By WALLACE BRUCE.
“The Fair Maid of Perth” is at once a photograph and a drama. The
beautiful county of Perthshire, with its wild mountains and picturesque
lakes, seems transferred bodily as by a camera to the novelist’s
pages, and the historic incidents are so real and rapid in dramatic
interest that they seem lifted from the realm of history into a sort of
Shaksperean play.
The story opens with a description of Perth from a spot called the
Wicks of Baigle, “where the traveler beholds stretching beneath him the
valley of the Tay, traversed by its ample and lordly stream; the town
of Perth with its two large meadows, its steeples, and its towers; the
hills of Moncreiff and Kinnoul faintly rising into picturesque rocks,
partly clothed with woods; the rich margin of the river, studded with
elegant mansions, and the distant view of the huge Grampian mountains,
the northern screen of this exquisite landscape.”
The time of the story is 1402. Almost a century has elapsed since the
battle of Bannockburn—a century of turmoil and strife. Its history
seems like a great tempest-tossed sea swept by constantly recurring
whirlwinds. Three kings and as many regents reign in turn; and at the
opening of our story Scotland is under the government of Robert the
Third.
David the Second, only son of Robert Bruce, died childless; his sister,
Marjory, married Walter, the Lord High Steward of the realm; their son
was crowned Robert the Third, King of Scotland. The family took the
name of Stewart, which gave by direct descent the Stuart line to the
throne of Britain, and their descendants are to-day upon the thrones of
England, Italy and Greece. The little skiff, tossed ashore upon the
rugged cliffs and cold hospitality of Lorne Castle, as described in our
last article, carried therefore the ancestor of a long historic line—a
line not always fortunate, not always honest, but presenting for the
most part during its record of five hundred years a fair average of
manhood and womanhood as kings and queens generally run.
Robert the Third found his country torn by civil feuds, and his temper
was too mild for those stormy times. His brother, the Duke of Albany,
a crafty counselor of the Iago type, provoked strife between father
and son. The good king’s heart was broken. “Vengeance followed,” says
Scott, “though with a slow pace, the treachery and cruelty of his
brother. Robert of Albany’s own grey hairs went, indeed, in peace to
the grave, and he transferred the regency, which he had so foully
acquired, to his son Murdoch. But nineteen years after the death of the
old king, James the First returned to Scotland, and Duke Murdoch of
Albany, with his sons, was brought to the scaffold, in expiation of his
father’s guilt and his own.”
Such are the main historic features of the story. The inwoven
incidents make us acquainted with many of the customs of humble life
which pertain to the close of the fourteenth and the beginning of
the fifteenth century. It portrays the ancient observances of St.
Valentine’s Day; the fierce conflict of two Highland clans; the bitter
jealousy between the Black Douglas and the Earl of March; the trial
by Bier-Right in the Church of St. John; the government of Scottish
towns and burroughs; the hardihood of the brave burghers who knew
their rights, and had the courage to maintain them. It reveals the
dissipation of the Court, led on by the much-loved but dissipated son
of the king, the Duke of Rothsay, over whom the father mourned, even as
David over his son Absalom.
Through this black serge-cloth of history runs a silver thread—the life
of Catharine Glover. Her bold and resolute lover, Henry Gow, a smith
and armorer by trade, who had the good fortune of being her Valentine,
seems too warlike for her gentle and amiable character, or as Harry
sums it up briefly in a blunt sentence: “She thinks the whole world is
one great minster church, and that all who live in it should behave as
if they were at an eternal mass.”
The romance abounds with many eloquent passages and poetic touches;
even the bold armorer, with his love for hard blows, reveals here and
there a touch of sentiment, as where he returns to Perth from a long
journey and says: “When I crossed the Wicks and saw the bonny city lie
fairly before me, like a fairy queen in romance, whom the knight finds
asleep among a wilderness of flowers, I felt even as a bird, when it
folds its weary wings to stoop down on its own nest.”
The description of the burial of the Highland Chief is the sketch
of a master. We are transported to the rugged hills of the northern
Highlands. Around us rise lofty mountain peaks; below us stretches the
silver expanse of Loch Tay; the black-bannered flotilla carrying the
dead leader, Mac Ian, with oars moving to wild music, holds its course
to the ruined cathedral of the Holy Isle, where still slumbers the
daughter of Henry the First of England, wife of Alexander the First
of Scotland. “The monks issue from their lowly portal; the bells peal
their death-toll over the long lake; a yell bursts from the assembled
multitude, in which the deep shout of warriors, and the shrill wail
of females join their notes with the tremulous voice of age, and
the babbling cry of childhood; the deer start from their glens for
miles around and seek the distant recesses of the mountains, even the
domestic animals, accustomed to the voice of man, flee from their
pastures into morasses and dingles.”
