Aut Scotus, Aut Diabolus!
We have this moment finished _Waverley._ It was read aloud to this large
family, and I wish the author could have witnessed the impression it
made--the strong hold it seized of the feelings both of young and
old--the admiration raised by the beautiful descriptions of nature--by
the new and bold delineations of character--the perfect manner in which
character is ever sustained in every change of situation from first to
last, without effort, without the affectation of making the persons
speak in character--the ingenuity with which each person introduced in
the drama is made useful and necessary to the end--the admirable art
with which the story is constructed and with which the author keeps his
own secrets till the proper moment when they should be revealed, whilst
in the meantime, with the skill of Shakspear, the mind is prepared by
unseen degrees for all the changes of feeling and fortune, so that
nothing, however extraordinary, shocks us as improbable: and the
interest is kept up to the last moment. We were so possessed with the
belief that the whole story and every character in it was real, that we
could not endure the occasional addresses from the author to the reader.
They are like Fielding: but for that reason we cannot bear them, we
cannot bear that an author of such high powers, of such original genius,
should for a moment stoop to imitation. This is the only thing we
dislike, these are the only passages we wish omitted in the whole work:
and let the unqualified manner in which I say this, and the very
vehemence of my expression of this disapprobation, be a sure pledge to
the author of the sincerity of all the admiration I feel for his genius.
I have not yet said half we felt in reading the work. The characters are
not only finely drawn as separate figures, but they are grouped with
great skill, and contrasted so artfully, and yet so naturally as to
produce the happiest dramatic effect, and at the same time to relieve
the feelings and attention in the most agreeable manner. The novelty of
the Highland world which is discovered to our view powerfully excites
curiosity and interest: but though it is all new to us it does not
embarrass or perplex, or strain the attention. We never are harassed by
doubts of the probability of any of these modes of life: though we did
not know them, we are quite certain they did exist exactly as they are
represented. We are sensible that there is a peculiar merit in the work
which is in a measure lost upon us, the _dialects_ of the Highlanders,
and the Lowlanders, etc. But there is another and a higher merit with
which we are as much struck and as much delighted as any true-born
Scotchman could be: the various gradations of Scotch feudal character,
from the high-born chieftain and the military baron, to the noble-minded
lieutenant Evan Dhu, the robber Bean Lean, and the savage Callum Beg.
The _Pre_--the Chevalier, is beautifully drawn--
A prince: ay, every inch a prince!
His polished manners, his exquisite address, politeness, and generosity,
interest the reader irresistibly, and he pleases the more from the
contrast between him and those who surround him. I think he is my
favourite character: the Baron Bradwardine is my father's. He thinks it
required more genius to invent, and more ability uniformly to sustain
this character than any other of the masterly characters with which the
book abounds. There is indeed uncommon art in the manner in which his
dignity is preserved by his courage and magnanimity, in spite of all his
pedantry and his _ridicules_, and his bear and bootjack, and all the
raillery of M'Ivor. M'Ivor's unexpected "bear and bootjack" made us
laugh heartily.
But to return to the dear good baron: though I acknowledge that I am not
as good a judge as my father and brothers are of his recondite learning
and his law Latin, yet I feel the humour, and was touched to the quick
by the strokes of generosity, gentleness, and pathos in this old man,
who is, by the bye, all in good time worked up into a very dignified
father-in-law for the hero. His exclamation of "Oh! my son! my son!" and
the yielding of the fictitious character of the baron to the natural
feelings of the father is beautiful. (Evan Dhu's fear that his
father-in-law should die quietly in his bed made us laugh almost as much
as the bear and bootjack.)
Jinker, in the battle, pleading the cause of the mare he had sold to
Balmawhapple, and which had thrown him for want of the proper bit, is
truly comic: my father says that this and some other passages respecting
horsemanship could not have been written by any one who was not master
both of the great and little horse.
