# Female Portrait Gallery, from Sir Walter Scott/Constance

FEMALE PORTRAIT GALLERY, FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT.*
BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATRICE."
No. II.—Constance.
It is a curious thing, after years have elapsed, to go back upon the pages of a favourite author. Nothing shows us more forcibly the change that has taken place in ourselves. The book is a mental mirror—the mind starts from its own face, so much freshness, and so much fire has passed away. The colours and the light of youth have gone together. The judgment of the man rarely confirms that of the boy. What was once sweet has become mawkish, and the once exquisite simile appears little more than an ingenious conceit. The sentiment which the heart once beat to applaud has now no answering key-note within, and the real is perpetually militating against the imagined. It is a great triumph to the poet when we return to the volume, and find that our early creed was, after all, the true religion. Few writers stand this test so well as Sir Walter Scott. We read him at first with an eagerness impetuous as his own verse: years elapse, we again take up those living pages, and we find ourselves carried away as before. Our choice has changed, perhaps, as to favourite passages, but we still find favourites. Scott is the epic poet of England; he does for chivalry what Homer did for the heroic age. He caught it just fading into dim oblivion, living by tradition, veiled by superstition, uncertain and exaggerated; yet not less the chaos from whence sprang the present, which must trace to that morning checquered darkness, the acquisitions and the characteristics of to-day. What constitutes the great epic poet? his power of revivifying the past. It is not till a nation has gained a certain point in civilization that it desires to look back; but when action allows a breathing time for thought, and the mechanical and customary has succeeded to the adventurous and unexpected, then we desire to trace the Nile of our moral progress to its far and hidden fountains. It is this desire which is the inspiration of Walter Scott. From the dim waters he evokes the shining spirit, and from scattered fragments constructs the glorious whole. We cannot sympathize with the regret that he expresses in one of the exquisite introductions to "Marmion," when but for want of kingly countenance—
"Dryden, in immortal strain,
Had raised the Table Round again."
Dryden lived in an age when the political and moral standards were set at too low a water-mark for the high tides of poetry. With the most splendid and vigorous versification, with an energy of satire and wit that had the point of the dagger and the weight of the axe, Dryden was deficient in what Scott possessed. He would have lacked the picturesque which calls up yesterday, and the sentiment which links it with to-day. The machinery of guardian angels which he proposed is enough to show that the first design was a failure. It is a great poetical ​mistake to revive exploded superstition. The gods are effective in Homer, because both the age of which he wrote and that in which he wrote believed devoutly in the terrors of their thunder. But the guardian angels of England, Ireland, and Scotland—St. George, St. Patrick, and St. Andrew—could never have been more than ingenious human inventions. Scott did as much with superstition as any modern writer could venture. He gave the omen, the prophecy, and the gramarye, without which the picture he drew would have been incomplete. And what a picture he has drawn! how true, how breathing! It is England exactly as England was—full of tumult and of adventure, but with a rude sense of justice and a dawn of information destined to produce such vast after-growth of knowledge and prosperity. No writer has the art of conveying so much by a slight intimation. Sir Hugh the Heron Bold urges his invitation on the English Baron, that he "may breathe his war-horse well," for—
"The Scots can rein a mettled steed,
 And love to couch a spear.
St. George! a stirring life they lead
 That have such neighbours near."
Wat Tinlyn gives in three lines an equally vivid notion of the consequences of such "pleasant pastime :"—
"They burn'd my little lonely tower;
The foul fiend rive their souls therefore!
It had not been burn'd a year or more."
Not to have your house burned over your head for a twelvemonth seems an unwonted piece of domestic quiet. The metre, too, of these noble poems was admirably chosen. It is entirely English—it belongs to the period it illustrates—and the battle alone in "Marmion" may show what was its spirit and strength. It must, indeed, have rung like a silver trumpet amid the silken inanities of the Hayley and Seward school. It is quite odd now to read the sort of deprecating praise with which these poems were received by the established critical authorities. The expression of popular applause is too strong to be resisted, but while Mr. Scott's talents are universally admitted, he is constantly admonished to choose some loftier theme, as if any theme could have been better suited to a great national poet than one belonging to the history of that country whose youth is renewed in his stirring lines.
