Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
Chapter VIII 1819
CHAPTER VIII.
RECURRENCE OF SCOTT’S ILLNESS—DEATH OF THE
DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH—LETTERS TO CAPTAIN
FERGUSON—LORD MONTAGU—MR
SOUTHEY—AND MR SHORTREED—SCOTT’S
SUFFERINGS WHILE DICTATING THE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR—ANECDOTES BY
JAMES BALLANTYNE, ETC.—APPEARANCE OF THE THIRD SERIES OF TALES OF MY LANDLORD—ANECDOTE OF THE EARL OF
BUCHAN,—MARCH—JUNE,—1819.
It had been Scott’s
purpose to spend the Easter vacation in London, and receive his baronetcy; but this was
prevented by the serious recurrence of the malady which so much alarmed his friends in the
early part of the year 1817, and which had continued ever since to torment him at
intervals. The subsequent correspondence will show that afflictions of various sorts were
accumulated on his head at the same period:
To the Lord Montagu, Ditton Park, Windsor.
“Edinburgh, 4th March, 1819.
“My dear Lord,
“The Lord
President tells me he has a letter from his son, Captain Charles Hope, R.N., who had just
232 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
taken leave of our
High
Chief, upon the deck of the Liffey. He had not seen the Duke for
a fortnight, and was pleasingly surprised to find his health and general
appearance so very much improved. For my part, having watched him with such
unremitting attention, I feel very confident in the effect of a change of air
and of climate. It is with great pleasure that I find the Duke has received an
answer from me respecting a matter about which he was anxious, and on which I
could make his mind quite easy. His Grace wished
Adam Ferguson to assist him as his confidential secretary; and
with all the scrupulous delicacy that belongs to his character, he did not like
to propose this, except through my medium as a common friend. Now, I can answer
for Adam, as I can for myself, that he will have the
highest pleasure in giving assistance in every possible way the Duke can
desire; and if forty years’ intimacy can entitle one man to speak for
another, I believe the Duke can find no where a person so highly qualified for
such a confidential situation. He was educated for business, understands it
well, and was long a military secretary his temper and manners your Lordship
can judge as well as I can, and his worth and honour are of the very first
water. I confess I should not be surprised if the Duke should wish to continue
the connexion even afterwards, for I have often thought that two hours’
letter-writing, which is his Grace’s daily allowance, is rather worse
than the duty of a Clerk of Session, because there is no vacation. Much of this
might surely be saved by an intelligent friend on whose style of expression,
prudence, and secrecy his Grace could put perfect reliance. Two words marked on
any letter by his own hand, would enable such a person to refuse more or less
positively—to grant directly or conditionally—or, in short, to main-
tain the exterior forms of the very
troublesome and extensive correspondence which his Grace’s high situation
entails upon him. I think it is
Mons. Le Duc de
Saint Simon who tells us of one of
Louis
XIV.’s ministers
qui’l
avoit la plume—which he explains, by saying, it was his
duty to imitate the King’s handwriting so closely, as to be almost
undistinguishable, and make him on all occasions
parler très noblement. I wonder how the Duke gets
on without such a friend. In the mean time, however, I am glad I can assure him
of Ferguson’s willing and ready assistance while
abroad; and I am happy to find still farther that he had got that assurance
before they sailed, for tedious hours occur on board of ship, when it will
serve as a relief to talk over any of the private affairs which the Duke wishes
to intrust to him.
“I have been very unwell from a visitation of my old
enemy the cramp in my stomach, which much resembles, as I conceive, the process
by which the diel would make one’s king’s-hood into a spleuchan,* according t’o the anathema of Burns. Unfortunately, the opiates which the
medical people think indispensable to relieve spasms, bring on a habit of body
which has to be counteracted by medicines of a different tendency, so as to
produce a most disagreeable see-saw—a kind of pull-devil, pull-baker
contention, the field of battle being my unfortunate præcordia. Or, to say truth, it reminds me of a certain Indian
king I have read of in an old voyage, to whom the captain of an European ship
generously presented a lock and key, with which the sable potentate was so much
delighted, that to the great neglect, both of his household duties and his
affairs of state, he spent a whole month in the re-
* Kings-hood—“The
second of the four stomachs of ruminating animals.” Jamieson.—Spleuchan—The
Gaelic name of the Highlander’s tobacco-pouch. |
234 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
peated operation of locking and unlocking his back-door. I
am better to-day, and I trust shall be able to dispense with these
alternations, which are much less agreeable in my case than in that of the
Sachem aforesaid; and I still hope to be in London in April.
“I will write to the Duke regularly, for distance of place acts in a contrary ratio
on the mind and on the eye: trifles, instead of being diminished, as in
prospect, become important and interesting, and therefore he shall have a
budget of them. Hogg is here busy with
his Jacobite songs. I wish
he may get handsomely through, for he is profoundly ignorant of history, and it
is an awkward thing to read in order that you may write.* I give him all the
help I can, but he sometimes poses me. For instance he came yesterday, open
mouth, enquiring what great dignified clergyman had distinguished himself at
Killiecrankie—not exactly the scene where one would have expected a churchman
to shine—and I found with some difficulty, that he had mistaken Major-General Canon, called, in
Kennedy’s Latin song, Canonicus Gallovidiensis, for the canon of a
cathedral. Ex ungue leonem. Ever, my
dear Lord, your truly obliged and faithful
Before this letter reached Lord
Montagu, his brother
* “I am sure I produced two volumes of Jacobite Relics, such as no
man in Scotland or England could have produced but myself.” So says
Hogg,—ipse—see his
Autobiography, 1832, p. 88. I never saw the Shepherd so elated as
he was on the appearance of a very severe article on this book in the Edinburgh
Review; for, to his exquisite delight, the hostile critic selected tor exceptive
encomium one “old Jacobite strain,” viz. “Donald M’Gillavry,” which Hogg had
fabricated the year before. Scott, too, enjoyed
this joke almost as much as the Shepherd. |
had sailed for Lisbon. The Duke of Wellington had placed his house in that capital (the Palace
das Necessidades) at the Duke of Buccleuch’s disposal; and in the affectionate
care and cheerful society of Captain Ferguson, the
invalid had every additional source of comfort that his friends could have wished for him.
But the malady had gone too far to be arrested by a change of climate; and the letter which
he had addressed to Scott, when about to embark at
Portsmouth, is endorsed with these words “The last I ever received from my dear
friend the Duke of Buccleuch. Alas! alas!” The principal
object of this letter was to remind Scott of his promise to sit to
Raeburn for a portrait, to be hung up in that
favourite residence where the Duke had enjoyed most of his society. “My prodigious
undertaking,” writes his Grace, “of a west wing at Bowhill, is
begun. A library of forty-one feet by twenty-one, is to be added to the present
drawing-room. A space for one picture is reserved over the fire-place, and in this warm
situation I intend to place the Guardian of Literature. I should be happy to have my
friend Maida appear. It is now almost proverbial,
‘Walter Scott and his Dog.’
Raeburn should be warned that I am as well acquainted with my
friend’s hands and arms as with his nose—and Vandyke was of my opinion. Many of R.’s
works are shamefully finished—the face studied, but every thing else neglected. This is
a fair opportunity of producing something really worthy of his skill.”
I shall insert by and by Scott’s
answer—which never reached the Duke’s hand—with another letter of the same date to
Captain Ferguson; but I must first introduce
one, addressed a fortnight earlier to Mr Southey,
who had been distressed by the accounts he received of Scott’s
health from an American traveller, Mr George Ticknor
236 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
of Boston—a friend, and worthy to be such, of Mr Washington Irving. The Poet Laureate, by the way, had
adverted also to an impudent trick of a London
bookseller, who shortly before this time announced certain volumes of Grub
Street manufacture, as “A New Series of
the Tales of my Landlord,” and who, when John
Ballantyne, as the “agent for the Author of Waverley,” published
a declaration that the volumes thus advertised were not from that writer’s pen, met
John’s declaration by an audacious rejoinder—impeaching his
authority, and asserting that nothing, but the personal appearance in the field of the
gentleman for whom Ballantyne pretended to act, could shake his belief
that he was himself in the confidence of the true Simon
Pure. This affair gave considerable uneasiness at the time, and for a moment
the dropping of Scott’s mask seems to have been pronounced
advisable by both Ballantyne and Constable. But he was not to be worked upon by such means as these. He
calmly replied, “The author who lends himself to such a trick must be a
blockhead—let them publish, and that will serve our purpose better than any thing we
ourselves could do.” I have forgotten the names of the “tales,”
which, being published accordingly, fell stillborn from the press. Mr
Southey had likewise dropped some allusions to another newspaper story of
Scott’s being seriously engaged in a dramatic work; a rumour
which probably originated in the assistance he had lent to Terry in some of the recent highly popular adaptations of his novels to the
purposes of the stage; though it is not impossible that some hint of the Devorgoil matter may have transpired. “It is
reported,” said the Laureate, “that you are about to bring forth a
play, and I am greatly in hopes it may be true; for I am verily persuaded that in this
course you might run as brilliant a career
as you have already done in narrative—both in prose and rhyme;—for as for believing
that you have a double in the field—not I! Those same powers would be equally certain
of success in the drama, and were you to give them a dramatic direction, and reign for
a third seven years upon the stage, you would stand alone in literary history. Indeed
already I believe that no man ever afforded so much delight to so great a number of his
contemporaries in this or in any other country. God bless you, my dear Scott, and
believe me ever yours affectionately, R. S.”
Mr Southey’s letter had further announced his wife’s
safe delivery of a son; the approach of the
conclusion of his History of Brazil; and
his undertaking of the Life of Wesley.
To Robert Southey, Esq. Keswick, Cumberland.
“Abbotsford, 4th April, 1819.
“Tidings, from you must be always acceptable, even
were the bowl in the act of breaking at the fountain—and my health is at
present very totterish. I have gone through a cruel
succession of spasms and sickness, which have terminated in a special fit of
the jaundice, so that I might sit for the image of Plutus, the god of specie, so far as complexion goes. I shall
like our American acquaintance the
better that he has sharpened your remembrance of me, but he is also a wondrous
fellow for romantic lore and antiquarian research, considering his country. I
have now seen four or five well-lettered Americans, ardent in pursuit of
knowledge, and free from the ignorance and forward presumption which
distinguish many of their countrymen. I hope they will inoculate their country
with a love of letters, so nearly allied to a
238 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
desire of
peace and a sense of public justice, virtues to which the great Transatlantic
community is more strange than could be wished. Accept my best and most sincere
wishes for the health and strength of your latest pledge of affection. When I
think what you have already suffered, I can imagine with what mixture of
feelings this event must necessarily affect you; but you need not to be told
that we are in better guidance than our own. I trust in God this late blessing
will be permanent, and inherit your talents and virtues. When I look around me,
and see how many men seem to make it their pride to misuse high qualifications,
can I be less interested than I truly am, in the fate of one who has uniformly
dedicated his splendid powers to maintaining the best interests of humanity? I
am very angry at the time you are to be in London, as I must be there in about
a fortnight, or so soon as I can shake off this depressing complaint, and it
would add not a little, that I should meet you there. My chief purpose is to
put my eldest son into the army. I could have wished he had chosen another
profession, but have no title to combat a choice which would have been my own
had my lameness permitted.
