Return to the banks of the Tweed--Abbotsford--The
Study--Biographical Sketch of Sir Walter Scott--His Early
life--Residence in the Country--Spirit of Romance--Education--First
Efforts as an Author--Success of 'Marmion'--Character of his
Poetry--Literary Change--His Novels--Pecuniary
Difficulties--Astonishing Efforts--Last Sickness--Death and
Funeral.
Leaving the Ettrick, we proceed once more in the direction of the Tweed,
which we soon reach. How sweetly the river winds through this wooded
region--quick and even impetuous in its flow, but so translucent that
the white pebbles at the bottom are distinctly visible. What a picture
of peaceful enjoyment is presented by that shepherd boy, leaning against
the rock, and basking himself in the sun, while his sheep are nibbling
the short grass on the edge of the water. But yonder is Abbotsford, with
its castellated walls and pointed gables, shooting up from a sylvan
declivity on the banks of the river, which almost encircles the place
with a graceful sweep, and contrasts beautifully with the deep-green
foliage of the straggling clumps of trees. But every traveller in
Scotland visits Abbotsford, and therefore we say nothing about its
singular construction, its curious ornaments, its ancient relics, its
broad-swords and battle-axes, its coats armorial, oak carvings and
blazoned windows, its old portraits and fine library. We will not
describe the door taken from the old Tolbooth in Edinburgh, nor the
pulpit from which Ralph Erskine preached; nay more, we shall not even
moralize on "the broad-skirted blue coat, with metal buttons, the plaid
trowsers, heavy shoes, broad-brimmed hat and stout walking stick," the
last worn by "the Great Magician of the north," when he took to his bed
in his last illness. We will pass, however, into his study, a room about
twenty-five feet square, containing a small writing table in the centre,
on which Sir Walter was accustomed to write, and a plain arm-chair,
covered with black leather, on which he sat. A subdued light enters from
a single window, and a few books lie on the shelves, used chiefly for
reference. By the permission of the good lady who has charge of the
house, we are permitted to seat ourselves, and linger here for an hour,
calling up the memory of the most wonderful genius that Scotland has
ever produced.
The father of Sir Walter Scott was a writer to the Signet in Edinburgh,
an excellent and highly respectable man. His mother, Anne Rutherford, a
noble and gentle-hearted woman, was the daughter of a physician, in
extensive practice, and Professor of Medicine in the University of
Edinburgh. By both parents he was remotely connected with some ancient
and respectable Scottish families, a circumstance to which he frequently
referred with satisfaction. He was born on the 15th of August, in the
year 1771. In consequence of lameness and a delicate state of health,
produced by a fall, he was sent, in early life to Sandyknowe, a
romantic situation near Kelso, and placed under the care of his
grandfather. Here he fortified his constitution by long rambles on foot
and on horseback among the picturesque scenery and old ruins of the
neighborhood. Smallholm, a ruined tower, and the scene of Scott's
ballad, "The Eve of St. John's," was close to the farm, and beside it
were the Eildon Hills, the ruins of Ercildoune, the residence, in
ancient times, of Thomas the Rhymer, Dryburgh Abbey, the "silver Tweed,"
with its storied banks, and other localities renowned in song and story.
It was here also that he delighted in supplying his memory with the
tales of his nurse, and some old grandames, deeply versed in the
traditions of the country. All these left indelible impressions on his
young imagination, and nursed the latent germ of poetry and romance, so
late, but so beautiful in its flowering. Subsequently he resided with
another relation at Kelso. Here, under the shadow of a great platanus or
oriental palm tree, in an old garden, he devoured "Percy's Reliques of
Ancient Poetry," and permitted his fancy to wander at will amid the
scenes of Border romance. This explains, in some degree, the peculiar
characteristics of his first poems, and that fine strain of romantic
feeling which runs through his tales. Speaking of this matter, he says
himself: "In early youth I had been an eager student of ballad poetry,
and the tree is still in my recollection beneath which I lay and first
entered upon the enchanting perusal of 'Percy's Reliques of Ancient
Poetry,' although it has long perished in the general blight which
affected the whole race of oriental platanus, to which it belonged. The
taste of another person had strongly encouraged my own researches into
this species of legendary lore. But I had never dreamed of an attempt to
imitate what gave me so much pleasure. Excepting the usual tribute to a
mistress's eyebrow, which is the language of passion rather than poetry,
I had not for ten years indulged the wish to couple so much as _love_
and _dove_, when finding Lewis in possession of so much reputation, and
conceiving that, if I fell behind him in poetical powers, I considerably
exceeded him in general information, I suddenly took it into my head to
attempt the style by which he had raised himself to fame." He refers to
the same thing in the following lines:
"Thus, while I ape the measure wild,
Of tales that charmed me--yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time;
And feelings roused in life's first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay;
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour.
