written in January 1818, Blackwood refers to the Ettrick Shepherd.
‘If you see Hogg, I hope you will press him to send me instantly his
_Shepherd’s Dog_, and anything else. I received his _Andrew Gemmells_;
but the editor is not going to insert it in this number.’ [Had Ebony
really an editor, or was he not himself the great sublime?] ‘I expected
to have received from him the conclusion of the _Brownie of Bodsbeck_;
there are six sheets of it already printed.’
Now, the latter part of this extract seems distinctly to disprove
a charge which Hogg thoughtlessly brought against Mr Blackwood.
His novel, the _Brownie of Bodsbeck_, was published in 1818, and he
suffered unjustly, as he states in his autobiography, with regard
to that tale, as it was looked upon as an imitation of Scott’s _Old
Mortality_. It was wholly owing to Blackwood, he asserts, that his
story was not published a year sooner; and he relates the case as a
warning to authors never to intrust booksellers with their manuscripts.
But the fact is, _Old Mortality_ was published in December 1816; and
we have Blackwood, in the above letter to Laidlaw, stating that he had
not, in January 1818--more than a twelvemonth afterwards--received
the whole of the ‘copy’ of the _Brownie of Bodsbeck_. How could he go
to press with an unfinished story? How make bricks without straw? The
accusation is altogether a myth, or, to use one of the Shepherd’s own
expressions, ‘a mere shimmera’ [chimera] ‘of the brain.’
Of Hogg’s prose works, Scott writes: ‘Truly, they are sad daubing,
with, here and there, fine dashes of genius.’ The _daubing_ is chiefly
seen in the dialogues and attempts at humour; the _genius_ appears
in the descriptions of pastoral or wild scenery, as in the account
of the ‘Storms,’ and in the fine introduction to the _Brownie of
Bodsbeck_, and in some of the delineations of humble Scottish life
and superstition. Hogg is as true and literal as Crabbe. His peasants
always speak and think as peasants; but he gives us, sometimes, coarse
and poor specimens. It is certain, however, that, even in the worst of
his stories, there are gleams of fancy--‘fairy blinks of the sun’--far
above the reach of writers immensely his superiors in taste and
acquirements.
There was another person in whom Scott was interested with
reference to the slashing articles in _Blackwood’s Magazine_. He
writes to Laidlaw: ‘So they let poor Charles Sharpe alone, they
may satirise all Edinburgh, your humble servant not excepted.’
Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, with his antiquarian tastes, personal
oddities, and aristocratic leanings, was a special favourite with
Scott. He was a kind of Scotch Horace Walpole (so considered by his
illustrious friend), but much feebler; perhaps stronger with the
pencil, but infinitely weaker with the pen. His celebrated sketch of
the ‘Inimitable Virago,’ or Queen Elizabeth dancing _disposedly_, as
described by the Scotch ambassador, Sir James Melville, was esteemed
by Scott as an unrivalled production. It is highly ludicrous and
effective as a picture, but is too extravagant to serve even as a
caricature representation of Elizabeth. Neither face nor figure has any
resemblance. Hogarth, in his etching of old Simon Lord Lovat of the
’45, seems, by a happy stroke of genius, to have hit the true medium
in works of this class. He preserved the strong points in personal
appearance and character--combining them with irresistible humour and
drollery of expression.
Here is another scrap:
‘I am glad to send you Maga, which continues to be clever. I hope for
two or three happy days on the brae-sides about the birthday’ [the
king’s birthday, June 4]. ‘Blackwood has been assaulted by a fellow who
came from Glasgow on purpose, and returned second-best. The bibliopole
is like the little French lawyer, who never found out he could fight
till he was put to it, and was then for cudgelling all and sundry. You
never saw anything so whimsical.
‘I think often, of course, about my walks; and I am sickening to
descend into the glen at the little waterfall by steps. We could cut
excellent ones out where the quarry has been. It is the only way we
shall ever make what Tom Purdie calls a _neat job_; for a deep descent
will be ugly, and difficult to keep. I would plant betwixt the stair
and the cascade, so as to hide the latter till you came down to the
bottom.’
