CHAPTER XXV

Large Paper Edition

LOCKHART'S

LIFE OF SCOTT

COPIOUSLY ANNOTATED AND ABUNDANTLY ILLUSTRATED

IN TEN VOLUMES

VOL. IV

[Illustration: WALTER SCOTT IN 1817

_From the water-color portrait by William Nicholson_]

MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE

OF

SIR WALTER SCOTT

BART.

by

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART

In Ten Volumes

VOLUME IV

Boston and New York

Houghton, Mifflin and Company

The Riverside Press, Cambridge

MCMI

Copyright, 1901

by Houghton, Mifflin and Company

All Rights Reserved

Six Hundred Copies Printed

Number, 200

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

XXV. The "Flitting" to Abbotsford. -- Plantations. --

George Thomson. -- Rokeby and Triermain in Progress. --

Excursion to Flodden. -- Bishop-Auckland, and Rokeby

Park. -- Correspondence with Crabbe. -- Life of Patrick

Carey, etc. -- Publication of Rokeby, -- and of The

Bridal of Triermain. 1812-1813 1

XXVI. Affairs of John Ballantyne and Co. -- Causes of

their Derangement. -- Letters of Scott to his Partners.

-- Negotiation for Relief with Messrs. Constable. --

New Purchase of Land at Abbotsford. -- Embarrassments

continued. -- John Ballantyne's Expresses. --

Drumlanrig, Penrith, etc. -- Scott's Meeting with the

Marquis of Abercorn at Longtown. -- His Application to

the Duke of Buccleuch. -- Offer of the

Poet-Laureateship, -- considered, -- and declined. --

Address of the City of Edinburgh to the Prince Regent.

-- Its Reception. -- Civic Honors conferred on Scott.

-- Question of Taxation on Literary Income. -- Letters

to Mr. Morritt, Mr. Southey, Mr. Richardson, Mr.

Crabbe, Miss Baillie, and Lord Byron. 1813 50

XXVII. Insanity of Henry Weber. -- Letters on the

Abdication of Napoleon, etc. -- Publication of Scott's

Life and Edition of Swift. -- Essays for the Supplement

to the Encyclopædia Britannica. -- Completion and

Publication of Waverley. 1814 100

XXVIII. Voyage to the Shetland Isles, etc. -- Scott's

Diary kept on Board the Lighthouse Yacht. 1814 124

XXIX. Diary on Board the Lighthouse Yacht continued. --

The Orkneys. -- Kirkwall. -- Hoy. -- The Standing

Stones of Stennis, etc. 1814 163

XXX. Diary continued. -- Stromness. -- Bessy Millie's

Charm. -- Cape Wrath. -- Cave of Smowe. -- The

Hebrides. -- Scalpa, etc. 1814 178

XXXI. Diary continued. -- Isle of Harris. -- Monuments

of the Chiefs of Macleod. -- Isle of Skye. -- Dunvegan

Castle. -- Loch Corriskin. -- Macallister's Cave. 1814 193

XXXII. Diary continued. -- Cave of Egg. -- Iona. --

Staffa. -- Dunstaffnage. -- Dunluce Castle. -- Giant's

Causeway. -- Isle of Arran, etc. -- Diary concluded.

1814 206

XXXIII. Letter in Verse from Zetland and Orkney. --

Death of the Duchess of Buccleuch. -- Correspondence

with the Duke. -- Altrive Lake. -- Negotiation

concerning The Lord of the Isles completed. -- Success

of Waverley. -- Contemporaneous criticisms on the

Novel. -- Letters to Scott from Mr. Morritt, Mr. Lewis,

and Miss Maclean Clephane. -- Letter from James

Ballantyne to Miss Edgeworth. 1814 237

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Page

WALTER SCOTT IN 1817 _Frontispiece_

From the water-color portrait by William Nicholson,

R. S. A., in the possession of W. C. C. Erskine, Esq.

Through the courtesy of David Douglas, Esq., Edinburgh.

ABBOTSFORD IN 1812 6

ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE 50

From the painting by Sir Henry Raeburn, R. A., at Braeburn,

Currie, Mid-Lothian. By permission of William Patrick

Bruce, Esq.

J. B. S. MORRITT 100

From the painting by Sir M. A. Shee, P. R. A., in the

possession of R. A. Morritt, Esq., of Rokeby.

WILLIAM ERSKINE, LORD KINNEDDER 124

From the water-color portrait by William Nicholson,

R. S. A., in the possession of W. C. C. Erskine, Esq.

Through the courtesy of David Douglas, Esq., Edinburgh.

JAMES HOGG 250

From the water-color portrait by Stephen Poyntz Denning,

in the National Portrait Gallery.

SIR WALTER SCOTT

CHAPTER XXV

THE "FLITTING" TO ABBOTSFORD. -- PLANTATIONS. -- GEORGE THOMSON.

--ROKEBY AND TRIERMAIN IN PROGRESS. -- EXCURSION TO FLODDEN.

--BISHOP-AUCKLAND, AND ROKEBY PARK. -- CORRESPONDENCE WITH

CRABBE. --LIFE OF PATRICK CAREY, ETC. -- PUBLICATION OF ROKEBY,

-- AND OF THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN

1812-1813

Towards the end of May, 1812, the Sheriff finally removed from

Ashestiel to Abbotsford. The day when this occurred was a sad one

for many a poor neighbor--for they lost, both in him and his wife,

very generous protectors. In such a place, among the few evils which

counterbalance so many good things in the condition of the

peasantry, the most afflicting is the want of access to medical

advice. As far as their means and skill would go, they had both done

their utmost to supply this want; and Mrs. Scott, in particular, had

made it so much her business to visit the sick in their scattered

cottages, and bestowed on them the contents of her medicine-chest as

well as of the larder and cellar, with such unwearied kindness, that

her name is never mentioned there to this day without some

expression of tenderness. Scott's children remember the parting

scene as one of unmixed affliction--but it had had, as we shall see,

its lighter features.

Among the many amiable English friends whom he owed to his frequent

visits at Rokeby Park, there was, I believe, none that had a higher

place in his regard than the late Anne, Lady Alvanley, the widow of

the celebrated Chief Justice of the Court of Common Pleas. He was

fond of female society in general; but her ladyship was a woman

after his heart; well born and highly bred, but without the

slightest tinge of the frivolities of modern fashion; soundly

informed, and a warm lover of literature and the arts, but holding

in as great horror as himself the imbecile chatter and affected

ecstasies of the bluestocking generation. Her ladyship had written

to him early in May, by Miss Sarah Smith (now Mrs. Bartley), whom I

have already mentioned as one of his theatrical favorites; and his

answer contains, among other matters, a sketch of the "Forest

Flitting."

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LADY ALVANLEY.

ASHESTIEL, 25th May, 1812.

I was honored, my dear Lady Alvanley, by the kind letter which you

sent me with our friend Miss Smith, whose talents are, I hope,

receiving at Edinburgh the full meed of honorable applause which they

so highly merit. It is very much against my will that I am forced to

speak of them by report alone, for this being the term of removing, I

am under the necessity of being at this farm to superintend the

transference of my goods and chattels, a most miscellaneous

collection, to a small property, about five miles down the Tweed,

which I purchased last year. The neighbors have been much delighted

with the procession of my furniture, in which old swords, bows,

targets, and lances, made a very conspicuous show. A family of turkeys

was accommodated within the helmet of some _preux chevalier_ of

ancient Border fame; and the very cows, for aught I know, were bearing

banners and muskets. I assure your ladyship that this caravan,

attended by a dozen of ragged rosy peasant children, carrying

fishing-rods and spears, and leading ponies, greyhounds, and

spaniels, would, as it crossed the Tweed, have furnished no bad

subject for the pencil, and really reminded me of one of the gypsy

groups of Callot upon their march.

EDINBURGH, 28th May.

I have got here at length, and had the pleasure to hear Miss Smith

speak the Ode on the Passions charmingly last night. It was her

benefit, and the house was tolerable, though not so good as she

deserves, being a very good girl, as well as an excellent performer.

I have read Lord Byron with great pleasure, though pleasure is not

quite the appropriate word. I should say admiration--mixed with

regret, that the author should have adopted such an unamiable

misanthropical tone.--The reconciliation with Holland House is

extremely edifying, and may teach young authors to be in no hurry to

exercise their satirical vein. I remember an honest old Presbyterian,

who thought it right to speak with respect even of the devil himself,

since no one knew in what corner he might one day want a friend. But

Lord Byron is young, and certainly has great genius, and has both time

and capacity to make amends for his errors. I wonder if he will pardon

the Edinburgh Reviewers, who have read their recantation of their

former strictures.

Mrs. Scott begs to offer her kindest and most respectful compliments

to your ladyship and the young ladies. I hope we shall get into

Yorkshire this season to see Morritt: he and his lady are really

delightful persons. Believe me, with great respect, dear Lady

Alvanley, your much honored and obliged

WALTER SCOTT.

A week later, in answer to a letter, mentioning the approach of the

celebrated sale of books in which the Roxburghe Club originated,

Scott says to his trusty ally, Daniel Terry:--

EDINBURGH, 9th June, 1812.

MY DEAR TERRY,--I wish you joy of your success, which, although all

reports state it as most highly flattering, does not exceed what I had

hoped for you. I think I shall do you a sensible pleasure in

requesting that you will take a walk over the fields to Hampstead one

of these fine days, and deliver the enclosed to my friend Miss

Baillie, with whom, I flatter myself, you will be much pleased, as she

has all the simplicity of real genius. I mentioned to her some time

ago that I wished to make you acquainted, so that the sooner you can

call upon her, the compliment will be the more gracious. As I suppose

you will sometimes look in at the Roxburghe sale, a memorandum

respecting any remarkable articles will be a great favor.

Abbotsford was looking charming, when I was obliged to mount my wheel

in this court, too fortunate that I have at length some share in the

roast meat I am daily engaged in turning. Our flitting and removal

from Ashestiel baffled all description; we had twenty-four cart-loads

of the veriest trash in nature, besides dogs, pigs, ponies, poultry,

cows, calves, bare-headed wenches, and bare-breeched boys. In other

respects we are going on in the old way, only poor Percy is dead. I

intend to have an old stone set up by his grave, with "_Cy gist li

preux Percie,_" and I hope future antiquaries will debate which hero

of the house of Northumberland has left his bones in Teviotdale.[1]

Believe me yours very truly,

WALTER SCOTT.