Never did any one age produce two minds so essentially opposed as those of Byron and Scott. Byron idealised and expressed that bitter spirit of discontent which has at the present moment taken a more material and tangible form. He is the incarnation of November. From time immemorial it has been an Englishman's privilege to grumble, and Byron gave picturesque language to the universal feeling. He embodied in his heroes what is peculiarly our insular character—its shyness, its sensitiveness, and its tendency to morbid despondency. Scott, on the contrary, took the more commercial and fighting side of the character; he embodied its enterprise and resistance. The difference is strongly shown in the delineation of their two most marked heroes—"Lara" and "Marmion." Both are men brave, unscrupulous, and accustomed ​to action; but Lara turns disgusted from a world which to him has neither an illusion nor a pleasure. Marmion, on the contrary, desires to pursue his career of worldly advancement: he looks forward to increased riches and power, and indulges in no misanthropic misgivings as to the worth of the acquisition when once gained. Both are attended by a Page—that favourite creation of the olden dramatists; Byron's is little more than the shadowy but graceful outline: Scott has worked out his creation truly and severely. The Pages in the old drama are entirely poetical creations; they occupy the debatable ground between the fanciful and the existing; they belong exclusively to the romantic in literature. They could only have been fancied when poetry delighted to hold love a creed as well as a passion. The heart called up the ideal to redeem the real, and an attachment was elevated by disinterestedness and moral beauty. There is none of this high-toned imagination in the classic fictions. Women were then considered as articles of property. The
Seven lovely captives of the Lesbian line,
Skill'd in each art, unmatch'd in form divine—
with whom Agamemnon seeks to propitiate the wrath of Achilles—hold an inferior place to the "twice ten vases of refulgent gold"—or to the twelve race-horses destined to form part of the offering. Achilles, though he protests that he loves the "beautiful captive of his spear," yet, not only parts with her, but, what would almost have been worse to a woman, parts with her without an adieu, and she is received again in silent indifference. She departs without a farewell, and returns with out a welcome. Briseis, however, loses ground in our sympathy, by her lamentation over the body of Patroclus:—
"The first loved consort of my virgin bed,
Before these eyes in fatal battle bled:
Thy friendly hand uprear'd me from the plain,
And dried my sorrows for a husband slain.
Achilles' care you promised I should prove,
The first, the dearest partner of his love."
Certainly the promise of a second husband may be very effective consolation for the loss of the first; still it says little for the delicacy or the constancy of the lady who was so consoled. But Christianity brought its own heaven to the things of earth; every passion was refined, and every affection exalted. Only under the purifying influence of that inward world to which it gave light, could sentiment have had its birth—and sentiment is the tenth Muse and the fourth Grace of modern poetry. But in the description of Constance there also is that strong perception of the actual, which is Scott's most marked characteristic. He paints her exactly what in all probability she would have been; he works out the severe lesson of retribution and of degradation. What is the current of Marmion's mind, when
"Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd,
All lovely on his soul return'd:
Lovely, as when, at treacherous call,
She left her convent's peaceful wall;
Crimson'd with shame, with terror mute,
Dreading alike, escape, pursuit;
Till love, victorious o'er alarms,
Hid fears and blushes in his arms?
Such is the first picture; what is the second?
Alas! thought he, how changed that mien,
How changed those timid looks have been!
Since years of guilt and of disguise
Have arm'd the terrors of her eyes.
No more of virgin terror speaks
The blood that mantled in her cheeks:
Fierce and unfeminine are there,
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair."
It is the strangest problem of humanity—one too, for which the closest investigation can never quite account—to trace the progress by which innocence becomes guilt, and how those who formerly trembled to think of crime, are led on to commit that at which they once shuddered. The man the most steeped in wickedness, must have had his innocent and his happy moments—a child, he must have played in the sunshine with spirits as light as the golden curls that toss on the wind. His little hands must have been clasped in prayer at his mother's knee; he must, during some moment of youth's generous warmth, have pitied human suffering, and wondered how man's blood could ever be shed by man: and if this holds good of man—how much more so of woman! But that it is one of those stern truths which experience forces us to know—we never could believe in murder as a feminine crime; yet, from the days of Clytemnestra, down to those of Mrs. Johnson, who took her trial for murder, "looking very respectable in a black silk cloak and straw bonnet," woman has been urged on to that last and most desperate wickedness. But the causes of masculine sin are more various than those which act upon the gentler sex. A woman's crime has almost always its origin in that which was given to be the sweetest and best part of her nature—her affections: a man's influence is much greater over a woman than hers over him—almost unconsciously she models her sentiments upon his—she adopts his opinions, she acquires the greater portion of her information through his means. As to her character—by character, I would wish to express that mental bent, which, once taken, always influences, more or less, that character—"Love gave it energy, as love gave it birth." An attachment is a woman's great step in life; for the first time she is called up to decide; and on that decision how much of the future will rest! There are, of course, many exceptions to this rule—there are instances in which the wife has been the redeeming angel—but, in nine cases out of ten, the man raises or depresses his companion to his own moral level. I remember once staying with a lady who was robbed of a valuable gold chain. The policeman was sent for, and his first inquiry was, as to who "the maid kept company with? for the London thieves have a regular set of lovers—and that is how half the robberies are committed." Constance is worked out in darker colours than Scott often uses for his feminine portraits. Our sex, at least, ought to be grateful to him, for how divine is the faith he holds in all that is good in us! Even with ​Constance, how much the soul is "subdued by pity!"—how is the horror relieved by beauty! I know no description conveying such an idea of exquisite loveliness, as that of Constance before her judges:—
"Her sex a page's dress belied,
Obscured her charms, but could not hide.
A monk undid the silken band,
 That tied her tresses fair;
And down her slender form they spread,
 In ringlets rich and rare.
When thus her face was given to view,
Although so pallid was her hue,
It did a ghastly contrast bear
To those bright ringlets glistering fair:
Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
And there she stood, so calm and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there,
So still she was, so pale, so fair."
