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
I question if any man ever drew his own character more fully or more
pleasingly than Scott has done in the preceding diary of a six
weeks' pleasure voyage. We have before us, according to the scene
and occasion, the poet, the antiquary, the magistrate, the planter,
and the agriculturist; but everywhere the warm yet sagacious
philanthropist--everywhere the courtesy, based on the unselfishness,
of the thorough-bred gentleman;--and surely never was the tenderness
of a manly heart portrayed more touchingly than in the closing
pages. I ought to mention that Erskine received the news of the
Duchess of Buccleuch's death on the day when the party landed at
Dunstaffnage; but, knowing how it would affect Scott, took means to
prevent its reaching him until the expedition should be concluded.
He heard the event casually mentioned by a stranger during dinner at
Port Rush, and was for the moment quite overpowered.
Of the letters which Scott wrote to his friends during those happy
six weeks, I have recovered only one, and it is, thanks to the
leisure of the yacht, in verse. The strong and easy heroics of the
first section prove, I think, that Mr. Canning did not err when he
told him that if he chose he might emulate even Dryden's command
that noble measure; and the dancing anapæsts of the second show that
he could with equal facility have rivalled the gay graces of Cotton,
Anstey, or Moore. This epistle did not reach the Duke of Buccleuch
till his lovely Duchess was no more; and I shall annex to it some
communications relating to that affliction, which afford a contrast,
not less interesting than melancholy, to the light-hearted glee
reflected in the rhymes from the region of Magnus Troil.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, ETC., ETC., ETC.
LIGHTHOUSE YACHT IN THE SOUND OF LERWICK, ZETLAND, 8th August, 1814.
Health to the chieftain from his clansman true!
From her true Minstrel, health to fair Buccleuch!
Health from the isles, where dewy Morning weaves
Her chaplet with the tints that Twilight leaves;
Where late the sun scarce vanished from the sight,
And his bright pathway graced the short-lived night,
Though darker now as autumn's shades extend,
The north winds whistle and the mists ascend!--
Health from the land where eddying whirlwinds toss
The storm-rocked _cradle_ of the Cape of Noss;
On outstretched cords the giddy engine slides,
His own strong arm the bold adventurer guides,
And he that lists such desperate feat to try,
May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt surf and sky,
And feel the mid-air gales around him blow,
And see the billows rage five hundred feet below.
Here by each stormy peak and desert shore,
The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar,
Practised alike his venturous course to keep,
Through the white breakers or the pathless deep,
By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain
A wretched pittance from the niggard main.
And when the worn-out drudge old ocean leaves,
What comfort greets him, and what hut receives?
Lady! the worst your presence ere has cheered
(When want and sorrow fled as you appeared)
Were to a Zetlander as the high dome
Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home.
Here rise no groves, and here no gardens blow,
Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to grow;
But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm arrayed,
Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade,
With many a cavern seam'd, the dreary haunt
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant.
Wild round their rifted brows with frequent cry,
As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly,
And from their sable base, with sullen sound,
In sheets of whitening foam the waves rebound.
Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain
From those whose land has known oppression's chain;
For here the industrious Dutchman comes once more
To moor his fishing craft by Bressay's shore;
Greets every former mate and brother tar,
Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of war,
Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done,
And ends by blessing God and Wellington.
Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest,
Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest;
Proves each wild frolic that in wine has birth,
And wakes the land with brawls and boisterous mirth.
A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow
The captive Norse-man sits in silent woe,
And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow.
Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors sway
His destined course, and seize so mean a prey;
A bark with planks so warp'd and seams so riven,
She scarce might face the gentlest airs of heaven:
Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none
Can list his speech and understand his moan;
In vain--no islesman now can use the tongue
Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage sprung.
Not thus of old the Norse-men hither came,
Won by the love of danger or of fame;
On every storm-beat cape a shapeless tower
Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their power;
For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian land,
Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand;
A race severe--the isle and ocean lords,
Loved for its own delight the strife of swords;
With scornful laugh the mortal pang defied,
And blest their gods that they in battle died.
Such were the sires of Zetland's simple race,
And still the eye may faint resemblance trace
In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair,
The limbs athletic, and the long light hair--
(Such was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel sings,
Of fair-haired Harold, first of Norway's Kings);
But their high deeds to scale these crags confined,
Their only warfare is with waves and wind.
Why should I talk of Mousa's castled coast?
Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost?
May not these bald disjointed lines suffice,
Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling dice--
While down the cabin skylight lessening shine
The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and wine?
Imagined, while down Mousa's desert bay
Our well-trimm'd vessel urged her nimble way,
While to the freshening breeze she leaned her side,
And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide?
Such are the lays that Zetland Isles supply;
Drenched with the drizzly spray and dropping sky,
Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I.----W. SCOTT.
POSTSCRIPTUM.
KIRKWALL, ORKNEY, August 13, 1814.
In respect that your Grace has commissioned a Kraken,
You will please be informed that they seldom are taken;
It is January two years, the Zetland folks say,
Since they saw the last Kraken in Scalloway bay;
He lay in the offing a fortnight or more,
But the devil a Zetlander put from the shore,
Though bold in the seas of the North to assail
The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus and whale.
If your Grace thinks I'm writing the thing that is not,
You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. Scott--
(He's not from our clan, though his merits deserve it,
But springs, I'm informed, from the Scotts of Scotstarvet;)[96]
He questioned the folks who beheld it with eyes,
But they differed confoundedly as to its size.
For instance, the modest and diffident swore
That it seemed like the keel of a ship, and no more--
Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy more high,
Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean and sky--
But all of the hulk had a steady opinion
That 't was sure a _live_ subject of Neptune's dominion--
And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace hardly would wish,
To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish.
Had your order related to nightcaps or hose,
Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those.
Or would you be pleased but to fancy a whale?
And direct me to send it--by sea or by mail?
The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still
I could get you one fit for the lake at Bowhill.
Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to be thrifty,
Since one day last fortnight two hundred and fifty,
Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no more,
Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were drawn on the shore!
You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight;
I own that I did not, but easily might--
For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay
On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the bay,
And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the spoil,
And _flinching_ (so term it) the blubber to boil;
(Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection
That awakes at the thoughts of this odorous dissection.)