Walter has
apparently the dispositions and habits fitted for the military profession, a
very quiet and steady temper, an attachment to mathematics and their
application, good sense and uncommon personal strength and activity, with
address in most exercises, particularly horsemanship.
“—I had written thus far last week when I was
interrupted, first by the arrival of our friend Ticknor with Mr
Cogswell, another well-accomplished Yankee (by the by, we have them
of all sorts, e.g. one Mr **********, rather a fine man,
whom the girls have christened, with some humour, the Yankee Doodle Dandie.)
They have had Tom Drum’s entertainment, for I have
been seized with
one or two
successive crises of my cruel malady, lasting in the utmost anguish from eight
to ten hours. If I had not the strength of a team of horses I could never have
fought through it, and through the heavy fire of medical artillery, scarce less
exhausting—for bleeding, blistering, calomel, and ipecacuanha have gone on
without intermission—while, during the agony of the spasms, laudanum became
necessary in the most liberal doses, though inconsistent with the general
treatment. I did not lose my senses, because I resolved to keep them, but I
thought once or twice they would have gone overboard, top and top-gallant. I
should be a great fool, and a most ungrateful wretch, to complain of such
inflictions as these. My life has been, in all its private and public
relations, as fortunate perhaps as was ever lived, up to this period; and
whether pain or misfortune may lie behind the dark curtain of futurity, I am
already a sufficient debtor to the bounty of Providence to be resigned to it.
Fear is an evil that has never mixed with my nature, nor has even unwonted good
fortune rendered my love of life tenacious; and so I can look forward to the
possible conclusion of these scenes of agony with reasonable equanimity, and
suffer chiefly through the sympathetic distress of my family.
——“Other ten days have passed away, for I would not
send this Jeremiad to teaze you, while its termination seemed doubtful. For the
present,
‘The game is done—I’ve won, I’ve won, Quoth she, and whistles thrice.’* |
I am this day, for the first time, free from the relics of my disorder,
and, except in point of weakness, perfectly well. But no broken-down hunter had
ever so many
240 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
sprung sinews, whelks, and
bruises. I am like Sancho after the doughty
affair of the Yanguesian Carriers, and all through the unnatural twisting of
the muscles under the influence of that
Goule the cramp.
I must be swathed in Goulard and Rosemary spirits—
probatum est.
“I shall not fine and renew a lease of popularity
upon the theatre. To write for low, ill-informed, and conceited actors, whom
you must please, for your success is necessarily at their mercy, I cannot away
with. How would you, or how do you think I should, relish being the object of
such a letter as Kean* wrote t’other day to a poor author, who, though a pedantic blockhead,
had at least the right to be treated like a gentleman by a copper-laced,
twopenny tear-mouth, rendered mad by conceit and success? Besides, if this
objection were out of the way, I do not think the character of the audience in
London is such that one could have the least pleasure in pleasing them. One
half come to prosecute their debaucheries so openly, that it would degrade a
bagnio. Another set to snooze off their beef-steaks and port wine; a third are
critics of the fourth column of the newspaper; fashion, wit, or literature
there is not; and, on the whole, I would far rather write verses for mine
honest friend Punch and his audience. The
only thing that could tempt me to be so silly, would be to assist a friend in
such a degrading task who was to have the whole profit and shame of it.
“Have you seen decidedly the most full and methodized
collection of Spanish romances (ballads) published by the industry of Depping (Altenburgh, and Leipsic), 1817? It is
quite delightful. Ticknor had set me
agog to see it, without affording me any hope it could be had in
London, when by one of these fortunate
chances which have often marked my life, a friend, who had been lately on the
Continent, came unexpectedly to enquire for me, and plucked it forth
par maniere de cadeau. God
prosper you, my dear
Southey, in your
labours; but do not work too hard—
experto
crede. This conclusion, as well as the confusion of my
letter, like the Bishop of Grenada’s
sermon, savours of the apoplexy. My most respectful compliments attend
Mrs S. Yours truly,
“P.S. I shall long to see the conclusion of the
Brazil history,
which, as the interest comes nearer, must rise even above the last noble
volume. Wesley you alone can touch;
but will you not have the hive about you? When I was about twelve years
old, I heard him preach more than once, standing on a chair, in Kelso
churchyard. He was a most venerable figure, but his sermons were vastly too
colloquial for the taste of Saunders.
He told many excellent stories. One I remember, which he said had happened
to him at Edinburgh. ‘A drunken dragoon (said
Wesley) was commencing an assertion in military
fashion, G—d eternally d——n me, just as I was passing. I touched the poor
man on the shoulder, and when he turned round fiercely, said calmly, you
mean God bless you.’ In the mode of telling
the story he failed not to make us sensible how much his patriarchal
appearance, and mild yet bold rebuke, overawed the soldier, who touched his
hat, thanked him, and, I think, came to chapel that evening.”
To Robert Shortreed, Esq., Sheriff Substitute, &c., Jedburgh.
“Abbotsford, 13th April, 1819.
“I am very desirous to procure, and as soon as
242 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
possible, Mrs Shortreed’s
excellent receipt for making yeast. The
Duke of
Buccleuch complains extremely of the sour yeast at Lisbon as
disagreeing with his stomach, and I never tasted half such good bread as
Mrs Shortreed has baked at home. I am sure you will be
as anxious as I am that the receipt should be forwarded to his Grace as soon as
possible. I remember Mrs Shortreed giving a most distinct
account of the whole affair. It should be copied over in a very distinct hand,
lest Mons. Florence makes blunders.
“I am recovering from my late indisposition, but as
weak as water. To write these lines is a fatigue. I scarce think I can be at
the circuit at all—certainly only for an hour or two. So on this occasion I
will give Mrs Shortreed’s kind hospitality a little
breathing time. I am tired even with writing these few lines. Yours ever,
To His Grace the Duke of Buccleuch, &c.,
Lisbon.
“Abbotsford, 15th April, 1819.
“My dear Lord Duke,
“How very strange it seems that this should be the
first letter I address your Grace, and you so long absent from Scotland, and
looking for all the news and nonsense of which I am in general such a faithful
reporter. Alas! I have been ill—very—very—ill—only Dr Baillie says there is nothing of consequence about my malady
except the pain—a pretty exception—said pain being
intense enough to keep me roaring as loud as
* “Sir Walter got not only the recipe for
making bread from us—but likewise learnt the best mode of cutting it
‘in a family way.’ The bread-board and large knife used at
Abbotsford at breakfasttime, were adopted by Sir Walter, after seeing
them ‘work well’ in our family.”—Note by Mr
Andrew Shortrede. |
your Grace’s ci-devant John of Lorn, and of, generally speaking, from
six to eight hours’ incessant duration, only varied by intervals of
deadly sickness. Poor
Sophia was alone
with me for some time, and managed a half distracted pack of servants with
spirit, and sense, and presence of mind, far beyond her years, never suffering
her terror at seeing me in a state so new to her and so alarming to divert her
mind an instant from what was fit and proper to be done. Pardon this side
compliment to your Grace’s little Jacobite, to whom you have always been
so kind. If sympathy could have cured me, I should not have been long ill.
Gentle and simple were all equally kind, and even old Tom
Watson crept down from Falshope to see how I was coming on, and
to ejaculate ‘if any thing ailed the Shirra, it would be sair on the
Duke.’ The only unwelcome resurrection was that of
old * * *, whose feud with me (or rather
dryness) I had well hoped was immortal; but he came jinking over the moor with
daughters and ponies, and God knows what, to look after my precious health. I
cannot tolerate that man; it seems to me as if I hated him for things not only
past and present, but for some future offence which is as yet in the womb of
fate.
“I have had as many remedies sent me for cramp and
jaundice as would set up a quack doctor—three from Mrs Plummer, each better than the other one—at least from every
gardener in the neighbourhood—besides all sort of recommendations to go to
Cheltenham, to Harrowgate, to Jericho for aught I know. Now if there is one
thing I detest more than another, it is a watering-place, unless a very
pleasant party be previously formed, when, as Tony
Lumpkin says, ‘a gentleman may be in a
concatenation.’ The most extraordinary recipe was that of my
Highland piper, John
244 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
Bruce, who spent a whole Sunday in
selecting twelve stones from twelve south-running streams, with the purpose
that I should sleep upon them, and be whole. I caused him to be told that the
recipe was infallible, but that it was absolutely necessary to success that the
stones should be wrapt up in the petticoat of a widow who had never wished to
marry again, upon which the piper renounced all hope of completing the charm. I
had need of a softer couch than Bruce had destined me, for
so general was the tension of the nerves all over the body, although the pain
of the spasms in the stomach did not suffer the others to be felt, that my
whole left leg was covered with swelling and inflammation, arising from the
unnatural action of the muscles, and I had to be carried about like a child. My
right leg escaped better, the muscles there having less irritability, owing to
its lame state. Your grace may imagine the energy of pain in the nobler parts,
when cramps in the extremities, sufficient to produce such effects, were
unnoticed by me during their existence. But enough of so disagreeable a
subject.
“Respecting the portrait, I shall be equally proud
and happy to sit for it, and hope it may be so executed as to be in some degree
worthy of the preferment to which it is destined.* But neither my late golden
hue, for I was covered with jaundice, nor my present silver complexion (looking
much more like a spectre than a man) will present any idea of my quondam
beef-eating physiognomy. I must wait till the age of
brass, the true juridical bronze of my profession, shall again appear
on my frontal. I hesitate a little about Rae-
* The position in the Library at Bowhill, originally
destined by the late Duke of
Buccleuch for a portrait that never was executed, is now
filled by that which Raeburn
painted in 1808 for Constable,
and which has been engraved for the first volume of this work. |
burn, unless your Grace is quite
determined. He has very much to do; works just now chiefly for cash, poor
fellow, as he can have but a few years to make money; and has twice already
made a very chowder-headed person of me. I should like much (always with your
approbation) to try
Allan, who is a man
of real genius, and has made one or two glorious portraits, though his
predilection is to the historical branch of the art. We did rather a handsome
thing for him, considering that in Edinburgh we are neither very wealthy nor
great amateurs. A hundred persons subscribed ten guineas a-piece to raffle* for
his fine picture of the Circassian Chief
* Three pictures were ultimately raffled for; and
the following note, dated April the 1st, 1819, shows how keenly and
practically Scott, almost in the
crisis of his malady, could attend to the details of such a
business: To J. G. Lockhart,
Esq., Advocate, Edinburgh. “I have been dreadfully ill since
I wrote to you, but I think I have now got the turn fairly.
