadell V:B] most effectually like ( ) / most likely [Cadell V:B] of Castle Dangerous () / of this same Castle of Douglas [Cadell V:B] purpose, and by carrying to his master, in ( purpose & by carrying to his master in) / purpose, in carrying to his master, and in [Cadell V:B] humour at any rate, the ( humour at any rate the) / humour, the [Cadell V:B] soldier, he easily . . . communication as (proof V:B: soldier, he easily accomplished, representing the whole communication as) / soldier. He succeeded in representing the whole as [Cadell V:B] ( soldier. He easily accomplished representing the whole communication as) He always retained (  he always retained) / He retained [V:A; Cadell V:B] deem ( ) / think [Cadell V:B] fair share () / fair portion [V:B] the other ( ) / each other [Cadell V:B] and which had formed . . . nature, by ( derived: & which had formed to him by constant use a second nature by) / and by [Cadell VI:B]

VI. 49.30 (‘while all that the governor’) to 55.14 (‘in case of need.’) Proof VI:A (M S 3780, ff. 53v–60v); Proof VI:B (M S 3779, ff. 216v–223v); Proof VI:C1 (M S 3779, ff. 518r–v, ff. 140r–146r); Proof VI:C2 (M S 3778, ff. 375r–381v, f. 443r)

  50.7 50.8 50.11 50.12 50.13 50.15 50.15

50.18 50.22 50.23 50.27 50.27 50.28

50.33 50.34 50.36 50.41

51.11 51.12 51.15 51.17 51.18 51.19 51.21 51.23

51.25 52.1 52.7

317

the Southern ( ) / this Southern [Cadell VI:B] an English soldier was cursing ( an english soldier was cursing) / the English soldiers cursed [Cadell VI:B] duty, a (  duty a) / duty, they agreed that a [VI:B; Cadell VI:B] conversation with them in ( ) / conversation in [Cadell VI:B] with ingenuity ( ) / with an ingenuity [Cadell VI:B] soldier () / sentinel [Lockhart VI:C2] which he might . . . garrison. (  derived: which he might [end of line] et himself at liberty by giving his assistance to betray the english garrison.) / which, by giving his assistance to betray the English, he might set himself at liberty. [Cadell VI:B] anxiety (which we have mentioned as excessive) so perpetually (proof VI:B) / anxiety so perpetually [VI:C1; Cadell VI:C1] ( anxiety (which we have mentioned as excessive), perpetualy) an (proof VI:B) / the [Cadell VI:B] (not in ) a new (proof VI:B) / some new [Cadell VI:B] (not in ) complaining () / complain [Cadell VI:B] who did ( ) / who, neither invested with responsibility like his, nor animated by the hope of such splendid rewards, did [Lockhart VI:C2] of suspicion . . . acquisition of it. (  of suspicion as himself & who could not partake in the same reward & were therefore more indifferent in the acquisition of it.) / of watchful and incessant suspicion as himself. [VI:B; Cadell VI:B; Lockhart VI:C2] having been () / serving [Cadell VI:B] complained that ( ) / complained, at the same time, that [Cadell VI:B] forwards ( ) / forward [Cadell VI:B] precautions . . . changed and corrupted (  precautions. The reader therefore has only to suppose a noble heart like that of Sir John Walton suffering a little under the influence of continued & anxious suspicion & he will have the idea of a character which msuspiciono a virtue that properly belongs to the wars when carried to an extravagant degre has often the effect of creating [new paragraph] A generous mind is thus changed & corrupted) / precautions. [new paragraph] A generous mind—and such was Sir John de Walton’s—is often in this way changed and corrupted [Cadell VI:B; Lockhart VI:C2] The   reading has been editorially modified by eliminating the repeated ‘suspicion’. fully ( ) / far [Cadell VI:B] was given ( ) / had been given [Lockhart VI:C2] Walton was ( de Walton was) / De Walton, on the other hand, was [Cadell VI:B] warfare and (  warfare mand . . .o) / warfare, and [VI:A] trifles and (Editorial) / trifles, and (not in  ) Thus the seeds . . . they failed (  Thus the seeds of dissagreement were sown between them, m&o they failed) / The seeds of disagreement, thus sown between them, failed [Lockhart VI:C2] enemy ( ) / Enemy [post-proofs] took part, in their debates, between Sir John Walton and his (  took part in their debates, 〈with〉 mbetweeno Sir John Walton & his) / took different sides between their governor and his [Cadell VI:B; Lockhart VI:C2] aloft () / in motion [Lockhart VI:C2] which seemed wisest to him when his blood was cold () / which, when his blood was cool, seemed to him wisest [Cadell VI:B] their return (proof VI:B) / his return (  their mutual return)

318 52.7 52.9 52.12 52.23

52.26

52.27 52.28 52.39 52.39 52.40 52.42 53.2 53.5 53.7 53.8 53.10 53.11 53.13 53.15 53.21 53.23 53.24 53.29 53.31 53.34 53.36 53.38 53.40

  The ‘mutual’ is well excised in proof VI:B. In correcting the proof, Cadell unnecessarily substituted ‘his’ for ‘their’. Castle Douglas ( ) / the castle [Cadell VI:B] young friend,” said he, “if (proof VI:A) / young friend,” said De Walton, “if [Cadell VI:B] ( young 〈friend〉” 〈said〉 msaid 〈assumed〉o he 〈to try〉 if) moorlands, or upon the frontier (  wilds in the neighbourhood or upon the frontier) / moorlands—the black and rugged frontier [Lockhart VI:C2] returned Walton, “and (  returned de Walton, “&) / replied De Walton, offended in turn, “and [VI:B; Cadell VI:B] The phrase is added in the VI:B text, and Cadell changes ‘returned’ to ‘replied’ there, avoiding a repetition with the insertion but creating one with line 17. among his inabilities . . . renders ( among his inabilities was subjected to a spell which as old people say in this country renders) / among other inabilities, were, as old people in this country say, subjected to a spell—and one which renders [Cadell VI:B; Lockhart VI:C2; post-proofs] him so to guide his conduct as ( ) / him to guide his conduct so as [Cadell VI:B] he feels the greatest desire () / he is most desirous [Cadell VI:B] deeper ( ) / greater [Cadell VI:B] older () / elder [VI:A] of responsibility, and that a serious one ( of responsibility & that a serious one) / of a serious responsibility [Cadell VI:B] hear me deliver my ( ) / hear my [Cadell VI:B] you, and no less the (  you & no less the) / you, the [Lockhart VI:C2] knight ( ) / cavalier [Lockhart VI:C2] reasons, considering . . . an honour ( reasons mconsidering his youtho to confer such an honour) / reasons to confer such an early honour [VI:B] outstep () / overstep [Cadell VI:B] countenance and manners ( countenance & manners) / pretensions [Lockhart VI:C2] John,” retorted (  John” retorted) / John de Walton,” retorted [postproofs] consent, or . . . mind, that ( consent or at least without frankly speaking my mind, that) / consent, if [VI:B; Cadell VI:B] is ( ) / be [VI:B] tied (  tyed) / formerly linked [Cadell VI:B] intercourse () / communications [VI:B] in ( ) / for [VI:A] feeling . . . the object ( feeling to occupy my bosom of which you are the object) / feeling, of which you are the object, to occupy my bosom [Cadell VI:B] chivalry . . . endeavoured to teach. (  chivalry & have profited perhaps by the lessons which I have endeavoured to teach.) / chivalry. [Lockhart VI:C2] a mutual connexion (  a mutual connection) / a connexion [VI:B] the obligations which have subsisted between us () / former obligations [Cadell VI:B] toward ( ) / towards [post-proofs] and that you ( & that you) / and you [VI:A]