This was one of the busiest summers of Scott's busy life. Till the

12th of July he was at his post in the Court of Session five days

every week; but every Saturday evening found him at Abbotsford, to

observe the progress his laborers had made within doors and without

in his absence; and on Monday night he returned to Edinburgh. Even

before the Summer Session commenced, he appears to have made some

advance in his Rokeby, for he writes to Mr. Morritt, from

Abbotsford, on the 4th of May: "As for the house and the poem, there

are twelve masons hammering at the one, and one poor noddle at the

other--so they are both in progress;"--and his literary labors

throughout the long vacation were continued under the same sort of

disadvantage. That autumn he had, in fact, no room at all for

himself. The only parlor which had been hammered into anything like

habitable condition served at once for dining-room, drawing-room,

school-room, and study. A window looking to the river was kept

sacred to his desk; an old bed-curtain was nailed up across the room

close behind his chair, and there, whenever the spade, the dibble,

or the chisel (for he took his full share in all the work on hand)

was laid aside, he pursued his poetical tasks, apparently

undisturbed and unannoyed by the surrounding confusion of masons and

carpenters, to say nothing of the lady's small talk, the children's

babble among themselves, or their repetition of their lessons. The

truth no doubt was, that when at his desk he did little more, as far

as regarded _poetry_, than write down the lines which he had

fashioned in his mind while pursuing his vocation as a planter, upon

that bank which received originally, by way of joke, the title of

_the thicket_. "I am now," he says to Ellis (October 17), "adorning

a patch of naked land with trees _facturis nepotibus umbram_, for I

shall never live to enjoy their shade myself otherwise than in the

recumbent posture of Tityrus or Menalcas." But he did live to see

_the thicket_ deserve not only that name, but a nobler one; and to

fell with his own hand many a well-grown tree that he had planted

there.

Another plantation of the same date, by his eastern boundary, was

less successful. For this he had asked and received from his early

friend, the Marchioness of Stafford, a supply of acorns from

Trentham, and it was named in consequence _Sutherland bower_; but

the field-mice, in the course of the ensuing winter, contrived to

root up and devour the whole of her ladyship's goodly benefaction. A

third space had been set apart, and duly enclosed, for the reception

of some Spanish chestnuts offered to him by an admirer established

in merchandise at Seville; but that gentleman had not been a very

knowing ally as to such matters, for when the chestnuts arrived, it

turned out that they had been boiled.

[Illustration: ABBOTSFORD IN 1812]

Scott writes thus to Terry, in September, while the Roxburghe sale

was still going on:--

I have lacked your assistance, my dear Sir, for twenty whimsicalities

this autumn. Abbotsford, as you will readily conceive, has

considerably changed its face since the auspices of Mother Retford

were exchanged for ours. We have got up a good garden wall, complete

stables in the haugh, according to Stark's plan, and the old farmyard

being enclosed with a wall, with some little picturesque additions in

front, has much relieved the stupendous height of the Doctor's barn.

The new plantations have thriven amazingly well, the acorns are coming

up fast, and Tom Purdie is the happiest and most consequential person

in the world. My present work is building up the well with some debris

from the Abbey. Oh, for your assistance, for I am afraid we shall make

but a botched job of it, especially as our materials are of a very

miscellaneous complexion. The worst of all is, that while my trees

grow and my fountain fills, my purse, in an inverse ratio, sinks to

zero. This last circumstance will, I fear, make me a very poor guest

at the literary entertainment your researches hold out for me. I

should, however, like much to have the Treatise on Dreams, by the

author of the New Jerusalem, which, as John Cuthbertson the smith said

of the minister's sermon, must be neat work. The Loyal Poems, by N.

T.,[2] are probably by poor Nahum Tate, who associated with Brady in

versifying the Psalms, and more honorably with Dryden in the second

part of Absalom and Achitophel. I never saw them, however, but would

give a guinea or thirty shillings for the collection. Our friend John

Ballantyne has, I learn, made a sudden sally to London, and doubtless

you will crush a quart with him or a pottle pot; he will satisfy your

bookseller for The Dreamer, or any other little purchase you may

recommend for me. You have pleased Miss Baillie very much both in

public and in society, and though not fastidious, she is not, I think,

particularly lavish of applause either way. A most valuable person is

she, and as warm-hearted as she is brilliant.--Mrs. Scott and all our

little folks are well. I am relieved of the labor of hearing Walter's

lesson by a gallant son of the church, who, with one leg of wood and

another of oak, walks to and fro from Melrose every day for that

purpose. Pray stick to the dramatic work,[3] and never suppose either

that you can be intrusive, or that I can be uninterested in whatever

concerns you.

Yours,

W. S.

The tutor alluded to at the close of this letter was Mr. George

Thomson, son of the minister of Melrose, who, when the house

afforded better accommodation, was and continued for many years to

be domesticated at Abbotsford. Scott had always a particular

tenderness towards persons afflicted with any bodily misfortune; and

Thomson, whose leg had been amputated in consequence of a rough

casualty of his boyhood, had a special share in his favor from the

high spirit with which he refused at the time to betray the name of

the companion that had occasioned his mishap, and continued ever

afterwards to struggle against its disadvantages. Tall, vigorous,

athletic, a dauntless horseman, and expert at the singlestick,

George formed a valuable as well as picturesque addition to the

_tail_ of the new laird, who often said, "In the Dominie, like

myself, accident has spoiled a capital lifeguardsman." His many

oddities and eccentricities in no degree interfered with the respect

due to his amiable feelings, upright principles, and sound learning;

nor did _Dominie Thomson_ at all quarrel in after-times with the

universal credence of the neighborhood that he had furnished many

features for the inimitable personage whose designation so nearly

resembled his own; and if he has not yet "wagged his head" in a

"pulpit o' his ain," he well knows it has not been so for want of

earnest and long-continued intercession on the part of the author of

Guy Mannering.[4]

For many years Scott had accustomed himself to proceed in the

composition of poetry along with that of prose essays of various

descriptions; but it is a remarkable fact that he chose this period

of perpetual noise and bustle, when he had not even a summer-house

to himself, for the new experiment of carrying on two poems at the

same time--and this, too, without suspending the heavy labor of his

edition of Swift, to say nothing of the various lesser matters in

which the Ballantynes were, from day to day, calling for the

assistance of his judgment and his pen. In the same letter in which

William Erskine acknowledges the receipt of the first four pages of

Rokeby, he adverts also to The Bridal of Triermain as being already

in rapid progress. The fragments of this second poem, inserted in

the Register of the preceding year, had attracted considerable

notice; the secret of their authorship had been well kept; and by

some means, even in the shrewdest circles of Edinburgh, the belief

had become prevalent that they proceeded not from Scott, but from

Erskine. Scott had no sooner completed his bargain as to the

copyright of the unwritten Rokeby, than he resolved to pause from

time to time in its composition, and weave those fragments into a

shorter and lighter romance, executed in a different metre, and to

be published anonymously, in a small pocket volume, as nearly as

possible on the same day with the avowed quarto. He expected great

amusement from the comparisons which the critics would no doubt

indulge themselves in drawing between himself and this humble

candidate; and Erskine good-humoredly entered into the scheme,

undertaking to do nothing which should effectually suppress the

notion of his having set himself up as a modest rival to his friend.

Nay, he suggested a further refinement, which in the sequel had no

small share in the success of this little plot upon the sagacity of

the reviewers. Having said that he much admired the opening of the

first canto of Rokeby, Erskine adds, "I shall request your

_accoucheur_ to send me your _little Dugald_ too as he gradually

makes his progress. What I have seen is delightful. You are aware

how difficult it is to form any opinion of a work, the general plan

of which is unknown, transmitted merely in legs and wings as they

are formed and feathered. Any remarks must be of the most minute and

superficial kind, confined chiefly to the language, and other such

subordinate matters. I shall be very much amused if the secret is

kept and the knowing ones taken in. To prevent any discovery from

your prose, what think you of putting down your ideas of what the

preface ought to contain, and allowing me to write it over? And

perhaps a quizzing review might be concocted."

This last hint was welcome; and among other parts of the preface to

Triermain which threw out "the knowing ones," certain Greek

quotations interspersed in it are now accounted for. Scott, on his

part, appears to have studiously interwoven into the piece allusions

to personal feelings and experiences more akin to his friend's

history and character than to his own; and he did so still more

largely, when repeating this experiment, in the introductory parts

of Harold the Dauntless.

The same post which conveyed William Erskine's letter, above quoted,

brought him an equally wise and kind one from Mr. Morritt, in answer

to a fresh application for some minute details about the scenery and

local traditions of the Valley of the Tees. Scott had promised to

spend part of this autumn at Rokeby Park himself; but now, busied as

he was with his planting operations at home, and continually urged

by Ballantyne to have the poem ready for publication by Christmas,

he would willingly have trusted his friend's knowledge in place of

his own observation and research. Mr. Morritt gave him in reply

various particulars, which I need not here repeat, but added,--

I am really sorry, my dear Scott, at your abandonment of your kind

intention of visiting Rokeby, and my sorrow is not quite selfish, for

seriously, I wish you could have come, if but for a few days, in

order, on the spot, to settle accurately in your mind the localities

of the new poem, and all their petty circumstances, of which there are

many that would give interest and ornament to your descriptions. I am

too much flattered by your proposal of inscribing the poem to me, not

to accept it with gratitude and pleasure. I shall always feel your

friendship as an honor--we all wish our honors to be permanent--and

yours promises mine at least a fair chance of immortality. I hope,

however, you will not be obliged to write in a hurry on account of the

impatience of your booksellers. They are, I think, ill advised in

their proceeding, for surely the book will be the more likely to

succeed from not being forced prematurely into this critical world. Do

not be persuaded to risk your established fame on this hazardous

experiment. If you want a few hundreds independent of these

booksellers, your credit is so very good, now that you have got rid of

your Old Man of the Sea, that it is no great merit to trust you, and I

happen at this moment to have five or six for which I have no sort of

demand--so rather than be obliged to spur Pegasus beyond the power of

pulling him up when he is going too fast, do consult your own judgment

and set the midwives of the trade at defiance. Don't be scrupulous to

the disadvantage of your muse, and above all be not offended at me for

a proposition which is meant in the true spirit of friendship. I am

more than ever anxious for your success--The Lady of the Lake more

than succeeded--I think Don Roderick is less popular--I want this work

to be another Lady at the least. Surely it would be worth your while

for such an object to spend a week of your time, and a portion of your

Old Man's salary, in a mail-coach flight hither, were it merely to

renew your acquaintance with the country, and to rectify the little

misconceptions of a cursory view. Ever affectionately yours,

J. B. S. M.

This appeal was not to be resisted. Scott, I believe, accepted Mr.

