"I sang of war—but it was the war of freedom, in which death was preferred to chains. I sang the abolition of the slave trade, that most glorious decree of the British Legislature at any period since the Revolution, by the first Parliament in which you, my Lord, sat as the representative of Yorkshire. Oh, how should I rejoice to sing the abolition of slavery itself by some Parliament of which your Lordship shall yet be a member! This greater act of righteous legislation is surely not too remote to be expected even in our own day. Renouncing the slave trade was only 'ceasing to do evil;' extinguishing slavery will be 'learning to do well.' Again, I sang of love—the love of country, the love of my own country; for,'Next to heaven above,Land of my fathers! thee I love;And, rail thy slanderers as they will,With all thy faults I love thee still.'I sang, likewise, the love of home—its charities, endearments and relationships—all that makes 'Home sweet Home,' the recollection of which, when the air of that name was just now played from yonder gallery, warmed every heart throughout this room into quicker pulsations. I sang the love which man ought to bear towards his brother, of every kindred, and country, and clime upon earth. I sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard under heaven. I sang, too, the love of God, whoislove. Nor did I sing in vain. I found readers and listeners, especially among the young, the fair, and the devout; and as youth, beauty, and piety will not soon cease out of the land, I may expect to be remembered through another generation at least, if I leave anything behind me worthy of remembrance. I may add that, from every part of the British empire, from every quarter of the world where our language is spoken—from America, the East and West Indies, from New Holland, and the South Sea Islands themselves—I have received testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers, hailing what I had done, and cheering me forward. I allude not to criticisms and eulogiums from the press, but to voluntary communications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like voices out of darkness, and giving intimation of that which the ear of a poet is always hearkening onward to catch—the voice of posterity."
"I sang of war—but it was the war of freedom, in which death was preferred to chains. I sang the abolition of the slave trade, that most glorious decree of the British Legislature at any period since the Revolution, by the first Parliament in which you, my Lord, sat as the representative of Yorkshire. Oh, how should I rejoice to sing the abolition of slavery itself by some Parliament of which your Lordship shall yet be a member! This greater act of righteous legislation is surely not too remote to be expected even in our own day. Renouncing the slave trade was only 'ceasing to do evil;' extinguishing slavery will be 'learning to do well.' Again, I sang of love—the love of country, the love of my own country; for,
'Next to heaven above,Land of my fathers! thee I love;And, rail thy slanderers as they will,With all thy faults I love thee still.'
'Next to heaven above,Land of my fathers! thee I love;And, rail thy slanderers as they will,With all thy faults I love thee still.'
I sang, likewise, the love of home—its charities, endearments and relationships—all that makes 'Home sweet Home,' the recollection of which, when the air of that name was just now played from yonder gallery, warmed every heart throughout this room into quicker pulsations. I sang the love which man ought to bear towards his brother, of every kindred, and country, and clime upon earth. I sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard under heaven. I sang, too, the love of God, whoislove. Nor did I sing in vain. I found readers and listeners, especially among the young, the fair, and the devout; and as youth, beauty, and piety will not soon cease out of the land, I may expect to be remembered through another generation at least, if I leave anything behind me worthy of remembrance. I may add that, from every part of the British empire, from every quarter of the world where our language is spoken—from America, the East and West Indies, from New Holland, and the South Sea Islands themselves—I have received testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers, hailing what I had done, and cheering me forward. I allude not to criticisms and eulogiums from the press, but to voluntary communications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like voices out of darkness, and giving intimation of that which the ear of a poet is always hearkening onward to catch—the voice of posterity."
When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" aboundAmong a band of brothers,The cup of joy goes gaily round,Each shares the bliss of others.Sweet roses grace the thorny wayAlong this vale of sorrow;The flowers that shed their leaves to-dayShall bloom again to-morrow.How grand in age, how fair in youth,Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"On halcyon wings our moments pass,Life's cruel cares beguiling;Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,In gay good-humour smiling:With ermine beard and forelock gray,His reverend part adorning,He looks like Winter turn'd to May,Night soften'd into Morning.How grand in age, how fair in youth,Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"From these delightful fountains flowAmbrosial rills of pleasure;Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,A more resplendent treasure?Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,Will form a constellation,Where every star, with modest light,Shall gild its proper station.How grand in age, how fair in youth,Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" aboundAmong a band of brothers,The cup of joy goes gaily round,Each shares the bliss of others.Sweet roses grace the thorny wayAlong this vale of sorrow;The flowers that shed their leaves to-dayShall bloom again to-morrow.How grand in age, how fair in youth,Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
On halcyon wings our moments pass,Life's cruel cares beguiling;Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,In gay good-humour smiling:With ermine beard and forelock gray,His reverend part adorning,He looks like Winter turn'd to May,Night soften'd into Morning.How grand in age, how fair in youth,Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
From these delightful fountains flowAmbrosial rills of pleasure;Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,A more resplendent treasure?Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,Will form a constellation,Where every star, with modest light,Shall gild its proper station.How grand in age, how fair in youth,Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth—The loveliest land on the face of the earth?When shall I those scenes of affection explore,Our forests, our fountains,Our hamlets, our mountains,With pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,In the shade of an elm, to the sound of a reed?When shall I return to that lowly retreat,Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,—The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call,My father, my mother,My sister, my brother,And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth?—'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.
Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth—The loveliest land on the face of the earth?When shall I those scenes of affection explore,Our forests, our fountains,Our hamlets, our mountains,With pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,In the shade of an elm, to the sound of a reed?