It was quite time, for though the doctors say the disease
is not dangerous, yet I could not have endured six days
more agony. I have a summons from the ingenious Mr David Bridges to attend to
my interests at his shop next Saturday, or send some
qualified person to act on my behalf. I suppose this
mysterious missive alludes to the plan about Allan’s pictures, and
at any rate I hope you will act for me. I should think a
raffle with dice would give more general satisfaction than
a lottery. You would be astonished what unhandsome
suspicions well educated and sensible persons will take
into their heads, when a selfish competition awakens the
mean and evil passions of our nature. Let each subscriber
throw the dice in person or by proxy, leaving out all who
throw under a certain number, and let this be repeated till
the number is so far reduced that the three who throw
highest may hold the prizes. I have much to say to you, and
should you spare me a day about the end of next week, I
trust you will find me pretty bobbish. Always yours
affectionately, W. S. The Mr David
Bridges here mentioned has occurred already.— |
246 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
selling slaves to the Turkish Pacha a beautiful and
highly poetical picture. There was another small picture added by way of second
prize, and, what is curious enough, the only two peers on the list,
Lord Wemyss and
Lord
Fife, both got prizes. Allan has made a
sketch which I shall take to town with me when I can go, in hopes
Lord Stafford, or some other picture-buyer, may
fancy it, and order a picture. The subject is the murder of
Archbishop Sharp on Magus Moor, prodigiously
well treated. The savage ferocity of the assassins, crowding one on another to
strike at the old prelate on his knees—contrasted with the old man’s
figure—and that of his daughter endeavouring to interpose for his protection,
and withheld by a ruffian of milder mood than his fellows:—the dogged fanatical
severity of
Rathillet’s
countenance, who remained on horseback witnessing, with stern fanaticism, the
murder he did not choose to be active in, lest it should be said that he struck
out of private revenge—are all amazingly well combined in the sketch. I
question if the artist can bring them out with equal spirit in the painting
which he meditates. Sketches give a sort of fire to the imagination of the
spectator, who is apt to fancy a great deal more for himself than the pencil,
in the finished picture, can possibly present to his eye afterwards.
Constable has offered
Allan three hundred pounds to make sketches for an
edition of the
Tales of My
Landlord, and other novels of that cycle, and says he will give him
the same sum next year, so, from being pinched enough, this very deserving
artist suddenly finds himself at his ease. He was long at Odessa with the
Duke of Richelieu, and is a very
entertaining person.
“I saw with great pleasure Wilkie’s sketch of your
See ante,
p. 172. The jokers in Blackwood made him happy, by dubbing him “The
Director-General of the Fine Arts for Scotland.” |
| LETTER TO THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH. | 247 |
Grace, and I think
when I get to town I shall coax him out of a copy, to me invaluable. I hope,
however, when you return, you will sit to
Lawrence. We should have at least one picture of your Grace
from the real good hand. Sooth to speak, I cannot say much for the juvenile
representations at Bowhill and in the library at Dalkeith. Return, however,
with the original features in good health, and we shall not worry you about
portraits. The library at Bowhill will be a delightful room, and will be some
consolation to me who must, I fear, lose for some time the comforts of the
eating-room, and substitute panada and toast and water for the bonny haunch and
buxom bottle of claret. Truth is, I must make great restrictions on my
creature-comforts, at least till my stomach recovers its tone and ostrich-like
capacity of digestion. Our spring here is slow, but not unfavourable: the
country looking very well, and my plantings for the season quite completed. I
have planted quite up two little glens, leading from the
Aid-de-Camp’s habitation up to the
little loch, and expect the blessings of posterity for the shade and shelter I
shall leave where, God knows, I found none.
“It is doomed this letter is not to close without a
request. I conclude your Grace has already heard from fifty applicants that the
kirk of Middlebie is vacant, and I come forward as the fifty-first (always
barring prior engagements and better claims) in behalf of George Thomson, a son of the minister of
Melrose, being the grinder of my boys, and therefore deeply entitled to my
gratitude and my good offices, as far as they can go. He is nearer Parson Abraham Adams than any living creature I
ever saw—very learned, very religious, very simple, and extremely absent. His
father, till very lately, had but a sort of half stipend, during the incumbency
of a certain notorious Mr MacLagan, to
248 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
whom he acted only as assistant. The poor devil was
brought to the grindstone (having had the want of precaution to beget a large
family), and became the very figure of a fellow who used to come upon the stage
to sing, ‘Let us all be unhappy together.’ This poor lad
George was his saving angel, not only educating
himself, but taking on him the education of two of his brothers, and
maintaining them out of his own scanty pittance. He is a sensible lad, and by
no means a bad preacher, a staunch Anti-Gallican, and orthodox in his
principles. Should your Grace find yourself at liberty to give countenance to
this very innocent and deserving creature, I need not say it will add to the
many favours you have conferred on me, but I hope the parishioners will have
also occasion to say, ‘Weel bobbit, George of
Middlebie.’ Your Grace’s Aide-de-camp, who
knows young Thomson well, will give you a better idea of
him than I can do. He lost a leg by an accident in his boyhood, which spoiled
as bold and fine looking a grenadier as ever charged bayonet against a
Frenchman’s throat. I think your Grace will not like him the worse for
having a spice of military and loyal spirit about him. If you knew the poor
fellow, your Grace would take uncommon interest in him, were it but for the odd
mixture of sense and simplicity, and spirit and good morals. Somewhat too much
of him.
“I conclude you will go to Mafra, Cintra, or some of
these places, which Baretti describes so
delightfully, to avoid the great heats, when the Palace de las Necessidades
must become rather oppressive. By the by, though it were only for the credit of
the name, I am happy to learn it has that useful English comfort, a water
closet. I suppose the armourer of the
Liffey has already put it in complete repair. Your
Grace sees the most secret passages respecting great men cannot be
hidden from their friends. There is
but little news here but death in the clan.
Harden’s sister is dead—a cruel blow to
Lady Die,* who is upwards of eighty-five, and
accustomed to no other society. Again, Mrs Frank Scott,
his uncle’s widow, is dead, unable to survive the loss of two fine young
men in India, her sons, whose death closely followed each other. All this is
sad work; but it is a wicked and melancholy world we live in. God bless you, my
dear, dear Lord. Take great care of your health, for the sake of all of us. You
are the breath of our nostrils, useful to thousands, and to many of these
thousands indispensable. I will write again very soon, when I can keep my
breast longer to the desk without pain, for I am not yet without frequent
relapses, when they souse me into scalding water without a moment’s
delay, where I lie, as my old grieve
Tom
Purdie said last night, being called to assist at the operation,
‘like a
haulded saumon’ I write a
few lines to the Aide-de-Camp, but I am afraid of putting this letter beyond
the bounds of
Lord Montagu’s frank.
When I can do any thing for your Grace here, you know I am most pleased and
happy. Ever respectfully and affectionately your Grace’s
To Captain Adam Ferguson, &c. &c.
&c.
“Abbotsford, April 16, 1819.
“Having only been able last night to finish a long
letter to the Chief, I now add a few lines
for the Aide-de-Camp. I have had the pleasure to hear of you regularly from
Jack,† who is very regular in
steering this way
250 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
when packets arrive; and I observe with great
satisfaction that you think our good Duke’s health is on the mending
hand. Climate must operate as an alterative, and much cannot perhaps be
expected from it at first.—Besides, the great heat must be a serious drawback.
But I hope you will try by and by to get away to Cintra, or some of those
sequestered retreats where there are shades and cascades to cool the air. I
have an idea the country there is eminently beautiful. I am afraid the Duke has
not yet been able to visit Torres Vedras, but
you must
be meeting with things every where to put you in mind of former scenes. As for
the Senhoras, I have little doubt that the difference betwixt your military
hard fare and Florence’s high sauces and jellies
will make them think that time has rather improved an old friend than
otherwise. Apropos of these ticklish subjects. I am a suitor to the Duke, with
little expectation of success (for I know his engagements) for the kirk of
Middlebie to
George Thomson, the very
Abraham Adams of Presbytery. If the
Duke mentions him to you (not otherwise) pray lend him a lift. With a kirk and
a manse the poor fellow might get a good farmer’s daughter, and beget
grenadiers for his Majesty’s service. But as I said before, I daresay all
St Hubert’s black pack are in full cry upon the
living, and that he has little or no chance. It is something, however, to have
tabled him, as better may come of it another day.
“All at Huntly Burn well and hearty, and most kind in
their attentions during our late turmoils. Bauby* came
over to offer her services as sick-nurse, and I have drunk scarce any thing but
delicious ginger beer of Miss Bell’s brewing, since
my troubles commenced. They
* Bauby—i.e. Barbara, was a kind old housekeeper
of the Miss Fergusons. |
| LETTER TO CAPTAIN FERGUSON. | 251 |
have been, to say the
least, damnable; and I think you would hardly know me. When I crawl out on
Sybil Grey, I am the very image of Death on the
pale horse, lanthorn-jawed, decayed in flesh, stooping as if I meant to eat the
poney’s ears, and unable to go above a footpace. But although I have had,
and must expect, frequent relapses, yet the attacks are more slight, and I
trust I shall mend with the good weather. Spring sets in very pleasantly and in
a settled fashion. I have planted a number of shrubs, &c. at Huntly Burn,
and am snodding up the drive of the old farm house, enclosing the Toftfield,
and making a good road from the parish road to your gate. This I tell you to
animate you to pick up a few seeds both of forest trees, shrubs, and
vegetables; we will rear them in the hot-house, and divide honourably.
Avis au lecteur. I have been
a good deal intrusted to the care of
Sophia, who is an admirable sick-nurse.
