her as 'A gifted personage, having, besides her great talents,
conversation the least _exigeante_ of any author-female, at least, whom
I have ever seen among the long list I have encountered; simple, full of
humour, and exceedingly ready at repartee, and all this without the
least affectation of the blue-stocking.' Of her considerate kindness to
the author of _Waverley_, then in failing health, on the occasion of her
last visit to Abbotsford, Lockhart gives this pleasing description:--
'To assist in amusing him in the hours which he spent out of his
study, and especially that he might make these hours more frequent,
his daughter had invited his friend the authoress of _Marriage_ to
come out to Abbotsford; and her coming was serviceable. For she knew
and loved him well, and she had seen enough of affliction akin to
his to be well skilled in dealing with it. She could not be an hour
in his company without observing what filled his children with more
sorrow than all the rest of the case. He would begin a story as
gaily as ever, and go on, in spite of the hesitation in his speech,
to tell it with highly picturesque effect; but before he reached the
point, it would seem as if some internal spring had given way. He
paused and gazed around him with the blank anxiety of look that a
blind man has when he has dropped his staff. Unthinking friends
sometimes gave him the catchword abruptly. I noticed the delicacy of
Miss Ferrier on such occasions. Her sight was bad, and she took care
not to use her glasses when he was speaking, and she affected also
to be troubled with deafness, and would say, "Well, I am getting as
dull as a post, I have not heard a word since you said so and so,"
being sure to mention a circumstance behind that at which he had
really halted. He then took up the thread with his habitual smile of
courtesy, as if forgetting his case entirely in the consideration of
the lady's infirmity.'
In conclusion, if Miss Ferrier's work lacks the sweetness and delicacy
of Miss Austin's, it has at its best a strength to which her English
sister's makes no pretension. The portraits of the former are _bitten
in_ with a powerful acid unknown in the chemistry of the latter. But if
she was sometimes _downright_ to the verge of cruelty, Miss Ferrier's
view of life was a sound one. She strikes unsparingly at the rawness and
self-sufficiency which are characteristic defects of such large numbers
of our countrymen; yet she remains without rival as a painter of
Scottish society, and one at least of her novels deserves to rank with
the masterpieces of British fiction.
MICHAEL SCOTT
There used to be a tradition at Cambridge to the effect that an
undergraduate, being called on in examination to give some account of
John the Baptist, returned the answer, 'Little or nothing is known of
this extraordinary man,'--a reply which probably did not go far enough
to satisfy the examiner. Scarcely more satisfying, however, must be the
response of the biographer who is called on to gratify natural curiosity
regarding the author of _Tom Cringle's Log_--scarcely more satisfying,
though with apparently so much less of excuse. For it is only a little
over sixty years since the death of Michael Scott. Neither was his a
case of posthumous reputation, or of rehabilitation after long neglect,
which might have accounted for the obscuring of biographical detail--his
work, though it has lost nothing of popularity, or certainly of
readableness in the interim, having been received with acclamation on
its first appearance. And yet, after diligent and eager enquiry, the
present writer finds himself forced to acknowledge that all but a meagre
outline of the facts of Scott's life is lost. This is the more
remarkable in that he was obviously no bookworm or literary recluse, and
that all who know his writings will feel instinctively that one so
characterised by humour and the love of good company--to say nothing of
practical joking--should have strewn anecdote thick behind him wherever
he went. But if this was so, his traces have been most effectually
expunged. The sort of find which now rewards, or mocks, his would-be
biographer is, for example, such a tradition as that which records that
he was fond of whisky punch--a solitary survival in the mind of one who
remembers him in Glasgow, but a trait which, considering the times and
the society in which Scott lived, can scarcely be held as individual.
