CHAPTER XVI.

MARRIAGE—WALTER SCOTT—BYRON—SIDNEY SMITH'S TAUNT—PUBLICATION OF ORIGINAL AMERICAN WORKS—MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Early in the year 1818 I was married to the daughter of Stephen Rowe Bradley, of Westminster, Vermont. Thus established in life, I pursued the business of bookseller and publisher at Hartford for four years. My vocation gave me the command of books, but I was able to read very little—my eyes continuing to be so weak that I could hardly do justice to my affairs. However, I dipped into a good many books, and acquired a considerable knowledge of authors and their works.

During the period in which Scott had been enchanting the world with his poetry—that is, from 1805 to 1815—I had shared in the general intoxication. The Lady of the Lake delighted me beyond expression, and even now, it seems to me the most pleasing and perfect of metrical romances. These productions seized powerfully upon the popular mind, partly on account of the romance of their revelations, and partly also because of the simplicity of the style, and the easy flow of the versification. Everybody could read and comprehend them. One of my younger sisters committed the whole of the Lady of the Lake to memory, and was accustomed of an evening to sit at her sewing, while she recited it to an admiring circle of listeners. All young poets were inoculated withthe octo-syllabic verse, and newspapers, magazines, and even volumes, teemed with imitations and variations inspired by the "Wizard Harp of the North." Not only did Scott himself continue to pour out volume after volume, but others produced set poems in his style, some of them so close in their imitation as to be supposed the works of Scott himself, trying the effect of a disguise. At last, however, the market was overstocked, and the general appetite began to pall with a surfeit, when a sudden change took place in the public taste.

It was just at this point that Byron produced his first canto of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Scott speedily appreciated the eclipse to which his poetical career was doomed by the rising genius of Byron. He now turned his attention to prose fiction, and in July, 1814, completed and published Waverley, which had been begun some eight or ten years before. Guy Mannering came out the next year, and was received with a certain degree of eagerness. The Antiquary, Black Dwarf, Old Mortality, Rob Roy, and the Heart of Mid-Lothian, followed in quick succession. I suspect that never, in any age, have the productions of any author created in the world so wide and deep an enthusiasm. This emotion reached its height upon the appearance of Ivanhoe in 1819, which, I think, proved the most popular of these marvellous productions.

At this period, although there was a good deal of mystery as to their authorship, the public generally referred them to Scott. He was called the "Great Unknown"—a title which served to create even an adventitious interest in his career. The appearance of a new tale from his pen caused a greater sensation in the United States than did some of the battles of Napoleon, which decided thefate of thrones and empires. Everybody read these works; everybody—the refined and the simple—shared in the delightful dreams which seemed to transport them to remote ages and distant climes, and made them live and breathe in the presence of the stern Covenanters of Scotland, the gallant bowmen of Sherwood Forest, or even the Crusaders in Palestine, where Cœur de Lion and Saladin were seen struggling for the mastery! I can testify to my own share in this intoxication. I was not able, on account of my eyes, to read these works myself, but I found friends to read them to me. To one good old maid—Heaven bless her!—I was indebted for the perusal of no less than seven of these tales.

Of course, there were many editions of these works in the United States, and among others, I published an edition, I think, in eight volumes, octavo—including those which had appeared at that time.

About this time I began to think of trying to bring out original American works. It must be remembered that I am speaking of a period prior to 1820. At that date, Bryant, Irving, and Cooper, the founders of our modern literature, had just commenced their literary career. Neither of them had acquired a positive reputation. Halleck, Percival, Brainard, Longfellow, Willis, were at school—at least, all were unknown. The general impression was that we had not, and could not have, a literature. It was the precise point at which Sydney Smith had uttered that bitter taunt in the Edinburgh Review—"Who reads an American book?" It proved to be that "darkest hour just before the dawn." The successful booksellers of the country were for the most part the mere reproducers and sellers of English books. It was positively injurious to the commercial credit of a booksellerto undertake American works, unless they might be Morse's Geographies, classical books, school-books, devotional books, or other utilitarian works.

Nevertheless, about this time, I published an edition of Trumbull's poems, in two volumes, octavo, and paid him a thousand dollars and a hundred copies of the work, for the copyright. I was seriously counselled against this by several booksellers—and, in fact, Trumbull had sought a publisher in vain for several years previous. There was an association of designers and engravers at Hartford, called the "Graphic Company," and as I desired to patronize the liberal arts there, I employed them to execute the embellishments. For so considerable an enterprise, I took the precaution to get a subscription, in which I was tolerably successful. The work was at last produced, but it did not come up to the public expectation, or the patriotic zeal had cooled, and more than half the subscribers declined taking the work. I did not press it, but putting a good face upon the affair, I let it pass, and—while the public supposed I had made money by my enterprise, and even the author looked askance at me in the jealous apprehension that I had made too good a bargain out of him—I quietly pocketed a loss of about a thousand dollars. This was my first serious adventure in patronizing American literature.

About the same period I turned my attention to books for education and books for children, being strongly impressed with the idea that there was here a large field for improvement. I wrote, myself, a small arithmetic, and half-a-dozen toy-books, and published them anonymously. I also employed several persons to write school histories, and educational manuals of chemistry, natural philosophy, &c., upon plans which I prescribed—all of which I published;but none of these were very successful at that time. Some of them, passing into other hands, are now among the most popular and profitable school-books in the country.