  54.2 54.4

54.13 54.17 54.17 54.17 54.18 54.19 54.20 54.23

54.26 54.28 54.32 54.33 54.36

54.37 54.40 54.41 55.3 55.4

319

the one or the other ( derived: thee once or the other) / either [Cadell VI:B] their advance . . . word which might ( derived: their advanc〈ing〉 with the necessary cordiality though either of the knights would have gladly met the approach to perfect reconciliation had the other made the advances but their pride was too high & prevented each of them from saying a single frank or yeilding word which might) / the necessary advances with sufficient cordiality, though each would have gladly done so, had the other appeared desirous of meeting it with the same ardour; but their pride was too high, and prevented either from saying what might [VI:B; Cadell VI:B; post-proofs] Scott first wrote ‘advancing’. He then roughly deleted ‘ing’, leaving the ‘i’ to do duty for a final ‘e’, but not ‘es’, and adding ‘with’ beginning over the final part of the deletion. The ‘move’ for ‘advances’ is editorial. Douglas Dale (proof VI:A) / neighbouring dale [Lockhart VI:C2] (  Douglasdale) ended at an hour earlier in ( ended at 〈the same hour〉 man hour earliero in) / ended in [post-proofs] evening () / afternoon [Cadell VI:B] was to be ( ) / should be [Lockhart VI:C2] oak . . . neighbourhood by ( oak which was known to all the inhabitants of the castle & neighbourhood by) / oak, known by [Cadell VI:B; Lockhart VI:C2] and stood (  & stood) / which stood [Cadell VI:B] Douglas Dale, meaning . . . was ( Douglasdale meaning the fertile territory mdistricto properly so called was) / Douglas Dale was [Cadell VI:B] which they received . . . antipathy, upon ( which mwhich the received in general with pleasure notwithstanding their feeling of national antipathyo upon) / which they, notwithstanding their feeling of antipathy, received in general with delight, upon [VI:A; VI:B; Lockhart VI:C2; post-proofs] they present themselves ( ) / it happens to present itself [VI:B] takes () / take [Cadell VI:B] in company ( ) / in the company [Cadell VI:B] Still, however, it (  Still however it) / Still it [Cadell VI:B] the wolf, the boar, and even the timid stag, required (  derived: the wolf mwold the boar & even the timid stago m& 〈even the Boar〉o required) / the wolf, the wild boar, or even the timid stag, required [VI:A] Laidlaw inserts ‘& even the Boar’. Scott deletes the last three words and inserts on the facing verso ‘wold the boar & even the timid stag’. His intention is clear, but his ‘wold’ for ‘wolf’ suggested the Ed1 reading found in the VI:A text. the equipment (  〈this〉 mtheo equipment) / this equipment [VI:A] join the ( ) / join in the [post-proofs] numbers ( ) / number [VI:A] the quarrel . . . should ( the quarrel between mthe hunters &o the native inhabitants) / any quarrel should [Cadell VI:B] out. Strict orders . . . case of need. (  Strict orders therefore were given for taking due precautions as mafterwardso in the 〈forest of Chev〉 hunting of Cheviot Chase 〈two〉 mdifferento parties were formed one of which drove the game 〈&〉 〈the other were ready〉 manother killd it and a third attending entirely to the security of the hunters & a strong military force remaining firm under arms kept them selves in readiness at an

320

  instants warningo to fight if it was necessary in their defence. The mverses of theo antient poem taken 〈in〉 from the composition or transcription of Richard 〈steel〉 mShealo form the motto to the next chapter & convey a minute idea of the manner in which they pursued their amusement & the precautions they took for defence of their occupation in case of need m—the same circumstances dictating similar measures of precautiono / out. [Lockhart VI:C2] The phrase added at the end by Scott in  (‘the same circumstances . . . precaution’) is rejected as inadvertently repetitive.

VII. 55.15 (‘Chapter Seven’) to 58.16 (‘courageous animal.’) Proof VII:A (M S 3780, ff. 61r–64r); Proof VII:B (M S 3779, ff. 224r–226v); Proof VII:C (M S 3779, ff. 146v–149v); Proof VII:D (M S 3778, ff. 443v–446v); Proof VII:E (M S 3778, ff. 93r–98v) 55.24 This began . . . dead there lay. (proof VII:A) / [no text] [Lockhart VII:D] (  This began in Cheviot the hills above/ early on a monanday/ By that it drew to the hour of noon/ a hundred fat harts dead there lay.) 55.28 Edit. See P    ’ Reliques of Ancient Poetry. Vol. I. Page 4. (proof VII:B: Edit. See Percy’s Relics of Ancient Poetry. Vol. I. Page 4.) / Edit. [Lockhart VII:D] (  eddition see Percie’s Relicts of antient Poetry vol. I Page 4) 55.31 morning appointed ( ) / appointed morning [Cadell VII:B] 55.33 hope ( ) / expectation [VII:E] 55.34 closer () / close [VII:A] 55.37 *This person’s name . . . evil tongues. (proof VI:B, corrected by Cadell, derived: This person’s name is attached to the ballads of the Hunter of Cheviot, and the Battle of Otterburn, in 〈the Pepy’s〉 mPercy’so collection of songs about the time of Henry VII. He was certainly a minstrel, and if the author 〈of〉 these ballads, must be 〈surely〉 considered as one of the very best who ever touched a harp; yet there is 〈appearance〉 menough to showo that, notwithstanding his skill in his art, he had fallen on evil days and evil tongues.) / [no text] [Lockhart VI:C2] See the explanatory note to this passage. 56.9 service . . . honourable in itself. (  service at the instigation of their musurpingo neighbours; not it must be own〈er〉medo meithero pleasant or honourable in itsself.) / service, neither easy nor dignified in itself, at the instigation of usurping neighbours. [Cadell VII:B; Lockhart VII:D] 56.11 cavaliers . . . attracted particularly (  cavaliers who were riding mofteno at full speed through dangerous & broken ground attracted particularly) / cavaliers, now half seen, now exhibited fully, and at the height of strenuous exertion, according to the character of the dangerous and broken ground, particularly attracted [Cadell VII:B; Lockhart VII:D] 56.16 companions, whose disregard (Editorial) / companions, rendered more remarkable from being mounted, and the speed at which they urged their horses; the disregard [Cadell VII:B; VII:C; VII:E] (  companions of the chase rendered more remarkable than themselves by their being mounted & the speed at which they urged their horses which was frequently as much as the animal was capable of while the disregard) The repetition in this passage is editorially avoided in a less creative way than that followed by the intermediaries. 56.16 accidents to the rider was () / accidents being [Cadell VII:B; VII:E] 56.19 principles of modern and ancient hunting are doubtless as (Cadell proof correction VII:B) / principles on which modern and ancient

 

