Old Mortality by Sir Walter Scott

Source of book: I own this. 

I have a running list of unjustly neglected authors from the past. These are men and women who have fallen out of fashion in our own times. Some have seen their reputations take a hit for one reason or another, but more simply aren’t read by much of anyone anymore. 

One of those authors is Sir Walter Scott. 

Scott should be remembered, if for no other reason, for founding the entire genre of historical fiction. And he was no hack either. He extensively researched his books, often citing the original sources where useful, and noting where the history ended and his fiction began. While not possessed of all the resources we have today, he made every attempt at authenticity. And even more than this, Scott is largely responsible for our modern views of Robin Hood, Queen Elizabeth I, Richard the Lion-hearted, Rob Roy, and others of British fame. 

I first read Scott in my teens, when I picked up Ivanhoe. That book, to my astonishment, contained much of Disney’s Robin Hood movie in its pages. From there, I have read a number of others. Since starting this blog, I reviewed Heart of Midlothian and The Lady of the Lake. 

Technically, Old Mortality wasn’t my first choice. I was going to read The Abbot, but a few pages in, it became clear that it was the second in a set of stories, of which The Monastery was the first. Since I didn’t own that one, I grabbed another, namely this one. I believe it was a good choice, a book considered one of Scott’s best - even if nobody seems to have heard of it. 

The book is set in the period of time between 1679 and 1689, during a Scottish uprising by the Covenanters. Which, well, I didn’t know much about, as I am neither Scottish nor Presbyterian. So, anyway, here is the background history:

After the death of Elizabeth I without an heir, the Tudor dynasty came to an end. The closest relative pursuant to the English system of royal succession turned out to be James Stuart VI of Scotland, also known as James I of England. Yes, King James should be familiar for the bible translation he commissioned, and for founding the Stuart dynasty. 

Thanks to John Knox, Scotland had its own Protestant Reformation, and the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots overthown. From that point, Presbyterianism became the official religion - and like the rest of Europe at the time, doctrine was enforced by the sword. 

The ascension of James I created difficulties, however. England’s religion was - post Henry VIII - the Church of England - Anglicanism. Which wasn’t particularly compatible with Presbyterianism. See, for just one example of a doctrine people killed for, the Calvinist/Arminian scism. James kind of let things ride. The Scots could do their thing, he would officially convert to the Church of England so he could run the thing, and the boat stayed mostly unrocked. 

His son, Charles I, on the other hand, teamed up with Archbishop Laud, and tried to force Anglicanism on the Scots. This did not go well. Protests, bloodshed, etc. And Charles I got to be unpopular in England too. Enter, the English Civil War (part 1). With the Irish Catholics likely to provide aid to the Royalists, Cromwell’s Roundheads enlisted the Scots via a document entitled The Solemn League and Covenant - which gave the Covenanters their name. Basically, the Scots would fight with the Puritans, and Presbyterianism would be adopted as the official religion of England. No, that didn’t go well either. 

So, after Cromwell’s rule crumbled after his death, and Charles II came back to England, the Covenant was outlawed, and so on. Fast forward to 1679. (I skipped a good bit here. For the English perspective on this period, I recommend George Trevelyan’s excellent book, England Under the Stuarts, although it only touches on the Scottish part of the history.) 

A compromise was reached, whereby certain Presbyterian ministers could get a license and a church, but only with the Crown’s blessing - and a pledge of loyalty. So, with the Covenanters being suppressed by Charles II, and the moderates labeled heretics by the die-hards, things were set to blow up. The Covenanters murdered Archbishop Sharp, and met the royalist troops in battle. These events form the center of Old Mortality, particularly the battles at Drumclog and Bothwell Bridge. For the specifics, Scott follows the contemporary accounts closely, while adding characters and details. About three quarters of the way through the book, these events come to a rather gruesome end - the rebels are defeated and either executed or exiled. The story then resumes ten years later when the protagonist comes back from exile after William and Mary ascend the throne and proclaim religious tolerance. The Covenanters attempted one final revolution, and were soundly defeated. From then on, separation of the Presbyterian Church from the British government was official and final. 

As with most of Scott’s books, the title Old Mortality has next to nothing to do with the book itself. “Old Mortality” is an invented character to set up the framing story. In this set of books, “Tales of my Landlord,” the anonymous Scott claims that these are tales told by his fictitious landlord. In this case, the landlord claims he heard them from “Old Mortality,” an ancient man who has dedicated his life to keeping the graves of the Covenanters in good repair. Obviously, the book isn’t much about him at all. He is there in the first chapter, and then he is gone for good. 

The plot itself centers on the romance between Henry Morton, the young son of a deceased Covenanter, and Edith Bellenden, the daughter of a loyalist. Henry would prefer to be left out of the wars altogether, but is drawn in when Covenanter John Balfour of Burley, on the run after the murder of Sharp, calls in a favor in the name of Morton’s father. Henry shelters him for the night, but is then arrested for treason as a result, even though he knew nothing of the murder. 

Side note here: Balfour was a real person, but he was NOT Balfour of Burley (Burleigh) - Scott made a mistake here. He meant Balfour of Kinloch - and even uses the name in a few places - who was indeed a Covenanter. It may be that either Burley sounded better, or Scott confused the two. 

