[395]CHAPTER XVIIIThenext departure was made successfully. From Yorkshire to Scotland is no great distance, though the wanderers did not cross the moors to Hawkstone Craig, but proceeded by the more modern route of Keighley and Sheffield.Behold the pilgrims then, by the kind offices of the steam king, whose miracles Sir Walter regarded with ‘half-proud, half-sad, half-angry, and half-pleased feelings,’ landed within walking distance of Abbotsford, and its haunting, magical memories of the Wizard of the North. They gazed with awe, and almost adoration, at the towers and turrets, pinnacles and mouldings of the famous abode of the more famous owner and designer. It seemed to these ardent spirits not so much a house, a family abode, as an enchanted Arabian Nights Palace, compact of the flesh and blood, the brain and spiritual essence of him whose pride and life-work it was. They were able to find suitable lodging accommodation in the vicinity, whence they could sally forth and live, so to speak, in that wondrous company of knights and nobles, mediæval barons, Normans and Saxons,[396]kings and queens, lovely heroines, and all thedramatis personæof historical romance. They therefore, without delay, conceived and carried out the project of ‘viewing fair Melrose aright.’As it happened, the day had been doubtful, but towards evening the wind dropped, and the night being cloudless, and resplendent with the full radiance of the harvest moon, they had taken all proper precaution to be deposited as nearly as possible at the exact spot where the imagined spectator of ‘St. David’s ruined pile’ would have located himself.It was a night superbly beautiful—mild, calm, free from all disturbing influences, and permitting our pilgrims the fullest freedom to gaze on a scene at once romantic and inspiring, free from all such interruptions as might be expected in the light of day.‘I think I must ask for a vote in favour of the election of a president, or chairman—if there was any place on which to sit,’ said Mr. Banneret. ‘We cannot afford to spend the whole evening gazing at these ruins, worthy as they are of our admiration.’‘There is no one so fitted for the position, sir, as yourself,’ said Falkland Aylmer, ‘and I beg to propose that you be elected by acclamation to that honourable position.’‘I suppose I can second the motion,’ said Hermione, ‘though I don’t believe they have adult female suffrage in England yet; of course it’s coming with other enlightened reforms.’‘I believe Dad knows all the Walter Scott[397]literature by heart,’ said Vanda—‘stock, lock, and barrel, or rather, prose, poetry, and miscellany. Those who are for—hold up the right hand. Against—none: carried unanimously. Who will contribute the immortal invocation? Behold the hour and the man!’ as Eric Banneret stepped forward, in answer to a signal from his mother.That young man, who strongly resembled his mother in appearance and leading characteristics, as sons are wont to do by the acknowledged rules of heredity, responded with a look of assent to Mrs. Banneret’s suggestive smile of approval, and, without further delay, began with the openinglines:—‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,Go visit it by the pale moonlight;For the gay beams of lightsome dayGild, but to flout, the ruins grey.When the broken arches are black in night,And each shafted oriel glimmers white;When the cold light’s uncertain showerStreams on the ruin’d central tower;When buttress and buttress, alternately,Seem framed of ebon and ivory;When silver edges the imagery,And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;When distant Tweed is heard to rave,And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,Then go—but go alone the while—Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;And, home returning, soothly swear,Was never scene so sad and fair!’‘Bravo, Eric!’ said Hermione. ‘I had no idea you had such poetical leanings. Do they examine in modern verse and elocution at Cambridge?[398]I didn’t know they taught anything but Greek and Latin.’‘Didn’t you?’ replied her brother. ‘Perhaps you would like to enter next term?’‘I shouldn’t mind,’ returned the young lady; ‘only it’s rather late in life to begin. If I thought I’d pull off the classic tripos, as Hypatia Tollemache did, it might be worth while. One girl did—an Australian, too—a year or two back. I forget her name now. Oh, listen! wasn’t that an owl? Let no one talk for five minutes, until “the distant Tweed is heard to rave.” There it is; you can hear it quite plainly now.’The night was free from slightest breeze; no sound broke the air but the weird, occasional cry of the night bird.‘I hear the Tweed,’ said Corisande suddenly, as the ripple of the river over the shallows of the upper stream came faintly but distinctly on the ear. ‘What a solemn rhythm it has! We shall never forget this night, shall we? I feel drawn so much nearer to dear Sir Walter, and to think that he should no sooner have built and planted this lovely place, decorated, beautified it—loved it, and benefited every one within his reach, than the great brain and the great heart wore out.’‘Which exhibits the vanity of human wishes,’ said Mr. Banneret musingly. ‘His great aim was to found a family, and that his children’s children should inhabit Abbotsford after him.’‘A very worthy ambition, sir,’ said Reggie, ‘which I trust other heads of families will bear in mind, and, not being poets and novelists, will be[399]wise in time, and neither over-build nor over-speculate until they have provided for the rising generation.’‘And how about being the “architects of their own fortunes,” as the phrase goes? Is that honourable occupation to be taken away from them—the men of the family, of course, I mean. Who is to found New Englands and Greater Britains if every young man in the old country is left comfortably off?’‘There’s a good deal to be said on both sides, sir,’ said Reggie. ‘Personally, I should prefer to go forth, like the prince in the fairy tale, to “seek my fortune.”’. . . . . . . . .Melrose having ‘been viewed aright,’ studied, and discussed from every possible point of view, the trend of public opinion set strongly towards a visit to Abbotsford, as the central point of attraction. To be personally conducted would, of course, be most desirable, the family being absent in Switzerland. The housekeeper would, doubtless, have instructions to permit such personages and pilgrims of distinction to have, at any rate, a limited permission to view the apartments with which they had been familiar by description, and in which the interest of well-informed visitors chiefly centred.Here, again, fortune favoured them, and a delightful surprise was sprung upon the leaders of the party.To their great joy Mrs. Banneret received a note from an Australian compatriot (whom they[400]had first met near the Pink and White Terraces of Te Tarata, New Zealand), as fair, as graceful, as blue-eyed, as truly compounded of the air and fire of the Scottish Highlands, as ever was a Princess of Thule, though grown to woman’s estate ere ever she saw the ancestral hills.She was now ‘a woman grown and wed,’ though still too fairylike and youthful-seeming for the matronly estate. Her husband was away on his usual summer excursion, which she was sure he would deeply regret, but as their home was within a few miles of Abbotsford she would only be too delighted to supply his place, as far as guide and chaperon duties could be united. Fortunately for the interests of the pilgrimage she had been prevented from accompanying him.‘We are being watched over by thegenius loci, that is very certain,’ said Reggie. ‘How it comes to pass that these delightful, interesting personages seem to turn up at critical junctures, beats me. May I ask if this Mrs. Maclean is above the average in point of good looks?’