56.20 56.21 56.22 56.23

56.29 56.30 56.32 56.32 56.34 56.40

57.6 57.7 57.9 57.11 57.12 57.12 57.13 57.14 57.18

57.21 57.25 57.28 57.31

321

hunting were conducted, are, however, as [Lockhart VII:D; VII:E] (  principles on which modern & antient hunting were conducted 〈are〉 mwereo doubtless as) possible. The modern . . . his object. A (proof VII:A) / possible. A [Lockhart VII:D] (  possible. The modern is for more 〈do〉 moderate in the extent of his object. A) perhaps ( ) / or [Cadell VII:B] for forty () / to forty [VII:B] horses and attendants . . . a peaceful country ( derived: horses & attendants without stopping to divide the latter into amateurs regular domestics & the ordinary mode of a common hunting field. The antient mode of hunting on the contrary which often terminated in battle had in it something more 〈noble〉 mimportanto in its object than the ordinary hunting of a peacefull coutry) / men and horses; but the ancient chase, even though not terminating, as it often did, in battle, carried with it objects more important, and an interest immeasurably more stirring [VII:B; Cadell VII:B; Lockhart VII:D] Three emendations have been made to the   reading: ‘mob’ (VII:B text) for ‘mode’; ‘chase’ (VII:B text ‘chace’) for ‘hunting’; and the deletion of the repetitive ‘in its object’ (Editorial). and more generally engrossing ( & more generally ingrossing) / and engrossing [Lockhart VII:D] o’erlaboured (  o’erlabourd) / overlaboured [VII:A] mortals, who (  mortals who) / mortals—he who [Cadell VII:B; VII:C] or even (which is still (  or even (which is mstillo) / or (still [Cadell VII:B] task of multiplying the twentieth part of a pin (  m. . . task ofo multiplying the twentieth part of a a pin) / labours of the desk [Cadell VII:B] oldest, most feeble, and most torpid (proof VII:A) / oldest and feeblest (  oldest & most feeble m& most torpido) The correction was made in pencil to the VII:B text and then apparently erased, but the change was effected for proof VII:C. sport, and whose (  sport and whose) / sport, whose [VII:E] which is the common lot of humanity ( ) / of modern avocations [Lockhart VII:D] extended ( ) / extended, [VII:A] expression of ( ) / expression, borrowed from [Cadell VII:E] upon these ( ) / on such [Cadell VII:B] degree of carnage ( ) / nature of the carnage [VII:B] when practised on (proof VII:A) / when the strife took place on [VII:B; Cadell VII:B] (  when practiced in 〈a varied〉 mon . . .o) country, and perhaps . . . now alive. (proof VII:B) / country. [Lockhart VII:D] ( m. . . countryo & perhaps examples have been found in the Highlands within the remembrance of some persons now alive.) tinchel ( ) / tinchel [VII:A] Laidlaw’s   has tinkel (underlined). Scott deletes ‘tinkel’ and inserts ‘tinchel’ above, but he did not delete the underlining and probably meant it to apply to his correction. were possessed by the hunters ( ) / the hunters possessed [Cadell VII:B] in their own person ( ) / individually [Cadell VII:B] by aid ( ) / by the aid [Cadell VII:B] considerable indeed, for (  considerable indeed for) / considerable, for [Cadell VII:B]

322 57.32 57.41 58.3 58.6 58.7 58.7 58.8 58.11 58.11 58.14

  general ( ) / great [VII:E] varied wilderness () / bleak dominion [Lockhart VII:D] found in the latter, and ( found in the latter &) / found, and [VII:C] rush forth from () / rush from [VII:C] boar, wild ( boar wild) / boar, wolf, wild [post-proofs] the sportsman ( mtohe msportsmano) / he [VII:E] readiness to take his chance accordingly ( ) / readiness [VII:C] his very name ( ) / his name [VII:C] he fled . . . instances, before (  he fled in the usual case almost 〈forty〉 mtwentyo miles in some instances before) / he usually fled far—in some instances many miles—before [VII:C; Lockhart VII:D] by the severity of his ( ) / by his [VII:C]

VIII. 58.1 (‘As the hunters’) to 63.7 (‘trace his footsteps.’) Proof VIII:A (M S 3780, ff. 64v–71r); Proof VIII:B (M S 3778, ff. 447r–453r); Proof VIII:C (M S 3778, ff. 98v–104v) 58.34 in Northumberland, (the seat of the Earl of Tankerville,) were (Magnum) / in Northumberland, were (  〈near Wooler〉 min Northumberlando was) The correction of ‘was’ to ‘were’ was made for VIII:B. 58.36 the upper park (Magnum) / the park ( the Park) 58.40 are distinguished (Magnum) / were distinguished (not in  ) 58.41 animals should probably be referred (Magnum) / animals probably refer (  manimals probablyo refer) 58.47 by these ( ) / by those [VIII:A] 59.2 the men’s wild shouts of exultation (  the mens wild shouts of exultation) / the wild shouts of exultation of the men [VIII:B] 59.6 It is only necessary . . . rushing forwards ( It is only necessary to add that in the chase which we attempt to describe every now & then in the course of the day when a stag or a boar was expected one of these 〈great〉 mwildo cattle came rushing forwards) / During the course of the hunting, when a stag or a boar was expected, one of the wild cattle often came rushing forward [VIII:B] 59.10 whatever human opposition ( ) / whatever opposition [VIII:B] 59.21 Several hours of the morning were this way spent ( ) / A large portion of the morning was spent in this way [VIII:B] 59.23 of taking breakfast . . . occasion, was (  of taking breakfast which in respect of the solemn occasion was) / of the repast, which, on such occasions, was [VIII:B] 59.28 turf, and the slain game . . . slices for ( turf & the slain game plentifully supplied them with slices for) / turf, the slain game affording a plentiful supply for [VIII:B] 59.30 presently ( ) / immediately [Cadell VIII:C] 59.31 were scientifically opened, and supplied (  derived: m. . . wereo scientifically opened supplied) / and scientifically opened, supplied [VIII:B] 60.2 in prudence perhaps ( ) / perhaps in prudence [VIII:B] 60.7 eye making a circuit, which, though ( eye making a circuit which though) / eye, though [Lockhart VIII:B] 60.10 another of the ring . . . though he (proof VIII:B) / another of the ring formed by his guests, for such they all were, no doubt, though he [Lockhart VIII:B] ( another presented by 〈those〉 those who 〈sat〉 mthougho of course invited guests he) 60.12 and apparently he was ( & apparently he was) / and even apparently was [Lockhart VIII:B]

  60.13 60.23 60.24 60.24 60.25 60.26 60.28 60.32 60.39 60.40 61.3 61.11 61.15 61.19 61.32 61.33 61.34 61.35 61.36 61.39 62.1 62.6 62.7 62.10 62.17 62.18 62.19 62.20 62.20 62.21 62.21 62.22 62.22 62.28 62.35 62.36 62.36 62.37 62.37 62.37 62.39 62.41

323

the presence of some of the party (proof VIII:B) / their presence [Lockhart VIII:B] (  the presence of some of the guests) imagination ( immagination) / mind [VIII:B] But the coolness, and apparently the want of ( But the coolness & mapparently theo want of) / Yet the apparent coolness, and absence of [VIII:B; Lockhart VIII:B] this person ( ) / the stranger [VIII:B] officer, at the same time wholly in his power (proof VIII:B) / officer, at the same time being wholly in his power [post-proofs] (  officer & mwhollyo in the power necessarily of his mortal enemy) the supposed circumstances of the man ( ) / any such suggestion [Lockhart VIII:B] tattered seeming cavalier (  tattered, seeming cavalier) / tattered cavalier [Lockhart VIII:B] governor, accordingly, having ( governor accordingly having) / governor, having [VIII:B] little objection ( ) / no objections [VIII:A] the tribute ( ) / my challenge [VIII:B] the health ( ) / that health [post-proofs] speech.” (  speech 〈notwithstanding〉”) / speech notwithstanding.” [VIII:B] my necessary ( ) / the necessary [VIII:B] hunt ( ) / hunting [VIII:B] cattle—I (Editorial) / cattle,—I ( cattle, I) from my infancy () / from infancy [VIII:B] Southdean, have ( mSouthdeano have) / Southdean, and have [post-proofs] saw in your lives, even ( saw in your lives even) / saw, even [VIII:B] this very day () / this day [VIII:B] The effrontery ( ) / His effrontery [VIII:A] starts () / start [VIII:B] broke peace ( ) / broke the peace proper to the occasion [VIII:B] what in the world thou waitest () / what waitest thou [VIII:B] insure you ( ) / insure thee [Lockhart VIII:B] step a pace back ( 〈start〉 mstep a paceo back) / step back a pace [VIII:B] e’en (  derived: ene) / ere [VIII:A] found () / find [VIII:B] belonged ( ) / belong [VIII:B] master, and to a (  master and to a) / master, a [VIII:B] not—thou (  not, thou) / not why I have paused—thou [VIII:B] was hungry ( ) / have hungered [VIII:B] hours, and I have not had ( m. . . hourso & I have not mhado) / hours, I have not therefore had [VIII:B] in the manner which (  in the manner wh.) / at advantage as [VIII:B] thy inquisition ( ) / your inquisition [Lockhart VIII:B] other circumstances of () / more [VIII:B] the fray (  the faray) / a fray [VIII:B] like () / likely [VIII:B] unconscious of ( ) / unconscious at the same time of [VIII:B] hereby () / thereby [VIII:B] Scottish man () / hunter [VIII:B] circle that had formed (  circle 〈which〉 mthato had formed) / circle formed [VIII:B] underwood, in what manner no one could exactly tell. (  under wood