Morritt's friendly offer so far as to ask his assistance in having

some of Ballantyne's bills discounted; and he proceeded the week

after to Rokeby, by the way of Flodden and Hexham, travelling on

horseback, his eldest boy and girl on their ponies, while Mrs. Scott

followed them in the carriage. Two little incidents that diversified

this ride through Northumberland have found their way into print

already; but, as he was fond of telling them both down to the end of

his days, I must give them a place here also. Halting at Flodden to

expound the field of battle to his young folks, he found that

Marmion had, as might have been expected, benefited the keeper of

the public house there very largely; and the village Boniface,

overflowing with gratitude, expressed his anxiety to have a _Scott's

Head_ for his sign-post. The poet demurred to this proposal, and

assured mine host that nothing could be more appropriate than the

portraiture of a foaming tankard, which already surmounted his

doorway. "Why, the painter-man has not made an ill job," said the

landlord, "but I would fain have something more connected with the

book that has brought me so much good custom." He produced a

well-thumbed copy, and handing it to the author, begged he would at

least suggest a motto from the tale of Flodden Field. Scott opened

the book at the death scene of the hero, and his eye was immediately

caught by the "inscription" in black-letter,--

"Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray

For the kind soul of Sibyl Grey," etc.

"Well, my friend," said he, "what more would you have? You need but

strike out one letter in the first of these lines, and make your

painter-man, the next time he comes this way, print between the

jolly tankard and your own name,--

"Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and PAY."

Scott was delighted to find, on his return, that this suggestion had

been adopted, and, for aught I know, the romantic legend may still

be visible. The other story I shall give in the words of Mr.

Gillies:--

"It happened at a small country town that Scott suddenly required

medical advice for one of his servants, and, on inquiring if there was

any doctor at the place, was told that there were two,--one long

established, and the other a newcomer. The latter gentleman, being

luckily found at home, soon made his appearance;--a grave,

sagacious-looking personage, attired in black, with a shovel hat, in

whom, to his utter astonishment, Sir Walter recognized a Scotch

blacksmith, who had formerly practised, with tolerable success, as a

veterinary operator in the neighborhood of Ashestiel.--'How, in all

the world,' exclaimed he, 'can it be possible that this is John

Lundie?'--'In troth is it, your honor--just _a' that's for

him_.'--'Well, but let us hear; you were a _horse_-doctor before; now,

it seems, you are a _man_-doctor; how do you get on?'--'Ou, just

extraordinar weel; for your honor maun ken my practice is vera sure

and orthodox. I depend entirely upon twa _simples_.'--'And what may

their names be? Perhaps it is a secret?'--'I'll tell your honor,' in a

low tone; 'my twa simples are just _laudamy_ and _calamy_!'--'Simples

with a vengeance!' replied Scott. 'But, John, do you never happen to

_kill_ any of your patients?'--'Kill? Ou ay, may be sae! Whiles they

die, and whiles no;--but it's the will o' Providence. _Ony how, your

honor, it wad be lang before it makes up for Flodden!_'"[5]

It was also in the course of this expedition that Scott first made

acquaintance with the late excellent and venerable Shute Barrington,

Bishop of Durham. The travellers having reached Auckland over night were

seeing the public rooms of the Castle at an early hour next morning,

when the Bishop happened, in passing through one of them, to catch a

glimpse of Scott's person, and immediately recognizing him, from the

likeness of the engravings by this time multiplied, introduced himself

to the party, and insisted upon acting as cicerone. After showing them

the picture-gallery and so forth, his Lordship invited them to join the

morning service of the chapel, and when that was over, insisted on their

remaining to breakfast. But Scott and his Lordship were by this time so

much pleased with each other that they could not part so easily. The

good Bishop ordered his horse, nor did Scott observe without admiration

the proud curvetting of the animal on which his Lordship proposed to

accompany him during the next stage of his progress. "Why, yes, Mr.

Scott," said the gentle but high-spirited old man, "I still like to feel

my horse under me." He was then in his seventy-ninth year, and survived

to the age of ninety-two, the model in all things of a real prince of

the Church. They parted after a ride of ten miles, with mutual regret;

and on all subsequent rides in that direction, Bishop-Auckland was one

of the poet's regular halting-places.[6]

At Rokeby, on this occasion, Scott remained about a week; and I

transcribe the following brief account of his proceedings while

there from Mr. Morritt's _Memorandum_:--

"I had, of course," he says, "had many previous opportunities of

testing the almost conscientious fidelity of his local descriptions;

but I could not help being singularly struck with the lights which

this visit threw on that characteristic of his compositions. The

morning after he arrived he said, 'You have often given me materials

for romance--now I want a good robber's cave, and an old church of the

right sort.' We rode out, and he found what he wanted in the ancient

slate quarries of Brignall and the ruined Abbey of Egglestone. I

observed him noting down even the peculiar little wild flowers and

herbs that accidentally grew round and on the side of a bold crag near

his intended cave of Guy Denzil; and could not help saying, that as he

was not to be upon oath in his work, daisies, violets, and primroses

would be as poetical as any of the humble plants he was examining. I

laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness; but I understood him when he

replied, 'that in nature herself no two scenes were exactly alike, and

that whoever copied truly what was before his eyes would possess the

same variety in his descriptions, and exhibit apparently an

imagination as boundless as the range of nature in the scenes he

recorded; whereas, whoever trusted to imagination would soon find his

own mind circumscribed, and contracted to a few favorite images, and

the repetition of these would sooner or later produce that very

monotony and barrenness which had always haunted descriptive poetry in

the hands of any but the patient worshippers of truth. Besides which,'

he said, 'local names and peculiarities make a fictitious story look

so much better in the face.' In fact, from his boyish habits, he was

but half satisfied with the most beautiful scenery when he could not

connect with it some local legend, and when I was forced sometimes to

confess with the Knife-grinder, 'Story! God bless you! I have none to

tell, sir,'--he would laugh and say, 'Then let us make one--nothing so

easy as to make a tradition.'"

Mr. Morritt adds, that he had brought with him about half The

Bridal of Triermain--told him that he meant to bring it out the same

week with Rokeby--and promised himself particular satisfaction in

_laying a trap for Jeffrey_; who, however, as we shall see, escaped

the snare.

Some of the following letters will show with what rapidity, after

having refreshed and stored his memory with the localities of

Rokeby, he proceeded in the composition of the romance:--

TO J. B. S. MORRITT, ESQ.

ABBOTSFORD, 12th October, 1812.

MY DEAR MORRITT,--I have this morning returned from Dalkeith House, to

which I was whisked amid the fury of an election tempest, and I found

your letter on my table. More on such a subject cannot be said among

friends who give each other credit for feeling as they ought.

We peregrinated over Stanmore, and visited the Castles of Bowes,

Brough, Appleby, and Brougham with great interest. Lest our spirit of

chivalry thus excited should lack employment, we found ourselves, that

is, _I_ did, at Carlisle, engaged in the service of two distressed

ladies, being no other than our friends Lady Douglas and Lady Louisa

Stuart, who overtook us there, and who would have had great trouble in

finding quarters, the election being in full vigor, if we had not

anticipated their puzzle, and secured a private house capable of

holding us all. Some distress occurred, I believe, among the waiting

damsels, whose case I had not so carefully considered, for I heard a

sentimental exclamation--"Am I to sleep with the greyhounds?" which I

conceived to proceed from Lady Douglas's _suivante_, from the

exquisite sensibility of tone with which it was uttered, especially as

I beheld the fair one descend from the carriage with three half-bound

volumes of a novel in her hand. Not having it in my power to alleviate

her woes, by offering her either a part or the whole of my own

couch.--"_Transeat_," quoth I, "_cum cæteris erroribus_."

I am delighted with your Cumberland admirer,[7] and give him credit

for his visit to the vindicator of Homer; but you missed one of

another description, who passed Rokeby with great regret, I mean

General John Malcolm, the Persian envoy, the Delhi resident, the poet,

the warrior, the polite man, and the Borderer. He is really a fine

fellow. I met him at Dalkeith, and we returned together;--he has just

left me, after drinking his coffee. A fine time we had of it, talking

of Troy town, and Babel, and Persepolis, and Delhi, and Langholm, and

Burnfoot;[8] with all manner of episodes about Iskendiar, Rustan, and

Johnny Armstrong. Do you know, that poem of Ferdusi's must be

beautiful. He read me some very splendid extracts which he had himself

translated. Should you meet him in London, I have given him charge to

be acquainted with you, for I am sure you will like each other. To be

sure, I know him little, but I like his frankness and his sound ideas

of morality and policy; and I have observed, that when I have had no

great liking to persons at the beginning, it has usually pleased

Heaven, as Slender says, to decrease it on further acquaintance.

Adieu, I must mount my horse. Our last journey was so delightful that

we have every temptation to repeat it. Pray give our kind love to the

lady, and believe me ever yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

TO THE SAME.

EDINBURGH, 29th November, 1812.

MY DEAR MORRITT,--I have been, and still am, working very hard, in

hopes to face the public by Christmas, and I think I have hitherto

succeeded in throwing some interest into the piece. It is, however, a

darker and more gloomy interest than I intended; but involving one's

self with bad company, whether in fiction or in reality, is the way

not to get out of it easily; so I have been obliged to bestow more

pains and trouble upon Bertram, and one or two blackguards whom he

picks up in the slate quarries, than what I originally designed. I am

very desirous to have your opinion of the three first Cantos, for

which purpose, so soon as I can get them collected, I will send the

sheets under cover to Mr. Freeling, whose omnipotent frank will

transmit them to Rokeby, where, I presume, you have been long since

comfortably settled--

"So York may overlook the town of York."[9]

I trust you will read it with some partiality, because, if I have not

been so successful as I could wish in describing your lovely and

romantic glens, it has partly arisen from my great anxiety to do it

well, which is often attended with the very contrary effect. There are

two or three songs, and particularly one in praise of Brignall Banks,

which I trust you will like--because, _entre nous_, I like them

myself. One of them is a little dashing banditti song, called and

entitled Allen-a-Dale. I think you will be able to judge for yourself

in about a week. Pray, how shall I send you the _entire goose_, which

will be too heavy to travel the same way with its _giblets_--for the

Carlisle coach is terribly inaccurate about parcels? I fear I have

made one blunder in mentioning the brooks which flow into the Tees. I

have made the Balder distinct from that which comes down Thorsgill--I

hope I am not mistaken. You will see the passage; and if they are the

same rivulet, the leaf must be cancelled.

I trust this will find Mrs. Morritt pretty well; and I am glad to find

she has been better for her little tour. We were delighted with ours,

except in respect of its short duration, and Sophia and Walter hold

their heads very high among their untravelled companions, from the

predominance acquired by their visit to England. You are not perhaps

aware of the polish which is supposed to be acquired by the most

transitory intercourse with your more refined side of the Tweed. There

was an honest carter who once applied to me respecting a plan which he

had formed of breeding his son, a great booby of twenty, to the

Church. As the best way of evading the scrape, I asked him whether he

thought his son's language was quite adapted for the use of a public

speaker?--to which he answered, with great readiness, that he could

knap English with any one, having twice driven his father's cart to

Etal coal-hill.

