His voice was deep and sonorous, he spoke with a Scottish accent, and
with somewhat of the Northumbrian "burr," which, to my mind, gave a
Doric strength and simplicity to his elocution. His recitation of
poetry was, at times, magnificent.
I think it was in the course of this ramble that my friend Hamlet, the
black greyhound, got into a bad scrape. The dogs were beating about the
glens and fields as usual, and had been for some time out of sight,
when we heard a barking at some distance to the left. Shortly after we
saw some sheep scampering on the hills, with the dogs after them. Scott
applied to his lips the ivory whistle, always hanging at his button-hole,
and soon called in the culprits, excepting Hamlet. Hastening up a
bank which commanded a view along a fold or hollow of the hills, we
beheld the sable prince of Denmark standing by the bleeding body of a
sheep. The carcass was still warm, the throat bore marks of the fatal
grip, and Hamlet's muzzle was stained with blood. Never was culprit
more completely caught in _flagrante delicto_. I supposed the doom
of poor Hamlet to be sealed; for no higher offence can be committed by
a dog in a country abounding with sheep-walks. Scott, however, had a
greater value for his dogs than for his sheep. They were his companions
and friends. Hamlet, too, though an irregular, impertinent kind of
youngster, was evidently a favorite. He would not for some time believe
it could be he who had killed the sheep. It must have been some cur of
the neighborhood, that had made off on our approach and left poor
Hamlet in the lurch. Proofs, however, were too strong, and Hamlet was
generally condemned. "Well, well," said Scott, "it's partly my own
fault. I have given up coursing for some time past, and the poor dog
has had no chance after game to take the fire edge off of him If he was
put after a hare occasionally he never would meddle with sheep."
I understood, afterward, that Scott actually got a pony, and went out
now and then coursing with Hamlet, who, in consequence, showed no
further inclination for mutton.
* * * * *
A further stroll among the hills brought us to what Scott pronounced
the remains of a Roman camp, and as we sat upon a hillock which had
once formed a part of the ramparts, he pointed out the traces of the
lines and bulwarks, and the pratorium, and showed a knowledge of
castramatation that would not have disgraced the antiquarian Oldbuck
himself. Indeed, various circumstances that I observed about Scott
during my visit, concurred to persuade me that many of the antiquarian
humors of Monkbarns were taken from his own richly compounded
character, and that some of the scenes and personages of that admirable
novel were furnished by his immediate neighborhood.
He gave me several anecdotes of a noted pauper named Andrew Gemmells,
or Gammel, as it was pronounced, who had once flourished on the banks
of Galla Water, immediately opposite Abbotsford, and whom he had seen
and talked and joked with when a boy; and I instantly recognized the
likeness of that mirror of philosophic vagabonds and Nestor of beggars,
Edie Ochiltree. I was on the point of pronouncing the name and
recognizing the portrait, when I recollected the incognito observed by
Scott with respect to his novels, and checked myself; but it was one
among many things that tended to convince me of his authorship.
His picture of Andrew Gemmells exactly accorded with that of Edie as to
his height, carriage, and soldier-like air, as well as his arch and
sarcastic humor. His home, if home he had, was at Galashiels; but he
went "daundering" about the country, along the green shaws and beside
the burns, and was a kind of walking chronicle throughout the valleys
of the Tweed, the Ettrick, and the Yarrow; carrying the gossip from
house to house, commenting on the inhabitants and their concerns, and
never hesitating to give them a dry rub as to any of their faults or
follies.
A shrewd beggar like Andrew Gemmells, Scott added, who could sing the
old Scotch airs, tell stories and traditions, and gossip away the long
winter evenings, was by no means an unwelcome visitor at a lonely manse
or cottage. The children would run to welcome him, and place his stool
in a warm corner of the ingle nook, and the old folks would receive him
as a privileged guest.
As to Andrew, he looked upon them all as a parson does upon his
parishioners, and considered the alms he received as much his due as
the other does his tithes. "I rather think," added Scott, "Andrew
considered himself more of a gentleman than those who toiled for a
living, and that he secretly looked down upon the painstaking peasants
that fed and sheltered him."
He had derived his aristocratical notions in some degree from being
admitted occasionally to a precarious sociability with some of the
small country gentry, who were sometimes in want of company to help
while away the time. With these Andrew would now and then play at cards
and dice, and he never lacked "siller in pouch" to stake on a game,
which he did with a perfect air of a man to whom money was a matter of
little moment, and no one could lose his money with more gentlemanlike
coolness.
Among those who occasionally admitted him to this familiarity, was old
John Scott of Galla, a man of family, who inhabited his paternal
mansion of Torwoodlee. Some distinction of rank, however, was still
kept up. The laird sat on the inside of the window and the beggar on
the outside, and they played cards on the sill.
Andrew now and then told the laird a piece of his mind very freely;
especially on one occasion, when he had sold some of his paternal lands
to build himself a larger house with the proceeds. The speech of honest
Andrew smacks of the shrewdness of Edie Ochiltree.
