ON "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."
I resume the subject commenced in the comments on "a Passage in Marmion," printed in No. 72., March 15, 1851; and I here propose to consider the groundwork and mechanism of the most original, though not quite the first production of Scott's muse, The Lay of the Last Minstrel. In the Introduction prefixed to this poem, nearly thirty years after its publication, Sir Walter Scott informs the world that the young Countess of Dalkeith, much interested and delighted with the wild Border tradition of the goblin called "Gilpin Horner" (which is given at length in the notes appended to the poem), enjoined on him the task of composing a ballad on the subject:
"And thus" (says Sir Walter) "the goblin story objected to by several critics as an excrescence upon the poem, was, in fact, the occasion of its being written."
Yes, and more than this; for, strange as it may appear to those who have not critically and minutely attempted to unravel the very artful and complicated plot of this singular poem, the Goblin Page is, as it were, the key-note to the whole composition, the agent through whose instrumentality the fortunes of the house of Branksome are built up anew by the pacification of ancient feud, and the union of the fair Margaret with Henry of Cranstoun. Yet, so deeply veiled is the plot, and so intricately contrived the machinery, that I question if this fact be apparent to one reader out of a thousand; and assuredly it has never been presented to my view by any one of the critics with whose comments I have become acquainted.
The Aristarchus of the Edinburgh Review, Mr. Jeffrey, who forsooth thought fit to regard the new and original creations of a mighty and inventive genius "as a misapplication, in some degree, of very extraordinary talents," and "conceived it his duty to make one strong effort to bring back the great apostle of this (literary) heresy to the wholesome creed of his instructor," seems not to have penetrated one inch below the surface. In his opinion "the Goblin Page is the capital deformity of the poem," "a perpetual burden to the poet and to the readers," "an undignified and improbable fiction, which excites neither terror, admiration, nor astonishment, but needlessly debases the strain of the whole work, and excites at once our incredulity and contempt."
Perhaps so, to the purblind vision of a pedantic formalist; but, nevertheless, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that poem, whose varied imagery and vivid originality, combined with all its other beauties, have been, and ever will be, the delight and admiration of its readers, could not exist without this so-called "capital deformity." This I shall undertake to demonstrate, and in so doing to prove the "capital absurdity" of such criticism as I have cited.
Let us therefore begin with the beginning. The widowed Lady of Branksome, brooding over the outrage which had deprived her husband of life, meditates only vengeance upon all the parties concerned in this affray. The lovely Lady Margaret wept in wild despair, for her lover had stood in arms against her father's clan:
"And well she knew, her mother dread,
Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,
Would see her on her dying bed."
The first Canto of the poem contains that singular episode, when—
"(The Ladye) sits in secret bower
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound
That moans the mossy turrets round," &c.
"From the sound of Teviot's tide
Chafing with the mountain side,
&c. &c.
The Ladye knew it well!
It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,
And he called on the Spirit of the Fell."
And when the River Spirit asks concerning the fair Margaret, who had mingled her tears with his stream:
"What shall be the maiden's fate?
Who shall be the maiden's mate?"
the Mountain Spirit replies, that, amid the clouds and mist which veil the stars,—
"Ill may I read their high decree:
But no kind influence deign they shower
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,
Till pride be quelled, and love be free."
I must here transcribe the following Section xviii.:
"The unearthly voices ceased,
And the heavy sound was still;
It died on the river's breast,
It died on the side of the hill.
But round Lord David's tower,
The sound still floated near,
For it rung in the Ladye's bower,
And it rung in the Ladye's ear,
She raised her stately head,
And her heart throbbed high with pride:
'Your mountains shall bend,
And your streams ascend,
Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!'"
In pursuance of this stern resolution, "the Ladye sought the lofty hall" where her retainers were assembled:
"And from amid the armed train
She called to her William of Deloraine."
She then gives him the commission, well remembered by every reader, to proceed on that night to Melrose Abbey to unclose the grave of Michael
Scott, and to rifle it of the magical volume which was accessible only on St. Michael's night, at the precise moment when the rays of the moon should throw the reflexion of the red cross emblazoned in the eastern oriel upon the wizard's monumental stone,—expecting that the possession of this "Book of Might" would enable her to direct the destiny of her daughter according to the dictates of her own imperious nature. "Dîs aliter visum." Fate and Michael Scott had willed it otherwise. And here I must beg my readers to take notice that this far-famed wizard, Michael Scott, although dead and buried, is supposed still to exert his influence from the world of spirits as the guardian genius of the house of Buccleuch; and he had been beforehand with the Ladye of Branksome in providing Henry of Cranstoun with one of his familiar spirits, in the shape of the Goblin Page, by whose agency alone (however unconscious the subordinate agent may be) a chain of events is linked together which results in the union of the two lovers. After this parenthesis I resume the thread of the narrative.