When shall I return to that lowly retreat,Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,—The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call,My father, my mother,My sister, my brother,And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth?—'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.
Heaven speed the righteous sword,And freedom be the word;Come, brethren, hand in hand,Fight for your fatherland.Germania from afarInvokes her sons to war;Awake! put forth your powers,And victory must be ours.On to the combat, on!Go where your sires have gone;Their might unspent remains,Their pulse is in our veins.On to the battle, on!Rest will be sweet anon;The slave may yield, may fly,—We conquer, or we die!O Liberty! thy formShines through the battle-storm.Away with fear, away!Let justice win the day.
Heaven speed the righteous sword,And freedom be the word;Come, brethren, hand in hand,Fight for your fatherland.
Germania from afarInvokes her sons to war;Awake! put forth your powers,And victory must be ours.
On to the combat, on!Go where your sires have gone;Their might unspent remains,Their pulse is in our veins.
On to the battle, on!Rest will be sweet anon;The slave may yield, may fly,—We conquer, or we die!
O Liberty! thy formShines through the battle-storm.Away with fear, away!Let justice win the day.
Night turns to day:—When sullen darkness lowers,And heaven and earth are hid from sight,Cheer up, cheer up;Ere long the opening flowers,With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.Storms die in calms:—When over land and oceanRoll the loud chariots of the wind,Cheer up, cheer up;The voice of wild commotion,Proclaims tranquillity behind.Winter wakes spring:—When icy blasts are blowingO'er frozen lakes, through naked trees,Cheer up, cheer up;All beautiful and glowing,May floats in fragrance on the breeze.War ends in peace:—Though dread artillery rattle,And ghostly corses load the ground,Cheer up, cheer up;Where groan'd the field of battle,The song, the dance, the feast, go round.Toil brings repose:—With noontide fervours beating,When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,Cheer up, cheer up;Gray twilight, cool and fleeting,Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.Death springs to life:—Though brief and sad thy story,Thy years all spent in care and gloom,Look up, look up;Eternity and gloryDawn through the portals of the tomb.
Night turns to day:—When sullen darkness lowers,And heaven and earth are hid from sight,Cheer up, cheer up;Ere long the opening flowers,With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.
Storms die in calms:—When over land and oceanRoll the loud chariots of the wind,Cheer up, cheer up;The voice of wild commotion,Proclaims tranquillity behind.
Winter wakes spring:—When icy blasts are blowingO'er frozen lakes, through naked trees,Cheer up, cheer up;All beautiful and glowing,May floats in fragrance on the breeze.
War ends in peace:—Though dread artillery rattle,And ghostly corses load the ground,Cheer up, cheer up;Where groan'd the field of battle,The song, the dance, the feast, go round.
Toil brings repose:—With noontide fervours beating,When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,Cheer up, cheer up;Gray twilight, cool and fleeting,Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.
Death springs to life:—Though brief and sad thy story,Thy years all spent in care and gloom,Look up, look up;Eternity and gloryDawn through the portals of the tomb.
Welcome, pretty little stranger!Welcome to my lone retreat!Here, secure from every danger,Hop about, and chirp, and eat:Robin! how I envy thee,Happy child of Liberty!Now, though tyrant Winter, howling,Shakes the world with tempests round,Heaven above with vapours scowling,Frost imprisons all the ground:Robin! what are these to thee?Thou art bless'd with liberty.Though yon fair majestic river[70]Mourns in solid icy chains,Though yon flocks and cattle shiverOn the desolated plains:Robin! thou art gay and free,Happy in thy liberty.Hunger never shall disturb thee,While my rates one crumb afford;Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee;Come and share my humble board:Robin! come and live with me—Live, yet still at liberty.Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes,Steal upon the blooming year;Then, amid the enamour'd bushes,Thy sweet song shall warble clear:Then shall I, too, join with thee—Swell the hymn of Liberty.Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin,In this iron-hearted age,Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin,And confine thee in a cage,Then, poor prisoner! think of me—Think, and sigh for liberty.
Welcome, pretty little stranger!Welcome to my lone retreat!Here, secure from every danger,Hop about, and chirp, and eat:Robin! how I envy thee,Happy child of Liberty!
Now, though tyrant Winter, howling,Shakes the world with tempests round,Heaven above with vapours scowling,Frost imprisons all the ground:Robin! what are these to thee?Thou art bless'd with liberty.
Though yon fair majestic river[70]Mourns in solid icy chains,Though yon flocks and cattle shiverOn the desolated plains:Robin! thou art gay and free,Happy in thy liberty.
Hunger never shall disturb thee,While my rates one crumb afford;Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee;Come and share my humble board:Robin! come and live with me—Live, yet still at liberty.
Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes,Steal upon the blooming year;Then, amid the enamour'd bushes,Thy sweet song shall warble clear:Then shall I, too, join with thee—Swell the hymn of Liberty.
Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin,In this iron-hearted age,Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin,And confine thee in a cage,Then, poor prisoner! think of me—Think, and sigh for liberty.
Ages, ages have departed,Since the first dark vessel boreAfric's children, broken-hearted,To the Caribbéan shore;She, like Rachel,Weeping, for they were no more.Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd,In the fight and on the deep;Millions, millions more have water'd,With such tears as captives weep,Fields of travail,Where their bones till doomsday sleep.Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading,Rent her garments, smote her breast,Till a voice from Heaven proceeding,Gladden'd all the gloomy west,—"Come, ye weary,Come, and I will give you rest!"Tidings, tidings of salvation!Britons rose with one accord,Purged the plague-spot from our nation,Negroes to their rights restored;Slaves no longer,Freemen,—freemenof theLord.