‘She is one of the sweetest, prettiest, most charming young women I ever encountered,’ declared Mrs. Banneret.‘And Dad met her on board ship, I think I gathered?’‘Yes, coming from New Zealand,’ volunteered Vanda; ‘but wait till you see her. She has a look of “Sheila” and “A Daughter of Heth” combined.’‘H—m, ha! There seems a certain uniformity in the pleasant acquaintances Dad meets with[401]on his travels. They are rarely to be described as plain, I observe. But as long as you don’t object, mater, it’s not our business.’‘Your father’s taste is correct in all respects, Master Reggie,’ replied Mrs. Banneret, with an air of decision. ‘I hope we shall always be able to say the same of your prepossessions.’‘Hope and trust you will, mother dear! I suppose none of us boys will have a chance with this ex-princess; she seems to have got such a start.’‘I saw her,’ said Hermione, ‘just before the Melbourne Cup. Corisande and I are trembling in our shoes.’The fair object of this discussion lost no time in commencing the hospitable office which she had guaranteed to perform—making her appearance, indeed, shortly after breakfast, and equipped for joining the pedestrian party if such was desired. Needless to say, she was enthusiastically received. After greeting Mr. and Mrs. Banneret with true Highland cordiality, the needful introductions being completed, Mrs. Maclean said:‘And so these are the young people I remember in Sydney, after we landed from theHauroto? How they have grown! The young gentlemen were in England, but Hermione and Vanda I should have known anywhere. You can’t think what a joy it is to me to meet you all here “on my native heath,” so to speak—only I wasn’t born on it; and it nearly broke my heart when we came away from the old station on the Wondabyne, and I was sent to school in England. I used to cry and cry for hours. At last I got so low-spirited[402]that mother began to talk of going back to Australia. There was one book that brought back the dear old days, however. I used to read it over and over again when I felt homesick and almost too miserable to live. It brought back the scent of the gum leaf in the early morn, the gold glint of the wattle-blossom in spring, and the rattle of hoofs when the horses were brought in for the day. At last they took it away from me, as it was thought it had a bad effect. You will guess what book it was!’‘And of course it wasThe Marstons,’ said Vanda; ‘we all went wild about it too. We have a Rainbow in the family now, and a very dear horse he is. I think every boy and girl in the world, from “India to the Pole,” has read it. However, we have read other books as well, and now we are pledged to talk heather and rowan tree, and Yarrow and Gala Water, and Leader Haughs, no end.’‘And such being the case we must not lose time in talking, but make a start,’ said their charming visitor.‘I know all about the “lay of the country,” as we used to say in Australia, and am considered to be a competent cicerone. Where shall we go first? I suppose you are all good walkers?’‘Corisande can give us all points at that,’ said Hermione, ‘though she seems to have lived in a flat country of late years; but no doubt her ancestors, who came from Norway a thousand years ago, had different experiences, and tripped up and down mountains like red deer.’[403]‘Nonsense, Hermie!’ said that young lady. ‘We did all our walking exercise, as the grooms say, in good old Bruges, for a sufficient reason—father’s cheque-book didn’t run to horses, or carriages either. I daresay it was all the better for us then. But we know our Scott fairly well: Mr. Banneret has been putting us through, till we know the names of Sir Walter’s horses and dogs as well as his heroines and heroes. Suppose we go to the top of “the range,” as Vanda says, where he took Washington Irving?’‘A very good idea,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘You remember he pointed out Lammermoor and Smailholm, Gala Water and Torwoodlee, forbye (to be very Scotch) Teviotdale and the Braes of Yarrow.’‘Oh, delightful!’ cried Vanda. ‘We can fancy we see the Baron of Smailholm and that poor, dear, undecided Lucy Ashton. How she could have given up such a man as the Master of Ravenswood—dark, handsome, mysteriously unhappy—I can’t think! However, girls have more liberty nowadays, and mothers are not so despotic—not that this dear Mum will ever interfere with our happiness.’‘All depends upon the amount of sense the said daughters are credited with,’ said her mother, with a meaning smile. ‘Therehavebeen cases where parental rule has prevented life-long misery. However, let us hope that no such conflicts may arise among the members of this fair company. And now that we have our dear Mrs. Maclean to guide our steps, who, if she is not “to the manner[404]born,” is much the same in local knowledge, we must lose no more time than we can help.’The ramble over the hills satisfied the most ardent pedestrians of the party. The prospect was wide and majestic—the heather-bloom, of which they availed themselves liberally, was pronounced to be equal to all the praise bestowed upon it; the streams of Ettrick and Gala Water, winding silverly through valley and meadow, before losing themselves in Tweed’s fair river, worthy of all poetic praise. But, truth to tell, they were disappointed with the absence of timber on the banks of the world-famous river. The hills, too, were bare; and to eyes accustomed to the primeval forests of giant eucalyptus which clothe Australian mountain-sides, and overhang the river banks, there seemed a want of adequate shelter. However, the whole surroundings were in keeping with ‘Caledonia, stern and wild,’ and as the plantations around Abbotsford, so lovingly tended by the Magician, whose art could cause groves and fountains to appear and vanish at command, had grown surprisingly since their establishment in 1812, it was decided finally not to give utterance to a syllable of disparagement. The landscape had sufficed for the home and happiness of the immortal possessor. On this occasion a wide expanse of the Border country lay spread out before them. They were thus enabled to verify the scenes of those ‘poems and romances which had bewitched the world.’‘Kaeside,’ where ‘Willie Laidlaw,’ Sir Walter’s friend and amanuensis, dwelt, was also visited.[405]Traditionary legends tell of the curse of chronic poverty, supposed to have been laid on the race by a malign ancestress. The name was familiar to Arnold Banneret, who had known in his youth a family of the same name in Australia. They were related to the man of whom Sir Walter had so high an opinion, and whom he honoured with his friendship. But the voyage across the wide Pacific, or the influence of a new country, had apparently neutralised the malediction, for the Australian Laidlaws, now a fairly numerous clan, are in all cases held in respect, as well for their high character as their large landed possessions.And thus, the weather being gracious, and all accessories befitting, they rambled through and around the haunted regions, upon which, though familiar with thedramatis personæfrom childhood’s hour, they had never before set foot, or gazed with admiring eye.They did not depart without ocular experience of the Trossachs, or ofAncient Riddel’s fair domain,Where Aill, from mountains freed,Down from the lakes did raving come;Each wave was crested with tawny foam,Like the mane of a chestnut steed.They stood more than once on Turnagain on Tweedside, whereHome and Douglas, in the van,Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dearReek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.