Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott Volume I Part 15

GUALTERUS SCOTT.

[Footnote 118: _Crab_ was the nickname of a friend who had accompanied Ferguson this summer on an Irish tour. Dr. Black, celebrated for his discoveries in chemistry, was Adam Ferguson's uncle; and had, it seems, given the young travellers a strong admonition touching the dangers of Irish hospitality.]

[Footnote 119: These lines are part of a song on _Little-tony_--_i. e._, the Parliamentary orator Littleton.

They are quoted in Boswell's _Life of Johnson_, originally published in 1791.]

I have had much hesitation about inserting the preceding letter, but could not make up my mind to omit what seems to me a most exquisite revelation of the whole character of Scott at this critical period of his history, both literary and personal;--more especially of his habitual effort to suppress, as far as words were concerned, the more tender feelings, which were in no heart deeper than in his.

It must, I think, have been, while he was indulging his _vagabond_ vein, during the autumn of 1795, that Mrs. Barbauld paid her visit to Edinburgh, and entertained a party at Mr. Dugald Stewart's, by reading Mr. William Taylor's then unpublished version of Burger's Lenore. In the essay on Imitation of Popular Poetry, the reader has a full account of the interest with which Scott heard, some weeks afterwards, a friend's imperfect recollections of this performance; the anxiety with which he sought after a copy of the original German; the delight with which he at length perused it; and how, having just been reading the specimens of ballad poetry introduced into Lewis's romance of The Monk, he called to mind the early facility of versification which had lain so long in abeyance, {p.217} and ventured to promise his friend a rhymed translation of Lenore from his own pen. The friend in question was Miss Cranstoun, afterwards Countess of Purgstall, the sister of his friend George Cranstoun, now Lord Corehouse. He began the task, he tells us, after supper, and did not retire to bed until he had finished it, having by that time worked himself into a state of excitement which set sleep at defiance.

Next morning, before breakfast, he carried his MS. to Miss Cranstoun, who was not only delighted but astonished at it; for I have seen a letter of hers to a common friend in the country, in which she says--"Upon my word, Walter Scott is going to turn out a poet--something of a cross, I think, between Burns and Gray." The same day he read it also to his friend Sir Alexander Wood, who retains a vivid recollection of the high strain of enthusiasm into which he had been exalted by dwelling on the wild unearthly imagery of the German bard. "He read it over to me," says Sir Alexander, "in a very slow and solemn tone, and after we had said a few words about its merits, continued to look at the fire silent and musing for some minutes, until he at length burst out with 'I wish to Heaven I could get a skull and two cross-bones.'" Wood said that if Scott would accompany him to the house of John Bell, the celebrated surgeon, he had no doubt this wish might be easily gratified. They went thither accordingly on the instant;--Mr. Bell smiled on hearing the object of their visit, and pointing to a closet, at the corner of his library, bade Walter enter and choose. From a well-furnished museum of mortality, he selected forthwith what seemed to him the handsomest skull and pair of cross-bones it contained, and wrapping them in his handkerchief, carried the formidable bundle home to George's Square. The trophies were immediately mounted on the top of his little bookcase; and when Wood visited him, after many years of absence from this country, he found them in possession of {p.218} a similar position in his dressing-room at Abbotsford.[120]

[Footnote 120: Sir A. Wood was himself the son of a distinguished surgeon in Edinburgh. He married one of the daughters of Sir William Forbes--rose in the diplomatic service--and died in 1846.--(1848.)]