To see this huge marvel full fain would we go,
But Wilson, the wind, and the current said no.
We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I must stare
When I think that in verse I have once called it _fair_;
'Tis a base little borough, both dirty and mean--
There is nothing to hear, and there's nought to be seen,
Save a church, where, of old times, a prelate harangued,
And a palace that's built by an earl that was hanged.
But farewell to Kirkwall--aboard we are going,
The anchor's a-peak and the breezes are blowing;
Our commodore calls all his band to their places,
And 't is time to release you--good-night to your Graces!
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, ETC.
GLASGOW, September 8, 1814.
MY DEAR LORD DUKE,--I take the earliest opportunity, after landing, to
discharge a task so distressing to me, that I find reluctance and fear
even in making the attempt, and for the first time address so kind and
generous a friend without either comfort and confidence in myself, or
the power of offering a single word of consolation to his affliction.
I learned the late calamitous news (which indeed no preparation could
have greatly mitigated) quite unexpectedly, when upon the Irish
coast; nor could the shock of an earthquake have affected me in the
same proportion. Since that time I have been detained at sea, thinking
of nothing but what has happened, and of the painful duty I am now to
perform. If the deepest interest in this inexpressible loss could
qualify me for expressing myself upon a subject so distressing, I know
few whose attachment and respect for the lamented object of our
sorrows can or ought to exceed my own, for never was more attractive
kindness and condescension displayed by one of her sphere, or returned
with deeper and more heartfelt gratitude by one in my own. But selfish
regret and sorrow, while they claim a painful and unavailing
ascendance, cannot drown the recollection of the virtues lost to the
world, just when their scene of acting had opened wider, and to her
family when the prospect of their speedy entry upon life rendered her
precept and example peculiarly important. And such an example! for of
all whom I have ever seen, in whatever rank, she possessed most the
power of rendering virtue lovely--combining purity of feeling and
soundness of judgment with a sweetness and affability which won the
affections of all who had the happiness of approaching her. And this
is the partner of whom it has been God's pleasure to deprive your
Grace, and the friend for whom I now sorrow, and shall sorrow while I
can remember anything. The recollection of her excellencies can but
add bitterness, at least in the first pangs of calamity, yet it is
impossible to forbear the topic; it runs to my pen as to my thoughts,
till I almost call in question, for an instant, the Eternal Wisdom
which has so early summoned her from this wretched world, where pain
and grief and sorrow is our portion, to join those to whom her
virtues, while upon earth, gave her so strong a resemblance. Would to
God I could say, _be comforted_; but I feel every common topic of
consolation must be, for the time at least, even an irritation to
affliction. Grieve, then, my dear Lord, or I should say my dear and
much honored friend,--for sorrow for the time levels the highest
distinctions of rank; but do not grieve as those who have no hope. I
know the last earthly thoughts of the departed sharer of your joys and
sorrows must have been for your Grace and the dear pledges she has
left to your care. Do not, for their sake, suffer grief to take that
exclusive possession which disclaims care for the living, and is not
only useless to the dead, but is what their wishes would have most
earnestly deprecated. To time, and to God, whose are both time and
eternity, belongs the office of future consolation; it is enough to
require from the sufferer under such a dispensation to bear his
burthen of sorrow with fortitude, and to resist those feelings which
prompt us to believe that that which is galling and grievous is
therefore altogether beyond our strength to support. Most bitterly do
I regret some levity which I fear must have reached you when your
distress was most poignant, and most dearly have I paid for venturing
to anticipate the time which is not ours, since I received these
deplorable news at the very moment when I was collecting some trifles
that I thought might give satisfaction to the person whom I so highly
honored, and who, among her numerous excellencies, never failed to
seem pleased with what she knew was meant to afford her pleasure.
But I must break off, and have perhaps already written too much. I
learn by a letter from Mrs. Scott, this day received, that your Grace
is at Bowhill--in the beginning of next week I will be in the
vicinity; and when your Grace can receive me without additional pain,
I shall have the honor of waiting upon you. I remain, with the deepest
sympathy, my Lord Duke, your Grace's truly distressed and most
grateful servant,
WALTER SCOTT.
The following letter was addressed to Scott by the Duke of
Buccleuch, before he received that which the Poet penned on landing
at Glasgow. I present it here, because it will give a more exact
notion of what Scott's relations with his noble patron really were,
than any other single document which I could produce: and to set
that matter in its just light is essential to the business of this
narrative. But I am not ashamed to confess that I embrace with
satisfaction the opportunity of thus offering to the readers of the
present time a most instructive lesson. They will here see what pure
and simple virtues and humble piety may be cultivated as the only
sources of real comfort in this world and consolation in the
prospect of futurity,--among circles which the giddy and envious mob
are apt to regard as intoxicated with the pomps and vanities of
wealth and rank; which so many of our popular writers represent
systematically as sunk in selfish indulgence--as viewing all below
them with apathy and indifference--and last, not least, as
upholding, when they do uphold, the religious institutions of their
country, merely because they have been taught to believe that their
own hereditary privileges and possessions derive security from the
prevalence of Christian maxims and feelings among the mass of the
people.
TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., POST OFFICE, GREENOCK.
BOWHILL, September 3, 1814.
MY DEAR SIR,--It is not with the view of distressing you with my
griefs, in order to relieve my own feelings, that I address you at
this moment. But knowing your attachment to myself, and more
particularly the real affection which you bore to my poor wife, I
thought that a few lines from me would be acceptable, both to explain
the state of my mind at present, and to mention a few circumstances
connected with that melancholy event.
I am calm and resigned. The blow was so severe that it stunned me, and
I did not feel that agony of mind which might have been expected. I
now see the full extent of my misfortune; but that extended view of it
has come gradually upon me. I am fully aware how imperative it is upon
me to exert myself to the utmost on account of my children. I must
not depress their spirits by a display of my own melancholy feelings.