[406]Under the guidance of their accomplished compatriot, the Banneret family with their visitors were conducted successfully through scenes world-known and historical, which they had never dreamed of exploring.With such a chaperon they were received everywhere with the most cordial hospitality—not only as dwellers in a far land, but as natives of the dim and distant Australian waste (as their entertainers had been contented to regard their country), and their hosts’ curiosity was stimulated as keenly as it was pleasantly allayed by the refined manners and cultured intelligence of the strangers. This familiarity with Scottish scenery and character, albeit at second hand, surprised as much as it gratified their entertainers. And indeed an offer was made to Reggie, if he would consent to stand for a certain seat in the Liberal interest, to ensure him a controlling vote, and in all probability to return him for the locality specified. That rising politician, in a neat speech, which showed that he had not been a foremost member of the ‘Union’ for nothing, assured them that he felt the compliment intensely, but would not, until he had completed hisWanderjahre, be in a position to comply with their request. In the meantime, let him assure them that he would never forget this mark of their confidence.After this memorable incident the pilgrims were reminded by the president that, although they felt so charmed with the scenery and inhabitants of this delightful region, time was flying, and if they desired to form a true estimate of Scotland and[407]the Isles, hardly less historically important, they must not linger, however entrancing the locality. The logic was unanswerable, so, with many a sigh and groan, even a few tears from Hermione and Vanda, they tore themselves away. One more evening was, however, granted to Mrs. Maclean’s entreaties, by whom it was suggested that it should be distinguished as a Sir Walter Scott symposium, making it compulsory for each one of the party to recite a favourite passage, either prose or poetry, from the works of the Magician—a prize to be given for the best selection, as also for the quality of elocution. This was assented to, and great researches were instituted in the library, where, fortunately, there were editions of all dates and sizes. The order of precedence was decided by vote, and resulted in favour of Mr. Banneret, who, without loss of time, began at the first canto ofMarmion.‘I have always thoughtMarmionto be in all respects the finest of his, of any man’s, descriptive poems. The author commands the attention and excites the admiration of readers of all ages, ranks, and conditions, from the “dear school-boy, cheated of his holiday,” to personages eminent in war or peace, patriots or peasants. Nothing in the language rivals that of the battle of Flodden Field—the clash of the sword-blades, the shock of the coursers.‘Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,Unbroken was the ring;The stubborn spear-men still made goodTheir dark impenetrable wood,Each stepping where his comrade stood,The instant that he fell.[408]Where was ever such a picture of a battle in actual engagement?‘Then marked they, dashing broad and far,The broken billows of the war,And plumed crests of chieftains brave,Floating like foam upon the wave;But nought distinct they see:Wide raged the battle on the plain;Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,Wild and disorderly.Amid the scene of tumult, highThey saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,Still bear them bravely in the fight:Although against them come,Of gallant Gordons many a one,And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,And many a rugged Border clan,With Huntly, and with Home.Then the ghastly picture of the fallen knight, mortally wounded,‘Dragged from among the horses’ feet,With dinted shield, and helmet beat,The falcon-crest and plumage gone,Can that be haughty Marmion!‘Passing from the fire and dash of the battle-piece, we have the warrior’s despairingappeal—‘And half he murmured,—“Is there none,Of all my halls have nursed,Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bringOf blessed water from the spring,To slake my dying thirst!”Here occurs the immortal tribute to the higher[409]qualities of the sex, nowhere seen to such advantage as in the dark hour of helplesssuffering:—‘O, Woman! in our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!‘In “L’Envoy” Sir Walter’s boundless benevolence, after wishing all desirable gifts to statesmen and heroes, and of course to‘Lovely lady bright,What can I wish but faithful knight?even includes that occasionally troublesome personage not often honoured with poet’snotice—‘To thee, dear school-boy, whom my layHas cheated of thy hour of play,Light task, and merry holiday!To all, to each, a fair good-night,And pleasing dreams and slumbers light!‘I was a small school-boy,’ said Mr. Banneret, ‘when I knew by heart a large portion ofMarmion; and at not particularly protracted intervals I seem to have been enjoying Sir Walter’s works, prose, poetry, and even the records of his noble life, ever since. Marmion, with the glamour of valour blinding the reader to his vices, is a boy’s hero—brave, unscrupulous, successful, until‘The Fiend, to whom belongsThe vengeance due to all her wrongsappears at life’s close with tragic and dramatic effect. And what in all poetry is more thrilling,[410]more absorbing, than the closing scene of “injured Constance’s” wasted career; what more dignified than her invocation; more terrible, more piteous than that dread indictment which will ring throughout the ages, than the lingering death under the conventual law of a merciless age?—the gloomy rock-hewn vault that “was to the sounding surge so near”‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;A tempest there you scarce could hearSo massive were the walls.. . . . . . . . .‘Distant as is the period, fictitious the personages, dimly historical the action, the magic of genius invests them with an actuality which causes mental, almost physical pain to the sympathetic reader. Surely the Muse can desire no more transcendent tribute.’A chorus of congratulations followed the conclusion of Mr. Banneret’s reminiscent adoration of his favourite author. His wife thought that a passage from one of the novels would be a fitting diversion from perhaps the too melancholy episode to which they had been listening.Rob Royhad been an early favourite. The character of Diana Vernon had always represented to her mind the attributes of the noblest type of womanhood—presenting high courage, passionate personal attachment, combined with deep devotion to parental duty, never suffered to be in abeyance for a moment.‘The highest personal courage combined with the loftiest sense of self-sacrifice was hers, the whole illumined in befitting time and place with[411]gleams of humour and sportive playfulness, betokening how, under happier circumstances, she could adapt herself to the joyousabandonof the hour. With all a man’s courage and steadfastness in the hour of danger, she exhibited the fascination of her sex undiminished, indeed heightened by the daily dangers amid which she trod so warily and securely. Then she rode so well. I think she is one among the few heroines that Sir Walter exhibits to his readers on horseback. The ill-fated Clara Mowbray, poor girl! rode recklessly; but she was half-crazed through treachery and evil fortune.’‘How about Rebecca of York?’ said Reggie Banneret. ‘She rode to Ashby-de-la-Zouche with her father, on a memorable occasion, though when carried off and lodged in Front de Bœuf’s castle, together with the wounded Ivanhoe, she seems to have been travelling in a litter.’