This, however, is not the worst. The writer has reason to believe that
the glorious sea masterpiece with which Scott's name is chiefly
associated was written, or at least partly written, in a house now
belonging to himself--namely, the secluded cottage of Birseslees,
situated on the banks of Ale, in Roxburghshire. Such, at least, is the
tradition which he received from his father, one constitutionally averse
to random statement, who had himself occupied the cottage within ten
years of Scott's decease, and who, as an enthusiastic yachtsman,
familiar with the West Indies, had special reasons for being interested
in his writings. Such testimony--as Mr Mowbray Morris, Scott's
biographer, remarks--is at least as good as that on which rest most of
the statements regarding his life, and no apology is made for adducing
it here. Yet, in despite of this testimony, a careful search, recently
conducted among the oldest inhabitants of the neighbourhood, has failed
to bring to light any but the vaguest and most uncertain references to
the author of the _Log_. Under these conditions, what is left for a
biographer to do? He has no choice but to content himself with a
recapitulation of the few facts already current. One person, indeed,
there is in whose power it almost certainly lies, by enlightening our
ignorance, to gratify our by no means unkindly curiosity; but it is
generally understood that, for reasons which we have no right to
challenge, and which at least in no wise concern the fair fame of the
author, that person's lips are sealed. It therefore now only remains to
consider whether the darkness which surrounds Scott's life is the result
of intention or of accident, and in support of the former conclusion it
may be stated that, among men-of-letters of the time, taking their cue
from the author of _Waverley_, and the practice of Maga, there existed
an undoubted taste for mystification; whilst that the younger Scott
shared in it is proved by the facts that his true name was never known
to his publisher otherwise than by hearsay, and that in his own family
circle and that of his immediate acquaintances the identity of Tom
Cringle was unknown. One suggestion is that these measures were taken
from a prudential point of view, in the interest of his business as a
merchant, which might possibly have suffered had it been known to
receive but divided attention. But as he avoided publicity in
authorship, he may also have chosen to do so in other things. Otherwise,
if internal evidence counts for anything, we should certainly suppose
him to have been the least self-conscious of men, and one of the last in
the world to trouble his head--unless he did it as a joke--as to what
might be known, or not known, about himself.
Under existing circumstances, to write the life of Scott is to reproduce
the narrative of Mr Mowbray Morris. Born at Cowlairs, near Glasgow, on
the 30th October 1789, he was his father's fifth and youngest son. To
that father, Allan Scott by name, the estate of Cowlairs had come from
an elder brother, Robert, described as a Glasgow merchant of good
family, who had purchased it in 1778,--at which time the house stood in
the country, though its site has long since been swallowed up by the
encroachments of the town. Young Scott was sent first to the Grammar
School, as the High School of Glasgow was then called, and afterwards to
the University, where he matriculated when just twelve years of age.
Aird states that he was at school with John Wilson. At the University he
remained four years, during the latter part of which he had as his
inseparable companion the future author of _Cyril Thornton_, a
fellow-student of tastes akin to his own, who has furnished in that
novel a picture of the college life of the time. At the University Scott
does not appear to have gained distinction. Perhaps, like many another
author in embryo, he preferred miscellaneous reading to the college
course; at any rate, the few literary allusions scattered over the pages
of his books are generally apt and appreciative. However his taste seems
to have been for active life, spiced if possible by adventure, and
accordingly, in 1806, we find him leaving Scotland for the West Indies.
At this point Mr Morris, our authority, makes a digression in order to
describe the magnitude and antiquity of the Clyde shipping-trade, and
the effect exercised upon it by the revolt of our American colonies,
which, by diverting it from Virginia to the West Indies, had changed its
staple from tobacco to sugar. It happened that a family friend of the
Scotts, Bogle by name--a Glasgow merchant and the descendant of Glasgow
merchants--had at that time a nephew resident in Jamaica, where he was
occupied as an estate-agent, and on his own account as a trader. To the
care of this gentleman young Scott is now supposed to have been
consigned, that he might be taught an estate-agent's duties. The agent's
name was George William Hamilton, and one feels sure that no admirer of
the _Log_ will hear with indifference that in him Scott found the
original of the most individual of his many droll planter portraits--the
portrait of Aaron Bang.