"It's a' varra weel--it's a' varra weel, Torwoodlee," said he; "but who
would ha' thought that your father's son would ha' sold two gude
estates to build a shaw's (cuckoo's) nest on the side of a hill?"
* * * * *
That day there was an arrival at Abbotsford of two English tourists;
one a gentleman of fortune and landed estate, the other a young
clergyman whom he appeared to have under his patronage, and to have
brought with him as a travelling companion.
The patron was one of those well-bred, commonplace gentlemen with which
England is overrun. He had great deference for Scott, and endeavored to
acquit himself learnedly in his company, aiming continually at abstract
disquisitions, for which Scott had little relish. The conversation of
the latter, as usual, was studded with anecdotes and stories, some of
them of great pith and humor; the well-bred gentleman was either too
dull to feel their point, or too decorous to indulge in hearty
merriment; the honest parson, on the contrary, who was not too refined
to be happy, laughed loud and long at every joke, and enjoyed them with
the zest of a man who has more merriment in his heart than coin in his
pocket.
After they were gone, some comments were made upon their different
deportments. Scott spoke very respectfully of the good breeding and
measured manners of the man of wealth, but with a kindlier feeling of
the honest parson, and the homely but hearty enjoyment with which he
relished every pleasantry. "I doubt," said he, "whether the parson's
lot in life is not the best; if he cannot command as many of the good
things of this world by his own purse as his patron can, he beats him
all hollow in his enjoyment of them when set before him by others. Upon
the whole," added he, "I rather think I prefer the honest parson's good
humor to his patron's good breeding; I have a great regard for a hearty
laugher."
He went on to speak of the great influx of English travellers which of
late years had inundated Scotland; and doubted whether they had not
injured the old-fashioned Scottish character. "Formerly they came here
occasionally as sportsmen," said he, "to shoot moor game, without any
idea of looking at scenery; and they moved about the country in hardy
simple style, coping with the country people in their own way; but now
they come rolling about in their equipages, to see ruins, and spend
money, and their lavish extravagance has played the vengeance with the
common people. It has made them rapacious in their dealings with
strangers, greedy after money, and extortionate in their demands for
the most trivial services. Formerly," continued he, "the poorer classes
of our people were, comparatively, disinterested; they offered their
services gratuitously, in promoting the amusement, or aiding the
curiosity of strangers, and were gratified by the smallest
compensation; but now they make a trade of showing rocks and ruins, and
are as greedy as Italian cicerones. They look upon the English as so
many walking money-bags; the more they are shaken and poked, the more
they will leave behind them."
I told him that he had a great deal to answer for on that head, since
it was the romantic associations he had thrown by his writings over so
many out-of-the-way places in Scotland, that had brought in the influx
of curious travellers.
Scott laughed, and said he believed I might be in some measure in the
right, as he recollected a circumstance in point. Being one time at
Glenross, an old woman who kept a small inn, which had but little
custom, was uncommonly officious in her attendance upon him, and
absolutely incommoded him with her civilities. The secret at length
came out. As he was about to depart, she addressed him with many
curtsies, and said she understood he was the gentleman that had written
a bonnie book about Loch Katrine. She begged him to write a little
about their lake also, for she understood his book had done the inn at
Loch Katrine a muckle deal of good.
On the following day I made an excursion with Scott and the young
ladies to Dryburgh Abbey. We went in an open carriage, drawn by two
sleek old black horses, for which Scott seemed to have an affection, as
he had for every dumb animal that belonged to him. Our road lay through
a variety of scenes, rich in poetical and historical associations,
about most of which Scott had something to relate. In one part of the
drive, he pointed to an old border keep, or fortress, on the summit of
a naked hill, several miles off, which he called Smallholm Tower, and a
rocky knoll on which it stood, the "Sandy Knowe crags." It was a place,
he said, peculiarly dear to him, from the recollections of childhood.
His father had lived there in the old Smallholm Grange, or farm-house;
and he had been sent there, when but two years old, on account of his
lameness, that he might have the benefit of the pure air of the hills,
and be under the care of his grandmother and aunts. In the introduction
of one of the cantos of Marmion, he has depicted his grandfather, and
the fireside of the farm-house; and has given an amusing picture of
himself in his boyish years:
"Still with vain fondness could I trace
Anew each kind familiar face,
That brightened at our evening fire;
From the thatched mansion's gray-haired sire,
Wise without learning plain and good,
And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood;
Whose eye in age, quick, clear and keen.
Showed what in youth its glance had been;
Whose doom discording neighbors sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well could paint
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas! whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke;
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-willed imp, a grandame's child;
But half a plague, and half a jest,
Was still endured, beloved, carest."
It was, he said, during his residence at Smallholm crags that he first
imbibed his passion for legendary tales, border traditions, and old
national songs and ballads. His grandmother and aunts were well versed
in that kind of lore, so current in Scottish country life. They used to
recount them in long, gloomy winter days, and about the ingle nook at
night, in conclave with their gossip visitors; and little Walter would
sit and listen with greedy ear; thus taking into his infant mind the
seeds of many a splendid fiction.
