ページの画像
PDF
ePub

wit, and good humour, contributed greatly to sustain the spirits of his companions in the daily drudgery of their drill.

In the summer of the same year he was married to Charlotte M. Carpenter, a young lady of French extraction, with whom he became acquainted at a watering-place. The connexion was a very happy one. They had a pleasant cottage at Lasswade, where they spent their summers, receiving their friends and enjoying themselves amid the delightful scenery of the neighbourhood. One who visited him at this period dwells on "the simple unostentatious elegance of the cottage, and the domestic picture which he there contemplated-a man of native kindness and cultivated talent, passing the intervals of a learned profession amidst scenes highly favourable to his poetic inspirations, not in churlish and rustic solitude, but in the daily exercise of the most precious sympathies as a husband, a father, and a friend." He afterwards removed to Ashiestiel, on the banks of the Tweed, from which place many of his earlier poems are dated.

By the interest of the Duke of Buccleuch, whose friendship as the head of his clan he highly valued, he obtained the appointment of Sheriff of Selkirkshire, an office yielding £300 a-year, so that now, with his wife's portion, which was considerable, he was in easy circumstances. But Scott had already begun to aspire to be the founder of a house which might occupy a station worthy of his ancient name; and favouring circumstances concurred to stimulate his ambition.

While Scott was thus prospering in worldly circumstances, he was gradually entering upon those literary labours which were to become the main business of his life. The wild legendary lore contained in the German tongue having induced him to study that language, he translated Burger's "Lenore," and "The Wild Huntsman," which were published anonymously in a thin volume in the year 1796. Contributions to "Lewis' Tales of Terror" (a work of little merit) were followed by a translation of Goethe's tragedy of "The Iron Hand." "The House of Aspen," written for the stage, but not published till 1829; "Glenfinlas," "The Eve of St John," "The Gray Brother," and "The Fire King," ballads which smack of the old Border spirit, were his next pro

ductions. It was the publication of "The Border Minstrelsy," however, and of "Sir Tristram," a poem by Sir Thomas the Rhymer, to which he added a supplement, that first attracted attention to him as an author. But in 1803 his real vocation began. A legend, designed to appear as a ballad, grew under his hands till it became a poem of considerable size, and after being shewn in detached portions to his friends, was published in 1805, as "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." Its popularity was immediate and extensive. Above 40,000 copies were disposed of before 1830. The impression made by it on literary men, we find noticed in the "Life of Crabbe." He took it up in a bookseller's shop, and read it through at once, saying, as he laid it down, "Here is a real poet." From this period his literary labours were incessant. A complete edition of Dryden's Works, with a memoir and elaborate notes, was published by him in 1808. In the same year appeared "Marmion," which was received with as much favour as the "Lay." "The Lady of the Lake," the most popular of all his poems, followed in 1810, and "The Vision of Don Roderick," "Rokeby," &c., in rapid succession. Nothing but unremitting industry could have enabled even his genius tc. execute such tasks, in addition to his professional duties; but his biographer informs us that "he rose by five o'clock, lit his own fire when the season required one, and shaved and dressed with great deliberation-for he was a very martinet as to all but the mere coxcombries of the toilet, not abhorring effeminate dandyism itself so cordially as the slightest approach to personal slovenliness, or even those 'bed-gown and slipper tricks,' as he called them, in which literary men are so apt to indulge. Clad in his shooting-jacket, or whatever dress he meant to use till dinnertime, he was seated at his desk by six o'clock, all his papers arranged before him in the most accurate order, and his books of reference marshalled around him on the floor, while at least one favourite dog lay watching his eye, just beyond the line of circumvallation. Thus, by the time the family assembled for breakfast between nine and ten, he had done enough (in his own language) 'to break the neck of the day's work.' After breakfast, a couple of hours more were given to his solitary tasks, and by noon he

was, as he used to say, 'his own man.' These poems yielded large sums of money, and enabled him to take the first step to gratify his ambition of becoming a landed proprietor, by the purchase of a small farm on the banks of the Tweed, to which he gave the now famous name of Abbotsford.

Finding, in 1814, that, owing to the superior popularity of Lord Byron, he was losing ground as a poet in public estimation, he turned his attention to prose fiction, and falling in accidentally with a work which he had begun and thrown aside ten years previously, he finished it, and gave it to the world under the title "Waverley," but without his name. We have seen the success of this novel equalled in these times of cheap literature, but in those days the sale was unparalleled. "Waverley" was followed, in 1815, by "Guy Mannering;" after which, at short intervals, came "The Antiquary," "Tales of My Landlord," first series; "Rob Roy," "Tales of My Landlord," second and third series; "Ivanhoe," "The Monastery," "The Abbot," "Kenilworth," "The Pirate," "The Fortunes of Nigel," "Peveril of the Peak," "Quentin Durward," "St Ronan's Well," "Redgauntlet,” and "The Tales of the Crusaders." A foolish whim led him to publish these works anonymously, and forced upon him very discreditable equivocations in denying the authorship.