It was before this period that Miss Huntly, now Mrs. Sigourney, was induced to leave her home in Norwich, and make Hartford her residence. This occurred about the year 1814. Ere long she was the presiding genius of our social circle. I shall not write her history, nor dilate upon her literary career, yet I may speak of her influence in this new relation—a part of which fell upon myself. Mingling in the gayeties of our social gatherings, and in no respect clouding their festivity, she led us all toward intellectual pursuits and amusements. We had even a literary coterie under her inspiration, its first meetings being held at Mr. Wadsworth's. I believe one of my earliest attempts at composition was made here. The ripples thus begun, extended over the whole surface of our young society, producing a lasting and refining effect. It could not but be beneficial thus to mingle in intercourse with one who has the faculty of seeing poetry in all things and good everywhere. Few persons living have exercised a wider influence than Mrs. Sigourney. No one that I now know can look back upon a long and earnest career of such unblemished beneficence.

DOMESTIC TROUBLES—SKETCH OF BRAINARD—AUNT LUCY'S BACK-PARLOR—THE FALL OF NIAGARA—DEATH OF BRAINARD.

In 1821, clouds and darkness began to gather around my path. By a fall from a horse, I was put upon crutches for more than a year, and a cane for the rest of my life. Ere long death entered my door, and my home was desolate. I was once more alone—save only that a child was left me, to grow to womanhood, and to die a youthful mother, loving and beloved. My affairs became embarrassed, my health failed, and my only hope of renovation was in a change of scene.

Before I give you a sketch of my experience and observations abroad, I must present the portrait of my friend Brainard. He came to Hartford in February, 1822, to take the editorial charge of the Connecticut Mirror. He was now twenty-six years old, and had gained some reputation for wit and poetical talent. One day a young man, small in stature, with a curious mixture of ease and awkwardness, of humor and humility, came into my office, and introduced himself as Mr. Brainard. I gave him a hearty welcome, for I had heard very pleasant accounts of him. As was natural, I made a complimentary allusion to his poems, which I had seenand admired. A smile, yet shaded with something of melancholy, came over his face as he replied,—

"Don't expect too much of me; I never succeeded in anything yet. I never could draw a mug of cider without spilling more than half of it!"

I afterwards found that much truth was thus spoken in jest. This was, in point of fact, precisely Brainard's appreciation of himself. All his life, feeling that he could do something, he still entertained a mournful and disheartening conviction that, on the whole, he was doomed to failure and disappointment. There was sad prophecy in this presentment—a prophecy which he at once made and fulfilled.

We soon became friends, and, at last, intimates. I was now boarding at "Ripley's"—a good old-fashioned tavern, over which presided Major Ripley, respected for revolutionary services, an amiable character, and a long Continental queue. In the administration of the establishment he was ably supported by his daughter, Aunt Lucy—the very genius of tavern courtesy, cookery, and comfort. Here Brainard joined me, and we took rooms side by side. Thus, for more than a year, we were together, as intimate as brothers. He was of a child-like disposition, and craved constant sympathy. He soon got into the habit of depending upon me in many things, and at last—especially in dull weather, or when he was sad, or something went wrong with him—he would creep into my bed, as if it were his right. At that period of gloom in my own fortunes, this was as well a solace to me as to him. After my return from Europe we resumed these relations, and for some months more we were thus together.

I cannot do better than sketch a single incident, whichwill give you some insight into Brainard's character. The scene opens in Miss Lucy's little back-parlor—a small, cosy, carpeted room, with two cushioned rocking-chairs, and a bright hickory fire. It is a chill November night, about seven o'clock of a Friday evening. The Mirror—Brainard's paper—is to appear the next morning. The week has thus far passed, and he has not written for it a line. How the days have gone he can hardly tell. He has read a little—dipped into Byron, pored over the last Waverly novel, and been to see his friends; at all events, he has got rid of the time. He has not felt competent to bend down to his work, and has put it off till the last moment. No further delay is possible. He is now not well; he has a severe cold.

Miss Lucy, who takes a motherly interest in him, tells him not to go out, and his own inclinations suggest the charms of a quiet evening in the rocking chair, by a good fire—especially in comparison with going to his comfortless office, and drudging for the press. He lingers till eight, and then suddenly rousing himself, by a desperate effort, throws on his cloak and sallies forth. As was not uncommon, I go with him. A dim fire is kindled in the small Franklin stove in his office, and we sit down. Brainard, as was his wont, especially when he was in trouble, falls into a curious train of reflections, half comic and half serious.

"Would to Heaven," he says, "I were a slave! I think a slave, with a good master, has a good time of it. The responsibility of taking care of himself—the most terrible burden of life—is put on his master's shoulders. Madame Roland, with a slight alteration, would have uttered a profound truth. She should have said—'Oh, Liberty, Liberty, thou art a humbug!' After all, liberty is thegreatest possible slavery, for it puts upon a man the responsibility of taking care of himself. If he goes wrong, why, he's condemned! If a slave sins, he's only flogged, and gets over it, and there's an end of it. Now, if I could only be flogged, and settle the matter that way, I should be perfectly happy. But here comes my tormentor."

The door is now opened, a boy with a touselled head and inky countenance enters, saying curtly—"Copy, Mr. Brainard!"

"Come in fifteen minutes!" says the editor, with a droll mixture of fun and despair.

WHITTLING.

