In October, 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh, and left it in a year or two, without having added much to his stock of classical knowledge. At the age of fifteen, the breaking of a blood-vessel brought on an illness, which, to use his own words, "threw him back on the kingdom of fiction, as if by a species of fatality." Being for some time forbidden to speak or move, he did nothing but read from morning till night; and, by a perusal of old romances, old plays, and epic poetry, was unconsciously amassing materials for his future writings. In his sixteenth year he commenced studying for the bar, and became an apprentice to his father. In 1792, he became an advocate; but he had no taste for the law; and, as his father was in affluent circumstances, he resolved to devote himself to literary pursuits. In 1797, he married Miss Margaret Carpenter, the daughter of a French refugee, and soon after took a house at Lasswade, on the banks of the Tweed. In 1802, appeared his first publication of any note, "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," in two volumes, which displayed much curious and abstruse learning, and gained the author a considerable reputation as an historical and traditionary poet. In 1803, he came to the final resolution of quitting his profession, observing, "there was no great love between us at the beginning, and it pleased Heaven to decrease it on farther acquaintance." In 1805, he published "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," which was composed at the rate of a canto per week, and for which he obtained six hundred pounds. In 1808, appeared his "Marmion," which he sold for one thousand pounds, the extraordinary success of which induced him, he says, for the first and last time of his life, to feel something approaching to vanity. This was succeeded by an edition of Dryden's works, in eighteen volumes, with notes historical and explanatory, and a life of the author. In 1810, he composed his "Lady of the Lake," which had extraordinary success, and which has been characterized by some as the finest specimen of his poetical genius. Within four years after this, appeared his "Vision of Don Roderick," "Rokeby," and "The Lord of the Isles." These, however, did not meet with the success which attended his former poems. But, determined to continue his literary career, he resolved to try his powers in the composition of fictitious prose writings, and in 1814 appeared "Waverley, or 'Tis Sixty Years Since," a tale of the rebellion of 1745. Though it had not the name of its distinguished author attached to it, it soon rose to great popularity He now had fairly entered upon the field in which he earned triumphs even more splendid than he had gained in the domain of poetry. "Waverley" was followed within a few years by that brilliant series of prose fictions which made the "Great Unknown," as he was called, the wonder of the age. From 1815 to 1819 appeared, successively, "Guy Mannering," "The Antiquary," and the first series of the "Tales of My Landlord," containing the "Black Dwarf" and "Old Mortality;" "Rob Roy," and the second series of the "Tales of My Landlord," containing "The Heart of Mid Lothian ;" and the third series, containing "The Bride of Lammermoor" and "A Legend of Montrose." In 1821,' In 1820, say his biographers, "the honor of the baronetcy was conferred upon him by George IV.," just as if he did not honor the "baronetcy" far more than the "baronetcy" bonored him. Such men as John Milton, Isaac Newton, William Shakspeare, and Walter Scott need no unmeaning titles to make them greater. Scott, however, was pleased with it. To have a title, and a large landed estate, was his great ambition. appeared "Kenilworth," which was succeeded, successively, by "The Pirate," "The Fortunes of Nigel," "Peveril of the Peak," "Quentin Durward," "Tales of the Crusaders," &c. The great success of all these works enabled Scott to carry out the long-cherished object of his wishes-to possess a large baronial estate. In 1811, he purchased one hundred acres of land on the banks of the Tweed, near Melrose, for four thousand pounds, "and the interesting and now immortal name of Abbotsford was substituted for the very ordinary one of Cartley Hole." Other purchases of land followed, to a great extent, which, together with the noble mansion, cost more than fifty thousand pounds. In this princely mansion, the poet received for years, and entertained with bounteous hospitality, innumerable visitors-princes, peers, and poets-men of all ranks and grades. In the mean time, he entered into partnership with his old school-fellow, James Ballantyne, then rising into extensive business as a printer, in Edinburgh. The copartnership was kept a secret, and to all appearance the house of Ballantyne & Co. was doing a most prosperous business. Little did he dream what sad reverses awaited him-how soon his all was to be swept away "Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway. That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey." In the great commercial distresses of 1825 and 1826, his publishers, Constable & Co., stopped payment, and the failure of the firm of Ballantyne, for a very large sum, followed instantly, and thus these two firms involved Scott to the amount of more than one hundred thousand pounds. But these immense losses did not dishearten him. If he had been imprudent in forming such connections, most nobly and courageously did he come forward, and insist that he would not be dealt with as an ordinary bankrupt, and pledge himself that the labor of his future life should be unremittingly devoted to the discharge of his debts.1 He did more than fulfil his noble promise; but the gigantic toil to which, during years after this, he submitted, was the immediate cause that shortened his life. His self-sacrifice realized for his creditors, between