No man ever occupied a more distinguished position in the world than Sir Walter Scott, from the year 1815 to 1826. In apparently easy circumstances, with a growing estate, the honours of a baronetage, a happy and healthy family, a wide circle of attached friends, and an unbounded reputation,-courted by eminent men from all parts of the world, with agreeable manners, invincible good nature, and hospitable tastes,—he was, perhaps, the most popular and successful literary man that ever lived. Washington Irving gives a lively picture of the Abbotsford family on his visit in 1817:

"The noise of my chaise," says Irving, "had disturbed the quiet of the establishment. Out sallied the warder of the castle, a black greyhound, and, leaping on one of the blocks of stone, began a furious barking. This alarm brought out the whole garrison of dogs, all open-mouthed and vociferous. In a little

while the lord of the castle himself made his appearance. I knew him at once, by the likenesses that had been published of him. He came limping up the gravel walk, aiding himself by a stout walking-staff, but moving rapidly and with vigour. By his side jogged along a large iron-gray staghound, of most grave demeanour, who took no part in the clamour of the canine rabble, but seemed to consider himself bound, for the dignity of the house, to give me a courteous reception.-Before Scott reached the gate, he called out in a hearty tone, welcoming me to Abbotsford, and asking news of Campbell. Arrived at the door of the chaise, he grasped me warmly by the hand: 'Come, drive down, drive down to the house,' said he; 'ye're just in time for breakfast, and afterwards ye shall see all the wonders of the Abbey.' I would have excused myself on the plea of having already made my breakfast. 'Hut, man,' cried he, 'a ride in the morning in the keen air of the Scotch hills is warrant enough for a second breakfast.' I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the cottage, and in a few moments found myself seated at the breakfast table. There was no one present but the family, which consisted of Mrs Scott; her eldest daughter, Sophia, then a fine girl about seventeen; Miss Ann Scott, two or three years younger; Walter, a well-grown stripling; and Charles, a lively boy, eleven or twelve years of age.-I soon felt myself quite at home, and my heart in a glow with the cordial welcome I experienced. I had thought to make a mere morning visit, but found I was not to be let off so lightly. 'You must not think our neighbourhood is to be read in a morning like a newspaper,' said Scott; 'it takes several days of study for an observant traveller that has a relish for auldworld trumpery. After breakfast you shall make your visit to Melrose Abbey; I shall not be able to accompany you, as I have some household affairs to attend to; but I will put you in charge of my son Charles, who is very learned in all things touching the old ruin and the neighbourhood it stands in; and he and my friend Johnnie Bower will tell you the whole truth about it, with a great deal more that you are not called upon to believe, unless you be a true and nothing-doubting antiquary. When you come back, I'll take you out on a ramble about the neighbourhood.

To-morrow we will take a look at the Yarrow, and the next day we will drive over to Dryburgh, which is a fine old ruin, well worth your seeing.'—In a word, before Scott had got through with his plan, I found myself committed for a visit of several days, and it seemed as if a little realm of romance was suddenly open before me."

The love which Scott had for horses and dogs was noticed by all his guests. He was a bold rider himself, and would lead his less venturous associates through perils to which they were little accustomed. Of his dogs, the writer last quoted gives the following account:

"As we sallied forth, every dog in the establishment turned out to attend us. There was the old staghound, Maida, that I have already mentioned, a noble animal; and Hamlet, the black greyhound, a wild thoughtless youngster, not yet arrived at the years of discretion; and Finette, a beautiful setter, with soft, silken hair, long pendant ears, and a mild eye, the parlour favourite. When in front of the house, we were joined by a superannuated greyhound, who came from the kitchen wagging his tail, and was cheered by Scott as an old friend and comrade. In our walks, he would frequently pause in conversation, to notice his dogs, and speak to them as if rational companions; and, indeed, there appears to be a vast deal of rationality in these faithful attendants on man, derived from their close intimacy with him. Maida deported himself with a gravity becoming his age and size, and seemed to consider himself called upon to preserve a great degree of dignity and decorum in our society. As be jogged along a little distance ahead of us, the young dogs would gambol about him, leap on his neck, worry at his ears, and endeavour to teaze him into a gambol. The old dog would keep on for a long time with imperturbable solemnity, now and then seeming to rebuke the wantonness of his young companions. At length he would make a sudden turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in the dust, then, giving a glance at us, as much as to say, 'You see, gentlemen, I can't help giving way to this nonsense,' would resume his gravity, and jog on as before. Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. 'I make no doubt,

« 前へ次へ »