It would ill become me, whose name has been spread abroad by those
former collections bearing this title of "Tales of my Landlord," and
who have, by the candid voice of a numerous crowd of readers, been
taught to think that I merit not the empty fame alone, but also the
more substantial rewards, of successful pencraft--it would, I say, ill
become me to suffer this my youngest literary babe, and, probably at
the same time, the last child of mine old age, to pass into the world
without some such modest apology for its defects, as it has been my
custom to put forth on preceding occasions of the like nature. The
world has been sufficiently instructed, of a truth, that I am not
individually the person to whom is to be ascribed the actual inventing
or designing of the scheme upon which these Tales, which men have found
so pleasing, were originally constructed, as also that neither am I the
actual workman, who, furnished by a skilful architect with an accurate
plan, including elevations and directions both general and particular,
has from thence toiled to bring forth and complete the intended shape
and proportion of each division of the edifice. Nevertheless, I have
been indisputably the man, who, in placing my name at the head of the
undertaking, have rendered myself mainly and principally responsible
for its general success. When a ship of war goeth forth to battle with
her crew, consisting of sundry foremast-men and various officers, such
subordinate persons are not said to gain or lose the vessel which they
have manned or attacked, (although each was natheless sufficiently
active in his own department;) but it is forthwith bruited and noised
abroad, without further phrase, that Captain Jedediah Cleishbotham hath
lost such a seventy-four, or won that which, by the united exertions of
all thereto pertaining, is taken from the enemy. In the same manner,
shame and sorrow it were, if I, the voluntary Captain and founder of
these adventures, after having upon three divers occasions assumed to
myself the emolument and reputation thereof, should now withdraw myself
from the risks of failure proper to this fourth and last out-going. No!
I will rather address my associates in this bottom with the constant
spirit of Matthew Prior's heroine:
"Did I but purpose to embark with thee
On the smooth surface of some summer sea,
But would forsake the waves, and make the shore,
When the winds whistle, and the billows roar!"
As little, nevertheless, would it become my years and station not to
admit without cavil certain errors which may justly be pointed out in
these concluding "Tales of my Landlord,"--the last, and, it is
manifest, never carefully revised or corrected handiwork, of Mr. Peter
Pattison, now no more; the same worthy young man so repeatedly
mentioned in these Introductory Essays, and never without that tribute
to his good sense and talents, nay, even genius, which his
contributions to this my undertaking fairly entitled him to claim at
the hands of his surviving friend and patron. These pages, I have said,
were the _ultimus labor_ of mine ingenious assistant; but I say not, as
the great Dr. Pitcairn of his hero--_ultimus atque optitmis_. Alas!
even the giddiness attendant on a journey on this Manchester rail-road
is not so perilous to the nerves, as that too frequent exercise in the
merry-go-round of the ideal world, whereof the tendency to render the
fancy confused, and the judgment inert, hath in all ages been noted,
not only by the erudite of the earth, but even by many of the
thick-witted Ofelli themselves; whether the rapid pace at which the
fancy moveth in such exercitations, where the wish of the penman is to
him like Prince Houssain's tapestry, in the Eastern fable, be the chief
source of peril--or whether, without reference to this wearing speed of
movement, and dwelling habitually in those realms of imagination, be as
little suited for a man's intellect, as to breathe for any considerable
space "the difficult air of the mountain top" is to the physical
structure of his outward frame--this question belongeth not to me; but
certain it is, that we often discover in the works of the foremost of
this order of men, marks of bewilderment and confusion, such as do not
so frequently occur in those of persons to whom nature hath conceded
fancy weaker of wing, or less ambitious in flight.