Though no broad river swept along,
To claim perchance heroic song;
Though sigh no groves in summer gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale,
Yet was poetic impulse given
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled,
But ever and anon between
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lovely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew.
And honeysuckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruined wall.
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round surveyed;
And still I thought that shattered tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvelled as the aged hind,
With some strange tale bewitched my mind,
Of foragers who, with headlong force
Down from that strength had spurred their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew
Far in the distant Cheviot's blue,
And home returning filled the hall,
With revel, wassail-route and brawl.--
Methought that still with tramp and clang
The gateway's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features seamed with scars,
Glared through the window's rusty bars.
And even by the winter hearth;
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretched at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat e'er,
Pebbles and shells in order laid
The mimic ranks of war displayed;
And onward still the Scottish lion bore,
And still the scattered Southron fled before."
In addition to this, young Scott was a perfect _helluo librorum_. He had
access to a large library filled with romances, histories, biographies,
and so forth, which he indiscriminately devoured. His memory was quick
and tenacious, and his mind became stored with all sorts of facts,
fables and fancies. Still, even in youth, he possessed a sound judgment,
a clear, well balanced mind, and separated the chaff from the wheat with
tolerable discrimination. His father was a good Presbyterian, and did
what he could to imbue his mind with religious principles, which never
deserted him. Among the first lines he is known to have written are the
following. They were found wrapped up in a paper inscribed by Dr. Adam
of the Edinburgh High School, 'Walter Scott, July, 1783.'
ON THE SETTING SUN.
Those evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints, serve to display
Their great Creator's praise;
Then let the short-lived thing called man
Whose life's comprised within a span,
To Him his homage raise.
We often praise the evening clouds,
And tints so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,
Who tinged these clouds with gold.
Scott was educated at the Edinburgh High School, and University. He had
an aversion to Greek, a singular fact, but made some proficiency in
Latin, moral philosophy and history. He also made himself tolerably
familiar with the French, German and Italian tongues. Being much at
home, he indulged in reading romances and poetry. From early life, he
was an industrious collector of old ballads, many of which he committed
to memory. Apprenticed to his father, as "a writer," he commenced the
study of law, and began to practice in his twenty-first year. As his
health was now vigorous, he made long excursions into the country, which
he facetiously denominated _raids_, rambling over scenes of external
beauty or of historic interest, making acquaintance with the country
people, and picking up information about men and things. By this means
he amassed an immense store of everyday facts, and an intimate knowledge
of character, which were of immense service to him in the construction
of his novels.
Scott's first appearance as an author was in the translation from the
German of Burger's Leonore, and "Der Wilde Jaeger," or the "Wild
Huntsman," ballads of singular wildness and power. These, however, made
little impression on the public mind. Of this he says, "The failure of
my first publication did not operate, in any unpleasant degree, either
on my feelings or spirits. To speak candidly, I found pleasure in the
literary labor in which I had, almost by accident, become engaged, and
labored less in the hope of pleasing others, though certainly without
despair of doing so, than in the pursuit of a new and agreeable
amusement to myself." He continued to read the German, and to make
translations from it, and became more and more interested in the ballad
poetry. He was delighted to find the affinity of the old English, and
especially of the Scottish language to the German, not in sound merely,
but in the turn of phrase, so that they were capable of being rendered
line for line, with very little variation.