‘I always place Rebecca in the front rank of Sir Walter’s heroines,’ said Corisande. ‘Her beauty, her charity, even to the men of the race that ill-used, despised, and plundered her nation, should gain her a prize at any show of fair women in or out of Novel Land. But except when she was carried off, and mounted before one of Brian de Bois-Guilbert’s Eastern mutes, after the siege of Torquilstone Castle, she hadn’t much chance of displaying her accomplishments in that line. She was a dear creature, and any one who can read the ending of the chapter, where she is sentenced to the stake, and Wilfred comes to the rescue, hardly able to sit on his horse, and that[412]wicked, fascinating Templar dies of heart failure at the right time, without feeling the tears in their eyes, has no sense, no feeling, no brains, and no heart—that’s my opinion.’‘What a gallery of beauties Sir Walter’s heroines would furnish!’ said Eric. ‘Indeed, I do remember seeing one in school-boy days, but I am afraid they were guilty of ringlets, and so would be voted unfashionable by the latter-day Johnnies—Edith Bellenden, Flora MacIvor, Rose Bradwardine, Julia Mannering, Amy Robsart, and a host of others—among them one Vanda! but I have less pity for any of their woes and misfortunes than for those of Clara Mowbray inSt. Ronan’s Well. Nothing finer in romantic tragedy can be found than her meeting with Francis Tyrrel on the road to Shaw’s Castle.‘“‘And what good purpose can your remaining here serve?’ [she said]. ‘Surely you need not come either to renew your own unhappiness or to augment mine?’‘“‘To augment yours—God forbid!’ answered Tyrrel. ‘No; I came hither only because, after so many years of wandering, I longed to revisit the spot where all my hopes lay buried.’‘“‘Ay, buried is the word,’ she replied—‘crushed down and buried when they budded fairest. I often think of it, Tyrrel; and there are times when, Heaven help me! I can think of little else. Look at me; you remember what I was—see what grief and solitude have made me.’‘“She flung back the veil which surrounded her[413]riding-hat, and which had hitherto hid her face. It was the same countenance which he had formerly known in all the bloom of early beauty; but though the beauty remained, the bloom was fled for ever. Not the agitation of exercise—not that which arose from the pain and confusion of this unexpected interview, had called to poor Clara’s cheek even the semblance of colour. Her complexion was marble-white, like that of the finest piece of statuary.‘“‘Is it possible?’ said Tyrrel; ‘can grief have made such ravages?’‘“‘Grief,’ replied Clara, ‘is the sickness of the mind, and its sister is the sickness of the body; they are twin-sisters, Tyrrel, and are seldom long separate. Sometimes the body’s disease comes first, and dims our eyes and palsies our hands before the fire of our mind and of our intellect is quenched. But mark me—soon after comes her cruel sister with her urn, and sprinkles cold dew on our hopes and loves, our memory, our recollections, and our feelings, and shows us that they cannot survive the decay of our bodily powers.’‘“‘Alas!’ said Tyrrel, ‘is it come to this?’‘“‘To this,’ she replied, speaking from the rapid and irregular train of her own ideas, rather than comprehending the purport of his sorrowful exclamation—‘it must ever come, while immortal souls are wedded to the perishable substance of which our bodies are composed. There is another state, Tyrrel, in which it will be otherwise; God grant our time of enjoying it were come!’”[414]‘I cannot imagine anything more exquisite,’ said Mrs. Banneret, ‘than the portraiture of the ill-fated lovers, whose lives the arts of an unscrupulous villain had ruined, almost at their entrance into the paradise of wedded love. But the characters depicted throughout the novel are masterpieces of humour and descriptive accuracy. Lord Etherington, the fashionable, dissipated nobleman of the period, might have issued from a London Club. Touchwood, egotistical, kind-hearted, interfering, is the nabob, common enough in old-fashioned fiction. Lady Binks, John Mowbray, Sir Bingo, the choleric Highland half-pay Captain MacTurk, Winterblossom, the dilettante art critic, and the man of law, are exactly the denizens of a fourth-rate Spa; not to mention Meg Dods, the very flower and crown of Scottish provincial landladies. Then the dramatic incidents of the climax: Clara fleeing through storm and snow, from her brother’s house in the night, to escape the forced and hateful marriage; the duel; the late appearance of Touchwood on the scene.’‘“He was stopped by Touchwood, who had just alighted from a carriage, with an air of stern anxiety on his features very different from their usual expression. ‘Whither would ye?’—stopping him by force.‘“‘For revenge—for revenge!’ said Tyrrel. ‘Give way, I charge you, on your peril!’‘“‘Vengeance belongs to God,’ replied the old man, ‘and His bolt has fallen. This way—this[415]way,’ he continued, dragging Tyrrel into the house. ‘Know,’ he said, ‘that Mowbray of St. Ronan’s has met Bulmer within this half-hour, and killed him on the spot.’‘“‘Killed!—whom?’ answered the bewildered Tyrrel.‘“‘Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington.’‘“‘You bring tidings of death to the house of death,’ answered Tyrrel; ‘and there is nothing in this world left that I should live for!’”’
Thenext departure was made successfully. From Yorkshire to Scotland is no great distance, though the wanderers did not cross the moors to Hawkstone Craig, but proceeded by the more modern route of Keighley and Sheffield.
Behold the pilgrims then, by the kind offices of the steam king, whose miracles Sir Walter regarded with ‘half-proud, half-sad, half-angry, and half-pleased feelings,’ landed within walking distance of Abbotsford, and its haunting, magical memories of the Wizard of the North. They gazed with awe, and almost adoration, at the towers and turrets, pinnacles and mouldings of the famous abode of the more famous owner and designer. It seemed to these ardent spirits not so much a house, a family abode, as an enchanted Arabian Nights Palace, compact of the flesh and blood, the brain and spiritual essence of him whose pride and life-work it was. They were able to find suitable lodging accommodation in the vicinity, whence they could sally forth and live, so to speak, in that wondrous company of knights and nobles, mediæval barons, Normans and Saxons,[396]kings and queens, lovely heroines, and all thedramatis personæof historical romance. They therefore, without delay, conceived and carried out the project of ‘viewing fair Melrose aright.’
As it happened, the day had been doubtful, but towards evening the wind dropped, and the night being cloudless, and resplendent with the full radiance of the harvest moon, they had taken all proper precaution to be deposited as nearly as possible at the exact spot where the imagined spectator of ‘St. David’s ruined pile’ would have located himself.
It was a night superbly beautiful—mild, calm, free from all disturbing influences, and permitting our pilgrims the fullest freedom to gaze on a scene at once romantic and inspiring, free from all such interruptions as might be expected in the light of day.
‘I think I must ask for a vote in favour of the election of a president, or chairman—if there was any place on which to sit,’ said Mr. Banneret. ‘We cannot afford to spend the whole evening gazing at these ruins, worthy as they are of our admiration.’
‘There is no one so fitted for the position, sir, as yourself,’ said Falkland Aylmer, ‘and I beg to propose that you be elected by acclamation to that honourable position.’
‘I suppose I can second the motion,’ said Hermione, ‘though I don’t believe they have adult female suffrage in England yet; of course it’s coming with other enlightened reforms.’
‘I believe Dad knows all the Walter Scott[397]literature by heart,’ said Vanda—‘stock, lock, and barrel, or rather, prose, poetry, and miscellany. Those who are for—hold up the right hand. Against—none: carried unanimously. Who will contribute the immortal invocation? Behold the hour and the man!’ as Eric Banneret stepped forward, in answer to a signal from his mother.
