Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
Chapter II 1825
CHAPTER II.
EXCURSION TO IRELAND—RECEPTION IN
DUBLIN—WICKLOW—EDGEWORTHSTOWN—KILLARNEY—CORK—CASTLE BLARNEY, &c.—LETTERS FROM
MOORE AND
CANNING—LLANGOLLEN—ELLERAY—STORRS—LOWTHER—
1825.
Before the Court of Session rose in July, Sir Walter had made considerable progress in his Sketch of the
French Revolution; but it was agreed that he should make his promised excursion to Ireland
before any MS. went to the printers. He had seen no more of the sister island than Dunluce
and the Giant’s Causeway, of which we have his impressions in the Lighthouse Diary of
1814; his curiosity about the scenery and the people was lively; and besides the great
object of seeing his son and daughter-in-law under their own roof, and the scarcely
inferior pleasure of another meeting with Miss
Edgeworth, he looked forward to renewing his acquaintance with several
accomplished persons, who had been serviceable to him in his labours upon Swift. But, illustriously as Ireland has contributed to
the English Library, he had always been accustomed to hear that almost no books were now
published there, and fewer sold than in any other country calling itself civilized; and he
had naturally concluded that apathy and indifference prevailed as to literature itself, and
of course as to literary men. He had not, therefore, formed the remotest anticipation of
the kind of reception which awaited him in
40 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
Dublin, and indeed
throughout the island wherever he traversed it.
On the day after he despatched the following letter, he had the
satisfaction of seeing his son gazetted as Captain.
To Walter Scott, Esq., 15th Hussars, 10,
Stephen’s Green, Dublin.
“Edinburgh, 16th June, 1825.
“I shall wait with some impatience for this
night’s Gazette. I have written to Coutts to pay the
money so soon as you are in possession.
“On Saturday 11th, I went to Blair-Adam, and had a
delicious stroll among the woods. The roe-deer are lying as thick there as in
the Highlands, and, I daresay, they must be equally so at Lochore: so you will
have some of the high game. They are endeavouring to destroy them, which they
find very difficult. It is a pity they do so much mischief to the woods, for
otherwise they are the most beautiful objects in nature; and were they at
Abbotsford, I could not I think have the heart to make war on them. Two little
fawns came into the room at tea-time and drank cream. They had the most
beautiful dark eyes and little dark muzzles, and were scarce so big as
Miss Ferguson’s Italian
greyhound. The Chief Commissioner offered
them to me, but to keep them tame would have been impossible on account of the
dogs, and to turn them loose would have been wilfully entailing risk on the
plantations which have cost me so much money and trouble. There was then a talk
of fattening them for the kitchen, a proposal which would have driven mamma distracted.
“We spent Monday on a visit to Lochore, and in
planning the road which is so much wanted. The Chief
Commissioner is an excellent manager, and has under-
taken to treat with Mr
Wemyss of East Blair, through a part of whose property the line
lies, but just at a corner, and where it will be as convenient for his property
as Lochore.
“I am glad Jane looks after her own affairs. It is very irksome to be
sure; but then one must do it, or be eaten up by their servants, like Actæon by his hounds. Talking of hounds, I
have got a second Maida, but he is not yet arrived.
Nimrod is his name.
“I keep my purpose as expressed in my last. I might,
perhaps, persuade mamma to come, but she is
unhappy in steam-boats, bad beds, and all the other inconveniences of
travelling. Sir Adam and Lady Ferguson, as I hear, are thinking of
stirring towards you. I hope they will allow our visit to be over in the first
instance, as it would overtax Jane and
you—otherwise I should like to see the merry knight in Ireland, where I suppose
he would prove Ipsis Hybernis
Hybernior, more Irish than the natives.
“I have given Charles his choice between France and Ireland, and shall have
his answer in two or three days. Will he be de
trop if we can pack him up in the little barouche?
“Your commentary on Sir
D. Dundas’s confused hash of regulations, which, for the
matter of principle, might be shortened to a dozen, puts me in mind of old
Sir William Erskine’s speech
to him, when all was in utter confusion at the retreat from before Dunkirk, and
Sir William came down to protect the rear. In passing
Sir David, the tough old veteran exclaimed,
‘Davie, ye donnert idiot, where’s a’ your peevioys (pivots) the day?’
“As to your early hours, no man ought to be in bed at
seven in summer time. I never am; your four o’clock is rather
premature.—Yours, with kindest remembrances to Jane,
42 |
LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
|
“P. S.—Yours just received, dateless as was your
former. I suppose it is a family fault. What I have written will show that
the cash, matters are bang-up. A comparison of the dates will show there
has been no voluntary delay on my part; indeed, what motive could I have
for leaving money without interest in the hands of a London banker? But we
are corresponding at a triangle, when you write to me and I to London. I
will write to Jane to scold her for
her ladylike fears about our reception; to find you happy will be the
principal part of my welcome; for the rest, a slice of plain meat of any
kind—a cigar—and a little potheen, are worth turtle
and burgundy to my taste. As for poor dear
stupid ——, there is only one answer, which the clown in one
of Shakspeare’s plays says
will be a fitting reply to all questions—Oh Lord,
sir!!!”
It did not suit either Lady Scott or
her eldest daughter to be of the Irish expedition;
Anne Scott and myself accompanied Sir Walter. We left Edinburgh on the 8th of July in a light
open carriage, and after spending a few days among our friends in Lanarkshire, we embarked
at Glasgow in a steamer for Belfast. Sir Walter kept no
diary during this excursion, and the bustle and tumult throughout were such that he found
time to write but very few letters. From my own to the ladies left at home, I could easily
draw up a pretty exact journal of our proceedings; but I shall content myself with noting a
few particulars more immediately connected with the person of
Scott—for I am very sensible, on looking over what I set down at the
moment, that there was hardly opportunity even for him to draw any conclusions of serious
value on the structure and ordinary habits of society in Ireland, to say nothing of the
vexed questions of politics and administration; and such
| BELFAST STEAMER—JULY, 1825. | 43 |
features of natural beauty and historical interest as
came under his view have been painted over and over again by native writers, with whom
hasty observers should not be ambitious of competing.
The steam-boat, besides a crowd of passengers of all possible classes,
was lumbered with a cargo offensive enough to the eye and the nostrils, but still more
disagreeable from the anticipations and reflections it could not fail to suggest. Hardly
had our carriage been lashed on the deck before it disappeared from our view amidst
mountainous packages of old clothes; the cast-off raiment of the Scotch beggars was on its
way to a land where beggary is the staple of life. The captain assured us that he had
navigated nearly forty years between the West of Scotland and the sister island, and that
his freights from the Clyde were very commonly of this description; pigs and potatoes being
the usual return. Sir Walter rather irritated a military
passenger (a stout old Highlander), by asking whether it had never occurred to him that the
beautiful checkery of the clan tartans might have originated in a pious wish on the part of
the Scottish Gael to imitate the tatters of the parent race. After soothing the veteran
into good-humour, by some anecdotes of the Celtic splendours of August, 1822, he remarked
that if the Scotch Highlanders were really descended in the main from the Irish blood, it
seemed to him the most curious and difficult problem in the world to account for the
startling contrasts in so many points of their character, temper, and demeanour; and
entered into some disquisition on this subject, which I am sorry I cannot repeat in detail.
The sum of his opinion was that, while courage and generous enthusiasm of spirit, kindness
of heart, and great strength and purity of domestic affection, characterised them equally,
the destruction, in the course of endless feuds, and wars, and rebellions, of the
44 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
native aristocracy of Ireland, had robbed that people of most of the
elements of internal civilisation; and avowed his belief that had the Highlanders been
deprived, under similar circumstances, of their own chiefs, they would have sunk, from the
natural poverty of their regions, into depths of barbarity not exampled even in the history
of Ireland. The old soldier (who had taken an early opportunity of intimating his own near
relationship to the chief of his sept) nodded assent, and strutted from our part of the
deck with the dignity of a MacTurk.—“But
then,” Sir Walter continued (watching the
Colonel’s retreat)—“but then comes the queerest point of all. How is it that
our solemn, proud, dignified Celt, with a soul so alive to what is elevating and even
elegant in poetry and feeling, is so supereminently dull as respects all the lighter
play of fancy? The Highlander never understands wit or humour—Paddy, despite all his misery and privations, overflows with both. I
suppose he is the gayest fellow in the world, except the only worse-used one still, the
West India nigger. This is their make-up—but it is to me the saddest feature in the
whole story.”
A voyage down the Firth of Clyde is enough to make any body happy:
nowhere can the Home Tourist, at all events, behold, in the course of one day, such a
succession and variety of beautiful, romantic, and majestic scenery: on one hand dark
mountains and castellated shores—on the other, rich groves and pastures, interspersed with
elegant villas and thriving towns, the bright estuary between alive with shipping, and
diversified with islands.
It may be supposed how delightful such a voyage was in a fine day of
July, with Scott, always as full of glee on any trip as
a schoolboy; crammed with all the traditions and legends of every place we passed; and too
happy
to pour them out for the entertainment of
his companions on deck. After dinner, too, he was the charm of the table. A worthy old
Bailie of Glasgow, Mr Robert Tennent, sat by him, and shared fully in
the general pleasure; though his particular source of interest and satisfaction was, that
he had got into such close quarters with a live Sheriff and Clerk of Session, and this gave
him the opportunity of discussing sundry knotty points of police law, as to which our
steerage passengers might perhaps have been more curious than most of those admitted to the
symposium of the cabin. Sir Walter, however, was as ready for the
rogueries of the Broomielaw, as for the misty antiquities of Balclutha, or the discomfiture
of the Norsemen at Large, or Bruce’s adventures in
Arran. I remember how Mr Tennent chuckled when he, towards the
conclusion of our first bowl of punch, said he was not surprised to find himself gathering
much instruction from the Bailie’s conversation on his favourite topics, since the
most eminent and useful of the police magistrates of London (Colquhoun) had served his apprenticeship in the Town Chamber of Glasgow.
The Bailie insisted for a second bowl, and volunteered to be the manufacturer;
“for,” quoth he (with a sly wink), “I am reckoned a fair hand,
though not equal to my father, the deacon.”