I have many new duties to perform,--or rather, perhaps, I now feel
more pressingly the obligation of duties which the unceasing exertions
of my poor wife rendered less necessary, or induced me to attend to
with less than sufficient accuracy. I have been taught a severe
lesson; it may and ought to be a useful one. I feel that my lot,
though a hard one, is accompanied by many alleviations denied to
others. I have a numerous family, thank God, in health, and profiting,
according to their different ages, by the admirable lessons they have
been taught. My daughter, Anne, worthy of so excellent a mother,
exerts herself to the utmost to supply her place, and has displayed a
fortitude and strength of mind beyond her years, and (as I had
foolishly thought) beyond her powers. I have most kind friends willing
and ready to afford me every assistance. These are my worldly
comforts, and they are numerous and great.
Painful as it may be, I cannot reconcile it to myself to be totally
silent as to the last scene of this cruel tragedy. As she had lived,
so she died,--an example of every noble feeling--of love, attachment,
and the total want of everything selfish. Endeavoring to the last to
conceal her suffering, she evinced a fortitude, a resignation, a
Christian courage, beyond all power of description. Her last
injunction was to attend to her poor people. It was a dreadful but
instructive moment. I have learned that the most truly heroic spirit
may be lodged in the tenderest and the gentlest breast. Need I tell
_you_ that she expired in the full hope and expectation, nay, in the
firmest certainty, of passing to a better world, through a steady
reliance on her Saviour? If ever there was a proof of the efficacy of
our religion in moments of the deepest affliction, and in the hour of
death, it was exemplified in her conduct. But I will no longer dwell
upon a subject which must be painful to you. Knowing her sincere
friendship for you, I have thought it would give you pleasure, though
a melancholy one, to hear from me that her last moments were such as
to be envied by every lover of virtue, piety, and true and genuine
religion.
I will endeavor to do in all things what I know she would wish. I have
therefore determined to lay myself open to all the comforts my
friends can afford me. I shall be most happy to cultivate their
society as heretofore. I shall love them more and more, because I know
they loved her. Whenever it suits your convenience I shall be happy to
see you here. I feel that it is particularly my duty not to make my
house the house of mourning to my children; for I know it was _her_
decided opinion that it is most mischievous to give an early
impression of gloom to the mind.
You will find me tranquil, and capable of going through the common
occupations of society. Adieu for the present. Yours very sincerely,
BUCCLEUCH, etc.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, ETC., ETC., ETC.
EDINBURGH, 11th September, 1814.
MY DEAR LORD DUKE,--I received your letter (which had missed me at
Greenock) upon its being returned to this place, and cannot
sufficiently express my gratitude for the kindness which, at such a
moment, could undertake the task of writing upon such a subject to
relieve the feelings of a friend. Depend upon it, I am so far worthy
of your Grace's kindness, that, among many proofs of it, this
affecting and most distressing one can never be forgotten. It gives me
great though melancholy satisfaction to find that your Grace has had
the manly and Christian fortitude to adopt that resigned and patient
frame of spirit, which can extract from the most bitter calamity a
wholesome mental medicine. I trust in God, that, as so many and such
high duties are attached to your station, and as He has blessed you
with the disposition that draws pleasure from the discharge of them,
your Grace will find your first exertions, however painful, rewarded
with strength to persevere, and finally with that comfort which
attends perseverance in that which is right. The happiness of hundreds
depends upon your Grace almost directly, and the effect of your
example in the country, and of your constancy in support of a
constitution daily undermined by the wicked and designing, is almost
incalculable. Justly, then, and well, has your Grace resolved to
sacrifice all that is selfish in the indulgence of grief, to the
duties of your social and public situation. Long may you have health
and strength to be to your dear and hopeful family an example and
guide in all that becomes their high rank. It is enough that one
light, and alas, what a light that was!--has been recalled by the
Divine Will to another and a better sphere.
I wrote a hasty and unconnected letter immediately on landing. I am
detained for two days in this place, but shall wait upon your Grace
immediately on my return to Abbotsford. If my society cannot, in the
circumstances, give much pleasure, it will, I trust, impose no
restraint.
Mrs. Scott desires me to offer her deepest sympathy upon this
calamitous occasion. She has much reason, for she has lost the
countenance of a friend such as she cannot expect the course of human
life again to supply. I am ever, with much and affectionate respect,
your Grace's truly faithful humble servant,
WALTER SCOTT.
TO J. B. S. MORRITT, ESQ., M. P., WORTHING.
EDINBURGH, September 14, 1814.
MY DEAR MORRITT,--"At the end of my tour on the 22d August"!!! Lord
help us!--this comes of going to the Levant and the Hellespont, and
your Euxine, and so forth. A poor devil who goes to Nova Zembla and
Thule is treated as if he had been only walking as far as Barnard
Castle or Cauldshiels Loch.[97] I would have you to know I only
returned on the 10th current, and the most agreeable thing I found was
your letter. I am sure you must know I had need of something pleasant,
for the news of the death of the beautiful, the kind, the
affectionate, and generous Duchess of Buccleuch gave me a shock,
which, to speak God's truth, could not have been exceeded unless by my
own family's sustaining a similar deprivation. She was indeed a light
set upon a hill, and had all the grace which the most accomplished
manners and the most affable address could give to those virtues by
which she was raised still higher than by rank. As she always
distinguished me by her regard and confidence, and as I had many
opportunities of seeing her in the active discharge of duties in which
she rather resembled a descended angel than an earthly being, you will
excuse my saying so much about my own feelings on an occasion where
sorrow has been universal. But I will drop the subject. The survivor
has displayed a strength and firmness of mind seldom equalled, where
the affection has been so strong and mutual, and amidst the very high
station and commanding fortune which so often render self-control more
difficult, because so far from being habitual. I trust, for his own
sake, as well as for that of thousands to whom his life is directly
essential, and hundreds of thousands to whom his example is important,
that God, as He has given him fortitude to bear this inexpressible
shock, will add strength of constitution to support him in the
struggle. He has written to me on the occasion in a style becoming a
man and a Christian, submissive to the will of God, and willing to
avail himself of the consolations which remain among his family and
friends. I am going to see him, and how we shall meet, God knows; but
though "an iron man of iron mould" upon many of the occasions of life
in which I see people most affected, and a peculiar contemner of the
commonplace sorrow which I see paid to the departed, this is a case in
which my stoicism will not serve me. They both gave me reason to think
they loved me, and I returned their regard with the most sincere
attachment--the distinction of rank being, I think, set apart on all
sides. But God's will be done. I will dwell no longer upon this
subject. It is much to learn that Mrs. Morritt is so much better, and
that if I have sustained a severe wound from a quarter so little
expected, I may promise myself the happiness of your dear wife's
recovery.