January, 1826, and January, 1828, the surprising sum of forty thousand pounds; and soon after his death the principal of the whole Ballantyne debt was paid up by his executors. Language fails to express the honor and glory of such an act of moral heroism and severe integrity. It has encircled the brow of Sir Walter Scott with greener laurels than all the works of poetry and fiction he ever wrote.2 It is very hard," was his observation to a friend on the occasion, "thus to lose all the labors of a lifetime, and he made a poor man at last, when I ought to have been otherwise. But if God grant me health and strength for a few years longer, I have no doubt that I shall redeem it all." 2" English literature presents two memorable and striking events, which have never been paralleled in any other nation. The first is Milton, advanced in years, blind, and in misfor tune, entering upon the composition of a great epic that was to determine his future fame, and hazard the glory of his country in competition with what had been achieved in the classic ages of antiquity. The counterpart to this noble picture is Walter Scott, at nearly the same age, his private affairs in ruin, undertaking to liquidate. by intellectual labors alone, a debt of one hundred and seventeen thousand pounds. Both tasks may be classed with the moral sublime of life. Glory, pure and unsullied, was the ruling aim and motive of Milton; honor and integrity formed the incentives to Scott. Neither shrunk from the steady prosecution of his gigantic, self-imposed labor. But years rolled on, seasons returned and Masstyl Bay, amid public cores and private calamity, and the pressure of increasing In 1826, our author removed from Abbotsford to Edinburgh, and entered vigorously upon his renewed labors. "Woodstock," the first and second series of the "Chronicles of the Canongate," "Anne of Geierstein," the first, second, and third series of "Tales of My Grandfather," the "Life of Napoleon," in nine volumes, octavo, followed in rapid succession. But these great labors were too much for him. In 1830, he had an attack of paralysis; yet he continued to write several hours every day. In April, 1831, he suffered a still more severe attack, and he was prevailed upon to undertake a foreign tour. He sailed for Malta and Naples, and resided at the latter place from December, 1831, to the following April. The next month he set his face toward home, and reached London on the 12th of June. He was conveyed to Abbotsford, the perfect wreck in body and mind of what he once was. "He desired," says Mr. Lockhart, "to be wheeled through his rooms, and we moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and down the hall and the great library. 'I have seen much,' he kept saying, 'but nothing like my ain house: give me one turn more.' He was gentle as an infant, and allowed himself to be put to bed again, the moment we told him that we thought he had enough for one day. * 帶 He expressed a wish that I should read to him; and when I asked from what book, he said, 'Need you ask? there is but one.' I chose the 14th chapter of St. John's Gospel. When near his end, he said, 'Lockhart, I may have but a minute to speak to you: my dear, be a good man; be virtuous, be religious; be a good man. Nothing else will give you comfort when you come to lie here.' He paused, and I said, Shall I send for Sophia and Anne? No,' said he; 'don't disturb them. Poor souls! I know they were up all night-God bless you all;'-with this he sank into a very tranquil sleep. But the contest was soon to be over. About half-past one, P. M., on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day-so warm that every window was wide open-and so perfectly still, that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around nis bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes." * It now remains to speak of the character of the writings of this most gifted genius and prolific author. With respect to his poetry, truth compels us to say that, taking it as a whole, we cannot join its few ardent admirers. Neither, on the other hand, can we go so far as Hazlitt, who sets Scott down as "a mere nar Milton had realized the object of his hopes and prayers by the completion of Paradise Lost. His task was done; the field of glory was gained; he held in his hand his passport to immortality. In six years Scott had nearly reached the goal of his ambition. He had ranged the wide fields of romance, and the public bad liberally rewarded their illustrious favorite. The ultimate prize was within view, and the world cheered him on, eagerly anticipating his triumph; but the victor sank exhausted on the course. He had spent his life in the struggle. The strong man was bowed down, and his living honor, genius, and integrity were extinguished by delirium and death."-CHAMBERS's Cyclopædia, St. James's Hotel, No. 76 Jermyn Street, on the south side, was the last London lodging of Sir Walter Scott. Here he lay for a period of three weeks after his return from the continent, either in absolute stupor or in a waking dream. The room he occupied was the second-floor back room, and the author of this collection of London memoranda delights in remembering the universal feeling of sympathy exhibited by all (and there were many there) who stood to see the great novelist and poet carried from the hotel to his carriage on the afternoon of the 7th of July, 1832. Many were eager to see so great a man, but all mere curiosity seemed to cease when they saw the vacant eye and prostrate figure of the illustrious poet. There was not a covered head; and the writer believes-from what he could see-hardly a dry eye upon the occasion."