Scott smiled in acquiescence, and, the ladies having by this time
withdrawn, said he was glad to find the celebrated beverage of the city of St Mungo had not
fallen into desuetude. The Bailie extolled the liquor he was brewing, and quoted Sir John Sinclair’s Code of Health and Longevity for the case of a gentleman
well known to himself, who lived till ninety, and had been drunk upon it every night for
half-a-century. But Bailie Tennent was a devout elder of the kirk, and
did not tell his story without one or two groans that his doctrine 46 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
should have such an example to plead. Sir Walter said he could only
hope that manners were mended in other respects since the days when a popular minister of
the last age (one Mr Thorn), renowned for satirical humour, as well as
for highflying zeal, had demolished all his own chances of a Glasgow benefice by preaching
before the Town-Council from this text in Hosea:
“Ephraim’s drink is sour, and he hath committed
whoredom continually.” The Bailie’s brow darkened (like Nicol Jarvie’s when they misca’d Rab); he groaned deeper than
before, and said he feared “Tham o’ Govan was at heart
a ne’erdoweel.” He, however, refilled our glasses as he spoke; and
Scott, as he tasted his, said, “Weel, weel, Bailie,
Ephraim was not so far wrong as to the matter of
drink.” A gay little Irish Squireen (a keener Protestant even than our
“merchant and magistrate”) did not seem to have discovered the Great Unknown
until about this time, and now began to take a principal share in the conversation. To the
bowl of Ephraim he had from the first done all justice. He broke at
once into the heart of the debateable land; and after a few fierce tirades against Popery,
asked the Highland Colonel, who had replaced the Master of the steamer at the head of the
table, to give the glorious memory. The prudent Colonel affected not
to hear until this hint had been thrice repeated, watching carefully meanwhile the
demeanour of a sufficiently mixed company. The general pushing in of glasses, and perhaps
some freemasonry symptoms besides—(for we understood that he had often served in
Ireland)—had satisfied him that all was right, and he rose and announced the Protestant
Shibboleth with a voice that made the lockers and rafters ring again. Bailie
Tennent rose with grim alacrity to join in the cheers; and then our Squireen
proposed, in his own person, what, he said, always ought to be the second toast among good men and true. This was nothing
else than the heroic memory, which, from our friend’s
preliminary speech, we understood to be the memory of Oliver Cromwell. Sir Walter
winced more shrewdly than his Bailie had done about Ephraim’s
transgressions, but swallowed his punch, and stood up, glass in hand, like the rest, though
an unfortunate fit of coughing prevented his taking part in their huzzas. This feature of
Irish loyalism was new to the untravelled Scotch of the party. On a little reflection,
however, we thought it not so unnatural. Our little Squireen boasted of being himself
descended from a sergeant in Cromwell’s army; and he added that
“the best in Ireland” had similar pedigrees to be proud of. He took
care, however, to inform us that his own great ancestor was a real jontleman all over, and behaved as such; “for,” said he,
“when Oliver gave him his order for the lands, he went to
the widow, and tould her he would neither turn out her nor the best-looking of her
daughters; so get the best dinner you can, old lady,” quoth he, “and
parade the whole lot of them, and I’ll pick.” Which was done, it seems,
accordingly; and probably no conquest ever wanted plenty of such alleviations.
Something in this story suggested to Scott an incident, recorded in some old book of Memoirs, of a French
envoy’s reception in the tower of some Irish chieftain, during one of the rebellions
against Queen Elizabeth; and he narrated it, to the
infinite delight of the Protestant Squireen. This comforter of the rebels was a bishop, and
his union of civil and religious dignity secured for him all possible respect and
attention. The chief (I think the name was O’Donoghue) welcomed
him warmly: He was clad in a yellow mantle—(“to wit, a dirty blanket,”
interposes the Squireen)—but this he dropt
48 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
in the interior, and sat
upon it mother-naked in the midst of his family and guests by the fire. The potheen
circulated, and was approved by the bishop. When the hour of retiring for the night
approached, the hospitable Milesian desired him to look round and select any of his
daughters he liked for a bedfellow. The bishop did as he was invited, and the young lady
went up stairs, to be dealt with probably by Monseigneur’s valet as Peregrine Pickle’s beggar-girl was by Tom Pipes. By and by the bishop followed, and next minute his
allotted partner tumbled into the partiarchal circle below in an agony of tears, while the
great man was heard pesting vociferously in his chamber above.
“It turned out,” said Sir Walter,
“that the most prominent object on his reverence’s toilette had been a
pot of singularly precious pomatum, recently presented to him by the Pope. This the
poor girl was desired by the French attendant, as he withdrew, to make use of in
completing the adornment of her person; but an interpreter had been wanting. She took
it for butter, and the bannock which she had plastered, both sides over, with this
precious unguent, was half-devoured before the ambassador honoured her bower with his
presence. Dandyism had prevailed over gallantry, and Princess
O’Donoghue was kicked down Stairs.”
When we got upon deck again after our carousal, we found it raining
heavily, and the lady passengers in great misery; which state of things continued till we
were within sight of Belfast. We got there about nine in the morning, and I find it set
down that we paid four guineas for the conveyance of the carriage, and a guinea apiece for
ourselves; in 1837 I understand the charge for passengers is not more than half-a-crown
a-head in the cabin, and sixpence in the steerage—so rapidly has steam-navigation extended
in the space of twelve years.
Sir Walter told us he well remembered being on board of
the first steamer that ever was launched in Britain, in 1812. For some time, that one
awkward machine went back and forward between Glasgow and Greenock, and it would have
looked like a cock-boat beside any one of the hundreds of magnificent steamships that now
cover the Firth of Clyde. It is also written in my pocket-book, that the little Orange
Squireen was particularly kind and serviceable at our landing—knocking about the swarm of
porters that invaded the vessel on anchoring, in a style quite new to us, with slang
equally Irish—e.g. “Your fingers are all thumbs, I see—put
that (portmanteau) in your teeth, you grampus,” &c. &c.
The following is part of the first letter I wrote to my wife from
Dublin:—“Belfast is a thriving bustling place, surrounded with smart villas,
and built much like a second-rate English town; yet there we saw the use of the
imported rags forthwith. One man, apparently happy and gay returning to his work (a
mason seemingly), from breakfast, with pipe in mouth, had a coat of which I don’t
believe any three inches together were of the same colour or the same stuff—red, black,
yellow, green—cloth, velveteen, corduroy, fustian—the complete image of a tattered
coverlid originally made on purpose of particularly small patches—no shirt, and almost
no breeches;—yet this is the best part of Ireland, and the best population. What shall
we see in the South?
“Erin deserves undoubtedly the style of Green
Erin. We passed through high and low country, rich and poor, but none that was
not greener than Scotland ever saw. The husbandry to the north seemed rather careless
than bad—I should say slovenly, for every thing is cultivated,
50 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
and the crops are fine, though the appearance is quite spoiled
by the bad, or oftener the no fences; and, above all, to
unaccustomed eyes, by the human wretchedness every where visible even there. Your papa
says, however, that he sees all over the North marks of an improving country; that the
new houses are all greatly better than the old, &c. He is no doubt right as to the
towns, and even villages on the highway, but I can’t imagine the newest huts of
the peasantry to have been preceded by worse even in the days of
Malachi with the collar of gold. They are of clay without
chimneys, and without any opening for light, except the door and the smoke-hole in the
roof. When there is a window, it seldom has even one pane of glass, and I take it the
aperture is only a summer luxury, to be closed up with the ready trowel whenever the
winter comes. The filth, darkness, and squalor of these dens and their inhabitants, are
beyond imagination, even to us who have traversed so often the wildest of our own
Highland glens; yet your father swears he has not yet seen one face decidedly careworn
and unhappy; on the contrary, an universal good-humour and merriment, and, to us, every
sort of civility from the poor people; as yet few beggars. An old man at Dunleer having
got some pence from Anne while the carriage
stopt, an older woman came forward to sell gooseberries, and we declining these, she
added that we might as well give her an alms too then, for she was an old struggler. Anne thought she said smuggler, and dreamt of potheen, but she meant that she had done her best to
resist the ‘sea of troubles;’ whereas her neighbour, the professed
mendicant, had yielded to the stream too easily. The
Unknown says he shall recollect the word, which deserves to be
classical. We slept at Dundalk, a poor little town by the shore, but with a magnificent Justice-hall and jail—a public building
superior, I think, to any in Edinburgh, in the midst of a place despicably dirty and
miserable.”
When we halted at Drogheda, a retired officer of dragoons, discovering
that the party was Sir Walter’s, sent in his card,
with a polite offer to attend him over the field of the battle of the Boyne, about two
miles off, which of course was accepted;—Sir Walter rejoicing the
veteran’s heart by his vigorous recitation of the famous ballad (The Crossing of the Water), as we proceeded to the
ground, and the eager and intelligent curiosity with which he received his explanations of
it.
On Thursday the 14th we reached Dublin in time for dinner, and found
young Walter and his bride established in one of
those large and noble houses in St Stephen’s Green (the most extensive square in
Europe), the founders of which little dreamt that they should ever be let at an easy rate
as garrison lodgings. Never can I forget the fond joy and pride with which Sir Walter looked round him, as he sat for the first time at
his son’s table. I could not but recall Pindar’s lines, in which, wishing to paint the gentlest rapture of
felicity, he describes an old man with a foaming wine-cup in his hand at his child’s
wedding-feast.
That very evening arrived a deputation from the Royal Society of Dublin,
inviting Sir Walter to a public dinner; and next morning
he found on his breakfast-table a letter from the Provost of Trinity College (Dr Kyle, now Bishop of Cork), announcing that the
University desired to pay him the very high compliment of a degree of Doctor of Laws by diploma. The Archbishop of Dublin (the celebrated Dr Magee), though surrounded with severe domestic
afflictions at the time, was among the earliest of his visitors; another was the
Attorney-General (now Lord Chancellor Plunkett); a
52 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
third was the Commander of the Forces, Sir George Murray; and a fourth the Chief Remembrancer of Exchequer (the
Right Honourable Anthony Blake), who was the
bearer of a message from the Marquis Wellesley, then
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, offering all sorts of facilities, and inviting him to dine next
day at his Excellency’s country residence, Malahide Castle. It would be endless to
enumerate the distinguished persons who, morning after morning, crowded his levee in St
Stephen’s Green. The courts of law were not then sitting, and most of the judges were
out of town; but all the other great functionaries, and the leading noblemen and gentlemen
of the city and its neighbourhood, of whatever sect or party, hastened to tender every
conceivable homage and hospitality. But all this was less surprising to the companions of
his journey (though, to say truth, we had, no more than himself, counted on such eager
enthusiasm among any class of Irish society), than the demonstrations of respect which,
after the first day or two, awaited him, wherever he moved, at the hands of the less
elevated orders of the Dublin population. If his carriage was recognised at the door of any
public establishment, the street was sure to be crowded before he came out again, so as to
make his departure as slow as a procession. When he entered a street, the watchword was
passed down both sides like lightning, and the shopkeepers and their wives stood bowing and
curtseying all the way down; while the mob and boys huzza’d as at the chariot-wheels
of a conqueror. I had certainly been most thoroughly unprepared for finding the common
people of Dublin so alive to the claims of any non-military greatness. Sir Robert Peel says, that Sir
Walter’s reception on the High Street of Edinburgh, in August, 1822,
was the first thing that gave him a notion of “the electric shock of a nation’s gratitude.” I
doubt if even that scene surpassed what I myself witnessed when he returned down Dame
Street, after inspecting the Castle of Dublin. Bailie Tennent, who had
been in the crowd on that occasion, called afterwards in Stephen’s Green to show
Sir Walter some promised Return about his Glasgow Police, and
observed to me, as he withdrew, that “yon was owre like
worshipping the creature.”