It is wonderful how much Scott contrives to suggest to the imagination. The above picture brings Constance's previous existence so vividly to mind! The fugitive nun is again beneath the sway from whence she once fled:—she fled, timid, trusting, and hopeful; the beating heart, impatient of restraint, and confident of happiness—the lurking daring shown in the very escape; and the native courage in the resolve that could brave all the terrors of superstition; time passes on—
"For three long years I bow'd my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride."
Here again the spirit of determination is shown; Constance will not dwell alone, apart—
"Within some lonely bower."
No; she will keep at her lover's side—in the wide and weary world she has nothing to do but to wait upon Marmion's steps. But even that haughty spirit has its sad weak moments: Sir Hugh has
"Often mark'd his cheeks were wet
With tears he fain would hide."
It is a cruel proof of the want of generosity in human nature, that an affection too utterly self-sacrificing always meets with an evil return. The obligation for which we know there is no requital becomes a burden hard to be borne; we take refuge in ingratitude. Secondly, the conscience is never quite without
"That shuddering chill
Which follows fast on deed of ill."
"Weary to hear the desperate maid
Threaten by turn, beseech, upbraid."
Years of misery and mortification had done their work: right and wrong were confounded together in the first instance. Constance could neither look forward nor back; she was forced to exist intensely in the present; and that is one of the worst punishments that guilt can know. Our youth is gone from us with all its kindlinesses, its innocent fond ness, and its graceful amusements; memory can only
"lead us back
In mournful mockery o'er the shining track
Of our young life, and point out every ray
Of hope and truth we've lost upon the way."
Our future is obscure and threatening; the eyes involuntarily turn away—they can see nothing but the phantom—more terrible for its indistinctness—of slow, but certain retribution. Remorse, unattended by repentance, always works for evil—it adds bitterness and anger to error.
Such are the dark materials out of which the character of Constance is formed; we can trace its degradation step by step—we see how the timid has grown hardened—the resolute reckless—and the affectionate only passionate. Constant contact with coarser natures has seared the finer perceptions, and the sense of right and wrong is deadened by hardship, suffering, and evil communion. The character so formed has now to be worked upon by the most fearful passion which can agitate the human heart—that which is strong as death and cruel as the grave—the passion of jealousy. The name of jealousy is often taken in vain—Henry VIII. is called jealous when he was only tyrannical;—the mere desire of influence, envy, and irritability of temper, are often veiled under the name of jealousy; and many a husband and wife talk of "being jealous," while in reality profoundly indifferent to each other, and only desiring a decent excuse for anger: it is oftener envy than any other feeling. But the passion of jealousy cannot exist without the passion of love, and is like its parent, creative, impetuous, and credulous. Earth holds no misery so great as that of doubting the affection, which is dearer than life itself—and perhaps it takes its worst shape to a woman. Her attachment is to her more than it ever can be to a man. It enters into her ordinary course of existence—it belongs to the small sweet cares of every day—while it is not less the great aim and end of her being. With her, but "once to doubt" is not "once to be resolved," but to plunge into a chaos of small distracting fears. How much more must this be the case when the affection has been one of sacrifice and of dishonour! Constance must have watched for weary hours the slightest sign of change—she must have feared before she felt—expected long before it came—yet scarce believed when it did come. At length the fatal hour arrives; she knows that she is "betrayed and scorned." In the fearful solitude of Lindisfarne, how bitterly must she have ​numbered every sacrifice made to "that false knight and falser lover!" Youth, innocence, hours of tender watchfulness, hope on earth, and belief in heaven—all these have been given for his sake, who leaves her to perish by a dreadful death—and, what is the worst sting of that death, leaves her for another;—she has attempted the life of her rival, and failed:—a darker doom yet remains, she will
"Give him to the headsman's stroke,
Although her heart that instant broke."
Marmion shall not live on with a fairer bride—that heart, which had been so unutterably precious to her, shall never be the resting-place of another. The fierce and daring love which has ruled her through life is with her even in death. She gave the fatal packet—
"But to assure her soul that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion."
There is here one exquisite touch of knowledge in feminine nature—the grave yawns beneath her feet, opened by her lover's falsehood—her revenge has pointed the pathway to his scaffold—yet her heart turns to him with an inconsistent reliance—and menaces that dark conclave with fiery visitings if "Marmion's vengeance late should wake:" she has yet a lingering pride in the brave and powerful baron
"First amid England's chivalry."
Scott deprecates censure on him who
"Died a gallant knight—
With sword in hand for England's right."
Still more might we deprecate it for her "who died in Holy Isle." The morality of pity is deeper and truer than that of censure. The sweetest and best qualities of our nature may be turned to evil, by the strong force of circumstance and of temptation.
Constance is but the general history of those who escape from the convent cell of restraint, and lose the softest feathers of the dove's wing in the effort; a few feverish years flit by—and then comes the end—despair and death!—For such a grave there is but one inscription—"Implora pace!"
L. E. L.