Ages, ages have departed,Since the first dark vessel boreAfric's children, broken-hearted,To the Caribbéan shore;She, like Rachel,Weeping, for they were no more.
Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd,In the fight and on the deep;Millions, millions more have water'd,With such tears as captives weep,Fields of travail,Where their bones till doomsday sleep.
Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading,Rent her garments, smote her breast,Till a voice from Heaven proceeding,Gladden'd all the gloomy west,—"Come, ye weary,Come, and I will give you rest!"
Tidings, tidings of salvation!Britons rose with one accord,Purged the plague-spot from our nation,Negroes to their rights restored;Slaves no longer,Freemen,—freemenof theLord.
Andrew Scott, known as the author of the popular ballad of "Symon and Janet," has claims to a wider reputation. He was born of humble parentage, in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in the year 1757. He was early employed as a cowherd; and he has recorded, in a sketch of his own life prefixed to one of his volumes, that he began to compose verses on the hill-sides in his twelfth year. He ascribes this juvenile predilection to the perusal of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," a pamphlet copy of which he had purchased with some spare halfpence. Towards the close of the American war, he joined the army as a recruit, and soon thereafter followed his regiment across the Atlantic. His rhyming propensities continued; and he occupied his leisure hours in composing verses, which he read for the amusement of his comrades. At the conclusion of the American campaigns, he returned with the army to Britain; and afterwards procuring his discharge, he made a settlement in his native parish. For the period of seventeen years, according to his own narrative, he abandoned the cultivation of poetry, assiduously applying himself to manual labour for the support of his family. An intelligent acquaintance, who had procuredcopies of some of his verses, now recommended him to attempt a publication—a counsel which induced him to print a small volume by subscription. This appeared in 1805, and was reprinted, with several additions, in 1808. In 1811 he published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Kelso, 18mo; another duodecimo volume of poems, at Jedburgh, in 1821; and his last work, entitled "Poems on Various Subjects," at Edinburgh, in 1826. This last volume was inscribed, with permission, to the Duchess of Roxburghe.
The poet's social condition at Bowden was little favourable to the composition of poetry. Situated on the south side of the Eildon hills, the parish is entirely separated from the busy world, and the inhabitants were formerly proverbial for their rustic simplicity and ignorance. The encouragement desiderated at home, the poet, however, experienced elsewhere. He visited Melrose, at the easy distance of two miles, on the day of the weekly market, and there met with friends and patrons from different parts of the district. The late Duke of Roxburghe, Sir Walter Scott, Mr Baillie of Jerviswoode, Mr John Gibson Lockhart, and Mr G. P. R. James, the novelist, who sometimes resided in the neighbourhood, and other persons of rank or literary eminence, extended towards him countenance and assistance.
Scott shared the indigent lot of poets. He remained in the condition of an agricultural labourer, and for many years held the office of beadle, or church-officer, of the parish. He died on the 22d of May 1839, in the eighty-second year of his age; and his remains were interred in the churchyard of Bowden, where his name is inscribed on a gravestone which he had erected to the memory of his wife. His eldest son holds the office of schoolmaster of that parish.
The personal appearance of the bard appears to have been prepossessing: his countenance wore a highly intellectual aspect. Subsequent to the publication of the first volume of his poems, he was requested to sit for his portrait by the late Mr George Watson, the well-known portrait-painter; and who was so well satisfied with the excellence of his subject, that he exhibited the portrait for a lengthened period in his studio. It is now in the possession of the author's son at Bowden, and has been pronounced a masterpiece of art. A badly executed engraving from it is prefixed to Scott's last two volumes. In manner, the poet was modest and unassuming, and his utterance was slow and defective. The songs selected for this work may be regarded as the most favourable specimens of his muse.[71]
Air—"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."
I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land,And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't,And I hae servants at my command,And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door,And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r,To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share,It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't;I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair,And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't.A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies,I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please,Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas,And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill,And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't,And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill,Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't;And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days,My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes,And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride,But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't,How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride,Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't.In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man,But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan,And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae—My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?—In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae,I dink me to try the ridin' o't.Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear,And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird,My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't;My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard,And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet,Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't,And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha',Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't.My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me,The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phœbus shall be,Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee,And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing,My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't;He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring,And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't.And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw,The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw,Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa,Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn,My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't;Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn,And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't,On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply,And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye,Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy,Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks,Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't,Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks,Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't:For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent,The seasons row round us in rural content;We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent,And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.
I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land,And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't,And I hae servants at my command,And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door,And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r,To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.
Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share,It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't;I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair,And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't.A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies,I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please,Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas,And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.
My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill,And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't,And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill,Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't;And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days,My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes,And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.
To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride,But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't,How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride,Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't.In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man,But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan,And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.
Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae—My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?—In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae,I dink me to try the ridin' o't.Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear,And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.
Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird,My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't;My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard,And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet,Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.
And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't,And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha',Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't.My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me,The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phœbus shall be,Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee,And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.
And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing,My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't;He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring,And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't.And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw,The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw,Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa,Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.
And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn,My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't;Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn,And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't,On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply,And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye,Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy,Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.
Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks,Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't,Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks,Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't:For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent,The seasons row round us in rural content;We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent,And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.
Air—"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."
Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,Whare muircocks and plivers are rife,For mony lang towmond thegither,There lived an auld man and his wife.About the affairs o' the nation,The twasome they seldom were mute;Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,Did saur in their wizens like soot.In winter, when deep are the gutters,And night's gloomy canopy spread,Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,And lowsin' his buttons for bed.Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin',To lock in the door was her care;She seein' our signals a-blazin',Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair."O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit!Gae look man, and slip on your shoon;Our signals I see them extendit,Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!""What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon,And clash gaed his pipe to the wa',"Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin',"Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava."Our youngest son 's in the militia,Our eldest grandson 's volunteer:O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',I too in the ranks shall appear."His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,And bang'd down his rusty auld gun;His bullets he put in the other,That he for the purpose had run.Then humpled he out in a hurry,While Janet his courage bewails,And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!"And teughly she hang by his tails."Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon,"Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares,For now to be ruled by a woman,Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot!Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;This aught days I tentit a pyotSit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head."And yesterday, workin' my stockin',And you wi' the sheep on the hill,A muckle black corbie sat croakin';I kend it foreboded some ill.""Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,For ere the next sun may gae down,Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte,And end my auld days in renown?""Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee,I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead,And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee,Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."Syne aff in a fury he stumpled,Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled,Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.There footmen and yeomen paradin',To scour aff in dirdum were seen,Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin'The briny saut tears frae their een.Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon,And to the commander he gaes;Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man,And help ye to lounder our faes."I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire,Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash,And, fegs, if my gun winna fire,I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash.""Well spoken, my hearty old hero,"The captain did smiling reply,But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,Till daylight should glent in the sky.Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething;Sae Symon, and Janet his dame,Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing,Gaed bannin' the French again hame.
Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,Whare muircocks and plivers are rife,For mony lang towmond thegither,There lived an auld man and his wife.
About the affairs o' the nation,The twasome they seldom were mute;Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,Did saur in their wizens like soot.
In winter, when deep are the gutters,And night's gloomy canopy spread,Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,And lowsin' his buttons for bed.
Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin',To lock in the door was her care;She seein' our signals a-blazin',Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.
"O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit!Gae look man, and slip on your shoon;Our signals I see them extendit,Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!"
"What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon,And clash gaed his pipe to the wa',"Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin',"Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.
"Our youngest son 's in the militia,Our eldest grandson 's volunteer:O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',I too in the ranks shall appear."
His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,And bang'd down his rusty auld gun;His bullets he put in the other,That he for the purpose had run.
Then humpled he out in a hurry,While Janet his courage bewails,And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!"And teughly she hang by his tails.
"Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon,"Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares,For now to be ruled by a woman,Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."
Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot!Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;This aught days I tentit a pyotSit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.
"And yesterday, workin' my stockin',And you wi' the sheep on the hill,A muckle black corbie sat croakin';I kend it foreboded some ill."
"Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,For ere the next sun may gae down,Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte,And end my auld days in renown?"
"Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee,I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead,And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee,Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."
Syne aff in a fury he stumpled,Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled,Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.
There footmen and yeomen paradin',To scour aff in dirdum were seen,Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin'The briny saut tears frae their een.
Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon,And to the commander he gaes;Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man,And help ye to lounder our faes.
"I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire,Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash,And, fegs, if my gun winna fire,I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash."
"Well spoken, my hearty old hero,"The captain did smiling reply,But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,Till daylight should glent in the sky.
Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething;Sae Symon, and Janet his dame,Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing,Gaed bannin' the French again hame.
Air—"Braw Lads of Gala Water."
Whan winter winds forget to blaw,An' vernal suns revive pale nature,A shepherd lad by chance I saw,Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays,His Mary's charms an' matchless feature,While echoes answer'd frae the braes,That skirt the banks of Coquet water."Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine,"Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her;An' deem mysel' as happy syne,As landit laird on Coquet water."Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam,In foreign lands their fortune fritter;But love's pure joys be mine at home,Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water."Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I,Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better;Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy,Tending my flocks by Coquet water."Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream,For on thy banks aft hae I met her;Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam,That busk the banks of Coquet water."
Whan winter winds forget to blaw,An' vernal suns revive pale nature,A shepherd lad by chance I saw,Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.
Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays,His Mary's charms an' matchless feature,While echoes answer'd frae the braes,That skirt the banks of Coquet water.
"Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine,"Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her;An' deem mysel' as happy syne,As landit laird on Coquet water.
"Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam,In foreign lands their fortune fritter;But love's pure joys be mine at home,Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water.
"Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I,Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better;Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy,Tending my flocks by Coquet water.
"Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream,For on thy banks aft hae I met her;Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam,That busk the banks of Coquet water."
Air—"Far frae Hame," &c.
Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease,An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace;Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea,Wad return to his lassie, an' his ain countrie.My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main,An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain;But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me,That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break,An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake;Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be,An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile shore,Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar;In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee,Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war,An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar:But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity,First began the bloody wark in their ain countrie.An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry!On a far foreign shore now, the dear, dear ashes lie,Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea,Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done!An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won;On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily,An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wandTo lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land,When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be,An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.
Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease,An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace;Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea,Wad return to his lassie, an' his ain countrie.
My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main,An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain;But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me,That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.
When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break,An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake;Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be,An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.
Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile shore,Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar;In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee,Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.
Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war,An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar:But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity,First began the bloody wark in their ain countrie.
An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry!On a far foreign shore now, the dear, dear ashes lie,Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea,Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.
Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done!An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won;On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily,An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.
But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wandTo lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land,When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be,An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.
