Border was moreover at press, and in it the editor included a few features of novelty, particularly Mr Morritt's spirited ballad of the Curse of Moy. He gives a lively description of his occupations, in the following letter addressed to that gentleman:.

To J. B. S. Morritt, Esq., 24 Portland Place,

"You are very good to remember such a false knave as I am, who have omitted so long to thank you for a letter, bringing me the assurances of your health and remembrance, which I do not value the less deeply and sincerely for my seeming neglect. Truth is, I do not eat the bread of idleness.

But

I was born a Scotchman, and a bare one, and was therefore born to fight my way with my left hand where my right failed me, and with my teeth, if they were both cut off. This is but a bad apology for not answering your kindness, yet not so bad when you consider that it was only admitted as a cause of procrastination, and that I have been-let me see — I have been Secretary to the Judicature Commission, which sat daily during all the Christmas vacation I have been editing Swift, and correcting the press,

at the rate of six sheets a-week. I have been editing Somers at the rate of four ditto ditto. I have written reviews I have written songs I have made selections—I have superintended rehearsals. and all this independent of visiting, and of my official duty, which occupies me four hours every working day except Mondays — and independent of a new poem with which I am threatening the world. This last employment is not the most prudent, but I really cannot well help myself. My office, though a very good one for Scotland, is only held in reversion; nor do I at present derive a shilling from it. I must expect that a fresh favourite of the public will supersede me, and my philosophy being very great on the point of poetical fame, I would fain, at the risk of hastening my own downfall, avail myself of the favourable moment to make some further provision for my little people. Moreover, I cannot otherwise honestly indulge myself in some of the luxuries which, when long gratified, become a sort of pseudo necessaries. As for the terrible parodies* * which have come forth, I can only say with Benedict, A college of such witmongers cannot flout me out of my humour.' Had I been conscious of one place about my temper, were it even, metaphorically speak

*I suppose this is an allusion to "The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle," "The Goblin Groom," and some other productions, like them, long since forgotten.

ing, the tip of my heel, vulnerable to this sort of aggression, I have that respect for mine own ease, that I would have shunned being a candidate for public applause, as I would avoid snatching a honeycomb from among a hive of live bees. My present attempt is a poem, partly Highland-the scene Loch Katrine, tempore Jacobi quinti. If I fail, as Lady Macbeth gallantly says, I fail, and there is only a story murdered to no purpose; and if I succeed, why then, as the song says

"I hope to show this ditty to you soon in Portland Place, for it seems determined I must go to London, though the time is not fixed. The pleasure of meeting you and half a dozen other friends, reconciles me to this change of plan, for had I answered your letter the day I received it, I would have said nothing was less likely than my going to town in spring. I hope it will be so late as to afford me an opportunity of visiting Rokeby and Greta Side on my return. The felon sow herself could not think of them with more affection than I do; and though I love Portland Place dearly, yet I would fain enjoy both. But this must be as the Fates and Destinies and Sisters three determine. Charlotte hopes to accompany me, and is particularly gratified by the

expectation of meeting Mrs Morritt. We think of our sunny days at Rokeby with equal delight.

"Miss Baillie's play went off capitally here, notwithstanding her fond and over-credulous belief in a Creator of the world. The fact is so generally believed that it is man who makes the deity, that I am surprised it has never been maintained as a corollary, that the knife and fork make the fingers. We wept till our hearts were sore, and applauded till our hands were blistered-what could we more-and this in crowded theatres.

"I send a copy of the poetical collection, not for you, my good friend, because you would not pay your literary subscription, but for Mrs Morritt. I thought of leaving it as I came through Yorkshire, but as I can get as yet an office frank, it will be safer in your charge. By a parity of reasoning, you will receive a copy of the new edition of the Minstrelsy just finished, and about to be shipped, enriched with your Curse of Moy, which is very much admired by all to whom I have shown it. I am sorry that dear is so far from you.

There is something about her that makes me think of her with a mixture of affection and anxiety-such a pure and excellent heart, joined to such native and

*

Scott alludes to some translations of Italian poetry which he had wished for Mr Morritt's permission to publish in the "English Minstrelsy."

fascinating manners, cannot pass unprotected through your fashionable scenes without much hazard of a twinge at least, if not a stab. I remember we talked over this subject once while riding on the banks of Tees, and somehow (I cannot tell why) it falls like a death-bell on my ear. She is too artless for the people that she has to live amongst. This is all vile croaking, so I will end it by begging ten times love and compliments to Mrs Morritt, in which Charlotte heartily joins. Believe me ever, Dear Morritt, yours most faithfully,

WALTER SCOTT."

Early in May the Lady of the Lake came out as her two elder sisters had done—in all the majesty of quarto, with every accompanying grace of typography, and with, moreover, an engraved frontispiece of Saxon's portrait of Scott; the price of the book, two guineas. For the copyright the poet had nominally received 2000 guineas, but as John Ballantyne and Co. retained three-fourths of the property to themselves (Miller of London purchasing the other fourth), the author's profits were, or should have been, more than this.

It ought to be mentioned, that during the progress of the poem his feelings towards Constable were so much softened, that he authorized John Ballantyne to ask, in his name, that experienced bookseller's