No. 20. — CATHERINE SEYTON.
It is not in the calm and measured paths of today that we see the more bold and pronounced characters, whose outlines have been rough-hewn by the strong hand of necessity; yet to such troubled times often belong the development of our noblest and best qualities—the stormy gulf of Ormus throws up the finest pearls. It is not in the season of tranquility that we know aught of the generous devotion, the fertility of resource, and the forgetfulness of self often shown in the hour of trial. When the French revolution broke out, how many, only accustomed to indolence, luxury, and custom, showed that "there was iron in the rose;" and, whether at the call of duty or of affection, were prepared to bear even to the uttermost, and to exert a fortitude till then undreamed of. In such a mould is cast the character of Catherine. She has been destined for the cloister, a vocation utterly at variance with that warm heart and ready wit with which nature had gifted her: she has worked at the embroidery frame: she has told her beads, and dwelt in quiet and seclusion. The destruction of her monastery opens before her a wide and troubled world; her spirits rise as she needs their support; she finds in herself strength to endure, and courage to resist again. This time, however, of her own free will she goes into seclusion; but it is solitude animated by the consciousness of a generous devotion, and invigorated by the performance of duty. There is that which at once arrests our sympathy in Catherine Seyton's attachment to her royal mistress—it is the result of enthusiasm acting upon the most generous feelings. In those days loyalty was a creed—the right divine had its religion. To this abstract belief, Catherine brought that personal earnestness with which the high-toned and sensitive temperament enters into all that it undertakes. This was soon heightened by that affection Mary knew so well how to inspire. It is coloured in the loveliest and loftiest light of humanity: the picture of Catherine Seyton, cheering the solitude of her imprisoned mistress with the playful gaiety of a spirit, as yet unbroken, as it is unspotted by the world. What "high resolve and constancy" is in the courage with with she plans and looks forward to escape! How true to the more generous impulses of her age is the utter disbelief of all the charges brought against the queen! Suspicion and youth are no comrades for each other. Youth is frank, eager, and prone to believe in the good; it looks round, and it sees flowers; it looks up and sees stars; evil appears impossible, because it does not seem to be in ourselves. It remains for after and weary years to teach us, that even the young and the innocent may be led into crime by the strong influence of temptation. Passion first, and interest afterwards, lures the feet of men into dark and crooked paths, which none in earlier and holier hours deemed they could tread. We may have been often deceived, but it is not until we ourselves begin to deceive that we dread deceit. There is an arch playfulness about Catherine Seyton with which Scott delights to invest his creations—they may be less heroines, but they are more women. There is not a more delightful temper in the daily relations of life than this sweet gaiety—it brings its own sunshine—"making that beautiful which was not so," relieving the monotonous, and inspiring the sad. A gay temper is like a bright day; true, it may have its faults—a little petulance, a little wilfulness—the flush may be too ready in the cheek, and the flash too prompt in the eye; still these are only trifles to be pardoned, and we like that all the better in which we have something to forgive. The Lady Fleming says of Catherine, "Heaven pity him who shall have, one day, a creature so beautiful to delight him, and a thing so mischievous to torment him." He would be very well off—the meteor light would be softened and subdued when it came to burn on one only hearth. The light step, though more measured, would shed music through the house; and, somewhat sobered by time, and touched by grief, which is knowledge, the riper years of Catherine Seyton would be of those that show
"how divine a thing,
A woman may be made."