Read Ebook: The Country of Sir Walter Scott by Olcott Charles S Charles Sumner

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Ebook has 755 lines and 108054 words, and 16 pages

The King fell, bravely fighting, it is said, within a lance's length of the Earl of Surrey. The noblest of the Scottish army lay dead and dying about the field. Never before in Scottish history had there been so great a disaster as that

Of Flodden's fatal field Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear And broken was her shield!

Richard H. Hutton thinks that Scott's description of war in this account is perhaps the most perfect which the English language contains, and that 'Marmion' is Scott's finest poem. 'The Battle of Flodden Field,' he says, 'touches his highest point in its expression of stern, patriotic feeling, in its passionate love of daring, and in the force and swiftness of its movement, no less than in the brilliancy of its romantic interests, the charm of its picturesque detail, and the glow of its scenic colouring.'

Lockhart, whose judgment must always be regarded, also believed 'Marmion' to be the greatest of Scott's poems, because of its 'superior strength and breadth and boldness both of conception and execution.' It has been severely criticized. That Marmion, a knight of many noble qualities, should have been guilty of the contemptible crime of forgery, is a blot which Scott himself acknowledged. Mr. Andrew Lang thinks that 'our age could easily dispense with Clara and her lover.' George Ellis, on the contrary, thought it too short, that 'the masterly character of Constance would not have been less bewitching had it been much more minutely painted--and that De Wilton might have been dilated with great ease and even to considerable advantage.' Lord Jeffrey denounced it in characteristic fashion as an 'imitation of obsolete extravagance.' Such a thing, he thought, might be excused for once as a 'pretty caprice of genius,' but a second production imposed 'a sort of duty to drive the author from so idle a task.'

But Jeffrey's crabbed remarks were universally condemned as unjust and the public responded to 'Marmion' with enthusiasm. Scott had painted a picture full of lofty patriotism and glowing with life and colour. He had glorified his native city with a fervour that went straight to the hearts of its people. The bravery of the Scottish troops as they rallied around their king and fought to the bitter end seemed to turn the worst disaster in their history into a scene of which every Scotchman might well be proud. The great chieftains of Scotland had been exalted. The hills and mountains, the rivers and brooks, and all the delightful scenes of the southern border had been painted in charming colours. And so the poet had touched the pride of his countrymen and if there were faults of composition or of diction they saw them not.

THE LADY OF THE LAKE

The most popular of all Scott's poems, as 'The Lady of the Lake' has proved to be, is in reality a romantic story set to music and staged in an environment of wondrous natural beauty. It is like an open-air play, but with this advantage, that the audience seems to move continually from one scene of beauty to another, each more entrancing than the one before. You may travel from Stirling to Loch Katrine and from the Trossachs to the Braes of Balquhidder and all the time feel the thrill of the poem, which seems fairly to permeate the atmosphere. It is full of incident, and there is never a dull moment from the beginning of the stag hunt in the solitudes of Glenartney to the final scenes of generosity and gratitude, of love and joyous reunion, in the King's Palace of Stirling Castle. The characters are types, each presenting a poetic interest of his own, of a race of men famous in history and in song for deeds of personal prowess, for skill in the use of claymore and battle-axe, for loyalty to friends, for bitter resentment of wrongs, for courage, for endurance, for hospitality, for love of music and poetry, for strength of physique and for picturesque personal appearance and attire.

The spell of the Wizard of the North came upon us as we entered the enchanted land and his whole company of players appeared as if by magic. In the centre of the group there seemed to be the figure of a young woman, pure, beautiful, and good--yet not too good to be human, for she was at least sensitive to the admiring glances of a certain handsome, well-built, and courteous stranger. But Ellen Douglas was nevertheless true to her accepted lover, faithful to her father, and loyal to her own ideals of truth and right.

Grouped about the maiden were the figures of a Lowland king, a Highland chieftain, a stalwart father, and a sturdy lover. The first two presented a striking contrast. The King, disguised as a hunter in Lincoln green, with a bold visage upon which middle age had not yet quenched the fiery vehemence of youth; with sturdy limbs fitted for any kind of active sport or contest; with stately mien and ready speech, 'in phrase of gentlest courtesy'; jovial, kindly, even gleeful and frolicsome at times, with the will to do and the soul to dare, made a splendid picture as he stood upon the Silver Strand, face to face with Ellen Douglas. Far different was the sullen visage of Roderick Dhu, as

Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode: The waving of his tartan broad, And darkened brow, where wounded pride With ire and disappointment vied, Seemed, by the torch's gloomy light, Like the ill Demon of the night.

