laboured at unfinished romances, but his mind was in ruins. From Naples the poet went to Rome. On the 11th of May, he began his return homewards, and reached London on the 13th of June. Another attack of apoplexy, combined with paralysis, had laid prostrate his powers, and he was conveyed to Abbotsford a helpless and almost unconscious wreck. He lingered on for some time, listening occasionally to passages read to him from the Bible, and from his favourite author Crabbe. Once he tried to write, but his fingers would not close upon the pen. He never spoke of his literary labours or success. At times his imagination was busy preparing for the reception of the Duke of Wellington at Abbotsford; at other times he was exercising the functions of a Scottish judge, as if presiding at the trial of members of his own family. His mind never appeared to wander in its delirium towards those works which had filled all Europe with his fame. This we learn from undoubted authority, and the fact is of interest in literary history. But the contest was soon to be over; the plough was nearing the end of the furrow.' 'About half-past one, P.M.,' says Mr Lockhart, 'on the 21st of September 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day-so warm that every window was wide open-and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes.' Call it not vain; they do not err Lay of the Last Minstrel. The novelty and originality of Scott's style of poetry, though exhausted by himself, and debased by imitators, formed his first passport to public favour and applause. The English reader had to go back to Spenser and Chaucer ere he could find so knightly and chivalrous a poet, or such paintings of antique manners and institutions. The works of the elder worthies were also obscured by a dim and obsolete phraseology; while Scott, in expression, sentiment, and description, could be read and understood by all. The perfect clearness and transparency of his style is one of his distinguishing features; and it was further aided by his peculiar versification. Coleridge had exemplified the fitness of the octosyllabic measure for romantic narrative poetry, and parts of his Christabel having been recited to Scott, he adopted its wild rhythm and harmony, joining to it some of the abruptness and irregularity of the old-ballad metre. In his hands it became a powerful and flexible instrument, whether for light narrative and pure description, or for scenes of tragic wildness and terror, such as the trial and death of Constance in Marmion, or the swell and agitation of a battlefield. The knowledge and enthusiasm requisite for a chivalrous poet Scott possessed in an eminent degree. He was an early worshipper of 'hoar antiquity. He was in the maturity of his powers -thirty-four years of age-when the Lay was published, and was perhaps better informed on such subjects than any other man living. Border story and romance had been the study and the passion of his whole life. In writing Marmion and Ivanhoe, or in building Abbotsford, he was impelled by a natural and irresistible impulse. The baronial castle, the court and camp-the wild Highland chase, feud, and foray-the antique blazonry, and institutions of feudalism, were constantly present to his thoughts and imagination. Then, his powers of description were unequalled-certainly never surpassed. His landscapes, his characters and situations, were all real delineations; in general effect and individual details, they were equally perfect. None of his contemporaries had the same picturesqueness, fancy, or invention; none so graphic in depicting manners and customs; none so fertile in inventing incidents; none so fascinating in narrative, or so various and powerful in description. His diction was proverbially careless and incorrect. Neither in prose nor poetry was Scott a polished writer. He looked only at broad and general effects; his words had to make pictures, not melody. Whatever could be grouped and described, whatever was visible and tangible, lay within his reach. Below the surface he had less power. The language of the heart was not his familiar study; the passions did not obey his call. The contrasted effects of passion and situation he could portray vividly and distinctly—the sin and suffering of Constance, the remorse of Marmion and Bertram, the pathetic character of Wilfrid, the knightly grace of Fitz-James, and the rugged virtues and savage death of Roderick Dhu, are all fine specimens of moral painting. Byron has nothing better, and indeed the noble poet in some of his tales copied or paraphrased the sterner passages of Scott. But even in these gloomy and powerful traits of his genius, the force lies in the situation, not in the thoughts and expression. There are no talismanic words that pierce the heart or usurp the memory; none of the impassioned and reflective style of Byron, the melodious pathos of Campbell, or the profound sympathy of Wordsworth. The great strength of Scott undoubtedly lay in the prolific richness of his fancy, and the abundant stores of his memory, that could create, collect, and arrange such a multitude of scenes and adventures; that could find materials for stirring and romantic poetry in the most minute and barren antiquarian details ; and that could reanimate the past, and paint the present, in scenery and manners with a vividness and energy unknown since the period of Homer. The Lay of the Last Minstrel is a Border story of the sixteenth century, related by a minstrel, the last of his race. The character of the aged minstrel, and that of Margaret of Branksome, are very finely drawn; Deloraine, a coarse Border chief, or mosstrooper, is also a vigorous portrait; and in the description of the march of the English army, the personal combat with Musgrave, and the other feudal accessories of the piece, we have finished pictures of the olden time. The goblin page is no favourite of ours, except in so far as it makes the story more accordant with the times in which it is placed. The introductory lines to each canto form an exquisite setting to the dark feudal tale, and tended greatly to cause the popularity of the poem. The minstrel is thus described: The way was long, the wind was cold, [Description of Melrose Abbey.] If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, When the broken arches are black in night, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then view St David's ruined pile; In many a freakish knot, had twined; And trampled the apostate's pride. [Love of Country.] Breathes there a man, with soul so dead, This is my own, my native land! From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well: For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, O Caledonia! stern and wild, That knits me to thy rugged strand! Still as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, Marmion is a tale of Flodden Field, the fate of the hero being connected with that memorable engagement. The poem does not possess the unity and completeness of the Lay, but if it has greater faults, it has also