EIGHT CENTURIES WITH WALTER SCOTT.
By WALLACE BRUCE.
In the providence that regulates human affairs there seems to have been no ordained quiet for the exiled Stuarts, but the quiet of the grave. During the early and unpopular reigns of the imported “House of Hanover” the Jacobite party eagerly watched and weighed every opportunity for restoring the ancient line. The throne of England was too great a prize to be readily abandoned. Some of the attempts to regain the glory and power which had departed from these Ichabod princes seem more like a romance than real history.
The Chevalier de St. George, whom we saw in the story of “Rob Roy,” retired to Italy after his unsuccessful enterprise of 1715, “where the sufferings of his father for the Roman Catholic religion gave him the fairest right to expect hospitality.” He was at this time thirty years of age, and, following the suggestions of his counselors, fixed his choice of a wife on the Princess Clementina Sobieski, daughter of the Prince of Poland. The romantic history of the Chevalier in pursuit of a throne was now to be paralleled in the getting of a wife. This young lady was accounted one of the greatest fortunes in Europe. She was granddaughter of that King John Sobieski, who defeated the Turks before Vienna. The dazzling expectations of the Pretender gratified the ambition of her parents, and they agreed to conduct her privately to Bologna, with a view to the marriage. The preparation became known to the British Court. The Emperor of Austria, at the request of England, arrested the bride as she passed through Innspruck, and detained her as prisoner in a cloister.
A bold attempt for the release of the Princess was contrived and executed by Charles Wogan—a devoted partisan to the Stuart cause. “He obtained a passport from the Austrian ambassador, in the name of Count Cernes and family, stated to be returning from Loretto to the low countries. Major Misset and his wife personated the supposed count and countess; Wogan was to pass for the brother of the count; the Princess Clementina, when she should be liberated, was to represent the Count’s sister, which character, in the meantime, was enacted by a smart girl, a domestic of Mrs. Misset. Captain Toole, with two other steady partisans, attended on the party of the supposed Count, in the dress and character of domestics. They arrived at Innspruck on the evening of the 27th of April, 1719, and took lodging near the convent. It appears that a trusty domestic of the princess had secured permission of the porter to bring a female with him into the cloister, and conduct her out at whatever hour he pleased. This was a great step in favor of their success, and taking advantage of a storm of snow and hail, Mrs. Misset’s domestic was safely introduced into the cloister, and the princess, changing clothes with her, came out at the hour by which the stranger was to return. Through bad roads and worse weather the liberated bride and her attendants pushed on until they quitted the Austrian territories, and entered those of Venice. On the second of May, after a journey of great fatigue, and some danger, they arrived at Bologna.”
The Jacobites drew many happy omens from the success with which the romantic union of the Chevalier de St. George was achieved, although after all it may be doubted whether the Austrian Emperor, though obliged in appearance to comply with the remonstrances of the British Court, was either seriously anxious to prevent the Princess’s escape, or extremely desirous that she should be retaken. By this union the Chevalier transmitted his hereditary claims, and with them his evil luck, to two sons. The first, Charles Edward, born the 31st of December, 1720, was remarkable for the figure he made during the civil war of 1745-6; the second, Henry Benedict, born the 6th of March, 1725, for being the last male heir, in the direct line, of the unfortunate House of Stuart. He bore the title of Duke of York, and, entering the Church of Rome, was promoted to the rank of Cardinal.
This interesting betrothal and marriage, condensed from Scott’s picturesque narrative in the “Tales of a Grandfather,” serve as a connecting link between our last paper, which dealt historically with the affair of 1715, and the present paper which deals with the affair of 1745. It is, moreover, simple politeness to our readers to introduce the parents, who are passing from the stage, before presenting the son, whose fortunes were destined to be more romantic than his ancestors, and whose name will survive in song and poetry as the “Prince Charlie from over the sea.”
