Betrothed

by Sir Walter Scott






INTRODUCTION--(1832.)


The Tales of the Crusaders was determined upon as the title of the
following series of the Novels, rather by the advice of the few
friends whom, death has now rendered still fewer, than by the
author's own taste. Not but that he saw plainly enough the
interest which might be excited by the very name of the Crusaders,
but he was conscious at the same time that that interest was of a
character which it might be more easy to create than to satisfy,
and that by the mention of so magnificent a subject each reader
might be induced to call up to his imagination a sketch so
extensive and so grand that it might not be in the power of the
author to fill it up, who would thus stand in the predicament of
the dwarf bringing with him a standard to measure his own stature,
and showing himself, therefore, says Sterne, "a dwarf more ways
than one."

It is a fact, if it were worth while to examine it, that the
publisher and author, however much their general interests are the
same, may be said to differ so far as title pages are concerned;
and it is a secret of the tale-telling art, if it could be termed
a secret worth knowing, that a taking-title, as it is called, best
answers the purpose of the bookseller, since it often goes far to
cover his risk, and sells an edition not unfrequently before the
public have well seen it. But the author ought to seek more
permanent fame, and wish that his work, when its leaves are first
cut open, should be at least fairly judged of. Thus many of the
best novelists have been anxious to give their works such titles
as render it out of the reader's power to conjecture their
contents, until they should have an opportunity of reading them.

All this did not prevent the Tales of the Crusaders from being the
title fixed on; and the celebrated year of projects (eighteen
hundred and twenty-five) being the time of publication, an
introduction was prefixed according to the humour of the day.



The first tale of the series was influenced in its structure,
rather by the wish to avoid the general expectations which might
be formed from the title, than to comply with any one of them, and
so disappoint the rest. The story was, therefore, less an incident
belonging to the Crusades, than one which was occasioned by the
singular cast of mind introduced and spread wide by those
memorable undertakings. The confusion among families was not the
least concomitant evil of the extraordinary preponderance of this
superstition. It was no unusual thing for a Crusader, returning
from his long toils of war and pilgrimage, to find his family
augmented by some young off-shoot, of whom the deserted matron
could give no very accurate account, or perhaps to find his
marriage-bed filled, and that, instead of becoming nurse to an old
man, his household dame had preferred being the lady-love of a
young one. Numerous are the stories of this kind told in different
parts of Europe; and the returned knight or baron, according to
his temper, sat down good naturedly contented with the account
which his lady gave of a doubtful matter, or called in blood and
fire to vindicate his honour, which, after all, had been
endangered chiefly by his forsaking his household gods to seek
adventures in Palestine.

Scottish tradition, quoted, I think, in some part of the Border
Minstrelsy, ascribes to the clan of Tweedie, a family once stout
and warlike, a descent which would not have misbecome a hero of
antiquity. A baron, somewhat elderly we may suppose, had wedded a
buxom young lady, and some months after their union he left her to
ply the distaff alone in his old tower, among the mountains of the
county of Peebles, near the sources of the Tweed. He returned
after seven or eight years, no uncommon space for a pilgrimage to
Palestine, and found his family had not been lonely in his
absence, the lady having; been cheered by the arrival of a
stranger, (of whose approach she could give the best account of
any one,) who hung on her skirts, and called her mammy, and was
just such as the baron would have longed to call his son, but that
he could by no means make his age correspond, according to the
doctrine of civilians, with his own departure for Palestine. He
applied to his wife, therefore, for the solution of this dilemma.
The lady, after many floods of tears, which she had reserved for
the occasion, informed the honest gentleman, that, walking one day
alone by the banks of the infant river, a human form arose from a
deep eddy, still known and termed Tweed-pool, who deigned to
inform her that he was the tutelar genius of the stream, and,
_bongre malgre_, became the father of the sturdy fellow,
whose appearance had so much surprised her husband. This story,
however suitable to Pagan times, would have met with full credence
from few of the baron's contemporaries, but the wife was young and
beautiful, the husband old and in his dotage; her family (the
Frazers, it is believed) were powerful and warlike, and the baron
had had fighting enough in the holy wars. The event was, that he
believed, or seemed to believe, the tale, and remained contented
with the child with whom his wife and the Tweed had generously
presented him. The only circumstance which preserved the memory of
the incident was, that the youth retained the name of Tweed, or
Tweedie. The baron, meanwhile, could not, as the old Scotch song
says, "Keep the cradle rowing," and the Tweed apparently thought
one natural son was family enough for a decent Presbyterian lover;
and so little gall had the baron in his composition, that having
bred up the young Tweed as his heir while he lived, he left him in
that capacity when he died, and the son of the river-god founded
the family of Drummelzier and others, from whom have flowed, in
the phrase of the Ettrick Shepherd, "many a brave fellow, and many
a bauld feat."

