The Female Portrait Gallery/Rose Bradwardine
No. 2.— ROSE BRADWARDINE.
There is one felicity of style which is peculiarly Scott's own; the very happy names which he gives his dramatis personæ. Whether of grace or of humour, they are singularly characteristic. Literary godfathers and godmothers, like those in real life, have much to answer for, on the score of the inappropriate. This complaint cannot be urged against the natural and charming heiress of Tully Vedarose, by name, and rose by nature; neither lover nor poet could have imagined a more fitting emblem for the lovely girl, whose youth and bloom are in exquisite contrast to the various venerable objects by which she is surrounded—from the ancient tower, where she "makes a sunshine in a shady place,"to the ancient baillie Mac Wheeble, whose heart, crusted as it is with native and professional selfishness, has yet one warm and soft touch of affection for the child he has seen grow to all but womanhood beneath his eyes. Scott indicates, to use an expressive Irishism, "what a darling she is," by the attachment she inspires in all around. No one makes the heart of a little home circle entirely their own, without some very sweet gifts of nature—we must love to be beloved. That Waverley did not in the first instance yield his heart—"rescue or no rescue"—militates nothing against Rose's attraction. Lord Byron says, "In youth we like something older than ourselves, in age something younger." This is most especially true in a youth of imaginative temperament. He looks for a goddess, and it is rarely till more than one cloud has melted into bodiless air, that he begins to think that the claims of a young and pretty woman are at least equal to his own. What at first he asked from love, were excitement and romance; as he goes on he discovers, that the real pearl of price is affection. Rose Bradwardine is a simple, unaccomplished, but not uneducated girl. The old baron, in spite of his oddities, is a thorough-bred gentleman. Gentle breeding is Rose's by heritage. Every thing about her indicates native refinement. All her tastes have a delicate touch of poetry—from her little chamber in the turret, overlooking the loveliest point of landscape, down to the flower beds, which the old domestic forgets his dignity so far as to dig with his own hands for the sake of Miss Rose.
It is the most natural thing in the world that she should love Edward Waverley. He is the first young and accomplished cavalier that she has seen. He treats her with kindness, and immediately she is in a situation to render him service, the most attaching position possible to the generosity of a woman's nature; to succour is with her almost to love. Secluded and simple-minded, the young and warm-hearted Rose could not be without romance; romance born of the purest poetry, and the keenest sensibility. The unconscious awakening of love in such a heart, is one of the loveliest objects in nature. It is the first ruffling of the dove's plumage in the dewy light of morning, warm with the quick pulse that beats beneath the rainbow colours, varying the expanding yet timid wings. Flora Mac Ivor, with her affectionate care for one who is to her like a sweet younger sister, was right in deeming Rose the fitting bride for the representative of the Waverleys. She would have found her mental superiority very much in the way of domestic felicity. To look up is the natural feminine position. While Rose would have been lost in delighted admiration when her husband showed her a design for a temple to end some newly-cut vista in the woods of Waverley Honour, or read to her his latest translation of a sonnet from "Petrarch," Flora would fain have urged to those more active, if more dangerous pursuits, which gain man place among his fellows. While the one would have exclaimed—
"Shame to the coward thought that ere betray'd,
The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade;"
the other would only have felt the happiness of being at his side. Flora was fit to be compeer and companion to one who allowed her superiority because he knew his own. She would have been "worthy to be the bride of Pericles;" while Rose was just suited to the quiet, unpretending gentleman, who looked to his landed property for his ambition, and to his hearth for his enjoyments. Rose was right in her answer, when Flora spoke of Edward Waverley wandering along his park by moonlight, with his beautiful wife hanging on his arm—"and she will be a very happy woman." The prophecy brought its own fulfilment.