_The Lady of the Lake_ appeared in 1810. Two years before, _Marmion_ had
vastly increased the popular enthusiasm aroused by _The Lay of the Last
Minstrel_, and the success of his second long poem had so exhilarated
Scott that, as he says, he "felt equal to anything and everything." To
one of his kinswomen, who urged him not to jeopardize his fame by
another effort in the same kind, he gaily quoted the words of Montrose:
He either fears his fate too much
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.
The result justified his confidence; for not only was _The Lady of the
Lake_ as successful as its predecessors, but it remains the most
sterling of Scott's poems. The somewhat cheap supernaturalism of the
_Lay_ appears in it only for a moment; both the story and the characters
are of a less theatrical type than in _Marmion_; and it has a glow,
animation, and onset, which was denied to the later poems, _Rokeby_ and
_The Lord of the Isles_.
The following outline abridged from the excellent one given by Francis
Jeffrey in the _Edinburgh Review_ for August, 1810, will be useful as a
basis for criticism of the matter and style of the poem.
"The first canto begins with a description of a staghunt in the
Highlands of Perthshire. As the chase lengthens, the sportsmen drop
off; till at last the foremost horseman is left alone; and his
horse, overcome with fatigue, stumbles and dies. The adventurer,
climbing up a craggy eminence, discovers Loch Katrine spread out in
evening glory before him. The huntsman winds his horn; and sees, to
his infinite surprise, a little skiff, guided by a lovely woman,
glide from beneath the trees that overhang the water, and approach
the shore at his feet. Upon the stranger's approach, she pushes the
shallop from the shore in alarm. After a short parley, however, she
carries him to a woody island, where she leads him into a sort of
silvan mansion, rudely constructed, and hung round with trophies of
war and the chase. An elderly lady is introduced at supper; and the
stranger, after disclosing himself to be 'James Fitz-James, the
knight of Snowdoun,' tries in vain to discover the name and history
of the ladies.
"The second canto opens with a picture of the aged harper,
Allan-bane, sitting on the island beach with the damsel, watching
the skiff which carries the stranger back to land. A conversation
ensues, from which the reader gathers that the lady is a daughter
of the Douglas, who, being exiled by royal displeasure from court,
had accepted this asylum from Sir Roderick Dhu, a Highland
chieftain long outlawed for deeds of blood; that this dark chief is
in love with his fair _protégée_, but that her affections are
engaged to Malcolm Graeme, a younger and more amiable mountaineer.
The sound of distant music is heard on the lake; and the barges of
Sir Roderick are discovered, proceeding in triumph to the island.
Ellen, hearing her father's horn at that instant on the opposite
shore, flies to meet him and Malcolm Graeme, who is received with
cold and stately civility by the lord of the isle. Sir Roderick
informs the Douglas that his retreat has been discovered, and that
the King (James V), under pretence of hunting, has assembled a
large force in the neighborhood. He then proposes impetuously that
they should unite their fortunes by his marriage with Ellen, and
rouse the whole Western Highlands. The Douglas, intimating that his
daughter has repugnances which she cannot overcome, declares that
he will retire to a cave in the neighboring mountains until the
issue of the King's threat is seen. The heart of Roderick is wrung
with agony at this rejection; and when Malcolm advances to Ellen,
he pushes him violently back--and a scuffle ensues, which is with
difficulty appeased by the giant arm of Douglas. Malcolm then
withdraws in proud resentment, plunges into the water, and swims
over by moonlight to the mainland.
"The third canto opens with an account of the ceremonies employed
in summoning the clan. This is accomplished by the consecration of
a small wooden cross, which, with its points scorched and dipped in
blood, is carried with incredible celerity through the whole
territory of the chieftain. The eager fidelity with which this
fatal signal is carried on, is represented with great spirit. A
youth starts from the side of his father's coffin, to bear it
forward, and, having run his stage, delivers it to a young
bridegroom returning from church, who instantly binds his plaid
around him, and rushes onward. In the meantime Douglas and his
daughter have taken refuge in the mountain cave; and Sir Roderick,
passing near their retreat on his way to the muster, hears Ellen's
voice singing her evening hymn to the Virgin. He does not obtrude
on her devotions, but hurries to the place of rendezvous.
"The fourth canto begins with some ceremonies by a wild hermit of
the clan, to ascertain the issue of the impending war; and this
oracle is obtained--that the party shall prevail which first sheds
the blood of its adversary. The scene then shifts to the retreat of
the Douglas, where the minstrel is trying to soothe Ellen in her
alarm at the disappearance of her father by singing a fairy ballad
to her. As the song ends, the knight of Snowdoun suddenly appears
before her, declares his love, and urges her to put herself under
his protection. Ellen throws herself on his generosity, confesses
her attachment to Graeme, and prevails on him to seek his own
safety by a speedy retreat from the territory of Roderick Dhu.
