By WALLACE BRUCE.
In the providence that regulates human affairs there seems to have been
no ordained quiet for the exiled Stuarts, but the quiet of the grave.
During the early and unpopular reigns of the imported “House of Hanover”
the Jacobite party eagerly watched and weighed every opportunity for
restoring the ancient line. The throne of England was too great a prize
to be readily abandoned. Some of the attempts to regain the glory and
power which had departed from these Ichabod princes seem more like a
romance than real history.
The Chevalier de St. George, whom we saw in the story of “Rob Roy,”
retired to Italy after his unsuccessful enterprise of 1715, “where the
sufferings of his father for the Roman Catholic religion gave him the
fairest right to expect hospitality.” He was at this time thirty years of
age, and, following the suggestions of his counselors, fixed his choice
of a wife on the Princess Clementina Sobieski, daughter of the Prince
of Poland. The romantic history of the Chevalier in pursuit of a throne
was now to be paralleled in the getting of a wife. This young lady was
accounted one of the greatest fortunes in Europe. She was granddaughter
of that King John Sobieski, who defeated the Turks before Vienna. The
dazzling expectations of the Pretender gratified the ambition of her
parents, and they agreed to conduct her privately to Bologna, with a view
to the marriage. The preparation became known to the British Court. The
Emperor of Austria, at the request of England, arrested the bride as she
passed through Innspruck, and detained her as prisoner in a cloister.
A bold attempt for the release of the Princess was contrived and executed
by Charles Wogan—a devoted partisan to the Stuart cause. “He obtained a
passport from the Austrian ambassador, in the name of Count Cernes and
family, stated to be returning from Loretto to the low countries. Major
Misset and his wife personated the supposed count and countess; Wogan
was to pass for the brother of the count; the Princess Clementina, when
she should be liberated, was to represent the Count’s sister, which
character, in the meantime, was enacted by a smart girl, a domestic of
Mrs. Misset. Captain Toole, with two other steady partisans, attended on
the party of the supposed Count, in the dress and character of domestics.
They arrived at Innspruck on the evening of the 27th of April, 1719, and
took lodging near the convent. It appears that a trusty domestic of the
princess had secured permission of the porter to bring a female with him
into the cloister, and conduct her out at whatever hour he pleased. This
was a great step in favor of their success, and taking advantage of a
storm of snow and hail, Mrs. Misset’s domestic was safely introduced
into the cloister, and the princess, changing clothes with her, came out
at the hour by which the stranger was to return. Through bad roads and
worse weather the liberated bride and her attendants pushed on until they
quitted the Austrian territories, and entered those of Venice. On the
second of May, after a journey of great fatigue, and some danger, they
arrived at Bologna.”
The Jacobites drew many happy omens from the success with which the
romantic union of the Chevalier de St. George was achieved, although
after all it may be doubted whether the Austrian Emperor, though obliged
in appearance to comply with the remonstrances of the British Court, was
either seriously anxious to prevent the Princess’s escape, or extremely
desirous that she should be retaken. By this union the Chevalier
transmitted his hereditary claims, and with them his evil luck, to two
sons. The first, Charles Edward, born the 31st of December, 1720, was
remarkable for the figure he made during the civil war of 1745-6; the
second, Henry Benedict, born the 6th of March, 1725, for being the last
male heir, in the direct line, of the unfortunate House of Stuart. He
bore the title of Duke of York, and, entering the Church of Rome, was
promoted to the rank of Cardinal.
This interesting betrothal and marriage, condensed from Scott’s
picturesque narrative in the “Tales of a Grandfather,” serve as a
connecting link between our last paper, which dealt historically with
the affair of 1715, and the present paper which deals with the affair of
1745. It is, moreover, simple politeness to our readers to introduce the
parents, who are passing from the stage, before presenting the son, whose
fortunes were destined to be more romantic than his ancestors, and whose
name will survive in song and poetry as the “Prince Charlie from over the
sea.”
“Waverley” reveals the true state of Scotland during the middle of the
eighteenth century. In fact, the titles of the chapters present almost
a history in themselves. While it reveals in every page the great power
of the novelist in portrayal of character, in discerning the motives
which influence the actions of individuals, in the poetic description of
scenery, in elevated tone and fitting and graceful dialogue, it differs
from his greater and later works as the “Hypatia” of Charles Kingsley
differs from the “Romola” of George Eliot. It is not so much an inner
growth as an algebraic demonstration; each chapter being _plus_ to
the one that precedes it. In the early part of the story he conducts
Waverley step by step through his boyhood to the choice of a profession.