I have called my heroine Matilda. I don't much like Agnes, though I

can't tell why, unless it is because it begins like Agag. Matilda is a

name of unmanageable length; but, after all, is better than none, and

my poor damsel was likely to go without one in my indecision.

We are all hungering and thirsting for news from Russia. If Boney's

devil does not help him, he is in a poor way. The Leith letters talk

of the unanimity of the Russians as being most exemplary; and troops

pour in from all quarters of their immense empire. Their commissariat

is well managed under the Prince Duke of Oldenburgh. This was their

weak point in former wars.

Adieu! Mrs. Scott and the little people send love to Mrs. Morritt and

you. Ever yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

TO THE SAME.

EDINBURGH, Thursday, 10th December, 1812.

MY DEAR MORRITT,--I have just time to say that I have received your

letters, and am delighted that Rokeby pleases the owner. As I hope the

whole will be printed off before Christmas, it will scarce be worth

while to send you the other sheets till it reaches you altogether.

Your criticisms are the best proof of your kind attention to the

poem. I need not say I will pay them every attention in the next

edition. But some of the faults are so interwoven with the story, that

they must stand. Denzil, for instance, is essential to me, though, as

you say, not very interesting; and I assure you that, generally

speaking, the _poeta loquitur_ has a bad effect in narrative; and when

you have twenty things to tell, it is better to be slatternly than

tedious. The fact is, that the tediousness of many really good poems

arises from an attempt to support the same tone throughout, which

often occasions periphrasis, and always stiffness. I am quite sensible

that I have often carried the opposite custom too far; but I am apt to

impute it partly to not being able to bring out my own ideas well, and

partly to haste--not to error in the system. This would, however, lead

to a long discussion, more fit for the fireside than for a letter. I

need not say that, the poem being in fact your own, you are at perfect

liberty to dispose of the sheets as you please. I am glad my geography

is pretty correct. It is too late to inquire if Rokeby is insured, for

I have burned it down in Canto V.; but I suspect you will bear me no

greater grudge than at the noble Russian who burned Moscow. Glorious

news to-day from the North--_pereat iste_! Mrs. Scott, Sophia, and

Walter, join in best compliments to Mrs. Morritt; and I am, in great

haste, ever faithfully yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

P. S.--I have heard of Lady Hood by a letter from herself. She is

well, and in high spirits, and sends me a pretty topaz seal, with a

talisman which secures this letter, and signifies (it seems), which

one would scarce have expected from its appearance, my name.

We are now close upon the end of this busy twelvemonth; but I must

not turn the leaf to 1813, without noticing one of its miscellaneous

incidents--his first intercourse by letter with the poet Crabbe. Mr.

Hatchard, the publisher of his Tales, forwarded a copy of the book

to Scott as soon as it was ready; and, the bookseller having

communicated to his author some flattering expressions in Scott's

letter of acknowledgment, Mr. Crabbe addressed him as follows:--

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., EDINBURGH.

MUSTON, GRANTHAM, 13th October, 1812.

SIR,--Mr. Hatchard, judging rightly of the satisfaction it would

afford me, has been so obliging as to communicate your two letters, in

one of which you desire my Tales to be sent; in the other, you

acknowledge the receipt of them; and in both you mention my verses in

such terms, that it would be affected in me were I to deny, and I

think unjust if I were to conceal, the pleasure you give me. I am

indeed highly gratified.

I have long entertained a hearty wish to be made known to a poet whose

works are so greatly and so universally admired; and I continued to hope

that I might at some time find a common friend, by whose intervention I

might obtain that honor; but I am confined by duties near my home, and

by sickness in it. It may be long before I be in town, and then no such

opportunity might offer. Excuse me, then, sir, if I gladly seize this

which now occurs to express my thanks for the politeness of your

expressions, as well as my desire of being known to a gentleman who has

delighted and affected me, and moved all the passions and feelings in

turn, I believe--Envy surely excepted--certainly, if I know myself, but

in a moderate degree. I truly rejoice in your success; and while I am

entertaining, in my way, a certain set of readers, for the most part,

probably, of peculiar turn and habit, I can with pleasure see the effect

you produce on all. Mr. Hatchard tells me that he hopes or expects that

thousands will read my Tales, and I am convinced that your publisher

might, in like manner, so speak of your ten thousands; but this, though

it calls to mind the passage, is no true comparison with the related

prowess of David and Saul, because I have no evil spirit to arise and

trouble me on the occasion; though, if I had, I know no David whose

skill is so likely to allay it. Once more, sir, accept my best thanks,

with my hearty wishes for your health and happiness, who am, with great

esteem, and true respect,

Dear Sir, your obedient servant,

GEORGE CRABBE.

I cannot produce Scott's reply to this communication. Mr. Crabbe

appears to have, in the course of the year, sent him a copy of all

his works, "ex dono auctoris," and there passed between them several

letters, one or two of which I must quote.

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., EDINBURGH.

Know you, sir, a gentleman in Edinburgh, A. Brunton (the Rev.), who

dates St. John Street, and who asks my assistance in furnishing hymns

which have relation to the Old or New Testament--anything which might

suit the purpose of those who are cooking up a book of Scotch

Psalmody? Who is Mr. Brunton? What is his situation? If I could help

one who needed help, I would do it cheerfully--but have no great

opinion of this undertaking....

With every good wish, yours sincerely,

GEORGE CRABBE.

Scott's answer to this letter expresses the opinions he always held

in conversation on the important subject to which it refers; and

acting upon which, he himself at various times declined taking any

part in the business advocated by Dr. Brunton:--

TO THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, MUSTON, GRANTHAM.

MY DEAR SIR,--I was favored with your kind letter some time ago. Of

all people in the world, I am least entitled to demand regularity of

correspondence; for being, one way and another, doomed to a great deal

more writing than suits my indolence, I am sometimes tempted to envy

the reverend hermit of Prague, confessor to the niece of Queen

Gorboduc, who never saw either pen or ink. Mr. Brunton is a very

respectable clergyman of Edinburgh, and I believe the work in which he

has solicited your assistance is one adopted by the General Assembly,

or Convocation of the Kirk. I have no notion that he has any

individual interest in it; he is a well-educated and liberal-minded

man, and generally esteemed. I have no particular acquaintance with

him myself, though we speak together. He is at this very moment

sitting on the outside of the bar of our Supreme Court, within which I

am fagging as a clerk; but as he is hearing the opinion of the Judges

upon an action for augmentation of stipend to him and to his brethren,

it would not, I conceive, be a very favorable time to canvass a

literary topic. But you are quite safe with him; and having so much

command of scriptural language, which appears to me essential to the

devotional poetry of Christians, I am sure you can assist his purpose

much more than any man alive.

I think those hymns which do not immediately recall the warm and

exalted language of the Bible are apt to be, however elegant, rather

cold and flat for the purposes of devotion. You will readily believe

that I do not approve of the vague and indiscriminate Scripture

language which the fanatics of old and the modern Methodists have

adopted, but merely that solemnity and peculiarity of diction, which

at once puts the reader and hearer upon his guard as to the purpose of

the poetry. To my Gothic ear, indeed, the _Stabat Mater_, the _Dies

Iræ_, and some of the other hymns of the Catholic Church, are more

solemn and affecting than the fine classical poetry of Buchanan; the

one has the gloomy dignity of a Gothic church, and reminds us

instantly of the worship to which it is dedicated; the other is more

like a Pagan temple, recalling to our memory the classical and

fabulous deities.[10] This is, probably, all referable to the

association of ideas--that is, if the "association of ideas" continues

to be the universal pick-lock of all metaphysical difficulties, as it

was when I studied moral philosophy--or to any other more fashionable

universal solvent which may have succeeded to it in reputation. Adieu,

my dear sir,--I hope you and your family will long enjoy all happiness

and prosperity. Never be discouraged from the constant use of your

charming talent. The opinions of reviewers are really too

contradictory to found anything upon them, whether they are favorable

or otherwise; for it is usually their principal object to display the

abilities of the writers of the critical lucubrations themselves. Your

Tales are universally admired here. I go but little out, but the few

judges whose opinions I have been accustomed to look up to, are

unanimous. Ever yours, most truly,

WALTER SCOTT.

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., EDINBURGH.

_MY DEAR SIR_,--Law, then, is your profession--I mean a profession you

give your mind and time to--but how "fag as a _clerk_"? Clerk is a

name for a learned person, I know, in our Church; but how the same

hand which held the pen of Marmion holds that with which a clerk fags,

unless a clerk means something vastly more than I understand, is not

to be comprehended. I wait for elucidation. Know you, dear sir, I have

often thought I should love to read _reports_--that is, brief

histories of extraordinary cases, with the judgments. If that is what

is meant by _reports_, such reading must be pleasant; but, probably, I

entertain wrong ideas, and could not understand the books I think so

engaging. Yet I conclude there are _histories of cases_, and have

often thought of consulting Hatchard whether he knew of such kind of

reading, but hitherto I have rested in ignorance.... Yours truly,

GEORGE CRABBE.

TO THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE.

MY DEAR SIR,--I have too long delayed to thank you for the most kind

and acceptable present of your three volumes. Now am I doubly armed,

since I have a set for my cabin at Abbotsford as well as in town; and,

to say truth, the auxiliary copy arrived in good time, for my original

one suffers as much by its general popularity among my young people,

as a popular candidate from the hugs and embraces of his democratical

admirers. The clearness and accuracy of your painting, whether

natural or moral, renders, I have often remarked, your works generally

delightful to those whose youth might render them insensible to the

other beauties with which they abound. There are a sort of

pictures--surely the most valuable, were it but for that reason--which

strike the uninitiated as much as they do the connoisseur, though the

last alone can render reason for his admiration. Indeed our old friend

Horace knew what he was saying when he chose to address his ode,

"_Virginibus puerisque_," and so did Pope when he told somebody he had

the mob on the side of his version of Homer, and did not mind the

high-flying critics at Button's. After all, if a faultless poem could

be produced, I am satisfied it would tire the critics themselves, and

annoy the whole reading world with the spleen.

You must be delightfully situated in the Vale of Belvoir--a part of

England for which I entertain a special kindness, for the sake of the

gallant hero, Robin Hood, who, as probably you will readily guess, is

no small favorite of mine; his indistinct ideas concerning the

doctrine of _meum_ and _tuum_ being no great objection to an outriding

Borderer. I am happy to think that your station is under the

protection of the Rutland family, of whom fame speaks highly. Our lord

of the "cairn and the scaur," waste wilderness and hungry hills, for

many a league around, is the Duke of Buccleuch, the head of my clan; a

kind and benevolent landlord, a warm and zealous friend, and the

husband of a lady--_comme il y en a peu_. They are both great admirers

of Mr. Crabbe's poetry, and would be happy to know him, should he ever

come to Scotland, and venture into the Gothic halls of a Border chief.

