From Marmion to Woodstock² is a wide step—it passes over the greater portion of Sir Walter's life—they belong indeed to
periods as widely different as they are widely apart. Marmion belongs
to the spring, Woodstock to the autumn. The one is fresh, eager, and
impetuous, there are the winds of March, and the flowers of April; it abounds with
that prodigality of power and beauty which belongs to the year's first and lavish
season. The other has the same power and the same beauty—but the exercise of the one
is skilful, and the display of the other mellowed. But it is in the writer's self
that the chief change is found—many a hue has faded from the landscape—many a green
leaf turned yellow since the exquisite introductions ushered in the various cantos.
Many a pulse, too, has lost its elasticity—many a warm quick emotion sleeps to awaken
no more: the heart loses its youth while the mind is in all its vigour. In one of
the
memoranda of the deeply-affecting journal in the last volume of "Scott's Life," he observes:—"People say
that the whole human frame in all its parts and divisions, is gradually, in the act,
decaying and renewing. What a curious timepiece it would be that could indicate to
us
the moment this gradual and insensible change had so completely taken place that no
atom was left of the original person who had existed at a certain period, but there
existed in his stead another person having the same thews and sinews, the same face
and lineaments, the same consciousness—a new ship built on an old plank—a pair of
transmigrated stockings like those of Sir John
Cutler, all green without one thread of the original black left! singular,
to be at once another and the same."³

[Page 481]

By-the-by, this doctrine of perpetual transmigration would be a curious plea to urge
for the non-fulfilment of former engagements; seven years is I believe the term
allotted for the entire change. Now, might not a man encumbered with debt plead at
the expiration of the period in the Courts of Westminster, that he was not the person
who actually contracted those debts? Or might not an inconstant couple sue for a
divorce, on the plea that neither were the individuals who originally married? But
as— In these nice quibbles of the law,Good sooth, I am no wiser than a daw,⁴ space between stanzas I shall leave these intricate questions to closer casuists. But if the
outward world be changed, how much more changed is that within! 'Tis not from youth's smooth cheek alone,The bloom that fades so fast,But the tender bloom of the heart is goneBefore its youth be past.⁵ space between stanzas

We set out in life, generous, frank, and confiding; the first emotion is always kind
and lofty—we are eager to love, for we feel that affection is enjoyment, and that
"happiness was born a twin. The world seems filled with beauty, and our very fancies
are tangible delights."⁶ We clothe the palpable and the familiarWith golden exhalations from the dawn.⁷ space between stanzas But the mist melts away, and with it half the loveliness of the landscape:
we are startled to find in how many illusions we have indulged. The dew-drops that
glittered as if just melted from some fairy rainbow, are shaken from the bough, and
there hangs the bare and thorny branch—old friends have fallen from us, and their
memory is sad:— They come in long procession ledThe cold, the faithless, and the dead.⁸ space between stanzas It is no longer easy to supply their place—love is no longer the easy and
the credulous. We investigate the motive, where we once trusted to the impulse: we
doubt, because we have been deceived: we cannot choose but remember how often our
kindliest feelings have been wasted, and our confidence been betrayed. The dark past
flings its shadow forward on our path like a perpetual warning; it is no longer easy
to spring into the sunshine. We all grow wiser, but assuredly we are grown colder
and
graver. The sadness of youth is half poetry. William Wordsworth truly says In youth sad fancies we affect,In luxury of disrespect,Of our own prodigal excessOf too familiar happiness.⁹ space between stanzas Youth has sorrows, but maturity has cares, and the care is harder to bear
than the sorrow. Circumstances, too, may change around us; and the trouble that comes
late in the day is a heavy burden. We have no longer the alacrity of spirit that
feels but half the weight it carries. I know nothing so touching as the account in
"Scott's Memoirs" of how
different the modes of composition which led to the production of
Marmion and of Woodstock. The poet of
Marmion delighted in the external impulse—the verse rose sounding
in his ears while loitering
April.—vol. lii. no.
ccviii.2 i[Page 482]beneath the tall old ash-trees with the wind in their branches and the
sunshine on their leaves. He caught his melody when —— thoughts awakeBy lone St. Mary's silent lake.¹⁰ space between stanzas The battle of Flodden filled his mind when "he used to delight in walking
his powerful black steed up and down by himself on the Porto Bello sands within the
beating of the surge, and now and then you would see him plunge in his spurs, and
go
off as if at the charge, with the spray dashing about him. As we rode back to
Musselburgh, he often came and placed himself beside me¹¹ to repeat the verses that he had been composing during the
pauses of our exercise." Lockhart
remarks, "I well remember his saying, as I rode with him across the hills from
Ashetiel to Newark one day in his declining years—'Oh, man, I had many a grand gallop
among these braes, when I was thinking of Marmion, but a trotting
canny pony must serve me now.'"