Mamma has been called to town by two important avocations, to
get a cook—no joking matter—and to see
Charles, who was but indifferent, but has recovered. You must
have heard of the death of
Joseph Hume,
David’s only son. Christ! what
a calamity—just entering life—with the fairest prospects—full of talent, and
the heir of an old and considerable family—a fine career before him. All this
he was one day, or rather one hour—or rather in the course of five minutes—so
sudden was the death—and then a heap of earth. His disease is unknown;
something about the heart, I believe; but it had no alarming appearance,
nothing worse than a cold and sore throat, when convulsions came, and death
ensued. It is a complete smash to poor David, who had just
begun to hold his head up after his wife’s death. But he bears it
stoutly, and goes about his business as usual. A woful case. London is now out
of the question with me; I have no
252 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
prospect of being now
able to stand the journey by sea or land; but the best is, I have no pressing
business there. The
Commie* takes charge
of
Walter’s matters—cannot, you
know, be in better hands; and
Lord Melville
talks of gazetting
quam primum. I
will write a long letter very soon, but my back, fingers, and eyes ache with
these three pages. All here send love and fraternity. Yours ever most truly,
“P.S.—By the by, old
Kennedy, the tinker, swam for his life at Jedburgh, and was
only, by the sophisticated and timid evidence of a seceding doctor, who
differed from all his brethren, saved from a well-deserved gibbet. He goes
to botanize for fourteen years. Pray tell this to the Duke, for he was
‘An old soldier of the Duke’s, And the Duke’s old soldier.’ |
Six of his brethren, I am told, were in court, and kith and kin
without end. I am sorry so many of the clan are left. The cause of quarrel
with the murdered man was an old feud between two gipsey clans, the
Kennedies and Irvings, which,
about forty years since, gave rise to a desperate quarrel and battle on
Hawick Green, in which the grandfathers of both
Kennedy, and Irving whom he
murdered, were engaged.”
In the next of these letters there is allusion to a drama on the story of the Heart of Mid-Lothian, of which Mr Terry had transmitted the MS. to Abbotsford and which ultimately proved
very successful. Terry had, shortly before this time, become the acting manager of the
Haymarket theatre.
To D. Terry, Esq. Haymarket, London.
“Abbotsford, 18th April, 1819.
“I am able (though very weak) to answer your kind
enquiries. I have thought of you often, and been on the point of writing or
dictating a letter, but till very lately I could have had little to tell you of
but distress and agony, with constant relapses into my unhappy malady, so that
for weeks I seemed to lose rather than gain ground, all food nauseating on my
stomach, and my clothes hanging about me like a potato-bogle,* with from five
or six to ten hours of mortal pain every third day; latterly the fits have been
much milder, and have at last given way to the hot bath without any use of
opiates; an immense point gained, as they hurt my general health extremely.
Conceive my having taken, in the course of six or seven hours, six grains of
opium, three of hyoscyamus, near 200 drops of laudanum, and all without any
sensible relief of the agony under which I laboured. My stomach is now getting
confirmed, and I have great hopes the bout is over; it has been a dreadful
set-to. I am sorry to hear Mrs Terry is
complaining; you ought not to let her labour, neither at Abbotsford sketches
nor at any thing else, but study to keep her mind amused as much as possible.
As for Walter, he is a shoot of an Aik,† and I have no fear of him; I hope he
remembers Abbotsford and his soldier namesake.
“I send the MS.—I wish you had written for it earlier.
My touching or even thinking of it was out of the question; my corrections
would have smelled as cruelly of the cramp, as the Bishop of Grenada’s homily‡ did of the apoplexy.
Indeed I hold myself inadequate to estimate those criticisms which rest on
stage effect, having
* Anglice—Scarecrow.
† Ditto—an Oak. ‡ Sermon—p. 241.
|
254 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
been of late very little of a play-going person. Would to
Heaven these sheets could do for you what
Rob Roy has done for
Murray; he has absolutely netted upwards of
L.3000: to be sure
the man who played
the Bailie made a piece of acting equal to whatever has been seen in the
profession. For my own part, I was actually electrified by the truth, spirit,
and humour which he threw into the part. It was the living Nicol Jarvie: conceited, pragmatical, cautious,
generous, proud of his connexion with Rob
Roy, frightened for him at the same time, and yet extremely
desirous to interfere with him as an adviser: The tone in which he seemed to
give him up for a lost man after having provoked him into some burst of
Highland violence—‘Ah Rab,
Rab!’ was quite
inimitable. I do assure you I never saw a thing better played. It is like it
may be his only part, for no doubt the Patavinity and knowledge of the
provincial character may have aided him much; but still he must be a wonderful
fellow; and the houses he drew were tremendous.
“I am truly glad you are settled in London—a
‘rolling stone’ the proverb is something musty: it is always
difficult to begin a new profession; I could have wished you quartered nearer
us, but we shall always hear of you. The becoming stage-manager at the
Haymarket, I look upon as a great step; well executed, it cannot but lead to
something of the same kind elsewhere. You must be aware of stumbling over a
propensity which easily besets you from the habit of not having your time fully
employed—I mean what the women very expressively call dawdling. Your motto must be Hoc
age. Do instantly whatever is to be done, and take the hours
of reflection or recreation after business, and never before it. When a
regiment is under march, the rear is often thrown into confusion because the
front do not move
| LETTER TO TERRY—APRIL 18, 1819. | 255 |
steadily and without interruption. It is the same thing with business. If that
which is first in hand is not instantly, steadily, and regularly despatched,
other things accumulate behind till affairs begin to press all at once, and no
human brain can stand the confusion; pray mind this—it is one of your few weak
points—ask
Mrs Terry else. A habit of
the mind it is which is very apt to beset men of intellect and talent,
especially when their time is not regularly filled up, but left at their own
arrangement. But it is like the ivy round the oak, and ends by limiting, if it
does not destroy, the power of manly and necessary exertion. I must love a man
so well to whom I offer such a word of advice, that I will not apologize for
it, but expect to hear you are become as regular as a Dutch clock—hours,
quarters, minutes, all marked and appropriated. This is a great cast in life,
and must be played with all skill and caution.
“We wish much to have a plan of the great bed, that
we may hang up the tester. Mr Atkinson
offered to have it altered or exchanged; but with the expense of land-carriage
and risk of damage, it is not to be thought of. I enclose a letter to thank him
for all his kindness. I should like to have the invoice when the things are
shipped. I hope they will send them to Leith and not to Berwick. The plasterer
has broke a pane in the armoury. I enclose a sheet with the size, the black
lines being traced within the lead, and I add a rough drawing of the arms,
which are those of my mother. I should like it replaced as soon as possible,
for I will set the expense against the careless rascal’s account.
“I have got a beautiful scarlet paper inlaid with
gold (rather crimson than scarlet) in a present from India, which will hang the
parlour to a T: But we shall want some articles from town to enable us to take
possession of the parlour—namely, a carpet—you mentioned
256 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
a
wainscot pattern, which
would be delightful—item
grates for said parlour and
armoury—a plain and unexpensive pattern, resembling that in my room (which
vents most admirably), and suited by half-dogs for burning wood. The sideboard
and chairs you have mentioned. I see
Mr
Bullock (
George’s
brother) advertises his museum for sale. I wonder if a good set of real tilting
armour could be got cheap there.
James
Ballantyne got me one very handsome bright steel cuirassier of
Queen Elizabeth’s time, and
two less perfect for L.20—dog cheap; they make a great figure in the armoury.
Hangings, curtains, &c. I believe we shall get as well in Edinburgh as in
London; it is in your joiner and cabinet work that your infinite superiority
lies.
“Write to me if I can do aught about the play—though
I fear not: much will depend on Dumbiedykes, in whom Liston
will be strong. Sophia has been chiefly
my nurse, as an indisposition of little Charles called Charlotte to
town. She returned yesterday with him. All beg kind compliments to you and
Mrs Terry and little Walter. I remain your very feeble but
convalescent to command,
“P.S.—We must not forget the case for the leaves
of the table while out of use; without something of the kind I am afraid
they will be liable to injury, which is a pity, as they are so very
beautiful.”*
The accounts of Scott’s
condition circulated in Edinburgh in the course of this April were so alarming that I
should not have thought of accepting his invitation to
* The Duke of Buccleuch had
given Scott some old oak-roots from Drumlanrig,
out of which a very beautiful set of dinner-tables had been manufactured by Messrs
Bullock. |
revisit Abbotsford, unless John Ballantyne had given me better tidings, about the end
of the month. He informed me that his “illustrious friend” (for so both the
Ballantynes usually spoke of him) was so much recovered as to have
resumed his usual literary tasks, though with this difference, that he now, for the first
time in his life, found it necessary to employ the hand of another. I have now before me a
letter of the 8th April, in which Scott says to
Constable, “Yesterday I began to
dictate, and did it easily and with comfort. This is a great point—but I must proceed
by little and little; last night I had a slight return of the enemy—but baffled
him;” and he again writes to the bookseller on the
11th,—“John Ballantyne is here, and returns with
copy, which my increasing strength permits me to hope I may now furnish
regularly.”
The copy (as MS. for the press is technically called) which Scott was thus dictating, was that of the Bride of Lammermoor; and his amanuenses were William Laidlaw and John
Ballantyne; of whom he preferred the latter, when he could be at Abbotsford,
on account of the superior rapidity of his pen; and also because John
kept his pen to the paper without interruption, and though with many an arch twinkle in his
eyes, and now and then an audible smack of his lips, had resolution to work on like a
well-trained clerk; whereas good Laidlaw entered with such keen zest
into the interest of the story as it flowed from the author’s lips, that he could not
suppress exclamations of surprise and delight—“Gude keep us a?!—the like o’
that! eh sirs! eh sirs!”—and so forth—which did not promote despatch. I have
often, however, in the sequel, heard both these secretaries describe the astonishment with
which they were equally affected when Scott began this experiment. The
affectionate Laidlaw beseeching him to stop dictating, when his
audible suffering filled
258 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
every pause, “Nay,
Willie,” he answered, “only see that the
doors are fast. I would fain keep all the cry as well as all the wool to ourselves; but
as to giving over work, that can only be when I am in woollen.”
John Ballantyne told me that after the first day he always took
care to have a dozen of pens made before he seated himself opposite to the sofa on which
Scott lay, and that though he often turned himself on his pillow
with a groan of torment, he usually continued the sentence in the same breath. But when
dialogue of peculiar animation was in progress, spirit seemed to triumph altogether over
matter—he arose from his couch and walked up and down the room, raising and lowering his
voice, and as it were acting the parts. It was in this fashion that
Scott produced the far greater portion of The
Bride of Lammermoor—the whole of the Legend of Montrose and almost the whole of Ivanhoe. Yet, when his health was fairly re-established,
he disdained to avail himself of the power of dictation, which he had thus put to the
sharpest test, but resumed, and for many years resolutely adhered to, the old plan of
writing every thing with his own hand. When I once, some time afterwards, expressed my
surprise that he did not consult his ease, and spare his eyesight at all events, by
occasionally dictating, he answered, “I should as soon think of getting into a
sedan chair while I can use my legs.”
On one of the envelopes in which a chapter of the Bride of Lammermoor reached the printer in the Canongate
about this time (May 2, 1819) there is this note in the author’s own handwriting:—
“Dear James,—These matters
will need more than your usual carefulness. Look sharp—double sharp—my trust is constant in
thee:—
‘Tarry woo, tarry woo,
Tarry woo is ill to spin;
|
|
ABBOTSFORD—MAY, 1819. |
259 |
Card it weel, card it weel,
Card it weel ere ye begin.