greater beauties. Nothing can be more strikingly picturesque than the two opening stanzas of this romance: Day set on Norham's castled steep, The warriors on the turrets high, Seemed forms of giant height; Less bright, and less, was flung; So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search, The warder kept his guard, The same minute painting of feudal times characterises both poems, but by a strange oversight-soon seen and regretted by the author-the hero is made to commit the crime of forgery, a crime unsuited to a chivalrous and half-civilised age. The battle of Flodden, and the death of Marmion, are among Scott's most spirited descriptions. The former is related as seen from a neighbouring hill; and the progress of the action-the hurry, impetuosity, and confusion of the fight below, as the different armies rally or are repulsed-is given with such animation, that the whole scene is brought before the reader with the vividness of reality. The first tremendous onset is thus dashed off, with inimitable power, by the mighty minstrel : [Battle of Flodden.] 'But see! look up-on Flodden bent, Told England, from his mountain-throne They close in clouds of smoke and dust, And fiends in upper air. . . . Long looked the anxious squires; their eye But nought distinct they see: [Evening fell on the deadly struggle, and the spectators were forced from the agitating scene.] But as they left the darkening heath, That fought around their king. Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spearmen still made good Each stepping where his comrade stood, No thought was there of dastard flight; Till utter darkness closed her wing Then did their loss his foemen know; Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, The hero receives his death-wound, and is borne off the field. The description, detached from the context, loses much of its interest; but the mingled effects of mental agony and physical suffering, of remorse and death, on a bad but brave spirit trained to war, is described with true sublimity: [Death of Marmion.] When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, His life-blood stains the spotless shield: The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice? Hence, varlets! fly! They parted, and alone he lay; Of all my halls have nurst, To slake my dying thirst!' O, woman in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, She stooped her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; Where water, clear as diamond spark, Above, some half-worn letters say, Drink, weary. pilgrim. drink, and. pray, For. the. kind. soul, of. Sybil. Grey, Who. built. this, cross. and. well. A monk supporting Marmion's head; To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; 'Alas!' she said, 'the while- Lord Marmion started from the ground, "Then it was truth!'-he said-'I knew It may not be !-this dizzy trance- So the notes rung; 'Avoid thee, fiend!-with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner's sand! O look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine; A light on Marmion's visage spread, With dying hand above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted' Victory! Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" We may contrast with this the silent and appalling death-scene of Roderick Dhu, in the Lady of the Lake. The savage chief expires while listening to a tale chanted by the bard or minstrel of his clan : At first, the chieftain to his chime At length no more his deafened ear His face grows sharp; his hands are clenched, Is sternly fixed on vacancy: Thus motionless and moanless drew His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu. The Lady of the Lake is more richly picturesque than either of the former poems, and the plot is more regular and interesting. The subject,' says Sir James Mackintosh, is a common Highland irruption; but at a point where the neighbourhood of the Lowlands affords the best contrast of manners -where the scenery affords the noblest subject of description-and where the wild clan is so near to the court, that their robberies can be connected with the romantic adventures of a disguised king, an exiled lord, and a high-born beauty. The whole narrative is very fine.' It was the most popular of the author's poems: in a few months twenty thousand copies were sold, and the district where the action of the poem lay was visited by countless thousands of tourists. With this work closed the great popularity of Scott as a poet. Rokeby, a tale of the English Cavaliers and Roundheads, was considered a failure, though displaying the utmost art and talent in the delineation of character and passion. Don Roderick is vastly inferior to Rokeby; and Harold and Triermain are but faint copies of the Gothic epics, however finely finished in some of the tender passages. The Lord of the Isles is of a higher mood. It is a Scottish story of the days of Bruce, and has the characteristic fire and animation of the minstrel, when, like Rob Roy, he has his foot on his native heath. Bannockburn may be compared with Flodden Field in energy of description, though the poet is sometimes lost in the chronicler and antiquary. The interest of the tale is not well sustained throughout, and its chief attraction consists in the descriptive powers of the author, who, besides his feudal halls and battles, has drawn the magnificent scenery of the West Highlands-the cave of Staffa, and the dark desolate grandeur of the Coriusk lakes and mountains-with equal truth and sublimity. The lyrical pieces of Scott are often very happy. The old ballad strains may be said to have been his original nutriment as a poet, and he is consequently often warlike and romantic in his songs. But he has also gaiety, archness, and tenderness, and if he does not touch deeply the heart, he never fails to paint to the eye and imagination. Young Lochinvar. [From Marmion.] Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none-But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, So stately his form, and so lovely her face, And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by far One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!' quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. [Written for Campbell's Albyn's Anthology, 1816.] Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; True heart that wears one; Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one! Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, The bride at the altar. Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting-gear, Broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when Come as the waves come, when Faster and faster : Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, [Time.] [From the Antiquary.] Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, Or ponder how it passed away? 'Know'st thou not me?' the Deep Voice cried, 'Before my breath, like blazing flax, 'Redeem mine hours-the space is briefWhile in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief, When Time and thou shalt part for ever! |