He then introduces him to the Highlands, and deals with the customs and
manners of the people in a succession of chapter-essays. He gives us a
border-raid; he portrays the “Hold of a Highland Robber;” describes the
chief and his mansion; introduces us to a Highland feast; treats us to
a display of Highland minstrelsy; and thus the story moves on step by
step, so many _stadia_ a day, like the march of Julius Cæsar through
Germany, or the retreat of the ten thousand Greeks under Xenophon. But
in spite of this step-by-step process, which marks the first work of Sir
Walter in prose fiction, no volume of the series presents more vividly or
graphically the historic features of the times to which it is related.
The wild and fierce Highlanders, who stalked to and fro in pages of the
“Fair Maid of Perth,” are greatly modified and toned down in “Waverley.”
Civilization has girdled their mountain fastnesses. They have been taught
to acknowledge law, or at least to respect and fear it. The patriarchal
system, however, still continues. The chief is the leader in war, and
their arbitrator and protector in peace. The whole income of the tribe
is paid to the chief, and helps to support his rude hospitality. In the
mansion of Fergus MacIvor, Waverley is introduced to the surviving and
modified customs of this northern Gælic people. The description of the
feast and the music of the bard, chanting the deeds of their ancestors,
are worthy of special mention. “A huge oaken table extended through the
whole length of the hall. The apparatus for dinner was simple, even to
rudeness, and the company numerous, even to crowding. At the head of the
table was the chief himself, with Waverley, and two or three Highland
visitors of neighboring clans; the elders of his own tribe sat next in
rank; beneath them their sons and nephews, and foster-brethren; then the
officers of the chief’s household, according to their order, and lowest
of all the tenants who cultivated the ground.”
“Even beyond the long perspective, Waverley might see upon the green, to
which a huge pair of folding doors opened, a multitude of Highlanders
of a yet inferior description, who nevertheless were considered as
guests, and had their share of the cheer of the day. In the distance,
and fluctuating round the extreme verge of the banquet, was a changeful
group of women, ragged boys and girls, beggars, young and old, large
greyhounds, terriers and pointers, and curs of low degree; all of whom
took some interest in the main action of the piece. Some pains had been
bestowed in dressing the dishes at the upper end of the table. Lower
down stood immense joints of mutton and beef, which resembled the rude
festivity of Penelope’s suitors. But the central dish was a yearling
lamb roasted whole. It was set upon its legs, with a bunch of parsley in
its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to gratify the pride
of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty than the elegance of
his master’s table. The sides of the poor animal were fiercely attacked
by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with the knives which were
usually in the same sheath with the dagger, so that it was soon rendered
a mangled and rueful spectacle. Lower down still, the victuals seemed of
a still coarser quality, though sufficiently abundant. After the banquet
the chieftain made a signal for the pipes to cease, and said aloud,
‘Where is the song hidden, my friends, that MacMurrough can not find it?’
The family bard, an aged man, immediately took the hint, and began to
chant with low and rapid utterance a profusion of Celtic verses, which
were received by the audience with all the applause of enthusiasm. As
he advanced in his declamation, his ardor seemed to increase. He had at
first spoken with his eyes fixed upon the ground; he now cast them around
as if beseeching, and anon as if commanding attention, and his tones rose
into wild and impassioned notes, accompanied with appropriate gestures.
The ardor of the poet seemed to communicate itself to the audience. Their
wild and sun-burnt countenances assumed a fiercer and more animated
expression; all bent forward toward the reciter; many sprung up and waved
their hands in ecstasy, and some laid their hands on their swords.”
It was in such halls as these that the cause of the Pretender was
cherished. The Lowlanders were for the most part disposed to peace. The
relation of landlord and tenant had gradually lost its feudal character.