“Waverley” reveals the true state of Scotland during the middle of the eighteenth century. In fact, the titles of the chapters present almost a history in themselves. While it reveals in every page the great power of the novelist in portrayal of character, in discerning the motives which influence the actions of individuals, in the poetic description of scenery, in elevated tone and fitting and graceful dialogue, it differs from his greater and later works as the “Hypatia” of Charles Kingsley differs from the “Romola” of George Eliot. It is not so much an inner growth as an algebraic demonstration; each chapter being plus to the one that precedes it. In the early part of the story he conducts Waverley step by step through his boyhood to the choice of a profession. He then introduces him to the Highlands, and deals with the customs and manners of the people in a succession of chapter-essays. He gives us a border-raid; he portrays the “Hold of a Highland Robber;” describes the chief and his mansion; introduces us to a Highland feast; treats us to a display of Highland minstrelsy; and thus the story moves on step by step, so many stadia a day, like the march of Julius Cæsar through Germany, or the retreat of the ten thousand Greeks under Xenophon. But in spite of this step-by-step process, which marks the first work of Sir Walter in prose fiction, no volume of the series presents more vividly or graphically the historic features of the times to which it is related.
The wild and fierce Highlanders, who stalked to and fro in pages of the “Fair Maid of Perth,” are greatly modified and toned down in “Waverley.” Civilization has girdled their mountain fastnesses. They have been taught to acknowledge law, or at least to respect and fear it. The patriarchal system, however, still continues. The chief is the leader in war, and their arbitrator and protector in peace. The whole income of the tribe is paid to the chief, and helps to support his rude hospitality. In the mansion of Fergus MacIvor, Waverley is introduced to the surviving and modified customs of this northern Gælic people. The description of the feast and the music of the bard, chanting the deeds of their ancestors, are worthy of special mention. “A huge oaken table extended through the whole length of the hall. The apparatus for dinner was simple, even to rudeness, and the company numerous, even to crowding. At the head of the table was the chief himself, with Waverley, and two or three Highland visitors of neighboring clans; the elders of his own tribe sat next in rank; beneath them their sons and nephews, and foster-brethren; then the officers of the chief’s household, according to their order, and lowest of all the tenants who cultivated the ground.”
“Even beyond the long perspective, Waverley might see upon the green, to which a huge pair of folding doors opened, a multitude of Highlanders of a yet inferior description, who nevertheless were considered as guests, and had their share of the cheer of the day. In the distance, and fluctuating round the extreme verge of the banquet, was a changeful group of women, ragged boys and girls, beggars, young and old, large greyhounds, terriers and pointers, and curs of low degree; all of whom took some interest in the main action of the piece. Some pains had been bestowed in dressing the dishes at the upper end of the table. Lower down stood immense joints of mutton and beef, which resembled the rude festivity of Penelope’s suitors. But the central dish was a yearling lamb roasted whole. It was set upon its legs, with a bunch of parsley in its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to gratify the pride of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty than the elegance of his master’s table. The sides of the poor animal were fiercely attacked by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with the knives which were usually in the same sheath with the dagger, so that it was soon rendered a mangled and rueful spectacle. Lower down still, the victuals seemed of a still coarser quality, though sufficiently abundant. After the banquet the chieftain made a signal for the pipes to cease, and said aloud, ‘Where is the song hidden, my friends, that MacMurrough can not find it?’ The family bard, an aged man, immediately took the hint, and began to chant with low and rapid utterance a profusion of Celtic verses, which were received by the audience with all the applause of enthusiasm. As he advanced in his declamation, his ardor seemed to increase. He had at first spoken with his eyes fixed upon the ground; he now cast them around as if beseeching, and anon as if commanding attention, and his tones rose into wild and impassioned notes, accompanied with appropriate gestures. The ardor of the poet seemed to communicate itself to the audience. Their wild and sun-burnt countenances assumed a fiercer and more animated expression; all bent forward toward the reciter; many sprung up and waved their hands in ecstasy, and some laid their hands on their swords.”
