Chapter Chapter 8 · A SCOTTISH MANOR-HOUSE SIXTY YEARS SINCE

. A SCOTTISH MANOR-HOUSE SIXTY YEARS SINCE

It was about noon when Captain Waverley entered the straggling village,

or rather hamlet, of Tully-Veolan, close to which was situated the

mansion of the proprietor. The houses seemed miserable in the extreme,

especially to an eye accustomed to the smiling neatness of English

cottages. They stood, without any respect for regularity, on each side

of a straggling kind of unpaved street, where children, almost in a

primitive state of nakedness, lay sprawling, as if to be crushed by the

hoofs of the first passing horse. Occasionally, indeed, when such a

consummation seemed inevitable, a watchful old grandam, with her close

cap, distaff, and spindle, rushed like a sibyl in frenzy out of one of

these miserable cells, dashed into the middle of the path, and

snatching up her own charge from among the sunburnt loiterers, saluted

him with a sound cuff, and transported him back to his dungeon, the

little white-headed varlet screaming all the while, from the very top

of his lungs, a shrilly treble to the growling remonstrances of the

enraged matron. Another part in this concert was sustained by the

incessant yelping of a score of idle useless curs, which followed,

snarling, barking, howling, and snapping at the horses’ heels; a

nuisance at that time so common in Scotland, that a French tourist,

who, like other travellers, longed to find a good and rational reason

for everything he saw, has recorded, as one of the memorabilia of

Caledonia, that the state maintained, in each village a relay of curs,

called _collies_, whose duty it was to chase the _chevaux de poste_

(too starved and exhausted to move without such a stimulus) from one

hamlet to another, till their annoying convoy drove them to the end of

their stage. The evil and remedy (such as it is) still exist. But this

is remote from our present purpose, and is only thrown out for

consideration of the collectors under Mr. Dent’s Dog Bill.

As Waverley moved on, here and there an old man, bent as much by toil

as years, his eyes bleared with age and smoke, tottered to the door of

his hut, to gaze on the dress of the stranger and the form and motions

of the horses, and then assembled, with his neighbours, in a little

group at the smithy, to discuss the probabilities of whence the

stranger came and where he might be going. Three or four village girls,

returning from the well or brook with pitchers and pails upon their

heads, formed more pleasing objects, and, with their thin short-gowns

and single petticoats, bare arms, legs, and feet, uncovered heads and

braided hair, somewhat resembled Italian forms of landscape. Nor could

a lover of the picturesque have challenged either the elegance of their

costume or the symmetry of their shape; although, to say the truth, a

mere Englishman in search of the “comfortable”,—a word peculiar to his

native tongue, might have wished the clothes less scanty, the feet and

legs somewhat protected from the weather, the head and complexion

shrouded from the sun, or perhaps might even have thought the whole

person and dress considerably improved by a plentiful application of

spring water, with a _quantum sufficit_ of soap. The whole scene was

depressing; for it argued, at the first glance, at least a stagnation

of industry, and perhaps of intellect. Even curiosity, the busiest

passion of the idle, seemed of a listless cast in the village of

Tully-Veolan: the curs aforesaid alone showed any part of its activity;

with the villagers it was passive. They stood, and gazed at the

handsome young officer and his attendant, but without any of those

quick motions and eager looks that indicate the earnestness with which

those who live in monotonous ease at home look out for amusement

abroad. Yet the physiognomy of the people, when more closely examined,

was far from exhibiting the indifference of stupidity; their features

were rough, but remarkably intelligent; grave, but the very reverse of

stupid; and from among the young women an artist might have chosen more

than one model whose features and form resembled those of Minerva. The

children also, whose skins were burnt black, and whose hair was

bleached white, by the influence of the sun, had a look and manner of

life and interest. It seemed, upon the whole, as if poverty, and

indolence, its too frequent companion, were combining to depress the

natural genius and acquired information of a hardy, intelligent, and

reflecting peasantry.

Some such thoughts crossed Waverley’s mind as he paced his horse slowly

through the rugged and flinty street of Tully-Veolan, interrupted only

in his meditations by the occasional caprioles which his charger

exhibited at the reiterated assaults of those canine Cossacks, the

_collies_ before mentioned. The village was more than half a mile long,

the cottages being irregularly divided from each other by gardens, or

yards, as the inhabitants called them, of different sizes, where (for

it is Sixty Years Since) the now universal potato was unknown, but

which were stored with gigantic plants of _kale_ or colewort, encircled

with groves of nettles, and exhibited here and there a huge hemlock, or

the national thistle, overshadowing a quarter of the petty inclosure.

