· Abbotsford a helpless and almost unconscious wreck. and institutions of feudalism, were constantly present He lingered on for some time, listening occasionally to his thoughts and imagination. Then, his powers to passages read to him from the Bible, and from his of description were unequalled-certainly never surfavourite author Crabbe. Once he tried to write, passed. His landscapes, his characters and situabut his fingers would not close upon the pen. He tions, were all real delineations; in general effect and never spoke of his literary labours or success. At individual details, they were equally perfect. None times his imagination was busy preparing for the of his contemporaries had the same picturesqueness, reception of the Duke of Wellington at Abbotsford; fancy, or invention; none so graphic in depicting at other times he was exercising the functions of a manners and customs; none so fertile in inventing Scottish judge, as if presiding at the trial of mem- incidents; none so fascinating in narrative, or so bers of his own family. His mind never appeared various and powerful in description. His diction to wander in its delirium towards those works which was proverbially careless and incorrect. Neither in had filled all Europe with his fame. This we learn prose nor poetry was Scott a polished writer. He from undoubted authority, and the fact is of interest looked only at broad and general effects; his words in literary history. But the contest was soon to be had to make pictures, not melody. Whatever could over; the plough was nearing the end of the fur- be grouped and described, whatever was visible and row. About half-past one, P. M.,' says Mr Lock- tangible, lay within his reach. Below the surface hart, on the 21st of September 1832, Sir Walter he had less power. The language of the heart was breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. not his familiar study; the passions did not obey It was a beautiful day-so warm that every window his call. The contrasted effects of passion and situa was wide open-and so perfectly still that the sound tion he could portray vividly and distinctly-the sin of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle and suffering of Constance, the remorse of Marmion ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly and Bertram, the pathetic_character of Wilfrid, audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest the knightly grace of Fitz-James, and the rugged son kissed and closed his eyes.' virtues and savage death of Roderick Dhu, are all fine specimens of moral painting. Byron has nothing better, and indeed the noble poet in some of his tales copied or paraphrased the sterner passages of Scott. But even in these gloomy and powerful traits of his genius, the force lies in the situation, not in the thoughts and expression. There are no talismanic words that pierce the heart or usurp the memory; none of the impassioned and reflective style of Byron, the melodious pathos of Campbell, or the profound sympathy of Wordsworth. The great strength of Scott undoubtedly lay in the prolific richness of his fancy, and the abundant stores of his memory, that could create, collect, and arrange such a multitude of scenes and adventures; that could find materials for stirring and romantic poetry in the most minute and barren antiquarian details; and that could reanimate the past, and paint the present, in scenery and manners with a vividness and energy unknown since the period of Homer. Call it not vain; they do not err Lay of the Last Minstrel. The novelty and originality of Scott's style of poetry, though exhausted by himself, and debased by imitators, formed his first passport to public favour and applause. The English reader had to go back to Spenser and Chaucer ere he could find so knightly and chivalrous a poet, or such paintings The 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' is a Border story of antique manners and institutions. The works of of the sixteenth century, related by a minstrel, the the elder worthies were also obscured by a dim and last of his race. The character of the aged minstrel, obsolete phraseology; while Scott, in expression, sen- and that of Margaret of Branksome, are very finely timent, and description, could be read and under-drawn: Deloraine, a coarse Border chief, or mossstood by all. The perfect clearness and transparency trooper, is also a vigorous portrait; and in the of his style is one of his distinguishing features; and description of the march of the English army, the it was further aided by his peculiar versification. personal combat with Musgrave, and the other Coleridge had exemplified the fitness of the octo- feudal accessories of the piece, we have finished syllabic measure for romantic narrative poetry, and pictures of the olden time. The goblin page is no parts of his Christabel' having been recited to favourite of ours, except in so far as it makes the Scott, he adopted its wild rhythm and harmony, story more accordant with the times in which it is joining to it some of the abruptness and irregularity placed. The introductory lines to each canto form of the old ballad metre. In his hands it became a an exquisite setting to the dark feudal tale, and powerful and flexible instrument, whether for light tended greatly to cause the popularity of the poem. narrative and pure description, or for scenes of The minstrel is thus described:tragic wildness and terror, such as the trial and death of Constance in Marmion,' or the swell and agitation of a battle-field. The knowledge and enthusiasm requisite for a chivalrous poet Scott possessed in an eminent degree. He was an early worshipper of 'hoar antiquity. He was in the maturity of his powers (thirty-four years of age) when the Lay was published, and was perhaps better informed on such subjects than any other man living. Border story and romance had been the study and the passion of his whole life. In writing 'Marmion' and Ivanhoe,' or in building Abbotsford, he was impelled by a natural and irresistible impulse. The baronial castle, the court and camp-the wild Highland chase, feud, and foray-the antique blazonry, The way was long, the wind was cold, No longer courted and caressed, Old times were changed, old manners gone; Had called his harmless art a crime. Not less picturesque are the following passages, which instantly became popular :— [Description of Melrose Abbey.] If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, When the broken arches are black in night, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand In many a freakish knot, had twined; And trampled the apostate's pride. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, This is my own, my native land! From wandering on a foreign strand? O Caledonia! stern and wild, Still as I view each well-known scene, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Marmion' is a tale of Flodden Field, the fate of the hero being connected with that memorable engagement. The poem does not possess the unity and completeness of the Lay, but if it has greater faults, it has also greater beauties. Nothing can be more strikingly picturesque than the two opening stanzas of this romance: Day set on Norham's castled steep, In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high, Seemed forms of giant height; St George's banner, broad and gay, Less bright, and less, was flung; So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search, The warder kept his guard, The same minute painting of feudal times characterises both poems, but by a strange oversight (soon seen and regretted by the author) the hero is made to commit the crime of forgery, a crime unsuited to a chivalrous and half-civilized age. The battle of Flodden, and the death of Marmion, are among Scott's most spirited descriptions. The former is related as seen from a neighbouring hill; and the progress of the action-the hurry, impetuosity, and confusion of the fight below, as the different armies rally or are repulsed-is given with such animation, that the whole scene is brought before the reader with the vividness of reality. The first tremendous onset is thus dashed off, with inimitable power, by the mighty minstrel : [Battle of Flodden.] 