324 62.43 63.3

  〈nor could〉 min what〈e〉 mannero 〈any〉 mnoo one mcouldo exactly tell.) / underwood. [VIII:B] unless earth () / unless the earth [VIII:B] bushes, and copsewood trees, until ( bushes & copsewood trees untill) / bushes, and copsewood, until [VIII:B]

IX. 63.8 (‘Chapter Eight’) to 64.9 (‘formal politeness which’) Proof IX:A (M S 3780, ff. 71v–72v); Proof IX:B1 (M S 3779, f. 517r–v); Proof IX:B2 (M S 3778, ff. 453v–454v) 63.21 Scottish . . . and when (  Scottish who were present were 〈mnoto〉 not 〈very〉 numerous & when) / Scottish attendants on the chase, when [IX:B1] 63.24 examination, conscious (Editorial) / examination, took care to suit their answers to the questions put to them; in a word, they kept their own secret, if they had any. Many of them, conscious ( examination mIn a word they kept their own secret if they had oneo conscious) [IX:B1] 63.25 party, they became (  party they became) / party, became [IX:B1] 63.25 play, and most of them slipt ( play & most of them slipt) / play, slipt [IX:B1; Lockhart IX:B2] 63.27 the English hunting-match (  the 〈hunting ma〉 mEnglish huntingo [end of line] match) / the hunting-match [IX:B1] 63.28 invited there for no good purpose () / invited with no friendly intent [IX:B1] 63.33 gather ( ) / get [IX:B1] 63.35 canst lead them, without ( ) / canst, without [IX:B1] 63.36 reinforce on the spot the () / reinforce the [IX:B1] 63.37 there ( ) / on the castle [IX:B1] 64.5 rude () / rough [IX:B1] 64.6 so”—— (Magnum) / so”— ( so—”) X. 64.9 (‘which one knight’) to 81. 19 (‘assuage their fury.”’) Proof X:A1 (M S 3779, ff. 519r–541r); Proof X:A2 (M S 3779, ff. 240r–262r); Proof X:A3 (M S 3778, ff. 455r–477r) 64.13 the knights present, as well as the old soldiers, (  the knights present as well as the old soldiers) / all present [Cadell X:A2] 64.14 upon ( ) / at [post-proofs] 64.14 with grave and marked ( with grave & marked) / with indications of marked [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] 64.16 repartee () / reprisal [Cadell X:A2] 64.17 with no ( ) / without [X:A1] 64.17 not choose to (Editorial) / not even choose to (  not chuse even to) The   ‘even’ is moved in proof X:A1, but it would have been better to have deleted it altogether as Cadell indicated in X:A2. 64.18 voice at ( ) / voice in reply at [X:A1] 64.18 he led under his charge ( ) / headed [Lockhart X:A3] 64.19 cavalry, with whom he found, as well as he could, (  cavalry with whom he found as well as he could) / cavalry by [Cadell X:A2; post-proofs] 64.24 in () / at [Cadell X:A2] 64.26 that this Sir ( ) / that Sir [Cadell X:A2] 64.27 was ( ) / had [Cadell X:A2] 64.27 in indulgence () / in the indulgence [Cadell X:A2] 64.28 living alone, and in some degree of charge, should ( living alone & in some degree of charge should) / a situation of responsibility should [Cadell X:A2]

  64.33 64.34 64.35 64.37 64.37 64.38 64.39 64.40 64.40 64.41 64.41 64.42 64.43 65.1 65.1 65.3 65.4 65.4 65.6

65.12 65.19 65.20

65.23 65.24 65.26 65.34 65.34

325

commission, yet if ( commission yet if) / command, yet when [Cadell X:A2] pinch () / puzzle [Cadell X:A2] even () / perhaps [X:A1] are real and sincere, it ( are real and sincere it) / are sincere at the moment he expresses them, it [X:A1; Cadell X:A2 and Lockhart X:A3] punctually those commands () / punctually commands [Cadell X:A2 and Lockhart X:A3] imposed on me in () / imposed in [Lockhart X:A3] his own () / the governor’s [X:A1; post-proofs] time, not (  time not) / times, and not [Cadell X:A2] in indulgence () / in the indulgence [Cadell X:A2] power ( ) / powers [post-proofs] were ( ) / is [Cadell X:A2] were turned ( were turnd) / is become [Cadell X:A2] becomes () / fits Cadell changed ‘becomes’ to ‘befits’ in X:A2, and ‘fits’ replaced this post-proofs. makes the pretence that he is so ( ) / makes imaginary doubts [X:A1; Lockhart X:A3] tyrannizing and predominating over (  tyrannizing & predominating over) / tyrannizing over [Cadell X:A2] have the man I once loved turn (  derived: have have the man I once loved mhado turnd) / have it that the man I once loved had turned [X:A1] and that ( & that) / and I would be content that [Cadell X:A2] me, than ( me than) / me, rather than [Cadell X:A2] With this mental observation . . . in his head, the ( With this mental observation mwhich was sharpend by the consciousness that he himself might be suspected of having been infected by the base & degrading vice of cowardice should that be found applicable to Sir John Walton his instructor while that of a tyrannical temper would hardly be imputed or credited if such an accusation was brought against him. [new paragraph] NL Thus thinking at any rateo the | proof X:A1: with this mental observation, which was sharpened by the consciousness that he himself might indeed be suspected of having been infected by the base and degrading vice of cowardice, should that be found applicable to Sir John Walton, his instructor, while that of a tyrannical temper would hardly be credited, if such an accusation was brought against him;—with these imaginations rolling in his head, the) / With these ideas passing in his mind, the [Cadell X:A2] crossed over the () / crossed the [Cadell X:A2] and forget (  & forget) / and to forget [Cadell X:A2] the extreme ceremony ( derived: the extreme mof time &o ceremony) / the length of time and extreme degree of ceremony [Cadell X:A2] Scott misread Laidlaw’s ‘extreme’ as ‘expence’. In X:A2 Cadell changed the resulting ‘the extreme degree of time and ceremony’ in the proof text to the Ed1 reading. round () / around [Cadell X:A2] while ( ) / as [X:A1] motions () / movements [Cadell X:A2] dialogue was overheard ( ) / dialogue, overheard [Cadell X:A2] pages, and bandied about among them from ( derived: pages, band〈ed〉my’do about among them from) / pages, was bandied about from [Cadell X:A2]

326 65.36 65.36 65.37 65.42 65.42 66.6 66.7

66.16 66.25 66.26 66.27 66.30 66.34 66.34 66.36 66.37 66.39 66.43 67.2 67.5 67.5 67.6 67.15 67.16 67.16 67.19 67.20

