The Female Portrait Gallery/Annot Lyle
THE LEGEND OF MONTROSE.
No. 13.—ANNOT LYLE.
What is the world that lies around our own? Shadowy, unsubstantial, and wonderful are the viewless elements, peopled with spirits powerful and viewless as the air which is their home. From the earth's earliest hour, the belief in the supernatural has been universal. At first the faith was full of poetry; for, in those days, the imagination walked the earth even as did the angels, shedding their glory around the children of men. The Chaldeans watched from their lofty towers the silent beauty of night—they saw the stars go forth on their appointed way, and deemed that they bore with them the mighty records of eternity. Each separate planet shone on some mortal birth, and as its aspect was for good or for evil, such was the aspect of the fortunes that began beneath its light. Those giant watch-towers, with their grey sages, asked of the midnight its mystery, and held its starry roll to be the chronicle of this breathing world. Time past on, angels visited the earth no more, and the divine beliefs of young imagination grew earthlier. Yet poetry lingered in the mournful murmur of the oaks of Dodona, and in the fierce war song of the flying vultures, of whom the Romans demanded tidings of conquest. But prophecy gradually sank into divination, and it is a singular proof of the extent both of human credulity and of curiosity, to note the various methods that have had the credit of forestalling the future. From the stars to a tea-cup is a fall indeed—
"Ah, who would soar the starry height,
To settle in the tea at night."
To this day many a pretty face in a housemaid's cap grows serious, while some ancient crone reverses the cup, and from the grounds anticipates the course of events; there is, however, much similarity in their course, for the prediction always announces a present, a journey, and a ring. Telling fortunes by cards is a more scientific process. The sybil avers that Friday is the more propitious day—one or two lucky guesses rivet the attention—and though afterwards it is to be hoped that the listener will have the grace to blush, yet the attention often bestowed says much for the love of the unknown, inherent both in men and women. I believe that the grand secret of attraction is, that the details always turn on what is present to our fears, or gratifying to our vanity. The fair man, as fair as hearts, who is with us in daylight and in dreams, usually takes a "local habitation and a name" from some secret hope;—it is pleasant to think that another as dark as spades is exceedingly "vexed in his mind" on our account; while self-love confirms the warning, to be on our guard against some envious woman as fair as diamonds.
But the most dignified shape that prophecy has taken in modern times is, unquestionably, the second sight. It takes its seeming from the wild country which gave it birth, where the grey mists clothing forest and mountain, so often delude the eye with unreal shapes. Without positive insanity, we know how the imagination may be worked upon to hold each strange tale devoutly true; and could a person once be sufficiently excited to believe that he possessed such a power, it would not long want confirmation strong as holy writ. Could such a gift be given, what a dreadful one to the possessor. To look on the face of youth, and see in it the writing of death, the shroud up to the throat; to stand beside your chosen friend, and watch the grave yawning at his feet!—better, a thousand times better, our brief span of knowledge, which knoweth little even of the present, than thus to look on a future whose sorrows are more than we can bear. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. The Legend of Montrose is not one of Scott's best narratives. Anderson, as the gallant and accomplished Montrose, fails to embody him whom Cardinal de Retz allows, realised his beau ideal of the heroes of chivalry. Dugald Dalgetty has, however, the stamp of the master; and Annot Lyle glides through the whole like a sunbeam. Her fair face, and sweet voice, are the light of the picture; the one dream of the poet amid the tumult of faction, and the harsh realities of civil war.