Before he goes, the stranger presents her with a ring, which he
says he has received from King James, with a promise to grant any
boon asked by the person producing it. As he retreats, his
suspicions are excited by the conduct of his guide, and confirmed
by the warnings of a mad woman whom they encounter. His false guide
discharges an arrow at him, which kills the maniac. The knight
slays the murderer; and learning from the expiring victim that her
brain had been turned by the cruelty of Sir Roderick Dhu, he vows
vengeance. When chilled with the midnight cold and exhausted with
fatigue, he suddenly comes upon a chief reposing by a lonely
watch-fire; and being challenged in the name of Roderick Dhu,
boldly avows himself his enemy. The clansman, however, disdains to
take advantage of a worn-out wanderer; and pledges him safe escort
out of Sir Roderick's territory, when he must answer his defiance
with his sword. The stranger accepts these chivalrous terms; and
the warriors sup and sleep together. This ends the fourth canto.
"At dawn, the knight and the mountaineer proceed toward the Lowland
frontier. A dispute arises concerning the character of Roderick
Dhu, and the knight expresses his desire to meet in person and do
vengeance upon the predatory chief. 'Have then thy wish!' answers
his guide; and gives a loud whistle. A whole legion of armed men
start up from their mountain ambush in the heath; while the chief
turns proudly and says, 'I am Roderick Dhu!' Sir Roderick then by a
signal dismisses his men to their concealment. Arrived at his
frontier, the chief forces the knight to stand upon his defense.
Roderick, after a hard combat is laid wounded on the ground;
Fitz-James, sounding his bugle, brings four squires to his side;
and, after giving the wounded chief into their charge, gallops
rapidly on towards Stirling. As he ascends the hill to the castle,
he descries approaching the same place the giant form of Douglas,
who has come to deliver himself up to the King, in order to save
Malcolm Graeme and Sir Roderick from the impending danger. Before
entering the castle, Douglas is seized with the whim to engage in
the holiday sports which are going forward outside; he wins prize
after prize, and receives his reward from the hand of the prince,
who, however does not condescend to recognize his former favorite.
Roused at last by an insult from one of the royal grooms, Douglas
proclaims himself, and is ordered into custody by the King. At this
instant a messenger arrives with tidings of an approaching battle
between the clan of Roderick and the King's lieutenant, the Earl of
Mar; and is ordered back to prevent the conflict, by announcing
that both Sir Roderick and Lord Douglas are in the hands of their
sovereign.
"The last canto opens in the guard room of the royal castle at
Stirling, at dawn. While the mercenaries are quarreling and singing
at the close of a night of debauch, the sentinels introduce Ellen
and the minstrel Allan-bane--who are come in search of Douglas.
Ellen awes the ruffian soldiery by her grace and liberality, and is
at length conducted to a more seemly waiting place, until she may
obtain audience with the King. While Allan-bane, in the cell of Sir
Roderick, sings to the dying chieftain of the glorious battle which
has just been waged by his clansmen against the forces of the Earl
of Mar, Ellen, in another part of the palace, hears the voice of
Malcolm Graeme lamenting his captivity from an adjoining turret.
Before she recovers from her agitation she is startled by the
appearance of Fitz-James, who comes to inform her that the court is
assembled, and the King at leisure to receive her suit. He conducts
her to the hall of presence, round which Ellen casts a timid and
eager glance for the monarch. But all the glittering figures are
uncovered, and James Fitz-James alone wears his cap and plume. The
Knight of Snowdoun is the King of Scotland! Struck with awe and
terror, Ellen falls speechless at his feet, pointing to the ring
which he has put upon her finger. The prince raises her with eager
kindness, declares that her father is forgiven, and bids her ask
for a boon for some other person. The name of Graeme trembles on
her lips, but she cannot trust herself to utter it. The King, in
playful vengeance, condemns Malcolm Graeme to fetters, takes a
chain of gold from his own neck, and throwing it over that of the
young chief, puts the clasp in the hand of Ellen."
From this outline, it will be evident that Scott had gained greatly in
narrative power since the production of _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_.
Not only are the elements of the "fable" (to use the word in its
old-fashioned sense) harmonious and probable, but the various incidents
grow out of each other in a natural and necessary way. The _Lay_ was at
best a skillful bit of carpentering whereof the several parts were
nicely juxtaposed; _The Lady of the Lake_ is an organism, and its
several members partake of a common life. A few weaknesses may, it is
true, be pointed out in it. The warning of Fitz-James by the mad woman's
song makes too large a draft upon our romantic credulity. Her appearance
is at once so accidental and so opportune that it resembles those
supernatural interventions employed by ancient tragedy to cut the knot
of a difficult situation, which have given rise to the phrase _deus ex
machina_. The improbability of the episode is further increased by the
fact that she puts her warning in the form of a song. Scott's love of
romantic episode manifestly led him astray here. Further, the story as a
whole shares with all stories which turn upon the revelation of a
concealed identity, the disadvantage of being able to affect the reader
powerfully but once, since on a second reading the element of suspense
and surprise is lacking. In so far as _The Lady of the Lake_ is a mere
story, or as it has been called, a "versified novelette," this is not a
weakness; but in so far as it is a poem, with the claim which poetry
legitimately makes to be read and reread for its intrinsic beauty, it
constitutes a real defect.