Brainard makes a few observations, and sits down at his little narrow pine table—hacked along edges with many a restless penknife. He seems to notice the marks, and pausing a moment, says,—

"This table reminds me of one of my brother William's stories. There was an old man in Groton, who had but one child, and she was a daughter. When she was about eighteen, several young men came to see her. At last she picked out one of them, and desired to marry him. He seemed a fit match enough, but the father positively refused his consent. For a long time he persisted, and would give no reason for his conduct. At last he took his daughter aside, and said—'Now, Sarah, I think pretty well of this young man in general, but I've observed that he's given to whittling. There's no harm in that, but the point is this: he whittles and whittles, and never makes nothing! Now, I tell you, I'll never give my only daughter to such a feller as that!' Whenever Bill told this story, he used to insinuate that this whittling chap, who never made anything, was me! At any rate, I think it would have suited me exactly."

Some time passed in similar talk, when, at last, Brainardturned suddenly, took up his pen, and began to write. I sat apart, and left him to his work. Some twenty minutes passed, when, with a smile on his face, he got up, approached the fire, and taking the candle to light his paper, read as follows:—

"THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

"The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,While I look upwards to thee. It would seemAs if God pour'd thee from his 'hollow hand,'And hung his bow upon thy awful front;And spoke in that loud voice that seem'd to himWho dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,'The sound of many waters;' and had badeThy flood to chronicle the ages back,And notch his cent'ries in the eternal rocks!"

He had hardly done reading when the boy came. Brainard handed him the lines—on a small scrap of coarse paper—and told him to come again in half-an-hour. Before this time had elapsed, he had finished and read me the following stanza:—

"Deep calleth unto deep. And what are weThat hear the question of that voice sublime?Oh! what are all the notes that ever rungFrom war's vain trumpet by thy thundering side?Yea, what is all the riot man can make,In his short life, to thy unceasing roar?And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to HimWho drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters farAbove its loftiest mountains? A light wave,That breathes and whispers of its Maker's might."

These lines having been furnished, Brainard left his office, and we returned to Miss Lucy's parlor. Heseemed utterly unconscious of what he had done. I praised the verses, but he thought I only spoke warmly from friendly interest. The lines went forth, and produced a sensation of delight over the whole country. Almost every exchange paper that came to the office had extracted them. Even then he would scarcely believe that he had done anything very clever. And thus, under these precise circumstances, were composed the most suggestive and sublime stanzas upon Niagara that were ever penned. Brainard had never, as he told me, been within less than five hundred miles of the cataract, nor do I believe that, when he went to the office, he had meditated upon the subject.

The reader will see, from the circumstances I have mentioned, that I know the history of most of Brainard's pieces, as they came out, from time to time, in his newspaper. Nearly all of them were occasional—that is, suggested by passing events, or incidents in the poet's experience.

Early in the year 1825 I persuaded Brainard to make a collection of his poems, and have them published. At first his lip curled at the idea, as being too pretentious. He insisted that he had done nothing to justify the publication of a volume. Gradually he began to think of it, and, at length, I induced him to sign a contract authorizing me to make arrangements for the work. He set about the preparation, and at length—after much lagging and many lapses—the pieces were selected and arranged. When all was ready, I persuaded him to go to New York with me to settle the matter with a publisher.

One anecdote, in addition to those already before the public, and I shall close this sketch. Brainard's talent for repartee was of the first order. On one occasion,Nathan Smith, an eminent lawyer, was at Ripley's tavern, in the midst of a circle of judges and lawyers attending the court. He was an Episcopalian, and at this time was considered by his political adversaries—unjustly, no doubt—as the paid agent of that persuasion, now clamoring for a sum of money from the State, to lay the foundation of a "Bishops' Fund." He was thus regarded somewhat in the same light as O'Connell, who, while he was the great patriot leader of Irish independence, was, at the same time, liberally supported by the "rint." By accident, Brainard came in, and Smith, noticing a little feathery attempt at whiskers down his cheeks, rallied him upon it.

"It will never do," said he; "you cannot raise it, Brainard. Come, here's sixpence—take that, and go to the barber's and get it shaved off! It will smooth your cheek, and ease your conscience."

Brainard drew himself up, and said with great dignity—as Smith held out the sixpence on the point of his forefinger—"No, sir, you had better keep it for the Bishops' Fund!"

In Brainard's editorial career—though he was negligent, dilatory, sometimes almost imbecile, from a sort of constitutional inertness—still a train of inextinguishable light remains to gleam along his path. Many a busy, toiling editor has filled his daily columns for years, without leaving a living page behind him; while Brainard, with all his failings and irregularities, has left a collection of gems which will be cherished to immortality. And among all that he wrote idly and recklessly, as it might seem—there is not a line that, "dying, he could wish to blot." His love of parents, of home, of kindred, was beautiful indeed; his love of nature, and especially ofthe scenes of his childhood, was the affection of one never weaned from the remembrance of his mother's breast. He was true in friendship, chivalrous in all that belonged to personal honor. I never heard him utter a malignant thought—I never knew him to pursue an unjust design. At the early age of eight-and-twenty, with a submissive spirit, he resigned himself to death, and in pious, gentle, cheerful faith, he departed on the 26th of September, 1828.

MY FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE—HURRICANE—ARRIVAL AT LIVERPOOL—LONDON—TRAVEL ON THE CONTINENT—RETURN TO BRISTOL—INTERVIEW WITH HANNAH MORE—DESIGN IN TRAVELLING—VISIT TO IRELAND AND SCOTLAND.

It was on the 16th of November, 1823, that I set sail in the "Canada," Captain Macy, on my first visit to Europe. I have now before me four volumes of notes made during my tour; which I might, perhaps, have ventured to publish when they were fresh; but since that period the world has been inundated with tales of travels, I shall therefore only indulge in a rapid outline of my adventures, and a few sketches of men and things, which may perchance be of interest to the reader.

