PREFATORY LETTER

FROM THE

REV. DR. DRYASDUST OF YORK, TO CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, RESIDING AT FAIRYLODGE, NEAR KENNAQUHAIR, N.B.

VERY WORTHY AND DEAR SIR-To your last letter I might have answered, with the classic, "Haud equidem invideo, miror magis." For though my converse, from infancy, has been with things of antiquity, yet I love not ghosts or spectres to be commentators thereon; and truly your account of the conversation you held with our great parent, in the crypt, or most intimate recess of the publishers at Edinburgh, had upon me much the effect of the apparition of Hector's phantom on the hero of the Eneid—

"Obstupui, steteruntque comæ.”

And, as I said above, I repeat that I wondered at the vision, without envying you the pleasure of seeing our great progenitor. But it seems that he is now permitted to show himself to his family more freely than formerly; or that the old gentleman is turned somewhat garrulous in these latter days; or, in short, not to exhaust your patience with conjectures of the cause, I also have seen the Vision of the Author of Waverley. I do not mean to take any undue state on myself, when I observe, that this interview was marked with circumstances in some degree more formally complaisant than those which attended your meeting with him in our worthy publisher's; for yours had the appearance of a fortuitous rencontre, whereas mine was preceded by the communication of a large roll of papers, containing a new history, called PEVERIL OF The Peak.

I no sooner found that this manuscript consisted of a narrative,

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running to the length of perhaps three hundred and thirty pages in each volume, or thereabouts, than it instantly occurred to me from whom this boon came; and having set myself to peruse the written sheets, I began to entertain strong expectations that I might, peradventure, next see the author himself.

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Again, it seems to me a marked circumstance, that, whereas an inner apartment of Mr. Constable's shop was thought a place of sufficient solemnity for your audience, our venerable Senior was pleased to afford mine in the recesses of my own lodgings, intra parietes, as it were, and without the chance of interruption. must also remark, that the features, form, and dress of the Eidolon, as you well term the apparition of our parent, seemed to me more precisely distinct than was vouchsafed to you on the former occasion. Of this hereafter; but Heaven forbid I should glory, or set up any claim of superiority over the other descendants of our common parent, from such decided marks of his preference-Laus propria sordet. I am well satisfied that the honor was bestowed not on my person, but my cloth-that the preference did not elevate Fonas Dryasdust over Clutterbuck, but the Doctor of Divinity over the Captain. Cedant arma togæ—a maxim never to be forgotten at any time, but especially to be remembered when the soldier is upon half-pay.

But I bethink me that I am keeping you all this while in the porch, and wearying you with long inductions, when you would have me properare in mediam rem. As you will, it shall be done; for, as his grace is wont to say of me, wittily, "No man tells a story so well as Dr. Dryasdust, when he has once got up to the starting-post."-Jocose hoc. But to continue.

I had skimmed the cream of the narrative which I had received about a week before, and that with no small cost and pain; for the hand of our parent is become so small and so crabbed, that 1 was obliged to use strong magnifiers. Feeling my eyes a little exhausted towards the close of the second volume, I leaned back in my easy-chair, and began to consider whether several of the objections which have been particularly urged against our father and patron, might not be considered as applying, in an especial manner, to the papers I had just perused. "Here are figments enough," said I

to myself, "to confuse the march of a whole history-anachronisms enough to overset all chronology! The old gentleman hath broken ali bounds-abiit-evasit-erupit."

As these thoughts passed through my mind, I fell into a fit of musing, which is not uncommon with me after dinner, when I am altogether alone, or have no one with me but my curate. I was awake, however; for I remember seeing, in the embers of the fire, a representation of a mitre, with the towers of a cathedral in the back-ground; moreover, I recollect gazing for a certain time on the comely countenance of Dr. Whiterose, my uncle by the mother's side the same who is mentioned in THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN -whose portrait, graceful in wig and canonicals, hangs above my mantelpiece. Farther, I remember marking the flowers in the frame of carved oak, and casting my eye on the pistols which hang beneath, being the firearms with which, in the eventful year 1746, my uncle meant to have espoused the cause of Prince Charles Edward; for, indeed, so little did he esteem personal safety, in comparison of steady high-church principle, that he waited but the news of the Adventurer's reaching London to hasten to join his standard.