It was in such halls as these that the cause of the Pretender was cherished. The Lowlanders were for the most part disposed to peace. The relation of landlord and tenant had gradually lost its feudal character. The payment was in pounds sterling and not in warlike service. The result of the Pretender’s adventure might therefore have been foretold at the outset, but it was brilliant while it lasted, and he had the pleasure of giving a few feasts in Holyrood—the palace of his ancestors. It will be remembered that he landed with seven followers in Moidart on the 25th of July, 1745. The place was well chosen for concealment, being on the main land south of the islands of Skye. He opened communication with the clans in the neighborhood, but at first received little encouragement. By wise measures and cordial address his numbers grew slowly. An association was drawn up and signed by the chiefs who had taken the field, in which the subscribers bound themselves never to abandon their prince while he remained in the realm, or to lay down their arms, or make peace with government, without his express consent. He marched to Perth with his little army, where the Chevalier first found the want of money. When he entered that town, he showed one of his followers a single guinea of the four hundred pounds which he had brought with him from France; but the towns and cities north of the Tay supplied men and money, and for a time his fortune was in the ascendant.
The English troops at that time in Scotland were under a second rate commander, Sir John Cope. He moved north to Inverness and left Edinburgh undefended. The Pretender captured Edinburgh, and entered it the 17th of September. He began his march on foot, but, on account of the crowd who pressed upon him to kiss his hand, he was compelled to call for his horse as he approached the eastern entrance of the palace. His personal appearance was prepossessing. His graceful manners, noble mien and ready courtesy “seemed to mark him no unworthy competitor of the crown. His dress was national. A short tartan coat, a blue bonnet with a white rose, and the order and emblem of the thistle, seemed all chosen to identify him with the ancient nation he summoned to arms.” It was indeed a proud moment, but the bubble was soon to burst. After a few successful battles, and an ill-timed excursion into England, the army was disbanded, and the unfortunate Wanderer was compelled to flee for his life, disguised as a servant. He sought refuge in a cavern where seven outlaws had taken up their abode. With these men he remained about three weeks, and when the hour of his departure came they said: “Stay with us; the mountains of gold which the government have set upon your head may induce some gentleman to betray you, for he can go to a distant country and live on the price of his dishonor; but to us there exists no such temptation. We can speak no language but our own—we can live nowhere but in this country, where, were we but to injure a hair of your head, the very mountains would fall down to crush us to death.” On the 20th of September he embarked in a French frigate, and reached Morlaix in Brittany the 29th of September.
If there ever was truth in the words, “there is a divinity that doth hedge a king” it finds illustration in the thirteen months that Charles Edward spent on this expedition in Scotland. No history or romance recounts such perils of flight, concealment and escape. The secret of his concealment was known to persons of every age, sex, and condition, but no individual from the proudest Earl to the meanest outlaw would stoop to give up their leader, even for the promised reward, which would have purchased the half of Scotland north of the Forth. That the Prince was bold and generous, in this campaign, no person can doubt; and if Charles the First had possessed as much humor as his amiable descendant, he might have preserved his head which was an “unco’ loss” to the whole Stuart line. After the victory at Preston, the Pretender sent word to the Edinburgh preachers to preach the next day, Sunday, as usual; and the Rev. Neil M’Vicar offered the following prayer: “Bless the king! Thou knowest what king I mean. May the crown sit long on his head. As for that young man who has come among us to seek an earthly crown, we beseech thee to take him to thyself and give him a crown of glory.” It is said that when the Prince heard of M’Vicar’s prayer he laughed heartily, and expressed himself quite satisfied.
I have spoken of this novel being true to history. It could hardly have been otherwise when we consider the opportunities Scott had for studying all the facts. In the closing chapter of “Waverley” he says: “It was my accidental lot, though not born a Highlander, to reside, during my childhood and youth, among persons who cherished a lingering though hopeless attachment, to the House of Stuart; and now, for the purpose of preserving some idea of the ancient manners of which I have witnessed the almost total extinction, I have embodied in imaginary scenes, and ascribed to fictitious characters, a part of the incidents which I then received from those who were actors in them. Indeed, the most romantic parts of this narrative are precisely those which have a foundation in fact. There is scarce a gentleman who was ‘in hiding,’ after the battle of Culloden, but could tell a tale of wild and hair-breadth ’scapes, as extraordinary as any which I have ascribed to my heroes. The accounts of the battle at Preston and skirmish at Clifton are taken from the narrative of intelligent eye-witnesses, and corrected from the ‘History of the Rebellion’ by the late venerable author of ‘Douglas.’ The Lowland Scottish gentlemen, and the subordinate characters, are not given as individual portraits, but are drawn from the general habits of the period, of which I have witnessed some remnants in my younger days, and partly gathered from tradition.”