Scott’s power as a poet is seen in passages like this, and his power
as a dramatist in words like the following placed in the mouth of the
heart-broken king, revealing in one condensed sentence of agony the
unfortunate state of his country: “Oh, Scotland, Scotland; if the best
blood of thy bravest children could enrich the barren soil, what land
on earth would excel thee in fertility? When is it that a white hair
is seen on the beard of a Scottish man, unless he be some wretch like
thy sovereign, protected from murder by impotence, to witness the
scenes of slaughter to which he can not put a period? The demon of
strife and slaughter hath possessed the whole land.”
But the clouds and mists upon the mountain-heights of royalty do not
always envelop the valley, or affect the happiness of those who live in
humble spheres; and we are glad to know that Harry Gow is at last made
happy by the hand of Catharine. He promises to hand up his broadsword,
never more to draw it unless against the enemies of Scotland. “And
should Scotland call for it,” said Catharine, “I will buckle it round
you.”
Our next novel, in historic sequence, takes us to the Court of Louis
the Eleventh in the year 1468. The reader is introduced to a young
Scotchman by the name of Quentin Durward. He is in France seeking
employment for his sword; he joins the Scottish archers which form the
body-guard of the King; he soon wins the notice and favor of Louis the
Eleventh by his courage, address and honesty; he goes as escort for
two noble ladies who had fled for refuge from the court of Burgundy to
France, and becomes at last as the title of the book would indicate the
important personage in the romance, and his honesty is rewarded by the
hand of the heroine.
But the great value of this work is the character sketch of Louis
the Eleventh, a king who possessed a soul as hardened as that of
Mephistopheles, and a brain like that of Machiavelli, whose birth
at Florence in 1469 appropriately commemorates the early years of
Louis’ reign; he found the throne in a tottering condition; in fact
all Europe was unsettled. It was the dark hour preceding the dawn of
the Reformation. There was some excuse for caution, and perhaps for
craftiness in order to preserve his government, but no excuse and no
necessity for the cruelty and treachery that marked every day of his
life. He seemed malevolent for the sake of malevolence; or as Scott
more briefly puts it, “he seemed an incarnation of the devil himself,
permitted to do his utmost to corrupt our ideas of honor to its very
source.” He surrounded himself with menials, invited low and obscure
men to secret councils, employed his barber as prime minister, not for
any special ability displayed, but from his readiness to pander to his
lowest wishes. In every way he brought disrespect upon the court of
his father, “who tore from the fangs of the English lion the more than
half-conquered kingdom of France.”
Scott places the character of Louis the Eleventh in contrast with that
of the Duke of Burgundy; “a man who rushed on danger because he loved
it, and on difficulties because he despised them.” His rude, chivalrous
nature despised his wily cousin, who had his mouth at every man’s ear,
and his hand in every man’s palm. As we read the history of Louis XI.
he seems like a great spider slowly but surely spinning his web about
his enemies until at last there is no escape. By tortuous policy he
“rose among the rude sovereigns of the period to the rank of a keeper
among wild beasts, who, by superior wisdom, by distribution of food,
and some discipline of blows, comes finally to predominate over those,
who, if unsubjected by his arts, would by main strength have torn him
to pieces.”
Apart from the main thread of history Scott gives us a picture of the
Gypsies, or Bohemians, who had just made their appearance in Europe.
They claimed an Egyptian descent, and their features attested that
they were of eastern origin. Their complexion was positively eastern,
approaching to that of the Hindoos. Their manners were as depraved as
their appearance was poor and beggarly. The few arts which they studied
with success, were of a slight and idle, though ingenious description.
Their pretensions to read fortunes, by palmistry and astrology,
acquired them sometimes respect, but oftener drew them under the
suspicion of sorcerers; and lastly, the universal accusation that they
augmented their horde by stealing children, subjected them to doubt and
execration. They incurred almost everywhere sentence of banishment,
and, where suffered to remain, were rather objects of persecution than
of protection from the law. The arrival of the Egyptians as these
singular people were called, in various parts of Europe, corresponds
with the period in which Tamerlane invaded Hindostan, affording its
natives the choice between the Koran and death. There can be little
doubt that these wanderers consisted originally of the Hindostanee
tribes, who, displaced and flying from the sabers of the Mohammedans,
undertook this species of wandering life, without well knowing whither
they were going. Scott gives us in the character of Hayraddin a type
of this great family, a brief sketch of which taken as above from his
notes we thought would be of interest to the general reader.
