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song, "Through groves of palm," sung in such a scene and by such a

lover, clench, as in a nutshell, the emphaticcontrast upon which



the tale is built. IN GUY MANNERING, again, every incident is

delightful to the imagination; and the scene when Harry Bertram



lands at Ellangowan is a model instance of romantic method.

"I remember the tune well," he says, "though I cannot guess what



should at present so strongly recall it to my memory." He took his

flageolet from his pocket and played a simple melody. Apparently



the tune awoke the corresponding associations of a damsel. She

immediately took up the song -



" 'Are these the links of Forth, she said;

Or are they the crooks of Dee,



Or the bonny woods of Warroch Head

That I so fain would see?'



" 'By heaven!' said Bertram, 'it is the very ballad.'"

On this quotation two remarks fall to be made. First, as an



instance of modern feeling for romance, this famous touch of the

flageolet and the old song is selected by Miss Braddon for



omission. Miss Braddon's idea of a story, like Mrs. Todgers's idea

of a wooden leg, were something strange to have expounded. As a



matter of personal experience, Meg's appearance to old Mr. Bertram

on the road, the ruins of Derncleugh, the scene of the flageolet,



and the Dominie's recognition of Harry, are the four strong notes

that continue to ring in the mind after the book is laid aside.



The second point is still more curious. The, reader will observe a

mark of excision in the passage as quoted by me. Well, here is how



it runs in the original: "a damsel, who, close behind a fine spring

about half-way down the descent, and which had once supplied the



castle with water, was engaged in bleaching linen." A man who gave

in such copy would be discharged from the staff of a daily paper.



Scott has forgotten to prepare the reader for the presence of the

"damsel"; he has forgotten to mention the spring and its relation



to the ruin; and now, face to face with his omission, instead of

trying back and starting fair, crams all this matter, tail



foremost, into a single shambling sentence. It is not merely bad

English, or bad style; it is abominably bad narrative besides.



Certainly the contrast is remarkable; and it is one that throws a

strong light upon the subject of this paper. For here we have a



man of the finest creativeinstincttouching with perfect certainty

and charm the romantic junctures of his story; and we find him



utterly careless, almost, it would seem, incapable, in the

technical matter of style, and not only frequently weak, but



frequently wrong in points of drama. In character parts, indeed,

and particularly in the Scotch, he was delicate, strong and



truthful; but the trite, obliterated features of too many of his

heroes have already wearied two generations of readers. At times



his characters will speak with something far beyond propriety with

a true heroic note; but on the next page they will he wading



wearily forward with an ungrammatical and undramatic rigmarole of

words. The man who could conceive and write the character of



Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot, as Scott has conceived and written

it, had not only splendid romantic, but splendid tragic gifts. How



comes it, then, that he could so often fob us off with languid,

inarticulate twaddle?



It seems to me that the explanation is to be found in the very

quality of his surprising merits. As his books are play to the



reader, so were they play to him. He conjured up the romantic with

delight, but he had hardly patience to describe it. He was a great



day-dreamer, a seer of fit and beautiful and humorous visions, but

hardly a great artist; hardly, in the manful sense, an artist at



all. He pleased himself, and so he pleases us. Of the pleasures

of his art he tasted fully; but of its toils and vigils and






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