The early and uniform kindness of this family, with the friendship of

the late and present Lord Melville, enabled me, some years ago, to

exchange my toils as a barrister, for the lucrative and respectable

situation of one of the Clerks of our Supreme Court, which only

requires a certain routine of official duty, neither laborious nor

calling for any exertion of the mind; so that my time is entirely at

my own command, except when I am attending the Court, which seldom

occupies more than two hours of the morning during sitting. I besides

hold _in commendam_ the Sheriffdom of Ettrick Forest, which is now no

forest; so that I am a pluralist as to law appointments, and have, as

Dogberry says, "two gowns, and everything handsome about me."[11]

I have often thought it is the most fortunate thing for bards like you

and me to have an established profession, and professional character,

to render us independent of those worthy gentlemen, the retailers, or,

as some have called them, the midwives of literature, who are so much

taken up with the abortions they bring into the world, that they are

scarcely able to bestow the proper care upon young and flourishing

babes like ours. That, however, is only a mercantile way of looking at

the matter; but did any of my sons show poetical talent, of which, to

my great satisfaction, there are no appearances, the first thing I

should do would be to inculcate upon him the duty of cultivating some

honorable profession, and qualifying himself to play a more

respectable part in society than the mere poet. And as the best

corollary of my doctrine, I would make him get your tale of The Patron

by heart from beginning to end. It is curious enough that you should

have republished The Village for the purpose of sending your young men

to college, and I should have written The Lay of the Last Minstrel for

the purpose of buying a new horse for the Volunteer Cavalry. I must

now send this scrawl into town to get a frank, for, God knows, it is

not worthy of postage. With the warmest wishes for your health,

prosperity, and increase of fame--though it needs not--I remain most

sincerely and affectionately yours,

WALTER SCOTT.[12]

The contrast of the two poets' epistolary styles is highly amusing;

but I have introduced these specimens less on that account, than as

marking the cordial confidence which a very little intercourse was

sufficient to establish between men so different from each other in

most of the habits of life. It will always be considered as one of

the most pleasing peculiarities in Scott's history, that he was the

friend of every great contemporary poet: Crabbe, as we shall see

more largely in the sequel, was no exception to the rule: yet I

could hardly name one of them who, manly principles and the

cultivation of literature apart, had many points of resemblance to

him; and surely not one who had fewer than Crabbe.

Scott continued, this year, his care for the Edinburgh Annual

Register--the historical department of which was again supplied by

Mr. Southey. The poetical miscellany owed its opening piece, the

Ballad of Polydore, to the readiness with which Scott entered into

correspondence with its author, who sent it to him anonymously, with

a letter which, like the verses, might well have excited much

interest in his mind, even had it not concluded with stating the

writer's age to be _fifteen_. Scott invited the youth to visit him

in the country, was greatly pleased with the modesty of his manners

and the originality of his conversation, and wrote to Joanna

Baillie, that, "though not one of the crimps for the muses," he

thought he could hardly be mistaken in believing that in the boyish

author of Polydore he had discovered a true genius. When I mention

the name of my friend William Howison of Clydegrove, it will be

allowed that he prognosticated wisely. He continued to correspond

with this young gentleman and his father, and gave both much advice,

for which both were most grateful. There was inserted in the same

volume a set of beautiful stanzas, inscribed to Scott by Mr. Wilson,

under the title of The Magic Mirror, in which that enthusiastic

young poet also bears a lofty and lasting testimony to the gentle

kindness with which his earlier efforts had been encouraged by him

whom he designates, for the first time, by what afterwards became

one of his standing titles, that of The Great Magician.

"Onwards a figure came, with stately brow,

And, as he glanced upon the ruin'd pile

A look of regal pride, 'Say, who art thou'

(His countenance bright'ning with a scornful smile,

He sternly cried), 'whose footsteps rash profane

The wild romantic realm where I have willed to reign?'

"But ere to these proud words I could reply,

How changed that scornful face to soft and mild!

A witching frenzy glitter'd in his eye,

Harmless, withal, as that of playful child.

And when once more the gracious vision spoke,

I felt the voice familiar to mine ear;

While many a faded dream of earth awoke,

Connected strangely with that unknown seer,

Who now stretch'd forth his arm, and on the sand

A circle round me traced, as with magician's wand," etc.

Scott's own chief contribution to this volume was a brief account of

the Life and Poems (hitherto unpublished)[13] of Patrick Carey, whom

he pronounces to have been not only as stout a Cavalier, but almost

as good a poet as his contemporary Lovelace. That Essay was

expanded, and prefixed to an edition of Carey's Trivial Poems and

Triolets, which Scott published in 1820; but its circulation in

either shape has been limited: and I believe I shall be gratifying

the majority of my readers by here transcribing some paragraphs of

his beautiful and highly characteristic introduction of this

forgotten poet of the seventeenth century.

"The present age has been so distinguished for research into poetical

antiquities, that the discovery of an unknown bard is, in certain

chosen literary circles, held as curious as an augmentation of the

number of fixed stars would be esteemed by astronomers. It is true,

these 'blessed twinklers of the night' are so far removed from us,

that they afford no more light than serves barely to evince their

existence to the curious investigator; and in like manner the pleasure

derived from the revival of an obscure poet is rather in proportion to

the rarity of his volume than to its merit; yet this pleasure is not

inconsistent with reason and principle. We know by every day's

experience the peculiar interest which the lapse of ages confers upon

works of human art. The clumsy strength of the ancient castles, which,

when raw from the hand of the builder, inferred only the oppressive

power of the barons who reared them, is now broken by partial ruin

into proper subjects for the poet or the painter; and as Mason has

beautifully described the change,

'Time

Has mouldered into beauty many a tower,

Which, when it frowned with all its battlements,

Was only terrible.'

"The monastery, too, which was at first but a fantastic monument of

the superstitious devotion of monarchs, or of the purple pride of

fattened abbots, has gained by the silent influence of antiquity the

power of impressing awe and devotion. Even the stains and

weather-taints upon the battlements of such buildings add, like the

scars of a veteran, to the affecting impression:--

'For time has softened what was harsh when new,

And now the stains are all of sober hue;

The living stains which nature's hand alone,

Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone.'--_Crabbe._

"If such is the effect of Time in adding interest to the labors of the

architect, if partial destruction is compensated by the additional

interest of that which remains, can we deny his exerting a similar

influence upon those subjects which are sought after by the

bibliographer and poetical antiquary? The obscure poet, who is detected

by their keen research, may indeed have possessed but a slender portion

of that spirit which has buoyed up the works of distinguished

contemporaries during the course of centuries, yet still his verses

shall, in the lapse of time, acquire an interest, which they did not

possess in the eyes of his own generation. The wrath of the critic,

like that of the son of Ossian, flies from the foe that is low. Envy,

base as she is, has one property of the lion, and cannot prey on

carcases; she must drink the blood of a sentient victim, and tear the

limbs that are yet warm with vital life. Faction, if the ancient has

suffered her persecution, serves only to endear him to the recollection

of posterity, whose generous compassion overpays him for the injuries he

sustained while in life. And thus freed from the operation of all

unfavorable prepossessions, his merit, if he can boast any, has more

than fair credit with his readers. This, however, is but part of his

advantages. The mere attribute of antiquity is of itself sufficient to

interest the fancy by the lively and powerful train of associations

which it awakens. Had the pyramids of Egypt, equally disagreeable in

form and senseless as to utility, been the work of any living tyrant,

with what feelings, save those of scorn and derision, could we have

regarded such a waste of labor? But the sight, nay, the very mention of

these wonderful monuments, is associated with the dark and sublime ideas

which vary their tinge according to the favorite hue of our studies. The

Christian divine recollects the land of banishment and of refuge; to the

eyes of the historian's fancy, they excite the shades of Pharaohs and of

Ptolemies, of Cheops and Merops, and Sesostris drawn in triumph by his

sceptred slaves; the philosopher beholds the first rays of moral truth

as they dawned on the hieroglyphic sculptures of Thebes and Memphis; and

the poet sees the fires of magic blazing upon the mystic altars of a

land of incantation. Nor is the grandeur of size essential to such

feelings, any more than the properties of grace and utility. Even the

rudest remnant of a feudal tower, even the obscure and almost

indistinguishable vestige of an altogether unknown edifice, has power to

awaken such trains of fancy. We have a fellow interest with the 'son of

the winged days,' over whose fallen habitation we tread:--

'The massy stones, though hewn most roughly, show

The hand of man had once at least been there.'--_Wordsworth._

"Similar combinations give a great part of the delight we receive from

ancient poetry. In the rude song of the Scald, we regard less the

strained imagery and extravagance of epithet, than the wild

impressions which it conveys of the dauntless resolution, savage

superstition, rude festivity, and ceaseless depredation of the ancient

Scandinavians. In the metrical romance, we pardon the long, tedious,

and bald enumeration of trifling particulars; the reiterated sameness

of the eternal combats between knights and giants; the overpowering

languor of the love speeches, and the merciless length and similarity

of description--when Fancy whispers to us that such strains may have

cheered the sleepless pillow of the Black Prince on the memorable eves

of Cressy or Poictiers. There is a certain romance of Ferumbras, which

Robert the Bruce read to his few followers, to divert their thoughts

from the desperate circumstances in which they were placed, after an

unsuccessful attempt to rise against the English. Is there a true

Scotsman who, being aware of this anecdote, would be disposed to yawn

over the romance of Ferumbras? Or, on the contrary, would not the

image of the dauntless hero, inflexible in defeat, beguiling the

anxiety of his war-worn attendants by the lays of the minstrel, give

to these rude lays themselves an interest beyond Greek and Roman

fame?"

The year 1812 had the usual share of minor literary labors--such as

contributions to the journals; and before it closed, the Romance of

Rokeby was finished. Though it had been long in hand, the MS. sent

to the printer bears abundant evidence of its being the _prima

cura_: three cantos at least reached Ballantyne through the Melrose

post--written on paper of various sorts and sizes--full of blots and

interlineations--the closing couplets of a despatch now and then

encircling the page, and mutilated by the breaking of the seal.

According to the recollection of Mr. Cadell, though James Ballantyne

read the poem, as the sheets were advancing through the press, to

his usual circle of literary _dilettanti_, their whispers were far

from exciting in Edinburgh such an intensity of expectation as had

been witnessed in the case of The Lady of the Lake. He adds,

however, that it was looked for with undiminished anxiety in the

south. "Send me _Rokeby_," Byron writes to Murray on seeing it

advertised,--"Who the devil is he? No matter--he has good

connections, and will be well introduced."[14] Such, I suppose, was

the general feeling in London. I well remember, being in those days

a young student at Oxford, how the booksellers' shops there were

beleaguered for the earliest copies, and how he that had been so

fortunate as to secure one was followed to his chambers by a tribe

of friends, all as eager to hear it read as ever horse-jockeys were

to see the conclusion of a match at Newmarket; and indeed not a few

of those enthusiastic academics had bets depending on the issue of

the struggle, which they considered the elder favorite as making, to

keep his own ground against the fiery rivalry of Childe Harold.