The tale of the Noble Moringer is somewhat of the same nature--it
exists in a collection of German popular songs, entitled, Sammlung
Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807; published by Messrs. Busching
and Von der Hagen. The song is supposed to be extracted from a
manuscript chronicle of Nicholas Thomann, chaplain to St. Leonard
in Wissenhorn, and dated 1533. The ballad, which is popular in
Germany, is supposed from the language, to have been composed in
the fifteenth century. The Noble Moringer, a powerful baron of
Germany, about to set out on a pilgrimage to the land of St.
Thomas, with the geography of which we are not made acquainted,
resolves to commit his castle, dominions, and lady, to the vassal
who should pledge him to keep watch over them till the seven years
of his pilgrimage were accomplished. His chamberlain, an elderly
and a cautious man, declines the trust, observing, that seven
days, instead of seven years, would be the utmost space to which
he would consent to pledge himself for the fidelity of any woman.
The esquire of the Noble Moringer confidently accepts the trust
refused by the chamberlain, and the baron departs on his
pilgrimage. The seven years are now elapsed, all save a single day
and night, when, behold, a vision descends on the noble pilgrim as
he sleeps in the land of the stranger.

"It was the noble Moringer, within an orchard slept,
When on the Baron's slumbering sense a boding vision crept,
And whispered in his ear a voice,'
'Tis time. Sir Knight, to wake--
Thy lady and thy heritage another master take.

"'Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds another rein,
And stoop them to another's will, thy gallant vassal train;
And she, the lady of thy love, so faithful once and fair,
This night, within thy father's hall, she weds Marstetten's heir.'"

The Moringer starts up and prays to his patron St. Thomas, to
rescue him from the impending shame, which his devotion to his
patron had placed him in danger of incurring. St. Thomas, who must
have felt the justice of the imputation, performs a miracle. The
Moringer's senses were drenched in oblivion, and when he waked he
lay in a well-known spot of his own domain; on his right the
Castle of his fathers, and on his left the mill, which, as usual,
was built not far distant from the Castle.

"He leaned upon his pilgrim's staff, and to the mill he drew--
So altered was his goodly form that none their master knew.
The baron to the miller said, 'Good friend, for charity,
Tell a poor pilgrim, in your land, what tidings may there be?'

"The miller answered him again--'He knew of little news,
Save that the lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose;
Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word,
His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy lord.

"'Of him I held the little mill, which wins me living free--
God rest the baron in his grave, he aye was kind to me!
And when St. Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll,
The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole.'"

The baron proceeds to the Castle gate, which is bolted to prevent
intrusion, while the inside of the mansion rung with preparations
for the marriage of the lady. The pilgrim prayed the porter for
entrance, conjuring him by his own sufferings, and for the sake of
the late Moringer; by the orders of his lady, the warder gave him
admittance.

"Then up the hall paced Moringer, his step was sad and slow;
It sat full heavy on his heart, none seemed their lord to know.
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppressed with wo and wrong;
Short while he sat, but ne'er to him seemed little space so long.

"Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come was evening hour,
The time was nigh when new made brides retire to nuptial bower,
'Our Castle's wont,' a bride's man said, 'hath been both firm and long--
No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall chant a song.'"

When thus called upon, the disguised baron sung the following
melancholy ditty:--

"'Chill flows the lay of frozen age,' 'twas thus the pilgrim sung,
'Nor golden mead, nor garment gay, unlocks his heavy tongue.
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board as rich as thine,
And by my side as fair a bride, with all her charms, was mine.

"'But time traced furrows on my face, and I grew silver hair'd,
For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she left this brow and beard;
Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest stage,
And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of frozen age.'"

The lady, moved at the doleful recollections which the palmer's
song recalled, sent to him a cup of wine. The palmer, having
exhausted the goblet, returned it, and having first dropped in the
cup his nuptial ring, requested the lady to pledge her venerable
guest.

"The ring hath caught the lady's eye, she views it close and near,
Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 'The Moringer is here!'
Then might you see her start from seat, while tears in torrents fell,
But if she wept for joy or wo, the ladies best can tell.

"Full loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and every saintly power,
That had restored the Moringer before the midnight hour;
And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there bride,
That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried.

"'Yes, here I claim the praise,' she said, 'to constant matrons due,
Who keep the troth, that they have plight, so stedfastly and true;
For count the term howe'er you will, so that you count aright,
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when bells toll twelve to-night.'

"It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew,
He kneeled before The Moringer, and down his weapon threw;
'My oath and knightly faith are broke,' these were the words he said;
'Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take