After profiting for three or four years by the instructions of Hamilton,
who combined with his humorous propensities a very decided talent for
business, in the year 1810 Scott entered a mercantile house at Kingston,
in the employment of which he continued for seven years more. 'These
years,' says Mr Morris, 'were the making of the _Log_. His business,
coupled with Hamilton's friendship, not only brought him into contact
with every phase of society in Jamaica, but sent him on frequent voyages
among the islands and to the Spanish Main; and certainly few travellers
can have carried a more curious pair of eyes with them than Michael
Scott, or entered more heartily into the spirit of the passing hour.' In
1817 he returned to Scotland, and in the year following married
Margaret, daughter of the Mr Bogle previously referred to, and
consequently first cousin to Hamilton. He was soon back in Jamaica,
however, and it was presumably at this time that he occupied the
house--situated high up among the Blue Mountains, in midst of some of
the finest scenery in the world--which is still shown to visitors as
his. He remained in Jamaica till 1822, when he finally returned to his
native land to start business on his own account. This he seems to have
combined with a share in other mercantile concerns, being at the time of
his death a partner in a commission-house in Glasgow, as well as in a
Scottish commercial house in Maracaybo, on the Spanish Main.
It was in 1829 that he first appeared as an author, in which year--again
to quote Mr Morris--'the _Log_ began to make its appearance in
Blackwood's Magazine as a disconnected series of sketches, published
intermittently as the author supplied them, or as the editor found it
convenient to print them. The first five, for instance, appeared in
September and November, 1829, and in June, July and October, 1830, under
the titles of "A Scene off Bermuda," "The Cruise of H.M.S. _Torch_,"
"Heat and Thirst--a Scene in Jamaica," "Davy Jones and the Yankee
Privateer," and the "Quenching of the _Torch_"; and these five papers
now constitute the third chapter.' But shrewd Mr Blackwood, who greatly
admired the sketches, persuaded the author to give them some sort of
connecting link, 'which, without binding him to the strict rules of
narrative composition, would add a strain of personal and continuous
interest in the movement of the story. The young midshipman accordingly
began to cut a more conspicuous figure; and in July, 1832, the title of
"Tom Cringle's Log" was prefixed to what is now the eighth, but was then
called the eleventh chapter. Henceforward the _Log_ proceeded regularly
each month, with but one intermission, to its conclusion in August,
1833'; and a few months later, after some final touches, it made its
appearance as a book. Its success was immediate. It was hailed with
applause in particular by Coleridge, Christopher North, and Albany
Fonblanque--the first-named of whom pronounced it 'most excellent.'
Lockhart in the _Quarterly Review_, in an article on 'Monk' Lewis's
West Indian travels, also speaks of it as the most brilliant series of
magazine papers of the time; whilst the _Scottish Literary Gazette_ for
November 1833 concludes a glowing notice by adjuring the writer,
whatever he may undertake next, to remember that he is the author of
_Tom Cringle's Log_.
Its successor, _The Cruise of the Midge_, made a more regular progress,
from its commencement in March 1834, to its conclusion in June of the
following year, though it also required some final overhauling before
its appearance as a volume. These two books constitute the literary
output of their author, and the completion of the _Cruise of the Midge_
brings us within a short distance of his death, which occurred at his
house in Glasgow[9] on the 7th November 1835, when he had just completed
his forty-sixth year. A large family survived to mourn his loss. He is
buried in the Necropolis, where an unpretending monument marks his
resting-place and that of his wife and several of their children. In the
inscription which it bears, no allusion whatever is made to his literary
achievements. I have been told that in private life Scott was a quiet
easy-going man, of modest and retiring disposition, and also, on the
authority of an old lady who remembers his death, that great was the
surprise in Glasgow when it became known that he had been the author of
thrilling tales of adventure by sea and land. It is said, by the way,
that certain of Cringle's adventures were drawn from the experiences of
a Captain Hobson, father of the Arctic explorer of that name, who when a
lieutenant, about the year 1821, was engaged in putting down piracy in
the West Indies. The character of Paul Gelid can likewise be traced to
an original.
Here ends what is to be known about Scott's life, and if it is with
regret that we accept this fact as inevitable, there is at least a
certain consolation to be derived from reflecting that, in this prying
age, at least one gallant literary figure stands secure from the
mishandling of meddlers. But--the author himself having evaded the
biographer--it is scarcely less remarkable that the popularity of his
works seems to have won them no adequate eulogy. For, so far as I know,
we may search in vain among critical essays for an appreciation of these
masterpieces. Possibly their character as books of adventure relegated
to the boys' shelf may be in part accountable for this; whilst doubtless
the frequent roughness and homeliness of their style--whether casual, or
introduced for the purpose of fitting the speech to the speaker--may
have scared off many such pedants and wiseacres as have yet to learn
that mere _correctness_ is one of the very humblest of literary
qualities, or at least that genius--so it _be_ genius--is like King
Sigismund, above the grammar-books. At an age when most boys are still
puzzling over syntax and orthography, Mr Thomas Cringle and Lieutenant
Benjamin Brail had already brought stout hearts and ready hands to bear
upon the work of men, and it is quite true that in the records of their
experiences not only do we find foreigners talking their own languages
very imperfectly, but also the authors themselves from time to time
making use of faulty constructions and of novel spelling. Now had their
business been mainly an affair of words and phrases, this had been
serious indeed; but as, instead, it happens to be one of thoughts,
feelings, sensations, and the art of communicating them, the case is
very different. And we may add that had any man composed ten times as
loosely as Cringle sometimes chose to do, whilst still retaining
Cringle's power to make us see and feel with him, that man had still
remained a most remarkable writer. However already more than enough has
been said on the subject of these few and very trifling errors, which in
fact interfere not at all with a style which is usually clear, nervous
and straightforward.
As has been already indicated, Scott's principal literary gift lay in
his power of presentation--his power, that is, of putting simply,
sufficingly, and without redundancy, a scene or person before the
reader, so that he shall see the one and hear the other speak. From the
days of Homer to those of the world-wide success of the youngest of our
distinguished novelists, this gift has been recognised as quintessential
in the story-teller. In the two broad classes of temperaments, it is
wont to assume two separate forms, which differ from one another--in
class-room terms--as the objective from the subjective. Of the latter of
these--by virtue of which a reader is compelled so completely to
identify himself with scenes depicted that he not only seems to witness
them, but actually for the time being to participate and play the
leading part in them--the works of Currer Bell, and perhaps especially
_Villette_, the most highly-finished of her novels, afford notable
examples. The converse side of the gift is displayed by the virile and
active temperament of Michael Scott; and, of this particular quality,
many a writer of far higher reputation has possessed greatly less than
he. In illustration of this, the example of his greater namesake may be
quoted, for with all his many other excellences, Sir Walter's pictorial
or mimetic effects are seldom, or never, perfectly 'clean'--direct, and
free from surplusage or alloy. Michael Scott's, on the other hand, are
about as direct as it is possible to be. Illustrations might be quoted
at will, for if there is one thing more surprising than the gift itself,
it is the lavish use made of it by its possessor on page after page of
his writings. The following characteristic scene may serve as an
example, and it must be borne in mind that all Scott's fine scenes are
incidental: he never, so to speak, makes a point of them.