There was an old shepherd, he said, in the service of the family, who
used to sit under the sunny wall, and tell marvellous stories, and
recite old time ballads, as he knitted stockings. Scott used to be
wheeled out in his chair, in fine weather, and would sit beside the old
man, and listen to him for hours.
The situation of Sandy Knowe was favorable both for storyteller and
listener. It commanded a wide view over all the border country, with
its feudal towers, its haunted glens, and wizard streams. As the old
shepherd told his tales, he could point out the very scene of action.
Thus, before Scott could walk, he was made familiar with the scenes of
his future stories; they were all seen as through a magic medium, and
took that tinge of romance, which they ever after retained in his
imagination. From the height of Sandy Knowe, he may be said to have had
the first look-out upon the promised land of his future glory.
On referring to Scott's works, I find many of the circumstances related
in this conversation, about the old tower, and the boyish scenes
connected with it, recorded in the introduction to Marmion, already
cited. This was frequently the case with Scott; incidents and feelings
that had appeared in his writings, were apt to be mingled up in his
conversation, for they had been taken from what he had witnessed and
felt in real life, and were connected with those scenes among which he
lived, and moved, and had his being. I make no scruple at quoting the
passage relative to the tower, though it repeats much of the foregone
imagery, and with vastly superior effect:
Thus, while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charmed me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time;
And feelings roused in life's first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower.
Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour,
Though no broad river swept along
To claim perchance heroic song;
Though sighed no groves in summer gale
To prompt of love a softer tale;
Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed
Claimed homage from a shepherd's reed;
Yet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honey-suckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruined wall.
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all his round surveyed;
And still I thought that shattered tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvell'd as the aged hind
With some strange tale bewitched my mind,
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurred their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviot's blue,
And, home returning, filled the hall
With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl--
Methought that still, with tramp and clang
The gate-way's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seamed with scars,
Glared through the window's rusty bars.
And ever by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles, won of old,
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When pouring from the Highland height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretched at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat o'er.
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war displayed;
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,
And still the scattered Southron fled before."
Scott eyed the distant height of Sandy Knowe with an earnest gaze as we
rode along, and said he had often thought of buying the place,
repairing the old tower, and making it his residence. He has in some
measure, however, paid off his early debt of gratitude, in clothing it
with poetic and romantic associations, by his tale of "The Eve of St.
John." It is to be hoped that those who actually possess so interesting
a monument of Scott's early days, will preserve it from further
dilapidation.
Not far from Sandy Knowe, Scott pointed out another old border hold,
standing on the summit of a hill, which had been a kind of enchanted
castle to him in his boyhood. It was the tower of Bemerside, the
baronial residence of the Haigs, or De Hagas, one of the oldest
families of the border. "There had seemed to him," he said, "almost a
wizard spell hanging over it, in consequence of a prophecy of Thomas
the Rhymer, in which, in his young days, he most potently believed:"
"Betide, betide, whate'er betide,
Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside."
Scott added some particulars which showed that, in the present
instance, the venerable Thomas had not proved a false prophet, for it
was a noted fact that, amid all the changes and chances of the border;
through all the feuds, and forays, and sackings, and burnings, which
had reduced most of the castles to ruins, and the proud families that
once possessed them to poverty, the tower of Bemerside still remained
unscathed, and was still the stronghold of the ancient family of Haig.
Prophecies, however, often insure their own fulfilment. It is very
probable that the prediction of Thomas the Rhymer has linked the Haigs
to their tower, as their rock of safety, and has induced them to cling
to it almost superstitiously, through hardships and inconveniences that
would, otherwise, have caused its abandonment.
I afterwards saw, at Dryburgh Abbey, the burying place of this
predestinated and tenacious family, the inscription of which showed the
value they set upon their antiquity:
Locus Sepultura, Antiquessima Familia De Haga De Bemerside.
In reverting to the days of his childhood, Scott observed that the
lameness which had disabled him in infancy gradually decreased; he soon
acquired strength in his limbs, and though he always limped, he became,
even in boyhood, a great walker. He used frequently to stroll from home
and wander about the country for days together, picking up all kinds of
local gossip, and observing popular scenes and characters. His father
used to be vexed with him for this wandering propensity, and, shaking
his head, would say he fancied the boy would make nothing but a
peddler. As he grew older he became a keen sportsman, and passed much
of his time hunting and shooting. His field sports led him into the
most wild and unfrequented parts of the country, and in this way he
picked up much of that local knowledge which he has since evinced in
his writings.
His first visit to Loch Katrine, he says, was in his boyish days, on a
shooting excursion. The island, which he has made the romantic
residence of the "Lady of the Lake," was then garrisoned by an old man
and his wife. Their house was vacant; they had put the key under the
door, and were absent fishing. It was at that time a peaceful
residence, but became afterward a resort of smugglers, until they were
ferreted out.