As a result of circumstances, Morton gets freed and asked to help lead the Covenanters. He reluctantly agrees to do so, essentially leading the moderate party willing to settle for religious toleration, rather than a new theocracy, which is what Burley wants. 

This being Scott, you know at the outset that the lovers will get together eventually, and that the battles will play out roughly as they did in real life. But there is more than that. 

One of the things that has struck me about Scott over the years is that he is delightfully modern in sensibility. Sure, his writing style is very early 1800s, and his deference to the aristocracy seems a bit odd to us Americans. But his values are modern, and have aged extremely well. Better, in my view, than those of many later Victorian writers. 

Because Scott wrote historical novels, his characters are of their time in many ways. You won’t for example, find a modern feminist in the days of King Richard. But you will find marvelously strong and three dimensional female characters. (Um, hi there, Dickens…) Scott doesn’t place his women on a pedestal like a true Victorian either. He celebrates strong women, and shows the obvious that women have always run things more than patriarchists would prefer. 

The best values that Scott stands for are the moral and humane values. In every book - but particularly this one - he advocates for freedom of religion and conscience. He fully supports the separation of church and state, one of the greatest ideas mankind has had in the last five hundred years. And more than that, Scott shows respect for diversity, whether between the Anglican and the Presbyterian, or between Christianity and Islam. Scott assumes that men of good will are admirable even when they differ. 

Old Mortality, in particular, addresses the question of religious tolerance, and advocates strongly for the separation of church and state. I wrote down a number of quotes that resonated with me in our own times. First is this one, from the opening pages, where the fictitious landlord expounds on the Covenanters and their loyalist opponents. 

Although I am far from venerating the peculiar tenets asserted by those who call themselves the followers of those men, and whose intolerance and narrow-minded bigotry are at least as conspicuous as their devotional zeal, yet it is without depreciating the memory of those sufferers, many of whom  united the independent sentiments of a Hampden with the suffering zeal of a Hooper or Latimer.

Good lord, if you want to describe the Dominionists of today (who often claim a connection to the Covenanters) - or pretty much all of the Religious Right, that surely fits. Their devotional zeal is indeed overshadowed by their intolerance and bigotry expressed as political violence against everyone else. 

Henry Morton is clearly intended from the start to be the noble hero. Here is how Scott describes him. 

Henry Morton was one of those gifted characters which possess a force of talent unsuspected by the owner himself. He had inherited from his father an undaunted courage and a firm and uncompromising detestation of oppression, whether in politics or religion. But his enthusiasm was unsullied by fanatic zeal, and unleavened by the sourness of the Puritanical spirit. From these his mind had been freed, partly by the active exertions of his own excellent understanding, partly by frequent and long visits at Major Bellenden’s, where he had an opportunity of meeting with many guests whose conversation taught him that goodness and worth were not limited to those of any single form of religious observance. 

One hundred percent yes. Again, Scott proves to be both progressive and a direct rebuke to the religious (and racist) fanatics of our time. Hey, and Scott also completely nails a major source of the problem: a theonomic and literalist approach to scripture. Throughout the book, the Covenanters are continually “proof texting”: applying verses out of context in justification of abhorrent behavior. There is quite a generation gap here too, as Morton represents the more moderate younger generation, against the older, fanatical generation represented by Burley. Here is, in part, Morton’s response to Burley during a discussion of their goals. Morton wants freedom of conscience. Burley wants to purge the land of heretics. Morton listens, but notes that he is unmoved by the fanatical language. 

“I revere the Scriptures as deeply as you or any Christian can do. I look into them with humble hope of extracting a rule of conduct and a law of salvation. But I expect to find this by an examination of their general tenor, and of the spirit in which they uniformly breath, and not by wresting particular passages from their context, or by the application of Scriptural phrases to circumstances and events with which they have often very slender relation.” 

I find a lot of myself here. And to draw a necessary line, so did the abolitionists, who argued against a literal, theonomic defense of slavery using the “general tenor and spirit” argument. (See this post, as well as Mark Noll’s excellent book, The Civil War as a Theological Crisis for more.) In my experience - and in history, as Scott details - theonomy and literalism are used to weaponize scripture, and justify atrocities. Scott circles back to this idea near the end - see below. 

Scott, like many authors, chooses to name minor characters in ways that describe them. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the names used for the various preachers associated with the Covenanters. The most moderate (although not by that much) is Poundtext, while a more radical one is Kettledrummle. The craziest, though, is Habakkuk Mucklewrath, which is both fun to say, and deliciously Scottish. It is these preachers who combine with violent men like Burley to stir up the masses toward violence, alas. 

While Morton is the hero, he has a counterpart on the Loyalist side, Lord Evandale. Evandale shares a great deal with Morton, actually, as both acknowledge the legitimate grievances that the Presbyterians have suffered, and would like to see a humane compromise and peace. Evendale ends up receiving aid from Morton, and also from other compassionate Covenanters. He notes the aid from a peasant woman who aids him despite hating his side. 