Our voyage was, as usual at that season of the year, tempestuous. As we approached the British Islands we were beset by a regular hurricane. On the 5th of December, the Captain kindly informed us that we were almost precisely in the situation of the "Albion," the day before she was wrecked on the rocky headland of Kinsale, at the south-east extremity of Ireland; an event which had spread a general gloom throughout the United States. As night set in we were struck by a squall, and with difficulty the vessel was brought round, so as to lie to. The storm was fearful; and the frequent concussions of the waves upon the ship, sounding likereports of artillery, made her reel and stagger like a drunken man. The morning came at last, and the weather was fair, but our deck was swept of its boats, bulwarks, and hen-coops. Our old cow in her hovel, the covering of the steerage, and that of the companion-way, were saved. The next morning we took a pilot, and on the 8th of December entered the dock at Liverpool.

I had suffered fearfully by sea-sickness, and had scarcely strength to walk ashore. I felt such horror—such disgust of the sea—that I could easily have pledged myself never to venture upon it again. However, this all passed away like a dream: my strength revived; and even my constitution, shattered by long suffering, seemed to be renovated. With the return of health and spirits, my journey to London was delightful. Though it was December, the landscape was intensely green, while the atmosphere was dark as twilight. And this was England! Oh, what emotions filled my breast as I looked on Kenilworth, Warwick, and Lichfield, and at last on London!

I remained in the latter place about a month, and then went to Paris. In April I visited Switzerland and a portion of Germany, and followed the Rhine to Cologne. Thence I travelled through Flanders and Holland, and taking a sloop at Rotterdam, swung down the Maese, and in May reached London again. I soon after departed for Bristol, taking Salisbury and Stonehenge on my way. Having reached that city, and seen its sights, I hired a post-coach, and went to Barley-wood, some ten miles distant. Hannah More was still living there! The house was a small thatched edifice—half cottage and half villa—tidily kept, and garnished with vines and trellises. Its site was on a gentle hill, sloping to thesouth-east, and commanding a charming view over the undulating country around, including the adjacent village of Wrington, with a wide valley sloping to the Bristol Channel; the latter sparkling in the distance, and bounded by the Welsh mountains in the far horizon. Behind the house, and on the crown of the hill, was a small copse, threaded with neat gravel walks, and at particular points embellished with objects of interest. In one place there was a little rustic temple, with this motto—"Audi, Hospes, contemnere opes;" in another, there was a stone monument, erected to the memory of Bishop Porteus, who had been a particular friend of the proprietor of the place. A little further on I found another monument, with this inscription: "To John Locke, born in this village, this monument is erected by Mrs. Montague, and presented to Hannah More." From this sequestered spot an artificial opening was cut through the foliage of the trees, giving a view of the house—about a mile distant—in which Locke was born!

Mrs. More was now seventy-nine years of age, and was very infirm, having kept her room for two years. She received me with great cordiality, and mentioned several Americans who had visited her, and others, with whom she had held correspondence. Her mind and feelings were alive to every subject that was suggested. She spoke very freely of her writings and her career. I told her of the interest I had taken, when a child, in the story of the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain; upon which she recounted its history, remarking that the character of the hero was modelled from life, though the incidents were fictitious. Her tract, called Village Politics, by Will Chip, was written at the request of the British Ministry, and two million copies were sold the first year,She showed me copies of Cœlebs in Search of a Wife—the most successful of her works—in French and German; and a copy of one of her Sacred Dramas, Moses in the Bulrushes, on palm-leaves, in the Cingalese tongue; it having been translated into that language by the Missionary School at Ceylon. She showed me also the knife with which the leaf had been prepared, and the scratches made in it to receive the ink. She expressed a warm interest in America, and stated that Wilberforce had always exerted himself to establish and maintain good relations between Great Britain and our country. I suggested to her that, in the United States, the general impression—that of the great mass of the people—was that the English were unfriendly to us. She said it was not so. I replied that the Americans all read the English newspapers, and generally the products of the British press; that feelings of dislike, disgust, animosity, certainly pervaded most of these publications; and it was natural to suppose that these were the reflections of public opinion in Great Britain: at all events, our people regarded them as such, and hence inferred that England was our enemy. She expressed great regret at this state of things, and said all good people should strive to keep peace between the two countries: to all which I warmly assented.

My interview with this excellent lady was, on the whole, most gratifying. Regarding her as one of the greatest benefactors of the age—as, indeed, one of the most remarkable women that had ever lived—I looked upon her not only with veneration, but affection. Besides, I felt that I owed her a special debt; and my visit to her was almost like a pilgrimage to the shrine of a divinity. When I left America, I had it in mind to rendermy travels subservient to a desire I had long entertained of making an improvement in books for the young. I had sought in London, France, and Germany, for works that might aid my design. It is true I had little success; for while scientific and classical education was sedulously encouraged on the Continent, as well as in England, it seemed to be thought that Dilworth and Mother Goose had done all that could be done. In this interview with Mrs. More I had the subject still in mind; and discerning by what she had accomplished the vast field that was open, and actually inviting cultivation, I began from this time to think of attempting to realize the project I had formed. It is true that, in some respects, the example I had just contemplated differed from my own scheme. Hannah More had written chiefly for the grown-up masses; whereas my plan was to begin further back—with the children. Her means, however, seemed adapted to my purpose: her success, to encourage my attempt. She had discovered that truth could be made attractive to simple minds. Fiction was, indeed, often her vehicle; but it was not her end. The great charm of these works, which had captivated the million, was their verisimilitude. Was there not, then, a natural relish for truth in all minds; or, at least, was there not a way of presenting it, which made it even more interesting than romance? Did not children love truth? If so, was it necessary to feed them on fiction? Could not History, Natural History, Geography, Biography, become the elements of juvenile works, in place of fairies and giants, and mere monsters of the imagination? These were the inquiries that from this time filled my mind.

