# The Female Portrait Gallery/Julia Mannering

GUY MANNERING.
No. 3.—JULIA MANNERING.
There is one point of view in which the Waverley novels may be considered peculiarly suited to our age, which piques itself on its utilitarism, viz. the capital which they have been the means of circulating; in paper, printing, bookbinding, and conveyance of the volumes, which amount to an immense sum; and there is no country civilized enough for literature where they are not to be found. But one benefit they have conferred has been expressly for Scotland, and the head of Walter Scott would be the fittest sign for every inn in the land of cakes. He originated the taste for travelling there, now so universal. Sixty years ago a tour through the Highlands was much about what a tour through Crim Tartary would be considered at present. Now, how few there are among those who travel at all, but have sailed on—
"Lovely Loch Achray.
Where shall they find in foreign land,
So lone a lake—so sweet a strand."
Few but have passed the Trossachs; and though I plead guilty to the weakness of feeling it a shock to hear of a steam-boat on Loch Katrine, yet, considering that a steam-boat makes that a pleasure for the many, which would otherwise be confined to the few, the dark chimney may smoke through
"Every vale,
Rent from the Saxon and the Gael."
In nothing more than in travelling are the picturesque and the useful blended together, and Scotland is now, thanks to the author of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," classic ground; it is filled with associations—it is peopled with the past.
It is no paradox to say, that the country is never so much enjoyed as by the dwellers in cities. How many are there who live eleven months on the hope of the twelfth given to some brief but delightful wandering. Even in the dull and mindless routine of a watering-place, where shrimps and rabbles are the Alpha and Omega of the day, there is refreshment and relief; and how much are these increased, when the perceptions, as well as the sensations, are called into play? How much poetical feeling, how much enthusiasm, has the perusal of some favourite work excited in the minds of those about to visit the scenes depicted. How much was the actual enjoyment heightened by the various remembrances called up; what a store of pleasant reminiscences must be carried home to the fire-side, and what ​a new pleasure to open some page of glowing description, now familiar to the eye as well as to the fancy. It is impossible for even the most common-place mind not to gain something of the refined and the ideal in such a process; and in the mutual intercourse thus established between two countries, separated by old hostilities, number less prejudices, and some unkindness must have been swept away in a manner unusually conciliating to both parties. "Waverley," and "Guy Mannering," are international links.
"Guy Mannering" is a novel of modern manners, or rather of modern date; for with one or two exceptions, the district is so remote, that the customs are of the olden time. In the admirably drawn character of Colonel Mannering, ample reason is found for its locale—he is the very man to whom the seclusion of a wild country would be its chief attraction. The habits of a man accustomed to command—especially on a foreign station, would necessarily be reserved and secluded. Not only accustomed to implicit obedience, but aware of its imperative necessity under the circumstances in which they have been placed, such are apt to expect it from all. Now, what is but the necessary authority in official life, and with man over man, seems harshness when extended to woman. How often, perhaps, must Colonel Mannering's decision have seemed sternness, his reserve coldness, his ​abstraction indifference, and his authority tyranny, to a young, spoilt, and pretty woman. Her attachment would not be diminished, for his high qualities ensured that respect needful for the duration of affection; but he had also those which keep the imagination alive, and of that, feminine love is "all compact." We can also believe that Colonel Mannering was very fond of his wife, though shy of showing it, even to herself; above all, his pride would revolt from any of that display before others in which she would take an excusable vanity. Pride on the one hand—petulance on the other, would soon lead to misunderstanding, the weaker party would soon be forced to yield, and the yielding would be less palatable from the consciousness of having been wrong. Colonel Mannering is a strictly just man, but not one to make allowances; a weakness would irritate him as much as a fault. Deceit is the offspring of fear, especially with woman; and the sophistry of—
"It is such a trifle it cannot matter,"
is too easy not to be tempting in practice. We have dwelt on Colonel Mannering's character—for the whole story grows out of it; and, moreover, it formed both that of his wife and daughter. But while Julia's habits and opinions were from her mother, she inherited some of the qualities of her father—the high spirit, the quick feeling, and the ​intelligence, are of paternal origin—she would understand and justify any confidence that might be placed in her. There is something singularly natural in her letters: gay, ignorant of reality, yet with a native quick perception, they are just what a clever, spoilt, self-witted girl, quite unacquainted with the world, would write. The inherent good feeling and sense of propriety soon show themselves, and it is a relief that the clandestine correspondence in which we find her engaged has so many extenuating circumstances; for in spite of moonlight, rope-ladders, and a chaise-and-four, the love affair, carried on in opposition and secrecy, will mostly end ill. Deception is always an evil, but in youth—youth, whose very faults should be open-hearted and impetuous, it lays the foundation of the worst possible faults of character. More over, unromantic as it may sound, the objections of the elder party are often more wisely founded than their juniors are tempted to admit, and life has no wretchedness equal to an ill-assorted marriage—it is the sepulchre of the heart, haunted by the ghosts of past affections, and hopes gone by for ever.