I will shortly mention the train of our voyage, reserving particulars
till another day. We sailed from Leith, and skirted the Scottish
coast, visiting the Buller of Buchan and other remarkable
objects--went to Shetland--thence to Orkney--from thence round Cape
Wrath to the Hebrides, making descents everywhere, where there was
anything to be seen--thence to Lewis and the Long Island--to Skye--to
Iona--and so forth, lingering among the Hebrides as long as we could.
Then we stood over to the coast of Ireland, and visited the Giant's
Causeway and Port Rush, where Dr. Richardson, the inventor
(discoverer, I would say) of the celebrated fiorin-grass, resides. By
the way, he is a chattering charlatan, and his fiorin a mere humbug.
But if he were Cicero, and his invention were potatoes, or anything
equally useful, I should detest the recollection of the place and the
man, for it was there I learned the death of my friend. Adieu, my dear
Morritt; kind compliments to your lady; like poor Tom, "I cannot daub
it farther." When I hear where you are, and what you are doing, I will
write you a more cheerful epistle. Poor Mackenzie, too, is gone--the
brother of our friend Lady Hood--and another Mackenzie, son to the
Man of Feeling. So short time have I been absent, and such has been
the harvest of mortality among those whom I regarded!
I will attend to your corrections in Waverley. My principal employment
for the autumn will be reducing the knowledge I have acquired of the
localities of the islands into scenery and stage-room for The Lord of
the Isles, of which renowned romance I think I have repeated some
portions to you. It was elder born than Rokeby, though it gave place
to it in publishing.
After all, scribbling is an odd propensity. I don't believe there is
any ointment, even that of the Edinburgh Review, which can cure the
infected. Once more, yours entirely,
WALTER SCOTT.
Before I pass from the event which made August, 1814, so black a
month in Scott's calendar, I may be excused for once more noticing
the kind interest which the Duchess of Buccleuch had always taken in
the fortunes of the Ettrick Shepherd, and introducing a most
characteristic epistle which she received from him a few months
before her death. The Duchess--"fearful" (as she said) "of seeing
herself in print"--did not answer the Shepherd, but forwarded his
letter to Scott, begging him to explain that circumstances did not
allow the Duke to concede what he requested, but to assure him that
they both retained a strong wish to serve him whenever a suitable
opportunity should present itself. Hogg's letter was as follows:--
TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF BUCCLEUCH, DALKEITH PALACE. FAVORED BY
MESSRS. GRIEVE AND SCOTT, HATTERS, EDINBURGH.[98]
ETTRICKBANK, March 17, 1814.
May it please your Grace,--I have often grieved you by my
applications for this and that. I am sensible of this, for I have
had many instances of your wishes to be of service to me, could you
have known what to do for that purpose. But there are some eccentric
characters in the world, of whom no person can judge or know what will
prove beneficial, or what may prove their bane. I have again and again
received of your Grace's private bounty, and though it made me love
and respect you the more, I was nevertheless grieved at it. It was
never your Grace's money that I wanted, but the honor of your
countenance; indeed my heart could never yield to the hope of being
patronized by any house save that of Buccleuch, whom I deemed bound to
cherish every plant that indicated anything out of the common way on
the Braes of Ettrick and Yarrow.
I know you will be thinking that this long prelude is to end with a
request. No, Madam! I have taken the resolution of never making
another request. I will, however, tell you a story, which is, I
believe, founded on a fact:--
There is a small farm at the head of a water called *****, possessed
by a mean fellow named ****. A third of it has been taken off and laid
into another farm--the remainder is as yet unappropriated. Now, there
is a certain poor bard, who has two old parents, each of them upwards
of eighty-four years of age; and that bard has no house nor home to
shelter those poor parents in, or cheer the evening of their lives. A
single line from a certain very great and very beautiful lady, to a
certain Mr. Riddle,[99] would insure that small pendicle to the bard
at once. But she will grant no such thing! I appeal to your Grace if
she is not a very bad lady that? I am your Grace's ever obliged and
grateful
JAMES HOGG,
THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
[Illustration: JAMES HOGG
_From the water-color portrait by Denning_]
Though the Duke of Buccleuch would not dismiss a poor tenant merely
because Hogg called him "a mean fellow," he had told Scott that if
he could find an unappropriated "pendicle," such as this letter
referred to, he would most willingly bestow it on the Shepherd. It
so happened, that when Scott paid his first visit at Bowhill after
the death of the Duchess, the Ettrick Shepherd was mentioned: "My
friend," said the Duke, "I must now consider this poor man's case as
_her_ legacy;" and to this feeling Hogg owed, very soon afterwards,
his establishment at Altrive, on his favorite braes of Yarrow.
As Scott passed through Edinburgh on his return from his voyage, the
negotiation as to The Lord of the Isles, which had been protracted
through several months, was completed--Constable agreeing to give
fifteen hundred guineas for one half of the copyright, while the
other moiety was retained by the author. The sum mentioned had been
offered by Constable at an early stage of the affair, but it was not
until now accepted, in consequence of the earnest wish of Scott and
Ballantyne to saddle the publisher of the new poem with part of
their old "quire stock,"--which, however, Constable ultimately
persisted in refusing. It may easily be believed that John
Ballantyne's management of money matters during Scott's six weeks'
absence had been such as to render it doubly convenient for the Poet
to have this matter settled on his arrival in Edinburgh--and it may
also be supposed that the progress of Waverley during that interval
had tended to put the chief parties in good-humor with each other.