67.25 67.27 67.28 67.30

67.35 67.37 67.41 68.2 68.3

  the accent and tone ( the accent & tone) / the tone [Cadell X:A2] had been originally () / was [Cadell X:A2] was stated as one (proof X:A1) / was one [post-proofs] (not in  ) who not only had ( ) / who, with [Cadell X:A2] quarrel, but had ( quarrel but had) / quarrel, had [Cadell X:A2] chivalry () / knighthood [X:A1] possessed it more jealous, even to the last degree, of (  derived: possessed 〈it〉 mmoreo jealous meveno to the last degree of) / possessed it jealous of [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] Scott probably deleted ‘it’ by mistake when inserting ‘more’. and removed elsewhere, where (  & removed elsewhere where) / to wherever [Cadell X:A2] The accident of some ( ) / An accidental [Cadell X:A2] hoped in () / hoped for at that time of day, in [Cadell X:A2] was extremely ( ) / was then extremely [Cadell X:A2] with regard to ( ) / of [post-proofs] in opinion ( ) / in this opinion [Lockhart X:A3] the tone of a displeased and powerful relative writing (  the tone of a displeased and powerfull relative writing) / a tone of high displeasure, and expressed himself as a person of rank would write [Cadell X:A2] profession and of his situation; and (  profession & of his situation &) / profession; and [Cadell X:A2] collected () / gathered [Cadell X:A2] knight ( ) / man [X:A1] with one () / by common [Cadell X:A2] became supposed to be ( ) / incurred the supposition of being [X:A1] tone () / time [Lockhart X:A3] of a youth (  derived: of youth) / of young men [X:A1] by his ( by 〈their〉 mhiso) / by their [X:A1] his reputation ( ) / his military reputation [X:A1] obedience of ( ) / obedience to [X:A1] governor thought ( ) / governor of Douglas Castle might think [X:A1; Cadell X:A2; post-proofs] young Aymer () / Sir Aymer [Lockhart X:A3] Walton, secret from himself, and from (  derived: de Walton secret from Aymer himself & from) / De Walton, unknown to the young knight himself, and to [Cadell X:A2; Lockhart X:A3] The present text offers a simpler sorting than Lockhart’s in X:A3. Cadell changed ‘secret from’ to ‘unknown to’ and the second ‘from’ to ‘to’ in X:A2. overlooked ( ) / watched [post-proofs] which the ( ) / which, in all ages, the [Cadell X:A2] old in all ages. () / old. [Cadell X:A2] if he had contrived . . . made use of. (  if he had contrived a letter to have increased the prejudices which he desired to put an end to he probably would have written in the terms he made use of.) / if the earl had wished to write a letter purposely to increase the prejudices which he desired to put an end to, he could not have made use of terms better calculated for that effect. [X:A1; Cadell X:A2; post-proofs] and had been (  & had been) / and was [Cadell X:A2] old man (Editorial) / old archer (  old 〈man〉 marchero) Scott’s correction of Laidlaw’s   results in a repetition. warrior () / earl [X:A1] no time () / neither time [Lockhart X:A3] the earl ( the Earl) / the old earl [Cadell X:A2]

  68.3 68.6 68.7 68.8 68.11

68.17

68.25

68.25 68.26 68.27 68.28 68.29 68.33

68.35 68.42 69.2 69.5 69.8 69.11 69.30 69.31 69.32 69.36 69.43 70.1

327

choose the office of (  derived: chose the office of) / become [Cadell X:A2] When Sir John Walton perceived that after the (  When Sir John Walton perceived that after the) / Sir John de Walton soon perceived, that the [Cadell X:A2] letter. . . his lieutenant did (  letter 〈his Leiutenant〉 m(oon which he had mon his sideo founded muchm)o his Leiutennant did / letter did [post-proofs] his cold ceremonious conduct () / the cold ceremonious conduct of his lieutenant [post-proofs] connexion . . . renewing it. ( intercourse he was naturally displeased & said at least if he did not swear that de Valence should seek his friendship before he again gave him an oppertunity of of neglecting or despising his advances towards renewing it.) / connexion. [Cadell X:A2] could possibly convey . . . kindness. (  can possible convey the duty they are meant to express without a single word either of courtesey or of kindness. | proof X:A1: could possibly convey the duty they are meant to express, without a single word either of courtesy or of kindness.) / the respective duties of their situation absolutely demanded. [Cadell X:A2; post-proofs]   and proof ‘are’ is editorially emended to ‘were’. obliged the two principal persons in the garrison to (proof X:A1: obliged the two principel persons in the garrison to) / obliged the two principal persons in the garrison of Douglas Castle, to [Cadell X:A2] (  obiged them to) sometimes () / often [Cadell X:A2] matters between them, that (  matters between them that) / matters, that [Cadell X:A2] rubbed up and renewed (  rubbd up and renewd) / revived [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] debate and quarrel ( debate & quarrel) / debate [Lockhart X:A3] Thus, upon an occasion of this kind, Walton ( Thus upon an occasion of this kind de Walton) / It was upon such an occasion that De Walton [X:A1; Lockhart X:A3] enough to express . . . time and place ( enought to express the hospitality due to a minstrel in this time & place) / enough, in this time and place, to express the hospitality due to a minstrel [Cadell X:A2] Surely ( ) / Certainly [Cadell X:A2] curious, of (  curious of) / curious, and of [Cadell X:A2] him () / his errand [Cadell X:A2] him ( ) / them [X:A1] not of course properly discharge him (  not mof courseo properly discharge him) / not, in fitting courtesy, send him away [Cadell X:A2] some days since ( some 〈time〉 mdayso since) / sooner [Cadell X:A2] reside () / take up his quarters [Cadell X:A2] Bride’s (  Brides) / Bride [post-proofs] dwell ( ) / reside [Cadell X:A2] minstrels, who . . . poverty as ( minstrel who are at least as remarkable for their poverty as) / minstrels, a class of wanderers alike remarkable for their poverty and [Cadell X:A2] you, you shall (  you you shall) / you shall [Cadell X:A2] have to reprove me, or ( have to reprove me or) / have again to reprove, or [Cadell X:A2]

328 70.2 70.11 70.17 70.20 70.25 70.30 70.33 70.34 70.34 70.36

70.37 70.38 70.38 70.41 70.42

71.3 71.4 71.4 71.7 71.8 71.23 71.25 71.28 71.29 71.29 71.30 71.33 71.36 71.36 71.37 71.38 71.39 71.41 72.18

  on any other account ( ) / on that account [Cadell X:A2] in what () / on what [X:A1] so great ( ) / such [Cadell X:A2] both from the castle, and the (  both from the castle & mthe . . .o) / not only from the castle, but from the [Cadell X:A2] you and me (  you & me) / us [Cadell X:A2] knight himself is () / knight is [Cadell X:A2] moral life ( ) / morality [X:A1] mankind () / wanderers [Cadell X:A2] is distributed ( ) / are now too often distributed [X:A1; Lockhart X:A3] those also . . . perform it. ( those malsoo who know & pursue their duty and are willing to the utmost of their power to perform it.) / some who know, and also willingly perform, their duty. [Cadell X:A2; Lockhart X:A3] this man Bertram ( this man Bartram) / this Bertram [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] is () / holds himself as [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] of such as have ( ) / who has [Cadell X:A2] afford (  aford) / cause [Cadell X:A2] thinking . . . manifested to me, of (  thinking as I strongly believe that he is incapable with the sentiments he has manifested to me of) / believing, from the sentiments he has manifested to me, that he is incapable of [Cadell X:A2] were it at any time a part of our duty () / if it required of us [Cadell X:A2] in reality was (  in reallity was) / is [Cadell X:A2] honesty () / poverty [X:A1] for my ( ) / for retaining my The proof X:A1 text has ‘for my entertaining my’; Lockhart corrects to ‘retaining’ in X:A3, and ‘my’ is deleted post-proofs. shaded ( ) / stricken [X:A1] The word may be ‘studed’; it is certainly not ‘stricken’. negative, he took his departure accordingly. (  negative he took his departure accordingly.) / negative, took his departure. [X:A1; Lockhart X:A3] an advance () / the advance [Cadell X:A2] the circumstances () / these circumstances [X:A1] hard,” ( hard”) / hard to censure him severely,” [X:A1] recollect, at (  recollect at) / recollect that, on [X:A1; post-proofs] been those ( ) / been the same with those [X:A1] ground for proof of their guilt or baseness. (proof X:A1) / ground. [Cadell X:A2] (  ground for proof.) such a person by a little money ( m. . . such a persono by a little money) / him by money [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] chance ( ) / risk [Cadell X:A2] serving to ( ) / thus [Cadell X:A2] Douglas which I command, and against which I ( Douglas which I command〈. I〉 mand against which I . . .o) / Douglas, for which I [Cadell X:A2] and against which none (proof X:A1) / for which, too, none [Cadell X:A2] ( and against thck none) The third word in the   is oddly formed. serves in my condition ( ) / holds my situation [Cadell X:A2] themselves of a secret or contraband nature. (proof X:A1) / themselves

