The Fortunes of Nigel | Page 6

at the filial instinct which enabled me at once to acknowledge the features borne by this venerable apparition, and that I at once bended the knee, with the classical salutation of, _Salve, magne parens!_ The vision, however, cut me short, by pointing to a seat, intimating at the same time, that my presence was not expected, and that he had something to say to me.
I sat down with humble obedience, and endeavoured to note the features of him with whom I now found myself so unexpectedly in society. But on this point I can give your reverence no satisfaction; for, besides the obscurity of the apartment, and the fluttered state of my own nerves, I seemed to myself overwhelmed by a sense of filial awe, which prevented my noting and recording what it is probable the personage before me might most desire to have concealed. Indeed, his figure was so closely veiled and wimpled, either with a mantle, morning-gown, or some such loose garb, that the verses of Spenser might well have been applied--
"Yet, certes, by her face and physnomy, Whether she man or woman only were, That could not any creature well descry."
I must, however, go on as I have begun, to apply the masculine gender; for, notwithstanding very ingenious reasons, and indeed something like positive evidence, have been offered to prove the Author of Waverley to be two ladies of talent, I must abide by the general opinion, that he is of the rougher sex. There are in his writings too many things
"Quae maribus sola tribuuntur,"
to permit me to entertain any doubt on that subject. I will proceed, in the manner of dialogue, to repeat as nearly as I can what passed betwixt us, only observing, that in the course of the conversation, my timidity imperceptibly gave way under the familiarity of his address; and that, in the concluding part of our dialogue, I perhaps argued with fully as much confidence as was beseeming.
_Author of Waverley._ I was willing to see you, Captain Clutterbuck, being the person of my family whom I have most regard for, since the death of Jedediah Cleishbotham; and I am afraid I may have done you some wrong, in assigning to you The Monastery as a portion of my effects. I have some thoughts of making it up to you, by naming you godfather to this yet unborn babe--(he indicated the proof-sheet with his finger)--But first, touching The Monastery--How says the world-- you are abroad and can learn?
_Captain Clutterbuck._ Hem! hem!--The enquiry is delicate--I have not heard any complaints from the Publishers.
_Author._ That is the principal matter; but yet an indifferent work is sometimes towed on by those which have left harbour before it, with the breeze in their poop.--What say the Critics?
_Captain._ There is a general--feeling--that the White Lady is no favourite.
_Author._ I think she is a failure myself; but rather in execution than conception. Could I have evoked an _esprit follet_, at the same time fantastic and interesting, capricious and kind; a sort of wildfire of the elements, bound by no fixed laws, or motives of action; faithful and fond, yet teazing and uncertain----
_Captain._ If you will pardon the interruption, sir, I think you are describing a pretty woman.
_Author._ On my word, I believe I am. I must invest my elementary spirits with a little human flesh and blood--they are too fine-drawn for the present taste of the public.
_Captain._ They object, too, that the object of your Nixie ought to have been more uniformly noble--Her ducking the priest was no Naiad- like amusement.
_Author._ Ah! they ought to allow for the capriccios of what is, after all, but a better sort of goblin. The bath into which Ariel, the most delicate creation of Shakspeare's imagination, seduces our jolly friend Trinculo, was not of amber or rose-water. But no one shall find me rowing against the stream. I care not who knows it--I write for general amusement; and, though I never will aim at popularity by what I think unworthy means, I will not, on the other hand, be pertinacious in the defence of my own errors against the voice of the public.
_Captain._ You abandon, then, in the present work--(looking, in my turn, towards the proof-sheet)--the mystic, and the magical, and the whole system of signs, wonders, and omens? There are no dreams, or presages, or obscure allusions to future events?
_Author._ Not a Cock-lane scratch, my son--not one bounce on the drum of Tedworth--not so much as the poor tick of a solitary death-watch in the wainscot. All is clear and above board--a Scots metaphysician might believe every word of it.
_Captain._ And the story is, I hope, natural and probable; commencing strikingly, proceeding naturally, ending happily--like the course of a famed river, which gushes from the mouth of some obscure and romantic grotto--then