In returning to Waverley, I must observe most distinctly that
nothing can be more unfounded than the statement which has of late
years been frequently repeated in memoirs of Scott's life, that the
sale of the first edition of this immortal Tale was slow. It
appeared on the 7th of July, and the whole impression (1000 copies)
had disappeared within five weeks; an occurrence then unprecedented
in the case of an anonymous novel, put forth at what is called among
publishers _the dead season_. A second edition, of 2000 copies, was
at least projected by the 24th of the same month;[100]--that
appeared before the end of August, and it, too, had gone off so
rapidly, that when Scott passed through Edinburgh, on his way from
the Hebrides, he found Constable eager to treat, on the same terms
as before, for a third of 1000 copies. This third edition was
published in October, and when a fourth of the like extent was
called for in November, I find Scott writing to John Ballantyne, "I
suppose Constable won't quarrel with a work on which he has netted
£612 in four months, with a certainty of making it £1000 before the
year is out;" and, in fact, owing to the diminished expense of
advertising, the profits of this fourth edition were to each party
£440. To avoid recurring to these details, I may as well state at
once, that a fifth edition of 1000 copies appeared in January, 1815;
a sixth of 1500 in June, 1816; a seventh of 2000 in October, 1817;
an eighth of 2000 in April, 1821; that in the collective editions,
prior to 1829, 11,000 were disposed of; and that the sale of the
current edition, with notes, begun in 1829, has already reached
40,000 copies. Well might Constable regret that he had not ventured
to offer £1000 for the whole copyright of Waverley!
I must now look back for a moment to the history of the
composition.--The letter of September, 1810, was not the only piece
of discouragement which Scott had received, during the progress of
Waverley, from his first confidant. James Ballantyne, in his
deathbed _memorandum_, says: "When Mr. Scott first questioned me as
to my hopes of him as a novelist, it somehow or other did chance
that they were not very high. He saw this, and said: 'Well, I don't
see why I should not succeed as well as other people. At all events,
faint heart never won fair lady--'tis only trying.' When the first
volume was completed, I still could not get myself to think much of
the Waverley-Honor scenes; and in this I afterwards found that I
sympathized with many. But, to my utter shame be it spoken, when I
reached the exquisite descriptions of scenes and manners at
Tully-Veolan, what did I do but pronounce them at once to be utterly
vulgar!--When the success of the work so entirely knocked me down as
a man of taste, all that the good-natured author said was: 'Well, I
really thought you were wrong about the Scotch. Why, Burns, by his
poetry, had already attracted universal attention to everything
Scottish, and I confess I could n't see why I should not be able to
keep the flame alive, merely because I wrote Scotch in prose, and he
in rhyme.'"--It is, I think, very agreeable to have this manly
avowal to compare with the delicate allusion which Scott makes to
the affair in his Preface to the Novel.
The only other friends originally entrusted with his secret appear
to have been Mr. Erskine and Mr. Morritt. I know not at what stage
the former altered the opinion which he formed on seeing the tiny
fragment of 1805. The latter did not, as we have seen, receive the
book until it was completed; but he anticipated, before he closed
the first volume, the station which public opinion would ultimately
assign to Waverley. "How the story may continue," Mr. Morritt then
wrote, "I am not able to divine; but, as far as I have read, pray
let us thank you for the Castle of Tully-Veolan, and the delightful
drinking-bout at Lucky Mac-Leary's, for the characters of the Laird
of Balmawhapple and the Baron of Bradwardine; and no less for Davie
Gelatly, whom I take to be a transcript of William Rose's motley
follower, commonly yclept Caliban.[101] If the completion be equal
to what we have just devoured, it deserves a place among our
standard works far better than its modest appearance and anonymous
title-page will at first gain it in these days of prolific
story-telling. Your manner of narrating is so different from the
slipshod sauntering verbiage of common novels, and from the stiff,
precise, and prim sententiousness of some of our female moralists,
that I think it can't fail to strike anybody who knows what style
means; but, amongst the gentle class, who swallow every blue-backed
book in a circulating library for the sake of the story, I should
fear half the knowledge of nature it contains, and all the real
humor, may be thrown away. Sir Everard, Mrs. Rachael, and the Baron
are, I think, in the first rank of portraits for nature and
character; and I could depone to their likeness in any court of
taste. The ballad of St. Swithin, and scraps of _old songs_, were
measures of danger if you meant to continue your concealment; but,
in truth, you wear your disguise something after the manner of
Bottom the weaver; and in spite of you the truth will soon peep
out." And next day he resumes: "We have finished Waverley, and were
I to tell you all my admiration, you would accuse me of
complimenting. You have quite attained the point which your
_postscript-preface_ mentions as your object--the discrimination of
Scottish character, which had hitherto been slurred over with
clumsy national daubing." He adds, a week or two later: "After all,
I need not much thank you for your confidence. How could you have
hoped that I should not discover you? I had heard you tell half the
anecdotes before--some turns you owe to myself; and no doubt most of
your friends must have the same sort of thing to say."
Monk Lewis's letter on the subject is so short that I must give it
as it stands:--
TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., ABBOTSFORD.
THE ALBANY, August 17, 1814.
MY DEAR SCOTT,--I return some books of yours which you lent me '_sixty
years since_'--and I hope they will reach you safe. I write in great
haste; and yet I must mention, that hearing Waverley ascribed to you,
I bought it, and read it with all impatience. I am now told it is not
yours, but William Erskine's. If this is so, pray tell him from me
that I think it excellent in every respect, and that I believe every
word of it.
Ever yours, M. G. LEWIS.
Another friend (and he had, I think, none more dear), the late
Margaret Maclean Clephane of Torloisk, afterwards Marchioness of
Northampton, writes thus from Kirkness, in Kinross-shire, on the
11th October:--
"In this place I feel a sort of pleasure, not unallied to pain, from
the many recollections that every venerable tree, and every sunny
bank, and every honeysuckle bower, occasions; and I have found
something here that speaks to me in the voice of a valued
friend--_Waverley_. The question that rises, it is perhaps improper to
give utterance to. If so, let it pass as an exclamation.--Is it
possible that Mr. Erskine can have written it? The poetry, I think,
would prove a different descent in any court in Christendom. The turn
of the phrases in many places is so peculiarly yours, that I fancy I
hear your voice repeating them; and there wants but verse to make all
Waverley an enchanting poem--varying to be sure from grave to gay, but
with so deepening an interest as to leave an impression on the mind
that few--very few poems--could awaken. But, why did not the author
allow me to be his Gaelic Dragoman? Oh! Mr. ----, whoever you are, you
might have safely trusted--M. M. C."