  72.19 72.21 72.22 72.25 72.25 72.28 72.39 72.39 72.39 72.43 73.4 73.12 73.12 73.14 73.18 73.18 73.19 73.20 73.22 74.3 74.4 74.4 74.10 74.15 74.18 74.20 74.20 74.24 74.26 74.27 74.29 74.31 74.32 74.41 74.42 74.43 75.2 75.6 75.15 75.17

329

of a secret nature. [Cadell X:A2] (  themselves mof a secret oro contraband.) no opening . . . business, that ( no opening for treating what Greenleaf suspected to be his real bussiness that) / no other opening for Greenleaf, that [Cadell X:A2] fictitious () / open to him [Cadell X:A2] bows ( ) / bow-staves [X:A1] by old Gilbert Greenleaf () / a fair judge of the weapon [X:A1; Cadell X:A2; Lockhart X:A3] The whole () / The Earl of Pembroke’s whole [X:A1] into Ayr () / into the port of Ayr [X:A1] land early in summer with (proof X:A1) / land near to Turnberry, early in summer, with [Cadell X:A2] (  land with) kerne (  kern) / kernes [post-proofs] Ireland about Turnberry; and (  Ireland about Turnberry &) / Ireland; and [Cadell X:A2] scores () / score [Cadell X:A2] wilt ( ) / will [X:A1] hard () / hard [post-proofs] and are (  & are) / you are [post-proofs] never knew . . . their lives ( ) / never, in the course of their lives, knew any tincture either of courteousness or generosity [Lockhart X:A3] wilt ( ) / will [X:A1] harm. ( ) / harm? [post-proofs] “It is true, sir ( “It is true [new leaf] “It is true sir) / “It is true, it is true, sir [X:A1] if one is ( if one 〈m〉 is) / it were imprudent [post-proofs] this, one ( this one) / this. One [post-proofs] rank, who are trying their skill in ( rank who are trying their skill in) / rank, in [Cadell X:A2] or their activity at ( ) / or at [Cadell X:A2] quarterstaff; but since ( quarterstaff, but since) / quarterstaff. But if [Lockhart X:A3] truly, such were (  truly such were) / this truly, I say, were [X:A1; Lockhart X:A3] Englishman or Scottishman by birth (  English man or scottishman) / of English or Scottish birth [Cadell X:A2] matins, who ( matins who) / matins at Saint Bride’s, who [X:A1] Robert Bruce () / Robert the Bruce [Lockhart X:A3] hold () / carry on [X:A1] then indisposed ( ) / then really indisposed [X:A1] but were () / but if so, were [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] his sick-bed (  his sick bed) / his son’s sick-bed [X:A1] him?” (Magnum) / him.” ( him”.) but if he seeks for a volume of () / but he is said to be in quest of [Lockhart X:A3] bard, it (  bard it) / bard; and in truth it [Lockhart X:A3] young ( ) / curled [Lockhart X:A3] brain () / train [X:A1] present are ( ) / present [Lockhart X:A3] than I have hitherto done ( ) / than hitherto [Cadell X:A2] attach such grave (Lockhart proof correction X:A3) / attach grave [post-proofs] (  ascribe such grave) “but I () / “I [Lockhart X:A3] and, as (  & as) / and that, as [Lockhart X:A3]

330 75.21 75.23 75.24 75.25 75.27 75.32 75.35 75.36 75.38 75.40 75.40 75.41 75.42 75.43

76.2 76.6 76.6 76.6 76.7 76.7 76.10 76.11 76.12 76.13 76.13 76.15 76.18 76.18 76.28 76.28 76.29 76.30 76.39 76.41 76.42 77.2 77.6 77.13 77.19 77.22 77.24 77.30

  for such ( ) / for answering such [X:A1] displeased with ( ) / displeased at [post-proofs] of authority () / of his own authority [Cadell X:A2] now, after many years, to (  now after many years to) / now to [Cadell X:A2] this study ( ) / the study [Cadell X:A2] which the borrel ( which 〈we〉 the borrel) / which borrel [postproofs] faster ( ) / at a quick pace [Cadell X:A2] this suspected ( ) / the suspected [Cadell X:A2] castle of Douglas, the ( castle of Douglas the) / castle, the [Cadell X:A2] press ( ) / cabinet [X:A1] intended to serve for ( ) / intended for [Cadell X:A2] articles of value, or papers of consequence (proof X:A1) / articles and papers of value [Cadell X:A2] ( articles of value, papers of consequence) of a fire ( ) / of fire [X:A1] Here the minstrel was seated, a small table sustaining (proof X:A1 derived: Here the minstrel was seated; a small table sustaining) / Here he found the minstrel seated at a small table, sustaining [Cadell X:A2] (  Here the minstrel was seated. A small table sustaining) windows were ( ) / windows of the room were [Cadell X:A2] minstrel seemed ( ) / minstrel, who had seemed [Lockhart X:A3] in contemplation ( ) / in the contemplation [Cadell X:A2] task, but disturbed (  task but disturbed) / task, on being disturbed [Lockhart X:A3] unusual ( ) / unlooked-for [post-proofs] Walton, he rose ( Walton he rose) / Walton, rose [Lockhart X:A3] foretold ( fortold) / anticipated [post-proofs] suppose,” ( suppose”) / suppose, Sir Minstrel,” [X:A1; post-proofs] volume () / roll [Lockhart X:A3] prophecy ( prophesy) / prophecies [X:A1] hunt ( ) / search [post-proofs] so ( ) / successful [X:A1] fate () / heavy chance [Lockhart X:A3] other books contained in that (proof X:A1) / other books contained in this [Cadell X:A2] ( other contents of that) have time ( ) / have hours [Lockhart X:A3] in old tales ( ) / in listening to tales [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] leisure () / time [Lockhart X:A3] time () / leisure [Lockhart X:A3] have a mind to do so ( ) / incline [Cadell X:A2] a painful ( a painfull) / my painful [X:A1] it from you in ( ) / it in [Cadell X:A2] believe that ( ) / believe me that [Cadell X:A2] they ( ) / such [Cadell X:A2] and, in respect of having (  & in respect of having) / and, having [Cadell X:A2] and of Sir Aymer de Valence’s (  & of Sir Aymer de Valences) / and of that of Sir Aymer de Valence [Cadell X:A2] them by putting them to you ( ) / obedience by putting you [Cadell X:A2] by no means () / do not [Cadell X:A2] laws before . . . told you that (proof X:A1) / laws, in that no proof is

  77.33 77.36 77.42 78.1 78.1 78.2 78.2 78.3 78.5 78.6 78.8 78.15 78.15 78.17 78.18 78.19 78.21 78.21 78.22 78.23 78.24 78.27 78.31 78.35 78.36 78.39 78.40 78.40 78.41 78.41 78.43 78.43 79.2 79.3 79.3 79.6 79.8 79.8 79.14 79.15