I may as well, perhaps, extract from a letter of the 16th, the
contemporary note of one day’s operations. “Sir
Humphry Davy is here on his way to fish in Connemara—he breakfasted at
Walter’s this morning; also Hartstonge, who was to show us the lions of St Patrick’s. Peveril was surprised to find the exterior of the cathedral so
rudely worked, coarse, and almost shapeless—but the interior is imposing, and even grand.
There are some curious old monuments of the Cork family, &c., but one thinks of nothing
but Swift there—the whole cathedral is merely his
tomb. Your papa hung long over the famous inscription,* which is in gilt letters upon black
marble; and seemed vexed there was not a ladder at hand that he might have got nearer the
bust (apparently a very fine one), by Roubilliac,
which is placed over it. This was given by the piety of his printer, Faulkener. According to this, Swift
had a prodigious double chin; and Peveril remarked that the severity
of the whole countenance is much increased by the absence of the wig, which, in the prints,
conceals the height and gloom of the brow, the uncommon massiveness and breadth of the
temple-bones, and the Herculean style in which the head fits in to the neck
* The terrible inscription is “Hic depositum
est corpus Jonathan Swift, S.T.P.
&c., ubi sæva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare
nequit.” |
54 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
behind. Stella’s epitaph
is on the adjoining pillar—close by. Sir Walter seemed not to have
thought of it before (or to have forgotten, if he had), but to judge merely from the
wording that Swift himself wrote it. She is described as
‘Mrs Hester Johnson, better known to the world by the
name of Stella, under which she is celebrated in the writings of
Dr Jonathan Swift, Dean of this cathedral.’
‘This,’ said Sir Walter, ‘the Dean
might say—any one else would have said more.’ She died in 1727,
Swift in 1745. Just by the entrance to the transept, is his tablet
in honour of the servant who behaved so well about the secret of the Drapier’s letters. We then saw St
Sepulchre’s Library, a monastic looking place, very like one of the smaller college
libraries in Oxford. Here they have the folio Clarendon, with Swift’s marginal remarks, mostly in
pencil, but still quite legible. ‘Very savage as usual upon us poor Scots every
where,’ quoth the Unknown. We then went into the Deanery (the one
Swift inhabited has been pulled down), and had a most courteous
and elegant reception from the Dean, the Honourable Dr
Ponsonby. He gave us a capital luncheon—the original full-length picture of
the Dean over the sideboard. The print in the Edinburgh edition
is very good—but the complexion is in the picture—black, robust, sanguine—a heavy-lidded,
stern blue eye. It was interesting to see how completely the genius loci has kept his ground. Various little relics reverently
hoarded as they should be. They said his memory was as fresh as ever among the common
people about—they still sing his ballads, and had heard with great delight that
Sir Walter wrote a grand book all about the
great Dane. The ‘Jolly lads of St Patrick’s, St Kevin’s, Donore,’ |
mustered strong and Stentorian at our exit. They would, like their great-grandfathers and mothers, have torn the
Unknown to pieces, had he taken the other tack, and ‘Insulted us all by insulting the Dean.’ |
“We next saw the Bank—late Parliament House—the Dublin
Society’s Museum, where papa was enchanted with a perfect skeleton of the
gigantic moose-deer, the horns fourteen feet from tip to tip, and high in
proportion—and a long train of other fine places and queer things, all as per
road-book. Every where throughout this busy day—fine folks within doors and rabble
without—a terrible rushing and crushing to see the Baronet; Lord Wellington could not have excited a better rumpus. But the theatre
in the evening completed the thing. I never heard such a row. The players might as well
have had no tongues. Beatrice () twice left the stage; and at last
Benedick (Abbot, who is the manager) came forward, cunning dog, and asked what
was the cause of the tempest. A thousand voices shouted, Sir Walter Scott; and the worthy lion being thus
bearded and poked, rose, after an hour’s torture, and said, with such a kindness
and grace of tone and manner, these words:—‘I am sure the
Irish people—(a roar)—I am sure this respectable audience will not suppose that a
stranger can be insensible to the kindness of their reception of him; and if I have
been too long in saying this, I trust it will be attributed to the right cause—my
unwillingness to take to myself honours so distinguished, and which I could not and
cannot but feel to be unmerited.’ I think these are the very words. The noise
continued a perfect cataract and thunder of roaring; but he would take no hints about
going to the stage-box, and the evening closed decently enough. The
56 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
theatre is very handsome—the dresses and scenery capital —the
actors and actresses seemed (but, to be sure, this was scarcely a fair specimen) about
as bad as in the days of Croker’s Familiar Epistles.”
On Monday the 18th, to give another extract: “Young Mr Maturin breakfasted, and Sir Walter asked a great deal about his late father and
the present situation of the family, and promised to go and see the widow. When the
young gentleman was gone, Hartstonge told us
that Maturin used to compose with a wafer pasted
on his forehead, which was the signal that if any of his family entered the sanctum they must not speak to him. ‘He was never bred in
a writer’s chaumer,’ quoth
Peveril. Sir Walter observed that it
seemed to be a piece of Protestantism in Dublin to drop the saintly titles of the
Catholic Church: they call St Patrick’s, Patrick’s; and St Stephen’s
Green has been Orangeized into Stephen’s. He said you might trace the Puritans in
the plain Powles (for St Paul’s) of the old English
comedians. We then went to the Bank, where the Governor and Directors had begged him to
let themselves show him every thing in proper style; and he was
forced to say, as he came out, ‘These people treated me as if I was a Prince
of the Blood.’ I do believe that, just at this time, the Duke of York might be treated as well—better he could not
be. From this to the College hard by. The Provost received Sir W.
in a splendid drawing-room, and then carried him through the libraries, halls, &c.
amidst a crowd of eager students. He received his diploma in due form, and there
followed a superb dejeuner in the Provostry.
Neither Oxford nor Cambridge could have done the whole thing in better style. Made
acquaintance with Dr Brinkley, Astronomer Royal,
and Dr Macdonnell, Professor of Greek, and all
the rest of the leading Professors, who vied with each other in respect
and devotion to the Unknown.—19th. I forgot to
say that there is one true paragraph in the papers. One of the
College librarians yesterday told Sir W., fishingly, ‘I
have been so busy that I have not yet read your
Redgauntlet.’ He answered, very meekly, ‘I have not happened to
fall in with such a work, Doctor.’”
From Dublin we made an excursion of some days into the county Wicklow,
halting for a night at the villa of the Surgeon-General, Mr
Crampton, who struck Sir Walter as being
more like Sir Humphry Davy than any man he had met,
not in person only, but in the liveliness and range of his talk, and who kindly did the
honours of Lough Breagh and the Dargle; and then for two or three at Old Connaught,
Lord Plunkett’s seat near Bray. Here there
was a large and brilliant party assembled; and from hence, under the guidance of the
Attorney-General and his amiable family, we perambulated to all possible advantage the
classical resorts of the Devil’s Glyn, Rosanna, Kilruddery, and Glendalough, with its
seven churches, and St Kevin’s Bed—the scene of the fate of
Cathleen, celebrated in Moore’s ballad—
“By that lake whose gloomy shore Skylark never warbles o’er,” &c. |
“It is,” says my letter, “a hole in the sheer surface of
the rock, in which two or three people might sit. The difficulty of getting into this
place has been exaggerated, as also the danger, for it would only be falling thirty or
forty feet into very deep water. Yet I never was more pained than when your papa, in
spite of all remonstrances, would make his way to it, crawling along the precipice. He
succeeded and got in—the first lame man that ever tried it. After he was gone,
Mr Plunkett told the female guide he was a poet.
Cathleen treated this with 58 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
indignation,
as a quiz of Mr Attorney’s. ‘Poet!’
said she, ‘the devil a bit of him but an honourable gentleman: he gave me
half-a-crown.’”
On the 1st of August we proceeded from Dublin to Edgeworthstown, the
party being now reinforced by Captain and Mrs Scott, and also by the delightful addition of the
Surgeon-General, who had long been an intimate
friend of the Edgeworth family, and equally gratified both the novelists by breaking the
toils of his great practice to witness their meeting on his native soil. A happy meeting it
was: we remained there for several days, making excursions to Loch Oel and other scenes of
interest in Longford and the adjoining counties; the gentry every where exerting themselves
with true Irish zeal to signalize their affectionate pride in their illustrious
countrywoman, and their appreciation of her guest; while her brother, Mr Lovell Edgeworth, had his classical mansion filled
every evening with a succession of distinguished friends, the elite
of Ireland. Here, above all, we had the opportunity of seeing in what universal respect and
comfort a gentleman’s family may live in that country, and in far from its most
favoured district, provided only they live there habitually, and do their duty as the
friends and guardians of those among whom Providence has appointed their proper place. Here
we found neither mud hovels nor naked peasantry, but snug cottages and smiling faces all
about. Here there was a very large school in the village, of which masters and pupils were
in a nearly equal proportion Protestants and Roman Catholics, the Protestant squire himself
making it a regular part of his daily business to visit the scene of their operations, and
strengthen authority and enforce discipline by his personal superintendence. Here, too, we
pleased ourselves
| EDGEWORTHSTOWN—AUG. 1825. | 59 |
with recognising some
of the sweetest features in Goldsmith’s
picture of “Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;” |
and, in particular, we had “the playful children just let loose from
school” in perfection. Mr Edgeworth’s paternal
heart delighted in letting them make a playground of his lawn; and every evening after
dinner we saw leap-frog going on with the highest spirit within fifty yards of the
drawing-room windows, while fathers and mothers, and their aged parents also, were grouped
about among the trees watching the sport. It is a curious enough coincidence that
Oliver Goldsmith and Maria
Edgeworth should both have derived their early love and knowledge of Irish
character and manners from the same identical district. He received part of his education
at this very school of Edgeworthstown; and Pallasmore (the locus cui nomen est Pallas of Johnson’s epitaph), the little hamlet where the author of the Vicar of Wakefield first saw the light, is
still, as it was in his time, the property of the Edgeworths.