“[S]he was in principle a rigid recusant, but she saw my danger and distress, considered me as a fellow-creature, and forgot that I was a Cavalier and a soldier.” 

Later, Evandale expresses his view of the political situation:

“I give you my honor, Major Bellenden, that I have been for some time of opinion that our politicians and prelates have driven matters to a painful extremity in this country, and have alienated, by violence of various kinds, not only the lower classes, but all those in the upper ranks whom strong party feeling or a desire of court interest does not attach to their standard.”

And yes, so very relevant today - but not in the way that my former Evangelical tribe believes. Rather it is they, the corrupt prelates, in unholy marriage with a violently oppressive political movement, who are alienating all those who abhor both political ambition and racist and religious violence. 

Again, Morton sounds the same call, in a letter to Bellenden: 

“My most earnest and anxious desire is to see this unnatural war brought to a speedy end by the union of the good, wise, and moderate of all parties, and a peace restored which...may substitute the authority of equal laws for that of military violence, and, permitting to all men to worship God according to their own consciences, may subdue fanatical enthusiasm by reason and mildness, instead of driving it to frenzy by persecution and intolerance.”

And later:

“I wish to have free exercise of my own religion, without insulting any other; and as to your family, I only desire an opportunity to show them I have the same friendship and kindness as ever.” 

This is all powerful stuff, and surely resonates today, in our own time, when a fanatical group in our nation wishes to impose its own purity rules on others, and is more concerned about purging heretics (and anyone outside their own tribe) than in showing love for neighbor. 

The problem for the Mortons and Evandales of the world, though, is that a mere call for decency and tolerance falls on deaf ears for the fanatics. They, like Fascists throughout history (that’s a whole other post…), have no use for modern Enlightenment values. Their values are that of tribalism, idolatry of the past, and worship of violence. Ultimately, they must first be defeated, politically, and sometimes militarily. Ultimately, all the peacemaking of Evandale and Morton goes to complete waste. It is left to the Crown to utterly crush the Covenanters, and deprive them of political power. 

But this is only part of the story. The Covenanters didn’t actually go away; they just went underground. And they continued to insist on the restoration of the Solemn League and Covenant - the establishment of a theocracy. They railed against the edicts of tolerance issued by the Crown.

The principles of indulgence thus espoused and gloried in by the government gave great offense to the more violent party who condemned them as diametrically contrary to Scripture; for which narrow-spirited doctrine they cited various texts, all, as it may well be supposed, detached from their context, and most of them derived from the charges given to the Jews in the promised land. 

Um, yep. America Scotland as the new Israel, and Fundamentalist Calvinist doctrine as the only True Christianity™, and the call for violence and political crushing of everyone else. The theonomic and literalist use of Scripture. The more things change…

But Scott also notes that the Covenanters bore the seeds of their own destruction. And perhaps suggests a constructive way forward. First, obviously, the fanatics and hatemongers have to be deprived of political and military power. But after that is done (as in the case of the Nazis), the key is to defuse the next generation. The Burleys of the world - I would say the white Evangelical Baby Boomers of today as an analogy - will mostly never change. They will spit hate to the end of their days, dream of crushing their enemies, and long for the days when they were in power. Just like Burley. But the next generation won’t be with them. 

Scott notes the result of the edicts of William and Mary. The average Scot didn’t understand their fanaticism and persecution complex. Life was basically good. They could worship as they pleased, and the idea of a Puritanical theocracy looked increasingly ludicrous to them. Without the legitimate persecution, the Covenanters became either a laughingstock, or, like Old Mortality himself, and anachronism of a bygone age. 

We are seeing this play out as we speak. As Boomer (white) Evangelicals sell their souls to a racist demagogue and a pack of anti-Christian xenophobic theocrats, their grandchildren are fleeing the insanity. 

Sir Walter Scott, writing more than 200 years ago, got it right. Those who are most concerned with “doctrinal purity” are the exact same people who lust to do violence to those outside the “pure” tribe. For some weird reason, a belief that God is obsessed with purity leads to actions to purge the “filthy” Others from the faith - and indeed existence itself. Scott also gives some hope: that after the fires of hate and violence are isolated and die out, a better day can dawn, and the Mortons and Evandales can ultimately win out over the Burleys and Kettledrummles of the world. 

***

Just a note for Scott neophytes: 

Although many of the “Waverly” novels are quite good, I wouldn’t necessarily start with them. Old Mortality, like Heart of Midlothian and others, contain quite a bit of dialect. I found that my collection of Robert Burns’ poetry was helpful, as it has an extensive glossary in the back. Basically, Scott’s language and style take some getting used to even without the language barrier. 

If I had to pick one to start with, I would go with the well known trifecta: Ivanhoe, The Talisman, or Kenilworth. Any of these are a good introduction to Scott. One possible alternative option would be Quentin Durward, which has little to do with the title character, and everything to do with Louis XI of France, and the transition from Feudalism to Modernism. Although it does lack interesting female characters. For those, well, Ivanhoe and Heart of Midlothian are excellent...

Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson

Source of book: Audiobook from the library (but I do own a good hardback of this book too)

One of the very first audio books we listened to on our camping adventures was Treasure Island. I figured we were due for some more Stevenson, and Kidnapped was the obvious choice. I have, of course, read the book multiple times, but it has been quite a while since I last read it. I still cannot decide whether I prefer this book or Treasure Island. On the one hand, much of what we have ingrained in our cultural consciousness about pirates, treasure, and indeed a whole genre, comes from Treasure Island. On the other, Kidnapped has its own share of memorable characters and recurring themes of friendship, loyalty, betrayal, and the conflict between competing duties. 

 N. C. Wyeth's illustrations are still the best ever.

The plot itself is pretty sparse. Young David Balfour is orphaned, and goes to his estranged uncle to seek his fortune, but is betrayed and sold into slavery. The ship, however, is wrecked in the Hebrides after taking on a mysterious passenger, Allan Breck Stewart, an actual person. Actual events (although not quite historically accurate) then ensue. The king’s agent, Colin Roy Campbell, is murdered by a sniper, and David is suspected of being an accessory - and Allan the shooter. The two of them flee across Scotland in a memorable journey and adventure. Allan must eventually reach France and safety, while David (who isn’t known by name, and thus cannot be connected to the murder except by his connection to Allan) wishes to contact the family lawyer and reclaim his inheritance from his nefarious uncle.

So much for the plot. Other than David, who is purely fictional - his last name was Stevenson’s mother’s maiden name - and the characters connected with David’s family, the major characters are all drawn from history. Kidnapped is thus historical fiction, much in the vein of Sir Walter Scott. In fact, Scott’s Rob Roy is set after the Appin Murder, and mentions both the event and Allan Breck Stewart. Stevenson was inspired by Scott’s novel to write his own.

Certainly Stevenson can write an exciting fight scene. The standoff in the roundhouse is one of the finest, and stands with the parallel scene in Treasure Island as inspiration for so many set pieces which have come afterward, both in print and on the big and small screens.

But what makes this book so satisfying is the friendship between David and Allan, made more realistic by their all too inevitable quarrel, precipitated by exhaustion and fear, and resolved not by apologies but by pity and mutual need. I have long felt that Stevenson captured something true about friendship here, that words often get in the way, and that some things cannot just be resolved by talking it out. Catharsis, such as it is, comes through actions and through a needed rest.

Since it has been a lot of years since I read this, and since I am a much older and experienced man, I did note some things which I did not recall from my previous readings. One of these was the mention of what is essentially a Scottish version of Irish Cream. (Atholl brose.) For those who care, it has whiskey, honey, and cream - but also the liquid from soaking oatmeal in water overnight. I am inclined to believe that I was below drinking age when I last read this, and my knowledge of ardent spirits (to quote Jeeves) wasn’t exactly extensive. It might be fun to try to make my own version of this drink.

Another thing that kind of passed me by was the specifics of the Jacobite Rebellion - and really, the various religious sects mentioned. David is a Covenanter - a Scotch Presbyterian. This theology has so influenced religion in the United States that it is hard to overstate it. I will also note that these beliefs are crucial to a main character in The Heart of Midlothian, which is one of Scott’s great works featuring Scottish characters. The Jacobites, of course, were Catholic, while George II and the English were Anglican. But the subtleties were lost on the young me, of course, particularly the history of religious warfare in Great Britain.

I should also mention the use of Scottish dialect in this book. I did stop the CD and explain a few words to the younger kids. My second daughter loves this book, and is already plenty fluent. I consider this book to be a bit of a gateway drug into the world of Scots. Stevenson intentionally kept the dialect accessible, as he was aiming for a younger audience. From Stevenson, one can then read Sir Walter Scott, which is a bit more difficult. Advanced level readers will tackle Robert Burns.

This audiobook was read by Jim Weiss, a veteran of audiobooks, and a fine reader. I particularly appreciated his distinctive female voices, which seemed to come from a totally different person. He handled the dialect perfectly, and distinguished between various gruff Scots remarkably well. I would definitely recommend him as a narrator.

This book was one of the first classics I read as a kid, and it was one reason that I eventually tackled Scott. My kids too enjoy Stevenson, and I encourage parents to introduce their children to him as well - and at a younger age than they tend to think. Even younger kids will appreciate the adventure and the excellent writing.

The Sunday Philosophy Club by Alexander McCall Smith

Source of book: My wife owns this and introduced me to the author

In general, I am not a big fan of genre fiction. However, I do have a weakness for mysteries - particularly those in the British tradition. (I devoured Agatha Christie as a child - following in my mother’s footsteps.) Just this year, I read and reviewed the fourth installment in Alan Bradley’s Flavia series, and A Duty to the Dead by Charles Todd. McCall Smith (that is his actual surname - the McCall is not a middle name) is one of those truly eccentric characters that seem to be too odd even for fiction.

He was born in Rhodesia (in an area that is now Zimbabwe), came to Scotland to study law, taught law for a few years while writing short stories and children’s books, returned to Africa to co-found the University of Botswana, returned to Scotland to teach - and become a recognized expert in - medical law, and finally found his present career as a novelist at nearly age 60.