When ’tis carded, row’d, and spun.
Then the work is hafflins done;
But when woven, drest, and clean,
It may be cleading for a queen.’
So be it.—W. S.”
|
But to return—I rode out to Abbotsford with John Ballantyne towards the end of the spring vacation, and though he had
warned me of a sad change in Scott’s appearance,
it was far beyond what I had been led to anticipate. He had lost a great deal of flesh—his
clothes hung loose about him—his countenance was meagre, haggard, and of the deadliest
yellow of the jaundice—and his hair, which a few weeks before had been but slightly
sprinkled with grey, was now almost literally snow-white. His eye, however, retained its
fire unquenched; indeed it seemed to have gained in brilliancy from the new langour of the
other features; and he received us with all the usual cordiality, and even with little
perceptible diminishment in the sprightliness of his manner. He sat at table while we
dined, but partook only of some rice pudding; and after the cloth was drawn, while sipping
his toast and water, pushed round the bottles in his old style, and talked with easy
cheerfulness of the stout battle he had fought, and which he now seemed to consider as won.
“One day there was,” he said, “when I
certainly began to have great doubts whether the mischief was not getting at my
mind—and I’ll tell you how I tried to reassure myself on that score. I was quite
unfit for any thing like original composition; but I thought if I could turn an old
German ballad I had been reading into decent rhymes, I might dismiss my worst
apprehensions—and you shall see what came of the experiment.”
260 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
He then desired his daughter Sophia to fetch the MS. of The Noble
Moringer, as it had been taken down from his dictation, partly by her and partly
by Mr Laidlaw, during one long and painful day while
he lay in bed. He read it to us as it stood, and seeing that both Ballantyne and I were much pleased with the verses, he
said he should copy them over, make them a little “tighter about the
joints,” and give me them to be printed in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1816, to consult him about
which volume had partly been the object of my visit; and this promise he redeemed before I
left him.
The reading of this long ballad, however (it consists of forty-three
stanzas)* seemed to have exhausted him: he retired to his bed-room; and an hour or two
after, when we were about to follow his example, his family were distressed by the
well-known symptoms of another sharp recurrence of his affliction. A large dose of opium
and the hot bath were immediately put in requisition. His good neighbour, Dr
Scott of Darnlee, was sent for, and soon attended; and in the course of
three or four hours we learned that he was once more at ease. But I can never forget the
groans which, during that space, his agony extorted from him. Well knowing the iron
strength of his resolution, to find him confessing its extremity, by cries audible not only
all over the house, but even to a considerable distance from it (for Ballantyne and I, after he was put into his bath, walked
forth to be out of the way, and heard him distinctly at the bowling-green)—it may be
supposed that this was sufficiently alarming, even to my companion; how much more to me,
who had never before listened to that voice, except in the gentle accents of kindness and
merriment.
I told Ballantyne that I saw this
was no time for my
visit, and that I should start for
Edinburgh again at an early hour and begged he would make my apologies in the propriety of
which he acquiesced. But as I was dressing, about seven next morning, Scott himself tapped at my door, and entered, looking better I
thought than at my arrival the day before. “Don’t think of going,”
said he, “I feel hearty this morning, and if my devil does come back again, it
won’t be for three days at any rate. For the present, I want nothing to set me up
except a good trot in the open air, to drive away the accursed vapours of the laudanum
I was obliged to swallow last night. You have never seen Yarrow, and when I have
finished a little job I have with Jocund Johnny, we shall all take
horse and make a day of it.” When I said something about a ride of twenty
miles being rather a bold experiment after such a night, he answered, that he had ridden
more than forty, a week before, under similar circumstances, and felt nothing the worse. He
added that there was an election on foot, in consequence of the death of Sir John Riddell of Riddell, Member of Parliament for the
Selkirk district of Burghs, and that the bad health and absence of the Duke of Buccleuch rendered it quite necessary that he should
make exertions on this occasion. “In short,” said he, laughing,
“I have an errand which I shall perform—and as I must pass Newark, you had
better not miss the opportunity of seeing it under so excellent a Cicerone as the old
minstrel,
‘Whose withered cheek and tresses grey Shall yet see many a better day.’” |
About eleven o’clock, accordingly, he was mounted, by the help of
Tom Purdie, upon a staunch, active cob yclept
Sybil Grey, exactly such a creature
as is described in Mr Dinmont’s Dumple—while Ballantyne sprung into the saddle of noble Old Mortality, and we
262 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
proceeded to
the town of Selkirk, where Scott halted to do business
at the Sheriff-Clerk’s, and begged us to move onward at a gentle pace until he should
overtake us. He came up by and by at a canter, and seemed in high glee with the tidings he
had heard about the canvass. And so we rode by Philiphaugh, Carterhaugh, Bowhill, and
Newark, he pouring out all the way his picturesque anecdotes of former times—more
especially of the fatal field where Montrose was
finally overthrown by Leslie. He described the battle
as vividly as if he had witnessed it; the passing of the Ettrick at daybreak by the
Covenanting General’s heavy cuirassiers, many of them old soldiers of Gustavus Adolphus, and the wild confusion of the Highland
host when exposed to their charge on an extensive haugh as flat as a
bowling-green. He drew us aside at Slain-men’s-lee, to observe
the green mound that marks the resting-place of the slaughtered royalists; and pointing to
the apparently precipitous mountain, Minchmoor, over which Montrose
and his few cavaliers escaped, mentioned that, rough as it seemed, his mother remembered
passing it in her early days in a coach and six, on her way to a ball at Peebles—several
footmen marching on either side of the carriage to prop it up, or drag it through bogs, as
the case might require. He also gave us, with all the dramatic effect of one of his best
chapters, the history of a worthy family who, inhabiting at the time of the battle a
cottage on his own estate, had treated with particular kindness a young officer of
Leslie’s army quartered on them for a night or two before.
When parting from them to join the troops, he took out a purse of gold, and told the good
woman that he had a presentiment he should not see another sun set, and in that case would
wish his money to remain in her kind hands; but, if he should survive, he had no doubt she would restore it honestly. The young man
returned mortally wounded, but lingered awhile under her roof, and finally bequeathed to
her and hers his purse and his blessing. “Such,” he said, “was
the origin of the respectable lairds of ——, now my good neighbours.”
The prime object of this expedition was to talk over the politics of
Selkirk with one of the Duke of Buccleuch’s great
store-farmers, who, as the Sheriff had learned,
possessed private influence with a doubtful bailie or deacon among the Souters. I forget
the result, if ever I heard it. But next morning, having, as he assured us, enjoyed a good
night in consequence of this ride, he invited us to accompany him on a similar errand
across Bowden Moor, and up the Valley of the Ayle; and when we reached a particularly bleak
and dreary point of that journey, he informed us that he perceived in the waste below a
wreath of smoke, which was the appointed signal that a wavering
Souter of some consequence had agreed to give him a personal interview where no Whiggish
eyes were likely to observe them;—and so, leaving us on the road, he proceeded to thread
his way westwards, across moor and bog, until we lost view of him. I think a couple of
hours might have passed before he joined us again, which was, as had been arranged, not far
from the village of Lilliesleaf. In that place, too, he had some negotiation of the same
sort to look after; and when he had finished it, he rode with us all round the ancient
woods of Riddell, but would not go near the house; I suppose lest any of the afflicted
family might still be there. Many were his lamentations over the catastrophe which had just
befallen them. “They are,” he said, “one of the most venerable
races in the south of Scotland—they were here long before these glens had ever heard
the name of Soulis or of Douglas—to say
nothing of Buccleuch: they can show a Pope’s bull of the
tenth cen-
264 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
tury, authorizing the then Riddell
to marry a relation within the forbidden degrees. Here they have been for a thousand
years at least; and now all the inheritance is to pass away, merely because one good
worthy gentleman would not be contented to enjoy his horses, his hounds, and his bottle
of claret, like thirty or forty predecessors, but must needs turn scientific
agriculturist, take almost all his fair estate into his own hand, superintend for
himself perhaps a hundred ploughs, and try every new nostrum that has been tabled by
the quackish improvers of the time. And what makes the thing ten
times more wonderful is, that he kept day-book and ledger, and all the rest of it, as
accurately as if he had been a cheesemonger in the Grassmarket.” Some of the
most remarkable circumstances in Scott’s own subsequent life
have made me often recall this conversation—with more wonder than he expressed about the
ruin of the Riddells.
I remember he told us a world of stories, some tragical, some comical,
about the old lairds of this time-honoured lineage; and among others, that of the seven
Bibles and the seven bottles of ale, which he afterwards inserted in a note to The Bride of
Lammermoor.* He was also full of
* “It was once the universal custom to place ale, wine,
or some strong liquor, in the chamber of an honoured guest, to assuage his
thirst should he feel any on awakening in the night, which, considering that
the hospitality of that period often reached excess, was by no means unlikely.
The author has met some instances of it in former days, and in old-fashioned
families. It was, perhaps, no poetic fiction that records how
‘My cummer and I lay down to sleep With two pint stoups at our bed feet; And aye when we waken’d we drank them dry: What think you o’ my cummer and I?’ |
“It is a current story in Teviotdale, that in the house
of an ancient
|
anecdotes about a friend of his father’s, a
minister of Lilliesleaf, who reigned for two generations the most popular preacher in
Teviotdale; but I forget the orator’s name. When the original of Saunders Fairford congratulated him in his latter days on the
undiminished authority he still maintained—every kirk in the neighbourhood being left empty
when it was known he was to mount the tent at any country
sacrament—the shrewd divine answered, “Indeed, Mr Walter, I
sometimes think it’s vera surprising. There’s aye a talk of this or that
wonderfully gifted young man frae the college; but whenever I’m to be at the same
occasion with ony o’ them, I e’en mount the
white horse in the Revelations, and he dings them a’.”