All this occurred in the beginning of April, 1796. A few days afterwards, Scott went to pay a visit at a country house, where he expected to meet the "lady of his love." Jane Anne Cranstoun was in the secret of his attachment, and knew, that however doubtful might be Miss [Stuart's] feeling on that subject, she had a high admiration of Scott's abilities, and often corresponded with him on literary matters; so, after he had left Edinburgh, it occurred to her that she might perhaps forward his views in this quarter, by presenting him in the character of a printed author. William Erskine being called into her councils, a few copies of the ballad were forthwith thrown off in the most elegant style, and one, richly bound and blazoned, followed Scott in the course of a few days to the country. The verses were read and approved of, and Miss Cranstoun at least flattered herself that he had not made his first appearance in types to no purpose.[121]

[Footnote 121: This story was told by the Countess of Purgstall on her deathbed to Captain Basil Hall. See his _Schloss Hainfeld_, p. 333.]

I ought to have mentioned before, that in June, 1795, he was appointed one of the curators of the Advocates' Library, an office always reserved for those members of the Faculty who have the reputation of superior zeal in literary affairs. He had for colleagues David Hume, the Professor of Scots Law, and Malcolm Laing, the historian; and his discharge of his functions must have given satisfaction, for I find him further nominated, in March, 1796, together with Mr. Robert Hodgson Cay--an accomplished gentleman, afterwards Judge of the Admiralty Court in Scotland--to "put the Faculty's cabinet of medals in proper arrangement."

On {p.219} the 4th of June, 1796 (the birthday of George III.), there seems to have been a formidable riot in Edinburgh, and Scott is found again in the front. On the 5th, he writes as follows to his aunt, Christian Rutherford, who was then in the north of Scotland, and had meant to visit, among other places, the residence of the "chere adorable."

EDINBURGH, 5th June, 1796.

MY CHeRE AMIE,--Nothing doubting that your curiosity will be upon the tenters to hear the wonderful events of the long-expected 4th of June, I take the pen to inform you that not one worth mentioning has taken place. Were I inclined to prolixity, I might, indeed, narrate at length _how_ near a thousand gentlemen (myself among the number) offered their services to the magistrates to act as _constables_ for the preservation of the peace--how their services were accepted--what fine speeches were made upon the occasion--_how_ they were furnished with pretty painted brown _batons_--_how_ they were a.s.sembled in the aisle of the New Church, and treated with claret and sweetmeats--_how_ Sir John Whiteford was chased by the mob, and _how_ Tom, Sandy Wood, and I rescued him, and dispersed his tormentors _a beaux coups de batons_--_how_ the Justice-Clerk's windows were broke by a few boys, and _how_ a large body of constables and a press-gang of near two hundred men arrived, and were much disappointed at finding the coast entirely clear; with many other matters of equal importance, but of which you must be contented to remain in ignorance till you return to your castle. Seriously, everything, with the exception of the very trifling circ.u.mstances above mentioned, was perfectly quiet--much more so than during any King's birthday I can recollect. That very stillness, however, shows that something is brewing among our friends the Democrats, which they will take their own time of bringing forward. By the wise precautions of the magistrates, or rather of the provost, and {p.220} the spirited conduct of the gentlemen, I hope their designs will be frustrated. Our a.s.sociation meets to-night, when we are to be divided into districts according to the place of our abode, places of rendezvous and captains named; so that, upon the hoisting of a flag on the Tron-steeple, and ringing out all the large bells, we can be on duty in less than five minutes. I am sorry to say that the complexion of the town seems to justify all precautions of this kind. I hope we shall demean ourselves as _quiet_ and _peaceable_ magistrates; and intend, for the purpose of learning the duties of my new office, to con diligently the instructions delivered to the watch by our brother Dogberry, of facetious memory. So much for information. By way of inquiry, pray let me know--that is, when you find a very idle hour--how you accomplished the perilous pa.s.sage of her Majestie's Ferry without the a.s.sistance and escort of your preux-chevalier, and whether you will receive them on your return--how Miss R. and you are spending your time, whether stationary or otherwise--above all, whether you have been at [Invermay] and all the etcs., etcs., which the question involves. Having made out a pretty long scratch, which, as Win Jenkins says, will take you some time to decipher, I shall only inform you farther, that I shall tire excessively till you return to your shop. I beg to be remembered to Miss Kerr, and in particular to La Belle Jeanne. Best love to Miss Rutherford; and believe me ever, my dear Miss Christy, sincerely and affectionately your

WALTER SCOTT

During the autumn of 1796 he visited again his favorite haunts in Perthshire and Forfarshire. It was in the course of this tour that he spent a day or two at Montrose with his old tutor Mitch.e.l.l, and astonished and grieved that worthy Presbyterian by his zeal about witches and fairies.[122] The only letter of his, written during this {p.221} expedition, that I have recovered, was addressed to another of his clerical friends--one by no means of Mitch.e.l.l's stamp--Mr.