He served for a time on the British Medical Journal Ethics Committee and the Human Genetics Commission for the United Kingdom. During the 1980s and 1990s, he wrote or co-wrote a whole bunch of scholarly books on bioethics and related issues.

Oh, and he plays bassoon and contrabassoo in The Really Terrible Orchestra, a group he helped found. For some reason, his photograph on the book shows him with a tuba. I suspect he may fill in on that if necessary…

Alexander McCall Smith with his more proper instrument, the contrabassoon

The Sunday Philosophy Club is the first in the series of the same name, featuring the middle aged Isabel Dalhousie, independently wealthy editor of the Review of Applied Ethics, which is pretty much what it sounds like. From what my wife has told me, Isabel’s maid, Grace; her niece, Cat; and Cat’s ex-boyfriend Jamie are all recurring characters in the series. Cat has terrible taste in men (having rejected Jamie, of course). Jamie is still in love with Cat, while Isabel is in love with Jamie, but doesn’t realize it.

The book is filled with references to art - particularly Scottish art, music, and philosophy. The good news is the McCall Smith has enough background in these areas to get the details right. (It’s best that those who never listen to classical music refrain from saying anything about Stockhausen, for example.) The author also gets bonus points for introducing me to a (relatively) obscure Scottish composer, Hamish MacCunn. (Mostly unknown in the United States, as far as I can tell.) However, thanks to the magic of the internet, I was able to find clips and information.

I’m not enough of an art expert to be quite as picky as I am about music, but those details I did know, he got right. Philosophy is the big theme in this series, for obvious reasons. I enjoyed Isabel’s mental games as she analysed her options through the lens of philosophy. (And totally sympathized when all her careful ethical plans went out the window in the heat of the moment. Never done that before…)

The plot itself isn’t anything particularly striking, but it works. The characters are the interesting part, and their personalities drive the plot.

The best lines are the little observations in the mind of Isabel, as the story is told from her point of view (third person subjective, for those who care). Here is a good one regarding a particular article submitted to the journal:

It appeared to be written in English, but it was a variety of English which Isabel felt occurred only in certain corners of academia, where faux-weightiness was a virtue.

I also found her musing on the connection between manners - those deeper than the surface - and virtue to be interesting, although not universally true.

Good manners depended on paying moral attention to others; it required one to treat them with complete moral seriousness, to understand their feelings and their needs. Some people, the selfish, showed no inclination to do this, and it always showed. They were impatient with those whom they thought did not count: the old, the inarticulate, the disadvantaged. The person with good manners, however, would always listen to such people and treat them with respect.

Definitely food for thought. When compassion becomes condescending, it is usually because of this failing.

On a related note, this line:

The world, it seemed, was based on lies and half-truths of one sort or another, and one of the tasks of morality was to help us negotiate our way round these.

I’ve mentioned in the past that we tend to want to impose narratives on history to give us a sense that everything makes sense, and can be fully explained and understood. Often these narratives contain a good deal of falsehood - and all contain incomplete truth. When we let those falsehoods and half truths become more important than our basic morality, when we let our necessarily imperfect understanding of the world lead us to cause harm to others, we have done wrong, even when we have a political or religious philosophy to back us up. (The theological justification for the institution of slavery comes to mind, but there are plenty of modern examples too. One could turn on C-SPAN and listen to either party and come up with a hundred examples.)

I wasn’t really expecting to get off into that in a review of a relatively light book, but I did find myself thinking in that direction. Isabel has to negotiate some tricky dilemmas - such as how much she should involve herself in what may have been a murder - and the author intentionally avoids the easy cases. In that respect, I see some commonalities with G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown stories. (I don’t think anyone has bested Chesterton, though. His are still the best for their psychological penetration, in my opinion.)

Note on The Really Terrible Orchestra:

The Orchestra makes an appearance in this book, and it was a pleasant surprise to find that it actually had that name in real life too.

McCall Smith wanted to play in a group that was like a school orchestra, where everyone played for fun, not as a career, and marginal musicians were welcome. Since such an orchestra did not exist in Scotland, he founded one. The orchestra has a website, which is worth a visit.  There are some fun clips and interviews and such. McCall Smith is featured prominently, of course. Always leverage celebrity power. The orchestra is truly terrible, and fulfills its goal marvelously.

One thing that was pretty clear to me after reading McCall Smith’s account of its founding was that Scotland is vastly different from the United States. We have a longstanding community orchestra tradition, and such groups exist in most reasonably large communities throughout the country. Some of these are in the spirit of the Really Terrible Orchestra, while others are of higher musical quality, but all have the goal of allowing those who do not wish to pursue music as a profession to make music anyway. In addition, our junior college system encourages older and “enrichment” students to participate in their music programs. I know a number of players who lack the chops to go the professional route who nonetheless have great enthusiasm who have found places to play.

Even the Bakersfield Symphony Orchestra, while it is a professional organization, employs primarily those who have other “day jobs,” as it is a very part-time gig.

So, I certainly appreciate the thought behind the Really Terrible Orchestra, and am thankful that the tradition of community music remains in my own country.

Note on Hamish MacCunn:

Here is his best known work. Pleasant enough, but not in the class of the very best, which is probably why it is primarily played in the United Kingdom.