It is affecting to see the great Miguel Cervantes himself, even like
the sons of meaner men, defending himself against the critics of the
day, who assailed him upon such little discrepancies and inaccuracies
as are apt to cloud the progress even of a mind like his, when the
evening is closing around it. "It is quite a common thing," says Don
Quixote, "for men who have gained a very great reputation by their
writings before they were printed, quite to lose it afterwards, or, at
least, the greater part."--"The reason is plain," answers the Bachelor
Carrasco; "their faults are more easily discovered after the books are
printed, as being then more read, and more narrowly examined,
especially if the author has been much cried up before, for then the
severity of the scrutiny is sure to be the greater. Those who have
raised themselves a name by their own ingenuity, great poets and
celebrated historians, are commonly, if not always, envied by a set of
men who delight in censuring the writings of others, though they could
never produce any of their own."--"That is no wonder," quoth Don
Quixote; "there are many divines that would make but very dull
preachers, and yet are quick enough at finding faults and superfluities
in other men's sermons."--"All this is true," says Carrasco, "and
therefore I could wish such censurers would be more merciful and less
scrupulous, and not dwell ungenerously upon small spots that are in a
manner but so many atoms on the face of the clear sun they murmur at.
If _aliquando dormitat Homerus_, let them consider how many nights he
kept himself awake to bring his noble works to light as little darkened
with defects as might be. But, indeed, it may many times happen, that
what is censured for a fault, is rather an ornament, as moles often add
to the beauty of a face. When all is said, he that publishes a book,
runs a great risk, since nothing can be so unlikely as that he should
have composed one capable of securing the approbation of every
reader."--"Sure," says Don Quixote, "that which treats of me can have
pleased but few?"--"Quite the contrary," says Carrasco; "for as
_infinitus est numerus stultorum_, so an infinite number have admired
your history. Only some there are who have taxed the author with want
of memory or sincerity, because he forgot to give an account who it was
that stole Sancho's Dapple, for that particular is not mentioned there,
only we find, by the story, that it was stolen; and yet, by and by, we
find him riding the same ass again, without any previous light given us
into the matter. Then they say that the author forgot to tell the
reader what Sancho did with the hundred pieces of gold he found in the
portmanteau in the Sierra Morena, for there is not a word said of them
more; and many people have a great mind to know what he did with them,
and how he spent them; which is one of the most material points in
which the work is defective."
How amusingly Sancho is made to clear up the obscurities thus alluded
to by the Bachelor Carrasco--no reader can have forgotten; but there
remained enough of similar _lacunas_, inadvertencies, and mistakes, to
exercise the ingenuity of those Spanish critics, who were too wise in
their own conceit to profit by the good-natured and modest apology of
this immortal author.
There can be no doubt, that if Cervantes had deigned to use it, he
might have pleaded also the apology of indifferent health, under which
he certainly laboured while finishing the second part of "Don Quixote."
It must be too obvious that the intervals of such a malady as then
affected Cervantes, could not be the most favourable in the world for
revising lighter compositions, and correcting, at least, those grosser
errors and imperfections which each author should, if it were but for
shame's sake, remove from his work, before bringing it forth into the
broad light of day, where they will never fail to be distinctly seen,
nor lack ingenious persons, who will be too happy in discharging the
office of pointing them out.
It is more than time to explain with what purpose we have called thus
fully to memory the many venial errors of the inimitable Cervantes, and
those passages in which he has rather defied his adversaries than
pleaded his own justification; for I suppose it will be readily
granted, that the difference is too wide betwixt that great wit of
Spain and ourselves, to permit us to use a buckler which was rendered
sufficiently formidable only by the strenuous hand in which it was
placed.
The history of my first publications is sufficiently well known. Nor
did I relinquish the purpose of concluding these "Tales of my
Landlord," which had been so remarkably fortunate; but Death, which
steals upon us all with an inaudible foot, cut short the ingenious
young man to whose memory I composed that inscription, and erected, at
my own charge, that monument which protects his remains, by the side of
the river Gander, which he has contributed so much to render immortal,
and in a place of his own selection, not very distant from the school
under my care. [Footnote: See Vol. II. of the present Edition, for some
circumstances attending this erection.] In a word, the ingenious Mr.
Pattison was removed from his place.