Yet in spite of the fierce aspect of this terrible chief, one cannot withhold his admiration, and we feel like echoing the shout of enthusiasm of the cheering boatmen as they approach the island, singing,--

Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

When Roderick scorns to take advantage of Fitz-James, though the latter is in his power, and shares with him his camp-fire, his supper, and his bed, finally conducting him in safety through hundreds of hostile Highlanders to the very limits of Clan-Alpine's territory, there to battle single-handed and on equal terms, we begin to feel what real Highland hospitality and chivalry mean and to realize the true nobility of character beneath the rough exterior of this stern soldier.

Ellen's father, the exiled Douglas, was a giant in stature who could wield as lightly as a hazel wand a sword which other men could scarcely lift.

The women praised his stately form, Though wrecked by many a winter's storm; The youth with awe and wonder saw His strength surpassing Nature's law.

Contrasting with this fine old man was Malcolm Graeme, Ellen's lover:--

Of stature fair, and slender frame But firmly knit was Malcolm Graeme. The belted plaid and tartan hose Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose; His flaxen hair, of sunny hue, Curled closely round the bonnet blue.

His mind was 'lively and ardent, frank and kind,' and he had a scorn of wrong and a zeal for truth that promised to make his name one of the greatest in the mountains. But poor Malcolm was to the poet's mind not an artistic success. The latter confessed that he compelled him to swim from Ellen's Isle to the shore merely to give him something to do, but 'wet or dry,' he said, 'I could do nothing with him.'

Behind these five figures we could fancy a white-haired minstrel, harp in hand; a hermit monk, in frock and hood, barefooted, with grizzled hair and matted beard, naked arms and legs seamed with scars, and a wild and savage face that spoke of nothing but despair; three young men in kilt skirts and Highland plaids, every movement showing the agile strength of their youthful limbs, passing from one to another a cross of fire,--Malise, Angus, and Norman, the messengers who summoned the clans to battle; and back of all, filling up the picture, Highlanders of high and low degree, men, women, and children, all fired with intense loyalty to the Clan-Alpine. The whole picture seemed to project itself upon a background of mountains and valleys, lakes, rivers and waterfalls, fantastic rocks and weather-beaten crags, grey birches and warrior oaks, ferns and wild flowers, all

So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream.

Scott was always fond of brilliant hues, but here he fairly revels in colour:--

The best way to read 'The Lady of the Lake' is to see the Trossachs; the best way to see the Trossachs is to read 'The Lady of the Lake.' There is a peculiar affinity between the poem and the country that makes each indispensable to the other. Those who read the poem without some knowledge of the scenery are likely to have an inadequate conception of its real significance, or possibly to feel that the poet has painted in colours too vivid and that his enthusiasm is not perhaps fully justified by the facts. Those who see the Trossachs without reading the poem are apt to say, as one man did say to me, 'Yes, this is beautiful, but after all I have seen just such roads in New Hampshire.' He might have added, 'The Rocky Mountains are much higher and more sublime, and the Italian lakes reflect a sky of more brilliant blue and are bordered by foliage infinitely more gorgeous in its colourings,'--all of which is true. But when you come to read the poem with a mental vision of the Trossachs before you and to see the Trossachs with the exquisite descriptions of the poem fully in mind, each acquires a new charm which alone it did not possess.

Before the poem was written the Trossachs were scarcely known and Loch Katrine was no more than any other Highland lake. Now these regions are visited yearly by thousands of tourists and to those who know the poem, every turn in the road seems to suggest some favourite stanza. To us the tour was one of unfailing delight and productive of mental visions that will never fade. The Brig o' Turk is to me not merely an old stone bridge over a placid rivulet; but, rushing over it at full speed, eagerly spurring his fine grey horse to further effort, I see the figure of a gallant hunter clad in a close-fitting suit of green, his eyes intently fixed on the road ahead, where a splendid stag, now nearly exhausted, is straining his last ounce of energy in a final effort to distance the pursuing hounds. To me the low ground on the edge of Loch Vennachar, known as Lanrick Mead, appears like a military camp, with great crowds of giant clansmen, in Highland kilts and plaids of many colours, their spears and battle-axes glistening in the sun. The aged oak, bending over the water's edge on Ellen's Isle, is not merely an old dead tree, but it brings the vision of Ellen Douglas putting forth in her frail shallop to answer the bugle call of her noble father from the Silver Strand.

This is the secret charm of the Trossachs. The tourist who goes through, as many do, with whole-hearted devotion to the time-table and guide-book, and whose mind is fixed upon the absolute necessity of 'making' all the points in his itinerary, does not see these scenes any more than do the horses who draw the lumbering coaches. The more leisurely traveller who can follow the course of the poem, viewing each scene as Scott has so charmingly described it, finds exhilaration and delight in every step of the way.

Scott was only fifteen when he began to make those merry expeditions to the Highlands in the company of congenial companions which gave him so much material of the right kind as to make a poem inevitable. He learned to know the strange but romantic Highland clansmen; he heard many tales and bits of history which his memory stored up for the future, and the rare beauty of the scenery fascinated him as it does every one else. 'This poem,' he said, 'the action of which lay among scenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on my recollections, was a labour of love and it was no less so to recall the memories and incidents introduced.'