Such a doze as I then enjoyed, I find compatible with indulging the best and deepest cogitations which at any time arise in my mind. I chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, in a state betwixt sleeping and waking, which I consider as so highly favorable to philosophy, that I have no doubt some of its most distinguished systems have been composed under its influence. My servant is, therefore, instructed to tread as if upon down-my door-hinges are carefully oiled-and all appliances used to prevent me from being prematurely and harshly called back to the broad waking-day of a laborious world. My custom, in this particular, is so well known, that the very schoolboys cross the alley on tiptoe, betwixt the hours of four and five. My cell is the very dwelling of Morpheus. There is indeed a bawling knave of a broom-man, quem ego-But this is matter for the Quarter Sessions.

As my head sunk back upon the easy-chair in the philosophical mood which I have just described, and the eyes of my body began to close, in order, doubtless, that those of my understanding might be

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the more widely opened, I was startled by a knock at the door, of a kind more authoritatively boisterous than is given at that hour by any visitor acquainted with my habits. I started up in my seat, and heard the step of my servant hurrying along the passage, followed by a very heavy and measured pace, which shook the long oak-floored gallery in such a manner, as forcibly to arrest my attention. “A stranger, sir, just arrived from Edinburgh by the North Mail, desires to speak with your Reverence." Such were the words with which Jacob threw the door to the wall; and the startled tone in which he pronounced them, although there was nothing particular in the annunciation itself, prepared me for the approach of a visitor of uncommon dignity and importance.

The Author of Waverley entered, a bulky and tall man, in a travelling great-coat, which covered a suit of snuff-brown, cut in imitation of that worn by the great Rambler.* His flapped hatfor he disdained the modern frivolities of a travelling cap-was bound over his head with a large silk handkerchief, so as to protect his ears from cold at once, and from the babble of his pleasant companions in the public coach from which he had just alighted. There was somewhat of a sarcastic shrewdness and sense, which sat on the heavy pent-house of his shaggy gray eyebrow—his features were in other respects largely shaped, and rather heavy, than promising wit or genius; but he had a notable projection of the nose, similar to that line of the Latin poet,

'immodicum surgit pro cuspide rostrum."

A stout walking-stick stayed his hand-a double Barcelona protected his neck—his belly was something prominent, "but that's not much,"—his breeches were substantial thickset—and a pair of topboots, which were slipped down to ease his sturdy calves, did not conceal his comfortable travelling stockings of lamb's-wool, wrought, not on the loom, but on wires, and after the venerable ancient fashion, known in Scotland by the name of ridge-and-furrow. His age seemed to be considerably above fifty, but could not amount to three-score, which I observed with pleasure, trusting there may be a [Dr. Samuel Johnson, Author of the Rambler.]

good deal of work had out of him yet; especially as a general hale ness of appearance-the compass and strength of his voice-the steadiness of his step-the rotundity of his calf-the depth of his hem, and the sonorous emphasis of his sneeze, were all signs of a constitution built for permanence.

It struck me forcibly, as I gazed on this portly person, that he realized, in my imagination, the Stout Gentleman in No. II. who afforded such subject of varying speculation to our most amusing and elegant Utopian traveller, Master Geoffrey Crayon. Indeed, but for one little trait in the conduct of the said Stout Gentleman -I mean the gallantry towards his landlady, a thing which would greatly derogate from our Senior's character-I should be disposed to conclude that Master Crayon had, on that memorable occasion, actually passed his time in the vicinity of the Author of Waverley. But our worthy patriarch, be it spoken to his praise, far from cultivating the society of the fair sex, seems, in avoiding the company of womankind, rather to imitate the humor of our friend and relation, Master Jonathan Oldbuck, as I was led to conjecture, from a circumstance which occurred immediately after his entrance.

Having acknowledged his presence with fitting thanks and gratulations, I proposed to my venerated visitor, as a refreshment best suited to the hour of the day, to summon my cousin and housekeeper, Miss Catherine Whiterose, with the tea equipage; but he rejected my proposal with disdain worthy of the Laird of Monkbarns. "No scandal-broth," he exclaimed; no unidea'd woman's chatter for me. Fill the frothed tankard-slice the fatted rump—I desire no society but yours, and no refreshment but what the cask and the gridiron can supply."

The beefsteak, and toast and tankard, were speedily got ready; and, whether an apparition or a bodily presentation, my visitor displayed dexterity as a trencherman, which might have attracted the envy of a hungry hunter, after a fox-chase of forty miles. Neither did he fail to make some deep and solemn appeals, not only to the tankard aforesaid, but to two decanters of London particular Madeira and old Port; the first of which I had extracted from its ripening place of depositation, within reach of the genial warmth of