The payment was in pounds sterling and not in warlike service. The result
of the Pretender’s adventure might therefore have been foretold at the
outset, but it was brilliant while it lasted, and he had the pleasure of
giving a few feasts in Holyrood—the palace of his ancestors. It will be
remembered that he landed with seven followers in Moidart on the 25th
of July, 1745. The place was well chosen for concealment, being on the
main land south of the islands of Skye. He opened communication with the
clans in the neighborhood, but at first received little encouragement. By
wise measures and cordial address his numbers grew slowly. An association
was drawn up and signed by the chiefs who had taken the field, in which
the subscribers bound themselves never to abandon their prince while he
remained in the realm, or to lay down their arms, or make peace with
government, without his express consent. He marched to Perth with his
little army, where the Chevalier first found the want of money. When he
entered that town, he showed one of his followers a single guinea of the
four hundred pounds which he had brought with him from France; but the
towns and cities north of the Tay supplied men and money, and for a time
his fortune was in the ascendant.
The English troops at that time in Scotland were under a second rate
commander, Sir John Cope. He moved north to Inverness and left Edinburgh
undefended. The Pretender captured Edinburgh, and entered it the 17th
of September. He began his march on foot, but, on account of the crowd
who pressed upon him to kiss his hand, he was compelled to call for his
horse as he approached the eastern entrance of the palace. His personal
appearance was prepossessing. His graceful manners, noble mien and ready
courtesy “seemed to mark him no unworthy competitor of the crown. His
dress was national. A short tartan coat, a blue bonnet with a white rose,
and the order and emblem of the thistle, seemed all chosen to identify
him with the ancient nation he summoned to arms.” It was indeed a proud
moment, but the bubble was soon to burst. After a few successful battles,
and an ill-timed excursion into England, the army was disbanded, and the
unfortunate Wanderer was compelled to flee for his life, disguised as
a servant. He sought refuge in a cavern where seven outlaws had taken
up their abode. With these men he remained about three weeks, and when
the hour of his departure came they said: “Stay with us; the mountains
of gold which the government have set upon your head may induce some
gentleman to betray you, for he can go to a distant country and live on
the price of his dishonor; but to us there exists no such temptation.
We can speak no language but our own—we can live nowhere but in this
country, where, were we but to injure a hair of your head, the very
mountains would fall down to crush us to death.” On the 20th of September
he embarked in a French frigate, and reached Morlaix in Brittany the 29th
of September.
If there ever was truth in the words, “there is a divinity that doth
hedge a king” it finds illustration in the thirteen months that Charles
Edward spent on this expedition in Scotland. No history or romance
recounts such perils of flight, concealment and escape. The secret of
his concealment was known to persons of every age, sex, and condition,
but no individual from the proudest Earl to the meanest outlaw would
stoop to give up their leader, even for the promised reward, which would
have purchased the half of Scotland north of the Forth. That the Prince
was bold and generous, in this campaign, no person can doubt; and if
Charles the First had possessed as much humor as his amiable descendant,
he might have preserved his head which was an “unco’ loss” to the whole
Stuart line. After the victory at Preston, the Pretender sent word to the
Edinburgh preachers to preach the next day, Sunday, as usual; and the
Rev. Neil M’Vicar offered the following prayer: “Bless the king! Thou
knowest what king I mean. May the crown sit long on his head. As for that
young man who has come among us to seek an earthly crown, we beseech
thee to take him to thyself and give him a crown of glory.” It is said
that when the Prince heard of M’Vicar’s prayer he laughed heartily, and
expressed himself quite satisfied.
I have spoken of this novel being true to history. It could hardly have
been otherwise when we consider the opportunities Scott had for studying
all the facts. In the closing chapter of “Waverley” he says: “It was
my accidental lot, though not born a Highlander, to reside, during my
childhood and youth, among persons who cherished a lingering though
hopeless attachment, to the House of Stuart; and now, for the purpose of
preserving some idea of the ancient manners of which I have witnessed
the almost total extinction, I have embodied in imaginary scenes, and
ascribed to fictitious characters, a part of the incidents which I then
received from those who were actors in them. Indeed, the most romantic
parts of this narrative are precisely those which have a foundation in
fact. There is scarce a gentleman who was ‘in hiding,’ after the battle
of Culloden, but could tell a tale of wild and hair-breadth ’scapes, as
extraordinary as any which I have ascribed to my heroes. The accounts
of the battle at Preston and skirmish at Clifton are taken from the
narrative of intelligent eye-witnesses, and corrected from the ‘History
of the Rebellion’ by the late venerable author of ‘Douglas.’ The Lowland
Scottish gentlemen, and the subordinate characters, are not given as
individual portraits, but are drawn from the general habits of the
period, of which I have witnessed some remnants in my younger days, and
partly gathered from tradition.”