There was one person with whom it would, of course, have been more
than vain to affect any concealment. On the publication of the third
edition, I find him writing thus to his brother Thomas, who had by
this time gone to Canada as paymaster of the 70th regiment:--
DEAR TOM,--A novel here called Waverley has had enormous success. I
sent you a copy, and will send you another, with The Lord of the
Isles, which will be out at Christmas. The success which it has had,
with some other circumstances, has induced people
"To lay the bantling at a certain door,
Where lying store of faults, they'd fain heap more."[102]
You will guess for yourself how far such a report has credibility; but
by no means give the weight of your opinion to the transatlantic
public; for you must know there is also a counter-report, that _you_
have written the said Waverley. Send me a novel intermixing your
exuberant and natural humor with any incidents and descriptions of
scenery you may see--particularly with characters and traits of
manners. I will give it all the cobbling that is necessary, and, if
you do but exert yourself, I have not the least doubt it will be worth
£500; and, to encourage you, you may, when you send the MS., draw on
me for £100, at fifty days' sight--so that your labors will at any
rate not be quite thrown away. You have more fun and descriptive
talent than most people; and all that you want--_i. e._, the mere
practice of composition--I can supply, or the devil's in it. Keep this
matter a dead secret, and look knowing when Waverley is spoken of. If
you are not Sir John Falstaff, you are as good a man as he, and may
therefore face Colville of the Dale. You may believe I don't want to
make you the author of a book you have never seen; but if people will,
upon their own judgment, suppose so, and also on their own judgment
give you £500 to try your hand on a novel, I don't see that you are a
pin's-point the worse. Mind that your MS. attends the draft. I am
perfectly serious and confident that in two or three months you might
clear the cobs. I beg my compliments to the hero who is afraid of
Jeffrey's scalping-knife.
In truth, no one of Scott's intimate friends ever had, or could have
had, the slightest doubt as to the parentage of Waverley: nor,
although he abstained from communicating the fact formally to most
of them, did he ever affect any real concealment in the case of such
persons; nor, when any circumstance arose which rendered the
withholding of direct confidence on the subject incompatible with
perfect freedom of feeling on both sides, did he hesitate to make
the avowal.
Nor do I believe that the mystification ever answered much purpose,
among literary men of eminence beyond the circle of his personal
acquaintance. But it would be difficult to suppose that he had ever
wished that to be otherwise; it was sufficient for him to set the
mob of readers at gaze, and above all, to escape the annoyance of
having productions, actually known to be his, made the daily and
hourly topics of discussion in his presence.[103]
Mr. Jeffrey had known Scott from his youth--and, in reviewing
Waverley, he was at no pains to conceal his conviction of its
authorship. He quarrelled, as usual, with carelessness of style, and
some inartificialities of plot, but rendered justice to the
substantial merits of the work, in language which I shall not mar by
abridgment. The Quarterly was far less favorable in its verdict.
Indeed, the articles on Waverley, and afterwards on Guy Mannering,
which appeared in that journal, will bear the test of ultimate
opinion as badly as any critical pieces which our time has produced.
They are written in a captious, cavilling strain of quibble, which
shows as complete blindness to the essential interest of the
narrative, as the critic betrays on the subject of the Scottish
dialogue, which forms its liveliest ornament, when he pronounces
that to be "a dark dialogue of Anglified Erse." With this remarkable
exception, the professional critics were, on the whole, not slow to
confess their belief, that, under a hackneyed name and trivial form,
there had at last appeared a work of original creative genius,
worthy of being placed by the side of the very few real masterpieces
of prose fiction. Loftier romance was never blended with easier,
quainter humor, by Cervantes himself. In his familiar delineations
he had combined the strength of Smollett with the native elegance
and unaffected pathos of Goldsmith; in his darker scenes he had
revived that real tragedy which appeared to have left our stage with
the age of Shakespeare; and elements of interest so diverse had been
blended and interwoven with that nameless grace, which, more surely
perhaps than even the highest perfection in the command of any one
strain of sentiment, marks the master-mind cast in Nature's most
felicitous mould.
Scott, with the consciousness (avowed long afterwards in his General
Preface) that he should never in all likelihood have thought of a
Scotch novel had he not read Maria Edgeworth's exquisite pieces of
Irish character, desired James Ballantyne to send her a copy of
Waverley on its first appearance, inscribed "from the author." Miss
Edgeworth, whom Scott had never then seen, though some literary
correspondence had passed between them, thanked the nameless
novelist, under cover to Ballantyne, with the cordial generosity of
kindred genius;[104] and the following answer, not from Scott, but
from Ballantyne--(who had kept a copy, now before me)--is not to be
omitted:--
TO MISS EDGEWORTH, EDGEWORTHSTOWN, IRELAND.
EDINBURGH, 11th November, 1814.
MADAM,--I am desired by the Author of Waverley to acknowledge, in his
name, the honor you have done him by your most flattering approbation
of his work--a distinction which he receives as one of the highest
that could be paid him, and which he would have been proud to have
himself stated his sense of, only that being _impersonal_, he thought
it more respectful to require my assistance than to write an anonymous
letter.
There are very few who have had the opportunities that have been
presented to me, of knowing how very elevated is the admiration
entertained by the Author of Waverley for the genius of Miss
Edgeworth. From the intercourse that took place betwixt us while the
work was going through my press, _I know_ that the exquisite truth and
power of your characters operated on his mind at once to excite and
subdue it. He felt that the success of his book was to depend upon the
characters, much more than upon the story; and he entertained so just
and so high an opinion of your eminence in the management of both, as
to have strong apprehensions of any comparison which might be
instituted betwixt his picture and story and yours; besides, that
there is a richness and _naïveté_ in Irish character and humor, in
which the Scotch are certainly defective, and which could hardly fail,
as he thought, to render his delineations cold and tame by the
contrast. "If I could but hit Miss Edgeworth's wonderful power of
vivifying all her persons, and making them live as _beings_ in your
mind, I should not be afraid:"--Often has the Author of Waverley used
such language to me; and I knew that I gratified him most when I could
say,--"Positively this _is_ equal to Miss Edgeworth." You will thus
judge, Madam, how deeply he must feel such praise as you have bestowed
upon his efforts. I believe he himself thinks the Baron the best drawn
character in his book--I mean the Bailie--honest Bailie Macwheeble. He
protests it is the most _true_, though from many causes he did not
expect it to be the most popular. It appears to me, that amongst so
many splendid portraits, all drawn with such strength and truth, it is
more easy to say which is your favorite, than which is best. Mr. Henry
Mackenzie agrees with you in your objection to the resemblance to
Fielding. He says you should never be forced to recollect, _maugre_
all its internal evidence to the contrary, that such a work is a work
of fiction, and all its fine creations but of air. The character of
Rose is less finished than the author had at one period intended; but
I believe the characters of humor grew upon his liking, to the
prejudice, in some degree, of those of a more elevated and sentimental
kind. Yet what can surpass Flora, and her gallant brother?
