The Female Portrait Gallery/Rowena
No. 16.— ROWENA.
Rowena is an ingenious blending of the natural and the artificial, so generally at war with each other in society. Born timid, sweet, and yielding, she is brought up to pride, reserve, and authority. The will which had originally the pliancy of the flower spray, has become a power accustomed to dominion, and the lovely Saxon encounters opposition with astonishment "that each soft wish should not be held for law." The moment difficulties come, she has nothing to meet them with but tears, and this is what we see every day—the mask and the features are not cast in the same mould, yet the mask is worn so long that the features take its likeness. That "e'en in our ashes live our wonted fires," is not true of those sifted embers which constitute what is called society. We become things of habits and forms, "the breathing pulse of the machine" is modulated into set beatings. Donne says;—
"Who makes the last a pattern for next year,
Turns no new leaf, but still the same thing reads;
Seen things he sees again, and heard things hears,
And makes his life but like a pair of beads."
And yet this is the common routine of existence, and best that it should be so it is for those who feel too keenly, and who turn the eye on the inward world and think that fate keeps her deadliest arrow in store. It is the Rebeccas not the Rowenas who go forth in the solitude of the heart. How often amid those who seem in our masquerade world to be clothed with smiles, and who hold no discourse save on "familiar matter of to-day," should we find one whose suffering might startle us—
"Could we put aside
The mask and mantle that is worn by pride."
How different too would the real character be from that which is assumed; how little often do the most intimate know of each other. But the difference that the stranger might discover is nothing to that which we trace in ourselves. The burning climate of the south leaves its darkness on the cheek—the trying air of the world leaves a yet deeper darkness on the heart. To the generous, the affectionate, and the high-minded these lessons are taught more bitterly than to the calmer, colder, and more selfish temperament. But to those who sprang forth into life—love in the heart, and that heart on the lips, harsh is the teaching of experience. How has the eager kindness been repaid by ingratitude; affection has been bestowed and neglected—trust repaid by treachery, and last and worst complained, by whom have we been beloved, even as we have loved!
Ivanhoe is the first historical novel—Scott was the magician who took up the old ballad, the forgotten chronicle, and the dim tradition, saying, "Can these bones live?" He gave them breathing, brilliant, active life. No historian ever did for his country what he has done—no one ever made the past so palpably familiar to the present. Till he drew attention towards it, it is singular how little people in general knew of the English history. He has acted as master of the ceremonies between us and our forefathers, and made popular the entertainment he originated. It has been deemed an objection to the historical novel, that its coloured pages are likely to divert attention from the graver page of history. We might answer, that a reader so indolent and so unenquiring would have been likely, without such attraction, not to have read at all; but we must also draw attention to the fact of how many severely antiquarian works date their origin from the interest excited in the Waverley novels. Moreover, we must add that Ivanhoe is perfect merely as an historical picture; it gives the most accurate idea of the manners of the time. Scott has also been accused of too great a leaning towards chivalry. There was, we admit, in his own temperament, a keen sympathy with that stirring and picturesque time; but if he lost none of the brilliant colour, he also gave the reverse. Not one in ten thousand ever considered the hard and uncertain nature of feudal tenure, till he painted the oppressions of Front de Boeuf, and the arbitrary rule supported by the Free Companies. But while a young and ardent spirit may well be permitted to kindle at the exploits of the "good knight and true," and to think highly of "marvels wrought by single hand;" yet the bane and antidote are both before us, and no one would seriously wish for that troubled and uncertain time again. No one who saw the evils, as depicted in Ivanhoe, attendant on the sway of sword and spear, would wish even their most brilliant hours back—no, not to be the victor of the tilted field, and lay his trophies at the feet of the Queen of Love and Beauty—his own chosen and fancied Rowena.