It may well be imagined with what lively interest Sir Walter surveyed the scenery with which so many of the
proudest recollections of Ireland must ever be associated, and how curiously he studied the
rural manners it presented to him, in the hope (not disappointed) of being able to trace
some of his friend’s bright creations to their first hints and germs. On the delight
with which he contemplated her position in the midst of her own large and happy domestic
circle I need say still less. The reader is aware by this time how deeply he condemned and
pitied the conduct and fate of those who, gifted with pre-eminent talents for the
instruction and entertainment of their species at large, fancy themselves entitled to
neglect those every-day duties and charities of life, from
60 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
the mere
shadowing of which in imaginary pictures the genius of poetry and romance has always reaped
its highest and purest, perhaps its only true and immortal honours. In Maria he hailed a sister spirit; one who, at the summit of
literary fame, took the same modest, just, and, let me add, Christian view of the relative importance of the feelings, the obligations, and
the hopes in which we are all equally partakers, and those talents and accomplishments
which may seem, to vain and shortsighted eyes, sufficient to constitute their possessors
into an order and species apart from the rest of their kind. Such fantastic conceits found
no shelter with either of these powerful minds. I was then a young man, and I cannot forget
how much I was struck at the time by some words that fell from one of them, when, in the
course of a walk in the park at Edgeworthstown, I happened to use some phrase which
conveyed (though not perhaps meant to do so) the impression that I suspected Poets and
Novelists of being a good deal accustomed to look at life and the world only as materials
for art. A soft and pensive shade came over Scott’s face as he
said—“I fear you have some very young ideas in your head: are you not too apt
to measure things by some reference to literature—to disbelieve that any body can be
worth much care who has no knowledge of that sort of thing, or taste for it? God help
us! what a poor world this would be if that were the true doctrine! I have read books
enough, and observed and conversed with enough of eminent and splendidly cultivated
minds, too, in my time; but, I assure you, I have heard higher sentiments from the lips
of poor uneducated men and women, when exerting the spirit of severe yet gentle heroism
under difficulties and afflictions, or speaking their simple thoughts as to
circumstances in the lot of friends and neighbours, than I | EDGEWORTHSTOWN, AUG. 1825. | 61 |
ever yet met with out of the pages of the Bible.
We shall never learn to feel and respect our real calling and destiny, unless we have
taught ourselves to consider every thing as moonshine, compared with the education of
the heart.” Maria did not listen to this without some
water in her eyes—her tears are always ready when any generous string is touched (for, as
Pope says, “the finest minds, like the
finest metals, dissolve the easiest”); but she brushed them gaily aside, and
said, “You see how it is—Dean Swift said he
had written his books, in order that people might learn to treat him like a great lord.
Sir Walter writes his, in order that he may be able to treat
his people as a great lord ought to do.”
Lest I should forget to mention it, I put down here a rebuke which,
later in his life, Sir Walter once gave in my hearing to
his daughter Anne. She happened to say of something,
I forget what, that she could not abide it—it was vulgar.
“My love,” said her father, “you speak like a very young lady;
do you know, after all, the meaning of this word vulgar? ’Tis
only common; nothing that is common, except wickedness, can deserve
to be spoken of in a tone of contempt; and when you have lived to my years, you will be
disposed to agree with me in thanking God that nothing really worth having or caring about
in this world is uncommon.”
At Edgeworthstown he received the following letter from Mr Canning:—
To Sir Walter Scott, Bart. &c. &c.
“Combe Wood, July 24, 1825.
“My dear Sir,
“A pretty severe indisposition has prevented me from
sooner acknowledging your kind letter; and now I fear that I shall not be able
to accomplish my visit
62 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
to Scotland this year. Although I
shall be, for the last fortnight of August, at no great distance from the
Borders, my time is so limited that I cannot reckon upon getting farther.
“I rejoice to see that my countrymen (for, though I
was accidentally born in London, I consider myself an Irishman) have so well
known the value of the honour which you are paying to them.
“By the way, if you landed at Liverpool on your
return, could you find a better road to the north than through the Lake
country? You would find me (from about the 10th of August) and Charles Ellis* at my friend Mr Bolton’s, on the Banks of Windermere,
where I can promise you as kind, though not so noisy a welcome, as that which
you have just experienced; and where our friend the Professor (who is Admiral of the Lake) would fit out all his
flotilla, and fire as many of his guns as are not painted ones, in honour of
your arrival.—Yours, my dear sir, very sincerely,
This invitation was not to be resisted; and the following letter
announced a change of the original route to Mr
Morritt.
“To John B. S. Morritt, Esq., Rokeby Park, Greta Bridge.
“Edgeworthstown, Aug. 3, 1825.
“Your kind letter, my dear Morritt, finds me sweltering under the hottest
weather I ever experienced, for the sake of seeing sights—of itself, you know,
the most feverish occupation in the world. Luckily we are free of Dublin, and
there is nothing around us but green fields and fine trees, ‘barring the
high-roads,’ which
make those who tread on them the most
complete
pie-poudreux ever seen; that
is, if the old definition of
pie-poudres be authentic, and if not, you may seek another
dusty simile for yourself it cannot exceed the reality. I have with me
Lockhart and
Anne,
Walter and his
cara
sposa, for all whom the hospitality of Edgeworthstown has
found ample space and verge enough. Indeed it is impossible to conceive
the extent of this virtue in all classes; I don’t think even our Scottish
hospitality can match that of Ireland. Every thing seems to give way to the
desire to accommodate a stranger; and I really believe the story of the Irish
harper, who condemned his harp to the flames for want of fire-wood to cook a
guest’s supper. Their personal kindness to me has been so great, that
were it not from the chilling recollection that novelty is easily substituted
for merit, I should think, like the booby in
Steele’s play, that I had been
kept back, and that
there was something more about me than I had ever been led to suspect. As I am
L.L.D. of Trinity College, and am qualified as a Catholic seer, by having
mounted up into the bed of Saint Kevin, at the celebrated seven churches of
Glendalough, I am entitled to prescribe,
ex
cathedrâ, for all the diseases of Ireland, as being
free both of the Catholic and Protestant parties. But the truth is, that
Pat, while the doctors were consulting,
has been gradually and securely recovering of himself. He is very loath to
admit this indeed; there being a strain of hypochondria in his complaints,
which will not permit him to believe he’s getting better. Nay, he gets
even angry when a physician, more blunt than polite, continues to assure him
that he is better than he supposes himself, and that much of his present
distress consists, partly of the recollection of former indisposition, partly
of the severe practice of modern empirics.
64 |
LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
|
“In sober sadness, to talk of the misery of Ireland
at this time, is to speak of the illness of a malade
imaginaire. Well she is not, but she is rapidly becoming
so. There are all the outward and visible tokens of convalescence. Every thing
is mending; the houses that arise are better a hundred-fold than the cabins
which are falling; the peasants of the younger class are dressed a great deal
better than with the rags which clothe the persons of the more ancient Teagues,
which realize the wardrobe of Jenny Sutton,
of whom Morris sweetly sings,
‘One single pin at night let loose. The robes which veiled her beauty.’ |
I am sure I have seen with apprehension a single button perform the same
feat, and when this mad scare-crow hath girded up his loins to run hastily by
the side of the chaise, I have feared it would give way, and that there, as
King Lear’s fool says, we should
be all shamed. But this, which seems once to have generally been the attire of
the fair of the Green Isle, probably since the time of King Malachi and the collar of gold, is now fast disappearing,
and the habit of the more youthful Pats and Patesses is decent and comely.
Here they all look well coloured, and well fed, and well
contented. And as I see in most places great exertions making to reclaim bogs
upon a large scale, and generally to improve ground, I must needs hold that
they are in constant employment.
“With all this there is much that remains to be
amended, and which time and increase of capital only can amend. The price of
labour is far too low, and this naturally reduces the labouring poor beyond
their just level in society. The behaviour of the gentry in general to the
labourers is systematically harsh, and this arrogance is received with a
servile deference which argues any thing
excepting affection. This, however, is also in the
course of amending. I have heard a great deal of the far-famed Catholic
Question from both sides, and I think I see its bearings better than I did; but
these are for your ear when we meet—as meet we shall—if no accident prevent it.
I return
via Holyhead, as I wish to show
Anne something of England, and you may believe
that we shall take Rokeby in our way. To-morrow I go to Killarney, which will
occupy most part of the week. About Saturday I shall be back at Dublin to take
leave of friends; and then for England, ho! I will, avoiding London, seek a
pleasant route to Rokeby. Fate will only allow us to rest there for a day or
two, because I have some desire to see
Canning, who is to be on the Lakes about that time.
Et finis. My leave will be
exhausted. Anne and
Lockhart send kindest compliments to you and the ladies. I am
truly rejoiced that
Mrs John Morritt is
better. Indeed, I had learned that agreeable intelligence from
Lady Louisa Stuart. I found
Walter and his wife living happily and
rationally, affectionately and prudently. There is great good sense and
quietness about all
Jane’s
domestic arrangements, and she plays the leaguer’s lady very prettily.—I
will write again when I reach Britain, and remain ever yours,
Miss Edgeworth, her sister Harriet, and her brother William, were easily persuaded to join our party for the rest of our Irish
travels. We had lingered a week at Edgeworthstown, and were now anxious to make the best of
our way towards the Lakes of Killarney; but posting was not to be very rapidly accomplished
in those regions by so large a company as had now collected—and we were more agreeably
delayed by the
66 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
hospitalities of Miss
Edgeworth’s old friends, and several of Sir
Walter’s new ones, at various mansions on our line of route—of which I
must note especially Judge Moore’s, at
Lamberton, near Maryborough, because Sir Walter pronounced its
beneficence to be even beyond the usual Irish scale; for, on reaching our next halting
place, which was an indifferent country inn, we discovered that we need be in no alarm as
to our dinner at all events, the judge’s people having privately packed up in one of
the carriages, ere we started in the morning, a pickled salmon, a most lordly venison
pasty, and half-a-dozen bottles of Champagne. But most of these houses seemed, like the
judge’s, to have been constructed on the principle of the Peri Banou’s tent. They seemed all to have room not only for the lion
and lionesses, and their respective tails, but for all in the neighbourhood who could be
held worthy to inspect them at feeding-time.