Visitors now began to appear at Abbotsford, an increasing stream
every season from 1817 to 1825. They consisted of persons of rank and
fashion, literary men and artists of all nations, who travelled to the
Tweed to pay homage to the poet. There was no envy or jealousy with
the Great Minstrel. Indeed, with the single exception of Byron, his
position was such that he had no cause to fear any rival, and he could
afford to throw largess to the crowd. All were welcome at Abbotsford.
Washington Irving has described the cordial reception he experienced on
the occasion of his visit in 1817, and Laidlaw thus notes the event:
‘We had a long walk up by the glen and round by the loch. It was fine
sunshine when we set out, but we met with tremendous dashing showers.
Mr Irving told me he had a kind of devotional reverence for Scotland,
and most of all for its poetry. He looked upon it as fairy-land, and
he was beyond measure surprised at Mr Scott, his simple manners and
brotherly frankness. He was very anxious to see Hogg, and said that
several editions of Hogg’s different poems had been published in
America.’
Irving always regretted that he had not met with the Shepherd. Such a
meeting could not have failed to give infinite pleasure to both. The
gentle manners and literary enthusiasm of the American author would
at once have attached the Shepherd; while the rustic frankness,
liveliness, and perfect originality of Hogg possessed an indescribable
attraction and charm which the other would have fully appreciated.
Many years after this period, Hogg retained a careless brightness of
conversation and joyous manner which were seen in no other man. The
union of the shepherd and the poet formed a combination as rare and
striking as that of the soldado with the divinity student of Marischal
College, in the person of the renowned Dugald Dalgetty.
One day, after Hogg had been in London--and ‘The Hogg,’ as Lockhart
said, ‘was the lion of the season’--Allan Cunningham chanced to meet
James Smith of the _Rejected Addresses_ at the table of the great
bibliopole, John Murray. ‘How,’ said Smith, aloud, to Allan, ‘how
does Hogg like Scotland’s small cheer after the luxury of London?’
‘Small cheer!’ echoed Allan; ‘he has the finest trout in the Yarrow,
the finest lambs on its braes, the finest grouse on its hills, and,
besides, he as good as keeps a _sma’ still_’ [smuggled whisky]. ‘Pray,
what better luxury can London offer?’ All these sumptuosities the
Shepherd cheerfully shared with the wayfarers who flocked to Altrive
Cottage.
Another visitor at Abbotsford during the season of 1817, was Lady
Byron. ‘I have had the honour,’ says Laidlaw, ‘of dining in the company
of Lady Byron and Lord Somerville. Her ladyship is a beautiful little
woman with fair hair, a fine complexion, and rather large blue eyes;
face not round. She looked steadily grave, and seldom smiled. I thought
her mouth indicated great firmness, or rather obstinacy. Miss Anne
Scott and Lady Byron rode to Newark.’ After the date of this visit
by Lady Byron, Laidlaw says he had many conversations with Scott
concerning the life and poetry of Byron. ‘He seemed to regret very
much that Byron and he had not been thrown more together. He felt the
influence he had over his great contemporary’s mind, and said there was
so much in it that was very good and very elevated, that any one whom
he much liked could, as he (Scott) thought, have withdrawn him from
many of his errors.’
All went on smoothly and gaily at Abbotsford. Every year had added to
the beauty of the poet’s domain, and to the richness of his various
collections and library. His opinion of Gothic architecture is thus
expressed: ‘I have got a very good plan from Atkinson for my addition,
but I do not like the outside, which is modern Gothic, a style I hold
to be equally false and foolish. Blore and I have been at work to
_Scotify_ it, by turning battlements into bartisans, and so on. I think
we have struck out a picturesque, appropriate, and entirely new line
of architecture.’ Abbotsford must certainly be considered picturesque,
but it is a somewhat incongruous, ill-placed pile; and without the
beautiful garden-screen in front, the general effect would be heavy.
In the Waverley Novels, then appearing in that marvellously rapid
succession which astonished the world, there was an ample reservoir
of wealth, if it had been wisely secured, as well as of fame. But an
alarming interruption was threatened by the illness of the novelist.