By degrees he acquired sufficient confidence to attempt the imitation of
what he so much admired. His first original poem was "Glenfinlas." Next
followed "The Eve of St. John." Owing to unfortunate circumstances these
had no great success. Nothing daunted, however, he again appeared before
the public with his "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," which
immediately became popular. The success of this last work, not only
established his reputation as an author, but encouraged him to devote
himself to literary pursuits. Under appointment as Sheriff of
Selkirkshire, he enjoyed the kind of associations and employments
favorable to the cultivation of his poetical powers. Among other things,
he edited the metrical romance of "Sir Tristrem," supposed to be written
by "Thomas the Rhymer," or Thomas of Ercildoune, laird, poet and
prophet, who flourished about the year 1280. The dissertations which
accompanied this work, and the imitation of the original to complete the
romance, evinced his antiquarian attainments and fine poetical taste. At
length appeared "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," a higher, purer strain,
which was received with universal enthusiasm, and stamped him a great
and original poet. His fine conception of the minstrel, his easy
versification, his admirable narrative, his glowing pictures, his wild
ballad enthusiasm, his legendary lore, and his exquisite touches of the
marvellous and supernatural, combined to render the poem popular beyond
all precedent. Thirty thousand copies were speedily sold by the trade.
Then, in quick succession, followed that splendid series of poems, so
popular in their day, and still so interesting and delightful.
Intrinsically, they are inferior to some of the higher strains of
English poetry, but they possess certain qualities which gained the
public ear, and found a place in the national heart. These doubtless
were the novelty of their style, their natural and simple versification,
their easy, dramatic narrative, and their lively descriptions of
national scenes and manners, in contrast with the formal hexameters,
with "all their buckram and binding," of which the public had become
tired.
Being in easy, and almost in affluent circumstances, Scott became
ambitious of founding a family. For this purpose he bought land on the
banks of the Tweed, and built Abbotsford, at a very considerable
expense. He received the order of knighthood, and looked forward to days
of ease and prosperity. Devoting himself almost entirely to literary
pursuits, he formed connections in business with James Ballantyne, then
rising into extensive business in the city of Edinburgh. This involved
the necessity of large advances, and Scott became involved in large
pecuniary responsibilities. He received an appointment as one of the
principal Clerks of the Court of Session, with perhaps six thousand
dollars per annum. This, with the gains of the printing establishment,
and other sources of revenue, would have secured to him and his family
an ample provision.
With his customary sagacity, Sir Walter perceived that his peculiar
style of poetry would not continue popular, and therefore he betook
himself to a new field of literary enterprise, which proved still
richer, and, by far, more congenial. Then appeared his historical
novels, which became so popular, that his fame as a poet was almost
forgotten. Volume after volume came from the press, and spread like
wildfire over the land. Translated into French, German, and Italian,
they reached every part of Europe, and completely superseded the old run
of novels, with their unnatural plots and extravagant nonsense. It was
Scott's ambition to elevate this species of literature, and whatever
objections may be made against it, on the score of moral influence, this
much must be conceded to him. In his hands novel writing became
comparatively pure and dignified, nay, as some, with considerable show
of reason, contend, beneficial. The moral tone of all Sir Walter's
productions is pre-eminently pure. They are characterized by shrewd
sense, a profound insight into men and things, a keen perception of the
beautiful and brave, the generous and leal, a fine sense of honor,
reverence for God, and a deep sympathy with all the wants and woes, the
hopes and joys of our common humanity. Sir Walter is the Shakspeare of
novel writing, and if he falls below the great dramatic poet, in the
quickness and universality of his genius, he approaches him in the
soundness of his intellect, the breadth of his imagination, and the
versatility of his powers. From his Tory and High Church predilections
he has done some injustice to the old Covenanters and Puritans of
Scotland; but he possessed a noble and generous heart, a spirit of faith
and reverence, a love for God and all his creatures. His soul was
naturally blithe and joyous, hopeful and strong. He loved Scotland with
intense affection, and has spread the light of his genius over all her
hills and vales. Under the magic influence of his pen the hoary
mountains, the dark tarns and trosachs of the Highlands gleam with
supernal beauty. Tweed murmurs his name, while the Firth and Tay repeat
it through all their windings. His "own romantic town" glories in his
memory; every city, village and hamlet of the Lowlands, with strath,
meadow and moorland, echo his praise. The Genius of his country has
crowned him with the same wild wreath which erst she hung upon the head
of Burns, and the world has acknowledged the consecration.