It was a succession of festive gaiety wherever we halted; and in the
course of our movements we saw many castles, churches, and ruins of all sorts—with more
than enough of mountain, wood, lake, and river, to have made any similar progress in any
other part of Europe, truly delightful in all respects. But those of the party to whom the
South of Ireland was new, had almost continually before them spectacles of abject misery,
which robbed these things of more than half their charm. Sir
Walter, indeed, with the habitual hopefulness of his temper, persisted that
what he saw even in Kerry was better than what books had taught him to expect; and insured,
therefore, that improvement, however slow, was going on. But, ever and anon, as we moved
deeper into the country, there was a melancholy in his countenance, and, despite himself,
in the tone of his voice, which I for one could not mistake. The constant pass-
ings and repassings of bands of mounted
policemen, armed to the teeth, and having quite the air of highly disciplined soldiers on
sharp service;—the rueful squalid poverty that crawled by every wayside, and blocked up
every village where we had to change horses, with exhibitions of human suffering and
degradation, such as it had never entered into our heads to conceive; and, above all, the
contrast between these naked clamorous beggars, who seemed to spring out of the ground at
every turn like swarms of vermin, and the boundless luxury and merriment surrounding the
thinly scattered magnates who condescended to inhabit their ancestral seats, would have
been sufficient to poison those landscapes, had Nature dressed them out in the verdure of
Arcadia, and art embellished them with all the temples and palaces of Old Rome and Athens.
It is painful enough even to remember such things; but twelve years can have had but a
trifling change in the appearance of a country which, so richly endowed by Providence with
every element of wealth and happiness, could, at so advanced a period of European
civilisation, sicken the heart of the stranger by such wide-spread manifestations of the
wanton and reckless profligacy of human mismanagement, the withering curse of feuds and
factions, and the tyrannous selfishness of absenteeism; and I fear it is not likely that
any contemporary critic will venture to call my melancholy picture overcharged. A few
blessed exceptions—such an aspect of ease and decency for example, as we met every where on
the vast domain of the Duke of Devonshire—served only
to make the sad reality of the rule more flagrant and appalling. Taking his bedroom candle,
one night in a village on the Duke’s estate, Sir Walter summed
up the strain of his discourse by a line of Shakspeare’s— “Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge.” |
68 |
LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
|
There was, however, abundance of ludicrous incidents to break this
gloom; and no traveller ever tasted either the humours or the blunders of Paddy more heartily than did Sir
Walter. I find recorded in one letter a very merry morning at Limerick,
where, amidst the ringing of all the bells, in honour of the advent, there was ushered in a
brother-poet, who must needs pay his personal respects to the author of Marmion. He was a scarecrow figure attired much in the
fashion of the strugglers—by name O’Kelly; and he had produced on the spur of the occasion this modest
parody of Dryden’s famous epigram:
“Three poets, of three different nations born, The United Kingdom in this age adorn; And Erin’s pride O’Kelly,
great and good.” |
Sir Walter’s five shillings were at once forthcoming; and the
bard, in order that Miss Edgeworth might display
equal generosity, pointed out, in a little volume of his works (for which, moreover, we had
all to subscribe), this pregnant couplet: Are characters whose fame not soon will cease.” |
We were still more amused (though there was real misery in the case)
with what befel on our approach to a certain pretty seat, in a different county, where
there was a collection of pictures and curiosities, not usually shown to travellers. A
gentleman, whom we had met in Dublin, had been accompanying us part of the day’s
journey, and volunteered, being acquainted with the owner, to procure us easy admission. At
the entrance of the domain, to which we proceeded under his wing, we were startled by the
dolorous apparition of two undertaker’s men, in voluminous black scarfs, though
there was little or nothing of black about the
rest of their habiliments, who sat upon the highway before the gate, with a whisky-bottle
on a deal-table between them. They informed us that the master of the house had died the
day before, and that they were to keep watch and ward in this style until the funeral,
inviting all Christian passengers to drink a glass to his repose. Our Cicerone left his
card for the widow having previously, no doubt, written on it the names of his two lions.
Shortly after we regained our post-house, he received a polite answer from the lady. To the
best of my memory, it was in these terms:—
“Mrs —— presents her kind compliments to Mr ——, and much
regrets that she cannot show the pictures to-day, as Major —— died yesterday evening by
apoplexy; which Mrs —— the more regrets, as it will prevent her having the honour to
see Sir Walter Scott and Miss Edgeworth.”
Sir Walter said it reminded him of a woman in Fife, who,
summing up the misfortunes of a black year in her history, said—“Let me see, sirs;
first, we lost our wee callant—and then Jenny—and then the gudeman
himsel died—and then the coo died too, poor hizzey; but, to be
sure, her hide brought me fifteen shillings.”
At one county gentleman’s table where we dined, though two grand
full-length daubs of William and Mary adorned the walls of the room, there was a mixed
company—about as many Catholics as Protestants, all apparently on cordial terms, and
pledging each other lustily in bumpers of capital claret. About an hour after dinner,
however, punch was called for; tumblers and jugs of hot water appeared, and with them two
magnums of whisky, the one bearing on its label King’s,
the other Queen’s. We did not at first understand these
inscriptions; but it was explained, sotto
70 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
voce, that the King’s had paid the duty, the
Queen’s was of contraband origin; and, in the choice of the liquors, we detected a
new shibboleth of party. The jolly Protestants to a man stuck to the King’s
bottle—the equally radiant Papists paid their duty to the Queen’s.
Since I have alluded at all to the then grand dispute, I may mention,
that, after our tour was concluded, we considered with some wonder that, having partaken
liberally of Catholic hospitality, and encountered almost every other class of society, we
had not sat at meat with one specimen of the Romish priesthood; whereas, even at Popish
tables, we had met dignitaries of the Established Church. This circumstance we set down at
the time as amounting pretty nearly to a proof that there were few gentlemen in that order;
but we afterwards were willing to suspect that a prejudice of their own had been the source
of it. The only incivility, which Sir Walter Scott
ultimately discovered himself to have encountered—(for his friends did not allow him to
hear of it at the time)—in the course of his Irish peregrination, was the refusal of a
Roman Catholic gentleman, named O’Connell, who kept staghounds
near Killarney, to allow of a hunt on the upper lake, the day he visited that beautiful
scenery. This he did, as we were told, because he considered it as a notorious fact, that
Sir Walter Scott was an enemy to the Roman Catholic claims for
admission to seats in Parliament. He was entirely mistaken, however; for, though no man
disapproved of Romanism as a system of faith and practice more sincerely than Sir
Walter always did, he had long before this period formed the opinion, that
no good could come of farther resistance to the claim in question. He on all occasions
expressed manfully his belief, that the best thing for
Ireland would have been never to relax the strictly political
enactments of the penal laws, however harsh these might appear. Had they been kept in
vigour for another half century, it was his conviction that Popery would have been all but
extinguished in Ireland. But he thought that, after admitting Romanists to the elective
franchise, it was a vain notion that they could be permanently or advantageously debarred
from using that franchise in favour of those of their own persuasion. The greater part of
the charming society into which he fell while in Ireland, entertained views and sentiments
very likely to confirm these impressions; and it struck me that considerable pains were
taken to enforce them. It was felt, probably, that the crisis of decision drew near; and
there might be a natural anxiety to secure the suffrage of the great writer of the time.
The polished amenity of the Lord-Lieutenant set off his
commanding range of thought and dexterous exposition of facts to the most captivating
advantage. “The Marquis’s talk,” says Scott,
in a letter of the following year, “gave me the notion of the kind of
statesmanship that one might have expected in a Roman emperor, accustomed to keep the
whole world in his view, and to divide his hours between ministers like Mæsenas and wits like Horace.” The acute logic and brilliant eloquence of Lord Plunkett he ever afterwards talked of with high
admiration; nor had he, he said, encountered in society any combination of qualities more
remarkable than the deep sagacity and the broad rich humour of Mr Blake. In Plunkett, Blake, and
Crampton, he considered himself as having gained
three real friends by this expedition; and I think I may venture to say, that the feeling
on their side was warmly reciprocal.
If he had been made aware at the time of the dis-
72 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
courtesy of the Romish staghunter at Killarney, he might have been consoled by a letter
which reached him that same week from a less bigoted member of the same church—the great
poet of Ireland—whom he had never chanced to meet in society but once, and that at an early
period of life, shortly after the first publication of the Lay of the Last Minstrel.
To Sir Walter Scott, Bart. &c. &c.
“Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, July 24, 1825.
“I wish most heartily that I had been in my own green
land to welcome you. It delights me, however, to see (what I could not have
doubted) that the warm hearts of my countrymen have shown that they know how to
value you. How I envy those who will have the glory of showing you and
Killarney to each other! No two of nature’s productions, I will say, were ever more worthy of meeting. If the
Kenmares should be your Ciceroni, pray tell them what
I say of their Paradise, with my best regards and greetings. I received your
kind message, through Newton,* last
year, that ‘if I did not come and see you, before you died, you would
appear to me afterwards.’ Be assured that, as I am all for living
apparitions, I shall take care and have the start of you, and would have done
it this very year, I rather think, only for your Irish movements.
“Present my best regards to your son-in-law, and believe me, my dear Sir Walter (though we have met, I am sorry to say,
but once in our lives),
“Yours, cordially and sincerely,
* The late amiable and elegant artist, Gilbert Stewart Newton, R. A., had spent part of the autumn of 1824 at
Chiefswood.
|
Scott’s answer was—
To Thomas Moore, Esq.
“August 5, Somerton, near Templeton (I think).
“My dear Sir,
“If any thing could have added to the pleasure I must
necessarily feel at the warm reception which the Irish nation have honoured me
with, or if any thing could abate my own sense that I am no ways worth the coil
that has been made about me, it must be the assurance that you partake and
approve of the feelings of your kind-hearted country-folks.
“In Ireland I have met with every thing that was
kind, and have seen much which is never to be forgotten. What I have seen has,
in general, given me great pleasure; for it appears to me that the adverse
circumstances which have so long withered the prosperity of this rich and
powerful country are losing their force, and that a gradual but steady spirit
of progressive improvement is effectually, though tacitly, counteracting their
bad effects. The next twenty-five years will probably be the most important in
their results that Ireland ever knew. So prophesies a sharp-sighted Sennachie
from the land of mist and snow, aware that, though his opinion may be
unfounded, he cannot please your ear better than by presaging the prosperity of
Ireland.
