By WALLACE BRUCE.

When Walter Scott, one morning before breakfast, while looking for fishing-tackle, came upon his long neglected manuscript of Waverley, and decided to publish it, he baited his hook, so to speak, with a plump literary angle-worm, and carefully concealing himself, dropped it cautiously into one of the quiet and almost stagnant pools which here and there break the flow of the eighteenth century.

Not to carry the figure further he wakes up one morning to find the “Author of Waverley” famous; but no one knew who the “Author of Waverley” was. Romances, relating alike to the history of Scotland, England, France, Switzerland and Palestine, covering a wide range of life and character, with a varied record of eight hundred years, followed each other so rapidly that the reading world opened its eyes in wonder, until the “great unknown” was finally regarded the “great magician.” His books, as they came wet from the press, were literally devoured by the story-loving people of England and Scotland; and packages, shipped across the Atlantic, were regarded the most valuable part of the cargo. I have heard elderly people of New England speak of anxiously waiting for the next ship which was to bring to their hands a new novel by the “Author of Waverley.” Never before had the pen of any man awakened such responsive interest in his own generation. The publication of Waverley marked a new era in romantic literature.

During the eighty years that have followed that publication mankind has had its hopes, longings, ambitions and jealousies mirrored in works of fiction. Hundreds, ay, thousands of novels—most of them unworthy of their high lineage—have contended with each other for the world’s approbation; writers without number have flooded the century with romance; but through all these years Walter Scott stands the acknowledged master, the purest-hearted, the noblest-minded of them all; the man who could say upon his death-bed: “I have not written one line which I would wish blotted.”

No words of re-invitation are necessary to those who have once read the pages of Sir Walter, but it will be a “consummation devoutly to be wished” if I can turn the coming generation of your readers away from the sickly sentiment of the day to the works of him, whose influence, like that of King Arthur of the Round Table, inspires the soul with

Some years ago, while preparing a lecture on “The Landmarks of Scott,” I found myself confronted with twenty-six novels and five well-known poems, besides innumerable essays and histories, all demanding at least a passing word. I saw that two minutes devoted to each would more than fill my lecture hour, and leave no room for the frame-work, viz: Loch Katrine, Loch Lomond, the Trosachs, Melrose, Edinboro, the Yarrow, the Ettrick, the Tweed, and the Border Country, where the Percy and the Douglas fought. It then occurred to me that Scott had unconsciously prepared a panoramic history of Europe from the time of the Crusades to the year 1812. Acting upon this suggestion I examined the novels and poems and found to my great delight, that with here and there an absent link of fifty or a hundred years the chain was almost perfect. I condensed the prominent features of eight hundred years, tracing their connection with Scott’s graphic pictures into a pen-sketch of ten minutes, and I have been gratified to see that this idea of chronological order has been recently followed by one of the leading New York publishers. It is my object in a series of articles to elaborate this historical sequence from the time of “Count Robert of Paris” (1094) down to “St. Ronan’s Well” (1812), and to point out in passing some of the beauties of the great author.

If the reader of these articles will follow with me the romances to which I refer, I think he will say, at the close of the series, that he has found in the Waverley Novels a vivid picture of the events and customs of Europe, from the days of the crusades down to a time within the memory of men still living. M. Augustin Thierry, one of the most philosophical essayists of France, has eloquently said: “There are scenes of such simplicity, of such living truth, to be found, that notwithstanding the distance of the period in which the author places himself, they can be realized without effort. It is because in the midst of the world which no longer exists, Walter Scott always places the world which does, and always will exist; that is to say, human nature, of which he knows all the secrets. Everything peculiar to the time and place, the exterior of men, and aspect of the country and of the habitations, costumes and manners, are described with the most minute truthfulness; and yet the immense erudition, which has furnished so many details, is nowhere to be perceived. Walter Scott seems to have for the past that second sight, which, in times of ignorance, men attributed to themselves for the future. To say that there is more real history in his novels on Scotland and England than in the philosophically false compilations, which still possess that great name, is not advancing anything strange in the eyes of those who have read and understood “Old Mortality,” “Waverley,” “Rob Roy,” the ”Fortunes of Nigel,” and the “Heart of Mid Lothian.”