The Lady of the Lake by Sir Walter Scott

Source of book: I own the complete poetry of Sir Walter Scott

Did any of my readers also play the card game, Authors, as a child? My mother introduced us to it, and I remember playing it from time to time. I also might, in a pinch, be able to list the works and authors from the game. For Sir Walter Scott, there were three novels, Ivanhoe, Kenilworth, and The Talisman. The fourth work - each author had four - was The Lady of the Lake. Since I have read the other three, this was the last one to complete the set.

So, that explains why I picked this poem out of all of Scott’s works. I certainly didn’t expect to fall down a rabbit hole of the weird history behind the poem and the even weirder subsequent influence that the poem has had. (I’ll address some of this in a footnote.)

First of all, despite the name, this poem has nothing whatsoever to do with the “Lady of the Lake” of Arthurian legend. That lady gave Arthur his sword, Excalibur, and raised Lancelot, and otherwise participated in the legends in various ways.

This poem instead is loosely based on the feud between King James V of Scotland and the Douglas clan. (James was the father of Mary, Queen of Scots; and grandfather of James VI and I - who would unite England and Scotland and commission the King James Bible.) The actual events of the poem are Scott’s invention, although he drew on incidents from various points in Scottish history and legend for the tale.

I already discussed Scott’s life in my previous post on his Scottish novel, The Heart of Midlothian. Scott is best known today for his novels, particularly the three listed above, which contributed to our modern pictures of Robin Hood, Queen Elizabeth I, and King Richard I, respectively.

However, before he attempted novels (which he initially did under a pseudonym), he was a successful poet. The Lady of the Lake was one of several long narrative poems, and was written in 1810, four years before his first foray into prose fiction.

The poem is divided into six cantos, which each tell of one day in time. The setting is the beautiful countryside on the borderlands between the highlands and the lowlands. The lake is Loch Katrine, which does indeed contain an island large enough to serve as a hideaway.

Loch Katrine. Photo by Richard Webb. Used pursuant to the Creative Commons License.

The plot runs roughly as follows (Spoilers follow):

The Highland Scots, led by Sir Roderick Dhu (exiled for committing a brazen murder in the King’s court) are at odds with the Lowland Scots, who are loyal to King James, who nominally rules Scotland. Douglas, who was formerly of the king’s court, has quarreled as a result of vicious rumors, and has fled to the highlands with his daughter Ellen and his minstrel, Allan Bane.

As the poem opens, a lowland hunter, calling himself James Fitz-James, becomes lost in the highlands while chasing an elusive stag. His horse dies of exhaustion by the shores of a lake. He blows his horn, but instead of his countrymen, he is found by a highland maiden, who rows across from and island. By the common courtesy of the time, he is given a bed for the night, and sent on his way, even though he is known to be on the other side of the conflict. The maid is, of course, Ellen, and Fitz-James is smitten.

Her hand, however, is sought by two others: the dangerous and rather bloodthirsty Roderick Dhu, and the young highland chief Malcolm Graeme. Ellen is under pressure to marry Roderick, as such a marriage would cement an alliance between Duncan and Roderick’s Clan Alpine.

After Fitz-James departs, Roderick and Graeme arrive, and quarrel over Ellen, and Graeme leaves. He is later captured by the forces of King James. Roderick decides to muster the highland forces, and rebel against King James. Douglas refuses, because he still retains some loyalty to the crown. Roderick goes ahead anyway, and prepares the burning cross to send abroad as the signal...

Wait, what was that? A burning cross? That sounds a bit familiar. (More on this in a footnote below.)

The signal is sent, and the forces are told to meet at a certain point. Douglas, Ellen, and Allan, seek refuge in a hideaway.

The next day at the gathering, Brian the Hermit (who is kind of a cross between a druid and a monk), predicts that whichever side draws the first blood will win the encounter.

Fitz-James, led by a guide, encounters Ellen, and asks for her hand, but she refuses. He gives her his ring, however, and tells her she can use it if she needs a favor from King James.

Later, Fitz-James and Roderick meet, and challenge each other to single combat. Roderick is seriously wounded, and is taken by Fitz-James to the castle.

Stirling Castle. Photo by Finlay McWalter. Used pursuant to the Creative Commons License.

Douglas in the meantime, has gone to the castle to seek to reconcile with the king, and also to try to save Roderick and Graeme. He is imprisoned himself, however. King James, though, gives the order to stop the warfare and seek a truce.

On the final day, after the battle, Allan Bane and Ellen come to the castle with news of the battle and the truce. Ellen is there to seek the freedom of her father, but finds that he has already been pardoned, and that Fitz-James was really King James in disguise. She then asks for the pardon of Roderick - her loyalty to the highlanders outweighing her more personal desires. Alas, Roderick has died of his wounds. Ellen hesitates to ask for Graeme’s freedom, so King James brings him in, and jokingly orders him put into fetters, while putting a necklace over him and handing the clasp to Ellen. (A nice little Scottish engagement ceremony.)