-CUNNINGHAM, Hand-Book of London, p. 265. rative and descriptive poet, garrulous of the old time;" nor so far as Leigh Hunt, himself a poet, who says of his verse, that it is "a little thinking, conveyed in a great many words." That there is much in his poetry to please with its beautiful and graphic description, much to animate by its lively measure, and here and there a passage to instruct and elevate by its fine sentiment, none can deny; but as a whole it is destitute of tenderness, of passion, and of philosophic truth; it goes not down into the depths of the soul, to call forth its deepest feelings, or awaken its strongest sympathies. Of its "moral tone," a very partial biographer! remarks, "if it is not high, it must be at least admitted that it is uniformly inoffensive." In this we cannot fully concur. Much of it is to us "offensive," because it seems to delight in scenes of carnage and blood; for, as the same biographer again remarks, "very few in any age or country have portrayed with such admirable force and fire the soldier's thirst for battle, and the headlong fury of the field of slaughter." Now the question is, will posterity more and more value such poetry, or will they more willingly let it die? As the world advances in true humanity, as war is more and more looked upon as legalized murder, as the military man in his harlequin dress becomes, from age to age, the object of greater laughter and scorn with all sensible minds, will not such poetry as tends to inflame the military spirit and to excite all the most hateful passions of the human breast be less and less esteemed? We think it will. Even the genius of a Scott cannot interest the world in the border wars of rival nations, nor in the fierce encounters of hostile clans, nor make the "spirit of chivalry" respectable in the minds of the world generally, nor otherwise than hateful to the Christian; a "spirit" which, as the excellent and learned Dr. Arnold justly remarks, "predominantly deserves the name of Antichrist, and is the more detestable for the very guise of archangel ruined." The prose works of Sir Walter Scott have given him a higher rank, and in the character of a novelist his name will go down to posterity as the inventor of a new class of fictitious writings. When "Waverley" made its appearance anonymously, the world immediately felt that a new order of things in the domain of romance was at hand; that a fascinating master-spirit had entered the wide field to glean its wealth; and as novel after novel succeeded in rapid succession, admiration was followed by astonishment at the fertility of a genius as rich as it seemed to be exhaustless. The beauty and richness of conception, the vigor of execution, the nice discrimination of character, the bold coloring of historic scenes, and the boundless acquired knowledge exhibited in his novels,-all these placed Scott, at once, at the head of fictitious writers, and the reading world devoured with avidity whatever came from his pen. But great as are the literary merits of Scott's novels, there is a question to ask concerning them of far transcending importance :-What is their influence upon the reader? As our limits prevent us from going fully into this subject,-the influence of fictitious writings in general,-we may best answer the question started in relation to our author, by a few suggestions. Must not such works as consist partly of historic truths and partly of the creations of the imagination, necessarily give a very distorted view of facts? and, is it not better to be in entire 233 ignorance than to have a partial and erroneous view of men and things? Is a man of high Tory principles likely to give correct views of the House of Stuart and its adherents, or of their enemies, the Puritans? Could we reasonably expect any correct appreciation of the character of a class of men as devotedly religious as any that ever lived, the Scotch Covenanters,-from one who evidently had no deep religious experience himself? Can such novels exert a good influence upon the mind as are interspersed with profane expressions, or which paint an unprincipled hero in pleasing colors? Can we expect a man of high aristocratic feeling to sympathize with his brother man in humble life, to understand his character, to feel for his position, or to appreciate his homely trials and his homely joys? It is doubtless from reflections which a question like the last would suggest, that the same partial, though discriminating biographer before quoted, remarks, "In his views of human society, the only thing, perhaps, which can at all jar on the feelings of any, is that tendency to aristocratic hauteur, which, not indeed shrinking from contact with the lower orders, and willingly recognizing and esteeming many of their virtues, yet considers them strictly as the dependants of higher men, and is silent on every other relation they can be supposed to hold. This feeling is palpable both in his poetry and his romances." Our readers will therefore see that, however high Scott's writings rank in our estimation as works of genius, we cannot think that they leave upon either the mind or the heart altogether such impressions as we could wish. Still there may be culled from them much, very much that is beautiful, truthful, and eloquent,— much that deserves and will command the admiration of all-coming ages. THE LAST MINSTREL.1 The way was long, the wind was cold, The minstrel was infirm and old; His wither'd cheek and tresses gray He pass'd where Newark's2 stately tower The "Lay of the Last Minstrel" consists of a tale in verse, supposed to be recited by a wandering minstrel who took refuge in the castle of Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685. This is a massive square tower, now unroofed and ruinous, surrounded by an outward wall, defended by round flanking turrets. It is most beautifully situated, about three miles from Selkirk, upon the banks of the Yarrow, a fierce and precipitous stream which unites with the Ettrick about a mile beneath the castle. It was built by James II. 20 |