Taking leave of Barley-wood and its interesting occupant, I traversed Wales, and embarking at Holyhead,passed over to Ireland. Having seen Dublin, with the extraordinary contrasts of sumptuousness in some of its streets and edifices, with the fearful squalidness and poverty in others, I passed on to the North; and after visiting the Giant's Causeway returned to Belfast, and embarked in a steamboat for Greenock. Thence I proceeded toward Dumbarton, and in the early evening, as I approached the town in a small steamer, I realized in the distance before me the scene of the song,—

"The sun has gone down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond,And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene."

On the morrow I went to Loch Lomond, crossing the lake in a steamboat; thence on foot to Callender; and spent two days around Loch Katrine, amid the scenery of the Lady of the Lake. With a copy of that poem in my hand, which I had bought of a countryman on the borders of Loch Lomond, I easily traced out the principal landmarks of the story: "Ellen's Isle," nearly in the middle of the lake; on the northern shore, "the Silver Strand," where the maiden met Fitz-James; far to the east, Benain, rearing its "forehead fair" to the sky; to the south, the rocky pyramid called "Roderick's Watchtower;" and still beyond, the "Goblin's Cave." Leaving the lake, I passed through the Trosachs, a wild, rocky glen, and the scene of the most startling events in the poem. At last I came to Coilantogle Ford, where the deadly struggle took place between the two heroes of the poem—Roderick and Fitz-James. Finally, I went to the borders of Loch Achray, a placid sheet of water, beautiful by nature, but still more enchanting through the delightful associations of poetic art.

"The minstrel came once more to viewThe eastern ridge of Benvenue,For, ere he parted, he would sayFarewell to lovely Loch Achray.Where shall he find, in foreign land,So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!"*****

But I must forbear. I have pledged myself not to weary my reader with descriptions of scenery, and especially with that which is familiar to every one. I will try not to sin again: at least till I get out of Scotland. Having spent two days in this region of poetry and romance, I left for Glasgow, and at last reached Edinburgh.

THE EDINBURGH LIONS—LITERARY CELEBRITIES—JEFFREY IN THE FORUM—SIR WALTER AT THE DESK—RIDING WITH SCOTCH LADIES—BEAUTIFUL SCENERY—A SCOTCH MIST.

Edinburgh was then decidedly the literary metropolis of the three kingdoms; not through the amount of its productions, but their superiority. I had several letters of introduction; among them one to Blackwood; another to Constable; another to Miss Y——. The latter proved fortunate. Her father was a Writer to the Signet; an elderly gentleman of excellent position, and exceedingly fond of showing off "Auld Reekie." Well, indeed, might he be; for of all the cities I have seen, it is, in many respects, the most interesting. I am told it is gloomy in winter; but now it was summer. And in these high latitudes, nature makes ample amends in this season for the gloom and inclemency of the winter.

The day after delivering my letters, Mr. Y—— called on me, and showed me the lions of the town. Many of them—all, indeed—were interesting; but I pass them by, and shall only linger a short time at the Court of Sessions, which is the supreme civil court of Scotland. This, with the High Court of Justiciary—the supreme criminal court—forms the College of Justice, and constitutes the supreme tribunal of Scotland. Their sessionsare held in the old Parliament House, situated in the centre of the Old Town.

We entered a large Gothic hall, opening, as I observed, into various contiguous apartments. Here I saw a considerable number of persons, mostly lawyers and their clients; some sauntering, some meditating, some gathered in groups and conversing together. There was a large number of people distributed through the several apartments, and in the grand hall there was a pervading hum of voices, which rose and rumbled, and died away amid the groinings of the roof above.

Among the persons in this hall, a man some thirty years of age, tall and handsome, dressed in a gown, but without the wig, attracted my particular attention. He was walking apart, and there was a certain look of coldness and haughtiness about him. Nevertheless, for some undefinable reason, he excited in me a lively curiosity.

"Who is that gentleman?" said I, to my guide.

"That large, noble-looking person, with a gown and wig? That is Cranstoun, one of our first lawyers, and the brother-in-law of Dugald Stuart."

"No: that person beyond, and to the left? He is without a wig."

"Oh, that's Cockburn; a fiery Whig, and one of the keenest fellows we have at the bar."

"Yes: but I mean that younger person near the corner."

"Oh, that small, red-faced, freckled man? Why, that's Moncrief; a very sound lawyer. His father, Sir Harry Moncrief, is one of the most celebrated divines in Scotland."

"No, no; it is that tall, handsome, proud-looking person, walking by himself."

"Oh, I see: that's Lockhart, Sir Walter Scott's son-in-law. Would you like to know him?"

"Yes."

And so I was introduced to a man who, at that time, was hardly less an object of interest to me than Scott himself. Though a lawyer by profession, he had devoted himself to literature, and was now in the very height of his career. Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk, Valerius, and other works, had given him a prominent rank as a man of talent; and, besides, in 1820, he had married the eldest daughter of the "Great Unknown." My conversation with him was brief at this time, but I afterwards became well acquainted with him.