In after years, when Scott began to turn this local knowledge to
literary account, he revisited many of those scenes of his early
ramblings, and endeavored to secure the fugitive remains of the
traditions and songs that had charmed his boyhood. When collecting
materials for his "Border Minstrelsy," he used, he said, to go from
cottage to cottage, and make the old wives repeat all they knew, if but
two lines; and by putting these scraps together, he retrieved many a
fine characteristic old ballad or tradition from oblivion.
I regret to say that I can scarce recollect anything of our visit to
Dryburgh Abbey. It is on the estate of the Earl of Buchan. The
religious edifice is a mere ruin, rich in Gothic antiquities, but
especially interesting to Scott, from containing the family vault, and
the tombs and monuments of his ancestors. He appeared to feel much
chagrin at their being in the possession, and subject to the
intermeddlings of the Earl, who was represented as a nobleman of an
eccentric character. The latter, however, set great value on these
sepulchral relics, and had expressed a lively anticipation of one day
or other having the honor of burying Scott, and adding his monument to
the collection, which he intended should be worthy of the "mighty
minstrel of the north"--a prospective compliment which was by no means
relished by the object of it. One of my pleasant rambles with Scott,
about the neighborhood of Abbotsford, was taken in company with Mr.
William Laidlaw, the steward of his estate. This was a gentleman for
whom Scott entertained a particular value. He had been born to a
competency, had been well educated, his mind was richly stored with
varied information, and he was a man of sterling moral worth. Having
been reduced by misfortune, Scott had got him to take charge of his
estate. He lived at a small farm on the hillside above Abbotsford, and
was treated by Scott as a cherished and confidential friend, rather
than a dependent.
As the day was showery, Scott was attended by one of his retainers,
named Tommie Purdie, who carried his plaid, and who deserves especial
mention. Sophia Scott used to call him her father's grand vizier, and
she gave a playful account one evening, as she was hanging on her
father's arm, of the consultations which he and Tommie used to have
about matters relative to farming. Purdie was tenacious of his
opinions, and he and Scott would have long disputes in front of the
house, as to something that was to be done on the estate, until the
latter, fairly tired out, would abandon the ground and the argument,
exclaiming, "Well, well, Tom, have it your own way."
After a time, however, Purdie would present himself at the door of the
parlor, and observe, "I ha' been thinking over the matter, and upon the
whole, I think I'll take your honor's advice."
Scott laughed heartily when this anecdote was told of him. "It was with
him and Tom," he said, "as it was with an old laird and a pet servant,
whom he had indulged until he was positive beyond all endurance." "This
won't do!" cried the old laird, in a passion, "we can't live together
any longer--we must part." "An' where the deil does your honor mean to
go?" replied the other.
I would, moreover, observe of Tom Purdie, that he was a firm believer
in ghosts, and warlocks, and all kinds of old wives' fable. He was a
religious man, too, mingling a little degree of Scottish pride in his
devotion; for though his salary was but twenty pounds a year, he had
managed to afford seven pounds for a family Bible. It is true, he had
one hundred pounds clear of the world, and was looked up to by his
comrades as a man of property.
In the course of our morning's walk, we stopped at a small house
belonging to one of the laborers on the estate. The object of Scott's
visit was to inspect a relic which had been digged up in a Roman camp,
and which, if I recollect right, he pronounced to have been a tongs. It
was produced by the cottager's wife, a ruddy, healthy-looking dame,
whom Scott addressed by the name of Ailie. As he stood regarding the
relic, turning it round and round, and making comments upon it, half
grave, half comic, with the cottage group around him, all joining
occasionally in the colloquy, the inimitable character of Monkbarns was
again brought to mind, and I seemed to see before me that prince of
antiquarians and humorists holding forth to his unlearned and
unbelieving neighbors.
Whenever Scott touched, in this way, upon local antiquities, and in all
his familiar conversations about local traditions and superstitions,
there was always a sly and quiet humor running at the bottom of his
discourse, and playing about his countenance, as if he sported with the
subject. It seemed to me as if he distrusted his own enthusiasm, and
was disposed to droll upon his own humors and peculiarities, yet, at
the same time, a poetic gleam in his eye would show that he really took
a strong relish and interest in them. "It was a pity," he said, "that
antiquarians were generally so dry, for the subjects they handled were
rich in historical and poetical recollections, in picturesque details,
in quaint and heroic characteristics, and in all kinds of curious and
obsolete ceremonials. They are always groping among the rarest
materials for poetry, but they have no idea of turning them to poetic
use. Now every fragment from old times has, in some degree, its story
with it, or gives an inkling of something characteristic of the
circumstances and manners of its day, and so sets the imagination at
work."