“And so, to descend from such high matters, I hope
you will consider me as having left my card for you by this visit, although I
have not been happy enough to find you at home. You are bound by the ordinary
forms of society to return the call, and come to see Scotland. Bring wife and
bairns. We have plenty of room, and plenty of oatmeal, and, entre nous, a bottle or two of good
claret, to which I think you have as
74 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
little objection as I
have. We will talk of poor
Byron, who was
dear to us both, and regret that such a rose should have fallen from the
chaplet of his country so untimely. I very often think of him almost with
tears. Surely you, who have the means, should do something for his literary
life at least. You might easily avoid tearing open old wounds. Then, returning
to our proposed meeting, you know folks call me a Jacobite, and you a Jacobin;
so it is quite clear that we agree to a T. Having uttered this vile pun, which
is only pardonable because the subject of politics deserves no better, it is
high time to conclude.
“I return through England, yet, I am afraid, with
little chance of seeing you, which I should wish to do were it but for half an
hour. I have come thus far on my way to Killarney, where Hallam is lying with a broken leg. So much for
middle-aged gentlemen climbing precipices. I, who have been regularly inducted
into the bed of St Kevin at the Seven Churches, trust I shall bear charmed
limbs upon this occasion.—I am very much, dear sir, your obliged and faithful
Having crossed the hills from Killarney to Cork, where a repetition of
the Dublin reception—corporation honours, deputations of the literary and scientific
societies, and so forth—awaited him, he gave a couple of days to the hospitality of this
flourishing town, and the beautiful scenery of the Shannon; not forgetting an excursion to
the groves of Blarney, among whose shades we had a right mirthful pic-nic. Sir Walter scrambled up to the top of the castle, and kissed,
with due faith and devotion, the famous Blarney stone, one salute of
which is said to emancipate the pilgrim from all future visitations of mauvaise honte:
“The stone this is, whoever kisses, He never misses to grow eloquent— ’Tis he may clamber to a lady’s chamber, Or be a member of Parliament.” |
But the shamefacedness of our young female friends was not exposed to an inspection of
the works of art, celebrated by the poetical Dean of
Cork as the prime ornaments of the Lady
Jefferies’s “station”— “The statues growing that noble place in, Of heathen goddesses most rare Homer, Venus, and Nebuchadnezzar, All standing naked in the open air.” |
These had disappeared, and the castle and all its appurtenances were in a state of
woful dilapidation and neglect.
From Cork we proceeded to Dublin by Fermoy, Lismore, Cashel, Kilkenny,
and Holycross—at all of which places we were bountifully entertained, and assiduously
ciceroned—to our old quarters in St Stephen’s green; and after a morning or two spent
in taking leave of many kind faces that he was never to see again, Sir Walter and his original fellow-travellers started for Holyhead on the
18th of August. Our progress through North Wales produced nothing worth recording, except
perhaps the feeling of delight which every thing in the aspect of the common people, their
dress, their houses, their gardens, and their husbandry, could not fail to call up in
persons who had just been seeing Ireland for the first time; and a short visit (which was,
indeed, the only one he made) to the far-famed “ladies” of Llangollen. They had
received some hint that Sir Walter meant to pass their way; and on
stopping at the inn, he received an invitation so pressing to add one more to the long list
of the illustrious visitors of their retreat,
76 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
that it was impossible
for him not to comply. We had read histories and descriptions enough of these romantic
spinsters, and were prepared to be well amused; but the reality surpassed all expectation.
An extract from a gossipping letter of the following week will perhaps
be sufficient for Llangollen.
“Elleray, August 24.
* * * “We slept on Wednesday evening at Capel Carig,
which Sir W. supposes to mean the Chapel of
the Crags; a pretty little inn in a most picturesque situation certainly, and
as to the matter of toasted cheese, quite exquisite. Next day we advanced
through, I verily believe, the most perfect gem of a country eye ever saw,
having almost all the wildness of Highland backgrounds, and all the loveliness
of rich English landscape nearer us, and streams like the purest and most
babbling of our own. At Llangollen your papa was waylaid by the celebrated
‘Ladies’—viz. Lady Eleanor
Butler and the Honourable Miss
Ponsonby, who having been one or both crossed in love, foreswore
all dreams of matrimony in the heyday of youth, beauty, and fashion, and
selected this charming spot for the repose of their now time-honoured
virginity. It was many a day, however, before they could get implicit credit
for being the innocent friends they really were, among the people of the
neighbourhood; for their elopement from Ireland had been performed under
suspicious circumstances; and as Lady Eleanor arrived here
in her natural aspect of a pretty girl, while Miss
Ponsonby had condescended to accompany her in the garb of a
smart footman in buckskin breeches, years and years elapsed ere full justice
was done to the character of their romance. We proceeded up the hill, and found
every thing about them and their habitation odd and ex-
travagant beyond report. Imagine two women, one
apparently 70, the other 65, dressed in heavy blue riding habits, enormous
shoes, and men’s hats, with their petticoats so tucked up, that at the
first glance of them, fussing and tottering about their porch in the agony of
expectation, we took them for a couple of hazy or crazy old sailors. On nearer
inspection they both wear a world of brooches, rings, &c., and
Lady Eleanor positively orders several stars and
crosses, and a red ribbon, exactly like a K.C.B. To crown all, they have crop
heads, shaggy, rough, bushy, and as white as snow, the one with age alone, the
other assisted by a sprinkling of powder. The elder lady is almost blind, and
every way much decayed; the other, the ci-devant groom, in
good preservation. But who could paint the prints, the dogs, the cats, the
miniatures, the cram of cabinets, clocks, glass-cases, books, bijouterie,
dragon-china, nodding mandarins, and whirligigs of every shape and hue—the
whole house outside and in (for we must see every thing to the dressing
closets),
covered with carved oak, very rich and fine
some of it—and the illustrated copies of Sir W.’s
poems, and the joking simpering compliments about Waverley, and the anxiety to know who MacIvor really was, and the absolute devouring of the poor
Unknown, who had to carry off, besides all the rest, one small bit of literal
butter dug up in a Milesian stone jar lately from
the bottom of some Irish bog. Great romance,
i. e.
absurd innocence of character, one must have looked for; but it was confounding
to find this mixed up with such eager curiosity, and enormous knowledge of the
tattle and scandal of the world they had so long left. Their tables were piled
with newspapers from every corner of the kingdom, and they seemed to have the
deaths and marriages of the antipodes at their fingers’ ends. Their
albums and autographs, from
78 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
Louis XVIII. and
George IV., down to magazine poets and quack-doctors, are a
museum. I shall never see the spirit of blue-stockingism again in such perfect
incarnation. Peveril won’t get over their final
kissing match for a week. Yet it is too bad to laugh at these good old girls;
they have long been the guardian angels of the village, and are worshipped by
man, woman, and child about them.”
This letter was written on the banks of Windermere, where we were
received with the warmth of old friendship by Mr
Wilson, and one whose grace and
gentle goodness could have found no lovelier or fitter home than Elleray, except where she
is now.
Mr Bolton’s seat, to which Canning had invited Scott, is situated a couple of miles lower down on the same Lake; and
thither Mr Wilson conducted him next day. A large
company had been assembled there in honour of the Minister—it included already Mr Wordsworth and Mr
Southey. It has not, I suppose, often happened to a plain English merchant,
wholly the architect of his own fortunes, to entertain at one time a party embracing so
many illustrious names. He was proud of his guests; they respected him, and honoured and
loved each other; and it would have been difficult to say which star in the constellation
shone with the brightest or the softest light. There was “high discourse,”
intermingled with as gay flashings of courtly wit as ever Canning
displayed; and a plentiful allowance, on all sides, of those airy transient pleasantries,
in which the fancy of poets, however wise and grave, delights to run riot when they are
sure not to be misunderstood. There were beautiful and accomplished women to adorn and
enjoy this circle. The weather was as Elysian as the scenery. There were brilliant
cavalcades through the woods in the morn-
ings,
and delicious boatings on the Lake by moonlight; and the last day “the Admiral of the
Lake” presided over one of the most splendid regattas that ever enlivened Windermere.
Perhaps there were not fewer than fifty barges following in the Professor’s radiant
procession, when it paused at the point of Storrs to admit into the place of honour the
vessel that carried kind and happy Mr Bolton and his guests. The three
bards of the Lakes led the cheers that hailed Scott and
Canning; and music and sunshine, flags, streamers, and gay
dresses, the merry hum of voices, and the rapid splashing of innumerable oars, made up a
dazzling mixture of sensations as the flotilla wound its way among the richly-foliaged
islands, and along bays and promontories peopled with enthusiastic spectators.
On at last quitting the festive circle of Storrs, we visited the family
of the late Bishop Watson at Calgarth, and Mr Wordsworth at his charming retreat of Mount Rydal. He
accompanied us to Keswick, where we saw Mr Southey
re-established in his unrivalled library. Mr Wordsworth and his
daughter then turned with us, and passing over
Kirkstone to Ulswater, conducted us first to his friend Mr
Marshall’s elegant villa, near Lyulph’s Tower, and on the next
day to the noble castle of his lifelong friend and patron Lord
Lonsdale. The Earl and Countess had their halls filled with another splendid
circle of distinguished persons, who, like them, lavished all possible attentions and
demonstrations of respect upon Sir Walter. He remained a
couple of days, and perambulated, under Wordsworth’s guidance,
the superb terraces and groves of the “fair domain,” which that poet has
connected with the noblest monument of his genius. But the temptations of Storrs and
Lowther had cost more time than had been calculated upon, and the promised visit to Rokeby
80 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
was unwillingly abandoned. Sir
Walter reached Abbotsford again on the first of September, and said truly
that “his tour had been one ovation.”
I add two letters on the subject of this Irish expedition:
To J. B. S. Morritt, Esq., Rokeby Park, Greta
Bridge.
“Abbotsford, Sept. 2, 1825.
“Your letter, my dear Morritt, gave me most sincere pleasure on your account, and
also on my own, as it reconciled me to myself for my stupidity in misdirecting
my letters to Charlotte and you from Wales.