That young man, who strongly resembled his mother in appearance and leading characteristics, as sons are wont to do by the acknowledged rules of heredity, responded with a look of assent to Mrs. Banneret’s suggestive smile of approval, and, without further delay, began with the openinglines:—
‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,Go visit it by the pale moonlight;For the gay beams of lightsome dayGild, but to flout, the ruins grey.When the broken arches are black in night,And each shafted oriel glimmers white;When the cold light’s uncertain showerStreams on the ruin’d central tower;When buttress and buttress, alternately,Seem framed of ebon and ivory;When silver edges the imagery,And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;When distant Tweed is heard to rave,And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,Then go—but go alone the while—Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;And, home returning, soothly swear,Was never scene so sad and fair!’
‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,Go visit it by the pale moonlight;For the gay beams of lightsome dayGild, but to flout, the ruins grey.When the broken arches are black in night,And each shafted oriel glimmers white;When the cold light’s uncertain showerStreams on the ruin’d central tower;When buttress and buttress, alternately,Seem framed of ebon and ivory;When silver edges the imagery,And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;When distant Tweed is heard to rave,And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,Then go—but go alone the while—Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;And, home returning, soothly swear,Was never scene so sad and fair!’
‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,Go visit it by the pale moonlight;For the gay beams of lightsome dayGild, but to flout, the ruins grey.When the broken arches are black in night,And each shafted oriel glimmers white;When the cold light’s uncertain showerStreams on the ruin’d central tower;When buttress and buttress, alternately,Seem framed of ebon and ivory;When silver edges the imagery,And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;When distant Tweed is heard to rave,And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,Then go—but go alone the while—Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;And, home returning, soothly swear,Was never scene so sad and fair!’
‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light’s uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin’d central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,
Then go—but go alone the while—
Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!’
‘Bravo, Eric!’ said Hermione. ‘I had no idea you had such poetical leanings. Do they examine in modern verse and elocution at Cambridge?[398]I didn’t know they taught anything but Greek and Latin.’
‘Didn’t you?’ replied her brother. ‘Perhaps you would like to enter next term?’
‘I shouldn’t mind,’ returned the young lady; ‘only it’s rather late in life to begin. If I thought I’d pull off the classic tripos, as Hypatia Tollemache did, it might be worth while. One girl did—an Australian, too—a year or two back. I forget her name now. Oh, listen! wasn’t that an owl? Let no one talk for five minutes, until “the distant Tweed is heard to rave.” There it is; you can hear it quite plainly now.’
The night was free from slightest breeze; no sound broke the air but the weird, occasional cry of the night bird.
‘I hear the Tweed,’ said Corisande suddenly, as the ripple of the river over the shallows of the upper stream came faintly but distinctly on the ear. ‘What a solemn rhythm it has! We shall never forget this night, shall we? I feel drawn so much nearer to dear Sir Walter, and to think that he should no sooner have built and planted this lovely place, decorated, beautified it—loved it, and benefited every one within his reach, than the great brain and the great heart wore out.’
‘Which exhibits the vanity of human wishes,’ said Mr. Banneret musingly. ‘His great aim was to found a family, and that his children’s children should inhabit Abbotsford after him.’
‘A very worthy ambition, sir,’ said Reggie, ‘which I trust other heads of families will bear in mind, and, not being poets and novelists, will be[399]wise in time, and neither over-build nor over-speculate until they have provided for the rising generation.’
‘And how about being the “architects of their own fortunes,” as the phrase goes? Is that honourable occupation to be taken away from them—the men of the family, of course, I mean. Who is to found New Englands and Greater Britains if every young man in the old country is left comfortably off?’
‘There’s a good deal to be said on both sides, sir,’ said Reggie. ‘Personally, I should prefer to go forth, like the prince in the fairy tale, to “seek my fortune.”’
. . . . . . . . .
Melrose having ‘been viewed aright,’ studied, and discussed from every possible point of view, the trend of public opinion set strongly towards a visit to Abbotsford, as the central point of attraction. To be personally conducted would, of course, be most desirable, the family being absent in Switzerland. The housekeeper would, doubtless, have instructions to permit such personages and pilgrims of distinction to have, at any rate, a limited permission to view the apartments with which they had been familiar by description, and in which the interest of well-informed visitors chiefly centred.
Here, again, fortune favoured them, and a delightful surprise was sprung upon the leaders of the party.
To their great joy Mrs. Banneret received a note from an Australian compatriot (whom they[400]had first met near the Pink and White Terraces of Te Tarata, New Zealand), as fair, as graceful, as blue-eyed, as truly compounded of the air and fire of the Scottish Highlands, as ever was a Princess of Thule, though grown to woman’s estate ere ever she saw the ancestral hills.
She was now ‘a woman grown and wed,’ though still too fairylike and youthful-seeming for the matronly estate. Her husband was away on his usual summer excursion, which she was sure he would deeply regret, but as their home was within a few miles of Abbotsford she would only be too delighted to supply his place, as far as guide and chaperon duties could be united. Fortunately for the interests of the pilgrimage she had been prevented from accompanying him.
‘We are being watched over by thegenius loci, that is very certain,’ said Reggie. ‘How it comes to pass that these delightful, interesting personages seem to turn up at critical junctures, beats me. May I ask if this Mrs. Maclean is above the average in point of good looks?’
‘She is one of the sweetest, prettiest, most charming young women I ever encountered,’ declared Mrs. Banneret.
‘And Dad met her on board ship, I think I gathered?’
‘Yes, coming from New Zealand,’ volunteered Vanda; ‘but wait till you see her. She has a look of “Sheila” and “A Daughter of Heth” combined.’
‘H—m, ha! There seems a certain uniformity in the pleasant acquaintances Dad meets with[401]on his travels. They are rarely to be described as plain, I observe. But as long as you don’t object, mater, it’s not our business.’
‘Your father’s taste is correct in all respects, Master Reggie,’ replied Mrs. Banneret, with an air of decision. ‘I hope we shall always be able to say the same of your prepossessions.’
‘Hope and trust you will, mother dear! I suppose none of us boys will have a chance with this ex-princess; she seems to have got such a start.’
‘I saw her,’ said Hermione, ‘just before the Melbourne Cup. Corisande and I are trembling in our shoes.’