Scott apologising—ah, how needlessly!—for
the exquisite epistles to his friends in "Marmion" says—"I was still
young, light-hearted, and happy—and 'out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh.'"¹² Look on this picture and on this.¹³ space between stanzas It would be sacrilege to alter one word of Lockhart's touching, deeply touching,
description of his literary labours years afterwards.

"He read, and noted, and indexed, with the pertinacity of some pale compiler in the
British Museum; but rose from such employment, not radiant and buoyant as after he
had been feasting himself among the teeming harvests of fancy, but with an aching
brow, and eyes on which the dimness of years had began to plant some specks, before
they were subjected again to that straining over small print and difficult MS, which
had no doubt been familiar to them in the early time, when, in
Shortreed's¹⁴ phrase, 'he was making himself.' It was a pleasant
sight when one happened to take a peep into his den, to see the white head erect,
and
the smile of conscious inspiration on his lips; while the pen, held boldly and at
a
commanding distance, glanced steadily and gaily along a fast blackening page of the
'Talisman.'¹⁵ It now often made me sorry to catch a glimpse
of him; stooping and poring with his spectacles, amidst piles of authorities, a
little note-book in the left hand, that had always been at liberty for patting
Maida."¹⁶ Sir Walter himself often alludes in his
Journal to his disinclination for composition, and the way in which, during the
progress of Woodstock, he had to force his mind to the task. In one
part, it is "I hope to sleep better to-night; if I do not, I shall get ill, and then
I shall not be able to keep my engagements."¹⁷ Then come continual enumerations of the number of pages written,
and remarks on the physical weakness. "I am a good deal jaded, and will not work till
after dinner. There is a sort of drowsy vacillation of the mind attends fatigue with
me:—I can command my pen as the school-copy recommends, but cannot equally command
my
thoughts, and often write one word for another."¹⁸ In
addition are perpetual recurrences to the pecuniary difficulties in which he is
involved:—difficulties whose endurance sets the rack and wheel at defiance; they are—
Tortures the poor alone can know,The proud alone can feel.¹⁹ space between stanzas[Page 483]Yet these were the circumstances under which Woodstock,
one of the most striking and original of his works, was produced. The history of most
fictions would be far stranger than the fictions themselves; but it would be a dark
and sad chronicle. Half the works that constitute the charm of our leisure, that give
their own interest to the long November evening, or add to the charm of a summer noon
beneath the greenwood tree, are the offspring of poverty and of pain. Dr. Johnson wrote Rasselas
to pay the last decent respect of the living to the dead—his mother's funeral
expenses. How often is the writer obliged to put his own trouble, his suffering, or
his sorrow aside, to finish his task! The hand may tremble, the eyes fill with
unbidden tears, and the temples throb with feverish pain, yet how often is there some
hard and harsh necessity, which says, "the work must be done." Readers, in general,
think little of this: they will say, "Dear! how delightful to be able to write such
charming things! how it must amuse you!" I believe if there were only the author's
amusement in the case it would fall very short of their own; not but what composition
has its moments of keen and rapid delight when the scene rises vividly before you,
and the mind is warm with the consciousness of its own powers: but these are only
"angel visits," they do not form the staple of any work. Literature soon becomes a
power, not what it once was, a passion; but literary success, like all others, is
only to be obtained, and retained, by labour—and labour and inclination do not always
go together. Take all our most eminent writers, and the quantity of work, hard work,
they have got through, will be found enormous and perpetual. Literature, as a
profession, allows little leisure, and less indulgence. The readers are the gainers:
to them how little difference does it make that Marmion was written in
youth, health, and prosperity; while Woodstock was the weary task of
breaking health, and broken fortunes—their amusement is the same! But even to the
most careless, a deeper interest is thrown around these volumes, and every little
touch of individuality seems like the familiar intercourse of a friend. Lockhart says in the Memoir, "I know not
how others interpreted various passages in Woodstock, but there were
not a few that carried deep meaning, for such of Scott's own friends as were acquainted
with, not his pecuniary misfortunes alone, but the drooping health of his wife, and
the consolation afforded him by the dutiful devotion of his daughter Anne, in whose
character and demeanour a change had occurred exactly similar to that painted in poor
Alice Lee—'a light joyous air, with something of a humorous expression, which seemed
to be looking for amusement, had vanished before the touch of affection, and a calm
melancholy had supplied its place, which seemed on the watch to administer comfort
to others.'"²⁰