In one of these excursions , he visited the home of the young Laird of Cambusmore, John Buchanan, one of his associates, and subsequently revisited the place many times. Cambusmore is a charming estate about two miles southeast of Callander. Entering by the porter's gate, we drove through a beautiful winding road, lined with rhododendrons. The shrubs, or rather trees , were in full bloom, thousands of great, splendid clusters vying with each other to see which could catch and reflect the most sunlight. Here we were hospitably received by the present owner, Mrs. Hamilton, a great-granddaughter of Scott's friend, John Buchanan. The house has been considerably enlarged, but the older portion, thickly covered with ivy, is very much as it was when Scott was a guest and sat on the porch, listening to the story of Buchanan's ancestors. While he was writing 'The Lady of the Lake,' Scott revisited Cambusmore and recited parts of the poem to Mrs. Hamilton's grandfather. He also demonstrated, by actually performing the feat himself, that it would be possible for a horseman to ride from the foot of Loch Vennachar to Stirling Castle in the time allotted to Fitz-James.

From the road in front of this mansion, far away to the north, but faintly visible through the trees, we could see the 'wild heaths of Uam Var,' where the stag first sought refuge when, driven by the deep baying of the hounds, he left the cool shades of Glenartney's hazel woods. From another side we caught a fine glimpse of what the huntsmen saw

When rose Ben Ledi's ridge in air.

These hills of Scotland have witnessed many a hunt where scores of men dashed wildly after the frightened game. But no stag, ever before or since, has been pursued by so many eager hunters as the creature of Scott's fancy. We joined in the hunt, as all tourists are supposed to do, provided they have the time, which many, especially Americans, have not, for as one Scotchman put it, 'they go through so fast, sir, that you could set a tea-table on their coat-tails, sir.'

We saw 'the varied realms of fair Menteith,' a lovely little lake with irregular shores and studded with bright green islands. I remember I had to walk a long way over a lonely heath to get my picture of the lake, and that I was closely followed by a large flock of angry plovers who feared that I might harm their nests. They flew so close that I had to keep one arm above my head for defence, and all the time they were screaming vociferously.

We visited 'far Loch Ard' and Aberfoyle, both associated more closely with Rob Roy. We found

the copsewood grey That waved and wept on Loch Achray;

and climbed up among

the pine trees blue On the bold cliffs of Ben Venue.

We passed along 'Bocastle's heath' and reached the shores of Loch Vennachar, more fortunate than the huntsmen of the poem, most of whom gave up from sheer exhaustion before they reached that place. For,

when the Brig o' Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone.

This picturesque old stone bridge, spanning the little stream that waters the valley of Glen Finglas, is the entrance to the Trossachs, a region, as the name implies, of wild and rugged beauty.

Alone, but with unbated zeal, That horseman plied the scourge and steel; For jaded now, and spent with toil, Embossed with foam, and dark with soil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, The labouring stag strained full in view.

Thus the race went along the shore of Loch Achray until they reached the dense woods that lie between this little lake and Loch Katrine. Then just as the hunter,--

Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes,

the wily stag dashed suddenly down a darksome glen and disappeared

In the deep Trossach's wildest nook.

The place thus indicated may be reached by leaving the fine wagon road and walking up the hill on the right by a path that leads along a little rill to a dense thicket, over which hang some rugged cliffs. We spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon exploring the dark ravines,--

Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle.

This is one of the most delightful spots in the Trossachs, though never seen by the thousands who whirl through all this enchanted land in a single day, packed five or six in a seat on a jolting coach, breathing the dust of the road and frittering away their golden opportunity in idle chatter. You cannot catch the spirit of this wild and rugged region unless you walk into the unfrequented parts and see the 'native bulwarks of the pass,' where

The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, Or seemed fantastically set With cupola or minaret.

Here Fitz-James found himself alone and on foot, for his good grey horse had fallen, exhausted, never to rise again. Marvelling at the beauty of the scene, he wandered on, until, seeing no pathway by which to issue from the glen, he climbed a 'far-projecting precipice'; when suddenly there burst upon his sight the grandest view of all, Loch Katrine,--

gleaming with the setting sun One burnished sheet of living gold.

As sentinels guarding an enchanted land, two mountains stood like giants: on the south rose Ben Venue, its sides strewn with rough volcanic rocks and its summit 'a wildering forest feathered o'er': on the north 'Ben An heaved high his forehead bare.'

The stranger stood enraptured and amazed. Then, thinking to call some straggler of his train, he blew a loud blast upon his horn. To his great surprise the sound was answered by a little skiff which glided forth

From underneath an aged oak That slanted from the islet's rock.

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