Allison says in his essay on Chateaubriand, published in Blackwood’s Magazine, March, 1832: “We feel in Scott’s characters that it is not romance, but real life which is represented. Every word that is said, especially in the Scotch novels, is nature itself. Homer, Cervantes, Shakspere, and Scott, alone have penetrated to the deep substratum of character, which, however disguised by the varieties of climate and government, is at bottom everywhere the same; and thence they have found a responsive echo in every human heart. He has carried romance out of the region of imagination and sensibility into the walks of actual life. He has combined historical accuracy and romantic adventure with the interest of tragic events; we live with the heroes, and princes, and paladins of former times, as with our own contemporaries; and acquire from the splendid coloring of his pencil such a vivid conception of the manners and pomp of the feudal ages, that we confound them, in our recollections, with the scenes which we ourselves have witnessed. The splendor of their tournaments, the magnificence of their dress, the glancing of their arms, their haughty manners, daring courage, and knightly courtesy; the shock of their battle-steeds, the splintering of their lances, the conflagration of their castles, are brought before our eyes in such vivid colors, that we are at once transported to the age of Richard and Saladin, of Charles the Bold and Philip Augustus.”

The four novels, which deal with the history of the Crusades, are “Count Robert of Paris,” “The Betrothed,” “The Talisman,” and “Ivanhoe.” It is a singular fact that the one occupying the first place in chronological order was written last, and hardly completed by the author when he died. “Ivanhoe” is, without doubt, the great favorite. I have often thought that “Ivanhoe” bears the same relation to Scott’s novels that “The Merchant of Venice” does to the dramas of Shakspere. “Old Mortality,” and “Hamlet,” may show deeper insight; but neither Scott nor Shakspere ever surpassed the two I have associated in dramatic interest. The three novels which precede “Ivanhoe” in point of time will give us a complete knowledge of the times and manners of the Crusades, and lead us, as it were, from one picture-gallery to another, until we come to the master-piece of the great artist.

“Count Robert of Paris” opens with a description of the court of Alexius Commenus—a wily monarch, who had ample need of all his strategy in dealing with foes that menaced him from every side: the Franks from the west, the Turks from the east, the Scythians from the north, the Saracens from the south. The wealthy city on the Bosphorous, enriched by the spoils of nations, whose golden gate symbolized the wealth and magnificence of seven hundred years of prosperity, was on the great highway of travel, where, so to speak, the “cross-roads” of Europe met, and presented a tempting prize to the restless and barbarous hordes from the shores of the Caspian to the German Ocean. “The superb successor of the earth’s mistress,” decked in borrowed splendor, gave early intimations of that speedy decay to which the whole civilized world, then limited within the Roman Empire, was internally and imperceptibly tending. Intrigue and corruption in the palace had compelled the Greek sovereigns of Constantinople, for many years, to procure foreign soldiers to quell insurrections and defend any traitorous attempt on the imperial person. These were known as Verangians—a word signifying barbarians—and formed a corps of satellites more distinguished for valor than the famed PrÆtorian Bands of Rome.

The second chapter of the book reveals the hatred and jealousy existing between these foreign soldiers and the crafty civilians. The Verangian, to whom the reader is introduced, is an Anglo-Saxon too proud to bow his head to a Norman conqueror, a wanderer from his father-land, a soldier in search of better fortune, soon to discover by lucky chance among the crusaders the fair Bertha of his early love. Upon this slender thread the novelist hangs the romantic elements of the story. But Count Robert of Paris is in no sense a love drama; in fact it can hardly be termed a romance. It is rather a historic sketch, placing in sharp contrast the wild enthusiasm of western Europe, her castles of rude masonry, her mud hovels, her rude simplicity, with the over-refined manners and tapestried chambers of the eastern court hastening to its decay. It is living Europe confronting the dead centuries.