There is a very touching allusion to Miss Scott's anxiety about her father's
enjoyments, in the Diary:—"Anne is practising Scottish songs, which I take as a kind
compliment to my own taste, as her's leads her chiefly to foreign music. I think the
good girl sees that I want and must miss her sister's peculiar talent in singing the
airs of our native country, which, imperfect as my musical ear is, make, and have
always made, the most pleasing impression on me; and so, if she puts a constraint
on
herself for my sake, I can only say in requital, 'God bless her!'"²¹ There is sunshine in a shady place, and it is soothing to imagine
the pleasure that Scott must have had
while investing the creature of his
2 i 2[Page 484]imagination with the love and devotion which had been his own solace.
There is a striking reality about the character of Alice Lee. They are indeed
unfortunate who can recall no likeness, who are not reminded of some actual instance
of affection lightening adversity, and shedding its own sweetness over the sorrow
which it could at least share. Alice Lee is among the most loveable of Scott's feminine creations. No writer
possessed, to a greater degree, that faculty which Coleridge so prettily describes in one
line— My eyes make pictures when they're shut.²² space between stanzas And every appearance of Alice Lee is a picture. We see her first in the
shadowy twilight, the light step of youth subdued to the heavier tread of age; and
in
the dialogue that follows, with what force, and yet what delicacy, we are made
acquainted with the innermost recesses of the maiden's heart! Alice is at the most
interesting period of a woman's existence—when the character is gradually forming
under circumstances that develop all latent qualities. The rose has opened to the
summer—the girl has suddenly become a woman.

Alice Lee's predominate feeling is attachment to her father: her love for her cousin
is a gentle and quiet love; it belongs to the ease and familiarity of childhood; it
is constantly subdued by a rival and holier sentiment. Alice's devotion to her father
is not merely the fulfilment of a duty, it is a warmer and keener emotion—there is
pity and enthusiasm blended with her filial piety—she sees the kind-hearted old man
bowed by adversity, mortified in all those innocent vanities which sit closely to
every heart; his old age is deprived of those comforts with which youth may
dispense—but which are hard to lose when they are, and have long been, matters both
of right and habit. No wonder that his child clings to him with a deeper, sadder,
tenderness. Who can avoid bringing the picture home to Scott himself? his difficulties seem
peculiarly adapted to awaken the most painful sympathy. They came upon him in his
old
age, yet were met with the noblest spirit of resistance. From the time that he felt
labour to be a duty—with what unflinching earnestness did he set about that labour!
Not even when working to achieve the dearest objects of his ambition—to become the
master of Abbotsford—to settle an eldest and beloved son in life—did Scott exert himself as he did when the
exertion was for his creditors. It seems doubly hard when we think how much others
had to do with the burden whose weight was upon him even to the grave.

