_By Sir Walter Scott, Bart._
[We quote the following Legend from the _New Edition_ of _Guy Mannering_,
with the Supplementary Notes by the distinguished author.]
The manner in which the novels were composed, cannot be better
illustrated, than by reciting the simple narrative on which _Guy
Mannering_ was originally founded; but to which, in the progress of
the work, the production ceased to bear any, even the most distant
resemblance. The tale was originally told me by an old servant of
my father's, an excellent old Highlander, without a fault, unless a
preference to mountain-dew, over less potent liquors be accounted one.
He believed as firmly in the story as in any part of his creed.
A grave and elderly person, according to old John MacKinlay's account,
while travelling in the wilder parts of Galloway, was benighted.
With difficulty he found his way to a country-seat, where, with the
hospitality of the time and country, he was readily admitted. The owner
of the house, a gentleman of good fortune, was much struck by the
reverend appearance of his guest, and apologised to him for a certain
degree of confusion which must unavoidably attend his reception, and
could not escape his eye. The lady of the house was, he said, confined
to her apartment, and on the point of making her husband a father for
the first time, though they had been ten years married. At such an
emergency, the laird said he feared his guest might meet with some
apparent neglect. "Not so, sir," said the stranger; "my wants are few,
and easily supplied; and I trust the present circumstances may even
afford an opportunity of showing my gratitude for your hospitality. Let
me only request that I may be informed of the exact minute of the birth;
and I hope to be able to put you in possession of some particulars which
may influence in an important manner the future prospects of the child
now about to come into this busy and changeful world. I will not conceal
from you that I am skilful in understanding and interpreting the
movements of those planetary bodies which exert their influences on the
destiny of mortals. It is a science which I do not practise, like others
who call themselves astrologers, for hire or reward; for I have a
competent estate, and only use the knowledge I possess for the benefit
of those in whom I feel an interest." The laird bowed in respect and
gratitude, and the stranger was accommodated with an apartment which
commanded an ample view of the astral regions. The guest spent a part
of the night in ascertaining the position of the heavenly bodies, and
calculating their probable influence; until at length the result of his
observations induced him to send for the father, and conjure him in
the most solemn manner to cause the assistants to retard the birth, if
practicable, were it but for five minutes. The answer declared this to
be impossible; and almost in the instant that the message was returned,
the father and his guest were made acquainted with the birth of a boy.
The astrologer on the morrow met the party who gathered around the
breakfast-table with looks so grave and ominous, as to alarm the fears
of the father, who had hitherto exulted in the prospects held out by the
birth of an heir to his ancient property, failing which event it must
have passed to a distant branch of the family. He hastened to draw the
stranger into a private room. "I fear from your looks," said the father,
"that you have bad-tidings to tell me of my young stranger; perhaps God
will resume the blessing he has bestowed ere he attains the age of
manhood, or perhaps he is destined to be unworthy of the affection which
we are naturally disposed to devote to our offspring." "Neither the one
nor the other," answered the stranger, "unless my judgment greatly ere,
the infant will survive the years of minority, and in temper and
disposition will prove all that his parents can wish. But with much in
his horoscope which promises many blessings, there is one evil influence
strongly predominant, which threatens to subject him to an unhallowed
and unhappy temptation about the time when he shall attain the age of
twenty-one, which period, the constellations intimate, will be the
crisis of his fate. In what shape, or with what peculiar urgency, this
temptation may beset him, my art cannot discover." "Your knowledge,
then, can afford us no defence," said the anxious father, "against the
threatened evil?" "Pardon me," answered the stranger, "it can. The
influence of the constellations is powerful; but He who made the heavens
is more powerful than all, if his aid be invoked in sincerity and truth.
You ought to dedicate this boy to the immediate service of his Maker,
with as much sincerity as Samuel was devoted to the worship in the
Temple by his parents. You must regard him as a being separated from the
rest of the world. In childhood, in boyhood, you must surround him with
the pious and virtuous, and protect him to the utmost of your power from
the sight or hearing of any crime, in word or action. He must be
educated in religious and moral principles of the strictest description.
Let him not enter the world, lest he learn to partake of its follies, or
perhaps of its vices. In short, preserve him as far as possible from all
sin, save that of which too great a portion belongs to all the fallen
race of Adam. With the approach of his twenty-first birth-day comes the
crisis of his fate. If he survive it, he will be happy and prosperous on
earth, and a chosen vessel among those elected for heaven. But if it be
otherwise"----The astrologer stopped and sighed deeply. "Sir," replied
the parent, still more alarmed than before, "your words are so kind,
your advice so serious, that I will pay the deepest attention to your
behests; but can you not aid me farther in this most important concern.
Believe me, I will not be ungrateful." "I require and deserve no
gratitude for doing a good action," said the stranger; "in especial for
contributing all that lies in my power, to save from an abhorred fate
the harmless infant to whom, under a singular conjunction of planets,
last night gave life. There is my address; you may write to me from time
to time concerning the progress of the boy in religious knowledge. If he
be bred up as I advise, I think it will be best that he come to my house
at the time when the fatal and decisive period approaches, that is,
before he has attained his twenty-first year complete. If you send him
such as I desire, I humbly trust that God will protect his own, through
whatever strong temptation his fate may subject him to." He then gave
his host his address, which was a country-seat near a post town in the
south of England, and bid him an affectionate farewell.