Nor did I confine my care to his posthumous fame alone, but carefully
inventoried and preserved the effects which he left behind him, namely,
the contents of his small wardrobe, and a number of printed books of
somewhat more consequence, together with certain, wofully blurred
manuscripts, discovered in his repository. On looking these over, I
found them to contain two Tales called "Count Robert of Paris," and
"Castle Dangerous;" but was seriously disappointed to perceive that
they were by no means in that state of correctness, which would induce
an experienced person to pronounce any writing, in the technical
language of bookcraft, "prepared for press." There were not only
_hiatus valde deflendi_, but even grievous inconsistencies, and other
mistakes, which the penman's leisurely revision, had he been spared to
bestow it, would doubtless have cleared away. After a considerate
perusal, I no question flattered myself that these manuscripts, with
all their faults, contained here and there passages, which seemed
plainly to intimate that severe indisposition had been unable to
extinguish altogether the brilliancy of that fancy which the world had
been pleased to acknowledge in the creations of Old Mortality, the
Bride of Lammermoor, and others of these narratives. But I,
nevertheless, threw the manuscripts into my drawer, resolving not to
think of committing them to the Ballantynian ordeal, until I could
either obtain the assistance of some capable person to supply
deficiencies, and correct errors, so as they might face the public with
credit, or perhaps numerous and more serious avocations might permit me
to dedicate my own time and labour to that task.
While I was in this uncertainty, I had a visit from a stranger, who was
announced as a young gentleman desirous of speaking with me on
particular business. I immediately augured the accession of a new
boarder, but was at once checked by observing that the outward man of
the stranger was, in a most remarkable degree, what mine host of the
Sir William Wallace, in his phraseology, calls _seedy_. His black cloak
had seen service; the waistcoat of grey plaid bore yet stronger marks
of having encountered more than one campaign; his third piece of dress
was an absolute veteran compared to the others; his shoes were so
loaded with mud as showed his journey must have been pedestrian; and a
grey _maud_, which fluttered around his wasted limbs, completed such an
equipment as, since Juvenal's days, has been the livery of the poor
scholar. I therefore concluded that I beheld a candidate for the vacant
office of usher, and prepared to listen to his proposals with the
dignity becoming my station; but what was my surprise when I found I
had before me, in this rusty student, no less a man than Paul, the
brother of Peter Pattison, come to gather in his brother's succession,
and possessed, it seemed, with no small idea of the value of that part
of it which consisted in the productions of his pen!
By the rapid study I made of him, this Paul was a sharp lad, imbued
with some tincture of letters, like his regretted brother, but totally
destitute of those amiable qualities which had often induced me to say
within myself, that Peter was, like the famous John Gay,--
"In wit a man, simplicity a child."
He set little by the legacy of my deceased assistant's wardrobe, nor
did the books hold much greater value in his eyes: but he peremptorily
demanded to be put in possession of the manuscripts, alleging, with
obstinacy, that no definite bargain had been completed between his late
brother and me, and at length produced the opinion to that effect of a
writer, or man of business,--a class of persons with whom I have always
chosen to have as little concern as possible.
But I had one defence left, which came to my aid, _tanquam deus ex
machina_. This rapacious Paul Pattison could not pretend to wrest the
disputed manuscripts out of my possession, unless upon repayment of a
considerable sum of money, which I had advanced from time to time to
the deceased Peter, and particularly to purchase a small annuity for
his aged mother. These advances, with the charges of the funeral and
other expenses, amounted to a considerable sum, which the
poverty-struck student and his acute legal adviser equally foresaw
great difficulty in liquidating. The said Mr. Paul Pattison, therefore,
listened to a suggestion, which I dropped as if by accident, that if he
thought himself capable of filling his brother's place of carrying the
work through the press, I would make him welcome to bed and board
within my mansion while he was thus engaged, only requiring his
occasional assistance at hearing the more advanced scholars. This
seemed to promise a close of our dispute, alike satisfactory to all
parties, and the first act of Paul was to draw on me for a round sum,
under pretence that his wardrobe must be wholly refitted. To this I
made no objection, though it certainly showed like vanity to purchase
garments in the extremity of the mode, when not only great part of the
defunct's habiliments were very fit for a twelvemonth's use, but as I
myself had been, but yesterday as it were, equipped in a becoming new
stand of black clothes, Mr. Pattison would have been welcome to the use
of such of my quondam raiment as he thought suitable, as indeed had
always been the case with his deceased brother.
The school, I must needs say, came tolerably on. My youngster was very
smart, and seemed to be so active in his duty of usher, if I may so
speak, that he even overdid his part therein, and I began to feel
myself a cipher in my own school.
I comforted myself with the belief that the publication was advancing
as fast as I could desire. On this subject, Paul Pattison, like ancient
Pistol, "talked bold words at the bridge," and that not only at our
house, but in the society of our neighbours, amongst whom, instead of
imitating the retired and monastic manner of his brother deceased, he
became a gay visitor, and such a reveller, that in process of time he
was observed to vilipend the modest fare which had at first been
esteemed a banquet by his hungry appetite, and thereby highly
displeased my wife, who, with justice, applauds herself for the
plentiful, cleanly, and healthy victuals, wherewith she maintains her
ushers and boarders.
Upon the whole, I rather hoped than entertained a sincere confidence
that all was going on well, and was in that unpleasant state of mind
which precedes the open breach between two associates who have been
long jealous of each other, but are as yet deterred by a sense of
mutual interest from coming to an open rupture.
The first thing which alarmed me was a rumour in the village, that Paul
Pattison intended, in some little space, to undertake a voyage to the
Continent--on account of his health, as was pretended, but, as the same
report averred, much more with the view of gratifying the curiosity
which his perusal of the classics had impressed upon him, than for any
other purpose. I was, I say, rather alarmed at this _susurrus_, and
began to reflect that the retirement of Mr. Pattison, unless his loss
could be supplied in good time, was like to be a blow to the
establishment; for, in truth, this Paul had a winning way with the
boys, especially those who were gentle-tempered; so that I must confess
my doubts whether, in certain respects, I myself could have fully
supplied his place in the school, with all my authority and experience.
My wife, jealous as became her station, of Mr. Pattison's intentions,
advised me to take the matter up immediately, and go to the bottom at
once; and, indeed, I had always found that way answered best with my
boys.
Mrs. Cleishbotham was not long before renewing the subject; for, like
most of the race of Xantippe, (though my help-mate is a well-spoken
woman,) she loves to thrust in her oar where she is not able to pull it
to purpose. "You are a sharp-witted man, Mr. Cleishbotham," would she
observe, "and a learned man, Mr. Cleishbotham--and the schoolmaster of
Gandercleuch, Mr. Cleishbotham, which is saying all in one word; but
many a man almost as great as yourself has lost the saddle by suffering
an inferior to get up behind him' and though, with the world, Mr.
Cleishbotham, you have the name of doing every thing, both in directing
the school and in this new profitable book line which you have taken
up, yet it begins to be the common talk of Gandercleuch, both up the
water and down the water, that the usher both writes the dominie's
books and teaches the dominie's school. Ay, ay, ask maid, wife, or
widow, and she'll tell ye, the least gaitling among them all comes to
Paul Pattison with his lesson as naturally as they come to me for their
four-hours, puir things; and never ane things of applying to you aboot
a kittle turn or a crabbed word, or about ony thing else, unless it
were for _licet exire_, or the mending of an auld pen."
Now this address assailed me on a summer evening, when I was whiling
away my leisure hours with the end of a cutty pipe and indulging in
such bland imaginations as the Nicotian weed is wont to produce, more
especially in the case of the studious persons, devoted _musis
severioribus_. I was naturally loth to leave my misty sanctuary; and
endeavoured to silence the clamour of Mrs. Cleishbotham's tongue, which
has something in it peculiarly shrill and penetrating. "Woman," said I
with a tone of domestic authority befitting the occasion, "_res tuas
agas_;--mind your washings and your wringings, your stuffings and your
physicking, or whatever concerns the outward persons of the pupils, and
leave the progress of their education to my usher, Paul Pattison, and
myself."
"I am glad to see," added the accursed woman, (that I should say so!)
"that ye have the grace to name him foremost, for there is little
doubt, that he ranks first of the troop, if ye wad but hear what the
neighbours speak--or whisper."
"What do they whisper, thou sworn sister of the Eumenides?" cried
I,--the irritating _aestrum_ of the woman's objurgation totally
counterbalancing the sedative effects both of pipe and pot.
"Whisper?" resumed she in her shrillest note--"why, they whisper loud
enough for me at least to hear them, that the schoolmaster of
Gandercleuch is turned a doited auld woman, and spends all his time in
tippling strong drink with the keeper of the public-house, and leaves
school and book-making, and a' the rost o't, to the care of his usher;
and, also, the wives in Gandercleuch say, that you have engaged Paul
Pattison to write a new book, which is to beat a' the lave that gaed
afore it; and to show what a sair lift you have o' the job, you didna
sae muckle as ken the name o't--no nor whether it was to be about some
Heathen Greek, or the Black Douglas."
This was said with such bitterness that it penetrated to the very
quick, and I hurled the poor old pipe, like one of Homer's spears, not
in the face of my provoking helpmate, though the temptation was strong,
but into the river Gander, which as is now well known to tourists from
the uttermost parts of the earth, pursues its quiet meanders beneath
the bank on which the school-house is pleasantly situated; and,
starting up, fixed on my head the cocked hat, (the pride of Messrs.
Grieve and Scott's repository,) and plunging into the valley of the
brook, pursued my way upwards, the voice of Mrs. Cleishbotham
accompanying me in my retreat with something like the angry scream of
triumph with which the brood-goose pursues the flight of some
unmannerly cur or idle boy who has intruded upon her premises, and fled
before her. Indeed, so great was the influence of this clamour of scorn
and wrath which hung upon my rear, that while it rung in my ears I was
so moved that I instinctively tucked the skirts of my black coat under
my arm, as if I had been in actual danger of being seized on by the
grasp of the pursuing enemy. Nor was it till I had almost reached the
well-known burial-place, in which it was Peter Pattison's hap to meet
the far-famed personage called Old Mortality, that I made a halt for
the purpose of composing my perturbed spirits, and considering what was
to be done; for as yet my mind was agitated by a chaos of passions, of
which anger was predominant; and for what reason, or against whom, I
entertained such tumultuous displeasure, it was not easy for me to
determine.
Nevertheless, having settled my cocked hat with becoming accuracy on my
well-powdered wig, and suffered it to remain uplifted for a moment to
cool my flushed brow--having, moreover, re-adjusted and shaken to
rights the skirts of my black coat, I came into case to answer to my
own questions, which, till these manoeuvres had been sedately
accomplished, I might have asked myself in vain.
In the first place, therefore, to use the phrase of Mr. Docket, the
writer (that is, the attorney) of our village of Gandercleuch, I became
satisfied that my anger was directed against all and sundry, or, in law
Latin, _contre omnes mortales_, and more particularly against the
neighbourhood of Gandercleuch, for circulating reports to the prejudice
of my literary talents, as well as my accomplishments as a pedagogue,
and transferring the fame thereof to mine own usher. Secondly, against
my spouse, Dorothea Cleishbotham, for transferring the sad calumnious
reports to my ears in a prerupt and unseemly manner, and without due
respect either to the language which she made use of, or the person to
whom she spoke,--treating affairs in which I was so intimately
concerned as if they were proper subjects for jest among gossips at a
christening, where the womankind claim the privilege of worshipping the
_Bona Dea_ according to their secret female rites.
Thirdly, I became clear that I was entitled to respond to any whom it
concerned to enquire, that my wrath was kindled against Paul Pattison,
my usher, for giving occasion both for the neighbours of Gandercleuch
entertaining such opinions, and for Mrs. Cleishbotham disrespectfully
urging them to my face, since neither circumstance could have existed,
without he had put forth sinful misrepresentations of transactions,
private and confidential, and of which I had myself entirely refrained
from dropping any the least hint to any third person.
