The Waverley novels, by Sir Walter Scott, complete in 12 vol., printed from the latest English ed., embracing the author's last corrections, prefaces & notes.

WOODSTOCK. 71
He arose, roused himself, walked up and down the room, and looked from
the large oriel window on the nearest objects, which were the untrimmed
hedges and neglected walks of a certain wilderness, as it is called in
ancient treatises on gardening, which, kept of yore well ordered, and in all
the pride of the topiary art, presented a succession of yew-trees cut into
fantastic forms, of close alleys, and of open walks, filling about two or three
acres of ground on that side of the Lodge, and forming a boundary between
its immediate precincts and the open Park. Its enclosure was now broken
down in many places, and the hinds with their fawns fed free and unstartled
up to the very windows of the silvan palace.
This had been a favourite scene of Markham's sports when a boy. He
could still distinguish, though now grown out of shape, the verdant battlements of a Gothic castle, all created by the gardener's shears, at which he
was accustomed to shoot his arrows; or, stalking before it like the Knighterrants of whom he read, was wont to blow his horn, and bid defiance to
the supposed giant or Paynim knight, by whom it was garrisoned. He remembered how he used to train his cousin, though several years younger
than himself, to bear a part in those revels of his boyish fancy, and to play
the character of an elfin page, or a fairy, or an enchanted princess. He
remembered, too, many particulars of their later acquaintance, from which
he had been almost necessarily led to the conclusion, that from an early
period their parents had entertained some idea, that there might be a wellfitted match betwixt his fair cousin and himself. A thousand visions,
formed in so bright a prospect, had vanished along with it, but now
returned like shadows, to remind him of all he had lost-and for what?"For the sake of England," his proud consciousness replied,-" Of England,
in danger of becoming the prey at once of bigotry and tyranny." And he
strengthened himself with the recollection, "If I have sacrificed my private
happiness, it is that my country may enjoy liberty of conscience, and personal freedom; which, under a weak prince and usurping statesman, she
was but too likely to have lost."
But the busy fiend in his breast would not be repulsed by the bold
answer. "Has thy resistance," it demanded, "availed thy country, Markham Everard? Lies not England, after so much bloodshed, and so much
misery, as low beneath the sword of a fortunate soldier, as formerly under
the sceptre of an encroaching prince? Are Parliament, or what remains
of them, fitted to contend with a. leader, master of his soldiers' hearts, as
bold and subtle as he is impenetrable in his designs! This General, who
holds the army, and by that the fate of the nation in his hand, will he lay
down his power because philosophy would pronounce it his duty to become
a subject?"
He dared not answer that his knowledge of Cromwell authorised him to
expect any such act of self-denial. Yet still he considered that in times of
such infinite difficulty, that must be the best government, however little desirable in itself, which should most speedily restore peace to the land, and
-stop the wounds which the contending parties were daily inflicting on each
other. He imagined that Cromwell was the only authority under which a
steady government could be formed, and therefore had attached himself to
his fortune, though not without considerable and recurring doubts, how far
serving the views of this impenetrable and mysterious General was consistent with the principles under which he had assumed arms.
While these things passed in his mind, Everard looked upon the packet
which lay on the table addressed to the Lord-General, and which he had
made up before sleep. I-e hesitated several times, when he remembered its
purport, and in what degree he must stand committed with that personage,
and bound to support his plans of aggrandizement, when once that communication was in Oliver Cromwell's possession.
" Yet it must be so," he said at last, with a deep sigh. " Among the con