The mysterious stranger departed; but his words remained impressed upon
the mind of the anxious parent. He lost his lady while his boy was
still in infancy. This calamity, I think, had been predicted by the
astrologer; and thus his confidence, which, like most people of the
period, he had freely given to the science, was riveted and confirmed.
The utmost care, therefore, was taken to carry into effect the severe
and almost ascetic plan of education which the sage had enjoined. A tutor
of the strictest principles was employed to superintend the youth's
education; he was surrounded by domestics of the most established
character, and closely watched and looked after by the anxious father
himself. The years of infancy, childhood, and boyhood, passed as the
father could have wished. A young Nazarene could not have been bred up
with more rigour. All that was evil was withheld from his observation--he
only heard what was pure in precept--he only witnessed what was worthy
in practice. But when the boy began to be lost in youth, the attentive
father saw cause for alarm. Shades of sadness, which gradually assumed
a darker character, began to overcloud the young man's temper. Tears,
which seemed involuntary, broken sleep, moonlight wanderings, and a
melancholy for which he could assign no reason, seemed to threaten at
once his bodily health and the stability of his mind. The astrologer
was consulted by letter, and returned for answer, that this fitful state
of mind was but the commencement of his trial, and that the poor youth
must undergo more and more desperate struggles with the evil that
assailed him. There was no hope of remedy, save that he showed steadiness
of mind in the study of the Scriptures. "He suffers," continued the
letter of the sage, "from the awakening of these harpies, the passions,
which have slept with him as with others, till the period of life which
he has now attained. Better, far better, that they torment him by
ungrateful cravings, than that he should have to repent having satiated
them by criminal indulgence." The dispositions of the young man were so
excellent, that he combated, by reason and religion, the fits of gloom
which at times overcast his mind; and it was not till he attained the
commencement of his twenty-first year, that they assumed a character
which made his father tremble for the consequences. It seemed as if the
gloomiest and most hideous of mental maladies were taking the form of
religious despair. Still the youth was gentle, courteous, affectionate,
and submissive to his father's will, and resisted with all his power the
dark suggestions which were breathed into his mind, as it seemed, by
some emanation of the Evil Principle, exhorting him, like the wicked
wife of Job, to curse God and die.
The time at length arrived when he was to perform what was then thought
a long and somewhat perilous journey, to the mansion of the early friend
who had calculated his nativity. His road lay through several places of
interest, and he enjoyed the amusement of travelling more than he
himself thought would have been possible. Thus he did not reach the
place of his destination till noon, on the day preceding his birthday.
It seemed as if he had been carried away with an unwonted tide of
pleasurable sensation, so as to forget, in some degree, what his father
had communicated concerning the purpose of his journey. He halted at
length before a respectable but solitary old mansion, to which he was
directed as the abode of his father's friend. The servants who came to
take his horse, told him he had been expected for two days. He was led
into a study, where the stranger, now a venerable old man, who had been
his father's guest, met him with a shade of displeasure as well as
gravity on his brow. "Young man," said he, "wherefore so slow on a
journey of such importance?" "I thought," replied the guest, blushing
and looking downwards, "that there was no harm in travelling slowly and
satisfying my curiosity, providing I could reach your residence by this
day; for such was my father's charge." "You were to blame," replied the
sage, "in lingering, considering that the avenger of blood was pressing
on your footsteps. But you are come at last, and we will hope for the
best, though the conflict in which you are to be engaged will be found
more dreadful the longer it is postponed. But first accept of such
refreshments as nature requires to satisfy, but not to pamper, the
appetite." The old man led the way into a summer parlour, where a frugal
meal was placed on the table. As they sat down to the board, they were
joined by a young lady about eighteen years of age, and so lovely, that
the sight of her carried off the feelings of the "young stranger" from
the peculiarity and mystery of his own lot, and riveted his attention to
every thing she did or said. She spoke little, and it was on the most
serious subjects. She played on the harpsichord at her father's command,
but it was hymns with which she accompanied the instrument. At length,
on a sign from the sage, she left the room, turning on the young
stranger, as she departed, a look of inexpressible anxiety and interest.