For my own part I never met with antiquarian so delightful, either in
his writings or his conversation; and the quiet sub-acid humor that was
prone to mingle in his disquisitions, gave them, to me, a peculiar and
an exquisite flavor. But he seemed, in fact, to undervalue everything
that concerned himself. The play of his genius was so easy that he was
unconscious of its mighty power, and made light of those sports of
intellect that shamed the efforts and labors of other minds.
Our ramble this morning took us again up the Rhymer's Glen, and by
Huntley Bank, and Huntley Wood, and the silver waterfall overhung with
weeping birches and mountain ashes, those delicate and beautiful trees
which grace the green shaws and burnsides of Scotland. The heather,
too, that closely woven robe of Scottish landscape which covers the
nakedness of its hills and mountains, tinted the neighborhood with soft
and rich colors. As we ascended the glen, the prospects opened upon us;
Melrose, with its towers and pinnacles, lay below; beyond were the
Eildon hills, the Cowden Knowes, the Tweed, the Galla Water, and all
the storied vicinity; the whole landscape varied by gleams of sunshine
and driving showers.
Scott, as usual, took the lead, limping along with great activity, and
in joyous mood, giving scraps of border rhymes and border stories; two
or three times in the course of our walk there were drizzling showers,
which I supposed would put an end to our ramble, but my companions
trudged on as unconcernedly as if it had been fine weather.
At length, I asked whether we had not better seek some shelter. "True,"
said Scott, "I did not recollect that you were not accustomed to our
Scottish mists. This is a lachrymose climate, evermore showering. We,
however, are children of the mist, and must not mind a little
whimpering of the clouds any more than a man must mind the weeping of
an hysterical wife. As you are not accustomed to be wet through, as a
matter of course, in a morning's walk, we will bide a bit under the lee
of this bank until the shower is over." Taking his seat under shelter
of a thicket, he called to his man George for his tartan, then turning
to me, "Come," said he, "come under my plaidy, as the old song goes;"
so, making me nestle down beside him, he wrapped a part of the plaid
round me, and took me, as he said, under his wing. While we were thus
nestled together, he pointed to a hole in the opposite bank of the
glen. That, he said, was the hole of an old gray badger, who was
doubtless snugly housed in this bad weather. Sometimes he saw him at
the entrance of his hole, like a hermit at the door of his cell,
telling his beads, or reading a homily. He had a great respect for the
venerable anchorite, and would not suffer him to be disturbed. He was a
kind of successor to Thomas the Rhymer, and perhaps might be Thomas
himself returned from fairy land, but still under fairy spell.
Some accident turned the conversation upon Hogg, the poet, in which
Laidlaw, who was seated beside us, took a part. Hogg had once been a
shepherd in the service of his father, and Laidlaw gave many
interesting anecdotes of him, of which I now retain no recollection.
They used to tend the sheep together when Laidlaw was a boy, and Hogg
would recite the first struggling conceptions of his muse. At night
when Laidlaw was quartered comfortably in bed, in the farmhouse, poor
Hogg would take to the shepherd's hut in the field on the hillside, and
there lie awake for hours together, and look at the stars and make
poetry, which he would repeat the next day to his companion.
Scott spoke in warm terms of Hogg, and repeated passages from his
beautiful poem of "Kelmeny," to which he gave great and well-merited
praise. He gave, also, some amusing anecdotes of Hogg and his
publisher, Blackwood, who was at that time just rising into the
bibliographical importance which he has since enjoyed.
Hogg, in one of his poems, I believe the "Pilgrims of the Sun," had
dabbled a little in metaphysics, and like his heroes, had got into the
clouds. Blackwood, who began to affect criticism, argued stoutly with
him as to the necessity of omitting or elucidating some obscure
passage. Hogg was immovable.
"But, man," said Blackwood, "I dinna ken what ye mean in this passage."
"Hout tout, man," replied Hogg, impatiently, "I dinna ken always what I
mean mysel." There is many a metaphysical poet in the same predicament
with honest Hogg.
Scott promised to invite the Shepherd to Abbotsford during my visit,
and I anticipated much gratification in meeting with him, from the
account I had received of his character and manners, and the great
pleasure I had derived from his works. Circumstances, however,
prevented Scott from performing his promise; and to my great regret I
left Scotland without seeing one of its most original and national
characters.
When the weather held up, we continued our walk until we came to a
beautiful sheet of water, in the bosom of the mountain, called, if I
recollect right, the lake of Cauldshiel. Scott prided himself much upon
this little Mediterranean sea in his dominions, and hoped I was not too
much spoiled by our great lakes in America to relish it. He proposed to
take me out to the centre of it, to a fine point of view, for which
purpose we embarked in a small boat, which had been put on the lake by
his neighbor, Lord Somerville. As I was about to step on board, I
observed in large letters on one of the benches, "Search No. 2." I
paused for a moment and repeated the inscription aloud, trying to
recollect something I had heard or read to which it alluded. "Pshaw,"
cried Scott, "it is only some of Lord Somerville's nonsense--get in!"