My guide now led me into one of the side-rooms, where I saw a judge and jury, and a lawyer addressing them. The latter was a very small man, without gown or wig, apparently about forty years of age, though he might be somewhat older. He was of dark complexion, with an eye of intense blackness, and almost painfully-piercing expression. His motions were quick and energetic, his voice sharp and penetrating; his general aspect exciting curiosity rather than affection. He was speaking energetically, and as we approached the bar my conductor said to me, in a whisper, "Jeffrey!"

We paused, and listened intently. The case in itself seemed dry enough: something, I believe, about astoppage in transitu. But Jeffrey's pleading was admirable; clear, progressive, logical. Occasionally, in fixing upon a weak point of his adversary, he displayed a leopard-like spring of energy, altogether startling. He seized upon a certain point in the history of the case, and insisted that the property in question rested at that period in the hands of the defendant's agent, for at least a fortnight.This he claimed to be fatal to his adversary's plea. Having stated the facts, with a clearness which seemed to prove them, he said, turning with startling quickness upon his antagonist,—"Now, I ask my learned brother to tell me, what was the state of the soul during that fortnight?" To a jury of Scotch Presbyterians, familiar with theological metaphysics, this allusion was exceedingly pertinent and effective.

We passed into another room. Three full-wigged judges were seated upon a lofty bench, and beneath them, at a little table in front, was a large man, bent down and writing laboriously. As I approached, I caught a side-view of his face. There was no mistaking him: it was Sir Walter himself!

Was it not curious to see the most renowned personage in the three kingdoms sitting at the very feet of these men: they the court, and he the clerk? They were indeed all "lords," and their individual names were suggestive to the ear: one was Robertson, son of the historian of Charles V.; another was Gillies, brother of the renowned Grecian scholar of that name; another, Mackenzie, son of the author of the Man of Feeling. These are high titles; but what were they to the author of Waverley?

Mr. Y—— introduced me to him at once, breaking in upon his occupation with easy familiarity. As he arose from his seat, I was surprised at his robust, vigorous frame. He was very nearly six feet in height, full-chested, and of a farmer-like aspect. His complexion seemed to have been originally sandy, but now his hair was grey. He had the rough, freckled, weather-beaten skin of a man who is much in the open air; his eye was small and grey, and peering out keenly and inquisitively from beneath a heavy brow, edged with something like grey,twisted bristles: the whole expression of his face, however, was exceedingly agreeable.

He greeted me kindly, the tone of his voice being hearty, yet with a very decided Scotch accent. A few commonplace remarks, and one or two inquiries as to my acquaintance with American literary men, was all that passed between us on this occasion; but subsequently, as will be seen, I was more highly favored.

One morning I found a note at my hotel, from Miss Y——, inviting me to breakfast. I went at ten, and we had a pleasant chat. She then proposed a ride, to which I acceded. She was already in her riding-habit; so without delay we went forth, calling first upon Mrs. Russell. She led us into another room, and there, on the floor, in a romp with her two boys, was Francis Jeffrey! Think of the first lawyer in Scotland, the lawgiver of the great republic of letters throughout Christendom, having a rough-and-tumble on the floor, as if he were himself a boy! Let others think as they will, I loved him from that moment; and ever after, as I read his criticisms, cutting and scorching as they often were, I fancied that I could still see a kind and genial spirit shining through them all. At least it is certain that, behind his editorial causticity, there was in private life a fund of gentleness and geniality which endeared him to all who enjoyed his intimacy. I was now introduced to him, and he seemed a totally different being from the fierce and fiery gladiator of the legal arena, where I had before seen him. His manners were gentle and gentlemanly: polite to the ladies and gracious to me.

We found Mrs. Russell in a riding-dress, and prepared to accompany us in our excursion. Taking leave of Mr. Jeffrey, we went to the stable, and having mounted,walked our steeds gently out of the town by Holyrood, and to the east of Arthur's seat, leaving Portobello on the left. We rode steadily, noting a few objects as we passed, until at last, reaching an elevated mound, we paused, and the ladies directed my attention to the scenes around. We were some two miles south of the town, upon one of the slopes of the Braid Hills. What a view was before us! The city, a vast smoking hive, to the north; and to the right, Arthur's Seat, bald and blue, seeming to rise up and almost peep into its streets and chimneys. Over and beyond all was the sea. The whole area between the point where we stood and that vast azure line, blending with the sky, was a series of abrupt hills and dimpling valleys, threaded by a network of highways and byways; honeycombed in spots by cities and villages, and elsewhere sprinkled with country seats.

It is an unrivalled scene of varied beauty and interest. The natural site of Edinburgh is remarkable, consisting of three rocky ledges, steepling over deep ravines. These have all been modified by art; in one place a lake has been dried up, and is now covered with roads, bridges, tenements, gardens, and lawns. The sides of the cliffs are in some instances covered with masses of buildings, occasionally rising tier above tier—in one place presenting a line of houses a dozen stories in height! The city is divided by a deep chasm into two distinct parts: the Old Town, dark and smoky, and justifying the popular appellation of "Auld Reekie;" the other, the New Town, with the fresh architecture and the rich and elaborate embellishments of a modern city. Nearly from the centre of the Old Town rises the Castle, three hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea; on one side looking down almost perpendicularly, two hundred feetinto the vale beneath; on the other, holding communication with the streets by means of a winding pathway. In the new town is Calton Hill, rich with monuments of art and memorials of history. From these two commanding positions the views are unrivalled.