The third chapter introduces us to a richly furnished drawing room, where the Princess Anna Commena—the first lady historian—sits reading to a sleepy group her prolix history of the glory of her father’s reign. At this gathering Scott brings together with great art all the leading actors of the drama; the Emperor Alexius and his wife Irene; Nicepherous Briennius, the intriguing son-in-law, husband of the fair historian; the crafty philosopher Agelastes; Achilles Tatius, master of the guards, and the faithful Verangian. This is the real commencement of the story, and to this gathering the news is announced of another body of the great Crusade, consisting not of the ignorant or of the fanatical like those led on by Peter the Hermit, but an army of lords and nobles marshaled by kings and emperors. Against this mass of steel-clad warriors the East had no power to oppose save the inherent cunning and strategy of Commenus. Craft and wealth meet stupidity and avarice. The more powerful chiefs of the Crusades are loaded with presents, feasted by the emperor with the richest delicacies, and their thirst slaked with iced wine; while their followers are left at a distance in malarial districts, and intentionally supplied with adulterated flour, tainted provisions, and bad water. Neglected by friends and insulted by foes, they contracted diseases and died in great numbers “without having once seen a foot of the Holy Land, for the recovery of which they had abandoned their peace, their competence, and their native country. Their misfortunes were imputed to their own wilfulness, and their sickness to the vehemence of their own appetites for raw fruits and unripened wines.” By promises of wealth and long-practiced arts of diplomacy, the Emperor Commenus at last even induces the leaders of the crusade individually to acknowledge him—the Grecian Emperor—originally lord paramount of all these regions, as their liege lord and suzerain.

Scott takes advantage of this historical fact to draw one of his matchless pictures, which in color and incident rivals the best pages of his more dramatic romances; and it is here that Count Robert, when the emperor left his throne for a single moment, dismounted from his horse, took the seat of royal purple, and indolently began to caress a large wolf-hound, which had followed him, and which, feeling as much at ease as his master, reposed its grim form on the carpets of gold and silk damask which tapestried the imperial footstool. It was a picture of modern liberty looking worn-out despotism in the face. That sublime audacity revealed the mettle of the race which was to make individual conscience supreme; and his haughty and fearless speech was the prologue of Magna Charta, the Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence. We must pass over the meeting in the garden of Agesilaus, the entertainment at the palace, the drugged cup, the dungeon experience of the count, and his miraculous release, the fortitude and virtue of his Countess Brenhilda, the meeting of the Verangian with Bertha in the garden of the philosopher, the treachery of Briennius, his imprisonment and death-decree, and many other incidents of interest, for the remaining space of this article must be given to a brief consideration of “The Betrothed;” but the reader will be happy to know that, after the conquest of Jerusalem, Count Robert of Paris returned to Constantinople en route to his native kingdom. Upon reaching Italy the marriage of the Verangian and Bertha was celebrated in princely style; and on his return to England a large district, adjacent to the New Forest, near the home of his ancestors, was conferred upon him by William Rufus, where it is presumed they spent their declining years in peace and happiness.