It was in the year 1826 that Ballantyne and Company became insolvent,
and Sir Walter Scott, in the very midst of his splendid career, found
himself involved to the amount of $600,000. But he nobly refused to
become a bankrupt, considering, says Allan Cunningham, "like the elder
Osbaldistone of his own immortal pages, commercial honor as dear as any
other honor." All he asked for was time; and in seven years he paid off
more than the half of this sum by the labors of his pen. His efforts to
accomplish this sublime purpose were gigantic, but they broke down his
constitution. "Sometime in the beginning of the year 1831," says his
friend Cunningham, "a sore illness came upon him; his astonishing
efforts to satisfy his creditors, began to exhaust a mind apparently
exhaustless; and the world heard with concern that a paralytic stroke
had affected his speech and his right hand, so much as to render writing
a matter of difficulty. One of his letters to me at this period, is not
written with his own hand: the signature is his, and looks cramped and
weak. I visited him at Abbotsford, about the end of July, 1831: he was a
degree more feeble than I had ever seen him, and his voice seemed
affected; not so his activity of fancy, and surprising resources of
conversation. He told anecdotes and recited scraps of verse, old and
new, always tending to illustrate something passing. He showed me his
armory, in which he took visible pleasure; and was glad to hear me
commend the design of his house, as well as the skill with which it was
built. * * * In a small room, half library and half armory, he usually
sat and wrote: here he had some remarkable weapons, curious pieces of
old Scottish furniture, such as chairs and cabinets, and an antique sort
of a table, on which lay his writing materials. A crooked headed staff
of Abbotsford oak or hazel usually lay beside him to support his steps
as he went and came."
"When it was known," continues Cunningham, "that Sir Walter Scott's
health declined, the deep solicitude of all ranks became manifest;
strangers came from far lands to look on the house which contained the
great genius of our times; inquirers flocked around, of humble and of
high degree, and the amount of letters of inquiry or condolence was, I
have heard, enormous. Amongst the visitors, not the least welcome was
Wordsworth, the poet, who arrived when the air of the northern hills was
growing too sharp for the enfeebled frame of Scott, and he had resolved
to try if the fine air and climate of Italy would restore him to health
and strength.
"When Government heard of Sir Walter's wishes, they offered him a ship;
he left Abbotsford as many thought forever, and arrived in London, where
he was welcomed as never mortal was welcomed before. He visited several
friends, nor did he refuse to mingle in company, and having written
something almost approaching to a farewell to the world, which was
published with 'Castle Dangerous,' the last of his works, he set sail
for Italy, with the purpose of touching at Malta. He seemed revived, but
it was only for a while: he visited Naples, but could not enjoy the high
honors paid to him: he visited Rome, and sighed amid its splendid
temples and glorious works of art, for gray Melrose and the pleasant
banks of Tweed, and passing out of Italy, proceeded homewards down the
Rhine. Word came to London, that a dreadful attack of paralysis had
nearly deprived him of life, and that but for the presence of mind of a
faithful servant he must have perished. This alarming news was followed
by his arrival in London: a strong desire of home had come upon him; he
travelled with rapidity, night and day, and was all but worn out, when
carried into St. James's Hotel, Jermyn street, by his servants."
As soon as he recovered a little, he resumed his journey to Scotland,
reached Abbotsford, and seemed revived, smiled when he was borne into
his library, and enjoyed the society of his children. When he was
leaving London the people, wherever he was recognized, took off their
hats, saying, "God bless you, Sir Walter!" His arrival in Scotland was
hailed with equal enthusiasm and sympathy; and so much was he revived
that hopes were entertained of his recovery. But he gradually declined,
listening occasionally to passages from the Bible, and from the poems of
Crabbe and Wordsworth. Once he tried to write, but failed in the
attempt. "He never spoke of his literary labors or success."