But I forget that I have taken you to the Braid Hills. My amiable guides directed my attention to various objects—some far and some near, and all with names familiar to history, or song, or romance. Yonder mass of dun and dismal ruins was Craigmillar Castle, once the residence of Queen Mary. Nearly in the same direction, and not remote, is the cliff, above whose bosky sides peer out the massive ruins of Roslin Castle; further south are glimpses of Dalkieth Palace, the sumptuous seat of the Duke of Buccleuch; there is the busy little village of Lasswade, which takes the name of "Gandercleugh" in the Tales of my Landlord; yonder winds the Esk, and there the Galawater—both familiar in many a song; and there is the scenery of the Gentle Shepherd, presenting the very spot where that inimitable colloquy took place between Peggy and her companion Jenny,—

"Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's HowWhere a' the sweets o' spring an' summer grow:Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,The water fa's and makes a singan din:A pool, breast deep, beneath as clear as glass,Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering grass.We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,And when the day grows hot we'll to the pool,There wash oursels—it's healthful now in May,An' sweetly caller on sae warm a day."

While we were surveying these scenes the rain began to fall in a fine, insinuating mizzle; soon large dropspattered through the fog, and at last there was a drenching shower. I supposed the ladies would seek some shelter; not they: accustomed to all the humors of this drizzly climate, and of course defying them. They pulled off their green veils, and stuffed them into their saddle-pockets: then chirruping to their steeds, they sped along the road, as if mounted on broomsticks. I was soon wet through, and so, doubtless, were they. However, they took to it as ducks to a pond. On we went, the water—accelerated by our speed—spouting in torrents from our stirrups. In all my days I had never such an adventure. And the coolness with which the ladies took it, that was the most remarkable. Indeed, it was provoking; for as they would not accept sympathy, of course they could not give it, though my reeking condition would have touched any other heart than theirs. On we went, till at last, coming to the top of the hill, we suddenly cropped out into the sunshine, the shower still scudding along the valley beneath us. We continued our ride, getting once more soaked on our way, and again drying in the sun. At last we reached home, having made a circuit of fifteen miles. Scarcely a word was said of the rain. I saw the ladies to their residences, and was thankful when I found myself once more in my hotel.

As a just moral of this adventure, I suggest to any American, who may ride with Scotch ladies around Edinburgh, not to go forth in his best dress-coat, and pantaloons without straps.

BLACKWOOD—THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY—SIR WALTER SCOTT—MR. AND MRS. LOCKHART—ORIGIN OF "TAM O'SHANTER"—LAST WORDS OF SCOTT.

I delivered my letter of introduction to Blackwood, and he treated me very kindly. I found him an exceedingly intelligent and agreeable gentleman. The Magazine which bears his name was then in its glory, and of course a part of its radiance shone on him. He was a man of excellent judgment in literary matters, and his taste, no doubt, contributed largely to the success of the Magazine.

Of course I was gratified at receiving from him a note, inviting me to dine with him the next day. His house was on the south of the old town, nearly two miles distant. The persons present were such as I should myself have selected: among them Lockhart and James Ballantyne. I sat next the latter, and found him exceedingly agreeable and gentlemanlike. He was a rather large man, handsome, smooth in person and manner, and very well dressed. It must be remembered, that at this time Scott did not acknowledge that he was the author of the Waverley novels, nor did his friends. Perhaps the mystery was even promoted by them; for, no doubt, it added to the interest excited by his works. However, the veil was not closely preserved in the circle of intimacy. Ballantyne said to me, in the course of a conversation whichturned upon the popularity of authors, as indicated by the sale of their works,—"We have now in course of preparation forty thousand volumes of Scott's poems and the works of the author of Waverley:" evidently intimating the identity of their authorship.

The next day I went to St. Giles's Church, to see the General Assembly, then holding its annual session there. This body consisted of nearly four hundred members, chosen by different parishes, boroughs, and universities. The sessions are attended by a Commissioner appointed by the Crown, but he is seated outside of the area assigned to the Assembly, and has no vote, and no right of debate. He sits under a canopy, with the insignia of royalty, and a train of gaily-dressed pages. He opens the sessions in the name of the King, the Head of the Church: the Moderator then opens it in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ,the only true Head of the Church! It appears that the Scotch, in bargaining for a union with England, took good care to provide for their religious independence, and this they still jealously preserve.

The aspect of the Assembly was similar to that of the House of Commons, though somewhat graver. I observed that the debates were often stormy, with scraping of the floor, laughing aloud, and cries of "Hear, hear!" The members were, in fact, quite disorderly, showing at least as little regard for decorum as ordinary legislatures. Sir Walter Scott once remarked, in my hearing, that it had never yet been decided how many more than six members could speak at once!

The persons here pointed out to me as celebrities were Dr. Chalmers, the famous pulpit orator; Dr. Cook, the ecclesiastical historian; and Dr. Baird, principal of the University. The first of these was now at the height ofhis fame. He had already begun those reforms which, some years later, resulted in a disruption of the Scottish Church.

A few days after the dinner at Mr. Blackwood's I dined with Mr. Lockhart. Besides the host and hostess, there were present Sir Walter Scott, his son, Charles Scott, Mr. Blackwood, and three or four other persons. At dinner I sat next Sir Walter. Everything went off pleasantly, with the usual ease, hospitality, and heartiness of an English dinner.

After the ladies had retired the conversation became general and animated. Byron was the engrossing topic. Sir Walter spoke of him with the deepest feeling of admiration and regret. A few weeks before, on the receipt of the news of his death, he had written an obituary notice of him, in which he compared him to the sun, withdrawn from the heavens at the very moment when every telescope was levelled to discover either his glory or his spots.