The interview of Louis the Eleventh with the astrologer not only
reveals the superstition of the king but also places in sharp contrast
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries which were cut asunder, as it
were, with a sword of light. The old astrologer’s apostrophe to the art
of printing, which was then invented, is worthy of a place in these
historic references: “Believe me that, in considering the consequences
of this invention, I read with as certain augury as by any combination
of the heavenly bodies, the most awful and portentous changes. When
I reflect with what slow and limited supplies the stream of science
hath hitherto descended to us; how difficult to be obtained by those
most ardent in its search; how certain to be neglected by all who
regard their ease; how liable to be diverted, or altogether dried up,
by the invasion of barbarism; can I look forward without wonder and
astonishment to the lot of a succeeding generation, on which knowledge
will descend like the first and second rain, uninterrupted, unabated,
unbounded; fertilizing some grounds, and overflowing others; changing
the whole form of social life; establishing and overthrowing religions;
erecting and destroying kingdoms.” “Hold,” said Louis, “shall these
changes come in our time?” “No, my royal brother,” replied the
astrologer, “this invention may be likened to a young tree, which is
now newly planted, but shall, in succeeding generations, bear fruit as
fatal, yet as precious, as that of the Garden of Eden; the knowledge,
namely, of good and evil.”
Anne of Geierstein is to a certain extent a sequel to Quentin Durward.
The time of the story is four years later; the scene is laid in the
mountains of Switzerland. The romance reveals the power of the Vehmic
tribunal of Westphalia, a secret organization, whose bloody executions
gave to the east of Germany the name of the Red Land. It portrays
faithfully the heroic character of the Swiss people who preferred peace
to war, but accepted war when the issue meant liberty or servitude.
Two travelers, apparently English merchants, are benighted near the
ruined castle of Geierstein. They are hospitably entertained, and after
a few days’ delay, they join a Swiss embassy on its way to the Court
of Charles, Duke of Burgundy, the mission of which embassy was to ask
redress for injuries done to the Helvetian Cantons. On their journey
they meet with a warlike adventure in which the English travelers have
opportunity to display their courage and judgment. They are imprisoned
and released; the elder has the misfortune of falling into the hands of
the Vehmic court, and the rare good fortune of being released; and so
the story moves on as it were from one ambuscade to another, until they
reach the court and army of the proud Duke of Burgundy.
They meet _en route_ at a Cathedral in Strasburg, Queen Margaret
of Anjou, who in the bloody struggle between the House of York and
Lancaster had been driven from the English throne. This meeting reveals
the fact that the English travelers are no less personages than the
Earl of Oxford and his son, who are on their way to persuade, if
possible, the Duke of Burgundy to give his support to the House of
Lancaster. The duke promises relief; but circumstances combine with
his rashness to prevent the proffered aid. He proposes at first to
subdue the haughty Swiss. He dismisses their embassy with scorn, and
prepares for a fruitless war in spite of the noble plea of the white
haired Landamman: “And what can the noble Duke of Burgundy gain by such
a strife? Is it wealth and plunder? Alas, my lord, there is more gold
and silver on the very bridle-bits of your Highness’ household troops
than can be found in the public treasures or private hoards of our
whole confederacy. Is it fame and glory you aspire to? There is little
honor to be won by a numerous army over a few scattered bands, by men
clad in mail over half-armed husbandmen and shepherds—of such conquest
small was the glory. But if, as all Christian men believe, and as it
is the constant trust of my countrymen, from memory of the times of
our fathers—if the Lord of Hosts should cast the balance in behalf of
the fewer numbers and worse-armed party, I leave it with your Highness
to judge, what in that event would be the diminution of worship and
fame. Is it extent of vassalage and dominion your Highness desires, by
warring with your mountain neighbors? Know that you may, if it be God’s
will, gain our barren and rugged mountains; but, like our ancestors
of old, we will seek refuge in wilder and more distant solitudes, and
when we have resisted to the last, we will starve in the icy wastes
of the glaciers. Ay, men, women and children, we will be frozen into
annihilation together, ere one free Switzer will acknowledge a foreign
master.”
Well would it have been if the stubborn duke had listened to these
words; for Louis the Eleventh was already making peace with the English
king, and the balance of power which the duke had held for so many
years was slipping from his grasp forever. He attacks the Swiss in
their mountain fastnesses, and pays for his rashness with his life. The
haughty Queen Margaret dies, and for the time the hope of the House of
Lancaster perishes.
But does some fair reader ask: Who is Anne of Geierstein? Is the book
all history? Ask the son of the Earl of Oxford, and he will tell you
that Anne was the fair maiden who rescued him from a perilous rock the
night they were lost near the castle of Geierstein; that she was with
the embassy on her way to visit her father; that she again rescued
him from imprisonment and death; and after the fall of the House of
Lancaster the Swiss maiden becomes his bride.
“And on her lover’s arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold,
And so across the hills they went,
In that new world, which is the old.”
“But the star of Lancaster,” in the language of Scott, “began again
to culminate, and called the banished lord and his son from their
retirement, to mix once more in politics, and soon thereafter was
fought the celebrated battle of Bosworth, in which the arms of Oxford
and his son contributed so much to the success of Henry the Seventh.
This changed the destinies of young Oxford and his bride; but it is
said that the manners and beauty of Anne of Geierstein attracted as
much admiration at the English Court as formerly in the Swiss chalet.”