“Guy Mannering,” the next in sequence, is rather a portrayal of character than a historic picture. It gives us a glimpse of gipsey-life in Galloway true to fact, and also reveals the traits of the hardy smugglers that invested its shores. The characters stand out by themselves with little or no background. Here is Dandie Dinmot, with his numerous dogs and children; Attorney Pleydell, with his old-time courtesy; Dominie Sampson, a cyclopædia of worthless erudition—a man to be laughed at and loved—possessing a fund of knowledge, but no wisdom; Guy Mannering, a courtly gentleman, deep and undisturbed as a tropic sea; two sweet young ladies and their lovers, who are at last happily married; Meg Merrilies, as generous and sensible a gipsey as ever lived; Dirk Hatterick, as false a sea rover as ever hoisted sail; and Glossin, a fawning scoundrel, whose course through life was like the trail of a serpent. The book is in fact a drama rather than a novel, or rather both in one—a dramatic romance. Coleridge regarded it as one of the greatest of Scott’s novels, and mentions it in this connection with “Old Mortality.”
In “Redgauntlet” we find a continuation of the smuggler trade, and are also introduced to the Pretender, who has not improved either in appearance or character since we last saw him in “Waverley.” His friends and supporters for the most part consist of the very dregs of society. In his blind adoration for a person not to be named with respect, the Prince lost the confidence of friends who had risked their all to support his title. In a cup of dissolute pleasure he dissolves the pearl of his good name. If he had died at the head of his army of adherents in Scotland, or after his return to France, he would have survived in history as a worthier man. “He proved to be one of those personages who distinguish themselves during some singular and brilliant period of their lives, like the course of a shooting star at which men wonder, as well on account of the briefness, as the brilliancy of its splendor. A long trace of darkness overshadowed the subsequent life of a man who, in his youth, shewed himself so capable of great undertakings; the later pursuits and habits of this unhappy Prince are those painfully evincing a broken heart, which finds refuge from its own thoughts in sordid enjoyments.”
The man was also in the hands of persons full of wild plots and political impatience. They formed schemes wholly impracticable. They invited him in 1750 to London; but he was soon convinced that he had been deceived, and after a stay of five days he returned to the place from which he came. He died at Rome the 31st of January, 1788, and was royally interred in the Cathedral Church of Frescati, of which his brother was bishop.
After his death his brother, the last direct male heir of the House of Stuart, made no assertion of his right to the British throne, but had a beautiful medal struck, in which he was represented in kingly garb with the motto in Latin, “King by the grace of God, but not by the will of the people.” He finally received an annuity of 4,000 pounds a year given to him by George the Third, and on his death he bequeathed to George the Fourth all the crown jewels, which James the Second had carried along with him to the Continent in 1688. He died at Rome, June 1807, in the eighty-third year of his age. The volumes of “Waverley” and “Redgauntlet,” taken in connection with Scott’s “Tales of a Grandfather,” give the most complete history of this unfortunate struggle.
“The Antiquary” and “Saint Ronan’s Well” present a postscript of manners and customs, which seems tame from a historic standpoint, after living so many centuries in the company of heroes and princes. Scott speaking of “The Antiquary” says: “It wants the romance of ‘Waverley’ and the adventure of ‘Guy Mannering;’ yet there is some salvation about it, for if a man will paint from nature he will be likely to amuse those who are daily looking at it.” He also says in his introduction of “The Antiquary:” “‘Waverley’ embraced the age of our fathers, ‘Guy Mannering’ that of our youth, and ‘The Antiquary’ refers to the last ten years of the eighteenth century. I have in the last two narratives especially, sought my principal personages in the class of society who are the last to feel the influence of that general polish which assimilates to each other the manners of different nations. Among some of the same class I have placed some of the scenes, in which I have endeavored to illustrate the operation of the higher and more violent passions; both because the lower orders are less restrained by the habit of suppressing their feelings, and because I agree with my friend Wordsworth, that they seldom fail to express them in the strongest and most powerful language. This is, I think, peculiarly the case with the peasantry of my own country, a class with whom I have been long familiar. The antique force and simplicity of their language, often tinctured with the oriental eloquence of Scripture, in the mouths of those of an elevated understanding, give pathos to their grief, and dignity to their resentment.” The pathos and eloquence in the homes of the fishermen justify Scott’s criticism, and the picture which he has drawn of the old grandmother will survive in our memory as one of the most dramatic in the Waverley series.