In an instant scenes in the Antiquary connected with "Search No. 1,"
flashed upon my mind. "Ah! I remember now," said I, and with a laugh
took my seat, but adverted no more to the circumstance.
We had a pleasant row about the lake, which commanded some pretty
scenery. The most interesting circumstance connected with it, however,
according to Scott, was, that it was haunted by a bogle in the shape of
a water bull, which lived in the deep parts, and now and then came
forth upon dry land and made a tremendous roaring, that shook the very
hills. This story had been current in the vicinity from time
immemorial;--there was a man living who declared he had seen the
bull,--and he was believed by many of his simple neighbors. "I don't choose
to contradict the tale," said Scott, "for I am willing to have my lake
stocked with any fish, flesh, or fowl that my neighbors think proper to
put into it; and these old wives' fables are a kind of property in
Scotland that belongs to the estates and goes with the soil. Our
streams and lochs are like the rivers and pools in Germany, that have
all their Wasser Nixe, or water witches, and I have a fancy for these
kind of amphibious bogles and hobgoblins."
* * * * *
Scott went on after we had landed to make many remarks, mingled with
picturesque anecdotes, concerning the fabulous beings with which the
Scotch were apt to people the wild streams and lochs that occur in the
solemn and lonely scenes of their mountains; and to compare them with
similar superstitions among the northern nations of Europe; but
Scotland, he said, was above all other countries for this wild and
vivid progeny of the fancy, from the nature of the scenery, the misty
magnificence and vagueness of the climate, the wild and gloomy events
of its history; the clannish divisions of its people; their local
feelings, notions, and prejudices; the individuality of their dialect,
in which all kinds of odd and peculiar notions were incorporated; by
the secluded life of their mountaineers; the lonely habits of their
pastoral people, much of whose time was passed on the solitary
hillsides; their traditional songs, which clothed every rock and stream
with old world stories, handed down from age to age, and generation to
generation. The Scottish mind, he said, was made up of poetry and
strong common sense; and the very strength of the latter gave
perpetuity and luxuriance to the former. It was a strong tenacious
soil, into which, when once a seed of poetry fell, it struck deep root
and brought forth abundantly. "You will never weed these popular
stories and songs and superstitions out of Scotland," said he. "It is
not so much that the people believe in them, as that they delight in
them. They belong to the native hills and streams of which they are
fond, and to the history of their forefathers, of which they are
proud."
"It would do your heart good," continued he, "to see a number of our
poor country people seated round the ingle nook, which is generally
capacious enough, and passing the long dark dreary winter nights
listening to some old wife, or strolling gaberlunzie, dealing out auld
world stories about bogles and warlocks, or about raids and forays, and
border skirmishes; or reciting some ballad stuck full of those fighting
names that stir up a true Scotchman's blood like the sound of a
trumpet. These traditional tales and ballads have lived for ages in
mere oral circulation, being passed from father to son, or rather from
grandam to grandchild, and are a kind of hereditary property of the
poor peasantry, of which it would be hard to deprive them, as they have
not circulating libraries to supply them with works of fiction in their
place."
I do not pretend to give the precise words, but, as nearly as I can
from scanty memorandums and vague recollections, the leading ideas of
Scott. I am constantly sensible, however, how far I fall short of his
copiousness and richness.
He went on to speak of the elves and sprites, so frequent in Scottish
legend. "Our fairies, however," said he, "though they dress in green,
and gambol by moonlight about the banks, and shaws, and burnsides, are
not such pleasant little folks as the English fairies, but are apt to
bear more of the warlock in their natures, and to play spiteful tricks.
When I was a boy, I used to look wistfully at the green hillocks that
were said to be haunted by fairies, and felt sometimes as if I should
like to lie down by them and sleep, and be carried off to Fairy Land,
only that I did not like some of the cantrips which used now and then
to be played off upon visitors."
Here Scott recounted, in graphic style, and with much humor, a little
story which used to be current in the neighborhood, of an honest
burgess of Selkirk, who, being at work upon the hill of Peatlaw, fell
asleep upon one of these "fairy knowes," or hillocks. When he awoke, he
rubbed his eyes and gazed about him with astonishment, for he was in
the market-place of a great city, with a crowd of people bustling about
him, not one of whom he knew. At length he accosted a bystander, and
asked him the name of the place. "Hout man," replied the other, "are ye
in the heart o' Glasgow, and speer the name of it?" The poor man was
astonished, and would not believe either ears or eyes; he insisted that
he had lain down to sleep but half an hour before on the Peatlaw, near
Selkirk. He came well-nigh being taken up for a madman, when,
fortunately, a Selkirk man came by, who knew him, and took charge of
him, and conducted him back to his native place. Here, however, he was
likely to fare no better, when he spoke of having been whisked in his
sleep from the Peatlaw to Glasgow. The truth of the matter at length
came out; his coat, which he had taken off when at work on the Peatlaw,
was found lying near a "fairy knowe," and his bonnet, which was
missing, was discovered on the weathercock of Lanark steeple. So it was
as clear as day that he had been carried through the air by the fairies
while he was sleeping, and his bonnet had been blown off by the way.