331

adduced of my guilt. I have already told that [Cadell X:A2] ( laws. I have told you that) person who is likely ( ) / person likely [Cadell X:A2] make ( ) / hold [Cadell X:A2] extremities () / extremity [Cadell X:A2] them (proof X:A1) / it [Cadell X:A2] (not in  ) place, make my protest ( place make my protest) / place, protest [Cadell X:A2] word ( ) / words [post-proofs] say () / utter [Cadell X:A2] examination which . . . torture ( ) / examination enforced from me by torture [Cadell X:A2] your office () / an office [Cadell X:A2] found administered ( ) / found thus administered [X:A1] issue together, and in doing my full duty (  issue together & in doing my full duty) / issue, and in doing my duty [Cadell X:A2] lodging ( ) / lodgings [X:A1] must be ( ) / are [Cadell X:A2] Bride’s (  Brides) / Bride [post-proofs] thou wouldst pass as thy ( ) / you would pass as your [Lockhart X:A3] thou thyself seemest () / you yourself seem [Lockhart X:A3] will prove decidedly either (proof X:A1) / will decidedly prove either [Cadell X:A2] (  will prove either) or your innocence () / or innocence [Cadell X:A2] by use ( ) / by the use [Cadell X:A2] thy son’s sake if not for thine (proof X:A1) / your son’s sake, if not for your [Lockhart X:A3] (not in ) in respect to your son’s (  in respect to your sons) / for your boy’s [Cadell X:A2; Lockhart X:A3] recovering himself from the momentary emotion which he ( ) / recovering from the momentary emotion he [Cadell X:A2] should () / to [Cadell X:A2] cleared ( ) / traced [Cadell X:A2] upon () / for [Cadell X:A2] stand () / bear [Cadell X:A2] further ( 〈other〉 mfurthero) / farther [X:A1] than those which he () / than he [Lockhart X:A3] seemed himself () / himself seemed [Cadell X:A2] might be his best part to play () / might now be his best course [Cadell X:A2] hesitation ( ) / due consideration [Cadell X:A2] considered as the ( ) / considered the [Cadell X:A2] great (Editorial) / numerous (  as Ed1) See Essay on the Text, 270. expectations which he ( ) / expectations he [Cadell X:A2] safe ( ) / strict [X:A1] numerous, and even select (  numerous & even select) / not unworthy of his aspect and bearing [Lockhart X:A3] judgment it (  judgement it) / judgment in general it [Lockhart X:A3] stated him to be ( ) / described him as [post-proofs] and his son’s (  & his sons) / as well as those of his son [Cadell X:A2] the Douglas . . . certainly ( the Douglas has no longer been heard of from Ireland & the Bruce with the rest of his followers has certainly) / the Bruce and his followers are on the alert,—he has certainly [X:A1; post-proofs]

332 79.18 79.23 79.26 79.26 79.31 79.36 79.38 79.38 79.40 79.41 80.4 80.6 80.7 80.9 80.10 80.11 80.14 80.16 80.17 80.20 80.24 80.26 80.27 80.27 80.29 80.31 80.35 80.35 80.43 81.2 81.6 81.7 81.11 81.12 81.14 81.19

  through ( ) / during [Cadell X:A2] this man’s mind by () / the mind through [Lockhart X:A3] study () / library [Cadell X:A2] Greenleaf of some orders respecting ( ) / Greenleaf respecting [Cadell X:A2] friend () / sir [Cadell X:A2] wilt ( ) / will [X:A1] know a single want () / undergo any privation [post-proofs] wilt prepare . . . suffering (  wilt prepare in doing so for thy own heart suffering) / wilt, in doing so, prepare for thine own suffering [X:A1; Cadell X:A2] other sorrow or pain () / thing else [Cadell X:A2] accumulate upon ( ) / cause [Cadell X:A2] without consent of that youth himself. Bring (  without consent of that youth himself; Bring) / without the consent of that youth. Bring [Cadell X:A2] consultation () / mystery [X:A1] nor was there . . . mystery (  nor was there ever a pageant or a dolefull mystery) / since there was never a doleful uncertainty [X:A1; Cadell X:A2; post-proofs] sunshine.” (  sunshine”) / sunshine, than would then the suspicions which appear now so formidable.” [X:A1; Lockhart X:A3] as made () / as to make [Cadell X:A2] was once more at a great loss (proof X:A1) / was once more wholly at a loss [Cadell X:A2] ( was otherwise at a great loss) nor shall my severity bring further (  nor shall my severety bring further) / and I shall bring no further [Cadell X:A2] Bertram ( Bartram) / Sir Minstrel [Cadell X:A2] them for a day or two, it (  them for a day or two it) / it for a day, it [Cadell X:A2] a matter which () / this matter, which Proof X:A1 changes ‘a’ to ‘the’, which Cadell corrects to ‘this’ in X:A2. or any ( ) / or of any [Cadell X:A2] government ( ) / command [Cadell X:A2] thee () / your hands [Lockhart X:A3] was ( ) / were [Cadell X:A2 and Lockhart X:A3 both correct this] to do so () / so to do [X:A1] constant truth that () / certain that [Cadell X:A2] where ( ) / when [post-proofs] haunchman ( ) / henchman [post-proofs] let them restore my own () / let my own be restored [Cadell X:A2] what () / that [Cadell X:A2] by acting too candidly, and trusting (  by acting too candidly & trusting) / by trusting [post-proofs] occasion.” ( ) / occasion. My duty, however, requires that, in the mean time, you be removed into strict confinement.” [postproofs] would rather ( ) / must then [post-proofs] captive, and ( captive &) / captivity? but [post-proofs] repent . . . find means (  repent the whole remainder of your life & will never after find means) / all your life repent, without the means [Cadell X:A2] the billows () / the raging billows [Cadell X:A2]

 

333

XI. 81.20 (‘Chapter Nine’) to 82.37 (‘to break the’) Proof XI:A1 (M S 3779, ff. 541v–542v); Proof XI:A2 (M S 3779, ff. 262v–263v); Proof XI:A3 (M S 3778, ff. 477v–478v); Proof XI:B (M S 3779, ff. 46r–v); Proof XI:C1 (M S 3779, f. 70r–v); Proof XI:C2 (M S 3778, f. 117r–v) 81.21 Beware! beware . . . seen by day. (proof XI:A1) / [no text] [Lockhart XI:A3] (  Beware! beware! of the Black Friar/ Who sitteth by Norman stone/ For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air/ and his mass of the days that are gone// When the Lord of the, Amundeville/ made Norman church his prey/ And expelled the friars, one friar still/ would not be driven away// Though he came in his might with King Henrys right/ to turn Church lands to lay/ with sword in hand & torch to light/ Their walls if they said nay// A monk remained unchased unchained/ And he did not seem formed of clay/ For he’s seen in the porch, & hes seen in the church/ Though he is not seen by day.) 81.38 But beware () / Beware [Lockhart XI:A3] 81.40 heir ( ) / heir by right [XI:A1] 82.1 Say nought to him . . . his soul. (proof XI:A1) / [no text] [Lockhart XI: A3] (  Say nought to him as he walks the hall/ And he’ll say nought to you/ He sweeps along mino his dusky pall/ As oer the grass the dew/ Then gramercy! for the Black Friar/ Heaven save him fair or foul/ And whatsoever may be his prayer/ Let ours be for his soul.) The   motto has 4 stanzas. Lockhart cuts these to one in XI:A3 (though the wrong one was retained until the mistake was corrected post-proofs). Lockhart cuts the ‘But’ at the beginning of the stanza he intended to be retained: it is now restored. 82.9 xvi. (Editorial) / xvii. (  17) 82.10 concerning () / of [Cadell XI:A2] 82.12 speedily, and more (  speedily and more) / speedily, more [Lockhart XI:A3] 82.13 than the () / than were the [Lockhart XI:A3] 82.17 convey you ( ) / convey to you [XI:A1] 82.19 who means () / who both mean [Cadell XI:A2] 82.23 faith, and I ( faith & I) / faith, and until the contrary appear, I [Cadell XI:A2] 82.23 my point () / a point [Cadell XI:A2] 82.24 duty, until the contrary shall appear, to (  duty untill the contrary shall appear to) / duty to [Cadell XI:A2] 82.26 Bride’s ( Brides) / Bride [Cadell XI:B] 82.28 place us all in ( ) / throw us all into [XI:A1; Cadell XI:A2] XII. 82.22 (‘show, though not’) to 91.37 (‘my poor ha[bitation]’) Proof XII:A1 (M S  3779, ff. 454r–465v); Proof XII:A2 (M S 3779, ff. 276r–286v); Proof XII:A3 (M S 3778, ff. 479r–490v); Proof XII:B (M S 3779, ff. 47r–57v); Proof XII:C (M S 3779, ff. 71r–81v); Proof XII:D (M S 3778, ff. 118r–128v) 82.42 a law to your bounden vassal ( ) / attended to by your devoted [post-proofs] 83.3 make something apparent from ( ) / draw something from [Lockhart XII:A3] 83.5 he retired () / De Walton retired [Cadell XII:A1] 83.7 Bride’s ( Brides) / Bride [Cadell XII:B] 83.20 abbot, however, that his indisposition was not ( Abbot however that his indisposition was not) / abbot, that his indisposition might be [Cadell XII:D]