There was a musician wha play'd a good stick,He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle,An' in his profession he had right good luckAt bridals his elbow to diddle.But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die,As a' men to dust must return;An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e,That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat,Lamenting the day that she saw,An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat,That silent now hang on the wa'.Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek,Sae newly weel washen wi' tears,As in came a younker some comfort to speak,Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears."Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms,Consent but to marry me now,I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms,An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said,"Dear sir, to dissemble I hate,If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed,Folks needna contend against fate."He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung,An' put a' the thairms in tune,The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung,For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay,For death still the dearest maun sever;For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay,An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.
There was a musician wha play'd a good stick,He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle,An' in his profession he had right good luckAt bridals his elbow to diddle.
But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die,As a' men to dust must return;An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e,That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.
Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat,Lamenting the day that she saw,An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat,That silent now hang on the wa'.
Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek,Sae newly weel washen wi' tears,As in came a younker some comfort to speak,Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears.
"Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms,Consent but to marry me now,I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms,An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."
The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said,"Dear sir, to dissemble I hate,If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed,Folks needna contend against fate."
He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung,An' put a' the thairms in tune,The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung,For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.
Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay,For death still the dearest maun sever;For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay,An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.
He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest,Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest:We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver,Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray,Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory;And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara,His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed,Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded,Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest,Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding,Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding,Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,—Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted—The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed—Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever,Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.
He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest,Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest:We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver,Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.
Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray,Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory;And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara,His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.
When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed,Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded,Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest,Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.
Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding,Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding,Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,—Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.
Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted—The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed—Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever,Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.
Adieu, lovely Summer! I see thee declining,I sigh, for thy exit is near;Thy once glowing beauties by Autumn are pining,Who now presses hard on thy rear.The late blowing flowers now thy pale cheek adorning,Droop sick as they nod on the lea;The groves, too, are silent, no minstrel of morningShrill warbles his song from the tree.Aurora peeps silent, and sighs a lorn widow,No warbler to lend her a lay,No more the shrill lark quits the dew-spangled meadow,As wont for to welcome the day.Sage Autumn sits sad now on hill, dale, and valley,Each landscape how pensive its mien!They languish, they languish! I see them fade daily,And losing their liv'ry of green.O Virtue, come waft me on thy silken pinions,To where purer streamlets still flow,Where summer, unceasing, pervades thy dominions,Nor stormy bleak wint'ry winds blow.
Adieu, lovely Summer! I see thee declining,I sigh, for thy exit is near;Thy once glowing beauties by Autumn are pining,Who now presses hard on thy rear.
The late blowing flowers now thy pale cheek adorning,Droop sick as they nod on the lea;The groves, too, are silent, no minstrel of morningShrill warbles his song from the tree.
Aurora peeps silent, and sighs a lorn widow,No warbler to lend her a lay,No more the shrill lark quits the dew-spangled meadow,As wont for to welcome the day.
Sage Autumn sits sad now on hill, dale, and valley,Each landscape how pensive its mien!They languish, they languish! I see them fade daily,And losing their liv'ry of green.
O Virtue, come waft me on thy silken pinions,To where purer streamlets still flow,Where summer, unceasing, pervades thy dominions,Nor stormy bleak wint'ry winds blow.
Sir Walter Scott, the most chivalrous of Scottish poets, and the most illustrious of British novelists, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August 1771. His father, Walter Scott, Writer to the Signet, was descended from a younger branch of the baronial house of the Scotts of Harden, of which Lord Polwarth is the present representative. On his mother's side his progenitors were likewise highly respectable: his maternal grandfather, Dr John Rutherford, was Professor of the Practice of Physic in the University of Edinburgh, and his mother's brother, Dr Daniel Rutherford, an eminent chemist, afterwards occupied the chair of Botany. His mother was a person of a vigorous and cultivated mind. Of a family of twelve children, born to his parents, six of whom survived infancy, Walter only evinced the possession of the uncommon attribute of genius. He was born a healthy child, but soon after became exposed to serious peril by being some time tended by a consumptive nurse. When scarcely two years old he was seized with an illness which deprived him of the proper use of his right limb, a loss which continued during his life. With the view of retrieving his strength, he was sent to reside with his paternal grandfather, RobertScott, who rented the farm of Sandyknowe, in the vicinity of Smailholm Tower, in Roxburghshire. Shortly after his arrival at Sandyknowe, he narrowly escaped destruction through the frantic desperation of a maniac attendant; but he had afterwards to congratulate himself on being enabled to form an early acquaintance with rural scenes. No advantage accruing to his lameness, he was, in his fourth year, removed to Bath, where he remained twelve months, without experiencing benefit from the mineral waters. During the three following years he chiefly resided at Sandyknowe. In his eighth year he returned to Edinburgh, with his mind largely stored with border legends, chiefly derived from the recitations of his grandmother, a person of a romantic inclination and sprightly intelligence. At this period, Pope's translation of Homer, and the more amusing songs in Ramsay's "Evergreen," were his favourite studies; and he took delight in reading aloud, with suitable emphasis, the more striking passages, or verses, to his mother, who sought every incentive to stimulate his native propensity. In 1778 he was sent to the High School, where he possessed the advantage of instruction under Mr Luke Fraser, an able scholar, and Dr Adam, the distinguished rector. His progress in scholarship was not equal to his talents; he was already a devotee to romance, and experienced greater gratification in retiring with a friend to some quiet spot in the country, to relate or to listen to a fictitious tale, than in giving his principal attention to the prescribed tasks of the schoolroom. As he became older, the love of miscellaneous literature, especially the works of the great masters of fiction, amounted to a passion; and as his memory was singularly tenacious, he accumulated a great extent and variety of miscellaneous information.