The broken ground on which the village was built had never been

levelled; so that these inclosures presented declivities of every

degree, here rising like terraces, there sinking like tan-pits. The

dry-stone walls which fenced, or seemed to fence (for they were sorely

breached), these hanging gardens of Tully-Veolan were intersected by a

narrow lane leading to the common field, where the joint labour of the

villagers cultivated alternate ridges and patches of rye, oats, barley,

and pease, each of such minute extent that at a little distance the

unprofitable variety of the surface resembled a tailor’s book of

patterns. In a few favoured instances, there appeared behind the

cottages a miserable wigwam, compiled of earth, loose stones, and turf,

where the wealthy might perhaps shelter a starved cow or sorely galled

horse. But almost every hut was fenced in front by a huge black stack

of turf on one side of the door, while on the other the family dunghill

ascended in noble emulation.

[Illustration: Tully-Veolan]

About a bowshot from the end of the village appeared the inclosures

proudly denominated the Parks of Tully-Veolan, being certain square

fields, surrounded and divided by stone walls five feet in height. In

the centre of the exterior barrier was the upper gate of the avenue,

opening under an archway, battlemented on the top, and adorned with two

large weather-beaten mutilated masses of upright stone, which, if the

tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, at

least had been once designed to represent, two rampant Bears, the

supporters of the family of Bradwardine. This avenue was straight and

of moderate length, running between a double row of very ancient

horse-chestnuts, planted alternately with sycamores, which rose to such

huge height, and flourished so luxuriantly, that their boughs completely

over-arched the broad road beneath. Beyond these venerable ranks, and

running parallel to them, were two high walls, of apparently the like

antiquity, overgrown with ivy, honeysuckle, and other climbing plants.

The avenue seemed very little trodden, and chiefly by foot-passengers;

so that being very broad, and enjoying a constant shade, it was clothed

with grass of a deep and rich verdure, excepting where a foot-path,

worn by occasional passengers, tracked with a natural sweep the way

from the upper to the lower gate. This nether portal, like the former,

opened in front of a wall ornamented with some rude sculpture, with

battlements on the top, over which were seen, half-hidden by the trees

of the avenue, the high steep roofs and narrow gables of the mansion,

with lines indented into steps, and corners decorated with small

turrets. One of the folding leaves of the lower gate was open, and as

the sun shone full into the court behind, a long line of brilliancy was

flung upon the aperture up the dark and gloomy avenue. It was one of

those effects which a painter loves to represent, and mingled well with

the struggling light which found its way between the boughs of the

shady arch that vaulted the broad green alley.

The solitude and repose of the whole scene seemed almost monastic; and

Waverley, who had given his horse to his servant on entering the first

gate, walked slowly down the avenue, enjoying the grateful and cooling

shade, and so much pleased with the placid ideas of rest and seclusion

excited by this confined and quiet scene, that he forgot the misery and

dirt of the hamlet he had left behind him. The opening into the paved

court-yard corresponded with the rest of the scene. The house, which

seemed to consist of two or three high, narrow, and steep-roofed

buildings, projecting from each other at right angles, formed one side

of the inclosure. It had been built at a period when castles were no

longer necessary, and when the Scottish architects had not yet acquired

the art of designing a domestic residence. The windows were numberless,

but very small; the roof had some nondescript kind of projections,

called bartizans, and displayed at each frequent angle a small turret,

rather resembling a pepper-box than a Gothic watchtower. Neither did

the front indicate absolute security from danger. There were loop-holes

for musketry, and iron stanchions on the lower windows, probably to

repel any roving band of gypsies, or resist a predatory visit from the

caterans of the neighbouring Highlands. Stables and other offices

occupied another side of the square. The former were low vaults, with

narrow slits instead of windows, resembling, as Edward’s groom

observed, “rather a prison for murderers, and larceners, and such like

as are tried at ’sizes, than a place for any Christian cattle.” Above

these dungeon-looking stables were granaries, called girnels, and other

offices, to which there was access by outside stairs of heavy masonry.

Two battlemented walls, one of which faced the avenue, and the other

divided the court from the garden, completed the inclosure.

Nor was the court without its ornaments. In one corner was a

tun-bellied pigeon-house, of great size and rotundity, resembling in

figure and proportion the curious edifice called Arthur’s Oven, which

would have turned the brains of all the antiquaries in England, had not

the worthy proprietor pulled it down for the sake of mending a

neighbouring dam-dyke. This dove-cot, or columbarium, as the owner

called it, was no small resource to a Scottish laird of that period,

whose scanty rents were eked out by the contributions levied upon the

farms by these light foragers, and the conscriptions exacted from the

latter for the benefit of the table.

Another corner of the court displayed a fountain, where a huge bear,

carved in stone, predominated over a large stone-basin, into which he

disgorged the water. This work of art was the wonder of the country ten

miles round. It must not be forgotten, that all sorts of bears, small

and large, demi or in full proportion, were carved over the windows,

upon the ends of the gables, terminated the spouts, and supported the

turrets, with the ancient family motto, =Bewar the Bar=, cut under each

hyperborean form. The court was spacious, well paved, and perfectly

clean, there being probably another entrance behind the stables for

removing the litter. Everything around appeared solitary, and would

have been silent, but for the continued plashing of the fountain; and

the whole scene still maintained the monastic illusion which the fancy

of Waverley had conjured up. And here we beg permission to close a

chapter of still life.[7]