The form of the poem is interesting. Scott uses primarily iambic tetrameter in rhymed couplets, but he deviates from that form on numerous occasions. There are various songs scattered throughout the poem, and each has meter suited to the topic, speaker, and form. He also uses metric changes in a few instances to change mood. For example, he switches to a formal iambic pentameter for the last stanza.

Scott’s writing is always delightfully descriptive, and this poem just seems to flow off the tongue with ease. (Most poetry sounds better out loud - and this poem sounds so melodious that way.) Here is a bit from Canto I:

XI.

The western waves of ebbing day

Rolled o'er the glen their level way;

Each purple peak, each flinty spire,

Was bathed in floods of living fire.

But not a setting beam could glow

Within the dark ravines below,

Where twined the path in shadow hid,

Round many a rocky pyramid,

Shooting abruptly from the dell

Its thunder-splintered pinnacle;

Round many an insulated mass,

The native bulwarks of the pass,

Huge as the tower which builders vain

Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.

The rocky summits, split and rent,

Formed turret, dome, or battlement.

Or seemed fantastically set

With cupola or minaret,

Wild crests as pagod ever decked,

Or mosque of Eastern architect.

Nor were these earth-born castles bare,

Nor lacked they many a banner fair;

For, from their shivered brows displayed,

Far o'er the unfathomable glade,

All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen,

The briar-rose fell in streamers green,

kind creeping shrubs of thousand dyes

Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.

Likewise, during the hunt itself, Scott uses the language to convey the breathlessness of the pace, slowing down as the horse tires and eventually expires. Truly delightful command of the language and the form. I also like Fitz-James’ thoughts as he realizes he will have to spend the night far from home.

'Blithe were it then to wander here!

But now—beshrew yon nimble deer—

Like that same hermit's, thin and spare,

The copse must give my evening fare;

Some mossy bank my couch must be,

Some rustling oak my canopy.

Yet pass we that; the war and chase

Give little choice of resting-place;—

A summer night in greenwood spent

Were but to-morrow's merriment:

But hosts may in these wilds abound,

Such as are better missed than found...

Both of these are in the characteristic iambic tetrameter. A contrast comes in Ellen’s song to her guest, Fitz-James. The accents are reversed, substituting trochees for the iambs, making a “feminine” rhyme (unaccented syllables) at the end.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

   Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battled fields no more,

   Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

   Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

   Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more;

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,

Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

Later in the poem, Scott describes the wild character of Brian the Hermit. Note the mention of the banshee, the harbinger of death in both Scottish and Irish legend.

VII.

The desert gave him visions wild,

Such as might suit the spectre's child.

Where with black cliffs the torrents toil,

He watched the wheeling eddies boil,

Jill from their foam his dazzled eyes

Beheld the River Demon rise:

The mountain mist took form and limb

Of noontide hag or goblin grim;

The midnight wind came wild and dread,

Swelled with the voices of the dead;

Far on the future battle-heath

His eye beheld the ranks of death:

Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurled,

Shaped forth a disembodied world.

One lingering sympathy of mind

Still bound him to the mortal kind;

The only parent he could claim

Of ancient Alpine's lineage came.

Late had he heard, in prophet's dream,

The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream;

Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast

Of charging steeds, careering fast

Along Benharrow's shingly side,

Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride;

The thunderbolt had split the pine,--

All augured ill to Alpine's line.

He girt his loins, and came to show

The signals of impending woe,

And now stood prompt to bless or ban,

As bade the Chieftain of his clan.

I was not able to confirm if the “coronach,” a traditional Scottish improvised lament, followed any particular metric pattern. Scott uses an interesting combination of anapests and feminine endings.

He is gone on the mountain,

   He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

   When our need was the sorest.

The font, reappearing,

   From the rain-drops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

   To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

   Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper

   Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing

   Waft the leaves that are searest,

But our flower was in flushing,

   When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

   Sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray,

   How sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain,

   Like the foam on the river,

Like the bubble on the fountain,

   Thou art gone, and forever!

This lament takes place at the funeral of a clan chief. The mourners must leave the vigil and take arms after the messenger with the burning cross arrives. After all,

Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll fight,

All in our maids' and matrons' sight,

Each for his hearth and household fire,

Father for child, and son for sire Lover

for maid beloved!--

As a final example of the creative use of meter, Scott uses the anapest rhythm again in the uncouth song of the drunken soldiers. Here is one of the stanzas:

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule

Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl,

That there 's wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack,

And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;

Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor,

Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar!

These soldiers are not the lowland nobles and knights, who are bound together by the feudal system and therefore loyal based on the system of landholding. Nor are they the highland clansmen, who are organized by what Scott calls patriarchy. He is actually rather accurate here, as the system was somewhat similar to other ancient political organizations. The head of the clan would be the eldest in direct descent from the founder of the clan, and he would rule his lesser relatives, servants, slaves, captives, and assorted persons bound to the clan by tradition. The two clashing systems meant that loyalties were often divided on the borderlands (which was a cause of this particular dispute), and one often had to choose between political ties and family ties.

