Waverley; or, 'Tis sixty years since — CompleteScott, Walter
History
Waverley; or, 'Tis sixty years since — Complete
Scott, Walter
Historical fiction; Jacobite Rebellion, 1745-1746 -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
Such unanimous applause could not be extorted but by acknowledged
merit; and Rose Bradwardine not only deserved it, but also the
approbation of much more rational persons than the Bautherwhillery Club
could have mustered, even before discussion of the first magnum. She
was indeed a very pretty girl of the Scotch cast of beauty, that is,
with a profusion of hair of paley gold, and a skin like the snow of her
own mountains in whiteness. Yet she had not a pallid or pensive cast of
countenance; her features, as well as her temper, had a lively
expression; her complexion, though not florid, was so pure as to seem
transparent, and the slightest emotion sent her whole blood at once to
her face and neck. Her form, though under the common size, was
remarkably elegant, and her motions light, easy, and unembarrassed. She
came from another part of the garden to receive Captain Waverley, with
a manner that hovered between bashfulness and courtesy.
The first greetings past, Edward learned from her that the dark hag,
which had somewhat puzzled him in the butler's account of his master's
avocations, had nothing to do either with a black cat or a broomstick,
but was simply a portion of oak copse which was to be felled that day.
She offered, with diffident civility, to show the stranger the way to
the spot, which, it seems, was not far distant; but they were prevented
by the appearance of the Baron of Bradwardine in person, who, summoned
by David Gellatley, now appeared, 'on hospitable thoughts intent,'
clearing the ground at a prodigious rate with swift and long strides,
which reminded Waverley of the seven-league boots of the nursery fable.
He was a tall, thin, athletic figure, old indeed and grey-haired, but
with every muscle rendered as tough as whip-cord by constant exercise.
He was dressed carelessly, and more like a Frenchman than an Englishman
of the period, while, from his hard features and perpendicular rigidity
of stature, he bore some resemblance to a Swiss officer of the guards,
who had resided some time at Paris, and caught the costume, but not the
ease or manner, of its inhabitants. The truth was, that his language
and habits were as heterogeneous as his external appearance.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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