“Guy Mannering,” the next in sequence, is rather a portrayal of character
than a historic picture. It gives us a glimpse of gipsey-life in Galloway
true to fact, and also reveals the traits of the hardy smugglers that
invested its shores. The characters stand out by themselves with
little or no background. Here is Dandie Dinmot, with his numerous dogs
and children; Attorney Pleydell, with his old-time courtesy; Dominie
Sampson, a cyclopædia of worthless erudition—a man to be laughed at and
loved—possessing a fund of knowledge, but no wisdom; Guy Mannering, a
courtly gentleman, deep and undisturbed as a tropic sea; two sweet young
ladies and their lovers, who are at last happily married; Meg Merrilies,
as generous and sensible a gipsey as ever lived; Dirk Hatterick, as false
a sea rover as ever hoisted sail; and Glossin, a fawning scoundrel, whose
course through life was like the trail of a serpent. The book is in fact
a drama rather than a novel, or rather both in one—a dramatic romance.
Coleridge regarded it as one of the greatest of Scott’s novels, and
mentions it in this connection with “Old Mortality.”
In “Redgauntlet” we find a continuation of the smuggler trade, and
are also introduced to the Pretender, who has not improved either in
appearance or character since we last saw him in “Waverley.” His friends
and supporters for the most part consist of the very dregs of society. In
his blind adoration for a person not to be named with respect, the Prince
lost the confidence of friends who had risked their all to support his
title. In a cup of dissolute pleasure he dissolves the pearl of his good
name. If he had died at the head of his army of adherents in Scotland,
or after his return to France, he would have survived in history as a
worthier man. “He proved to be one of those personages who distinguish
themselves during some singular and brilliant period of their lives, like
the course of a shooting star at which men wonder, as well on account
of the briefness, as the brilliancy of its splendor. A long trace of
darkness overshadowed the subsequent life of a man who, in his youth,
shewed himself so capable of great undertakings; the later pursuits and
habits of this unhappy Prince are those painfully evincing a broken
heart, which finds refuge from its own thoughts in sordid enjoyments.”
The man was also in the hands of persons full of wild plots and political
impatience. They formed schemes wholly impracticable. They invited him in
1750 to London; but he was soon convinced that he had been deceived, and
after a stay of five days he returned to the place from which he came. He
died at Rome the 31st of January, 1788, and was royally interred in the
Cathedral Church of Frescati, of which his brother was bishop.
After his death his brother, the last direct male heir of the House of
Stuart, made no assertion of his right to the British throne, but had
a beautiful medal struck, in which he was represented in kingly garb
with the motto in Latin, “King by the grace of God, but not by the
will of the people.” He finally received an annuity of 4,000 pounds a
year given to him by George the Third, and on his death he bequeathed
to George the Fourth all the crown jewels, which James the Second had
carried along with him to the Continent in 1688. He died at Rome, June
1807, in the eighty-third year of his age. The volumes of “Waverley” and
“Redgauntlet,” taken in connection with Scott’s “Tales of a Grandfather,”
give the most complete history of this unfortunate struggle.
“The Antiquary” and “Saint Ronan’s Well” present a postscript of manners
and customs, which seems tame from a historic standpoint, after living
so many centuries in the company of heroes and princes. Scott speaking
of “The Antiquary” says: “It wants the romance of ‘Waverley’ and the
adventure of ‘Guy Mannering;’ yet there is some salvation about it,
for if a man will paint from nature he will be likely to amuse those
who are daily looking at it.” He also says in his introduction of “The
Antiquary:” “‘Waverley’ embraced the age of our fathers, ‘Guy Mannering’
that of our youth, and ‘The Antiquary’ refers to the last ten years of
the eighteenth century. I have in the last two narratives especially,
sought my principal personages in the class of society who are the last
to feel the influence of that general polish which assimilates to each
other the manners of different nations. Among some of the same class I
have placed some of the scenes, in which I have endeavored to illustrate
the operation of the higher and more violent passions; both because
the lower orders are less restrained by the habit of suppressing their
feelings, and because I agree with my friend Wordsworth, that they seldom
fail to express them in the strongest and most powerful language. This
is, I think, peculiarly the case with the peasantry of my own country,
a class with whom I have been long familiar. The antique force and
simplicity of their language, often tinctured with the oriental eloquence
of Scripture, in the mouths of those of an elevated understanding, give
pathos to their grief, and dignity to their resentment.” The pathos and
eloquence in the homes of the fishermen justify Scott’s criticism, and
the picture which he has drawn of the old grandmother will survive in our
memory as one of the most dramatic in the Waverley series.