Lockhart and Blackwood both told stories, and we passed a pleasant half hour. The wine was at last rather low, and our host ordered the servant to bring more. Upon which Scott said, "No, no, Lokert"—such was his pronunciation of his son-in-law's name—"we have had enough: let us go and see the ladies." And so we gathered to the parlor.

Mrs. Lockhart spoke with great interest of Washington Irving, who had visited the family at Abbotsford. She said that he slept in a room which looked out on the Tweed. In the morning, when he came down to breakfast, he was very pale, and being asked the reason, confessed that he had not been able to sleep. The sight of the Tweed from his window, and the consciousness ofbeing at Abbotsford, so filled his imagination, so excited his feelings, as to deprive him of slumber.

Our lively hostess was requested to give us some music, and instantly complied—the harp being her instrument. She sang Scotch airs, and played several pibrochs, all with taste and feeling. Her range of tunes seemed inexhaustible. Her father sat by, and entered heartily into the performances. He beat time vigorously with his lame leg, and frequently helped out a chorus, the heartiness of his tones making up for some delinquencies in tune and time. Often he made remarks upon the songs, and told anecdotes respecting them. When a certain pibroch had been played, he said it reminded him of the first time he ever saw Miss Edgeworth. There had come to Abbotsford a wild Gaelic peasant from the neighborhood of Staffa, and it was proposed to him to sing a a pibroch common in that region. He had consented, but required the whole party present to sit in a circle on the floor, while he should sing the song, and perform a certain pantomimic accompaniment, in the centre. All was accordingly arranged in the great hall, and the performer had just begun his wild chant, when in walked a small but stately lady, and announced herself as Miss Edgeworth!

Mrs. Lockhart asked me about the American Indians, expressing great curiosity concerning them. I told the story of one who was tempted to go into the rapids of the Niagara river, just above the Falls, for a bottle of rum. This he took with him, and having swam out to the point agreed upon, he turned back and attempted to regain the land. For a long time the result was doubtful: he struggled powerfully, but in vain; inch by inch he receded from the shore; and at last, finding his doom sealed,he raised himself above the water, wrenched the cork from the bottle, and putting the latter to his lips, yielded to the current, and thus went down to his doom.

Sir Walter then said that he had read an account of an Indian, who was in a boat, approaching a cataract; by some accident it was drawn into the current, and the savage saw that his escape was impossible. Upon this he arose, wrapped his robe of skins around him, seated himself erect, and, with an air of imperturbable gravity, went over the falls.

"The most remarkable thing about the American Indians," said Blackwood, "is their being able to follow in the trail of their enemies, by their footprints left in the leaves, upon the grass, and even upon the moss of the rocks. The accounts given of this seem hardly credible."

"I can readily believe it, however," said Sir Walter. "You must remember that this is a part of their education. I have learned at Abbotsford to discriminate between the hoof-marks of all our neighbors' horses, and I taught the same thing to Mrs. Lockhart. It is, after all, not so difficult as you might think. Every horse's foot has some peculiarity, either of size, shoeing, or manner of striking the earth. I was once walking with Southey—a mile or more from home—across the fields. At last we came to a bridle-path leading towards Abbotsford, and here I noticed fresh hoof-prints. Of this I said nothing; but pausing, and looking up with an inspired expression, I said to Southey,—'I have a gift of second sight: we shall have a stranger to dinner!'

"'And what may be his name?' was the reply.

"'Scott,' said I.

"'Ah, it is some relation of yours,' he said; 'you have invited him, and you would pass off, as an exampleof your Scottish gift of prophecy, a matter previously agreed upon!'

"'Not at all,' said I. 'I assure you that, till this moment, I never thought of such a thing.'

"When we got home, I was told that Mr. Scott, a farmer living some three or four miles distant, and a relative of mine, was waiting to see me. Southey looked astounded. The man remained to dinner, and he was asked if he had given any intimation of his coming. He replied in the negative: that, indeed, he had no idea of visiting Abbotsford when he left home. After enjoying Southey's wonder for some time, I told him that I saw the tracks of Mr. Scott's horse in the bridle-path, and inferring that he was going to Abbotsford, easily foresaw that we should have him to dinner."

Presently the conversation turned upon Burns. Scott knew him well. He said that Tam O'Shanter was written to please a stonecutter, who had executed a monument for the poet's father, on condition that he should write him a witch-story in verse. He stated that Burns was accustomed in his correspondence, more especially with ladies, to write an elaborate letter, and then send a copy of it to several persons; modifying local and personal passages to suit each individual. He said that of some of these letters he had three or four copies, thus addressed to different persons, and all in the poet's handwriting.

The evening passed in pleasant conversation, varied by the music of Mrs. Lockhart's voice and harp; and some amusing imitations by a gentleman of the party, till twelve o'clock. It will readily be supposed that my eye often turned upon the chief figure in this interesting group. I could not for a moment forget his presence;though nothing could be more unpretending and modest than his whole air and bearing.

The general effect of his face was that of calm dignity; and now, in the presence of children and friends, lighted by genial emotions, it was one of the pleasantest countenances I have ever seen. When standing or walking, his manly form, added to an aspect of benevolence, completed the image; at once exciting affection and commanding respect.

His manners were quiet, unpretending, absolutely without self-assertion. He appeared to be happy, and desirous of making others so. He was the only person present who seemed unconscious that he was the author of Waverley. His intercourse with his daughter was most charming. She seemed quite devoted to him; watching his lips when he was speaking, and seeking in everything to anticipate and fulfil his wishes. When she was singing, his eye dwelt upon her; his ear catching and seeming to relish every tone. Frequently, when she was silent, his eye rested upon her, and the lines came to my mind,—

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