'A mirthful man he was; the snows of ageFell, but they did not chill him.GaietyEven in life's closing, touch'd his teeming brainWith such wild visions as the setting sunRaises in front of some hoar glacier,Painting the bleak ice with a thousand hues.'"
The first of the accompanying illustrations represents Margaret of Anjou and Arthur Philipson in Strasburg Cathedral. When Philipson, who had been bred a devoted adherent to the dethroned line of Lancaster, of which his father was a firm supporter, saw the dauntless widow of Henry VI., whose courage and policy had upheld the sinking cause of her husband, he threw his bonnet on the pavement and knelt at the feet of the injured Queen. Margaret, throwing back the veil which concealed her majestic features, gave one hand to the young knight, who covered it with tears and kisses, and with the other endeavoured to raise him from the posture he had assumed.
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The second illustration represents "Philipson and the German Innkeeper." Philipson inquired for the landlord, and was answered by a finger pointed towards a recess behind the great stove, where, veiled in his glory, the monarch obscured himself from vulgar gaze. He was short, stout, bandy-legged, and consequential; his countenance and manner differing from the merry host of England or of France. Philipson was too well acquainted with German customs to expect the suppliant qualities of a French mâitre d' hotel, or the frankness of an English landlord; but this man's brow was a tragic volume; his answers were short and repulsive; and the tone as sullen as the tenor.
THE "Surgeon's Daughter" was published in 1827, in the second series of the "Chronicles of the Canongate." The first plate represents Julia de Moncada and her father. "Follow me, gentlemen," said Gideon, "and you shall see the young lady." And then, his strong features working with emotion at anticipation of the distress which he was about to inflict, he led the way up the small staircase, and, opening the door, said to Moncada, who had followed him—"This is your daughter's only place of refuge, in which I am, alas! too weak to be her protector. Enter, sir, if your conscience will permit you." The stranger turned on him a scowl, into which it seemed as if he would willingly have thrown the power of the fabled basilisk. Then stepping proudly forward, he stalked into the room. He was followed by Lawford and Gray, at a little distance. The messenger remained in the doorway. The unhappy young woman heard the disturbance, and guessed the cause too truly. It is possible she might have seen the strangers on their descent from the carriage. When they entered the room, she was on her knees beside an easy-chair. Moncada uttered a single word, but none knew its import. The female gave a convulsive shudder, such as that by which a half-dying soldier is affected in receiving a second wound.
With his wonted humour, Mr Cruikshank has sketched Dr Gideon Gray and the wives of Middlemas. Gideon Gray, surgeon at Middle-mas, was a plain, blunt, middle-aged man, with a touch of cynicism about him. Late of an autumn evening, three old women raced towards his door, accompanied by some idle young fellows, who were loudly betting on the winner. "Half-a-mutchkin on Luckie Simson."
"Auld Peg Tamson against the field."
"Mair speed, Alison Jaup, ye'll tak' the wind out of them yet."
"Canny against the hill, lassies, or we may ha'e a burstin' auld carline amang ye." These, and a thousand such gibes, rent the air, without being noticed by the anxious racers, whose object of contention seemed to be which should first reach the doctor's door. Mr Gray, who had just dismounted from a long journey, hastened downstairs, auguring some new occasion for his services. He had just reached the door as Luckie Simson, one of the racers, arrived in the little area before it. She stood, blowing like a grampus, her loose toy flying back from her face, making the most violent efforts to speak, but without the power of uttering a word. Peg Tamson whipped in before her-"The leddy, sir; the leddy!"
"Instant help! instant help!" screeched, rather than uttered, Alison Jaup; while Luckie Simson, who had certainly won the race, found words to claim the prize which had set them all in motion-"And I hope, sir, you will recommend me to be the sick-nurse; I was here to bring you the tidings long before ony o' thae lazy queans."
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IN his "Diary," under February 19th, 1826, Sir Walter thus writes: "Being troubled with thick-coming fancies, and a slight palpitation of the heart, I have been reading the 'Chronicle of the Good Knight Messire Jacques de Lalain'-curious, but dull, from the constant repetition of the same species of combats in the same style and phrase. It is like washing bushels of sand for a grain of gold..... Still, things occur to one. Something might be made of a tale of chivalry-taken from the passage of arms, which Jacques de Lalain maintained for the first day of every month for a twelvemonth..... This would be light summer work." The suggestion thus obtained Scott did not carry out for some time. In the autumn of 1830, he commenced the romance of "Count Robert of Paris," which was published in November of the following year. During its composition, he gave decided indications of failing energies; his penmanship became shaky, and he misplaced words, but the composition itself presented no trace of decayed intelligence.
In the first illustration is presented the Varangian, or English exile, asleep at the Golden Gate of Constantinople. While the exile lay wrapped in sleep, on the stone benches outside the arch of Theodosius, two women of the humbler class cast their eyes upon him: "Holy Maria!" said one, "if he does not put me in mind of the Eastern tale, how a genie brought a gallant young prince from his nuptial chamber in Egypt, and left him sleeping at the gate of Damascus! I will awake the poor lamb, lest he catch harm from the night-dew."
"Harm!" replied the older and crosser-looking woman: "ay, such harm as the cold water of the Cydnus does to the wild swan. A lamb, forsooth! why, he is a wolf, or a bear, at least a Varangian, and no modest matron would exchange a word with such an unmannered barbarian."
The sketch of Brenhilda, Agelastes, and Sylvan, is from the pencil of Mr Cruikshank. Agelastes, after looking with surprise and horror at the figures in the glass, turned round his head to examine the substance, which produced so strange a reflection. The object, however, had disappeared behind the curtain, under which it had probably lain hid; and, after a minute or two, the half-gibing, half-growling countenance showed itself again in the same position in the mirror. "By the gods," exclaimed the philosopher, "it is Sylvan! that mockery of humanity, but who shrinks before a philosopher as ignorance before knowledge." So speaking, he struck the animal a heavy blow; which so enraged him, that he flew on the man of letters, clasped him round the throat, and compressed it until life was extinct.
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