The poem was published a day or two before Scott returned to

Edinburgh from Abbotsford, between which place and Mertoun he had

divided his Christmas vacation. On the 9th and 10th of January,

1813, he thus addresses his friends at Sunning Hill and Hampstead:--

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.

MY DEAR ELLIS,--I am sure you will place it to anything rather than

want of kindness that I have been so long silent--so very long, indeed,

that I am not quite sure whether the fault is on my side or yours--but,

be it what it may, it can never, I am sure, be laid to forgetfulness in

either. This comes to train you on to the merciful reception of a Tale

of the Civil Wars; not political, however, but merely a pseudo-romance

of pseudo-chivalry. I have converted a lusty buccaneer into a hero with

some effect; but the worst of all my undertakings is, that my rogue

always, in despite of me, turns out my hero. I know not how this should

be. I am myself, as Hamlet says, "indifferent honest;" and my father,

though an attorney (as you will call him), was one of the most honest

men, as well as gentlemanlike, that ever breathed. I am sure I can bear

witness to that--for if he had at all _smacked_, or _grown to_, like the

son of Lancelot Gobbo, he might have left us all as rich as Croesus,

besides having the pleasure of taking a fine primrose path himself,

instead of squeezing himself through a tight gate and up a steep ascent,

and leaving us the decent competence of an honest man's children. As to

our more ancient pedigree, I should be loath to vouch for them. My

grandfather was a horse-jockey and cattle-dealer, and made a fortune; my

great-grandfather a Jacobite and traitor (as the times called him), and

lost one; and after him intervened one or two half-starved lairds, who

rode a lean horse, and were followed by leaner greyhounds; gathered with

difficulty a hundred pounds from a hundred tenants; fought duels; cocked

their hats,--and called themselves gentlemen. Then we come to the old

Border times, cattle-driving, halters, and so forth, for which, in the

matter of honesty, very little I suppose can be said--at least in modern

acceptation of the word. Upon the whole, I am inclined to think it is

owing to the earlier part of this inauspicious generation that I

uniformly find myself in the same scrape in my fables, and that, in

spite of the most obstinate determination to the contrary, the greatest

rogue in my canvas always stands out as the most conspicuous and

prominent figure. All this will be a riddle to you, unless you have

received a certain packet, which the Ballantynes were to have sent under

Freeling's or Croker's cover, so soon as they could get a copy done up.

And now let me gratulate you upon the renovated vigor of your fine old

friends the Russians. By the Lord, sir! it is most famous, this

campaign of theirs. I was not one of the very sanguine persons who

anticipated the actual capture of Buonaparte--a hope which rather

proceeded from the ignorance of those who cannot conceive that

military movements, upon a large scale, admit of such a force being

accumulated upon any particular point as may, by abandonment of other

considerations, always insure the escape of an individual. But I had

no hope, in my time, of seeing the dry bones of the Continent so warm

with life again, as this revivification of the Russians proves them to

be. I look anxiously for the effect of these great events on Prussia,

and even upon Saxony; for I think Boney will hardly trust himself

again in Germany, now that he has been plainly shown, both in Spain

and Russia, that protracted, stubborn, unaccommodating resistance will

foil those grand exertions in the long run. All laud be to Lord

Wellington, who first taught that great lesson.

Charlotte is with me just now at this little scrub habitation, where

we weary ourselves all day in looking at our projected improvements,

and then slumber over the fire, I pretending to read, and she to work

trout-nets, or cabbage-nets, or some such article. What is Canning

about? Is there any chance of our getting him in? Surely Ministers

cannot hope to do without him. Believe me, dear Ellis, ever truly

yours,

W. SCOTT.

ABBOTSFORD, 9th January, 1813.

TO MISS JOANNA BAILLIE.

ABBOTSFORD, January 10, 1813.

Your kind encouragement, my dear friend, has given me spirits to

complete the lumbering quarto, which I hope has reached you by this

time. I have gone on with my story _forth right_, without troubling

myself excessively about the development of the plot and other

critical matters--

"But shall we go mourn for that, my dear?

The pale moon shines by night;

And when we wander here and there,

We then do go most right."

I hope you will like Bertram to the end; he is a Caravaggio sketch,

which, I may acknowledge to you--but tell it not in Gath--I rather

pique myself upon; and he is within the keeping of Nature, though

critics will say to the contrary. It may be difficult to fancy that

any one should take a sort of pleasure in bringing out such a

character, but I suppose it is partly owing to bad reading, and

ill-directed reading, when I was young. No sooner had I corrected the

last sheet of Rokeby, than I escaped to this Patmos as blithe as bird

on tree, and have been ever since most decidedly idle--that is to say,

with busy idleness. I have been banking, and securing, and diking

against the river, and planting willows, and aspens, and

weeping-birches, around my new old well, which I think I told you I

had constructed last summer. I have now laid the foundations of a

famous background of copse, with pendent trees in front; and I have

only to beg a few years to see how my colors will come out of the

canvas. Alas, who can promise that? But somebody will take my

place--and enjoy them, whether I do or no. My old friend and pastor,

Principal Robertson (the historian), when he was not expected to

survive many weeks, still watched the setting of the blossom upon some

fruit-trees in the garden with as much interest as if it was possible

he could have seen the fruit come to maturity, and moralized on his

own conduct, by observing that we act upon the same inconsistent

motive throughout life. It is well we do so for those that are to come

after us. I could almost dislike the man who refuses to plant

walnut-trees, because they do not bear fruit till the second

generation; and so--many thanks to our ancestors, and much joy to our

successors, and truce to my fine and very new strain of morality.

Yours ever,

W. S.

The following letter lets us completely behind the scenes at the

publication of Rokeby. The "horrid story" it alludes to was that of

a young woman found murdered on New Year's Day in the highway

between Greta Bridge and Barnard Castle--a crime, the perpetrator of

which was never discovered. The account of a parallel atrocity in

Galloway, and the mode of its detection, will show the reader from

what source Scott drew one of the most striking incidents in his Guy

Mannering:--

TO J. B. S. MORRITT, ESQ., ROKEBY PARK.

EDINBURGH, 12th January, 1813.

DEAR MORRITT,--Yours I have just received in mine office at the

Register-House, which will excuse this queer sheet of paper. The

publication of Rokeby was delayed till Monday, to give the London

publishers a fair start. My copies, that is, my friends', were all to

be got off about Friday or Saturday; but yours may have been a little

later, as it was to be what they call a picked one. I will call at

Ballantyne's as I return from this place, and close the letter with

such news as I can get about it there. The book has gone off here very

bobbishly, for the impression of 3000 and upwards is within two or

three score of being exhausted, and the demand for these continuing

faster than they can be boarded. I am heartily glad of this, for now I

have nothing to fear but a bankruptcy in the Gazette of Parnassus; but

the loss of five or six thousand pounds to my good friends and

school-companions would have afflicted me very much. I wish we could

whistle you here to-day. Ballantyne always gives a christening dinner,

at which the Duke of Buccleuch, and a great many of my friends, are

formally feasted. He has always the best singing that can be heard in

Edinburgh, and we have usually a very pleasant party, at which your

health as patron and proprietor of Rokeby will be faithfully and

honorably remembered.

Your horrid story reminds me of one in Galloway, where the perpetrator

of a similar enormity on a poor idiot girl was discovered by means of

the print of his foot which he left upon the clay floor of the cottage

in the death struggle. It pleased Heaven (for nothing short of a

miracle could have done it) to enlighten the understanding of an old

ram-headed sheriff, who was usually nicknamed Leather-head. The steps

which he took to discover the murderer were most sagacious. As the

poor girl was pregnant (for it was not a case of violation), it was

pretty clear that her paramour had done the deed, and equally so that

he must be a native of the district. The sheriff caused the minister

to advertise from the pulpit that the girl would be buried on a

particular day, and that all persons in the neighborhood were invited

to attend the funeral, to show their detestation of such an enormous

crime, as well as to evince their own innocence. This was sure to

bring the murderer to the funeral. When the people were assembled in

the kirk, the doors were locked by the sheriff's order, and the shoes

of all the men were examined; that of the murderer was detected by the

measure of the foot, tread, etc., and a peculiarity in the mode in

which the sole of one of them had been patched. The remainder of the

curious chain of evidence upon which he was convicted will suit best

with twilight, or a blinking candle, being too long for a letter. The

fellow bore a most excellent character, and had committed this crime

for no other reason that could be alleged, than that, having been led

accidentally into an intrigue with this poor wretch, his pride

revolted at the ridicule which was likely to attend the discovery.

On calling at Ballantyne's, I find, as I had anticipated, that your

copy, being of royal size, requires some particular nicety in

hot-pressing. It will be sent by the Carlisle mail _quam

primum_.--Ever yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

P. S.--Love to Mrs. Morritt. John Ballantyne says he has just about

eighty copies left, out of 3250, this being the second day of

publication, and the book a two-guinea one.

It will surprise no one to hear that Mr. Morritt assured his friend

he considered Rokeby as the best of all his poems. The admirable,

perhaps the unique fidelity of the local descriptions, might alone

have swayed, for I will not say it perverted, the judgment of the

lord of that beautiful and thenceforth classical domain; and,

indeed, I must admit that I never understood or appreciated half the

charm of this poem until I had become familiar with its scenery. But

Scott himself had not designed to rest his strength on these

descriptions. He said to James Ballantyne while the work was in

progress (September 2), "I hope the thing will do, chiefly because

the world will not expect from _me_ a poem of which the interest

turns upon _character_;" and in another letter (October 28, 1812),

"I think you will see the same sort of difference taken in all my

former poems,--of which I would say, if it is fair for me to say

anything, that the force in the Lay is thrown on style--in Marmion,

on description--and in The Lady of the Lake, on incident."[15] I

suspect some of these distinctions may have been matters of

afterthought; but as to Rokeby, there can be no mistake. His own

original conceptions of some of its principal characters have been

explained in letters already cited; and I believe no one who

compares the poem with his novels will doubt that, had he undertaken

their portraiture in prose, they would have come forth with effect

hardly inferior to any of all the groups he ever created. As it is,

I question whether even in his prose there is anything more

exquisitely wrought out, as well as fancied, than the whole contrast

of the two rivals for the love of the heroine in Rokeby; and that

heroine herself, too, has a very particular interest attached to

her. Writing to Miss Edgeworth five years after this time (10th May,

1818), he says, "I have not read one of my poems since they were

printed, excepting last year The Lady of the Lake, which I liked

better than I expected, but not well enough to induce me to go

through the rest--so I may truly say with Macbeth--

'I am afraid to think what I have done--

Look on 't again I dare not.'