His malady--cramp of the stomach, with jaundice--was attended with
exquisite pain; but in the intervals of comparative ease his literary
labours were continued; and it certainly is an extraordinary fact in
literary history that under such circumstances the greater part of
the _Bride of Lammermoor_, the whole of the _Legend of Montrose_,
and almost the whole of _Ivanhoe_ were produced. The novelist lay
on a sofa, dictating to John Ballantyne or to Laidlaw; chiefly to
the latter, as he was always at hand, whereas Ballantyne was only an
occasional visitor at Abbotsford. Sometimes, in his most humorous
or elevated scenes, Scott would break off with a groan of torture,
as the cramp seized him, but when the visitation had passed, he was
ever ready gaily to take up the broken thread of his narrative and
proceed _currente calamo_. It was evident to Laidlaw that before he
arrived at Abbotsford (generally about ten o’clock) the novelist had
arranged his scenes for the day, and settled in his mind the course
of the narrative. The _language_ was left to the inspiration of the
moment; there was no picking of words, no studied _curiosa felicitas_
of expression. Even the imagery seemed spontaneous. Laidlaw abjured
with some warmth the old-wife exclamations which Lockhart ascribes to
him--as, ‘Gude keep us a’’--‘The like o’ that!’--‘Eh, sirs! eh, sirs!’
But he admitted that while he held the pen he was at times so deeply
interested in the scene or in the development of the plot, that he
could not help exclaiming: ‘Get on, Mr Scott, get on!’ on which the
novelist would reply, smiling: ‘Softly, Willie; you know I have to make
the story,’ or some good-humoured remark of a similar purport. It was
quite true, he said, that when dictating some of the animated scenes
and dialogues in _Ivanhoe_, Scott would rise from his seat and act the
scene with every suitable accompaniment of tone, gesture, and manner.
Both the military and dramatic spirit were strong in him--too strong
even for the cramp and calomel! The postscript to a short business
letter from Edinburgh, June 14, 1819, refers to this business of
dictation. ‘Put your fingers in order, and buy yourself pens!--I won’t
_stand_ the expense of your quills, so pluck the goose ’a God’s name!’
And it was plucked on this occasion to record the sorrows of the Bride
of Lammermoor.
According to Mr Laidlaw, Scott did not like to speak about his novels
after they were published, but was fond of canvassing the merits and
peculiarities of the characters while he was engaged in the composition
of the story. ‘He was peculiarly anxious,’ says Laidlaw, ‘respecting
the success of Rebecca in _Ivanhoe_. One morning, as we were walking
in the woods after our forenoon’s labour, I expressed my admiration
of the character, and, after a short pause, he broke out with: “Well,
I think I shall make something of my Jewess.” Latterly, he seemed to
indulge in a retrospect of the useful effect of his labours. In one of
these serious moods, I remarked that one circumstance of the highest
interest might and ought to yield him very great satisfaction--namely,
that his narratives were the best of all reading for young people.
I had found that even his friend Miss Edgeworth had not such power
in engaging attention. His novels had the power, beyond any other
writings, of arousing the better passions and finer feelings; and the
moral effect of all this, I added, when one looks forward to several
generations--every one acting upon another--must be immense. I well
recollect the place where we were walking at this time--on the road
returning from the hill towards Abbotsford. Sir Walter was silent
for a minute or two, but I observed his eyes filled with tears.... I
never saw him much elated or excited in composition but one morning,
out of doors, when he was composing that simple but humorous song,
_Donald Caird_. I watched him limping along at good five miles an hour
along the ridge or sky-line opposite Kaeside, and when he came in, he
recited to me the fruits of his walk. His memory was an inexhaustible
repertory, so that Hogg, in his moments of super-exaltation and vanity,
used to say that if he had the _shirra’s_ memory he would beat him as a
poet!’
The memory of Sir Walter Scott was vast, but inexact. In this respect
he was inferior to Macaulay or Sir James Mackintosh. In quoting poetry,
Sir Walter was seldom verbally correct, and sometimes the harmony of
the verse suffered. The two famous lines of Milton’s _Comus_:
‘The aery tongues that syllable men’s names,
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses,’
are thus given in the _Letters on Demonology_:
‘The aery tongues that syllable men’s names,
On shores, in desert sands, and wildernesses.’