There are two references in “The Antiquary” to contemporary history, which ought not to be entirely overlooked; one where the Antiquary describes the excitement of preparation in Edinburgh against the anticipated French invasion, when almost every individual was enrolled either in military or civil capacity. Beacons were erected along the coast to summon the newly organized army of defense when occasion required, and Scott humorously refers, in one of his letters, to the appearance he himself made decked out in regimentals. Near the close of “The Antiquary” the signal light blazes out by mistake the 2d of February, 1804; the person, who kept watch on the commanding station of Home Castle, being deceived by some accidental fire in the county of Northumberland. The only historical allusion in “St. Ronan’s Well” relates to the Reign of Terror and to Napoleon Bonaparte at Acre.
The twenty-six novels and five poems of Sir Walter, therefore, unite the two greatest events of Europe—the wars of the Crusades, and the exploits of Napoleon and the French Revolution. In “Count Robert of Paris” we see Constantinople in her glory, under the rule of the crafty Alexius. We hear the tread of armed hosts passing and repassing along the great highway of the world. In “The Betrothed” we see England aroused by the voice of her eloquent Archbishop. In “The Talisman” we see the craft of Saladin opposed to the discordant army of Richard the Lion-hearted. In “Ivanhoe” we find Saxon and Jew pressed down under the heel of the Norman. We see Scotland rescued from the oppression of England in “Castle Dangerous” and the “Lord of the Isles.” We note the state of the Highlands in 1402 in the “Fair Maid of Perth,” and trace the wiles and craft of the French Emperor in “Louis the Eleventh,” and in “Anne of Geierstein.” We visit with “Marmion” the Battle-field of Flodden, we see the light glimmer in the Chancel of Melrose as we turn the pages of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel,” and wander with James the Fifth in disguise through the wild passes of the Trosachs. In the “Monastery” and “Abbot” we read the history of the Catholic and Protestant struggle in Scotland, we weep with the unfortunate Mary, and glory in the triumph of Knox. In “Kenilworth” we see the power and weakness of the Virgin Queen, and look into the sad eyes of Amy Robsart sacrificed upon the altar of ambition.
We see the London of James the First in the “Fortunes of Nigel;” we hear in “Rokeby” the echo of the battle of Marston Moor; we follow the struggle of Argyle and Montrose in the “Legend;” and talk with the young exile, Charles the Second, in the groves of “Woodstock.” In “Peveril of the Peak” we find the King upon his throne, surrounded by Buckingham and the most desolate court of Europe. In “Old Mortality” we sympathize with the Covenanters, a people devout and sincere in their character, as they were unpractical in their conduct. In “The Pirate” we note some of the surviving customs of old Scandinavia. In the “Bride of Lammermoor” we see the decay of a noble House. “The Black Dwarf” is related to the fierce discussion in Scotland at the time of the national Union. “Rob Roy” introduces us to the Pretender in the Affair of 1715. “The Heart of Midlothian” gives us a picture of Edinburgh; and so our historic chain, composed of poetic links, brings us down to the beginning of our own century. No wonder that Scott has been styled the Great Magician, when, by the lifting of his wand, he was able to make the heroes of neglected history burst their cerements.
I sat one evening on the banks of the Tweed amid the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, by a plain monument in St. Mary’s Aisle; the soft moonlight, streaming through broken casements, added solemnity and beauty to the peaceful sylvan scene. I recalled the ruins of Kenilworth Castle, far off on another poetic stream, and the pageant of history which there passed before England’s Elizabeth; and I thought how much grander the procession of Eight Hundred Years, which passed in long review before the mental vision of the great novelist and poet, now resting beneath the quiet stars. The ivy still rustles in the breeze; the gray ruins again gleam in the moonlight, and, reader, the years can never lift their furrows of care between me and that twilight picture hallowed by the poetic memory of a noble man.