On the completion of his attendance at the High School, he was sent to reside with some relations at Kelso; and in this interesting locality his growing attachment to the national minstrelsy and legendary lore received a fresh impulse. On his return to Edinburgh he entered the University, in which he matriculated as a student of Latin and Greek, in October 1793. His progress was not more marked than it had been at the High School, insomuch that Mr Dalziel, the professor of Greek, was induced to give public expression as to his hopeless incapacity. The professor fortunately survived to make ample compensation for the rashness of his prediction.
The juvenile inclinations of the future poet were entirely directed to a military life; but his continued lameness interposed an insuperable difficulty, and was a source of deep mortification. He was at length induced to adopt a profession suitable to his physical capabilities, entering into indentures with his father in his fourteenth year. To his confinement at the desk, sufficiently irksome to a youth of his aspirations, he was chiefly reconciled by the consideration that his fees as a clerk enabled him to purchase books.
Rapid growth in a constitution which continued delicate till he had attained his fifteenth year, led to his bursting a blood-vessel in the second year of his apprenticeship. While precluded from active duty, being closely confined to bed, and not allowed to exert himself by speaking, he was still allowed to read; a privilege which accelerated his acquaintance with general literature. To complete his recovery, he was recommended exercise on horseback; and in obeying the instructions of his physician, he gratified his own peculiar tastes by making himself generally familiar with localities and scenes famous in Scottish story. On the restoration of his health, he at length became seriously engaged in the study of law for several continuous years, and, after the requisite examinations, was admitted as an advocate, on the 10th of July 1792, when on the point of attaining his twenty-first year.
In his twelfth year, Scott had composed some verses for his preceptor and early friend Dr Adam, which afforded promise of his future excellence. But he seems not to have extensively indulged, in early life, in the composition of poetry, while his juvenile productions in prose wore a stiff formality. On being called to the bar, he at first carefully refrained, according to his own statement, from claiming the honour of authorship, lest his brethren or the public should suppose that his habits were unsuitable to a due attention to the duties of his profession. He was relieved of dependence on professional employment by espousing, in December 1797, Miss Carpenter, a young French gentlewoman, possessed of a considerable annuity, whose acquaintance he had formed at Gilsland, a watering-place in Cumberland. In 1800 he was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with a salary of £300 a year. While he continued in his father's office he had made himself familiar with the French and Italian languages, and had read many of their more celebrated authors, especially the writings of Tasso and Ariosto. Some years after he came to the bar, he was induced to acquaint himself with the ballad poetry of Germany, then in vogue, through the translations of Mr Lewis, whose friendship he had recently acquired. In 1796 he made his first adventure as an author by publishing translations of "Lenoré," and "The Wild Huntsman" of Bürger. The attempt proved unsuccessful; but, undismayed, he again essayed his skillin translation by publishing, in 1799, an English version of Goëthe's "Goetz of Berlichingen." His success as an author was, however, destined to rest on original performances, illustrative of the chivalry of his own land.
Towards the recovery and publication of the ancient ballads and songs of the Scottish borders, which had only been preserved by the recitations of the peasantry, Scott had early formed important intentions. The independence of his circumstances now enabled him to execute his long-cherished scheme. He made periodical excursions into Liddesdale, a wild pastoral district on the Scottish border, anciently peopled by the noted Elliots and Armstrongs, in quest of old ballads and traditions; and the fruits of his research, along with much curious information, partly communicated to him by intelligent correspondents, he gave to the world, in 1802, in two volumes octavo, under the title of "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." He added in the following year a third volume, consisting of imitations of ancient ballads, composed by himself and others. These volumes issued from the printing-press of his early friend and school-fellow, Mr James Ballantyne of Kelso, who had already begun to indicate that skill in typography for which he was afterwards so justly celebrated. In 1804 he published, from the Auchinleck Manuscript in the Advocates' Library, the ancient metrical tale of "Sir Tristrem;" and, in an elaborate introduction, he endeavoured to prove that it was the composition of Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as Thomas the Rhymer. He published in 1805 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," an original ballad poem, which, speedily attaining a wide circulation, procured for him an extensive reputation, and the substantial reward of £600.
The prosperity of the poet rose with his fame. Inthe year following that which produced the "Lay," he received his appointment as a principal clerk of the Court of Session, an office which afterwards brought him £1200 a-year. To literary occupation he now resolved to dedicate his intervals of leisure. In 1808 he produced "Marmion," his second great poem, which brought him £1000 from the publisher, and at once established his fame. During the same year he completed the heavy task of editing the works of Dryden, in eighteen volumes. In 1809 he edited the state papers and letters of Sir Ralph Sadler, and became a contributor to theEdinburgh Annual Register, conducted by Southey. "The Lady of the Lake," the most happily-conceived and popular of his poetical works, appeared in 1810; "Don Roderick," in 1811; "Rokeby," in 1813; and "The Lord of the Isles," in 1814. "Harold the Dauntless," and "The Bridal of Triermain," appeared subsequently, without the author's name.