I am not authorized to say--but I will not resist my impulse to say to
Miss Edgeworth, that another novel, descriptive of more ancient
manners still, may be expected erelong from the Author of Waverley.
But I request her to observe, that I say this in strict
confidence--not certainly meaning to exclude from the knowledge of
what will give them pleasure, her respectable family.
Mr. Scott's poem, The Lord of the Isles, promises fully to equal the
most admired of his productions. It is, I think, equally powerful, and
certainly more uniformly polished and sustained. I have seen three
cantos. It will consist of six.
I have the honor to be, Madam, with the utmost admiration and respect,
Your most obedient and most humble servant,
JAMES BALLANTYNE.
Footnotes of the Chapter XXXIII.
[96: The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families of the
name in Fife and elsewhere, claim no kindred with the great clan of
the Border--and their armorial bearings are different.]
[97: Lord Byron writes to Mr. Moore, August 3, 1814: "Oh! I
have had the most amusing letter from Hogg, the Ettrick Minstrel and
Shepherd. I think very highly of him as a poet, but he and half of
these Scotch and Lake troubadours are spoilt by living in little
circles and petty coteries. London and the world is the only place
to take the conceit out of a man--in the milling phrase. Scott, he
says, is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind, during which wind,
he affirms, the said Scott, he is sure, is not at his ease, to say
the least of it. Lord! Lord! if these home-keeping minstrels had
crossed your Atlantic or my Mediterranean, and tasted a little open
boating in a white squall--or a gale in 'the Gut,'--or the Bay of
Biscay, with no gale at all--how it would enliven and introduce them
to a few of the sensations!--to say nothing of an illicit amour or
two upon shore, in the way of Essay upon the Passions, beginning
with simple adultery, and compounding it as they went along."--_Life
and Works_, vol. iii. p. 102. Lord Byron, by the way, had written on
July the 24th to Mr. Murray, "_Waverley_ is the best and most
interesting novel I have redde since--I don't know when,"
etc.--_Ibid._ p. 98.]
[98: Mr. Grieve was a man of cultivated mind and generous
disposition, and a most kind and zealous friend of the Shepherd.]
[99: Major Riddell, the Duke's Chamberlain at Branksome
Castle.]
[100: See letter to Mr. Morritt, _ante_, p. 120.]
[101: This alludes to some mummery in which David Hinves,
of merry memory, wore a Caliban-like disguise. He lived more than
forty years in the service of Mr. W. S. Rose, and died in it last
year. Mr. Rose was of course extremely young when he first picked up
Hinves--a bookbinder by trade, and a preacher among the Methodists.
A sermon heard casually under a tree in the New Forest had such
touches of good feeling and broad humor, that the young gentleman
promoted him to be his valet on the spot. He was treated latterly
more like a friend than a servant by his master, and by all his
master's intimate friends. Scott presented him with a copy of all
his works; and Coleridge gave him a corrected (or rather an altered)
copy of _Christabel_, with this inscription on the flyleaf: "DEAR
HINVES,--Till this book is concluded, and with it '_Gundimore_, a
poem, by the same author,' accept of this _corrected_ copy of
_Christabel_ as a _small_ token of regard; yet such a testimonial as
I would not pay to any one I did not esteem, though he were an
emperor. Be assured I shall send you for your private library every
work I have published (if there be any to be had) and whatever I
shall publish. Keep steady to the FAITH. If the fountain-head be
always full, the stream cannot be long empty. Yours sincerely,
S. T. COLERIDGE."
11th November, 1816--Muddeford.
Mr. Rose imagines that the warning, "keep steady to the faith," was
given in allusion to Ugo Foscolo's "supposed license in religious
opinions."--_Rhymes_ (Brighton, 1837), p. 92.--(1839.)]
[102: Garrick's Epilogue to _Polly Honeycombe_, 1760.]
[103: ["Except the first opening of the _Edinburgh Review_,
no work that has appeared in my time made such an instant and
universal impression. It is curious to remember it. The unexpected
newness of the thing, the profusion of original characters, the
Scotch language, Scotch scenery, Scotch men and women, the
simplicity of the writing, and the graphic force of the
descriptions, all struck us with an electric shock of delight. I
wish I could again feel the sensations produced by the first year of
these two Edinburgh works. If the concealment of the authorship of
the novels was intended to make mystery heighten their effect, it
completely succeeded. The speculations and conjectures, and nods and
winks, and predictions and assertions were endless, and occupied
every company, and almost every two men who met and spoke in the
street. It was proved by a thousand indications, each refuting the
other, and all equally true in fact, that they were written by old
Henry Mackenzie, and by George Cranstoun, and William Erskine, and
Jeffrey, and above all by Thomas Scott.... But 'the great unknown'
as the true author was then called, always took good care, with all
his concealment, to supply evidence amply sufficient for the
protection of his property and his fame; in so much that the
suppression of the name was laughed at as a good joke not merely by
his select friends in his presence, but by himself. The change of
line, at his age, was a striking proof of intellectual power and
richness. But the truth is that these novels were rather the
outpourings of old thoughts than new inventions."--Lord Cockburn's
_Memorials of His Time_.]]