While on this subject, may I be permitted a few words concerning one to whose memory
but harsh and scanty justice has been allotted—I allude to the late Mr. Constable? Perhaps I may be
biassed by the recollection of kindness extended to myself when very young. Mr. Constable was the first
publisher with whom I had ever any communication. His peculiarly kind and courteous
manner (I went to visit some near relatives in the North under his escort) left an
indelible impression. I was then a child in everything, especially judgment; and
would as little now venture to pronounce on affairs of which I can know nothing. But
I may be allowed to dwell on the general benevolence of Mr. Constable's character. Sir Walter Scott particularly remarks, that
Constable's individual expenses
were moderate, and within what his income would have seemed to justify: if he failed,
it was in the cause of that literature to which he devoted himself with an enthusiasm
of an order far beyond the mere [Page 485]speculations of profit. There must have
been delicacy, as well as generosity, in the mind that concealed from the author any
comparative failure in the sale of his works, lest it should damp his genius. Look
what its first great publisher did for the publishing trade in Edinburgh; with him
it
rose into existence and prosperity, and with him it died. He originated our first
periodical—and, both in literature and in politics, what vast influence has been,
and
is exercised by the "Edinburgh Review!" He, too, was the first person who saw the growing demand of the public
mind for intellectual food; and the plan of cheap publication, so general now, and
profitable to so many, was Mr.
Constable's idea. In his long career, how many owed to him kindness and
assistance—and how melancholy were its closing scenes! The body destroyed—the mind
broken down: such was the close of the great publisher—and of the great author!

"Woodstock" belongs to a better time. Scott felt his powers vigorous as ever—and
no one could imagine and dwell upon such a creation as Alice Lee, and not be the
better and the happier. Every time she appears on the scene she brings with her an
atmosphere of purity and beauty. How lovely is the scene conjured up in the little
hut, when the evening hymn disturbs, but to make musical, the silence of the forest
glades; and the words of faith and hope, cheering the gentle and maiden heart, which
was their worthy temple! Again, in what a noble and high spirit is her rejection of
Charles's ungenerous suit. Only one of a school, whose profligacy was the cold result
of vanity, could have insulted a purity so simple and so apparent, by dishonourable
affection. But it is mockery to use the word affection in such a case. I do not
believe that affection can exist without truth, without the ideal, and without
blending with itself all that is best and most earnest in our nature. Charles thinks
far less of Alice than of the sneer of Buckingham and the jest of Rochester.

As I said before, a series of pictures might be formed of Alice in the various
situations of "Woodstock." There are three which have always
singularly impressed my imagination. The first is the little turret, with Dr.
Rochecliffe in the little turret-chamber, when he proposes to her to make a seeming
assignation with the King: there is the dignity that would light her eyes, the
timidity that would colour her cheek, and the intuitive sense of right that could
not
for a moment tamper with its fine sense of maidenly propriety. Then the second, where
she stands in the green coppice looking, as she thinks, her last on the lover who
leaves her under the most bitter perversion of her real meaning: her cheek is white
as monumental marble, and her long fair curls damp with the heavy dews—they are the
faint outward sign of what is passing in her heart. The third is where, escaped from
a danger which had seemed so certain and so imminent, she throws herself half in
thankfulness, half in affection, into her father's arms, and then is suddenly
recalled into a sweet and timid consciousness of Markham Everard's presence.

None of Sir Walter's novels end more
satisfactorily than "Woodstock." There could be but one destiny for
Alice—the genial and quiet circle of an English home, whose days are filled with
pleasant duties, and whose sphere lies around the hearth. The devoted daughter is
what she ought to be—the affectionate mother and the happy wife.

L. E. L.