Thomas Campbell used to relate, as an instance of Sir Walter’s
extraordinary memory, that he read to him his poem of _Locheil’s
Warning_ before it was printed; after which his friend asked permission
to read it himself. He then perused the manuscript slowly and
distinctly, and on returning it to its author, said: ‘Campbell, look
after your copyright, for I have got your poem.’ And he repeated, with
very few mistakes, the whole sixty lines of which the poem (which was
subsequently enlarged) then consisted.
Hogg was generally exalted and buoyant enough. On one occasion we
find him writing to Laidlaw: ‘I rode through the whole of Edinburgh
yesterday in a barouche by myself, having four horses and two
postillions! Never was there a poet went through it before in such
style since the world began!’ We may exclaim with Johnson on the amount
of Goldsmith’s debts, ‘Was ever poet so trusted before!’
In the midst of his business details and directions, Scott’s peculiar
humour and felicity of illustration are perpetually breaking out. Of
a neighbouring county magnate he says: ‘I have heard of a Christian
being a Jew, but our friend is the essence of a whole synagogue.’ His
relation of the simplest occurrence is vivid and characteristic. A high
wind in Edinburgh, in January 1818, he thus notices: ‘I had more than
an anxious thought about you all during the gale of wind. The Gothic
pinnacles were blown from the top of Bishop Sandford’s Episcopal chapel
at the end of Princes Street, and broke through the roof and flooring,
doing great damage. This was sticking the horns of the mitre into the
belly of the church. The devil never so well deserved the title of
Prince of the power of the air, since he has blown down this handsome
church, and left the ugly mass of new building standing on the North
Bridge.’ One incidental remark illustrates the deception men often
practise on themselves: ‘I have not,’ he says, ‘a head for accounts,
and detest debt. When I find expense too great, I strike sail, and
diminish future outlay, which is the only principle for careless
accountants to act upon.’ Happy would it have been for him if his
practice had corresponded with his theory!
The year 1820 was, in the family calendar of the poet, one of peculiar
interest and importance. It was the year in which his eldest daughter
was married; the year in which he received the honour of the baronetcy;
and the year in which he sat to Chantrey for his bust--that admirable
work of art which has made his features familiar in every quarter of
the globe. He sat also this year to Sir Thomas Lawrence. ‘The king,’
he writes, ‘has commanded me to sit to Sir Thomas Lawrence for a
portrait, for his most sacred apartment. I want to have in _Maida_’
[his favourite deer-hound], ‘that there may be one handsome fellow of
the party.’ Late in life, Sir Walter sat to Lawrence Macdonald the
sculptor, and Laidlaw says of the artist and his work:
‘We were much pleased with some days of Macdonald the sculptor, who
modelled Sir Walter while he was dictating to me. Macdonald’s model
was in a higher style of art than Chantrey’s, and from that cause, had
not so much character. Macdonald confessed this was not so much his
object. It was a faithful likeness, nevertheless, but not so familiar.
For the same reason, he would not take the exact figure of the head,
which is irregular. Chantrey likewise declined to shew this, which the
phrenologists will probably regret.’
Mr Lawrence Macdonald still lives to delight his friends, and pursue
his art in Rome, where he has long resided. He has no recollection
of the ‘irregularity,’ referred to. Laidlaw knew nothing of art, and
by ‘high style,’ he probably meant an idealised likeness--a look
to ‘elevate and surprise.’ The extreme length of the upper lip was
a personal characteristic of Sir Walter, which he was glad to see
artists reduce, and which none of the portraits fully represents. It
is by no means uncommon among the stalwart men of the Border, but is
unquestionably a defect as respects personal appearance. The Stratford
bust of Shakspeare, it will be recollected, has the same long upper
lip, as well as the memorable high forehead, that distinguished Scott.
Of Chantrey, Laidlaw writes:
‘I met at breakfast Chantrey the sculptor, a real blunt, spirited, fine
Yorkshireman, with great good-humour, and an energy of character about
him that would have made his fortune--and a great one--had he gone
to London as a tailor. He killed a fine salmon in the Tweed, and led
another a long time, but let it go among the great stones and cut his
line. Colonel Ferguson said he believed he would rather have given his
best statue than lost the fish.’