This arrangement of my ideas having contributed to soothe the stormy
atmosphere of which they had been the offspring, gave reason a time to
predominate, and to ask me, with her calm but clear voice, whether,
under all the circumstances, I did well to nourish so indiscriminate an
indignation? In fine, on closer examination, the various splenetic
thoughts I had been indulging against other parties, began to be merged
in that resentment against my perfidious usher, which, like the serpent
of Moses, swallowed up all subordinate objects of displeasure. To put
myself at open feud with the whole of my neighbours, unless I had been
certain of some effectual mode of avenging myself upon them, would have
been an undertaking too weighty for my means, and not unlikely, if
rashly grappled withal, to end in my ruin. To make a public quarrel
with my wife, on such an account as her opinion of my literary
accomplishments, would sound ridiculous: and, besides, Mrs. C. was sure
to have all the women on her side, who would represent her as a wife
persecuted by her husband for offering him good advice, and urging it
upon him with only too enthusiastic sincerity.
There remained Paul Pattison, undoubtedly, the most natural and proper
object of my indignation, since I might be said to have him in my own
power, and might punish him by dismissal, at my pleasure. Yet even
vindictive proceedings against the said Paul, however easy to be
enforced, might be productive of serious consequences to my own purse;
and I began to reflect, with anxiety, that in this world it is not
often that the gratification of our angry passions lies in the same
road with the advancement of our interest, and that the wise man, the
_vere sapiens_, seldom hesitates which of these two he ought to prefer.
I recollected also that I was quite uncertain how far the present usher
had really been guilty of the foul acts of assumption charged against
him.
In a word, I began to perceive that it would be no light matter, at
once, and without maturer perpending of sundry collateral
_punctiuncula_, to break up a joint-stock adventure, or society, as
civilians term it, which, if profitable to him, had at least promised
to be no less so to me, established in years and learning and
reputation so much his superior. Moved by which, and other the like
considerations, I resolved to proceed with becoming caution on the
occasion, and not, by stating my causes of complaint too hastily in the
outset, exasperate into a positive breach what might only prove some
small misunderstanding, easily explained or apologized for, and which,
like a leak in a new vessel, being once discovered and carefully
stopped, renders the vessel but more sea-worthy than it was before.
About the time that I had adopted this healing resolution, I reached
the spot where the almost perpendicular face of a steep hill seems to
terminate the valley, or at least divides it into two dells, each
serving as a cradle to its own mountain-stream, the Gruff-quack,
namely, and the shallower, but more noisy, Gusedub, on the left hand,
which, at their union, form the Gander, properly so called. Each of
these little valleys has a walk winding up to its recesses, rendered
more easy by the labours of the poor during the late hard season, and
one of which bears the name of Pattison's path, while the other had
been kindly consecrated to my own memory, by the title of the Dominie's
Daidling-bit. Here I made certain to meet my associate, Paul Pattison,
for by one or other of these roads he was wont to return to my house of
an evening, after his lengthened rambles.
Nor was it long before I espied him descending the Gusedub by that
tortuous path, marking so strongly the character of a Scottish glen. He
was easily distinguished, indeed, at some distance, by his jaunty
swagger, in which he presented to you the flat of his leg, like the
manly knave of clubs, apparently with the most perfect contentment, not
only with his leg and boot, but with every part of his outward man, and
the whole fashion of his garments, and, one would almost have thought,
the contents of his pockets.
In this, his wonted guise, he approached me, where I was seated near
the meeting of the waters, and I could not but discern, that his first
impulse was to pass me without any prolonged or formal greeting. But as
that would not have been decent, considering the terms on which we
stood, he seemed to adopt, on reflection, a course directly opposite;
bustled up to me with an air of alacrity, and, I may add, impudence;
and hastened at once into the middle of the important affairs which it
had been my purpose to bring under discussion in a manner more becoming
their gravity. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Cleishbotham," said he, with
an inimitable mixture of confusion and effrontery; "the most wonderful
news which has been heard in the literary world in my time--all
Gandercleuch rings with it--they positively speak of nothing else, from
Miss Buskbody's youngest apprentice to the minister himself, and ask
each other in amazement, whether the tidings are true or false--to be
sure they are of an astounding complexion, especially to you and me."
"Mr. Pattison," said I, "I am quite at a loss to guess at your meaning.