Thus Scott amused himself and us as
we jogged homewards: and it was the same the following day, when (no
family of distinction, much addicted to the Presbyterian cause, a Bible was
always put into the sleeping apartment of the guests, along with a bottle of
strong ale. On some occasion there was a meeting of clergymen in the vicinity
of the castle, all of whom were invited to dinner by the worthy Baronet, and
several abode all night. According to the fashion of the times, seven of the
reverend guests were allotted to one large barrack-room, which was used on such
occasions of extended hospitality. The butler took care that the divines were
presented, according to custom, each with a Bible and a bottle of ale. But
after a little consultation among themselves, they are said to have recalled
the domestic as he was leaving the apartment. ‘My friend,’
said one of the venerable guests, ‘you must know, when we meet
together as brethren, the youngest minister reads aloud a portion of
Scripture to the rest; only one Bible, therefore, is necessary; take away
the other six, and in their place bring six more bottles of
ale.’ “This synod would have suited the ‘hermit
sage’ of Johnson, who answered a
pupil who enquired for the real road to happiness, with the celebrated
line,
‘Come, my lad, and drink some beer!’ | —See Waverley Novels, Edit. 1834, Vol. xiv. p. 91. |
266 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
election matters pressing) he rode with us to the western peak of the
Eildon hills, that he might show me the whole panorama of his Teviotdale, and expound the
direction of the various passes by which the ancient forayers made their way into England,
and tell the names and the histories of many a monastic chapel and baronial peel, now
mouldering in glens and dingles that escape the eye of the traveller on the highways. Among
other objects on which he descanted with particular interest were the ruins of the earliest
residence of the Kerrs of Cessford, so often opposed in arms to his
own chieftains of Branksome, and a desolate little kirk on the adjoining moor, where the
Dukes of Roxburghe are still buried in the same vault with the
hero who fell at Turnagain. Turning to the northward, he showed us the crags and tower of
Smailholme, and behind it the shattered fragment of Erceldoune—and repeated some pretty
stanzas ascribed to the last of the real wandering minstrels of this district, by name
Burn:—
“Sing Erceldoune, and Cowdenknowes,
Where Homes had ance commanding,
And Drygrange, wi’ the milk-white ewes,
’Twixt Tweed and Leader standing.
The bird that flees through Redpath trees
And Giedswood banks each morrow,
May chaunt and sing—sweet Leader’s houghs
And Bonny howms of Yarrow.
|
“But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage
His grief, while life endureth,
To see the changes of this age
Which fleeting time procureth;
For mony a place stands in hard case,
Where blythe folks kent nae sorrow,
With Homes that dwelt on Leader side,
And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow.”
|
That night he had again an attack of his cramp,
| DEATH OF THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH. | 267 |
but not so serious as the former. Next morning he
was again at work with Ballantyne at an early hour;
and when I parted from him after breakfast, he spoke cheerfully of being soon in Edinburgh
for the usual business of his Court. I left him, however, with dark prognostications; and
the circumstances of this little visit to Abbotsford have no doubt dwelt on my mind the
more distinctly, from my having observed and listened to him throughout under the painful
feeling that it might very probably be my last.
On the 5th of May he received the intelligence of the death of the
Duke of Buccleuch, which had occurred at Lisbon on
the 20th April; and next morning he wrote as follows to his Grace’s brother:
To the Lord Montagu, &c. &c. &c., Ditton
Park, Windsor.
“Abbotsford, 6th May, 1819.
“My dear Lord,
“I heard from Lord
Melville, by yesterday’s post, the calamitous news which
your Lordship’s very kind letter this moment confirmed, had it required
confirmation. For this fortnight past my hopes have been very faint indeed, and
on Wednesday, when I had occasion to go to Yarrow, and my horse turned from
habit to go up the avenue at Bowhill, I felt deeply impressed that it was a
road I should seldom travel for a long time at least. To your Lordship, let me
add to myself, this is an irreparable loss, for such a fund of excellent sense,
high principle, and perfect honour, have been rarely combined in the same
individual. To the country the inestimable loss will be soon felt, even by
those who were insensible to his merits, or wished to detract from them, when
he was amongst us. In my opinion he never recovered his domestic calamity.
He wrote to me a few days after that
cruel event, a most affectionate and re-
268 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
markable letter,
explaining his own feelings, and while he begged that I would come to him,
assuring me that I should find him the same he would be for the future years of
his life. He kept his word; but I could see a grief of that calm and
concentrated kind which claims the hours of solitude and of night for its
empire, and gradually wastes the springs of life.
“Among the thousand painful feelings which this
melancholy event had excited, I have sometimes thought of his distance from
home. Yet this was done with the best intention, and upon the best advice, and
was perhaps the sole chance which remained for re-establishment. It has pleased
God that it has failed, but the best means were used under the best direction,
and mere mortality can do no more. I am very anxious about the dear young
ladies, whose lives were so much devoted to their father, and shall be
extremely desirous of knowing how they are. The Duchess has so much firmness of mind, and Lady M. so much affectionate prudence, that they
will want no support that example and kindness can afford. To me the world
seems a sort of waste without him. We had many joint objects, constant
intercourse, and unreserved communication, so that through him and by him I
took interest in many things altogether out of my own sphere, and it seems to
me as if the horizon were narrowed and lowered around me. But God’s will
be done: it is all that brother or friend can or dare say. I have reluctance to
mention the trash which is going on here. Indeed, I think little is altered
since I wrote to your Lordship fully, excepting that last night late, Chisholm* arrived at Abbotsford from Lithgow,
recalled by the news which had somehow reached Edinburgh—as I suspect by some
officiousness of . . . . . . He
* Mr Chisholm
was the Tory Candidate for the Selkirk burghs. |
| LETTER TO LORD MONTAGU. | 269 |
left Lithgow in such a state
that there is no doubt he will carry that burgh, unless
Pringle* gets Selkirk. He is gone off this
morning to try the possible and impossible to get the single vote which he
wants, or to prevail on one person to stand neuter. It is possible he may
succeed, though this event, when it becomes generally known, will be greatly
against his efforts. I should care little more about the matter, were it not
for
young Walter,† and for the
despite I feel at the success of speculations which were formed on the
probability of the event which has happened. Two sons of
******** came here yesterday, and with their
father’s philosophical spirit of self-accommodation, established
themselves for the night. Betwixt them and
Chisholm’s noise, my head and my stomach
suffered so much (under the necessity of drowning feelings which I could not
express), that I had a return of the spasms, and I felt as if a phantasmagoria
was going on around me. Quiet, and some indulgence of natural and solitary
sorrow, have made me well. To-day I will ride up to Selkirk and see the
magistrates, or the chief of them. It is necessary they should not think the
cause deserted. If it is thought proper to suspend the works at Bowhill,
perhaps the measure may be delayed till the decision of this matter.
“I am sure, my dear Lord, you will command me in all
I can do. I have only to regret it is so little. But to show that my gratitude
has survived my benefactor, would be the pride and delight of my life. I never
thought it possible that a man could have loved another so much where the
distance of rank was so very great. But why recur to things so painful? I pity
poor Adam Ferguson, whose affections
were so much engaged by
270 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
the
Duke’s
kindness, and who has with his gay temper a generous and feeling heart. The
election we may lose, but not our own credit, and that of the family—that you
may rest assured of. My best respects and warmest sympathy attend the dear
young ladies, and
Lady Montagu. I shall be
anxious to know how the Duchess-Dowager does under this great calamity. The
poor boy—what a slippery world is before him, and how early a dangerous,
because a splendid, lot, is presented to him! But he has your personal
protection. Believe me, with a deep participation in your present distress,
your Lordship’s most faithfully,
Scott drew up for Ballantyne’s newspaper of that week the brief character of Charles, Duke of Buccleuch, which has since been included in
his Prose Miscellanies (Vol. iv.);
and the following letter accompanied a copy of it to Ditton Park.
To the Lord Montagu, &c. &c. &c.
“My dear Lord,
“I send you the newspaper article under a different
cover. I have studied so much to suppress my own feelings, and so to give a
just, calm, and temperate view of the excellent subject of our present sorrow,
such as I conceive might be drawn by one less partially devoted to him, that it has to my own eye a cold and
lifeless resemblance of an original so dear to me. But I was writing to the
public, and to a public less acquainted with him than a few years’
experience would have made them. Even his own tenantry were but just arrived at
the true estimation of his character. I wrote, therefore, to insure credit and
belief, in a tone greatly under my own feelings. I have ordered twenty-five
copies to be put in a
different shape, of
which I will send your Lordship twenty. It has been a painful task, but I feel
it was due from me. I am just favoured with your letter. I beg your Lordship
will not write more frequently than you find quite convenient, for you must
have now more than enough upon you. The arrangement respecting Boughton* is
what I expected—the lifeless remains will be laid where the living thoughts had
long been. I grieve that I shall not see the last honours, yet I hardly know
how I could have gone through the scene.
“Nothing in the circumstances could have given me the
satisfaction which I receive from your Lordship’s purpose of visiting
Scotland, and bringing down the dear young ladies, who unite so many and such
affecting ties upon the regard and affection of every friend of the family. It
will be a measure of the highest necessity for the political interest of the
family, and your Lordship will have an opportunity of hearing much information
of importance, which really could not be made subject of writing. The
extinction of fire on the hearths of this great house would be putting out a
public light, and a public beacon in the time of darkness and storms. Ever your
most faithful
W. S.”
On the 11th of May Scott returned to
Edinburgh, and was present next day at the opening of the Court of Session; when all who
saw him were as much struck as I had been at Abbotsford with the lamentable change his
illness had produced in his appearance. He was un-
272 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
able to persist in attendance at the Clerk’s table for several
weeks afterwards I think he seldom if ever attempted it; and I well remember that, when the
Third Series of the Tales of My Landlord at
length came out (which was on the 10th of June), he was known to be confined to bed, and
the book was received amidst the deep general impression that we should see no more of that
parentage. On the 13th he wrote thus to Captain
Ferguson, who had arrived in London with the remains of the Duke of Buccleuch:—
To Captain Adam Ferguson, &c. &c. Montagu
House, Whitehall.
“My dear Adam, I am sorry to say I have had another eight days’ visit
of my disorder, which has confined me chiefly to my bed. It is not attended
with so much acute pain as in spring, but with much sickness and weakness. It
will perhaps shade off into a mild chronic complaint—if it returns frequently
with the same violence I shall break up by degrees, and follow my dear
Chief. I do not mean that there is the
least cause for immediate apprehension, but only that the constitution must be
injured at last, as well by the modes of cure, or rather of relief, as by the
pain. My digestion as well as my appetite are for the present quite gone—a
change from former days of Leith and Newhaven parties. I thank God I can look
at this possibility without much anxiety, and without a shadow of fear.