This poem was a joy to read. The local color was fun, as it usually is in Scott’s works. The language had an addictive cadence, and Scott makes the past come alive. I also found it fun to recognize a few obscure words that influence our language today, although we hardly notice it. One of these was “lave,” meaning to wash. We see this in our polite term for the bathroom, the lavatory. The second was “ruth,” used in the sense of a feeling of pity. We don’t use this one, but we do its opposite, “ruthless.” I also like the obsolete but versatile word “caitiff,” meaning in different contexts, a coward, a captive, and a miserable person.  

A final word I wish to mention is one that I first encountered, of all places, in a Nancy Drew book. A “pibroch” is an art form largely associated with the great highland bagpipe (although it was probably originally played on harps). In this context, it is the characteristic tune unique to each clan. I recall a scene in Scott’s novel A Legend of Montrose in which the pipers from the assembled clans engage in a battle to see who can blast louder than the others. Duelling bagpipes, anyone?

Since Clan Alpine is a fictitious clan, there is no actual pibroch to be found for this poem. Instead, here is the pibroch for clan Campbell, since my friend and colleague Clayton has Campbell ancestry. 

Note on the Flaming Cross:

I was a bit startled to see a flaming cross in this poem, and had to look up its meaning. I ended up down a pretty crazy rabbit hole, to say the least. Here goes.

Scott describes a highland tradition that may well date back to the druids. When the clans would assemble for war, the lead clan would hold a ceremony. A cross of branches was assembled, and each of the four points sharpened. These points were set on fire, and then quenched in the blood of a goat sacrificed for the occasion. A messenger would then circulate the cross to each loyal clan. The clan must then assemble on pain of their blood being shed and their houses burnt - just like the cross and the goat.

So far, so good. A bit dramatic and pagan sounding, perhaps, but nothing more.

It turns out that a bit later in history, James VI of Scotland ascended the throne of England, uniting the kingdoms. His son, Charles I, wasn’t quite so popular, and was eventually executed. (I discussed the Commonwealth and Restoration periods in a recent post.)

The Scots were not too happy about either the commonwealth or the eventual Glorious Revolution, which ended the rule of the Stuarts. They wanted both to restore the Scottish Stuarts to the English throne, and also establish the Scottish form of Christianity over that of the Anglican form. Essentially a combined political and religious war broke out. This conflict was known as the Jacobite Rising, and was the setting of Scott’s first novel, Waverley It continued in fits and starts until the 1740s, when King George II destroyed the clan system, banned the wearing of tartans, and banished many of those Scots involved in the uprising to the various colonies.

Those that came to North America settled largely in the Southern colonies of the Carolinas and Georgia.

When The Lady of the Lake came out, it had a tremendous influence in Scotland, sparking what is known as the Highland Revival. Eventually, the laws repressing the symbols of the highland clans were repealed, and Scottish pride flourished. (Believe it or not, there is still a Scottish separatist movement.)

The influence of the poem was not limited to the British Isles. In the wake of the Civil War, the most furious of the vanquished South rallied around the idea of descent from the original founders of the United States - including the Scots who settled the South. The Ku Klux Klan adopted the “clan” name, a few of the terms, and used the burning cross as both a rallying device and as a threat. (The original use of the cross, as I described it above, had no racial implications. It was a summons and a threat against allies, not enemies.)

To a degree, this odd Scottish connection remains within the Neo-Confederate movement. While the Neo-Nazis use the term “aryan” to describe the ideal “white” ancestry (a Germanic idea), the most common term found on Neo-Confederate sites is “anglo-celtic,” a term encompassing the various groups associated with England before the Norman (French) invasion.

I suppose this was natural, in a way. The tale in The Lady of the Lake is a classic narrative. It’s fun to be the noble underdog, fighting for family and hearth, against the oppressor. It’s always more fun to believe that one is on the side of “true” religion against the false - and both sides believed it in this conflict. Thus, I suppose it is natural to want to identify with Highlanders, and adopt their imagery for one’s own cause. We like to identify ourselves with the noble heroes of legend, whether our cause is truly just, or whether we are intimidating and murdering former slaves.

It wasn’t just those bitter about the Southern defeat that took inspiration from this poem, though. Frederick Douglass, the escaped slave and abolitionist leader, originally bore the name of Bailey. Like many slaves, it was the family name of his owner. After his escape, he rejected that name, and chose his name from Scott’s poem. Thus, both sides adopted this tale as their own narrative.

Note on Music:

Composers, too, found inspiration in The Lady of the Lake.

The official Presidential anthem, “Hail to the Chief” had lyrics which were adapted from the song to Roderick Dhu in the poem.

Rossini’s opera, La Donna del Lago is based on the poem - although there are a few changes to the plot to accommodate the expectations of the genre. 

The most famous, however, is Schubert’s Ave Maria, which was originally the third of three songs sung by Ellen Douglas in a cycle of seven songs from the poem. Schubert liked the tune enough to use it for a setting of the Roman Catholic Latin prayer.

Here is part of the original from The Lady of the Lake:

Ave. Maria! maiden mild!

   Listen to a maiden's prayer!

Thou canst hear though from the wild,

   Thou canst save amid despair.

Safe may we sleep beneath thy care,

   Though banished, outcast, and reviled--

Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer;

   Mother, hear a suppliant child!

Here is Schubert’s later adaptation. Bonus points for the violin solo.