Occasionally his mind wandered, and then he was preparing for the
reception of the Duke of Wellington at Abbotsford, or exercising the
functions of a judge, as if presiding at the trial of members of his own
family. It may be regarded as a singular fact, that in his delirium, his
mind never wandered toward those works which had filled the world with
his fame. But the flame of life now flickered feebly in its socket, and
gave unerring indications of its speedy extinction. "About half past
one, P. M.," says Mr. Lockhart, his son-in-law and biographer, "on the
21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence
of all his children. It was a beautiful day--so warm that every window
was open--and so perfectly still that the sound, of all others most
delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles,
was distinctly audible, as we knelt around his bed, and his eldest son
kissed and closed his eyes."
The remains of Sir Walter were buried in Dryburgh Abbey. "As we
advanced," says one who was present at the funeral, which was conducted
with the greatest simplicity and solemnity, "the ruined abbey disclosed
itself through the trees; and we approached its western extremity, where
a considerable portion of vaulted roof still remains to protect the
poet's family place of interment, which opens to the sides in lofty
Gothic arches, and is defended by a low rail of enclosure. At one
extremity of it, a tall thriving young cypress rears its spiral form.
Creeping plants of different kinds, 'with ivy never sere,' have spread
themselves very luxuriantly over every part of the Abbey. These perhaps
were in many instances the children of art; but however this may have
been, nature had herself undertaken their education. In this spot
especially, she seems to have been most industriously busy in twining
her richest wreaths around those walls which more immediately form her
poet's tomb. Amongst her other decorations, we observed a plum tree,
which was perhaps at one period a prisoner, chained to the solid
masonry, but which having long since been emancipated, now threw out its
wild pendent branches, laden with purple fruit, ready to drop, as if
emblematical of the ripening and decay of human life.
"In such a scene as this, then, it was that the coffin of Sir Walter
Scott was set down on trestles placed outside the iron railing; and here
that solemn service, beginning with those words, so cheering to the
souls of Christians, 'I am the resurrection and the life,' was solemnly
read. The manly soldier-like features of the chief mourner, on whom the
eyes of sympathy were most naturally turned, betrayed at intervals the
powerful efforts which he had made to master his emotions, as well as
the inefficiency of his exertions to do so. The other relatives who
surrounded the bier were deeply moved; and amid the crowd of weeping
friends, no eye, and no heart could be discovered that was not
altogether occupied in that sad and impressive ceremonial, which was so
soon to shut from them forever, him who had been so long the common idol
of their admiration, and of their best affections. Here and there,
indeed, we might have fancied that we detected some early and long tried
friends of him who lay cold before us, who, whilst tears dimmed their
eyes, and whilst their lips quivered, were yet partly engaged in mixing
up and contrasting the happier scenes of days long gone by, with that
which they were now witnessing, until they became lost in dreamy
reverie, so that even the movement made when the coffin was carried
under the lofty arches of the ruin, and when _dust was committed to
dust_, did not entirely snap the thread of their visions. It was not
until the harsh sound of the hammers of the workmen who were employed to
rivet those iron bars covering the grave, to secure it from violation,
had begun to echo from the vaulted roof, that some of us were called to
the full conviction of the fact, that the earth had forever closed over
that form which we were wont to love and reverence; that eye which we
had so often seen beaming with benevolence, sparkling with wit, or
lighted up with a poet's frenzy; those lips which we had so often seen
monopolizing the attention of all listeners, or heard rolling out, with
nervous accentuation, those powerful verses with which his head was
continually teeming; and that brow, the perpetual throne of generous
expression, and liberal intelligence. Overwhelmed by the conviction of
this afflicting truth, men moved away without parting salutation,
singly, slowly, and silently. The day began to stoop down into twilight;
and we, too, after giving a last parting survey to the spot where now
repose the remains of our Scottish Shakspeare, a spot lovely enough to
induce his sainted spirit to haunt and sanctify its shades, hastily tore
ourselves away."