I was sincerely vexed when I found out my bevue, but am
now well pleased that it happened, since we might otherwise have arrived at
Rokeby at a time when we must necessarily have been a little in the way. I wish
you joy most sincerely of your nephew’s settling in life, in a manner so agreeably to
your wishes and views. Bella gerant
alii—he will have seen enough of the world abroad to qualify
him fully to estimate and discharge the duties of an English country-gentleman;
and with your example before him, and your advice to resort to, he cannot, with
the talents he possesses, fail to fill honourably that most honourable and
important rank in society. You will, probably, in due time, think of Parliament
for him, where there is a fine sphere for young men of talents at present, all
the old political post-horses being, as Sir
Pertinax says, dry-foundered.
“I was extremely sorry to find Canning at Windermere looking poorly; but, in
a ride, the old man seemed to come alive again. I fear he works himself too
hard, under the great error of trying to do too much with his own hand, and to
see every thing with his own eyes, whereas the greatest general and the first
statesman must, in many cases, be content to use the eyes and fingers of
others, and hold themselves
contented with the exercise of the greatest care in the choice of implements.
His is a valuable life to us just now. I passed a couple of days at Lowther, to
make up in some degree to
Anne for her
disappointment in not getting to Rokeby. I was seduced there by
Lady Frederick Bentinck, whom I had long known
as a very agreeable person, and who was very kind to Anne.
This wore out my proposed leisure; and from Lowther we reached Abbotsford in
one day, and now doth the old bore feed in the old frank.* I had the great
pleasure of leaving
Walter and his
little wife well, happy, and, as they seem perfectly to understand each other,
likely to continue so. His ardour for military affairs continues unabated, and
his great scene of activity is the
fifteen acres—so the
Irish denominate the exercising ground, consisting of about fifty acres, in the
Phœnix Park, which induced an attorney, writing a challenge to a brother
of the trade, to name, as a place of meeting, the
fifteen
acres, adding, with professional accuracy, ‘be they more or
less.’ Here, about 3000 men, the garrison of Dublin, are to be seen
exercising, ever and anon, in order that Pat may be aware how some 2400 muskets, assisted by the
discharge of twenty field-pieces, and the tramp of 500 or 600 horse, sound, in
comparison to the thunder of
Mr
O’Connell.
“All this travelling and wooing is like to prevent
our meeting this season. I hope to make up for it the next. Lady Scott, Anne, and Sophia join
Lockhart and me in best wishes to
the happy two who are to be soon one. My best respects attend the Miss
Morritts, and I ever am, most truly yours,
82 |
LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
|
To Miss Joanna Baillie, Hampstead.
“Abbotsford, October 12, 1825.
“It did not require your kind letter of undeserved
remembrance, my dear friend, to remind me that I had been guilty of very
criminal negligence in our epistolary correspondence. How this has come to pass
I really do not know; but it arises out of any source but that of ingratitude
to my friends, or thoughtless forgetfulness of my duty to them. On the
contrary, I think always most of them to whom I do owe letters, for when my
conscience is satisfied on that subject, their perturbed spirits remain at
rest, or at least do not haunt me as the injured spirits do the surviving
murderers.
“I well intended to have written from Ireland, but,
alas! Hell, as some stern old divine says, is paved with good intentions. There
was such a whirl of visiting, and hiking, and boating, and wondering, and
shouting, and laughing, and carousing; so much to be seen and so little time to
see it; so much to be heard and only two ears to listen to twenty voices, that,
upon the whole, I grew desperate, and gave up all thoughts of doing what was
right and proper upon post-days—and so all my epistolary good intentions are
gone to Macadamize, I suppose, ‘the burning marle’ of the
infernal regions. I have not the pen of our friend, Maria Edgeworth, who writes all the while she laughs, talks,
eats, and drinks, and I believe, though I do not pretend to be so far in the
secret, all the time she sleeps too. She has good luck in having a pen which
walks at once so unweariedly and so well. I do not, however, quite like her
last book on Education,
considered as a general work. She should have limited the title to Education in
Natural Philosophy, or some such term, for there is no great use in teaching
children in general to roof
| LETTER TO MISS BAILLIE. | 83 |
houses or build bridges, which, after all, a carpenter or a mason does a great
deal better at 2s. 6d. per day. In a waste country, like some parts of America,
it may do very well, or perhaps for a sailor or a traveller, certainly for a
civil engineer. But in the ordinary professions of the better-informed orders I
have always observed, that a small taste for mechanics tends to encouraging a
sort of trifling self-conceit, founded on knowing that which is not worth being
known by one who has other matters to employ his mind on, and, in short, forms
a trumpery gimcrack kind of a character who is a mechanic among gentlemen, and
most probably a gentleman among mechanics. You must understand I mean only to
challenge the system as making mechanics too much and too general a subject of
education, and converting scholars into makers of toys. Men like
Watt, or whose genius tends strongly to invent
and execute those wonderful combinations which extend in such an incalculable
degree the human force and command over the physical world, do not come within
ordinary rules; but your ordinary Harry
should be kept to his grammar, and your Lucy of most common occurrence will be best employed on her
sampler, instead of wasting wood, and cutting their fingers, which I am
convinced they did, though their historian says nothing of it.
“Well, but I did not mean to say any thing about
Harry and Lucy, whose dialogues are very interesting after all, but about
Ireland, which I could prophesy for as well as if I were Thomas the Rhymer. Her natural gifts are so
great, that, despite all the disadvantages which have hitherto retarded her
progress, she will, I believe, be queen of the trefoil of kingdoms. I never saw
a richer country, or, to speak my mind, a finer people; the worst of them is
the bitter and envenomed dislike which they have to each other. Their factions
84 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. | |
have been so long envenomed, and they have such narrow
ground to do their battle in, that they are like people fighting with daggers
in a hogshead. This, however, is getting better, for as the government
temporizes between the parties, and does not throw, as formerly, its whole
weight into the Protestant scale, there is more appearance of things settling
into concord and good order. The Protestants of the old school, the determined
Orangemen, are a very fine race, but dangerous for the quiet of a country; they
reminded me of the Spaniard in Mexico, and seemed still to walk among the
Catholics with all the pride of the conquerors of the Boyne and the captors of
Limerick. Their own belief is completely fixed, that there are enough of men in
Down and Antrim to conquer all Ireland again; and when one considers the
habitual authority they have exercised, their energetic and military character,
and the singular way in which they are banded and united together, they may be
right enough for what I know, for they have all one mind and one way of
pursuing it. But the Catholic is holding up his head now in a different way
from what they did in former days, though still with a touch of the savage
about them. It is, after all, a helpless sort of superstition, which with its
saints’ days, and the influence of its ignorant bigoted priesthood,
destroys ambition and industrious exertion. It is rare to see the Catholic rise
above the line he is born in. The Protestant part of the country is as highly
improved as many parts of England. Education is much more frequent in Ireland
than in England. In Kerry, one of the wildest counties, you find peasants who
speak Latin. It is not the art of reading, however, but the use which is made
of it, that is to be considered. It is much to be wished that the priests
themselves were better educated, but the College at Maynooth has been a
failure.
| LETTER TO MISS BAILLIE. | 85 |
The students, all men
of the lower orders, are educated there in all the bigotry of the Catholic
religion, unmitigated by any of the knowledge of the world which they used to
acquire in France, Italy, or Spain, from which they returned very often highly
accomplished and companionable men. I do not believe either party care a bit
for what is called Emancipation, only that the Catholics desire it because the
Protestants are not willing they should have it, and the Protestants desire to
withhold it, because the want of it mortifies the Catholic. The best-informed
Catholics said it had no interest for the common people, whose distresses had
nothing to do with political Emancipation, but that they, the higher order,
were interested in it as a point of honour, the withholding of which prevented
their throwing their strength into the hands of Government. On the whole, I
think Government have given the Catholics so much, that withholding this is
just giving them something to grumble about, without its operating to diminish,
in a single instance, the extent of Popery.—Then we had beautiful lakes,
‘those vast inland seas,’ as
Spenser terms them, and hills which they call mountains, and
dargles and dingles, and most superb ruins of castles and abbeys, and live nuns
in strict retreat, not permitted to speak, but who read their breviaries with
one eye, and looked at their visiters with the other. Then we had
Miss Edgeworth, and the kind-natured clever
Harriet, who moved, and thought, and
acted for every body’s comfort rather than her own; we had
Lockhart to say clever things, and
Walter, with his whiskers, to overawe
obstinate postilions and impudent beggars—and
Jane to bless herself that the folks had neither houses,
clothes, nor furniture—and
Anne to make
fun from morning to night—
‘And merry folks were we.’ |
86 |
LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
|
“John
Richardson has been looking at a wild domain within five miles
of us, and left us in the earnest determination to buy it, having caught a
basket of trouts in the space of two hours in the stream he is to call his own.
It is a good purchase I think: he has promised to see me again and carry you up
a bottle of whisky, which, if you will but take enough of, will operate as a
peace-offering should, and make you forget all my epistolary failures. I beg
kind respects to dear Mrs Agnes and to
Mrs Baillie. Lady Scott and Anne send
best respects.—I have but room to say that I am always yours,
William Abbott (1790-1843)
English actor who performed at Covent Garden and was afterwards a theater manager in the
United States.
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.
Agnes Baillie (1760-1861)
The daughter of the Scottish cleric James Baillie and elder sister of the poet Joanna
Baillie with whom she lived in Hampstead for many decades.
Joanna Baillie (1762-1851)
Scottish poet and dramatist whose
Plays on the Passions
(1798-1812) were much admired, especially the gothic
De Montfort,
produced at Drury Lane in 1800.
Sophia Baillie [née Denman] (1771-1845)
The daughter of the obstetrician Thomas Denman and sister of Lord Denman; in 1791 she
married the physician Matthew Baillie, brother of Joanna Baillie.
Anthony Richard Blake (1786 c.-1849)
He was Chief Remembrancer of the Irish Exchequer and privy councillor, one of the first
Catholics to hold high office in modern Ireland.
John Bolton (1756-1837)
Of Storrs Hall, Windermere; originally a Liverpool slave-trader, he was a West-India
merchant, philanthropist and friend of George Canning.
John Brinkley, bishop of Cloyne (1766 c.-1835)
Educated at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge; he was professor of astronomy at
Trinity College, Dublin (1792) and bishop of Cloyne (1826).
Robert Burrowes (1756 c.-1841)
Educated at Trinity College, Dublin, he was Dean of Cork and a noted Irish wit who denied
writing the song “De Nite before Larry was stretched.”