Deloraine rides to Melrose in the night, presents himself to the Monk of St. Mary's aisle, opens the sepulchre of the wizard, and presumes to take
"From the cold hand the Mighty Book,"
in spite of the ominous frown which darkened the countenance of the dead. He remounts his steed and wends his way homeward
"As the dawn of day
Began to brighten Cheviot gray;"
while the aged monk, having performed the last duty allotted to him in his earthly pilgrimage, retired to his cell and breathed his last in prayer and penitence before the cross.
Ere Deloraine could reach his journey's end, he encounters a feudal foeman in the person of Lord Cranstoun, attended by his Goblin Page, who is here first introduced to the reader. A conflict takes place, and Deloraine being struck down wounded and senseless, is left by his adversary to the charge of this elf, who in stripping off his corslet espied the "Mighty Book." With the curiosity of an imp he opens the iron-clasped volume by smearing the cover with the blood of the knight, and reads ONE SPELL, and one alone, by permission; for
"He had not read another spell,
When on his cheek a buffet fell,
So fierce, it stretched him on the plain
Beside the wounded Deloraine.
From the ground he rose dismayed,
And shook his huge and matted head;
One word he muttered, and no more,
'Man of age, thou smitest sore!'
&c. &c.
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive—
It was not given by man alive."
But he had read sufficient for the purposes of his mission, and we shall see how he applies the knowledge so marvellously acquired.
By the glamour of this spell he was empowered to make one thing assume the form of another.
"It had much of glamour might,
Could make a ladye seem a knight;
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall,
Seem tapestry in a lordly hall,"
&c. &c.
The first use he makes of his power is to convey the wounded knight, laid across his weary horse, into Branksome Hall
"Before the beards of the warders all;
And each did after swear and say,
There only passed a wain of hay."
Having deposited him at the door of the Ladye's bower, he repasses the outer court, and finding the young chief at play, entices him into the woods under the guise to him of a "comrade gay."
"Though on the drawbridge, the warders stout,
Saw a terrier and a lurcher passing out;"
and, leading him far away "o'er bank and fell," well nigh frightens the fair boy to death by resuming his own elvish shape.
"Could he have had his pleasure wilde,
He had crippled the joints of the noble child;
&c. &c.
But his awful mother he had in dread,
And also his power was limited,"
&c. &c.
Here let me observe that all this contrivance is essential to the conduct of the narrative, and if we simply grant the postulate which a legendary minstrel has a right to demand, to wit, the potency of magic spells to effect such delusions (pictoribus atque Poetis Quidlibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas), all the remainder of the narrative is easy, natural, and probable. This contrivance is necessary, because, in the first place, if it had been known to the warders that William of Deloraine had been brought into the castle wounded almost unto death, he could not be supposed capable of engaging Richard Musgrave in single combat two days afterwards; nor, in the second place, would the young chief have been permitted to stroll out unattended from the guarded precincts.
To proceed: the boy thus bewildered in the forest falls into the lands of an English forayer, and is by him conveyed to Lord Dacre, at that time one of the Wardens of the Marches, by whom he is detained as a hostage, and carried along with the English troops, then advancing towards Branksome under the command of the Lord Wardens in person.
"(But) though the child was led away,
In Branksome still he seemed to stay,
For so the Dwarf his part did play."
And there, according to his own malicious nature, played likewise a score of monkey tricks, all of which, grotesque and "undignified"! as they may be, yet most ingeniously divert the mind of the reader from the real errand and mission of this supernatural being.
Shortly afterwards, on his exhibiting symptoms of cowardice at the expected contest, he is conveyed from the castle by the Ladye's order, and speedily rejoins his lord, after the infliction of a severe chastisement from the arm of Wat Tinlinn. He then procures Cranstoun's admission within the walls of Branksome (where the whole clan Scott was assembling at the tidings of the English Raid) by the same spell—
"Which to his lord he did impart,
And made him seem, by glamour art,
A knight from hermitage."
And on the following day, as Deloraine did not appear in the lists ready to engage in the appointed duel with Richard Musgrave, we are told,—
"Meantime, full anxious was the Dame,
For now arose disputed claim,
Of who should fight for Deloraine,
'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirtlestaine,
&c. &c.
But yet, not long the strife—for, lo!
Himself the Knight of Deloraine,
Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain,
In armour sheathed from top to toe,
Appeared, and craved the combat due;
The Dame her charm successful knew,
And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew."
The conflict takes place, and ends in favour of the Scottish knight; when the following scene occurs:
"As if exhausted in the fight,
Or musing o'er the piteous sight,
The silent victor stands:
His beaver did he not unclasp,
Marked not the shouts, felt not the grasp
Of gratulating hands.
