THE HEART OF MID LOTHIAN.
No. 11.— JEANNIE DEANS.
Sir Walter, in his happiest moment, when memory furnished materials that genius worked out in invention, was never more fortunate than in the character of "Jeannie Deans." She is a heroine, in the highest and best sense of the word, though without one of the ordinary characteristics—she is neither romantic, picturesque, nor beautiful. Scott seems to have delighted in scorning the usual accessories of interest—and yet how strong is the interest excited!—it is the very triumph of common sense and of rigid principle.
"We recognise
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart,"
though that hearts beat neither for love, fame, nor ambition; whose echo is like the sound of a trumpet, startling men into pleased sympathy with the triumph its stately music proclaims. Nothing can be more quiet than what seems likely to be the tenor of the Scottish maiden's path; she belongs to that humble class, which, if it has neither the quick sensibilities, nor the graceful pleasures of a higher lot, is usually freed from its fever, its sorrows, and its great reverses; her very lover seems to ensure her against the troubles of that troubled time,
"————whose spring resembles
The uncertain glory of an April day."
For
"Somewhat pensively he wooed,
And spake of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending,
Of serious faith, and gentle glee."
She dwells among her own people, with the prospect of no greater grief than to see, in the fullness of years, her father's grey head go down in honour to the grave. Patience and saving will, sooner or later, enable Reuben or herself to marry, when
"Contented wi' little,
But canty wi' mair,"
they would be heads of a house as grave, calm, and well-ordered as those wherein their own childhood learnt its sedate and serious lessons. Yet this girl becomes the centre of one of those domestic tragedies which are the more terrible from their rare occurrence, and from the regular and pious habits which would seem to preclude their possibility. Disgrace darkens upon the humble roof tree, overcoming it with "special wonder," and those to whom sin was a horrible thing afar, have it in their constant thoughts; it has been committed by one among themselves. We all know that there is evil in the world—we read of it—we hear of it—but we never think of its entering our own charmed circle. Look round our circle of acquaintance; how it would startle us to be asked to name one whom we thought capable of crime; how much more so to find that crime had been committed by one near and dear to our inmost heart. What a moral revulsion would such a discovery produce—how weak we should find ourselves under such a trial—how soon we should begin to disconnect the offender and the offence; then, for the first time, we should begin to understand the full force of temptation, and to allow for its fearful strength; and should we not begin to excuse what had never before seemed capable of palliation? Jeannie Deans' refusal to save her sister—so young, so beloved, so helpless—at the expense of perjury, has always seemed to me the noblest effort in which principle was ever sustained by religion. How well I remember (at such a distance from England, I may perhaps be pardoned for clinging to every recollection of the past) a discussion between some friends and myself, as to whether Jeannie Deans should have saved her sister's life—even with a lie I am afraid I rather argued—"and for a great right, do a little wrong"—that to save one whom I loved, I must have committed the sin of perjury, and said on my soul be the guilt; that if even to refuse a slight favour was painful, who could bear to say no! when on that no! hung a fellow-creature's life—that fellow-creature most tenderly beloved. But I was in error—that worst error which cloaks itself in a good intention, and would fain appear only an amiable weakness. Jeannie Deans could not have laid the sin of perjury upon her soul: she had been brought up with the fear of the Lord before her eyes—she could not—dared not—take his name in vain. Many a still and solemn Sabbath, by the lingering light of the sunset sky, or with the shadow of the lamp falling around his gray hairs, must she have heard her father read the tale of how Annanias, and Sapphira his wife, were struck dead with a lie upon their lips;—dared she go, and do likewise? To her the court of justice, with its solemnities, and the awful appeal of its oath, must have seemed like a mighty temple. It was impossible that she could call upon that Book, which from the earliest infancy had been the object of her deepest reverence, to witness to the untruth. Yet with what more than Roman fortitude she prepares herself for suffering, toil, danger—anything so that she may but save her young sister. With what perfect simplicity she perseveres even unto the end; the kindness she meets with takes her by surprise, and worldly fortune leaves her the same kind, affectionate, and right-minded creature. Her marriage—the quiet manse, and years of happiness, unnoted save by the daily thanksgiving—come upon the reader with the same sense of enjoyment and relief, that a shady and fragrant nook does the traveller, overwearied with the heat and tumult of the highway. We have no fear that the fanaticism of her father, or the earnest warning of her husband, will ever come into over rough collision, with such a tie between them—with such a sweet and womanly peacemaker.