As a poet, Scott had now attained a celebrity unrivalled among his contemporaries, and it was in the apprehension of compromising his reputation, that, in attempting a new species of composition, he was extremely anxious to conceal the name of the author. The novel of "Waverley," which appeared in 1814, did not, however, suffer from its being anonymous; for, although the sale was somewhat heavy at first, the work soon afterwards reached the extraordinary circulation of twelve thousand copies. Contrary to reasonable expectation, however, the author of "Waverley" did not avow himself, and, numerous as was the catalogue of prose fictions which, for more than twenty years, proceeded from his pen, he continued as desirous of retaining his secret as were his female contemporaries, Lady Nairnand Lady Anne Barnard, to cast a veil over their poetical character. The rapidity with which the "Great Unknown" produced works of fiction, was one of the marvels of the age; and many attempts were made to withdraw the curtain which concealed the mysterious author. Successive years produced at least one, and often two, novels of a class infinitely superior to the romances of the past age, all having reference to the manners and habits of the most interesting and chivalrous periods of Scottish or British history, which, in these works, were depicted with a power and vivacity unattained by the most graphic national historians. Subsequently to the publication of "Guy Mannering" and "The Antiquary," in 1815 and 1816, and as an expedient to sustain the public interest, Scott commenced a new series of novels, under the title of "Tales of my Landlord," these being professedly written by a different author; but this resort was abandoned as altogether unnecessary for the contemplated object. Each successive romance by the author of "Waverley" awakened renewed ardour and enthusiasm among the public, and commanded a circulation commensurate with the bounds in which the language was understood. Many of them were translated into the various European languages. In the year 1814 he had published an edition of the works of Swift, in nineteen volumes octavo.
For some years after his marriage, Scott had occupied a cottage in the romantic vicinity of Lasswade, near Edinburgh; but in 1804 he removed to Ashestiel, an old mansion, beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed, seven miles above Selkirk, where, for several years, he continued to reside during the vacation of the Court. The ruling desire of his life was, that by the proceeds of his intellectual labour he might acquire an ampledemesne, with a suitable mansion of his own, and thus in some measure realise in his own person, and in those of his representatives, somewhat of the territorial importance of those olden barons, whose wassails and whose feuds he had experienced delight in celebrating. To attain such distinction as a Scottishlaird, or landholder, he was prepared to incur many sacrifices; nor was this desire exceeded by regard for literary reputation. It was unquestionably with a view towards the attainment of his darling object, that he taxed so severely those faculties with which nature had so liberally endowed him, and exhibited a prolificness of authorship, such as has rarely been evinced in the annals of literary history. In 1811 he purchased, on the south bank of the Tweed, near Melrose, the first portion of that estate which, under the name of Abbotsford, has become indelibly associated with his history. The soil was then a barren waste, but by extensive improvements the place speedily assumed the aspect of amenity and beauty. The mansion, a curious amalgamation, in questionable taste, of every species of architecture, was partly built in 1811, and gradually extended with the increasing emoluments of the owner. By successive purchases of adjacent lands, the Abbotsford property became likewise augmented, till the rental amounted to about £700 a-year—a return sufficiently limited for an expenditure of upwards of £50,000 on this favourite spot.
At Abbotsford the poet maintained the character of a wealthy country gentleman. He was visited by distinguished persons from the sister kingdom, from the Continent, and from America, all of whom he entertained in a style of sumptuous elegance. Nor did his constant social intercourse with his visitors and friends interfere with the regular prosecution of his literarylabours: he rose at six, and engaged in study and composition till eleven o'clock. During the period of his residence in the country, he devoted the remainder of the day to his favourite exercise on horseback, the superintendence of improvements on his property, and the entertainment of his guests. In March 1820, George IV., to whom he was personally known, and who was a warm admirer of his genius, granted to him the honour of a baronetcy, being the first which was conferred by his Majesty after his accession. Prior to this period, besides the works already enumerated, he had given to the world his romances of "The Black Dwarf," "Old Mortality," "Rob Roy," "The Heart of Midlothian," "The Bride of Lammermoor," "A Legend of Montrose," and "Ivanhoe." The attainment of the baronetcy appears to have stimulated him to still greater exertion. In 1820 he produced, besides "Ivanhoe," which appeared in the early part of that year, "The Monastery" and "The Abbot;" and in the beginning of 1821, the romance of "Kenilworth," being twelve volumes published within the same number of months. "The Pirate" and "The Fortunes of Nigel" appeared in 1822; "Peveril of the Peak" and "Quentin Durward," in 1823; "St Ronan's Well" and "Redgauntlet," in 1824; and "The Tales of the Crusaders," in 1825.