I give this little story but meagrely from a scanty memorandum; Scott
has related it in somewhat different style in a note to one of his
poems; but in narration these anecdotes derived their chief zest, from
the quiet but delightful humor, the bonhomie with which he seasoned
them, and the sly glance of the eye from under his bushy eyebrows, with
which they were accompanied. That day at dinner, we had Mr. Laidlaw and
his wife, and a female friend who accompanied them. The latter was a
very intelligent, respectable person, about the middle age, and was
treated with particular attention and courtesy by Scott. Our dinner was
a most agreeable one; for the guests were evidently cherished visitors
to the house, and felt that they were appreciated.
When they were gone, Scott spoke of them in the most cordial manner. "I
wished to show you," said he, "some of our really excellent, plain
Scotch people; not fine gentlemen and ladies, for such you can meet
everywhere, and they are everywhere the same. The character of a nation
is not to be learnt from its fine folks."
He then went on with a particular eulogium on the lady who had
accompanied the Laidlaws. She was the daughter, he said, of a poor
country clergyman, who had died in debt, and left her an orphan and
destitute. Having had a good plain education, she immediately set up a
child's school, and had soon a numerous flock under her care, by which
she earned a decent maintenance. That, however, was not her main
object. Her first care was to pay off her father's debts, that no ill
word or ill will might rest upon his memory.
This, by dint of Scottish economy, backed by filial reverence and
pride, she accomplished, though in the effort, she subjected herself to
every privation. Not content with this, she in certain instances
refused to take pay for the tuition of the children of some of her
neighbors, who had befriended her father in his need, and had since
fallen into poverty. "In a word," added Scott, "she is a fine old
Scotch girl; and I delight in her, more than in many a fine lady I have
known, and I have known many of the finest."
* * * * *
It is time, however, to draw this rambling narrative to a close.
Several days were passed by me, in the way I have attempted to
describe, in almost constant, familiar, and joyous conversation with
Scott; it was as if I were admitted to a social communion with
Shakespeare, for it was with one of a kindred, if not equal genius.
Every night I retired with my mind filled with delightful recollections
of the day, and every morning I rose with the certainty of new
enjoyment. The days thus spent, I shall ever look back to, as among the
very happiest of my life; for I was conscious at the time of being
happy. The only sad moment that I experienced at Abbotsford was that of
my departure; but it was cheered with the prospect of soon returning;
for I had promised, after making a tour in the Highlands, to come and
pass a few more days on the banks of the Tweed, when Scott intended to
invite Hogg the poet to meet me. I took a kind farewell of the family,
with each of whom I had been highly pleased. If I have refrained from
dwelling particularly on their several characters, and giving anecdotes
of them individually, it is because I consider them shielded by the
sanctity of domestic life; Scott, on the contrary, belongs to history.
As he accompanied me on foot, however, to a small gate on the confines
of his premises, I could not refrain from expressing the enjoyment I
had experienced in his domestic circle, and passing some warm eulogiums
on the young folks from whom I had just parted. I shall never forget
his reply. "They have kind hearts," said he, "and that is the main
point as to human happiness. They love one another, poor things, which
is every thing in domestic life. The best wish I can make you, my
friend," added he, laying his hand upon my shoulder, "is, that when you
return to your own country, you may get married, and have a family of
young bairns about you. If you are happy, there they are to share your
happiness--and if you are otherwise--there they are to comfort you."
By this time we had reached the gate, when he halted, and took my hand.
"I will not say farewell," said he, "for it is always a painful word,
but I will say, come again. When you have made your tour to the
Highlands, come here and give me a few more days--but come when you
please, you will always find Abbotsford open to you, and a hearty
welcome."
* * * * *
I have thus given, in a rude style, my main recollections of what
occurred during my sojourn at Abbotsford, and I feel mortified that I
can give but such meagre, scattered, and colorless details of what was
so copious, rich, and varied. During several days that I passed there
Scott was in admirable vein. From early morn until dinner time he was
rambling about, showing me the neighborhood, and during dinner and
until late at night, engaged in social conversation. No time was
reserved for himself; he seemed as if his only occupation was to
entertain me; and yet I was almost an entire stranger to him, one of
whom he knew nothing, but an idle book I had written, and which, some
years before, had amused him. But such was Scott--he appeared to have
nothing to do but lavish his time, attention, and conversation on those
around. It was difficult to imagine what time he found to write those
volumes that were incessantly issuing from the press; all of which,
too, were of a nature to require reading and research. I could not find
that his life was ever otherwise than a life of leisure and haphazard
recreation, such as it was during my visit. He scarce ever balked a
party of pleasure, or a sporting excursion, and rarely pleaded his own
concerns as an excuse for rejecting those of others. During my visit I
heard of other visitors who had preceded me, and who must have kept him
occupied for many days, and I have had an opportunity of knowing the
course of his daily life for some time subsequently. Not long after my
departure from Abbotsford, my friend Wilkie arrived there, to paint a
picture of the Scott family. He found the house full of guests. Scott's
whole time was taken up in riding and driving about the country, or in
social conversation at home. "All this time," said Wilkie to me, "I did
not presume to ask Mr. Scott to sit for his portrait, for I saw he had
not a moment to spare; I waited for the guests to go away, but as fast
as one went another arrived, and so it continued for several days, and
with each set he was completely occupied. At length all went off, and
we were quiet. I thought, however, Mr. Scott will now shut himself up
among his books and papers, for he has to make up for lost time; it
won't do for me to ask him now to sit for his picture. Laidlaw, who
managed his estate, came in, and Scott turned to him, as I supposed, to
consult about business. 'Laidlaw,' said he, 'to-morrow morning we'll go
across the water and take the dogs with us--there's a place where I
think we shall be able to find a hare.'