[104: [Miss Edgeworth wrote from Edgeworthstown, October
23, 1814, addressing her letter to the Author of _Waverley_ (see
_Life and Letters of Maria Edgeworth_, vol. i. pp. 239-244):--
_Aut Scotus, aut Diabolus._
We have this moment finished _Waverley_. It was read aloud to this large
family, and I wish the author could have witnessed the impression it
made--the strong hold it seized of the feelings both of young and
old--the admiration raised by the beautiful description, of nature--by
the new and bold delineations of character--the perfect manner in which
every character is sustained in every change of situation from first to
last, without effort, without the affectation of making the persons
speak in character--the ingenuity with which each person introduced in
the drama is made useful and necessary to the end--the admirable art
with which the story is constructed and with which the author keeps his
own secrets till the proper moment when they should be revealed, whilst
in the mean time, with the skill of Shakespeare, the mind is prepared by
unseen degrees for all the changes of feeling and fortune, so that
nothing, however extraordinary, shocks us as improbable; and the
interest is kept up to the last moment. We were so possessed with the
belief that the whole story and every character in it was real, that we
could not endure the occasional addresses from the author to the reader.
They are like Fielding; but for that reason we cannot bear them, we
cannot bear that an author of such high powers, of such original genius,
should for a moment stoop to imitation. This is the only thing we
dislike, these are the only passages we wish omitted in the whole work;
and let the unqualified manner in which I say this, and the very
vehemence of my expression of this disapprobation, be a sure pledge to
the author of the sincerity of all the admiration I feel for his genius.
I have not yet said half we felt in reading the work. The characters
are not only finely drawn as separate figures, but they are grouped
with great skill, and contrasted so artfully, and yet so naturally,
as to produce the happiest dramatic effect and at the same time to
relieve the feelings and attention in the most agreeable manner. The
novelty of the Highland world which is discovered to our view
excites curiosity and interest powerfully; but though it is all new
to us it does not embarrass or perplex, or strain the attention. We
never are harassed by doubts of the probability of any of these
modes of life; though we did not know them, we are quite certain
they did exist exactly as they are represented. We are sensible that
there is a peculiar merit in the work which is in a measure lost
upon us, the dialects of the Highlanders and Lowlanders, etc. But
there is another and a higher merit with which we are as much struck
and as much delighted as any true-born Scotchman could be: the
various gradations of Scotch feudal character, from the high-born
chieftain and the military baron, to the noble-minded lieutenant
Evan Dhu, the robber Bean Lean, and the savage Callum Beg. The
Pre--the Chevalier is beautifully drawn,--
"A prince: aye, every inch a prince!"
His polished manners, his exquisite address, politeness, and
generosity, interest the reader irresistibly, and he pleases the
more from the contrast between him and those who surround him. I
think he is my favorite character; the Baron Bradwardine is my
father's. He thinks it required more genius to invent, and more
ability uniformly to sustain, this character than any one of the
masterly characters with which the book abounds. There is indeed
uncommon art in the manner in which his dignity is preserved by his
courage and magnanimity, in spite of all his pedantry and his
_ridicules_.... I acknowledge that I am not as good a judge as my
father and brothers are of his recondite learning and his law Latin,
yet I feel the humor, and was touched to the quick by the strokes of
generosity, gentleness, and pathos in this old man, who is, by the
bye, all in good time worked up into a very dignified father-in-law
for the hero....
Jinker, in the battle, pleading the cause of the mare he had sold to
Balmawhapple, and which had thrown him for want of the proper bit,
is truly comic; my father says that this and some other passages
respecting horsemanship could not have been written by any one who
was not master both of the great and little horse.
I tell you without order the great and little strokes of humor and
pathos just as I recollect, or am reminded of them at this moment by
my companions.... Judging by our own feeling as authors, we guess
that he would rather know our genuine first thoughts, than wait for
cool second thoughts, or have a regular eulogium or criticism put in
the most lucid manner, and given in the finest sentences that ever
were rounded.
Is it possible that I have got thus far without having named Flora
or Vich Ian Vohr--the last Vich Ian Vohr! Yet our minds were full of
them the moment before I began this letter; and could you have seen
the tears forced from us by their fate, you would have been
satisfied that the pathos went to our hearts. Ian Vohr from the
first moment he appears, till the last, is an admirably drawn and
finely sustained character--new, perfectly new to the English
reader--often entertaining--always heroic--sometimes sublime. The
gray spirit, the Bodach Glas, thrills us with horror. _Us!_ What
effect must it have upon those under the influence of the
superstitions of the Highlands?...
Flora we could wish was never called Miss MacIvor, because in this
country there are tribes of vulgar Miss Macs, and this association
is unfavorable to the sublime and beautiful of your Flora--she is a
true heroine.... There is one thing more we could wish changed or
omitted in Flora's character.... In the first visit to her, where
she is to sing certain verses, there is a walk, in which the
description of the place is beautiful, but too long, and we did not
like the preparation for a scene--the appearance of Flora and her
harp was too like a common heroine; she should be far above all
stage effect or novelist's trick.
These are, without reserve, the only faults we found or can find in
this work of genius. We should scarcely have thought them worth
mentioning, except to give you proof positive that we are not
flatterers. Believe me, I have not, nor can I convey to you the full
idea of the pleasure, the delight we have had in reading _Waverley_,
nor of the feeling of sorrow with which we came to the end of the
history of persons whose real presence had so filled our minds--we
felt that we must return to the flat realities of life, that our
stimulus was gone, and we were little disposed to read the
"Postscript, which should have been a Preface."
"Well, let us hear it," said my father, and Mrs. Edgeworth read on.
Oh! my dear sir, how much pleasure would my father, my mother, my
whole family as well as myself have lost, if we had not read to the
last page! And the pleasure came upon us so unexpectedly--we had
been so completely absorbed that every thought of ourselves, of our
own authorship, was far, far away.
Thank you for the honor you have done us, and for the pleasure you
have given us, great in proportion to the opinion we had formed of
the work we had just perused--and believe me, every opinion I have
in this letter expressed was formed before any individual in the
family had peeped to the end of the book or knew how much we owed
you.
Your obliged and grateful MARIA EDGEWORTH.]
END OF VOLUME FOUR
[Transcriber's note: Only obvious printer's errors have been
corrected (e.g.: 3 s instead of 2, etc.). The author's spelling has
been maintained and inconsistencies have not been standardised.]