WAVERLEY;

OR,

'TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.

THE title of this work has not been chosen without the grave and solid deliberation which matters of importance demand from the prudent. Even its first or general denomination was the result of no common research or selection, although, according to the example of my predecessors, I had only to seize upon the most sounding and euphonic surname that English history or topography affords, and elect it at once as the title of my work and the name of my hero. But, alas! what could my readers have expected from the chivalrous epithets of Howard, Mordaunt, Mortimer, or Stanley, or from the softer and more sentimental sounds of Belmour, Belville, Belfield, and Belgrave, but pages of inanity similar to those which have been so christened for half a century past? I must modestly admit I am too diffident of my own merit to place it in unnecessary opposition to preconceived associations; I have, therefore, like a maiden knight with his white shield, assumed for my hero, WAVERLEY, an uncon

VOL. I. — 1

taminated name, bearing with its sound little of good or evil excepting what the reader shall hereafter be pleased to affix to it. But my second, or supplemental, title was a matter of much more difficult election, since that, short as it is, may be held as pledging the author to some special mode of laying his scene, drawing his characters, and managing his adventures. Had I, for example, announced in my frontispiece, "Waverley: a Tale of other Days," must not every novel-reader have anticipated a castle scarce less than that of Udolpho, of which the eastern wing had long been uninhabited, and the keys either lost or consigned to the care of some aged butler or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, about the middle of the second volume, were doomed to guide the hero or heroine to the ruinous precincts? Would not the owl have shrieked and the cricket cried in my very titlepage? And could it have been possible for me, with a moderate attention to decorum, to introduce any scene more lively than might be produced by the jocularity of a clownish but faithful valet, or the garrulous narrative of the heroine's fille-dechambre, when rehearsing the stories of blood and horror which she had heard in the servants' hall? Again, had my title borne " Waverley: a Romance from the German," what head so obtuse as not to image forth a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and mysterious association of Rosicrucians and Illuminati, with all their properties of black cowls, caverns, daggers, electrical machines, trapdoors, and dark-lanterns? Or if I had rather chosen to call my work a "Sentimental Tale," would it not have been a sufficient presage of a heroine with a profusion of auburn hair, and a

harp, the soft solace of her solitary hours, which she fortunately finds always the means of transporting from castle to cottage, although she herself be sometimes obliged to jump out of a two-pair-ofstairs window, and is more than once bewildered on her journey, alone and on foot, without any guide but a blowzy peasant girl whose jargon she hardly can understand? Or, again, if my Waverley had been entitled "A Tale of the Times," wouldst thou not, gentle reader, have demanded from me a dashing sketch of the fashionable world, a few anecdotes of private scandal thinly veiled, and if lusciously painted so much the better,-a heroine from Grosvenor Square, and a hero from the Barouche Club or the Four-in-Hand, with a set of subordinate characters from the elegantes of Queen Anne Street East, or the dashing heroes of the Bow Street Office? I could proceed in proving the importance of a titlepage, and displaying at the same time my own intimate knowledge of the particular ingredients necessary to the composition of romances and novels of various descriptions; but it is enough, and I scorn to tyrannize longer over the impatience of my reader, who is doubtless already anxious to know the choice made by an author so profoundly versed in the different branches of his

art.

By fixing, then, the date of my story Sixty Years before this present 1st November, 1805, I would have my readers understand that they will meet in the following pages neither a romance of chivalry nor a tale of modern manners; that my hero will neither have iron on his shoulders, as of yore, nor on the heels of his boots, as is the present fashion of Bond Street; and that my damsels will neither

taminated name, bearing with its sound little of good or evil excepting what the reader shall hereafter be pleased to affix to it. But my second, or supplemental, title was a matter of much more. difficult election, since that, short as it is, may be held as pledging the author to some special mode of laying his scene, drawing his characters, and managing his adventures. Had I, for example, announced in my frontispiece, "Waverley: a Tale of other Days," must not every novel-reader have anticipated a castle scarce less than that of Udolpho, of which the eastern wing had long been uninhabited, and the keys either lost or consigned to the care of some aged butler or housekeeper, whose trembling steps, about the middle of the second volume, were doomed to guide the hero or heroine to the ruinous precincts? Would not the owl have shrieked and the cricket cried in my very titlepage? And could it have been possible for me, with a moderate attention to decorum, to introduce any scene more lively than might be produced by the jocularity of a clownish but faithful valet, or the garrulous narrative of the heroine's fille-dechambre, when rehearsing the stories of blood and horror which she had heard in the servants' hall? Again, had my title borne " Waverley: a Romance from the German," what head so obtuse as not to image forth a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and mysterious association of Rosicrucians and Illuminati, with all their properties of black cowls, caverns, daggers, electrical machines, trapdoors, and dark-lanterns? Or if I had rather chosen to call my work a "Sentimental Tale, would it not have been a sufficient presage of a heroine with a profusion of auburn, and a

harp, the soft solace or e she fortunately finds alway porting from castle to cottez be sometimes obliged stairs window, and is more t on her journey, alone and guide but a blowzy peasant. hardly can understand? Or.az ley had been entitled “A Ter wouldst thou not, gentle reader. from me a dashing sketch of the fast a few anecdotes of private scandal: and if lusciously painted so much to get m heroine from Grosvenor Square, and a the Barouche Club or the Four-in-es & set of subordinate characters from the Queen Anne Street East, or the das the Bow Street Office? I could presse the importance of a titlepage, and same time my own intimate knowled ticular ingredients necessary to the y romances and novels of various fea is enough, and I soorn to tyrannuse impatience of my reader was a anxious to know the choice ma profoundly versed in the de