I tell you without order the great and little strokes of humour and
pathos just as I recollect, or am reminded of them at this moment by my
companions. The fact is that we have had the volumes--only during the
time we could read them, and as fast as we could read--lent to us as a
great favour by one who was happy enough to have secured a copy before
the first and second editions were sold in Dublin. When we applied, not
a copy could be had; we expect one in the course of next week, but we
resolved to write to the author without waiting for a second perusal.
Judging by our own feeling as authors, we guess that he would rather
know our genuine first thoughts, than wait for cool second thoughts, or
have a regular eulogium or criticism put in the most lucid manner, and
given in the finest sentences that ever were rounded.
Is it possible that I have got thus far without having named Flora or
Vich Ian Vohr--the _last Vich Ian Vohr!_ Yet our minds were full of them
the moment before I began this letter: and could you have seen the tears
forced from us by their fate, you would have been satisfied that the
pathos went to our hearts. Ian Vohr from the first moment he appears,
till the last, is an admirably-drawn and finely-sustained
character--new, perfectly new to the English reader--often
entertaining--always heroic--sometimes sublime. The gray spirit, the
Bodach Glas, thrills _us_ with horror. _Us!_ What effect must it have
upon those under the influence of the superstitions of the Highlands!
This circumstance is admirably introduced: this superstition is a
weakness quite consistent with the strength of the character, perfectly
natural after the disappointment of all his hopes, in the dejection of
his mind, and the exhaustion of his bodily strength.
Flora we could wish was never called _Miss MacIvor_, because in this
country there are tribes of vulgar Miss _Macs_, and this association is
unfavourable to the sublime and beautiful of _your_ Flora--she is a true
heroine. Her first appearance seized upon the mind and enchanted us so
completely, that we were certain she was to be your heroine, and the
wife of your hero--but with what inimitable art, you gradually convince
the reader that she was not, as she said of herself, _capable of making
Waverley happy._ Leaving her in full possession of our admiration, you
first make us pity, then love, and at last give our undivided affection
to Rose Bradwardine--sweet Scotch Rose! The last scene between Flora and
Waverley is highly pathetic--my brother wishes that _bridal garment_
were _shroud:_ because when the heart is touched we seldom use metaphor,
or quaint alliteration-bride-favour, bridal garment.
There is one thing more we could wish changed or omitted in Flora's
character. I have not the volume, and therefore cannot refer to the
page; but I recollect in the first visit to Flora, when she is to sing
certain verses, there is a walk, in which the description of the place
is beautiful, but _too long_, and we did not like the preparation for a
_scene_--the appearance of Flora and her harp was too like a common
heroine, she should be far above all stage effect or novelist's trick.
These are, without reserve, the only faults we found, or _can_ find in
this work of genius. We should scarcely have thought them worth
mentioning, except to give you proof positive that we are not
flatterers. Believe me, I have not, nor can I convey to you the full
idea of the pleasure, the delight we have had in reading _Waverley_, nor
of the feeling of sorrow with which we came to the end of the history of
persons whose real presence had so filled our minds--we felt that we
must return to the _flat realities_ of life, that our stimulus was gone,
and we were little disposed to read the "Postscript, which should have
been a Preface."
"Well, let us hear it," said my father, and Mrs. Edgeworth read on.
Oh! my dear sir, how much pleasure would my father, my mother, my whole
family, as well as myself have lost, if we had not read to the last
page! And the pleasure came upon us so unexpectedly--we had been so
completely absorbed that every thought of ourselves, of our own
authorship, was far, far away.
Thank you for the honour you have done us, [Footnote: Walter Scott, in
his "Postscript," said that it had been his desire in _Waverley_ "in
some distant degree to emulate the admirable Irish portraits drawn by
Miss Edgeworth."] and for the pleasure you have given us, great in
proportion to the opinion we had formed of the work we had just
perused--and believe me, every opinion I have in this letter expressed,
was formed before any individual in the family had peeped to the end of
the book, or knew how much we owed you.--Your obliged and grateful