334 83.28 83.29 83.33 83.39 83.43 84.2 84.8 84.9 84.10 84.13 84.16 84.17 84.23 84.24 84.25 84.27 84.28 84.28 84.30 84.31 84.34 84.37 84.38 84.42

85.2 85.5

85.10 85.10 85.12 85.19 85.20

  the knight ( ) / the English knight [Cadell XII:B] at noon ( ) / after mass [Cadell XII:C] undertaking the delivery of such a message () / delivering such an insolent message [XII:A1; Cadell XII:A2 and XII:B] mixing himself () / taking part [Cadell XII:A1 and XII:B] petulance of ( ) / waywardness arising from [Cadell XII:A2; postproofs] Bride’s ( Brides) / Bride [Cadell XII:B] proved, concerning which he saw no allegation. (  proved concerning which he saw no allegation.) / proved. [Cadell XII:A2] headlong () / headstrong [XII:A1] Bride’s ( Brides) / Bride [Cadell XII:B] rights and immunities, than (  rights & immunities than) / rights, than [Cadell XII:A2] time ( ) / times [Cadell XII:A1] interfere, with how little reason so ever. ( interfere with how little reason soever.) / interfere. [Cadell XII:A2] between the church and himself. ( between the church & himself.) / with the church. [Cadell XII:A2] watch to ( ) / watch, so as to [Cadell XII:A2] at the lapse . . . consideration, he (  at the lapse of twenty four hours which was the space that the young man desired for consideration. He) / on the following morning he [Cadell XII:A2 and XII:C] be as ( ) / be still as [XII:A1] was to be seized ( was to be siezed) / were seized [Cadell XII:A1] The abbot also engaged () / Sir John de Walton, however, so far exerted his authority over the abbot, that he engaged [Cadell XII:A2] time, he ( time he) / time, that, when it expired, he [Lockhart XII:A3] youth to his pleasure, should ( youth to his pleasure should) / youth, should [Cadell XII:B] dispute, strongly inclined (  dispute strongly inclined) / dispute, induced [Cadell XII:A2] twenty-four hours grace ( twenty four hours grace) / the grace he asks [Cadell XII:A2] understanding you will admit that ( ) / understanding that [Cadell XII:A2] in order to employ . . . in custody. ( in order to employ them if necessary to use the strong hand in detaining him in custody.) / in case it should be necessary to use the strong hand, or circumstances impose upon me other measures. [Cadell XII:C] force ( ) / course [Cadell XII:A2] trust.” [new paragraph] “Be it so . . . employ it.” [new paragraph] The (  trust” [new paragraph] Be it so replied the knight still it is 〈necessary〉 prudent that I should have force at no great distance from you in case it should so turn out contrary to your hope & my own that there should be occasion to employ it.” [new paragraph] The) / trust.” [new paragraph] The [Cadell XII:A2] abbot then went ( Abbot then went) / abbot went [Lockhart XII:A3] numbering up ( ) / enumerating [Cadell XII:A1] knight, whom . . . honour. (  knight whom he was desirous to please & to honour.) / knight. [Cadell XII:A2] upon duty ultimately in ( ) / on their way to [Cadell XII:B] that very night ( ) / that night [Cadell XII:A2]

  85.23 85.24 85.24 85.27

85.28 85.30 85.31 85.39 85.40 85.41 85.42 86.5 86.9 86.16 86.19 86.21 86.21

86.23 86.25 86.26 86.27

86.31 86.33 86.34

335

detachment to prevent that stripling ( derived: detatchment in that direction to prevent that strip〈p〉ling) / detachment. This stripling [Lockhart XII:A3; Cadell XII:D] minstrel, who is to ( minstrel who is to) / minstrel, or whoever he is, has engaged to [XII:A1; Cadell XII:B and XII:D] tomorrow at noon ( ) / in the morning [Cadell XII:C] halt at Hazelside . . . convey (  halt at Hazelside untill the youth shall deliver him self up to them & then convey) / remain at Hazelside until you make farther enquiries about this youth, who has still to clear up the mystery which hangs about him, and reply to a letter which I delivered with my own hand to the Abbot of Saint Bride. I have shown too much forbearance in this matter, and I trust to your looking to the security of this young man, and convey [Cadell XII:C and XII:D] attention to his security, as ( attention to his security as) / attention, as [Cadell XII:C] command ( ) / orders [Cadell XII:A2] no other orders ( ) / none [Cadell XII:A2] abbot offers ( Abbot offers) / Abbot of Saint Bride offers [Cadell XII:A2 and XII:B] He dare not ( ) / How [Lockhart XII:A3] of my Lord of Pembroke’s men, you (  of my Lord of Pembrokes men you) / from my Lord of Pembroke, you [Cadell XII:A2] twenty with () / twenty war-men, with [XII:A1] if to-morrow at noon this ( if tomorrow at noon this) / if this [Cadell XII:C] with charge ( ) / with the charge [Cadell XII:A1] dank () / dark [XII:A1] the obscurity of a wet and misty night ( the obscurity of a wet & misty night) / the density of the fog which overhung every thing [Cadell XII:A1 and XII:A2] an over-lated man ( an over lated man) / one who is over-late [Cadell XII:A2] by the very efforts . . . his arrival (proof XII:A3, corrected by Lockhart) / by his efforts to make greater expedition [Cadell XII:B] (  by the very efforts which he made & the passes which he attempted for the purpose of amending his speed) thought he should get into a straighter () / bethought himself that he would get into a straight [XII:A1; Cadell XII:A2] with considerable severity by the English, so that ( with considerable severity by the English so that) / so severely by the English, in the course of these fierce troubles, that [Cadell XII:D] them ( ) / those [Cadell XII:A2] had thought . . . the town was (  had thought it necessary to leave the place & withdraw where the Scottish natives living under less strict governors than Sir John Walton were objects of less severe suspicion. The gate of the town was) / had left it, and withdrawn themselves to different parts of the country. This almost deserted place was [Lockhart XII:A3; Cadell XII:D] into narrow streets . . . so as (proof XII:A2 text, corrected by Cadell) / into streets so narrow, as [Cadell XII:B] ( into the narrow streets of the old town crowded as they were & thrust upon each other so as) horses to go abreast ( ) / horses abreast [Cadell XII:A1; also Lockhart XII:A3] the Douglasses, ancient (  the Douglases antient) / the ancient [Cadell XII:A1; also Lockhart XII:A3]

336 86.34 86.36 86.41 86.42 87.1 87.2

87.3 87.5 87.6 87.6

87.10 87.11 87.11 87.12 87.15 87.15 87.16 87.23 87.25 87.26 87.27 87.28 87.30 87.33 87.36 87.41 87.42

87.43

88.2

  village, adhered (proof XII:A1) / village adhered [Lockhart XII:A3] (  as Ed1) as it is ( ) / so quaintly [Lockhart XII:A3] heard from the houses ( ) / heard [Cadell XII:A2] their windows () / the windows of the houses [Cadell XII:A2] was in () / was at this time in [Lockhart XII:A3] rebel, and Douglas . . . suspicion. (  rebel & Douglas was particularly held in suspicion) / rebel; under which description it need not be said the ancient possessions of the Douglas were most especially regarded. [Lockhart XII:A3] ornaments () / monuments [Lockhart XII:A3] so that the ruins only held ( ) / but the ruins, held [Lockhart XII:A3] it was () / they were [XII:A1] and thus evinced . . . committed. ( & 〈cost〉 thus evinced both the greatness of the powerfull family to which it had belonged & the power exercised by the enemies by whom it was oc