Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott Volume IV Part 18

LETTER IN VERSE FROM ZETLAND AND ORKNEY. -- DEATH OF THE d.u.c.h.eSS 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 n.o.ble measure; and the dancing anapaests 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 n.i.g.g.ard 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 sh.o.r.e; 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.ds 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 sh.o.r.e, Though bold in the seas of the North to a.s.sail 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 c.u.mber 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 sh.o.r.e!

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 grat.i.tude 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 fort.i.tude, 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 antic.i.p.ate 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 n.o.ble patron really were, than any other single doc.u.ment 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 inst.i.tutions 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 ma.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.d, 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 fort.i.tude 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 a.s.sistance. 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 n.o.ble feeling--of love, attachment, and the total want of everything selfish. Endeavoring to the last to conceal her suffering, she evinced a fort.i.tude, 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 pa.s.sing 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 grat.i.tude 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 fort.i.tude to adopt that resigned and patient frame of spirit, which can extract from the most bitter calamity a wholesome mental medicine. I trust in G.o.d, 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 const.i.tution 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.