During the visit of George IV. to Scotland, in 1822, Sir Walter undertook the congenial duty of acting as Master of Ceremonies, which he did to the entire satisfaction of his sovereign and of the nation. But while prosperity seemed to smile with increasing brilliancy, adversity was hovering near. In 1826, Archibald Constable and Company, the famous publishers of his works, became insolvent, involving in their bankruptcythe printing firm of the Messrs Ballantyne, of which Sir Walter was a partner. The liabilities amounted to the vast sum of £102,000, for which Sir Walter was individually responsible. To a mind less balanced by native intrepidity and fortified by principle, the apparent wreck of his worldly hopes would have produced irretrievable despondency; but Scott bore his misfortune with magnanimity and manly resignation. He had been largely indebted to both the establishments which had unfortunately involved him in their fall, in the elegant production of his works, as well as in respect of pecuniary accommodation; and he felt bound in honour, as well as by legal obligation, fully to discharge the debt. He declined to accept an offer of the creditors to be satisfied with a composition; and claiming only to be allowed time, applied himself with indomitable energy to his arduous undertaking, at the age of fifty-five, in the full determination, if his life was spared, of cancelling every farthing of his obligations. At the crisis of his embarrassments he was engaged in the composition of "Woodstock," which shortly afterwards appeared. The "Life of Napoleon," which had for a considerable time occupied his attention, was published in 1827, in nine vols. octavo. In the course of its preparation he had visited both London and Paris in search of materials. In the same year he produced "Chronicles of the Canongate,"first series; and in the year following, the second series of those charming tales, and the first portion of his juvenile history of Scotland, under the title of "Tales of a Grandfather." A second portion of these tales appeared in 1829, and the third and concluding series in 1830, when he also contributed a graver History of Scotland in two volumes toLardner's Cabinet Cyclopædia. In 1829likewise appeared "Anne of Geierstein," a romance, and in 1830 the "Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft." In 1831 he produced a series of "Tales on French History," uniform with the "Tales of a Grandfather," and his novels, "Count Robert of Paris," and "Castle Dangerous," as a fourth series of "Tales of My Landlord." Other productions of inferior mark appeared from his pen; he contributed to theEdinburgh Review, during the first year of its career; wrote the articles, "Chivalry," "Romance," and "Drama," for the sixth edition of theEncyclopædia Britannica; and during his latter years contributed somewhat copiously to theQuarterly Review.
At a public dinner in Edinburgh, for the benefit of the Theatrical Fund, on the 23d of February 1827, Sir Walter made his first avowal as to the authorship of the Waverley Novels,—an announcement which scarcely took the public by surprise. The physical energies of the illustrious author were now suffering a rapid decline; and in his increasing infirmities, and liability to sudden and severe attacks of pain, and even of unconsciousness, it became evident to his friends, that, in the praiseworthy effort to pay his debts, he was sacrificing his health and shortening his life. Those apprehensions proved not without foundation. In the autumn of 1831, his health became so lamentably broken, that his medical advisers recommended a residence in Italy, and entire cessation from mental occupation, as the only means of invigorating a constitution so seriously dilapidated. But the counsel came too late; the patient proceeded to Naples, and afterwards to Rome, but experiencing no benefit from the change, he was rapidly conveyed homewards in the following summer, in obedience to his express wish, that he might have the satisfaction of closing his eyes at Abbotsford. The wish was gratified: he arrived atAbbotsford on the 11th of July 1832, and survived till the 21st of the ensuing September. According to his own request, his remains were interred in an aisle in Dryburgh Abbey, which had belonged to one of his ancestors, and had been granted to him by the late Earl of Buchan. A heavy block of marble rests upon the grave, in juxtaposition with another which has been laid on that of his affectionate partner in life, who died in May 1826. The aisle is protected by a heavy iron railing.
In stature, Sir Walter Scott was above six feet; but his personal appearance, which had otherwise been commanding, was considerably marred by the lameness of his right limb, which caused him to walk with an awkward effort, and ultimately with much difficulty. His countenance, so correctly represented in his numerous portraits and busts, was remarkable for depth of forehead; his features were somewhat heavy, and his eyes, covered with thick eyelashes, were dull, unless animated by congenial conversation. He was of a fair complexion; and his hair, originally sandy, became gray from a severe illness which he suffered in his 48th year. His general conversation consisted in the detail of chivalric adventures and anecdotes of the olden times. His memory was so retentive that whatever he had studied indelibly maintained a place in his recollection. In fertility of imagination he surpassed all his contemporaries. As a poet, if he has not the graceful elegance of Campbell, and the fervid energy of Byron, he excels the latter in purity of sentiment, and the former in vigour of conception. His style was well adapted for the composition of lyric poetry; but as he had no ear for music, his song compositions are not numerous. Several of these, however, have been set to music, and maintaintheir popularity.[72]But Scott's reputation as a poet is inferior to his reputation as a novelist; and while even his best poems may cease to be generally read, the author of the Waverley Novels will only be forgotten with the disuse of the language. A cabinet edition of these novels, with the author's last notes, and illustrated with elegant engravings, appeared in forty-eight volumes a short period before his decease; several other complete editions have since been published by the late Mr Robert Cadell, and by the present proprietors of the copyright, the Messrs Black of Edinburgh.
As a man of amiable dispositions and incorruptible integrity, Sir Walter Scott shone conspicuous among his contemporaries, the latter quality being eminently exhibited in his resolution to pay the whole of his heavy pecuniary liabilities. To this effort he fell a martyr; yet it was a source of consolation to his survivors, that, by his own extraordinary exertions, the policy of life insurance payable at his death, and the sum of £30,000 paid by Mr Cadell for the copyright of his works, the whole amount of the debt was discharged. It is, however painfully, to be remarked, that the object of his earlier ambition, in raising a family, has not been realised. His children, consisting of two sons and two daughters, though not constitutionally delicate, have all departed from the scene, and the only representative of his house is the surviving child of his eldest daughter, who was married to Mr John Gibson Lockhart, the late editor of theQuarterly Review, and his literary executor. This sole descendant, a grand-daughter, is the wife of MrHope, Q.C., who has lately added to his patronymic the name of Scott, and made Abbotsford his summer residence. The memory of the illustrious Minstrel has received every honour from his countrymen; monuments have been raised to him in the principal towns—that in the capital, a rich Gothic cross, being one of the noblest decorations of his native city. Abbotsford has become the resort of the tourist and of the traveller from every land, who contemplate with interest and devotion a scene hallowed by the loftiest genius.