The fair object of this discussion lost no time in commencing the hospitable office which she had guaranteed to perform—making her appearance, indeed, shortly after breakfast, and equipped for joining the pedestrian party if such was desired. Needless to say, she was enthusiastically received. After greeting Mr. and Mrs. Banneret with true Highland cordiality, the needful introductions being completed, Mrs. Maclean said:
‘And so these are the young people I remember in Sydney, after we landed from theHauroto? How they have grown! The young gentlemen were in England, but Hermione and Vanda I should have known anywhere. You can’t think what a joy it is to me to meet you all here “on my native heath,” so to speak—only I wasn’t born on it; and it nearly broke my heart when we came away from the old station on the Wondabyne, and I was sent to school in England. I used to cry and cry for hours. At last I got so low-spirited[402]that mother began to talk of going back to Australia. There was one book that brought back the dear old days, however. I used to read it over and over again when I felt homesick and almost too miserable to live. It brought back the scent of the gum leaf in the early morn, the gold glint of the wattle-blossom in spring, and the rattle of hoofs when the horses were brought in for the day. At last they took it away from me, as it was thought it had a bad effect. You will guess what book it was!’
‘And of course it wasThe Marstons,’ said Vanda; ‘we all went wild about it too. We have a Rainbow in the family now, and a very dear horse he is. I think every boy and girl in the world, from “India to the Pole,” has read it. However, we have read other books as well, and now we are pledged to talk heather and rowan tree, and Yarrow and Gala Water, and Leader Haughs, no end.’
‘And such being the case we must not lose time in talking, but make a start,’ said their charming visitor.
‘I know all about the “lay of the country,” as we used to say in Australia, and am considered to be a competent cicerone. Where shall we go first? I suppose you are all good walkers?’
‘Corisande can give us all points at that,’ said Hermione, ‘though she seems to have lived in a flat country of late years; but no doubt her ancestors, who came from Norway a thousand years ago, had different experiences, and tripped up and down mountains like red deer.’
[403]‘Nonsense, Hermie!’ said that young lady. ‘We did all our walking exercise, as the grooms say, in good old Bruges, for a sufficient reason—father’s cheque-book didn’t run to horses, or carriages either. I daresay it was all the better for us then. But we know our Scott fairly well: Mr. Banneret has been putting us through, till we know the names of Sir Walter’s horses and dogs as well as his heroines and heroes. Suppose we go to the top of “the range,” as Vanda says, where he took Washington Irving?’
‘A very good idea,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘You remember he pointed out Lammermoor and Smailholm, Gala Water and Torwoodlee, forbye (to be very Scotch) Teviotdale and the Braes of Yarrow.’
‘Oh, delightful!’ cried Vanda. ‘We can fancy we see the Baron of Smailholm and that poor, dear, undecided Lucy Ashton. How she could have given up such a man as the Master of Ravenswood—dark, handsome, mysteriously unhappy—I can’t think! However, girls have more liberty nowadays, and mothers are not so despotic—not that this dear Mum will ever interfere with our happiness.’
‘All depends upon the amount of sense the said daughters are credited with,’ said her mother, with a meaning smile. ‘Therehavebeen cases where parental rule has prevented life-long misery. However, let us hope that no such conflicts may arise among the members of this fair company. And now that we have our dear Mrs. Maclean to guide our steps, who, if she is not “to the manner[404]born,” is much the same in local knowledge, we must lose no more time than we can help.’
The ramble over the hills satisfied the most ardent pedestrians of the party. The prospect was wide and majestic—the heather-bloom, of which they availed themselves liberally, was pronounced to be equal to all the praise bestowed upon it; the streams of Ettrick and Gala Water, winding silverly through valley and meadow, before losing themselves in Tweed’s fair river, worthy of all poetic praise. But, truth to tell, they were disappointed with the absence of timber on the banks of the world-famous river. The hills, too, were bare; and to eyes accustomed to the primeval forests of giant eucalyptus which clothe Australian mountain-sides, and overhang the river banks, there seemed a want of adequate shelter. However, the whole surroundings were in keeping with ‘Caledonia, stern and wild,’ and as the plantations around Abbotsford, so lovingly tended by the Magician, whose art could cause groves and fountains to appear and vanish at command, had grown surprisingly since their establishment in 1812, it was decided finally not to give utterance to a syllable of disparagement. The landscape had sufficed for the home and happiness of the immortal possessor. On this occasion a wide expanse of the Border country lay spread out before them. They were thus enabled to verify the scenes of those ‘poems and romances which had bewitched the world.’
‘Kaeside,’ where ‘Willie Laidlaw,’ Sir Walter’s friend and amanuensis, dwelt, was also visited.[405]Traditionary legends tell of the curse of chronic poverty, supposed to have been laid on the race by a malign ancestress. The name was familiar to Arnold Banneret, who had known in his youth a family of the same name in Australia. They were related to the man of whom Sir Walter had so high an opinion, and whom he honoured with his friendship. But the voyage across the wide Pacific, or the influence of a new country, had apparently neutralised the malediction, for the Australian Laidlaws, now a fairly numerous clan, are in all cases held in respect, as well for their high character as their large landed possessions.
And thus, the weather being gracious, and all accessories befitting, they rambled through and around the haunted regions, upon which, though familiar with thedramatis personæfrom childhood’s hour, they had never before set foot, or gazed with admiring eye.
They did not depart without ocular experience of the Trossachs, or of
Ancient Riddel’s fair domain,Where Aill, from mountains freed,Down from the lakes did raving come;Each wave was crested with tawny foam,Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
Ancient Riddel’s fair domain,Where Aill, from mountains freed,Down from the lakes did raving come;Each wave was crested with tawny foam,Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
Ancient Riddel’s fair domain,Where Aill, from mountains freed,Down from the lakes did raving come;Each wave was crested with tawny foam,Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
Ancient Riddel’s fair domain,
Where Aill, from mountains freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come;
Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
They stood more than once on Turnagain on Tweedside, where
Home and Douglas, in the van,Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dearReek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.
Home and Douglas, in the van,Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dearReek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.
Home and Douglas, in the van,Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dearReek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.
Home and Douglas, in the van,
Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,
Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dear
Reek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.
[406]Under the guidance of their accomplished compatriot, the Banneret family with their visitors were conducted successfully through scenes world-known and historical, which they had never dreamed of exploring.
With such a chaperon they were received everywhere with the most cordial hospitality—not only as dwellers in a far land, but as natives of the dim and distant Australian waste (as their entertainers had been contented to regard their country), and their hosts’ curiosity was stimulated as keenly as it was pleasantly allayed by the refined manners and cultured intelligence of the strangers. This familiarity with Scottish scenery and character, albeit at second hand, surprised as much as it gratified their entertainers. And indeed an offer was made to Reggie, if he would consent to stand for a certain seat in the Liberal interest, to ensure him a controlling vote, and in all probability to return him for the locality specified. That rising politician, in a neat speech, which showed that he had not been a foremost member of the ‘Union’ for nothing, assured them that he felt the compliment intensely, but would not, until he had completed hisWanderjahre, be in a position to comply with their request. In the meantime, let him assure them that he would never forget this mark of their confidence.