The old man then conducted the youth to his study, and conversed with
him upon the most important points of religion, to satisfy himself that
he could render a reason for the faith that was in him. During the
examination, the youth, in spite of himself, felt his mind occasionally
wander, and his recollections go in quest of the beautiful vision who
had shared their meal at noon. On such occasions, the astrologer looked
grave, and shook his head at this relaxation of attention; yet, on the
whole, he was pleased with the youth's replies. At sunset the young man
was made to take the bath; and, having done so, he was directed to
attire himself in a robe, somewhat like that worn by Armenians, having
his long hair combed down on his shoulders, and his neck, hands, and
feet bare. In this guise he was conducted into a remote chamber totally
devoid of furniture, excepting a lamp, a chair, and a table, on which
lay a Bible. "Here," said the astrologer, "I must leave you alone, to
pass the most critical period of your life. If you can, by recollection
of the great truths of which we have spoken, repel the attacks which
will be made on your courage and your principles, you have nothing to
apprehend. But the trial will be severe and arduous." His features then
assumed a pathetic solemnity, the tears stood in his eyes, and his voice
faltered with emotion as he said, "Dear child, at whose coming into the
world I foresaw this fatal trial, may God give thee grace to support it
with firmness!" The young man was left alone; and hardly did he find
himself so, when, like a swarm of demons, the recollection of all his
sins of omission and commission, rendered even more terrible by the
scrupulousness with which he had been educated, rushed on his mind, and,
like furies armed with fiery scourges, seemed determined to drive him to
despair. As he combated these horrible recollections with distracted
feelings, but with a resolved mind, he became aware that his arguments
were answered by the sophistry of another, and that the dispute was no
longer confined to his own thoughts. The Author of Evil was present in
the room with him in bodily shape, and, potent with spirits of a
melancholy cast, was impressing upon him the desperation of his state,
and urging suicide as the readiest mode to put an end to his sinful
career. Amid his errors, the pleasure he had taken in prolonging his
journey unnecessarily, and the attention which he had bestowed on the
beauty of the fair female, when his thoughts ought to have been
dedicated to the religious discourse of her father, were set before him
in the darkest colours; and he was treated as one who, having sinned
against light, was, therefore, deservedly left a prey to the Prince of
Darkness. As the fated and influential hour rolled on, the terrors of
the hateful Presence grew more confounding to the mortal senses of the
victim, and the knot of the accursed sophistry became more inextricable
in appearance, at least to the prey whom its meshes surrounded. He had
not power to explain the assurance of pardon which he continued to
assert, or to name the victorious name in which he trusted. But his
faith did not abandon him, though he lacked for a time the power of
expressing it. "Say what you will," was his answer to the Tempter;
"I know there is as much betwixt the two boards of this Book as can
insure me forgiveness for my transgressions, and safety for my soul."
As he spoke, the clock, which announced the lapse of the fatal hour,
was heard to strike. The speech and intellectual powers of the youth were
instantly and fully restored; he burst forth into prayer, and expressed,
in the most glowing terms, his reliance on the truth, and on the Author,
of the gospel. The demon retired, yelling and discomfited; and the old
man, entering the apartment, with tears congratulated his guest on his
victory in the fated struggle. The young man was afterwards married
to the beautiful maiden, the first sight of whom had made such an
impression on him, and they were consigned over at the close of the
story to domestic happiness.--So ended John MacKinlay's legend.
The author of Waverley had imagined a possibility of framing an
interesting, and perhaps not an unedifying, tale, out of the incidents
of the life of a doomed individual, whose efforts at good and virtuous
conduct were to be for ever disappointed by the intervention, as
it were, of some malevolent being, and who was at last to come off
victorious from the fearful struggle. In short, something was meditated
upon a plan resembling the imaginative tale of Sintram and his
Companions, by Mons. Le Baron de la Motte Fouqué, although, if it then
existed, the author had not seen it. The scheme projected may be
traced in the first three or four chapters of the work, but farther
consideration induced the author to lay his purpose aside. In changing
his plan, however, which was done in the course of printing, the early
sheets retained the vestiges of the original tenor of the story,
although they now hang upon it as an unnecessary and unnatural
encumbrance.
* * * * *
Sir Walter then points out his departures from this rude sketch, and
mentions the prototypes of several of his principal characters; such as
Jean (and her granddaughter Madge) Gordon, of Kirk Yetholm, for Meg
Merrilies; and a nameless individual for Dominie Sampson. "Such a
preceptor as Mr. Sampson," says he, "is supposed to have been, was
actually tutor in the family of a gentleman of considerable property.
The young lads, his pupils, grew up and went out in the world, but the
tutor continued to reside in the family, no uncommon circumstance in
Scotland (in former days), where food and shelter were readily afforded
to humble friends and dependents. The laird's predecessors had been
imprudent, he himself was passive and unfortunate. Death swept away his
sons, whose success in life might have balanced his own bad luck and
incapacity. Debts increased and funds diminished, until ruin came. The
estate was sold; and the old man was about to remove from the house of
his fathers, to go he knew not whither, when, like an old piece of
furniture, which, left alone in its wonted corner, may hold together for
a long while, but breaks to pieces on an attempt to move it, he fell
down on his own threshold under a paralytic affection. The tutor
awakened as from a dream. He saw his patron dead, and that his patron's
only remaining child, an elderly woman, now neither graceful nor
beautiful, if she had ever been either the one or the other, had by this
calamity become a homeless and penniless orphan. He addressed her nearly
in the words which Dominie Sampson uses to Miss Bertram, and professed
his determination not to leave her. Accordingly, roused to the exercise
of talents which had long slumbered, he opened a little school, and
supported his patron's child for the rest of her life, treating her with
the same humble observance and devoted attention which he had used
towards her in the days of her prosperity."
* * * * *