'It was eleven o'clock in the forenoon, a fine clear breezy day,
fresh and pleasant, sometimes cloudy overhead, but always breaking
away again, with a bit of a sneezer, and a small shower. As the sun
rose there were indications of squalls in the north-eastern quarter,
and about noon one of them was whitening to windward. So "hands by
the top-gallant clew-lines" was the word, and we were all standing
by to shorten sail, when the Commodore came to the wind as sharp and
suddenly as if he had anchored; but on a second look, I saw his
sheets were let fly. The wind, ever since noon, had been blowing in
heavy squalls, with appalling lulls between them. One of these gusts
had been so violent as to bury in the sea the lee-guns in the waist,
although the brig had nothing set but her close-reefed
main-top-sail, and reefed foresail. It was now spending its fury,
and she was beginning to roll heavily, when, with a suddenness
almost incredible to one unacquainted with these latitudes, the veil
of mist that had hung to windward the whole day was rent and drawn
aside, and the red and level rays of the setting sun flashed at
once, through a long arch of glowing clouds, on the black hull and
tall spars of his Britannic Majesty's sloop, _Torch_. And, true
enough, we were not the only spectators of this gloomy splendour;
for, right in the wake of the moonlike sun, now half sunk in the
sea, at the distance of a mile or more, lay a long warlike-looking
craft, apparently a frigate or heavy corvette, rolling heavily and
silently in the trough of the sea, with her masts, yards, and the
scanty sail she had set, in strong relief against the glorious
horizon.'
Or this--
'The anchorage was one unbroken mirror, except where its glass-like
surface was shivered into sparkling ripples by the gambols of a
skipjack, or the flashing stoop of his enemy the pelican; and the
reflection of the vessel was so clear and steady, that at the
distance of a cable's length you could not distinguish the
water-line, nor tell where the substance ended and shadow began,
until the casual dashing of a bucket overboard for a few moments
broke up the phantom ship; but the wavering fragments soon reunited,
and she again floated double, like the swan of the poet. The heat
was so intense, that the iron stancheons of the awning could not be
grasped with the hand, and where the decks were not screened by it,
the pitch boiled out from the seams. The swell rolled in from the
offing in long shining undulations, like a sea of quicksilver,
whilst every now and then a flying-fish would spark out from the
unruffled bosom of the heaving water, and shoot away like a silver
arrow, until it dropped with a flash into the sea again. There was
not a cloud in the heavens, but a quivering blue haze hung over the
land, through which the white sugar-works and overseers' houses on
the distant estates appeared to twinkle like objects seen through a
thin smoke, whilst each of the tall stems of the cocoa-nut trees on
the beach, when looked at steadfastly, seemed to be turning round
with a small spiral motion, like so many endless screws. There was a
dreamy indistinctness about the outlines of the hills, even in the
immediate vicinity, which increased as they receded, until the Blue
Mountains in the horizon melted into sky. The crew were listlessly
spinning oakum, and mending sails, under the shade of the awning;
the only exceptions to the general languor were John Crow, the
black, and Jacko the monkey. The former (who was an _improvisatore_
of a rough stamp) sat out on the bowsprit, through choice, beyond
the shade of the canvas, without hat or shirt, like a bronze bust,
busy with his task, whatever that might be, singing at the top of
his pipe, and between whiles confabulating with his hairy ally, as
if he had been a messmate. The monkey was hanging by the tail from
the dolphin-striker, admiring what John Crow called "his own dam
ogly face in the water."
'Tail like yours would be good ting for a sailor, Jacko; it would
leave his two hands free aloft--more use, more hornament, too, I'm
sure, den de piece of greasy junk dat hangs from de captain's
taffril.--Now I shall sing to you, how dat Corromantee rascal, my
fader, was sell me on de Gold Coast--
'"Two red nightcap, one long knife,
All him get for Quacko,
For gun next day him sell him wife--
You tink dat good song, Jacko?"
'"Chocko, chocko," chattered the monkey, as if in answer.
'"Ah, you tink so--sensible hominal!--What is dat! shark?--Jacko,
come up, sir: don't you see dat big shovel-nosed fis looking at you?
Pull your hand out of the water--Garamighty!"
'The negro threw himself on the gammoning of the bowsprit to take
hold of the poor ape, who, mistaking his kind intention, and
ignorant of his danger, shrunk from him, lost his hold, and fell
into the sea. The shark instantly sank to have a run, then dashed at
his prey, raising his snout over him, and shooting his head and
shoulders three or four feet out of the water, with poor Jacko
shrieking in his jaws, whilst his small bones crackled and crunched
under the monster's triple row of teeth.'