“Will you, if your time serves, undertake two little
commissions for me? One respects a kind promise of Lord Montagu to put George
Thomson’s name on a list for kirk preferment. I
don’t like to trouble him with letters—he must be overwhelmed with
business, and has his dear brother’s punctuality in replying even to
those which require none. I would fain have that Scottish Abr. Adams pro-
| THIRD TALES OF MY LANDLORD. | 273 |
vided for if possible. My other request
is, that you will, if you can, see
Terry, and ask him what is doing about my diningroom chairs, and
especially about the carpet, for I shall not without them have the use of what
Slender calls ‘mine own great
parlour’ this season. I should write to him, but am really
unable. I hope you will soon come down—a sight of you would do me good at the
worst turn I have yet had. The
Baronet*
is very kind, and comes and sits by me. Every body likes the Regalia, and I
have heard of no one grudging their
hog†—but you
must get something better. I have been writing to the
Commie‡ about this. He has been
inexpressibly kind in
Walter’s
matter, and the
Duke of York has promised an
early commission. When you see our friend, you can talk over this, and may
perhaps save him the trouble of writing particular directions what further is
to be done. Iago’s rule, I
suppose—‘put money in thy purse.’ I wish in passing you
would ask how the ladies are in Piccadilly. Yours ever,
The Bride of Lammermoor,
and the Legend of Montrose, would hare been
read with indulgence, had they needed it; for the painful circumstances under which they
must have been produced were known wherever an English newspaper made its way; but I
believe that, except in numerous typical errors, which sprung of necessity from the
author’s inability to correct any proof-sheets, no one ever affected to perceive in
either tale the slightest symptom of his malady. Dugald
Dalgetty was placed by acclamation in the same rank with Bailie Jarvie—a conception equally new, just, and humorous,
and worked out in all the
274 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
details, as if it had formed the luxurious entertainment of a chair
as easy as was ever shaken by Rabelais; and though
the character of Montrose himself seemed hardly to have
been treated so fully as the subject merited, the accustomed rapidity of the
novelist’s execution would have been enough to account for any such defect. Of
Caleb Balderstone—(the hero of one of the many
ludicrous delineations which he owed to the late Lord
Haddington, a man of rare pleasantry, and one of the best tellers of old
Scotch stories that I ever heard)—I cannot say that the general opinion was then, nor do
believe it ever since has been, very favourable. It was pronounced at the time, by more
than one critic, a mere caricature; and, though Scott
himself would never in after days admit this censure to be just, he allowed that
“he might have sprinkled rather too much parsley over his chicken.”
But even that blemish, for I grant that I think it a serious one, could not disturb the
profound interest and pathos of the Bride of Lammermoor—to my
fancy the most pure and powerful of all the tragedies that Scott ever penned. The reader
will be well pleased, however, to have, in place of any critical observations on this work,
the following particulars of its composition from the notes which its printer dictated when
stretched on the bed from which he well knew he was never to rise.
“The book” (says James
Ballantyne), “was not only written, but published, before Mr Scott was able to rise from his bed; and he assured me,
that when it was first put into his hands in a complete shape, he did not recollect one
single incident, character, or conversation it contained! He did not desire me to
understand, nor did I understand, that his illness had erased from his memory the
original incidents of the story, with which he had been acquainted from his boyhood.
These remained rooted where they had ever been; or, to speak more ex-
| THE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR. | 275 |
plicitly, he remembered the general
facts of the existence of the father and mother, of the son and daughter, of the rival
lovers, of the compulsory marriage, and the attack made by the bride upon the hapless
bridegroom, with the general catastrophe of the whole. All these things he recollected,
just as he did before he took to his bed; but he literally recollected nothing else:
not a single character woven by the romancer, not one of the many scenes and points of
humour, nor any thing with which he was connected as the writer of the work.
‘For a long time,’ he said, ‘I felt myself very uneasy
in the course of my reading, lest I should be startled by meeting something
altogether glaring and fantastic. However, I recollected that you had been the
printer, and I felt sure that you would not have permitted any thing of this sort
to pass.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘upon the whole,
how did you like it?’ ‘Why,’ he said, ‘as a
whole, I felt it monstrous gross and grotesque; but still the worst of it made me
laugh, and I trusted the good-natured public would not be less
indulgent.’ I do not think I ever ventured to lead to the discussion of this
singular phenomenon again; but you may depend upon it, that what I have now said is as
distinctly reported as if it had been taken down in short-hand at the moment; I should
not otherwise have ventured to allude to the matter at all. I believe you will agree
with me in thinking that the history of the human mind contains nothing more
wonderful.”
Soon after Scott re-appeared in the
Parliament-house, he came down one Saturday to the vaulted chambers below, where the
Advocates’ Library was then kept, to attend a meeting of the Faculty, and as the
assembly was breaking up he asked me to walk home with him, taking Ballantyne’s printing office in our way. He moved
languidly, and said, if he were to stay in town
276 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
many days, he must
send for Sybil Grey; but his conversation was heart-whole; and,
in particular, he laughed till, despite his weakness, the stick was flourishing in his
hand, over the following almost incredible specimen of that most absurd personage the late
Earl of Buchan.
Hearing one morning shortly before this time, that Scott was actually in
extremis, the Earl proceeded to
Castle Street, and found the knocker tied up. He then descended to the door in the area,
and was there received by honest Peter Mathieson,
whose face seemed to confirm the woful tidings, for in truth his master was ill enough.
Peter told his Lordship that he had the strictest orders to admit
no visiter; but the Earl would take no denial, pushed the bashful coachman aside, and
elbowed his way up stairs to the door of Scott’s bed-chamber. He
had his fingers upon the handle before Peter could give warning to
Miss Scott; and when she appeared to remonstrate
against such an intrusion, he patted her on the head like a child, and persisted in his
purpose of entering the sick-room so strenuously, that the young lady found it necessary to
bid Peter see the Earl down stairs again, at whatever damage to his
dignity. Peter accordingly, after trying all his eloquence in vain,
gave the tottering, bustling, old, meddlesome coxcomb a single shove,—as respectful, doubt
not, as a shove can ever be,—and he accepted that hint, and made a rapid exit.
Scott, mean while, had heard the confusion, and at length it was
explained to him; when, fearing that Peter’s gripe might have
injured Lord Buchan’s feeble person, he desired James Ballantyne, who had been sitting by his bed, to
follow the old man home—make him comprehend, if he could, that the family were in such
bewilderment of alarm, that the ordinary rules of civility were out of the question—and, in
fine, enquire what had been the object of his lordship’s intended visit.
James proceeded
| LORD BUCHAN—JUNE, 1819. | 277 |
forthwith to the Earl’s house in George Street, and found him strutting about his
library in a towering indignation. Ballantyne’s elaborate
demonstrations of respect, however, by degrees softened him, and he condescended to explain
himself. “I wished,” said he, “to embrace Walter
Scott before he died, and inform him that I had long considered it as a
satisfactory circumstance that he and I were destined to rest together in the same
place of sepulture. The principal thing, however, was to relieve his mind as to the
arrangements of his funeral—to show him a plan which I had prepared for the
procession—and, in a word, to assure him that I took upon myself the whole conduct of
the ceremonial at Dryburgh.” He then exhibited to
Ballantyne a formal programme, in which, as may be supposed, the
predominant feature was not Walter Scott, but David Earl of
Buchan. It had been settled, inter
alia, that the said Earl was to pronounce an eulogium over the grave,
after the fashion of French Academicians in the Père la
Chaise.
And this silliest and vainest of busy-bodies was the elder brother of
Thomas and Henry
Erskine! But the story is well known of his boasting one day to the late
Duchess of Gordon of the extraordinary talents of
his family—when her unscrupulous grace asked him, very coolly, whether the wit had not come
by the mother, and been all settled on the younger branches?
Scott, as his letters to be quoted presently will show, had several more
attacks of his disorder, and some very severe ones, during the autumn of 1819; nor, indeed,
had it quite disappeared until about Christmas. But from the time of his return to
Abbotsford in July, when he adopted the system of treatment recommended by a skilful
physician (Dr Dick), who had had large experience in
maladies of this kind during his Indian life, the seizures gradually became less violent,
and his confidence
278 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
that he was ultimately to baffle the enemy
remained unshaken.
As I had no opportunity of seeing him again until he was almost entirely
re-established, I shall leave the progress of his restoration to be collected from his
correspondence. But I must not forget to set down what his daughter Sophia afterwards told me of his conduct upon one night,
in June, when he really did despair of himself. He then called his children about his bed,
and took leave of them with solemn tenderness. After giving them, one by one, such advice
as suited their years and characters, he added, “For myself, my dears, I am
unconscious of ever having done any man an injury, or omitted any fair opportunity of
doing any man a benefit. I well know that no human life can appear otherwise than weak
and filthy in the eyes of God; but I rely on the merits and intercession of our
Redeemer.” He then laid his hand on their heads, and said, “God
bless you! Live so that you may all hope to meet each other in a better place
hereafter. And now leave me that I may turn my face to the wall.” They obeyed
him: but he presently fell into a deep sleep; and when he awoke from it after many hours,
the crisis of extreme danger was felt by himself, and pronounced by his physician, to have
been overcome.
William Adam (1751-1839)
Scottish barrister, Whig MP (1784-1812) and ally of Charles James Fox (whom he once
wounded in a duel); he was privy councillor (1815) and a friend of Sir Walter Scott.
Sir William Allan (1782-1850)
Scottish painter who traveled in Russia and exhibited at the Royal Academy to which he
was elected in 1835; he was president of the Royal Scottish Academy (1838).
William Atkinson (1774-1839)
English architect who worked at Sir Walter Scott's Abbotsford; he published
Views of Picturesque Cottages (1805).
Matthew Baillie (1761-1823)
Physician and brother of Joanna Baillie; as successor to the anatomist William Hunter he
treated the pedal deformities of both Walter Scott and Lord Byron.
James Ballantyne (1772-1833)
Edinburgh printer in partnership with his younger brother John; the company failed in the
financial collapse of 1826.
John Ballantyne (1774-1821)
Edinburgh publisher and literary agent for Walter Scott; he was the younger brother of
the printer James Ballantyne.
David Bridges (1776-1840)
Edinburgh clothier, connoisseur, and secretary of the Society of Dilettanti.
Henry Peter Brougham, first baron Brougham and Vaux (1778-1868)
Educated at Edinburgh University, he was a founder of the
Edinburgh
Review in which he chastised Byron's
Hours of Idleness; he
defended Queen Caroline in her trial for adultery (1820), established the London University
(1828), and was appointed lord chancellor (1830).
Charles Bucke (1781-1846)
English poet and miscellaneous writer involved in a bitter controversy with the actor
Edmund Kean regarding Bucke's play
The Italians, or, The Fatal
Accusation: a Tragedy (1819).
George Bullock (1782-1818)
English cabinetmaker in Liverpool and London, the brother of the museum-director William
Bullock; his clients included Walter Scott.
William Bullock (1780 c.-1849)
Naturalist and antiquary who in 1795 opened a museum in Liverpool; in 1809 his
collections opened in London as the Liverpool Museum.
Robert Burns (1759-1796)
Scottish poet and song collector; author of
Poems, chiefly in the
Scottish Dialect (1786).
Alexander Cannon (1689 fl.)
He was second in command under John Graham of Claverhouse at the Battle of
Killicrankie.
William Clerk (1771-1847)
Edinburgh lawyer, the son of John Clerk of Eldin and brother of Lord Eldin (1757-1832);
he was Clerk of the Jury Court (1815) and a friend of Sir Walter Scott. He is said to be
the model for Darsie Latimer in
Redgauntlet.