There are two references in “The Antiquary” to contemporary history,
which ought not to be entirely overlooked; one where the Antiquary
describes the excitement of preparation in Edinburgh against the
anticipated French invasion, when almost every individual was enrolled
either in military or civil capacity. Beacons were erected along the
coast to summon the newly organized army of defense when occasion
required, and Scott humorously refers, in one of his letters, to the
appearance he himself made decked out in regimentals. Near the close
of “The Antiquary” the signal light blazes out by mistake the 2d of
February, 1804; the person, who kept watch on the commanding station
of Home Castle, being deceived by some accidental fire in the county
of Northumberland. The only historical allusion in “St. Ronan’s Well”
relates to the Reign of Terror and to Napoleon Bonaparte at Acre.
The twenty-six novels and five poems of Sir Walter, therefore, unite the
two greatest events of Europe—the wars of the Crusades, and the exploits
of Napoleon and the French Revolution. In “Count Robert of Paris” we
see Constantinople in her glory, under the rule of the crafty Alexius.
We hear the tread of armed hosts passing and repassing along the great
highway of the world. In “The Betrothed” we see England aroused by the
voice of her eloquent Archbishop. In “The Talisman” we see the craft
of Saladin opposed to the discordant army of Richard the Lion-hearted.
In “Ivanhoe” we find Saxon and Jew pressed down under the heel of the
Norman. We see Scotland rescued from the oppression of England in
“Castle Dangerous” and the “Lord of the Isles.” We note the state of the
Highlands in 1402 in the “Fair Maid of Perth,” and trace the wiles and
craft of the French Emperor in “Louis the Eleventh,” and in “Anne of
Geierstein.” We visit with “Marmion” the Battle-field of Flodden, we see
the light glimmer in the Chancel of Melrose as we turn the pages of “The
Lay of the Last Minstrel,” and wander with James the Fifth in disguise
through the wild passes of the Trosachs. In the “Monastery” and “Abbot”
we read the history of the Catholic and Protestant struggle in Scotland,
we weep with the unfortunate Mary, and glory in the triumph of Knox. In
“Kenilworth” we see the power and weakness of the Virgin Queen, and look
into the sad eyes of Amy Robsart sacrificed upon the altar of ambition.
We see the London of James the First in the “Fortunes of Nigel;” we
hear in “Rokeby” the echo of the battle of Marston Moor; we follow the
struggle of Argyle and Montrose in the “Legend;” and talk with the young
exile, Charles the Second, in the groves of “Woodstock.” In “Peveril of
the Peak” we find the King upon his throne, surrounded by Buckingham
and the most desolate court of Europe. In “Old Mortality” we sympathize
with the Covenanters, a people devout and sincere in their character, as
they were unpractical in their conduct. In “The Pirate” we note some of
the surviving customs of old Scandinavia. In the “Bride of Lammermoor”
we see the decay of a noble House. “The Black Dwarf” is related to the
fierce discussion in Scotland at the time of the national Union. “Rob
Roy” introduces us to the Pretender in the Affair of 1715. “The Heart of
Midlothian” gives us a picture of Edinburgh; and so our historic chain,
composed of poetic links, brings us down to the beginning of our own
century. No wonder that Scott has been styled the Great Magician, when,
by the lifting of his wand, he was able to make the heroes of neglected
history burst their cerements.
I sat one evening on the banks of the Tweed amid the ruins of Dryburgh
Abbey, by a plain monument in St. Mary’s Aisle; the soft moonlight,
streaming through broken casements, added solemnity and beauty to the
peaceful sylvan scene. I recalled the ruins of Kenilworth Castle, far off
on another poetic stream, and the pageant of history which there passed
before England’s Elizabeth; and I thought how much grander the procession
of Eight Hundred Years, which passed in long review before the mental
vision of the great novelist and poet, now resting beneath the quiet
stars. The ivy still rustles in the breeze; the gray ruins again gleam
in the moonlight, and, reader, the years can never lift their furrows of
care between me and that twilight picture hallowed by the poetic memory
of a noble man.