Not only does this poem, with the slight exceptions just mentioned, show
a gain over the earlier poems in narrative power, but it also marks an
advance in character delineation. The characters of the _Lay_ are, with
one or two exceptions, mere lay-figures; Lord Cranstoun and Margaret are
the most conventional of lovers; William of Deloraine is little more
than an animated suit of armor, and the Lady of Branksome, except at one
point, when from her walls she defies the English invaders, is nearly or
quite featureless. With the characters of _The Lady of the Lake_ the
case is very different. The three rivals for Ellen's hand are real men,
with individualities which enhance and deepen the picturesqueness of
each other by contrast. The easy grace and courtly chivalry, of the
disguised King, the quick kindling of his fancy at sight of the
mysterious maid of Loch Katrine, his quick generosity in relinquishing
his suit when he finds that she loves another, make him one of the most
life-like figures of romance. Roderick Dhu, nursing darkly his clannish
hatreds, his hopeless love, and his bitter jealousy, with a delicate
chivalry sending its bright thread through the tissue of his savage
nature, is drawn with an equally convincing hand. Against his gloomy
figure the boyish magnanimity of Malcolm Graeme, Ellen's brave
faithfulness, made human by a surface play of coquetry, and the quiet
nobility of the exiled Douglas, stand out in varied relief. Judged in
connection with the more conventional character types of _Marmion_, and
with the draped automatons of the _Lay_, the characters of _The Lady of
the Lake_ show the gradual growth in Scott of that dramatic imagination
which was later to fill the vast scene of his prose romances with
unforgettable figures.
But the most significant advance which this poem shows over earlier work
is in the greater genuineness of the poetic effect. In the description,
for example, of the approach of Roderick Dhu's boats to the island,
there is a singular depth of race feeling. There is borne in upon us, as
we read, the realization of a wild and peculiar civilization; we get a
breath of poetry keen and strange, like the shrilling of the bag-pipes
across the water. Again, in the speeding of the fiery cross there is a
primitive depth of poetry which carries with it a sense of "old,
unhappy, far-off things"; it appeals to latent memories in us, which
have been handed down from an ancestral past. There is nothing in either
_The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ or _Marmion_ to compare for natural
dramatic force with the situation in _The Lady of the Lake_ when
Roderick Dhu whistles for his clansmen to appear, and the astonished
Fitz-James sees the lonely mountain side suddenly bristle with tartans
and spears; and the fight which follows at the ford is a real fight, in
a sense not at all to be applied to the tournaments and other
conventional encounters of the earlier poems. Even where Scott still
clung to supernatural devices to help along his story, he handles them
with much greater subtlety than he had done in his earlier efforts. The
dropping of Douglas's sword from its scabbard when his disguised enemy
enters the room, arouses the imagination without burdening it. It has
the same imaginative advantage over such an episode as that in the
_Lay_, where the ghost of the wizard comes to bear off the goblin page,
as suggestion always has over explicit statement. This gain in subtlety
of treatment will be made still more apparent by comparing with any
supernatural episode of the _Lay_, the account in _The Lady of the Lake_
of the unearthly parentage of Brian the Hermit.
The gain in style is less perceptible. Scott was never a great stylist;
he struck out at the very first a nervous, hurrying meter, and a strong
though rather commonplace diction, upon which he never substantially
improved. Abundant action, rapid transitions, stirring descriptions,
common sentiments and ordinary language heightened by a dash of pomp and
novelty, above all a pervading animation, spirit, intrepidity--these are
the constant elements of Scott's success, present here in their
accustomed measure. In the broader sense of style, however, where the
word is understood to include all the processes leading to a given
poetical effect, _The Lady of the Lake_ has some advantage, even over
_Marmion_. It contains nothing, to be sure, so fine or so typical of
Scott's peculiar power, as the account of the Battle of Flodden in
_Marmion_; the minstrel's recital of the battle of Beal' an Duine does
not abide the comparison. The quieter parts of _The Lady of the Lake_,
moreover, are sometimes disfigured by a sentimentality and "prettiness"
happily unfrequent with Scott. But the description of the approach of
Roderick Dhu's war-boats, already mentioned, the superb landscape
delineation in the fifth canto, and the beautiful twilight ending of
canto third, can well stand as prime types of Scott's stylistic power.