Lady Charlotte Eleanor Butler (1739-1829)
The daughter of Walter Butler of Garryricken, and elder of the two Ladies of Llangollen;
she lived in picturesque and much-admired retirement with her companion Sarah Ponsonby
(1755-1831).
Harriet Butler [née Edgeworth] (1801-1889)
The daughter of Richard Lovell Edgeworth and Frances Ann Beaufort; in 1826 she married
the Rev. Richard Butler, dean of Clonmacnoise.
George Canning (1770-1827)
Tory statesman; he was foreign minister (1807-1809) and prime minister (1827); a
supporter of Greek independence and Catholic emancipation.
Patrick Colquhoun (1745-1820)
Born in Dumbarton, after a mercantile career in Virginia and Glasgow he was metropolitan
police magistrate (1792-1818).
Sir Philip Crampton, first baronet (1777-1858)
He was surgeon-general to the forces in Ireland, elected to the Royal Society in 1812;
Lady Morgan described him as an accomplished dancer of the Irish Jig.
John Wilson Croker (1780-1857)
Secretary of the Admiralty (1810) and writer for the
Quarterly
Review; he edited an elaborate edition of Boswell's
Life of
Johnson (1831).
Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658)
English general and statesman; fought with the parliamentary forces at the battles of
Edgehill (1642) and Marston Moor (1644); led expedition to Ireland (1649) and was named
Lord Protector (1653).
Sir Humphry Davy, baronet (1778-1829)
English chemist and physicist, inventor of the safety lamp; in Bristol he knew Cottle,
Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey; he was president of the Royal Society (1820).
John Dryden (1631-1700)
English poet laureate, dramatist, and critic; author of
Of Dramatick
Poesie (1667),
Absalom and Achitophel (1681),
Alexander's Feast; or the Power of Musique (1697),
The Works of Virgil translated into English Verse (1697), and
Fables (1700).
Sir David Dundas (1735 c.-1820)
Scottish military officer, the author of several books on drilling and tactics adopted by
the British Army. He was temporary commander-in-chief of the army (1809-11).
Lovell Edgeworth (1775-1842)
Of Edgeworthstown, the son and heir of Richard Lovell Edgeworth and his second wife,
Honora Sneyd.
Maria Edgeworth (1768-1849)
Irish novelist; author of
Castle Rackrent (1800)
Belinda (1801),
The Absentee (1812) and
Ormond (1817).
Charles Augustus Ellis, second baron Seaford (1799-1868)
The son of Charles Rose Ellis; after education at Eton and military he was service
under-secretary of state for foreign affairs under Canning (1824-26) and a career
diplomat.
George Faulkner (1703 c.-1775)
Dublin printer and bookseller who founded the
Dublin Journal
(1728) and published Swift's
Works (1772).
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.
Mary Ferguson (d. 1829)
The daughter of Professor Adam Ferguson; she died unmarried.
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.
Oliver Goldsmith (1728 c.-1774)
Irish miscellaneous writer; his works include
The Vicar of
Wakefield (1766),
The Deserted Village (1770), and
She Stoops to Conquer (1773).
Henry Hallam (1777-1859)
English historian and contributor to the
Edinburgh Review, author
of
Introduction to the Literature of Europe, 4 vols (1837-39) and
other works. He was the father of Tennyson's Arthur Hallam.
Matthew Weld Hartstonge (1772 c.-1835 c.)
Educated at Trinity College, Dublin, he was an Irish barrister and admirer of Lady Morgan
who corresponded with Sir Walter Scott. He published
The Eve of
All-Hallows; or, Adelaide of Tyrconnel; a Romance, 3 vols (1825).
Horace (65 BC-8 BC)
Roman lyric poet; author of
Odes,
Epistles, Satires, and the
Ars Poetica.
Esther Johnson [Stella] (1681-1728)
The lifelong friend of Jonathan Swift and object of his birthday verses; they were
rumored to be secretly married.
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).
Samuel Kyle, bishop of Cork (1770 c.-1848)
Educated at Trinity College, Dublin, where he was elected provost in 1820; he was
appointed bishop of Cork and Ross in 1831.
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).
Louis XVIII, king of France (1755-1824)
Brother of the executed Louis XVI; he was placed on the French throne in 1814 following
the abdication of Napoleon.
Richard Macdonnell (1787-1867)
Educated at Trinity College, Dublin, where he was professor of oratory (1816-52) and
professor of Greek (1843-52), and provost (1852-67).
Gaius Maecenas (70 BC-8 BC)
Counsellor to the Emperor Augustus and patron of Virgil and Horace.
John Marshall (1765-1845)
Flax manufacturer at Leeds and Whig MP for Yorkshire (1826-30); his wife, Jane Pollard,
was a friend of Dorothy Wordsworth.
Charles Robert Maturin (1780-1824)
Anglo-Irish clergyman, novelist, and playwright patronized by Walter Scott; author of the
tragedy
Betram (1816) and the novel
Melmoth the
Wanderer (1820).
Charles Robert Maturin (1806-1887)
The son of the author Charles Robert Maturin; educated at Trinity College, Dublin, he was
the high-church perpetual curate of Grangegorman, co. Dublin.
Archer Moore (d. 1846)
Of Lamberton, Irish judge and MP who opposed the Union.
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
Irish poet and biographer, author of the
Irish Melodies (1807-34),
The Fudge Family in Paris (1818), and
Lalla
Rookh (1817); he was Byron's close friend and designated biographer.
John Morritt (1802-1827)
The nephew of John Bacon Sawrey Morritt of Rokeby; as a boy he a favorite pupil of Anne
Grant of Laggan; he afterwards studied at Winchester and served in the army before his
early death from consumption.
Charles Morris (1745-1838)
English singer and songwriter; he was laureate to the Sublime Society of Beef Steaks, in
which capacity he came to know the Prince of Wales.
Sir George Murray (1772-1846)
The son of Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, fifth baronet; he was a general who served
under Wellington in the Peninsular War and was afterwards a Tory MP and commander-in-chief
in Ireland (1825-28).
Gilbert Stuart Newton (1794-1835)
Canadian-born painter of literary subjects who was the friend of Washington Irving and
John Constable. Sir Walter Scott sat for him.
Daniel O'Connell (1775-1847)
Irish politician, in 1823 he founded the Catholic Association to press for Catholic
emancipation.
Patrick O'Keeffe (1754-1835 c.)
Itinerant Irish poet, the author of
Killarney: a Poem (1791);
George IV subscribed to a volume of his poems, and Sir Walter Scott met him in his trip to
Ireland in 1825.
Pindar (522 BC c.-443 BC)
Greek lyric poet who celebrated athletic victories in elaborate odes that became models
for intricate and often elliptical odes in English.
Richard Ponsonby, bishop of Derry (1772-1853)
The son of William Brabazon Ponsonby, first Baron Ponsonby; educated at Trinity College,
Dublin, he was dean of St. Patrick's (1817), bishop of Killaloe and Kilfenora (1828), and
Derry (1831).
Sarah Ponsonby (1755-1831)
The daughter of Chambre Brabazon Ponsonby; she was the younger of the two Ladies of
Llangollen, living in picturesque and much-admired retirement with her companion Eleanor
Butler (1739-1829).
Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
English poet and satirist; author of
The Rape of the Lock (1714)
and
The Dunciad (1728).
Dora Quillinan [née Wordsworth] (1804-1847)
The daughter of William Wordsworth who in 1841 married the poet Edward Quillinan despite
her father's concerns about his debts.
John Richardson of Kirklands (1780-1864)
Scottish lawyer and parliamentary solicitor in London from 1806; he was Thomas Campbell's
legal advisor and a friend of Sir Walter Scott.
Louis François Roubiliac (1705 c.-1762)
Lyon-born sculpture who settled in England before 1735; his portrait-busts were much
admired, among them that of Alexander Pope.
Anne Scott (1803-1833)
Walter Scott's younger daughter who cared for him in his old age and died
unmarried.
Charles Scott (1805-1841)
The younger son of Sir Walter Scott; educated at Oxford, he pursued a career in diplomacy
and died in Tehran.
Lady Jane Scott [née Jobson] (1801 c.-1877)
The daughter of William Jobson of Lochore; in 1825 she married Sir Walter Scott's eldest
son, Walter.
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.”
Sir John Sinclair, first baronet (1754-1835)
Scottish MP, projected the
Statistical Account of Scotland
(1791-1799) and superintended an edition of Ossian (1807).
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).
Edmund Spenser (1552 c.-1599)
English poet, author of
The Shepheards Calender (1579) and
The Faerie Queene (1590, 1596).
Sir Richard Steele (1672-1729)
English playwright and essayist, who conducted
The Tatler, and
(with Joseph Addison)
The Spectator and
The
Guardian.
Lady Louisa Stuart (1757-1851)
The youngest child of John Stuart, third earl of Bute; she corresponded with Sir Walter
Scott. Several volumes of her writings and memoirs were published after her death.
Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)
Dean of St Patrick's, Scriblerian satirist, and author of
Battle of the
Books with
Tale of a Tub (1704),
Drapier
Letters (1724),
Gulliver's Travels (1726), and
A Modest Proposal (1729).
Thomas of Erceldoune (1220 c.-1297 c.)
Scottish poet and prophet; author (or supposed author) of the romance,
Sir Tristrem.
Richard Watson, bishop of Llandaff (1737-1816)
Regius Professor of Divinity, Trinity College, Cambridge and bishop of Llandaff (1782);
he published
Apology for Christianity (1776) in response to Gibbon,
and
Apology for the Bible (1796) in response to Paine.
James Watt (1736-1819)
Scottish inventor of the steam engine patented in 1769.
Richard Wellesley, first marquess Wellesley (1760-1842)
The son of Garret Wesley (1735-1781) and elder brother of the Duke of Wellington; he was
Whig MP, Governor-general of Bengal (1797-1805), Foreign Secretary (1809-12), and
Lord-lieutenant of Ireland (1821-28); he was created Marquess Wellesley in 1799.
Jane Wilson [née Penny] (d. 1837)
The daughter of a wealthy Liverpool merchant; in 1811 she married the poet John Wilson.
Charles Macfarlane described her as “kind-hearted, sonsie, thoroughly
Scottish.”
John Wilson [Christopher North] (1785-1854)
Scottish poet and Tory essayist, the chief writer for the “Noctes Ambrosianae” in
Blackwood's Magazine and professor of moral philosophy at Edinburgh
University (1820).
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
With Coleridge, author of
Lyrical Ballads (1798), Wordsworth
survived his early unpopularity to succeed Robert Southey as poet laureate in 1843.