After this memorable incident the pilgrims were reminded by the president that, although they felt so charmed with the scenery and inhabitants of this delightful region, time was flying, and if they desired to form a true estimate of Scotland and[407]the Isles, hardly less historically important, they must not linger, however entrancing the locality. The logic was unanswerable, so, with many a sigh and groan, even a few tears from Hermione and Vanda, they tore themselves away. One more evening was, however, granted to Mrs. Maclean’s entreaties, by whom it was suggested that it should be distinguished as a Sir Walter Scott symposium, making it compulsory for each one of the party to recite a favourite passage, either prose or poetry, from the works of the Magician—a prize to be given for the best selection, as also for the quality of elocution. This was assented to, and great researches were instituted in the library, where, fortunately, there were editions of all dates and sizes. The order of precedence was decided by vote, and resulted in favour of Mr. Banneret, who, without loss of time, began at the first canto ofMarmion.
‘I have always thoughtMarmionto be in all respects the finest of his, of any man’s, descriptive poems. The author commands the attention and excites the admiration of readers of all ages, ranks, and conditions, from the “dear school-boy, cheated of his holiday,” to personages eminent in war or peace, patriots or peasants. Nothing in the language rivals that of the battle of Flodden Field—the clash of the sword-blades, the shock of the coursers.
‘Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,Unbroken was the ring;The stubborn spear-men still made goodTheir dark impenetrable wood,Each stepping where his comrade stood,The instant that he fell.
‘Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,Unbroken was the ring;The stubborn spear-men still made goodTheir dark impenetrable wood,Each stepping where his comrade stood,The instant that he fell.
‘Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,Unbroken was the ring;The stubborn spear-men still made goodTheir dark impenetrable wood,Each stepping where his comrade stood,The instant that he fell.
‘Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;
The stubborn spear-men still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.
[408]Where was ever such a picture of a battle in actual engagement?
‘Then marked they, dashing broad and far,The broken billows of the war,And plumed crests of chieftains brave,Floating like foam upon the wave;But nought distinct they see:Wide raged the battle on the plain;Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,Wild and disorderly.Amid the scene of tumult, highThey saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,Still bear them bravely in the fight:Although against them come,Of gallant Gordons many a one,And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,And many a rugged Border clan,With Huntly, and with Home.
‘Then marked they, dashing broad and far,The broken billows of the war,And plumed crests of chieftains brave,Floating like foam upon the wave;But nought distinct they see:Wide raged the battle on the plain;Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,Wild and disorderly.Amid the scene of tumult, highThey saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,Still bear them bravely in the fight:Although against them come,Of gallant Gordons many a one,And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,And many a rugged Border clan,With Huntly, and with Home.
‘Then marked they, dashing broad and far,The broken billows of the war,And plumed crests of chieftains brave,Floating like foam upon the wave;But nought distinct they see:Wide raged the battle on the plain;Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,Wild and disorderly.Amid the scene of tumult, highThey saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,Still bear them bravely in the fight:Although against them come,Of gallant Gordons many a one,And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,And many a rugged Border clan,With Huntly, and with Home.
‘Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;
But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.
Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,
And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight:
Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntly, and with Home.
Then the ghastly picture of the fallen knight, mortally wounded,
‘Dragged from among the horses’ feet,With dinted shield, and helmet beat,The falcon-crest and plumage gone,Can that be haughty Marmion!
‘Dragged from among the horses’ feet,With dinted shield, and helmet beat,The falcon-crest and plumage gone,Can that be haughty Marmion!
‘Dragged from among the horses’ feet,With dinted shield, and helmet beat,The falcon-crest and plumage gone,Can that be haughty Marmion!
‘Dragged from among the horses’ feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion!
‘Passing from the fire and dash of the battle-piece, we have the warrior’s despairingappeal—
‘And half he murmured,—“Is there none,Of all my halls have nursed,Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bringOf blessed water from the spring,To slake my dying thirst!”
‘And half he murmured,—“Is there none,Of all my halls have nursed,Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bringOf blessed water from the spring,To slake my dying thirst!”
‘And half he murmured,—“Is there none,Of all my halls have nursed,Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bringOf blessed water from the spring,To slake my dying thirst!”
‘And half he murmured,—“Is there none,
Of all my halls have nursed,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst!”
Here occurs the immortal tribute to the higher[409]qualities of the sex, nowhere seen to such advantage as in the dark hour of helplesssuffering:—
‘O, Woman! in our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!
‘O, Woman! in our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!
‘O, Woman! in our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!
‘O, Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!
‘In “L’Envoy” Sir Walter’s boundless benevolence, after wishing all desirable gifts to statesmen and heroes, and of course to
‘Lovely lady bright,What can I wish but faithful knight?
‘Lovely lady bright,What can I wish but faithful knight?
‘Lovely lady bright,What can I wish but faithful knight?
‘Lovely lady bright,
What can I wish but faithful knight?
even includes that occasionally troublesome personage not often honoured with poet’snotice—
‘To thee, dear school-boy, whom my layHas cheated of thy hour of play,Light task, and merry holiday!To all, to each, a fair good-night,And pleasing dreams and slumbers light!
‘To thee, dear school-boy, whom my layHas cheated of thy hour of play,Light task, and merry holiday!To all, to each, a fair good-night,And pleasing dreams and slumbers light!
‘To thee, dear school-boy, whom my layHas cheated of thy hour of play,Light task, and merry holiday!To all, to each, a fair good-night,And pleasing dreams and slumbers light!
‘To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay
Has cheated of thy hour of play,
Light task, and merry holiday!
To all, to each, a fair good-night,
And pleasing dreams and slumbers light!
‘I was a small school-boy,’ said Mr. Banneret, ‘when I knew by heart a large portion ofMarmion; and at not particularly protracted intervals I seem to have been enjoying Sir Walter’s works, prose, poetry, and even the records of his noble life, ever since. Marmion, with the glamour of valour blinding the reader to his vices, is a boy’s hero—brave, unscrupulous, successful, until
‘The Fiend, to whom belongsThe vengeance due to all her wrongs
‘The Fiend, to whom belongsThe vengeance due to all her wrongs
‘The Fiend, to whom belongsThe vengeance due to all her wrongs
‘The Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs
appears at life’s close with tragic and dramatic effect. And what in all poetry is more thrilling,[410]more absorbing, than the closing scene of “injured Constance’s” wasted career; what more dignified than her invocation; more terrible, more piteous than that dread indictment which will ring throughout the ages, than the lingering death under the conventual law of a merciless age?—the gloomy rock-hewn vault that “was to the sounding surge so near”
‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;A tempest there you scarce could hearSo massive were the walls.
‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;A tempest there you scarce could hearSo massive were the walls.
‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;A tempest there you scarce could hearSo massive were the walls.
‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—
’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;
A tempest there you scarce could hear
So massive were the walls.
. . . . . . . . .
‘Distant as is the period, fictitious the personages, dimly historical the action, the magic of genius invests them with an actuality which causes mental, almost physical pain to the sympathetic reader. Surely the Muse can desire no more transcendent tribute.’
A chorus of congratulations followed the conclusion of Mr. Banneret’s reminiscent adoration of his favourite author. His wife thought that a passage from one of the novels would be a fitting diversion from perhaps the too melancholy episode to which they had been listening.Rob Royhad been an early favourite. The character of Diana Vernon had always represented to her mind the attributes of the noblest type of womanhood—presenting high courage, passionate personal attachment, combined with deep devotion to parental duty, never suffered to be in abeyance for a moment.
‘The highest personal courage combined with the loftiest sense of self-sacrifice was hers, the whole illumined in befitting time and place with[411]gleams of humour and sportive playfulness, betokening how, under happier circumstances, she could adapt herself to the joyousabandonof the hour. With all a man’s courage and steadfastness in the hour of danger, she exhibited the fascination of her sex undiminished, indeed heightened by the daily dangers amid which she trod so warily and securely. Then she rode so well. I think she is one among the few heroines that Sir Walter exhibits to his readers on horseback. The ill-fated Clara Mowbray, poor girl! rode recklessly; but she was half-crazed through treachery and evil fortune.’
‘How about Rebecca of York?’ said Reggie Banneret. ‘She rode to Ashby-de-la-Zouche with her father, on a memorable occasion, though when carried off and lodged in Front de Bœuf’s castle, together with the wounded Ivanhoe, she seems to have been travelling in a litter.’
‘I always place Rebecca in the front rank of Sir Walter’s heroines,’ said Corisande. ‘Her beauty, her charity, even to the men of the race that ill-used, despised, and plundered her nation, should gain her a prize at any show of fair women in or out of Novel Land. But except when she was carried off, and mounted before one of Brian de Bois-Guilbert’s Eastern mutes, after the siege of Torquilstone Castle, she hadn’t much chance of displaying her accomplishments in that line. She was a dear creature, and any one who can read the ending of the chapter, where she is sentenced to the stake, and Wilfred comes to the rescue, hardly able to sit on his horse, and that[412]wicked, fascinating Templar dies of heart failure at the right time, without feeling the tears in their eyes, has no sense, no feeling, no brains, and no heart—that’s my opinion.’
‘What a gallery of beauties Sir Walter’s heroines would furnish!’ said Eric. ‘Indeed, I do remember seeing one in school-boy days, but I am afraid they were guilty of ringlets, and so would be voted unfashionable by the latter-day Johnnies—Edith Bellenden, Flora MacIvor, Rose Bradwardine, Julia Mannering, Amy Robsart, and a host of others—among them one Vanda! but I have less pity for any of their woes and misfortunes than for those of Clara Mowbray inSt. Ronan’s Well. Nothing finer in romantic tragedy can be found than her meeting with Francis Tyrrel on the road to Shaw’s Castle.
‘“‘And what good purpose can your remaining here serve?’ [she said]. ‘Surely you need not come either to renew your own unhappiness or to augment mine?’
‘“‘To augment yours—God forbid!’ answered Tyrrel. ‘No; I came hither only because, after so many years of wandering, I longed to revisit the spot where all my hopes lay buried.’
‘“‘Ay, buried is the word,’ she replied—‘crushed down and buried when they budded fairest. I often think of it, Tyrrel; and there are times when, Heaven help me! I can think of little else. Look at me; you remember what I was—see what grief and solitude have made me.’
‘“She flung back the veil which surrounded her[413]riding-hat, and which had hitherto hid her face. It was the same countenance which he had formerly known in all the bloom of early beauty; but though the beauty remained, the bloom was fled for ever. Not the agitation of exercise—not that which arose from the pain and confusion of this unexpected interview, had called to poor Clara’s cheek even the semblance of colour. Her complexion was marble-white, like that of the finest piece of statuary.
‘“‘Is it possible?’ said Tyrrel; ‘can grief have made such ravages?’
‘“‘Grief,’ replied Clara, ‘is the sickness of the mind, and its sister is the sickness of the body; they are twin-sisters, Tyrrel, and are seldom long separate. Sometimes the body’s disease comes first, and dims our eyes and palsies our hands before the fire of our mind and of our intellect is quenched. But mark me—soon after comes her cruel sister with her urn, and sprinkles cold dew on our hopes and loves, our memory, our recollections, and our feelings, and shows us that they cannot survive the decay of our bodily powers.’
‘“‘Alas!’ said Tyrrel, ‘is it come to this?’
‘“‘To this,’ she replied, speaking from the rapid and irregular train of her own ideas, rather than comprehending the purport of his sorrowful exclamation—‘it must ever come, while immortal souls are wedded to the perishable substance of which our bodies are composed. There is another state, Tyrrel, in which it will be otherwise; God grant our time of enjoying it were come!’”
[414]‘I cannot imagine anything more exquisite,’ said Mrs. Banneret, ‘than the portraiture of the ill-fated lovers, whose lives the arts of an unscrupulous villain had ruined, almost at their entrance into the paradise of wedded love. But the characters depicted throughout the novel are masterpieces of humour and descriptive accuracy. Lord Etherington, the fashionable, dissipated nobleman of the period, might have issued from a London Club. Touchwood, egotistical, kind-hearted, interfering, is the nabob, common enough in old-fashioned fiction. Lady Binks, John Mowbray, Sir Bingo, the choleric Highland half-pay Captain MacTurk, Winterblossom, the dilettante art critic, and the man of law, are exactly the denizens of a fourth-rate Spa; not to mention Meg Dods, the very flower and crown of Scottish provincial landladies. Then the dramatic incidents of the climax: Clara fleeing through storm and snow, from her brother’s house in the night, to escape the forced and hateful marriage; the duel; the late appearance of Touchwood on the scene.’
‘“He was stopped by Touchwood, who had just alighted from a carriage, with an air of stern anxiety on his features very different from their usual expression. ‘Whither would ye?’—stopping him by force.
‘“‘For revenge—for revenge!’ said Tyrrel. ‘Give way, I charge you, on your peril!’
‘“‘Vengeance belongs to God,’ replied the old man, ‘and His bolt has fallen. This way—this[415]way,’ he continued, dragging Tyrrel into the house. ‘Know,’ he said, ‘that Mowbray of St. Ronan’s has met Bulmer within this half-hour, and killed him on the spot.’
‘“‘Killed!—whom?’ answered the bewildered Tyrrel.
‘“‘Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington.’
‘“‘You bring tidings of death to the house of death,’ answered Tyrrel; ‘and there is nothing in this world left that I should live for!’”’