Joseph Green Cogswell (1786-1871)
American bibliographer; he was professor of geology at Harvard, editor of the
New York Review, and superintendent of the Astor Library.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)
English poet and philosopher who projected
Lyrical Ballads (1798)
with William Wordsworth; author of
Biographia Literaria (1817),
On the Constitution of the Church and State (1829) and other
works.
Archibald Constable (1774-1827)
Edinburgh bookseller who published the
Edinburgh Review and works
of Sir Walter Scott; he went bankrupt in 1826.
Georges Bernard Depping (1784-1853)
Franco-German historian, author of
Les Juifs dans le Moyen Age
(1834); he wrote for the
New Monthly Magazine.
William Dick (d. 1821)
Of Tullymet, Perthshire, physician in the East India Company who in retirement
successfully treated Sir Walter Scott's violent stomach complaints.
James Duff, fourth earl of Fife (1776-1857)
Son of the third earl (d. 1811); after study at Westminster and Oxford he fought at the
Battle of Talavera, was Major-General in the Spanish Army, and was Tory MP for Banffshire
(1818-27).
Henry Erskine (1746-1817)
Scottish barrister, poet, and wit, the elder brother of Thomas Erskine; he was MP for
Haddington (1806) and Dumfries (1806-07), and was Lord Advocate (1783, 1806).
Thomas Erskine, first baron Erskine (1750-1823)
Scottish barrister who was a Whig MP for Portsmouth (1783-84, 1790-1806); after defending
the political radicals Hardy, Tooke, and Thelwall in 1794 he was lord chancellor in the
short-lived Grenville-Fox administration (1806-07).
William Fearman (1823 fl.)
New Bond Street bookseller who wrote a spurious continuation of Scott's
Tales of my Landlord and defended himself in
Blackwood's
for November 1819.
Sir Adam Ferguson (1771-1855)
Son of the philosopher and classmate and friend of Sir Walter Scott; he served in the
Peninsular Campaign under Wellington, afterwards living on his estate in
Dumfriesshire.
John Macpherson Ferguson (1783-1855)
Scottish naval officer, youngest son of the philosopher Adam Ferguson and the brother of
Sir Walter Scott's friend Sir Adam Ferguson.
Frederick Augustus, Duke of York (1763-1827)
He was commander-in-chief of the Army, 1798-1809, until his removal on account of the
scandal involving his mistress Mary Anne Clarke.
Jane Gordon, duchess of Gordon [née Maxwell] (1748-1812)
One of London's most prominent hostesses; in 1767 she married Alexander Gordon, fourth
duke of Gordon. She was active in Tory politics and married three of her daughters to
dukes.
George Granville Leveson- Gower, first duke of Sutherland (1758-1833)
The son of the first marquess of Stafford (d. 1803); he was one of the wealthiest men in
Britain with an annual income of £200,000; his program for Scottish clearances and
resettlement was widely unpopular. He was created duke in 1833.
David Hackston of Rathillet (d. 1680)
Scottish Covenanter; in 1679 he was present at the murder of Archbishop Sharp and at the
battle of Bothwell Bridge; he was executed at Edinburgh the following year.
James Hogg [The Ettrick Shepherd] (1770-1835)
Scottish autodidact, poet, and novelist; author of
The Queen's
Wake (1813) and
Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified
Sinner (1824).
Charles Hope, Lord Granton (1763-1851)
Educated at Edinburgh University, he was Tory MP for Edinburgh (1803-05) and Lord
President of Court of Session (1811-41).
Charles Hope (1798-1854)
Naval officer, son of Rt. Hon. Charles Hope, Lord Granton and brother of John Hope, Lord
Justice Clerk.
David Hume (1757-1838)
The nephew of the philosopher; he was educated at University of Edinburgh and Glasgow
University and was a member of the Speculative Society, professor of Scots law in the
University of Edinburgh, and baron of the exchequer. He contributed to
The Mirror and
The Lounger.
Joseph Hume (d. 1819)
Scottish advocate, the son of David Hume of Ninewells; he was a friend of Walter Scott
and John Gibson Lockhart.
John Jamieson (1759-1838)
Scottish clergyman and antiquary educated at Glasgow University; he published
Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language, 2 vols
(1808).
Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)
English man of letters, among many other works he edited
A Dictionary
of the English Language (1755) and Shakespeare (1765), and wrote
Lives of the Poets (1779-81).
Edmund Kean (1787-1833)
English tragic actor famous for his Shakespearean roles.
William Laidlaw (1779-1845)
The early friend of James Hogg and Sir Walter Scott's steward and amanuensis.
Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830)
English portrait painter who succeeded Joshua Reynolds as painter in ordinary to the king
(1792); he was president of the Royal Academy (1820).
David Leslie, first Lord Newark (1601-1682)
Scottish general who in 1645 defeated James Graham, Marquis of Montrose at the Battle of
Philiphaugh; in 1651 he was defeated by Cromwell at the Battle of Worcester.
John Liston (1776 c.-1846)
English comic actor who performed at the Haymarket and Covent Garden.
John Gibson Lockhart (1794-1854)
Editor of the
Quarterly Review (1825-1853); son-in-law of Walter
Scott and author of the
Life of Scott 5 vols (1838).
Charles Mackay (1787-1857)
Scottish actor who performed characters from Walter Scott's novels, notably Bailie Nichol
Jarvie.
Frederick Maclagan (1738-1818)
Minister of Melrose Parish (1768-88); about 1785 he was charged with adultery but
acquitted.
George Brudenell Montagu, duke of Montagu (1712-1790)
The son of George Brudenell, third earl of Cardigan (d. 1732); 1730 he married Lady Mary
Montagu, daughter of the second duke of Montagu; on her father's death he assumed the name
of Montagu.
Jane Margaret Montagu [née Douglas] (1779-1859)
The daughter of Archibald James Edward Douglas, first Baron Douglas of Douglas; in 1804
she married Henry James Montagu-Scott, second Baron Montagu, son of the third Duke of
Buccleuch.
William Henry Murray (1790-1852)
Actor and theater manager, the illegitimate son of the playwright Charles Murray; he
performed in Ediburgh adaptations of Walter Scott's novels.
Mary Plummer [née Pringle] (d. 1838)
The daughter of James Pringle of Bowland; she married Andrew Plummer, who preceded Walter
Scott as Sheriff of Selkirkshire.
Bryan Waller Procter [Barry Cornwall] (1787-1874)
English poet; a contemporary of Byron at Harrow, and friend of Leigh Hunt and Charles
Lamb. He was the author of several volumes of poem and
Mirandola, a
tragedy (1821).
Thomas Purdie (1767-1829)
Sir Walter Scott's forester; they originally met when Purdie was brought before Sheriff
Scott on charges of poaching.
Francçois Rabelais (1494 c.-1533)
French physician and satirist; author of
Gargantua and Pantagruel
(1532-34, 1546-52, 1562); the English translation by Urquhart and Motteux (1653, 1693-94)
has been much admired.
Sir Henry Raeburn (1756-1823)
Scottish portrait painter and friend of Sir Walter Scott.
William Riddell of Camieston (1746-1829)
Son of Thomas Riddell of Camieston; he was a Writer to the Signet (1770) who quarreled
with Walter Scott.
Charles Scott (1805-1841)
The younger son of Sir Walter Scott; educated at Oxford, he pursued a career in diplomacy
and died in Tehran.
Diana Scott [née Hume Campbell] (1735-1827)
The daughter of the third earl of Marchmont; in 1754 she married Walter Scott, eleventh
laird of Harden. She was an early patroness of Walter Scott.
Henry Scott, third duke of Buccleuch (1746-1812)
The son of Francis Scott, styled earl of Dalkeith (1721-1750), he succeeded his
grandfather in the dukedom. He was an improver and close friend of Henry Dundas.
Sir Walter Scott, second baronet (1801-1847)
The elder son and heir of Sir Walter Scott; he was cornet in the 18th Hussars (1816),
captain (1825), lieut.-col. (1839). In the words of Maria Edgeworth, he was
“excessively shy, very handsome, not at all literary.”
James Sharp, archbishop of St Andrews (1618-1679)
Professor of Philosophy at St. Andrews; after his conversion to episcopacy he was made
archbishop in 1661. He was murdered by Covenenters on Magus Moor.
Andrew Shortreed (1805-1858)
Son of Walter Scott's friend, Robert Shortreed; he was an Edinburgh printer who at one
time worked for James Ballantyne.
Robert Shortreed (1762-1829)
Sheriff-substitute of Roxburghshire; he was a ballad-collector and close friend of Sir
Walter Scott.
Charles Cuthbert Southey (1819-1888)
Son of Robert Southey whose
Life and Correspondence (1849-1850) he
edited. Educated at Queen's College, Oxford, he was curate of Plumbland in Cumberland,
vicar of Kingsbury Episcopi, Somerset (1855-79) and Askham, near Penrith (1885).
Edith Southey [née Fricker] (1774-1837)
The daughter of Stephen Fricker, she was the first wife of Robert Southey and the mother
of his children; they married in secret in 1795.
Robert Southey (1774-1843)
Poet laureate and man of letters whose contemporary reputation depended upon his prose
works, among them the
Life of Nelson, 2 vols (1813),
History of the Peninsular War, 3 vols (1823-32) and
The Doctor, 7 vols (1834-47).
Daniel Terry (1789-1829)
English actor; after a career in provincial theater made his London debut in 1812. A
close friend of Walter Scott, he performed in theatrical adaptations of Scott's
novels.
Elizabeth Wemyss Terry [née Nasmyth] (1793-1862)
Painter and wife of Walter Scott's friend Daniel Terry; after the death of her first
husband she married the lexicographer Charles Richardson (1775-1865) in 1835.
Walter Scott Terry (1816-1842)
The son of the actor Daniel Terry; he was a lieutenant in the Bombay Artillery, mortally
wounded fighting at the Khyber Pass. Walter Scott was his godfather.
George Thomson (1792-1838)
The son of George Thomson (1758-1835), clergyman at Melrose; he was the wooden-legged
tutor and chaplain in the family of Sir Walter Scott. He was the model for Dominie Sampson
in
Guy Mannering.
George Ticknor (1791-1871)
American author and Harvard professor of modern languages who travelled extensively in
Europe 1815-19.
Sir Anthony Van Dyke (1599-1641)
Flemish painter who studied under Rubens and spent the last decade of his life as a court
painter to Charles I.
John Wesley (1703-1791)
English clergyman and author; with George Whitefield he was a founder of
Methodism.
Sir David Wilkie (1785-1841)
Scottish-born artist whose genre-paintings were much admired; he was elected to the Royal
Academy in 1811.
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. (1817-1980). Begun as the
Edinburgh Monthly Magazine,
Blackwood's assumed the name of its proprietor, William Blackwood after the sixth
number. Blackwood was the nominal editor until 1834.