LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
Documents Biography Criticism

Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
Andrew Stewart to Walter Scott, [22 January? 1809]

Vol I Preface
Vol. I Contents.
Chapter I
Chapter II 1771-78
Chapter III 1778-83
Chapter IV 1783-86
Chapter V 1786-90
Chapter VI 1790-92
Chapter VII 1792-96
Chapter VIII 1796-97
Chapter IX 1798-99
Chapter X 1800-02
Chapter XI 1802-03
Chapter XII 1803-04
Vol. II Contents.
Chapter I 1804-05
Chapter II 1805
Chapter III 1806
Chapter IV 1806-08
Chapter V 1808
Chapter VI 1808-09
Chapter VII 1809-10
Chapter VIII 1810
Chapter IX 1810
Chapter X 1810-11
Chapter XI 1811
Chapter XII 1811-12
Vol. III Contents.
Chapter I 1812-13
Chapter II 1813
Chapter III 1814
Chapter IV 1814
Chapter V 1814
Chapter VI 1814
Chapter VII 1814
Chapter VIII 1814
Chapter IX 1814
Chapter X 1814-15
Chapter XI 1815
Chapter XII 1815
Vol III Appendix
Vol. IV Contents.
Chapter I 1816
Chapter II 1817
Chapter III 1817
Chapter IV 1818
Chapter V 1818
Chapter VI 1818
Chapter VII 1818-19
Chapter VIII 1819
Chapter IX 1819
Chapter X 1819
Chapter XI 1820
Chapter XII 1820
Vol. V Contents.
Chapter I 1820
Chapter II 1820-21
Chapter III 1821
Chapter IV 1821
Chapter V 1821
Chapter VI 1821
Chapter VII 1822
Chapter VIII 1822
Chapter IX 1822-23
Chapter X 1823
Chapter XI 1823
Chapter XII 1824
Chapter XIII 1824-25
Vol. VI Contents.
Chapter I 1825
Chapter II 1825
Chapter III 1825
Chapter IV 1825
Chapter V 1826
Chapter VI 1826
Chapter VII 1826
Chapter VIII 1826
Chapter IX 1826
Chapter X 1826
Chapter XI 1826
Vol. VII Contents.
Vol VII Preface
Chapter I 1826-27
Chapter II 1827
Chapter III 1828
Chapter IV 1828
Chapter V 1829
Chapter VI 1830
Chapter VII 1830-31
Chapter VIII 1831
Chapter IX 1831
Chapter X 1831-32
Chapter XI 1832
Chapter XII
Vol VII Appendix
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Produced by CATH
“Tolbooth, Sunday.

“Sir I received your kind letter last night, enclosing one pound sterling, for which I have only to request you will accept the return of a grateful heart. My prayers, while on earth, will be always for your welfare. Your letter came like a ministering angel to me. The idea of my approaching end darts across my brain; and, as our immortal bard, Shakspeare, says, ‘harrows up my soul.’ Some time since, when chance threw in my way Sir William Forbes’s Life of Beattie, the account of the closing scene of Principal Campbell, as therein
mentioned, made a deep impression on my mind. ‘At a time,’ says he, ‘when Campbell was just expiring, and had told his wife and niece so, a cordial happened unexpectedly to give some relief. As soon as he was able to speak he said, he wondered to see their faces so melancholy and covered with tears at the apprehension of his departure. ‘At that instant,’ said he, ‘I felt my mind in such a state in the thoughts of my immediate dissolution, that I can express my feelings in no other way than by saying I was in a rapture.’ There is something awfully satisfactory in the above.

“I have to mention, as a dying man, that it was not the greed of money that made me commit the crime, but the extreme pressure of poverty and want.

“How silent seems all—not a whisper is heard,
Save the guardians of night when they bawl;
How dreary and wild appears all around;
No pitying voice near my call.
“O life, what are all thy gay pleasures and cares,
When deprived of sweet liberty’s smile?
Not hope in all thy gay charms arrayed,
Can one heavy hour now beguile.
“How sad is the poor convict’s sorrowful lot,
Condemned in these walls to remain,
When torn from those that are nearest his heart,
Perhaps ne’er to view them again.
“The beauties of morning now burst on my view,
Remembrance of scenes that are past,
When contentment sat smiling, and happy my lot,
Scenes, alas! formed not for to last.
“Now fled are the hours I delighted to roam
Scotia’s hills, dales, and valleys among,
And with rapture would list to the songs of her bards,
And love’s tale as it flowed from the tongue.
“Nought but death now awaits me, how dread, but true,
How ghastly its form does appear;
Soon silent the muse that delighted to view
And sing of the sweets of the year.

“You are the first gentleman I ever sent my poems to, and I never corrected any of them, my mind has been in such a state. I remain, sir, your grateful unfortunate servant,

Andrew Stewart.”