Walker, the minister of Dunnottar, and it is chiefly occupied with an account of his researches at a vitrified fort, in Kincardineshire, commonly called Lady Fenella's Castle, and, according to tradition, the scene of the murder of Kenneth III. While in the north, he visited also the residence of the lady who had now for so many years been the object of his attachment; and that his reception was not adequate to his expectations, may be gathered pretty clearly from some expressions in a letter addressed to him when at Montrose by his friend and confidante, Miss Cranstoun:--

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., POST-OFFICE, MONTROSE.

DEAR SCOTT,--Far be it from me to affirm that there are no diviners in the land. The voice of the people and the voice of G.o.d are loud in their testimony. Two years ago, when I was in the neighborhood of Montrose, we had recourse for amus.e.m.e.nt one evening to chiromancy, or, as the vulgar say, having our fortunes read; and read mine were in such a sort, that either my letters must have been inspected, or the devil was by in his own proper person. I never mentioned the circ.u.mstance since, for obvious reasons; but now that you are on the spot, I feel it my bounden duty to conjure you not to put your shoes rashly from off your feet, for you are not standing on holy ground.

I bless the G.o.ds for conducting your poor dear soul safely to Perth. When I consider the wilds, the forests, the lakes, the rocks--and the spirits in which you must have whispered to their startled echoes, it amazeth me how you escaped. Had you but dismissed your little squire and Earwig,[123] and spent a few days as Orlando would have done, all posterity might have profited by it; but to trot quietly away, without so much as one stanza to despair--never talk to me of love again--never, never, never! I am dying for your collection of exploits. When {p.222} will you return? In the mean time, Heaven speed you! Be sober, and hope to the end.

William Taylor's translation of your ballad is published, and so inferior, that I wonder we could tolerate it. Dugald Stewart read yours to **** the other day. When he came to the fetter dance,[124] he looked up, and poor ***** was sitting with his hands nailed to his knees, and the big tears rolling down his innocent nose in so piteous a manner, that Mr. Stewart could not help bursting out a-laughing. An angry man was *****. have seen another edition, too, but it is below contempt. So many copies make the ballad famous, so that every day adds to your renown.

This here place is very, very dull. Erskine is in London; my dear Thomson at Daily; Macfarlan hatching Kant--and George[125]

Fountainhall.[126] I have nothing more to tell you, but that I am most affectionately yours. Many an anxious thought I have about you. Farewell.--J. A. C.

[Footnote 122: See _ante_, p. 97.]

[Footnote 123: A servant-boy and pony.]

[Footnote 124:

"'Dost fear? dost fear?--The moon shines clear;-- Dost fear to ride with, me?

Hurrah! hurrah! the dead can ride!'-- Oh, William, let them be!'

"'See there! see there! What yonder swings And creaks 'mid whistling rain?'-- Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel, A murderer in his chain.

"'Hollo! thou felon, follow here, To bridal bed we ride; And thou shalt prance a fetter dance Before me and my bride.'

"And hurry, hurry! clash, clash, clash!

The wasted form descends; And fleet as wind, through hazel bush, The wild career attends.

"Tramp, tramp! along the land they rode; Splash, splash! along the sea; The scourge is red, the spur drops blood.

The flashing pebbles flee."]

[Footnote 125: George Cranstoun, Lord Corehouse.]

[Footnote 126: Decisions by Lord Fountainhall.]

