# The Female Portrait Gallery/Mary Avenel

THE MONASTERY.
No. 17.— MARY AVENEL.
I have lately been reading* these novels over again, with a pleasure which only those who have been placed in similar circumstances can understand. They have had the advantage of association and contrast. It has been a perpetual delight to dwell on their descriptions, and then look around and see scenes so completely their opposite, instead of the winding river, the green field, and the familiar oak and elm. I look upon the vast sea, whose dash against the rock never ceases—and on a land whose heights are covered with a wilderness of wood—and where the single trees scattered in the foreground are the cocoa nut and palm. Every page, too, has a charm almost beyond its first eager perusal—how much do they recall of the days when they were read before—how many conversations ​for which they furnished the material—how each different character gave its cast to its opinion, while every different volume seems to bring back the friend with whom it was the favourite. No book is fairly judged till it is read twice, and at distant periods. It is curious to note the variation of taste in ourselves. I can remember I devoured the story keenly, dwelt on all that partook of sentiment, and never questioned the depth of any remark. I now find that I take chief interest in what brings out character. I enter more into the humourous, and am every now and then tempted to analyse the truth of a deduction. I think more over what I am reading, and delight more in connecting the world of fiction with that of reality.
In the "Monastery," Scott has gone back upon that more fanciful and legendary vein, which originated the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." He admits frankly the failure in the introduction of supernatural agency—on, however, what scarcely appears to me the true ground. The supernatural has even now hold on human imagination, if it be linked with its fears, or its sentiments. Look at the effect produced in the "Bride of Lammermuir," where the agency is that of the terrible, and Scott himself points out the charm of the exquisite story of "Undine," where the fancy is awakened through the affections. But the supernatural has its keeping as well as the real. Now the White ​Lady of Avenel does nothing that might not have been better effected by mere mortal agency, and the ludicrous destroys the poetical. It does not harmonize with the fanciful conception to employ it in ducking a monk, and producing a bodkin to shew that a knight was descended from a tailor's daughter; and, after all, this magic intercourse does not affect Halbert's character—he is but what the magic of circumstances alone would make of a high-spirited, brave, and intelligent youth. The same may be said of Mary Avenel—she is born on all Hallows eve—she sees her father's ghost, and the spirit linked to the fortunes of her house, but all this has no result—she is but what a maiden might well be whose birth and fortunes were so much at variance—quiet, meek and subdued, yet with that simple dignity which self-respect and early association usually give. The respect for gentle birth is a characteristic of the Scottish nation, and this if a prejudice grows out of our noblest illusions. It is a disinterested pride, taking something solemn from the dead among whom it must originate. Its chief distinctions are the guerdon of high qualities, of skill in the council, and courage in the field. The good fame of those who have gone before, seems at once the gage and incentive of our own. The common-place of today is coloured by the picturesque of yesterday. Never will there be poetry, generous endeavour, ​or lofty standard of excellence, but among a people who take pride in the past. It is the past that re deems and elevates the present. The good worked from this feeling is beautifully shown, as calling out the kindly sense with us. In Elspeth Glendinning it takes the shape of enduring hospitality, and affectionate respect to the unfortunate. In Tibb Tackets, the bower-woman, by increased devotion to the fortunes of a family fallen from its high estate. By the by, how perfect are these two, each in her way. What can be more natural than the good dame's ejaculation, when her maternal pride and anxiety are awakened to the utmost by her son's summons, to appear before the "Abbot"—"His will be done; but an' he had but on his Sunday hose!" What more true to life than the way in which the bower-woman takes art and part in all the former glories of the family. It is the same spirit that animates Constant in his preface to the memoirs of Napoleon. His valet has some share in his victories, or as he himself most poetically intimates, "si je ne suis pas la rose j’ai reçu pres d’elle." The episode, too, of Katharine, the ill-fated mistress of Julian Avenel, is the most deeply pathetic incident that ever turned on "trusting affection ill-requited." The remorse subdued by love, the painful timidity, the desire to please, constantly checked by the dread that its power is over, the sense of shame and degradation, ​were never more exquisite in their truth than in this slight sketch. Another great beauty in the "Monastery," are the poetical fragments sung by the White Lady. Fanciful, full of imagery and melody—they would bear comparison with Scott's earliest and happiest efforts. Though the word effort is mistaken as applied to poetry, "it comes unbidden if it come at all." Its very writers might themselves wonder why at times harmony and imagery crowd upon the mind which, at another time, would seek them, and in vain. The presence of poetry is as mysterious and uncertain in its loveliness as the shadowy beauty of the White Lady of Avenel.