'But see! look up-on Flodden bent, The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' And sudden as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke; Volumed and vast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Told England, from his mountain-throne Long looked the anxious squires; their eye But nought distinct they see: [Evening fell on the deadly struggle, and the spectators were forced from the agitating scene.] But as they left the darkening heath, That fought around their king. Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spearmen still made good Each stepping where his comrade stood, No thought was there of dastard flight; When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, Disordered, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, Still from the sire the son shall hear Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield! The hero receives his death-wound, and is borne off the field. The description, detached from the context, loses much of its interest; but the mingled effects of mental agony and physical suffering, of remorse and death, on a bad but brave spirit trained to war, is described with much sublimity: [Death of Marmion.] When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 'Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? That shout shall ne'er be heard again! Let Stanley charge with spur of fire- Must I bid twice? Hence, varlets! fly! Of all my halls have nurst, To slake my dying thirst!' O, woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, She stooped her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain wide, Where raged the war, a dark red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where water, clear as diamond-spark, Above, some half-worn letters say, Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink. and. pray. A monk supporting Marmion's head; Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to laveIs it the hand of Clare,' he said, 'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?' Then, as remembrance rose'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Alas!' she said, "the while- Lord Marmion started from the ground, I would the fiend, to whom belongs With fruitless labour Clara bound, A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear, For that she ever sung, 'In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying! So the notes rung; 'Avoid thee, fiend!-with cruel hand, O look, my son, upon yon sign A light on Marmion's visage spread, With dying hand above his head And shouted Victory! Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!' We may contrast with this the silent and appalling death-scene of Roderick Dhu, in the Lady of the Lake.' The savage chief expires while listening to a tale chanted by the bard or minstrel of his clan: At first, the chieftain to his chime His face grows sharp; his hands are clenched, Is sternly fixed on vacancy: Thus motionless and moanless drew His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu. The 'Lady of the Lake' is more richly picturesque than either of the former poems, and the plot is more regular and interesting. The subject,' says Sir James Mackintosh, is a common Highland irruption; but at a point where the neighbourhood of the Lowlands affords the best contrast of manners -where the scenery affords the noblest subject of description-and where the wild clan is so near to the court, that their robberies can be connected with the romantic adventures of a disguised king, an exiled lord, and a high-born beauty. The whole narrative is very fine.' It was the most popular of the author's poems: in a few months twenty thousand copies were sold, and the district where the action of the poem lay was visited by countless thousands of tourists. With this work closed the great popularity of Scott as a poet. 'Rokeby,' a tale of the English Cavaliers and Roundheads, was considered a failure, though displaying the utmost art and talent in the delineation of character and passion. Don Roderick' is vastly inferior to Rokeby;' and Harold' and 'Triermain' are but faint copies of the Gothic epics, however finely finished in some of the tender passages. The 'Lord of the Isles' is of a higher mood. It is a Scottish story of the days of Bruce, and has the characteristic fire and animation of the minstrel, when, like Rob Roy, he has his foot on his native heath. Bannockburn may be compared with Flodden Field in energy of description, though the poet is sometimes lost in the chronicler and antiquary. The interest of the tale is not well sustained throughout, and its chief attraction consists in the descriptive powers of the author, who, besides his feudal halls and battles, has drawn the magnificent scenery of the West Highlands (the cave of Staffa, and the dark desolate grandeur of the Coriusk lakes and mountains) with equal truth and sublimity. The lyrical pieces of Scott are often very happy. The old ballad strains may be said to have been his original nutriment as a poet, and he is consequently often warlike and romantic in his songs. But he has also gaiety, archness, and tenderness, and if he does not touch deeply the heart, he never fails to paint to the eye and imagination. Young Lochinvar. [From Marmion."] Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar— So stately his form, and so lovely her face, And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!' One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!' quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan ; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Coronach. [From the 'Lady of the Lake."] He is gone on the mountain, From the rain-drops shall borrow, The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory; The autumn winds rushing, Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi,1 How sound is thy slumber! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. [Written for Campbell's Albyn's Anthology,' 1816.] Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array, 1 Or corri: the hollow side of the hill, where game usually Come from deep glen, and The flock without shelter; Come as the winds come, when Fast they come, fast they come ; Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set; Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset! [Time.] [From the Antiquary.'] Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, Dost thou its former pride recall, Or ponder how it passed away? 'Know'st thou not me?' the Deep Voice cried, 'So long enjoyed, so oft misusedAlternate, in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused? Before my breath, like blazing flax, When Time and thou shalt part for ever!' [Hymn of the Hebrew Maid.] When Israel, of the Lord beloved, And trump and timbrel answered keen; And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone; lies. 67 And Thou hast left them to their own. |