"This much of _Matilda_ I recollect--(for that is not so easily

forgotten)--that she was attempted for the existing person of a lady

who is now no more, so that I am particularly flattered with your

distinguishing it from the others, which are in general mere

shadows."[16] I can have no doubt that the lady he here alludes to

was the object of his own unfortunate first love; and as little,

that in the romantic generosity, both of the youthful poet who fails

to win her higher favor, and of his chivalrous competitor, we have

before us something more than "a mere shadow."

In spite of these graceful characters, the inimitable scenery on

which they are presented, and the splendid vivacity and thrilling

interest of several chapters in the story--such as the opening

interview of Bertram and Wycliffe--the flight up the cliff on the

Greta--the first entrance of the cave at Brignall--the firing of

Rokeby Castle--and the catastrophe in Eglistone Abbey;--in spite

certainly of exquisitely happy lines profusely scattered throughout

the whole composition, and of some detached images--that of the

setting of the tropical sun,[17] for example--which were never

surpassed by any poet; in spite of all these merits, the immediate

success of Rokeby was greatly inferior to that of The Lady of the

Lake; nor has it ever since been so much a favorite with the public

at large as any other of his poetical romances. He ascribes this

failure, in his Introduction of 1830, partly to the radically

unpoetical character of the Roundheads; but surely their character

has its poetical side also, had his prejudices allowed him to enter

upon its study with impartial sympathy; and I doubt not, Mr. Morritt

suggested the difficulty on this score, when the outline of the

story was as yet undetermined, from consideration rather of the

poet's peculiar feelings, and powers as hitherto exhibited, than of

the subject absolutely. Partly he blames the satiety of the public

ear, which had had so much of his rhythm, not only from himself, but

from dozens of mocking-birds, male and female, all more or less

applauded in their day, and now all equally forgotten.[18] This

circumstance, too, had probably no slender effect; the more that, in

defiance of all the hints of his friends, he now, in his narrative,

repeated (with more negligence) the uniform octosyllabic couplets of

The Lady of the Lake, instead of recurring to the more varied

cadence of the Lay or Marmion. It is fair to add that, among the

London circles at least, some sarcastic flings in Mr. Moore's

Twopenny Post Bag must have had an unfavorable influence on this

occasion.[19] But the cause of failure which the poet himself places

last was unquestionably the main one. The deeper and darker passion

of Childe Harold, the audacity of its morbid voluptuousness, and the

melancholy majesty of the numbers in which it defied the world, had

taken the general imagination by storm; and Rokeby, with many

beauties and some sublimities, was pitched, as a whole, on a key

which seemed tame in the comparison.

I have already adverted to the fact that Scott felt it a relief, not

a fatigue, to compose The Bridal of Triermain _pari passu_ with

Rokeby. In answer, for example, to one of James Ballantyne's

letters, urging accelerated speed with the weightier romance, he

says, "I fully share in your anxiety to get forward the grand work;

but, I assure you, I feel the more confidence from coquetting with

the guerilla."

The quarto of Rokeby was followed, within two months, by the small

volume which had been designed for a twin birth;--the MS. had been

transcribed by one of the Ballantynes themselves, in order to guard

against any indiscretion of the press-people; and the mystification,

aided and abetted by Erskine, in no small degree heightened the

interest of its reception. Except Mr. Morritt, Scott had, so far as

I am aware, no English confidant upon this occasion. Whether any of

his daily companions in the Parliament House were in the secret, I

have never heard; but I can scarcely believe that any of those

intimate friends, who had known him and Erskine from their youth

upwards, could have for a moment believed the latter capable either

of the invention or the execution of this airy and fascinating

romance in little. Mr. Jeffrey, for whom chiefly "the trap had been

set," was far too sagacious to be caught in it; but, as it happened,

he made a voyage that year to America, and thus lost the opportunity

of immediately expressing his opinion either of Rokeby or of The

Bridal of Triermain. The writer in the Quarterly Review (July, 1813)

seems to have been completely deceived.

"We have already spoken of it," says the critic, "as an imitation of

Mr. Scott's style of composition; and if we are compelled to make the

general approbation more precise and specific, we should say, that if

it be inferior in vigor to some of his productions, it equals or

surpasses them in elegance and beauty; that it is more uniformly

tender, and far less infected with the unnatural prodigies and

coarseness of the earlier romances. In estimating its merits, however,

we should forget that it is offered as an imitation. The diction

undoubtedly reminds us of a rhythm and cadence we have heard before;

but the sentiments, descriptions, and characters, have qualities that

are native and unborrowed."

If this writer was, as I suppose, Ellis, he probably considered it

as a thing impossible that Scott should have engaged in such a

scheme without giving him a hint of it; but to have admitted into

the secret any one who was likely to criticise the piece, would have

been to sacrifice the very object of the device. Erskine's own

suggestion, that "perhaps a quizzical review might be got up," led,

I believe, to nothing more important than a paragraph in one of the

Edinburgh newspapers. He may be pardoned for having been not a

little flattered to find it generally considered as not impossible

that he should have written such a poem; and I have heard James

Ballantyne say that nothing could be more amusing than the style of

his coquetting on the subject while it was yet fresh; but when this

first excitement was over, his natural feeling of what was due to

himself, as well as to his friend, dictated many a remonstrance;

and, though he ultimately acquiesced in permitting another minor

romance to be put forth in the same manner, he did so reluctantly,

and was far from acting his part so well.

Scott says, in the Introduction to The Lord of the Isles, "As Mr.

Erskine was more than suspected of a taste for poetry, and as I took

care, in several places, to mix something that might resemble (as

far as was in my power) my friend's feeling and manner, the train

easily caught, and two large editions were sold." Among the passages

to which he here alludes are no doubt those in which the character

of the minstrel Arthur is shaded with the colorings of an almost

effeminate gentleness. Yet, in the midst of them, the "mighty

minstrel" himself, from time to time, escapes; as, for instance,

where the lover bids Lucy, in that exquisite picture of crossing a

mountain stream, trust to his "stalwart arm"--

"Which could yon oak's prone trunk uprear."

Nor can I pass the compliment to Scott's own fair patroness, where

Lucy's admirer is made to confess, with some momentary lapse of

gallantry, that he

"Ne'er won--best meed to minstrel true--

One favoring smile from fair Buccleuch;"

nor the burst of genuine Borderism,--

"Bewcastle now must keep the hold,

Speir-Adam's steeds must bide in stall,

Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold

Must only shoot from battled wall;

And Liddesdale may buckle spur,

And Teviot now may belt the brand,

Tarras and Ewes keep nightly stir,

And Eskdale foray Cumberland."

But, above all, the choice of the scenery, both of the Introductions

and of the story itself, reveals the early and treasured

predilections of the poet. For who that remembers the circumstances

of his first visit to the vale of St. John, but must see throughout

the impress of his own real romance? I own I am not without a

suspicion that, in one passage, which always seemed to me a blot

upon the composition--that in which Arthur derides the military

coxcombries of his rival--

"Who comes in foreign trashery

Of tinkling chain and spur,

A walking haberdashery

Of feathers, lace, and fur;

In Rowley's antiquated phrase,

Horse-milliner of modern days"--

there is a sly reference to the incidents of a certain ball, of

August, 1797, at the Gilsland Spa.[20]

Among the more prominent Erskinisms, are the eulogistic mention of

Glasgow, the scene of Erskine's education; and the lines on

Collins--a supplement to whose Ode on the Highland Superstitions is,

as far as I know, the only specimen that ever was published of

Erskine's verse.[21]

As a whole, The Bridal of Triermain appears to me as characteristic

of Scott as any of his larger poems. His genius pervades and

animates it beneath a thin and playful veil, which perhaps adds as

much of grace as it takes away of splendor. As Wordsworth says of

the eclipse on the lake of Lugano--

"'T is sunlight sheathed and gently charmed;"

and I think there is at once a lightness and a polish of

versification beyond what he has elsewhere attained. If it be a

miniature, it is such a one as a Cooper might have hung fearlessly

beside the masterpieces of Vandyke.

The Introductions contain some of the most exquisite passages he

ever produced; but their general effect has always struck me as

unfortunate. No art can reconcile us to contemptuous satire of the

merest frivolities of modern life--some of them already, in twenty

years, grown obsolete--interlaid between such bright visions of the

old world of romance, when

"Strength was gigantic, valor high,

And wisdom soared beyond the sky,

And beauty had such matchless beam

As lights not now a lover's dream."

The fall is grievous, from the hoary minstrel of Newark, and his

feverish tears on Killiecrankie, to a pathetic swain, who can stoop

to denounce as objects of his jealousy--

"The landaulet and four blood bays--

The Hessian boot and pantaloon."

Before Triermain came out, Scott had taken wing for Abbotsford; and

indeed he seems to have so contrived it in his earlier period, that

he should not be in Edinburgh when any unavowed work of his was

published; whereas, from the first, in the case of books that bore

his name on the title-page, he walked as usual to the Parliament

House, and bore all the buzz and tattle of friends and acquaintance

with an air of good-humored equanimity, or rather total apparent

indifference. The following letter, which contains some curious

matter of more kinds than one, was written partly in town and partly

in the country:--

TO MISS JOANNA BAILLIE, HAMPSTEAD.

EDINBURGH, March 13, 1813.

MY DEAREST FRIEND,--The pinasters have arrived safe, and I can hardly

regret, while I am so much flattered by, the trouble you have had in

collecting them. I have got some wild larch-trees from Loch Katrine,

and both are to be planted next week, when, God willing, I shall be at

Abbotsford to superintend the operation. I have got a little corner of

ground laid out for a nursery, where I shall rear them carefully till

they are old enough to be set forth to push their fortune on the banks

of Tweed.--What I shall finally make of this villa-work I don't know,

but in the mean time it is very entertaining. I shall have to resist

very flattering invitations this season; for I have received hints,

from more quarters than one, that my bow would be acceptable at

Carlton House in case I should be in London, which is very flattering,

especially as there were some prejudices to be got over in that

quarter. I should be in some danger of giving new offence, too; for,

although I utterly disapprove of the present rash and ill-advised

course of the princess, yet, as she always was most kind and civil to

me, I certainly could not, as a gentleman, decline obeying any

commands she might give me to wait upon her, especially in her present

adversity. So, though I do not affect to say I should be sorry to take

an opportunity of peeping at the splendors of royalty, prudence and

economy will keep me quietly at home till another day. My great

amusement here this some time past has been going almost nightly to

see John Kemble, who certainly is a great artist. It is a pity he

shows too much of his machinery. I wish he could be double-capped, as

they say of watches;--but the fault of too much study certainly does

not belong to many of his tribe. He is, I think, very great in those

parts especially where character is tinged by some acquired and

systematic habits, like those of the Stoic philosophy in Cato and

Brutus, or of misanthropy in Penruddock; but sudden turns and natural

bursts of passion are not his forte. I saw him play Sir Giles

Overreach (the Richard III. of middling life) last night; but he came

not within a hundred miles of Cooke, whose terrible visage, and short,

abrupt, and savage utterance, gave a reality almost to that

extraordinary scene in which he boasts of his own successful villainy

to a nobleman of worth and honor, of whose alliance he is ambitious.

Cooke contrived somehow to impress upon the audience the idea of such

a monster of enormity as had learned to pique himself even upon his

own atrocious character. But Kemble was too handsome, too plausible,

and too smooth, to admit its being probable that he should be blind to

the unfavorable impression which these extraordinary vaunts are likely

to make on the person whom he is so anxious to conciliate.

ABBOTSFORD, 21st March.

This letter, begun in Edinburgh, is to take wing from Abbotsford. John

Winnos (now John Winnos is the sub-oracle of Abbotsford, the principal

being Tom Purdie)--John Winnos pronounces that the pinaster seed ought

to be raised at first on a hot-bed, and thence transplanted to a

nursery; so to a hot-bed they have been carefully consigned, the upper

oracle not objecting, in respect his talent lies in catching a salmon,

or finding a hare sitting--on which occasions (being a very complete

Scrub) he solemnly exchanges his working jacket for an old green one

of mine, and takes the air of one of Robin Hood's followers. His more

serious employments are ploughing, harrowing, and overseeing all my

premises; being a complete Jack-of-all-trades, from the carpenter to

the shepherd, nothing comes strange to him; and being extremely

honest, and somewhat of a humorist, he is quite my right hand. I

cannot help singing his praises at this moment, because I have so many

odd and out-of-the-way things to do, that I believe the conscience of

many of our jog-trot countrymen would revolt at being made my

instrument in sacrificing good corn-land to the visions of Mr. Price's

theory. Mr. Pinkerton, the historian, has a play coming out at

Edinburgh; it is by no means bad poetry, yet I think it will not be

popular; the people come and go, and speak very notable things in good

blank verse, but there is no very strong interest excited; the plot

also is disagreeable, and liable to the objections (though in a less

degree) which have been urged against the Mysterious Mother; it is to

be acted on Wednesday; I will let you know its fate. P., with whom I

am in good habits, showed the MS., but I referred him, with such

praise as I could conscientiously bestow, to the players and the

public. I don't know why one should take the task of damning a man's

play out of the hands of the proper tribunal. Adieu, my dear friend. I

have scarce room for love to Miss, Mrs., and Dr. B.

W. SCOTT.

To this I add a letter to Lady Louisa Stuart, who had sent him a

copy of these lines, found by Lady Douglas on the back of a tattered

bank-note:--

"Farewell, my note, and wheresoe'er ye wend,

Shun gaudy scenes, and be the poor man's friend.

You've left a poor one; go to one as poor,

And drive despair and hunger from his door."

It appears that these noble friends had adopted, or feigned to

adopt, the belief that The Bridal of Triermain was a production of

Mr. R. P. Gillies--who had about this time published an imitation of

Lord Byron's Romaunt, under the title of Childe Alarique.

TO THE LADY LOUISA STUART, BOTHWELL CASTLE.

ABBOTSFORD, 28th April, 1813.

DEAR LADY LOUISA,--Nothing can give me more pleasure than to hear from

you, because it is both a most acceptable favor to me, and also a sign

that your own spirits are recovering their tone. Ladies are, I think,

very fortunate in having a resource in work at a time when the mind

rejects intellectual amusement. Men have no resource but striding up

and down the room, like a bird that beats itself to pieces against the

bars of its cage; whereas needle-work is a sort of sedative, too

mechanical to worry the mind by distracting it from the points on

which its musings turn, yet gradually assisting it in regaining

steadiness and composure; for so curiously are our bodies and minds

linked together, that the regular and constant employment of the

former on any process, however dull and uniform, has the effect of

tranquillizing, where it cannot disarm, the feelings of the other. I

am very much pleased with the lines on the guinea note, and if Lady

Douglas does not object, I would willingly mention the circumstance in

the Edinburgh Annual Register. I think it will give the author great

delight to know that his lines had attracted attention, and _had_ sent

the paper on which they were recorded, "heaven-directed, to the

poor." Of course I would mention no names. There was, as your Ladyship

may remember, some years since, a most audacious and determined murder

committed on a porter belonging to the British Linen Company's Bank at

Leith, who was stabbed to the heart in broad daylight, and robbed of a

large sum in notes.[22] If ever this crime comes to light, it will be

through the circumstance of an idle young fellow having written part

of a playhouse song on one of the notes, which, however, has as yet

never appeared in circulation.

I am very glad you like Rokeby, which is nearly out of fashion and

memory with me. It has been wonderfully popular, about ten thousand

copies having walked off already, in about three months, and the

demand continuing faster than it can be supplied. As to my imitator,

the Knight of Triermain, I will endeavor to convey to Mr. Gillies

(_puisque Gillies il est_) your Ladyship's very just strictures on the

Introduction to the second Canto. But if he takes the opinion of a

hacked old author like myself, he will content himself with avoiding

such bevues in future, without attempting to mend those which are

already made. There is an ominous old proverb which says, _Confess and

be hanged_; and truly if an author acknowledges his own blunders, I do

not know who he can expect to stand by him; whereas, let him confess

nothing, and he will always find some injudicious admirers to

vindicate even his faults. So that I think after publication the

effect of criticism should be prospective, in which point of view I

dare say Mr. G. will take your friendly hint, especially as it is

confirmed by that of the best judges who have read the poem.--Here is

beautiful weather for April! an absolute snow-storm mortifying me to

the core by retarding the growth of all my young trees and

shrubs.--Charlotte begs to be most respectfully remembered to your

Ladyship and Lady D. We are realizing the nursery tale of the man and

his wife who lived in a vinegar bottle, for our only sitting-room is

just twelve feet square, and my Eve alleges that I am too big for our

paradise. To make amends, I have created a tolerable garden, occupying

about an English acre, which I begin to be very fond of. When one

passes forty, an addition to the quiet occupations of life becomes of

real value, for I do not hunt and fish with quite the relish I did ten

years ago. Adieu, my dear Lady Louisa, and all good attend you.

WALTER SCOTT.

Footnotes of the Chapter XXV.

[1: The epitaph of this favorite greyhound may be seen on

the edge of the bank, a little way below the house of Abbotsford.]

[2: The Reverend Alexander Dyce says, "N. T. stands for

_Nathaniel Thompson_, the Tory bookseller, who published these

_Loyal Poems_."--(1839.)]

[3: An edition of the British Dramatists had, I believe,

been projected by Mr. Terry.]

[4: Mr. Thomson died 8th January, 1838, before the

publication of the first edition of these Memoirs had been

completed.--(1839.)]

[5: _Reminiscences of Sir Walter Scott_, p. 56.]

[6: [From a passage in a letter to Lady Abercorn, written

September 10, 1818, on the return from a similar journey (see

_Familiar Letters_, vol. ii. p. 24), it seems probable that some at

least of the incidents of this visit belong to that of the later

date.]]

[7: This alluded to a ridiculous hunter of lions, who,

being met by Mr. Morritt in the grounds at Rokeby, disclaimed all

taste for picturesque beauties, but overwhelmed their owner with

Homeric Greek; of which he had told Scott.]

[8: _Burnfoot_ is the name of a farmhouse on the Buccleuch

estate, not far from Langholm, where the late Sir John Malcolm and

his distinguished brothers were born. Their grandfather had, I

believe, found refuge there after forfeiting a good estate and an

ancient baronetcy in the _affair_ of 1715. A monument to the gallant

General's memory has recently been erected near the spot of his

birth.]

[9: _3d King Henry VI._ Act I. Scene 4.]

[10: See _Life of Dryden_, Scott's _Miscellaneous Prose

Works_, vol. i. p. 293.]

[11: _Much Ado about Nothing_, Act IV. Scene 2.]

[12: Several of these letters having been enclosed in

franked covers, which have perished, I am unable to affix the exact

dates to them.]

[13: The Rev. Alexander Dyce informs me that _nine_ of

Carey's pieces were printed in 1771, for J. Murray of Fleet Street,

in a quarto of thirty-five pages, entitled _Poems from a MS. written

in the time of Oliver Cromwell_. This rare tract had never fallen

into Scott's hands.--(1839.)]

[14: Byron's _Life and Works_, vol. ii. p. 169.]

[15: Several letters to Ballantyne on the same subject are

quoted in the notes to the last edition of _Rokeby_. See Scott's

_Poetical Works_, 1834, vol. ix. pp. 1-3; and especially the note on

p. 300, from which it appears that the closing stanza was added, in

deference to Ballantyne and Erskine, though the author retained his

own opinion that "it spoiled one effect without producing another."]

[16: [See _Familiar Letters_, vol. ii. p. 16.]]

[17:

"My noontide, India may declare;

Like her fierce sun, I fired the air!

Like him, to wood and cave bid fly

Her natives, from mine angry eye.

And now, my race of terror ran,

Mine be the eye of tropic sun!

No pale gradations quench his ray,

No twilight dews his wrath allay;

With disk like battle-target red,

He rushes to his burning bed.

Dyes the wide wave with bloody light,

Then sinks at once--and all is night."--_Canto_ vi. 21.]

[18: "Scott found peculiar favor and imitation among the

fair sex. There was Miss Holford, and Miss Mitford, and Miss

Francis; but, with the greatest respect be it spoken, none of his

imitators did much honor to the original except Hogg, the Ettrick

Shepherd, until the appearance of _The Bridal of Triermain_ and

_Harold the Dauntless_, which, in the opinion of some, equalled if

not surpassed him; and, lo! after three or four years, they turned

out to be the master's own compositions."--Byron, vol. xv. p. 96.]

[19: See, for instance, the Epistle of Lady Corke--or that

of Messrs. Lackington, booksellers, to one of their dandy authors,--

"Should you feel any touch of _poetical_ glow,

We've a scheme to suggest--Mr. Scott, you must know

(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the _Row_),

Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown,

Is coming by long Quarto stages to town,

And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay),

Means to do all the gentlemen's seats on the way.

Now the scheme is, though none of our hackneys can beat him,

To start a new Poet through Highgate to meet him;

Who by means of quick proofs--no revises--long coaches--

May do a few Villas before Scott approaches;

Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,

He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn-Abbey," etc., etc.]

[20: See _ante_, vol. i. p. 246.]

[21: It is included in the _Border Minstrelsy_, vol. i. p.

270.]

[22: This murder, perpetrated in November, 1806, remains a

mystery in 1836. The porter's name was Begbie. [See _Familiar

Letters_, vol. i. p. 63.]]