Chantrey was an enthusiastic angler.
The baronetcy was a step of rank which Sir Walter said was the king’s
own free motion, and none of his seeking. To a lady whom he highly
esteemed--the late Hon. Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth--he wrote:
‘The circumstance of my children being heirs to their uncle’s fortune,
relieved me in a great degree of the chief objection to accepting with
gratitude what was so graciously offered, namely, that which arose from
a more limited income than becomes even the lowest step of hereditary
rank.... Mr Lockhart, to whom Sophia is now married, is the husband of
her choice. He is a man of excellent talents, master of his pen and
of his pencil, handsome in person, and well-mannered, though wanting
that ease which the _usage du monde_ alone can give. I like him very
much; for having no son who promises to take a literary turn, it is
of importance to me, both in point of comfort and otherwise, to have
some such intimate friend and relation, whose pursuits and habits are
similar to my own--so that, upon the whole, I trust I have gained a son
instead of losing a daughter.’[10]
Early next year (1821), Scott was in London, and on February 16, took
place the unfortunate duel, in which John Scott, editor of the _London
Magazine_, fell. The antagonist of John Scott was Mr Christie, a
barrister, the friend of Lockhart. ‘I have had much to plague me here,’
writes Sir Walter, ‘besides the death of John Scott, who departed last
night; so much for being slow to take the field!’ And in another letter
he recurs to the subject: ‘The death of my unlucky namesake, John
Scott, you will have heard of. The poor man fought a most unnecessary
duel to regain his lost character, and so lost his life into the
bargain.’ The loss of life was chiefly owing to the blundering of John
Scott’s second in the duel, who permitted a second fire to take place
after Mr Christie had discharged his pistol down the field.
The visit of King George IV. to Scotland in 1822, was an event sure
to call forth the enthusiastic loyalty of Sir Walter. His Majesty’s
personal attentions, besides the distinction of the baronetcy, elicited
his warmest gratitude, and, in addition, all his fervid nationality and
veneration for the throne were kindled on this occasion. To see the
king in the ancient palace of Holyrood, was itself an incident like
the realisation of a dream. The whole city was in a state of frantic
excitement: ‘Edinburgh is irrecoverably mad,’ said Scott. To Laidlaw,
the chivalrous poet writes:
‘DEAR WILLIE--You are quite right in your opinion of Saunders. He
never shewed himself a more true-blooded gentleman. The extreme
tact and taste of all ranks has surprised the king and all about
him. No rushing or roaring, but a devoted attachment, expressed
by a sort of dignified reverence, which seemed divided betwixt
a high veneration for their sovereign and a suitable regard for
themselves. I have seen in my day many a levee and drawing-room,
but none so august and free from absurdity and ridicule as those
of Holyrood. The apartments also, desolate and stripped as they
have been, are worth a hundred of Carlton or Buckingham House; but
the singular and native good-breeding of the people, who never
saw a court, is the most remarkable of all. The populace without,
shew the same propriety as the gentles within. The people that
our carriages passed amongst to-day were all full of feeling,
and it was remarkable that, instead of huzzaing, they shewed the
singular compliment of lifting up their children to see them--the
most affecting thing you ever witnessed. When Saunders goes wrong,
it must be from _malice prepense_; for no one knows so well how
to do right. Mamma (Lady Scott), Sophia, and Anne were dreadfully
frightened, and I, of course, though an old courtier, in such a
court as Holyrood, was a good deal uneasy. The king, however, spoke
to them, and they were all kissed in due form, though they protest
they are still at a loss how the ceremony was performed. The king
leaves on Wednesday, to my great joy, for strong emotions cannot
last. He has lived entirely within doors. To-morrow, I suppose,
there is a dinner-party at Dalkeith, as I am commanded there, but
it is the first. I have had, from over-exertion and distress of
mind, a strong cutaneous eruption in my legs and arms. You would
think I had adopted the national musical instrument to regale his
Majesty; but, seriously, I believe I should have been ill but for
the relief Nature has been pleased to afford me in this ungainly
way. Fortunately, my hands and face are clear.
W. S.’
And Laidlaw, writing to a friend, gives some further particulars: