The Female Portrait Gallery/Effie Deans

by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

No. 12.— EFFIE DEANS.

It is singular what an impression of perfect loveliness Scott gives us of the "Lily of St. Leonards;" he never describes her, and yet we never doubt that

"A lovelier flower
On earth was never seen."

We can fancy, to continue the application of Wordsworth's exquisite lines, that nature in her case said—

"This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own;
. . . . . .
She shall be sportive as the fawn,
That wild with glee across the lawn,
Or up the mountain springs."

The changes and contrasts in Effie's character, too, are given with more of metaphysical working than Scott often interfuses into his creations; "like, yet unlike, is each." We differ widely from each other; do we not, as circumstances change around us, moulding us like slaves to their will—do we not differ yet more from ourselves? We see Effie first of all, the lively and lovely girl—her step is as light as her heart

"E'en the blue harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread."

Her songs lead the way rejoicing before her; it is as if

"The beauty born of murmuring sound,
Had passed into her face."

No marvel that she is beloved—and no marvel that she loves. Those gay spirits need the softening of tender affection; that warm heart is full of passionate emotions—of quick yet deep sensations—of generous impulse, and ready confidence—all that so soon kindles into love. To such a temperament love rarely brings happiness: it is too eager—too trusting and too sensitive—its end is too often in tears. But for poor Effie's one hour of Eden, "a darker departure is near;" she is now shame-struck and broken-hearted; the cheek is pale—the heart once gave it colour; but it is now as monumental marble; the desperation of the wretched is with her; she replies to the proposal of escape by a refusal, "Better tint life, since tint is guid fame;" yet she trembled before the death which she has staid to meet—she is too young to die. Nothing can be more pathetic than the meeting of the sisters. Can we not fancy how the poor prisoner's heart sank within her, when she heard her sister's step recede, slowly and sadly, day after day, from the pitiless door! What a change from the "Lily of St. Leonard's," shaking down the golden blossom of the broom as some chance branch caught her more golden hair. But the change is, when the "Lily of St. Leonard's," and the pale prisoner of the Tolbooth has become Lady Staunton—the received wit—the admitted beauty—the courted and the flattered. I have heard this transition called unnatural; it is not so. How many are the mysteries of society! I do not agree with Goethe, who says that every man has that hidden in the secret recesses of his bosom, which, if known, would cause his fellow men to turn from him with hatred; on the contrary, I firmly believe that were the workings of the heart known, they would rather win for us favour and affection. It is not so much that our natural impulses are not good, as that we allow temptation to turn them aside; or,

"Custom to lie upon them with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life."

Still, how many go through life with the arrow in their side of which no one dreams—with some secret it were worse than death to divulge. Lady Staunton lives in that most wretched of restraints—perpetual reserve. I can conceive no punishment so dreadful as keeping perpetual watch on our words, lest they betray what they mean to conceal; to know no unguarded moment—no careless gaiety—to pine for the confidence which yet we dare not bestow—to tremble, lest that some hidden meaning lurk in a phrase which only our own sickly fancy could torture into bearing such—to have suspicion become a second nature—and to shrink every morning from the glad sunshine, for we know not what a day may bring forth: the wheel of Ixion were a tender mercy compared to such a state. Lady Staunton, too, fears her husband; and that says everything of misery that can fall to a woman's lot. It is dreadful to tremble at the step which was once earth's sweetest music—to start at a voice once so sweet in our ear, and watch if its tone be that of anger, even before we gather the import, and to hesitate before we meet eyes, now only too apt to look reproach and resentment. There is one touch of character full of knowledge in the human heart. Lady Staunton is glad to leave her sister's quiet parlour and garden, for the wild heath spreading its purple harvest for the bees; and the rock side, where the step can scarce find uneasy footing amid the lichen and groundsel. How often is bodily weariness resorted to, to subdue the weariness within; and fortunate, indeed, are those who have never known that feverish unrest, which change of place mocks with the hope of change of suffering. Moreover, for few are the sorrows which know no respite, an imaginative taste must have seen enjoyment in

"The grace of forest woods decayed,
And pastoral melancholy;"

while the wilder scenes elevate us into forgetfulness of those human troubles which sink into nothingness before their mighty and eternal presence. Equally natural, too, is Lady Staunton's retirement to a convent; penance and seclusion were framed for such minds whose very penitence would be excitement. It was an extreme; and the "Lily of St. Leonard's" had led a life of extremes.