"In short," added Wilkie, "I found that instead of business, he was
thinking only of amusement, as if he had nothing in the world to occupy
him; so I no longer feared to intrude upon him."
The conversation of Scott was frank, hearty, picturesque, and dramatic.
During the time of my visit he inclined to the comic rather than the
grave, in his anecdotes and stories, and such, I was told, was his
general inclination. He relished a joke, or a trait of humor in social
intercourse, and laughed with right good will. He talked not for effect
nor display, but from the flow of his spirits, the stores of his
memory, and the vigor of his imagination. He had a natural turn for
narration, and his narratives and descriptions were without effort, yet
wonderfully graphic. He placed the scene before you like a picture; he
gave the dialogue with the appropriate dialect or peculiarities, and
described the appearance and characters of his personages with that
spirit and felicity evinced in his writings. Indeed, his conversation
reminded me continually of his novels; and it seemed to me, that during
the whole time I was with him., he talked enough to fill volumes, and
that they could not have been filled more delightfully.
He was as good a listener as talker, appreciating everything that
others said, however humble might be their rank or pretensions, and was
quick to testify his perception of any point in their discourse. He
arrogated nothing to himself, but was perfectly unassuming and
unpretending, entering with heart and soul into the business, or
pleasure, or, I had almost said, folly, of the hour and the company. No
one's concerns, no one's thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastes
and pleasures seemed beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly the
companion of those with whom he happened to be, that they forgot for a
time his vast superiority, and only recollected and wondered, when all
was over, that it was Scott with whom they had been on such familiar
terms, and in whose society they had felt so perfectly at their ease.
It was delightful to observe the generous spirit in which he spoke of
all his literary contemporaries, quoting the beauties of their works,
and this, too, with respect to persons with whom he might have been
supposed to be at variance in literature or politics. Jeffrey, it was
thought, had ruffled his plumes in one of his reviews, yet Scott spoke
of him in terms of high and warm eulogy, both as an author and as a
man.
His humor in conversation, as in his works, was genial and free from
all causticity. He had a quick perception of faults and foibles, but he
looked upon poor human nature with an indulgent eye, relishing what was
good and pleasant, tolerating what was frail, and pitying what was
evil. It is this beneficent spirit which gives such an air of bonhomie
to Scott's humor throughout all his works. He played with the foibles
and errors of his fellow beings, and presented them in a thousand
whimsical and characteristic lights, but the kindness and generosity of
his nature would not allow him to be a satirist. I do not recollect a
sneer throughout his conversation any more than there is throughout his
works.
Such is a rough sketch of Scott, as I saw him in private life, not
merely at the time of the visit here narrated, but in the casual
intercourse of subsequent years. Of his public character and merits,
all the world can judge. His works have incorporated themselves with
the thoughts and concerns of the whole civilized world, for a quarter
of a century, and have had a controlling influence over the age in
which he lived. But when did a human being ever exercise an influence
more salutary and benignant? Who is there that, on looking back over a
great portion of his life, does not find the genius of Scott
administering to his pleasures, beguiling his cares, and soothing his
lonely sorrows? Who does not still regard his works as a treasury of
pure enjoyment, an armory to which to resort in time of need, to find
weapons with which to fight off the evils and the griefs of life? For
my own part, in periods of dejection, I have hailed the announcement of
a new work from his pen as an earnest of certain pleasure in store for
me, and have looked forward to it as a traveller in a waste looks to a
green spot at a distance, where he feels assured of solace and
refreshment. When I consider how much he has thus contributed to the
better hours of my past existence, and how independent his works still
make me, at times, of all the world for my enjoyment, I bless my stars
that cast my lot in his days, to be thus cheered and gladdened by the
outpourings of his genius. I consider it one of the greatest advantages
that I have derived from my literary career, that it has elevated me
into genial communion with such a spirit; and as a tribute of gratitude
for his friendship, and veneration for his memory, I cast this humble
stone upon his cairn, which will soon, I trust, be piled aloft with the
contributions of abler hands.