When lo! strange cries of wild surprise,
Mingled with seeming terror rise
Among the Scottish bands,
And all, amid the thronged array,
In panic haste gave open way
To a half-naked ghastly man,
Who downward from the castle ran;
He crossed the barriers at a bound,
And wild and haggard looked around,
As dizzy, and in pain;
And all, upon the armed ground
Knew William of Deloraine!
Each ladye sprung from seat with speed,
Vaulted each marshal from his steed;
'And who art thou,' they cried,
'Who hast this battle fought and won?'
His plumed helm was soon undone—
'Cranstoun of Teviotside!
For this fair prize I've fought and won,'
And to the Ladye led her son."
Then is described the struggle that takes place in the maternal breast:
"And how the clan united prayed
The Ladye would the feud forego,
And deign to bless the nuptial hour
Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's Flower.
XXVI.
"She looked to river, looked to hill,
Thought on the Spirit's prophecy,
Then broke her silence stern and still,
'Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me;
Their influence kindly stars may shower
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,
For pride is quelled, and love is free.'"
The mission of the elf is now accomplished, his last special service having been to steal the armour of William of Deloraine "while slept the knight," and thus to enable his master to personate that warrior.
It may be remarked that hitherto there is no direct evidence that the Page was sent by Michael Scott. That evidence is reserved for the moment of his final disappearance.
On the same evening, after the celebration of the nuptials, a mysterious and intense blackness enveloped the assembled company in Branksome Hall.
"A secret horror checked the feast,
And chilled the soul of every guest;
Even the high Dame stood half aghast,
She knew some evil in the blast;
The elvish Page fell to the ground,
And, shuddering, muttered, 'Found! found! found!'
XXV.
"Then sudden through the darkened air,
A flash of lightning came,
So broad, so bright, so red the glare,
The castle seemed on flame,
&c. &c.
Full through the guests' bedazzled band
Resistless flashed the levin-brand,
And filled the hall with smouldering smoke,
As on the elvish Page it broke,
&c. &c.
When ended was the dreadful roar,
The elvish Dwarf was seen no more.
XXVI.
"Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall,
Some saw a sight, not seen by all;
That dreadful voice was heard by some
Cry, with loud summons, 'Gylbin, come!'
And on the spot where burst the brand,
Just where the Page had flung him down,
Some saw an arm, and some a hand,
And some the waving of a gown:
The guests in silence prayed and shook,
And terror dimmed each lofty look,
But none of all the astonished train
Was so dismayed as Deloraine,
&c. &c.
At length, by fits, he darkly told,
With broken hint, and shuddering cold,
That he had seen, right certainly,
A shape with amice wrapped around,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea,
And knew—but how it mattered not—
It was the wizard, Michael Scott."
After this final consummation, it is amusing to notice a slight "incuria" on the part of the poet, which I wonder has never been corrected in the later editions. Having described the nuptial ceremony of Cranstoun and Margaret in the early part of the last Canto, he says in Section xxviii.,
"Nought of the bridal will I tell,
Which after in short space befell,"
&c. &c.
I think I have now succeeded in proving that the Goblin Page, so far from being a mere "intruder" into this glorious poem—so far from being a mere after-thought, or interpolation, to "suit the taste of the cottagers of the Border," as Mr. Jeffrey "suspects,"—is the essential instrument for constructing the machinery of the plot. We have, indeed, the author's word that it formed the foundation of the poem. My readers will therefore form their own estimate of the value of Mr. Jeffrey's criticisms, couched as they are in no very considerate, much less complimentary phraseology. I cannot but admire the "douce vengeance" of the gentle-spirited subject of his rebukes, who has contented himself with printing these worthless sentences of an undiscerning critic along with the text of his poems in the last edition,—there to remain a standing memorial of the wisdom of that resolution adhered to throughout the life of the accomplished author, who tells us,
"That he from the first determined, that without shutting his ears to the voice of true criticism, he would pay no regard to that which assumed the form of satire."
In point of fact, Sir Walter had no very exalted opinion of the genus Critic; and I could give one or two anecdotes, which I heard from his own lips, strongly reminding one of the old fable of the painter who pleased nobody and everybody.
In conclusion, I beg leave to observe, that in these "Notes" I do not presume to underrate, in any degree, Mr. Jeffrey's acknowledged powers of criticism. He and Scott have alike passed away from the stage of which they were long the ornaments in their respective spheres; but I must consider that in the passages here cited, as well as in many others, he has proved himself either incompetent or unwilling to appreciate the originality, the power, and, above all, the invention of Sir Walter Scott's genius.
A Borderer.