_Davus sum, non Oedipus_--I am Jedediah Cleishbotham, Schoolmaster of
the parish of Gandercleuch; no conjuror, and neither reader of riddles,
nor expounder of enigmata."
"Well," replied Paul Pattison, "Mr. Jedediah Cleishbotham, Schoolmaster
of the parish of Gandercleuch, and so forth, all I have to inform you
is, that our hopeful scheme is entirely blown up. The tales, on
publishing which we reckoned with so much confidence, have already been
printed; they are abroad, over all America, and the British papers are
clamorous."
I received this news with the same equanimity with which I should have
accepted a blow addressed to my stomach by a modern gladiator, with the
full energy of his fist. "If this be correct information, Mr.
Pattison," said I, "I must of necessity suspect you to be the person
who have supplied the foreign press with the copy which the printers
have thus made an unscrupulous use of, without respect to the rights of
the undeniable proprietors of the manuscripts; and I request to know
whether this American production embraces the alterations which you as
well as I judged necessary, before the work could be fitted to meet the
public eye?" To this my gentleman saw it necessary to make a direct
answer, for my manner was impressive, and my tone decisive. His native
audacity enabled him, however, to keep his ground, and he answered with
firmness--
"Mr. Cleishbotham, in the first place, these manuscripts, over which
you claim a very doubtful right, were never given to any one by me, and
must have been sent to America either by yourself, or by some one of
the various gentlemen to whom, I am well aware, you have afforded
opportunities of perusing my brother's MS. remains."
"Mr. Pattison," I replied, "I beg to remind you that it never could be
my intention, either by my own hands, or through those of another, to
remit these manuscripts to the press, until, by the alterations which I
meditated, and which you yourself engaged to make, they were rendered
fit for public perusal."
Mr. Pattison answered me with much heat:--"Sir, I would have you to
know, that if I accepted your paltry offer, it was with less regard to
its amount, than to the honour and literary fame of my late brother. I
foresaw that if I declined it, you would not hesitate to throw the task
into incapable hands, or, perhaps, have taken it upon yourself, the
most unfit of all men to tamper with the works of departed genius, and
that, God willing, I was determined to prevent--but the justice of
Heaven has taken the matter into its own hands. Peter Pattison's last
labours shall now go down to posterity unscathed by the scalping-knife
of alteration, in the hands of a false friend--shame on the thought
that the unnatural weapon could ever be wielded by the hand of a
brother!"
I heard this speech not without a species of vertigo or dizziness in my
head, which would probably have struck me lifeless at his feet, had not
a thought like that of the old ballad--
"Earl Percy sees my fall,"
called to my recollection, that I should only afford an additional
triumph by giving way to my feelings in the presence of Mr. Paul
Pattison, who, I could not doubt, must be more or less directly at the
bottom of the Transatlantic publication, and had in one way or another
found his own interest in that nefarious transaction.
To get quit of his odious presence I bid him an unceremonious
good-night, and marched down the glen with the air not of one who has
parted with a friend, but who rather has shaken off an intrusive
companion. On the road I pondered the whole matter over with an anxiety
which did not in the smallest degree tend to relieve me. Had I felt
adequate to the exertion, I might, of course, have supplanted this
spurious edition (of which the literary gazettes are already doling out
copious specimens) by introducing into a copy, to be instantly
published at Edinburgh, adequate correction of the various
inconsistencies and imperfections which have already been alluded to. I
remember the easy victory of the real second part of these "Tales of my
Landlord" over the performance sent forth by an interloper under the
same title; and why should not the same triumph be repeated now? There
would, in short, have been a pride of talent in this manner of avenging
myself, which would have been justifiable in the case of an injured
man; but the state of my health has for some time been such as to
render any attempt of this nature in every way imprudent.
Under such circumstances, the last "Remains" of Peter Pattison must
even be accepted, as they were left in his desk; and I humbly retire in
the hope that, such as they are, they may receive the indulgence of
those who have ever been but too merciful to the productions of his
pen, and in all respects to the courteous reader's obliged servant, J.
C.
GANDERCLEUCH, _15th Oct._ 1831.