“The Betrothed” opens with the year 1187—the time of the Third Crusade—when Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, preached the crusade from castle to castle, from town to town, awaking the inmost valleys of his native Cambria with the call to arms for the recovery of the Holy Sepulcher. As a connecting link between the stories we will say that the soldiers of the First Crusade, after years of hardship and suffering, at last accomplished their vows. Antioch and Jerusalem yielded to their arms, the Holy Sepulcher was redeemed from infidels. Those who returned to their homes recounted their triumphs, and all Europe was aglow with new zeal. Forty-five years later, in the year 1142, a Second Crusade was organized against the impending dangers which threatened Palestine and Jerusalem. The warlike West was again in arms; but this crusade was more unfortunate than the first. The crusaders were again compelled to endure the outrages and perfidies of the Greek. As in the First Crusade, the Christian armies dragged in their train a great number of children, women, and old men, who could do nothing toward victory but greatly augmented the disaster of defeat. The piety and heroism of the First Crusade had degenerated into a love of show and military splendor. “That which was still more injurious to discipline,” to quote from the admirable “History of the Crusades,” by J. F. Michaud, “was the depravity of manners in the Christian army, which must be principally attributed to the great number of women that had taken arms and mixed in the ranks of the soldiery. In this crusade there was a troop of Amazons, commanded by a general, whose dress was much more admired than her courage,” and whose gilded boots procured her a name which we will not copy from the historian’s pages. Forty years of struggle pass away in Palestine, and at the time of the opening of our story Henry the Second of England, Richard the First, and Philip of France, determine on renewing the Holy War. Moved by the eloquence and enthusiasm of Baldwin, there is a general cessation of hostilities between the Welsh princes and their warlike neighbors on the Marches of England. But one castle, known as the Garde Doloureuse, was not so fortunate. Its owner was Raymond Berenger. The hand of his daughter was asked in marriage by one of the Welsh chieftains. The compliment was declined. Raymond Berenger, in accordance with a rash promise, gave battle upon the plain and was slain. The castle was assaulted, but faithfully defended by an honest Fleming, inspired by the heroism of the orphaned daughter. Before the battle, Scott gives us a fine picture of the Welsh bards, and an admirable idea of life in the mountain fastnesses of Wales. His description of the defense of the castle is so graphic that we seem to walk the ramparts with the soldiers, and listen to the counsel of its defenders. Hugo De Lacy, Constable of Chester, arrives in time to raise the siege of the castle, and at once lays siege to the heart of the fair Eveline, to whom it seems she had been promised, when a child, by her father. From a sense of duty, rather than love, she accepts his proposal. She visits her Saxon aunt—a cruel and demented relic of the house of Baldringham; and is compelled to sleep in a haunted chamber, known as the “Room of the Red Finger.” The picture of Saxon life here presented is in strong contrast with the life of the Norman nobles. The century that had followed the Norman invasion of England had irritated wounded pride. Overcome by superstition and terror, Eveline sees in her dreams the spectre, and hears the fatal couplet, which gives name to the romance:

Eveline goes from her aunt’s to the abbess of a convent, a near relative, and Hugo De Lacy, having signified his intention of going to the Holy Land, asks a remission of his vow for two years; but the rigid prelate Baldwin was inexorable: “The advancement of the crusade was the chief business of Baldwin’s life, and the liberation of the Holy Sepulcher from the infidels was the unfeigned object of all his exertions. The successor of the celebrated Becket had neither the extensive views, nor the aspiring spirit of that redoubted personage; but on the other hand, saint as the latter had become, it may be questioned whether, in his professions for the weal of christendom, he was half so sincere as was the present archbishop.”

The interview between De Lacy and Baldwin shows the great power of the Church in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. He was compelled to leave Eveline before wedlock had united them indissolubly, and the first line of the couplet: “Widowed wife and married maid,” seemed already in the course of fulfillment. Hugo de Lacy sets sail for Palestine with these good-by words: “If I appear not when three years are elapsed let the Lady Eveline conclude that the grave holds De Lacy, and seek out for her mate some happier man. She can not find one more grateful, though there are many who better deserve her.”

Eveline returns to the castle of her father; the care of the country against Welsh invasion is assigned to Damian de Lacy, who had already by acts of bravery won the esteem of Eveline. The days and months of indolent castle life wear slowly away, with the occasional visit of a strolling harper, or a hawking expedition near the castle, which Scott, with his love for out-door amusements, enters into with apparent relish. On one of these excursions Eveline is made prisoner by a party of Welsh soldiers, and she is led away blindfolded through the recesses of the hills. She is rescued by Damian de Lacy, who however is seriously wounded, and taken against the advice of friends to the castle. Unfounded rumors poison the minds of the people, the castle is attacked by the king’s forces, led on by a traitor of Hugo’s family. Damian is taken prisoner and condemned to death. More than three years had passed away, and now Hugo returns in poverty, and completely broken in spirit. Damian is released, and Hugo waives his claim to the hand of Eveline, and Damian wins one of the noblest women that Scott has made immortal in the world. So much for the brief outline of the story, which reveals the manner of life on the Welsh borders during the time of the Third Crusade. The two novels which follow, “The Talisman” and “Ivanhoe,” portray even in more vivid colors the sufferings of the crusaders in Palestine, and the every day life of Merrie England.