The {p.223} affair in which this romantic creature took so lively an interest was now approaching its end. It was known, before this autumn closed, that the lady of his vows had finally promised her hand to his amiable rival; and, when the fact was announced, some of those who knew Scott the best appear to have entertained very serious apprehensions as to the effect which the disappointment might have upon his feelings. For example, one of those brothers of _the Mountain_ wrote as follows to another of them, on the 12th October, 1796: "Mr. [Forbes] marries Miss [Stuart]. This is not good news. I always dreaded there was some self-deception on the part of our romantic friend, and I now shudder at the violence of his most irritable and ungovernable mind. Who is it that says, 'Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for LOVE'? I hope sincerely it may be verified on this occasion."

Scott had, however, in all likelihood, digested his agony during the solitary ride in the Highlands to which Miss Cranstoun's last letter alludes.

Talking of this story with Lord Kinnedder, I once asked him whether Scott never made it the subject of verses at the period. His own confession, that, even during the time when he had laid aside the habit of versification, he did sometimes commit "a sonnet on a mistress's eyebrow," had not then appeared. Lord Kinnedder answered, "Oh yes, he made many little stanzas about the lady, and he sometimes showed them to Cranstoun, Clerk, and myself--but we really thought them in general very poor. Two things of the kind, however, have been preserved--and one of them was done just after the conclusion of the business." He then took down a volume of the English Minstrelsy, and pointed out to me some lines On a Violet, which had not at that time been included in Scott's collected works. Lord Kinnedder read them over in his usual impressive, though not quite unaffected, manner, and said, "I remember well, that when I first saw {p.224} these, I told him they were his best, but he had touched them up afterwards."

"The violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen or copse or forest dingle.

"Though fair her gems of azure hue Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue More sweet through watery l.u.s.tre shining.

"The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the sun be past its morrow, Nor longer in my false love's eye Remained the tear of parting sorrow!"

In turning over a volume of MS. papers, I have found a copy of verses, which, from the hand, Scott had evidently written down within the last ten years of his life. They are headed "To Time--by a Lady;" but certain _initials_ on the back satisfy me that the auth.o.r.ess was no other than the object of his first pa.s.sion.[127] I think I must be pardoned for transcribing the lines which had dwelt so long on his memory--leaving it to the reader's fancy to picture the mood of mind in which the fingers of a gray-haired man may have traced such a relic of his youthful dreams:--

"Friend of the wretch oppress'd with grief, Whose lenient hand, though slow, supplies The balm that lends to care relief, That wipes her tears--that checks her sighs!

"'Tis thine the wounded soul to heal That hopeless bleeds from sorrow's smart, From stern misfortune's shaft to steal The barb that rankles in the heart.

"What {p.225} though with thee the roses fly, And jocund youth's gay reign is o'er; Though dimm'd the l.u.s.tre of the eye, And hope's vain dreams enchant no more?

"Yet in thy train come dove-eyed peace, Indifference with her heart of snow; At her cold couch, lo! sorrows cease, No thorns beneath her roses grow.

"O haste to grant thy suppliant's prayer, To me thy torpid calm impart; Rend from my brow youth's garland fair, But take the thorn that's in my heart.

"Ah! why do fabling poets tell That thy fleet wings outstrip the wind?

Why feign thy course of joy the knell, And call thy slowest pace unkind?

"To me thy tedious feeble pace Comes laden with the weight of years; With sighs I view morn's blushing face, And hail mild evening with my tears."

[Footnote 127: A very intimate friend both of Scott and of the lady tells me that these verses were great favorites of hers--she gave himself a copy of them, and no doubt her recitation had made them known to Scott--but that he believes them to have been composed by Mrs. Hunter of Norwich.--(1839.)]

I venture to recall here to the reader's memory the opening of the twelfth chapter of Peveril of the Peak, written twenty-six years after the date of this youthful disappointment.

"Ah me! for aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth!"