accused “at the instance of Duncan Forbes, Esq. of Culloden, his Majesty’s advocate, for the crimes of Stouthrieff, Housebreaking, and Robbery.” Robertson “kept an inn in Bristo, at Edinburgh, where the Newcastle carrier commonly did put up,” and is believed to have been a married man. It is not very clear that the novel gains much by the elevation of the Bristo innkeeper to a baronetcy, except in so far as Effie’s appearance in the character of a great lady is entertaining and characteristic, and Jeanie’s conquest of her own envy is exemplary. The change in social rank calls for the tragic conclusion, about which almost every reader agrees with the criticism of Lady Louisa Stuart and her friends. Thus the novel “filled more pages” than Mr. Jedediah Cleishbotham had “opined,” and hence comes a languor which does not beset the story of “Old Mortality.” Scott’s own love of adventure and of stirring incidents at any cost is an excellent quality in a novelist, but it does, in this instance, cause him somewhat to dilute those immortal studies of Scotch character which are the strength of his genius. The reader feels a lack of reality in the conclusion, the fatal encounter of the father and the lost son, an incident as old as the legend of Odysseus. But this is more than atoned for by the admirable part of Madge Wildfire, flitting like a feu follet up and down among the douce Scotch, and the dour rioters. Madge Wildfire is no repetition of Meg Merrilies, though both are unrestrained natural things, rebels against the settled life, musical voices out of the past, singing forgotten songs of nameless minstrels. Nowhere but in Shakspeare can we find such a distraught woman as Madge Wildfire, so near akin to nature and to the moods of “the bonny lady Moon.” Only he who created Ophelia could have conceived or rivalled the scene where Madge accompanies the hunters of Staunton on the moonlit hill and sings her warnings to the fugitive.
When the glede’s in the blue cloud,
The lavrock lies still;
When the hound’s in the green-wood,
The hind keeps the hill.
There’s a bloodhound ranging Tinwald wood,
There’s harness glancing sheen;
There’s a maiden sits on Tinwald brae,
And she sings loud between.
O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said,
When ye suld rise and ride?
There’s twenty men, wi’ bow and blade,
Are seeking where ye hide.
The madness of Madge Wildfire has its parallel in the wildness of Goethe’s Marguerite, both of them lamenting the lost child, which, to Madge’s fancy, is now dead, now living in a dream. But the gloom that hangs about Muschat’s Cairn, the ghastly vision of “crying up Ailie Muschat, and she and I will hae a grand bouking-washing, and bleach our claise in the beams of the bonny Lady Moon,” have a terror beyond the German, and are unexcelled by Webster or by Ford. “But the moon, and the dew, and the night-wind, they are just like a caller kail-blade laid on my brow; and whiles I think the moon just shines on purpose to pleasure me, when naebody sees her but mysell.” Scott did not deal much in the facile pathos of the death-bed, but that of Madge Wildfire has a grace of poetry, and her latest song is the sweetest and wildest of his lyrics, the most appropriate in its setting. When we think of the contrasts to her—the honest, dull good-nature of Dumbiedikes; the common-sense and humour of Mrs. Saddletree; the pragmatic pedantry of her husband; the Highland pride, courage, and absurdity of the Captain of Knockdander—when we consider all these so various and perfect creations, we need not wonder that Scott was “in high glee” over “The Heart of Mid-Lothian,” “felt himself very strong,” and thought that these would be “the best volumes that have appeared.” The difficulty, as usual, is to understand how, in all this strength, he permitted himself to be so careless over what is really by far the easiest part of the novelist’s task—the construction. But so it was; about “The Monastery” he said, “it was written with as much care as the rest, that is, with no care at all.” His genius flowed free in its own unconscious abundance: where conscious deliberate workmanship was needed, “the forthright craftsman’s hand,” there alone he was lax and irresponsible. In Shakspeare’s case we can often account for similar incongruities by the constraint of the old plot which he was using; but Scott was making his own plots, or letting them make themselves. “I never could lay down a plan, or, having laid it down, I never could adhere to it; the action of composition always diluted some passages and abridged or omitted others; and personages were rendered important or insignificant, not according to their agency in the original conception of the plan, but according to the success or otherwise with which I was able to bring them out. I only tried to make that which I was actually writing diverting and interesting, leaving the rest to fate … When I chain my mind to ideas which are purely imaginative—for argument is a different thing—it seems to me that the sun leaves the landscape, that I think away the whole vivacity and spirit of my original conception, and that the results are cold, tame, and spiritless.”
In fact, Sir Walter was like the Magician who can raise spirits that, once raised, dominate him. Probably this must ever be the case, when an author’s characters are not puppets but real creations. They then have a will and a way of their own; a free-will which their creator cannot predetermine and correct. Something like this appears to have been Scott’s own theory of his lack of constructive power. No one was so assured of its absence, no one criticised it more severely than he did himself. The Edinburgh Review about this time counselled the “Author of Waverley” to attempt a drama, doubting only his powers of compression. Possibly work at a drama might have been of advantage to the genius of Scott. He was unskilled in selection and rejection, which the drama especially demands. But he detested the idea of writing for actors, whom he regarded as ignorant, dull, and conceited. “I shall not fine and renew a lease of popularity upon the theatre. To write for low, ill-informed, and conceited actors, whom you must please, for your success is necessarily at their mercy, I cannot away with,” he wrote to Southey. “Avowedly, I will never write for the stage; if I do, ‘call me horse,’ ” he remarks to Terry. He wanted “neither the profit nor the shame of it.” “I do not think that the character of the audience in London is such that one could have the least pleasure in pleasing them.” He liked helping Terry to “Terryfy” “The Heart of Mid-Lothian,” and his other novels, but he had no more desire than a senator of Rome would have had to see his name become famous by the Theatre. This confirmed repulsion in one so learned in the dramatic poets is a curious trait in Scott’s character. He could not accommodate his genius to the needs of the stage, and that crown which has most potently allured most men of genius he would have thrust away, had it been offered to him, with none of Caesar’s reluctance. At the bottom of all this lay probably the secret conviction that his genius was his master, that it must take him where it would, on paths where he was compelled to follow. Terse and concentrated, of set purpose, he could not be. A notable instance of this inability occurs in the Introductory Chapter to “The Heart of Mid-Lothian,” which has probably frightened away many modern readers. The Advocate and the Writer to the Signet and the poor Client are persons quite uncalled for, and their little adventure at Gandercleugh is unreal. Oddly enough, part of their conversation is absolutely in the manner of Dickens.
“ ‘I think,’ said I, … ‘the metropolitan county may, in that case, be said to have a sad heart.’
“ ‘Right as my glove, Mr. Pattieson,’ added Mr. Hardie; ‘and a close heart, and a hard heart—Keep it up, Jack.’
“ ‘And a wicked heart, and a poor heart,’ answered Halkit, doing his best.
“ ‘And yet it may be called in some sort a strong heart, and a high heart,’ rejoined the advocate. ‘You see I can put you both out of heart.’ ”
Fortunately we have no more of this easy writing, which makes such very melancholy reading.
The
