Exchange 1840.] JAN 2 '40 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 3 own direction, would work out for itself high ends, under the guidance of that Providence which nourishes its life. But it were a bold experiment, and dangerous to follow the heedless wanderings of genius, confiding in the event of reaching the same gaol. เ Scott's efforts were by no means wholly unsuccessful, and a knowledge of the practice of law, acquired at Edinburgh, was the source of a valuable income to him throughout his life. But amid the briefs of criminal trials, and quires of writing to the Signet, his indefatigable mind is pursuing as far as legal restraints admit, the native bent of his giant intellect. The vacation months, see him wandering through the Highlands, telling his border tale, and receiving in turn the ballad of clan and feud. Not insensible to the tenderer emotions of the heart, we find him losing it amid the northern hills, and, alas! only to be disappointed! But he bore it like a strong man-valiantly. He did not cease to live within himself,' nor had 'his heart outgrown his years,** but he battled with his agony, and subdued it in silence. Nor was this the only coincidence of the life of Scott with that of Byron; both were smitten with infirmity-how unequally they bore their lots! One ever rebelling against the dispensation of Providence, and with a fatuity most singular, keeps it before him as the incentive to misanthropy, and to the utter discomfiture of self-content. The other, if ever called to reflect upon so trifling a misfortune, makes it the medium of shadowing forth that modesty and humility, so eminently characteristic of him in every sphere of action; and if I may be allowed a passing comparison, their private lives, in all their varied walks, were as distinct as their reputations have ever been. The one admired in its terrific grandeur; the other loved for its gentleness, while admiration of his mind was almost forgotten, in sympathy with his creations. The genius of the one was looked upon as some fearful convulsion of the elements, striking with awe, while calling for admiration; that of the other was viewed as are his soft paintings of the border valleys and the heather wilds. Their minds, too, flowed out unlike-the one gushing periodically with force, and the live strength of the leaping cataract; the other running ever like his own sweet Yarrow, "through the green woods And down the meadow ranging."t In one the power of Genius unshrouded in the enchantments which render private character a gem, stands forth in relief-the sole object of contemplation; in the other, Fancy putting on the garb of modesty and benevolence eludes the casual observer, and presents a harmony of mind, at which the world wondering, scarce know what they admire most. Years flew away with the Edinburgh barrister, and German, French and Italian, as they severally presented new storehouses for his imagination to hold its revels in, were made subjects of persevering and successful study. A translation of Burger's Leonora, playfully constructed by him in rhyme, for a female friend, was his first printed essay: it having been published by her, with a hope to stimulate the bard of Sandy Knowe to more successful and vigorous effort. Shortly after, the same, with a translation of the Wild Huntsman, followed in a thin quarto, published by himself at the age of twentyfive. At this period, also, success crowned with lasting happiness his second love; but misfortune gave him of her cup to moderate the beaker of his pleasure. A father was snatched away, and Walter Scott was now senior writer to the Signet. His legal calls afforded however but a scanty pittance, and his literary worth rising gradually in public opinion, from the publication of his Border Minstrelsy, afforded some relief; until the Lay of the Last Minstrel established his fame as a poet, and secured to him a safe means of securing an ample livelihood. The melody of his verse ended not with the Lay, but chimed on, until the taste of society ever vacillating expressed itself sated, and looked anxiously for something new from the Rokeby minstrel. And they received, what came upon them like refreshing showers in the dust of a summer's heat-came like them too, they saw not whence. Strains of that wild romance fell on their ears again and again, until the marvel was, not how beautiful, but whence comes it! Already mystery had lent its charms, and was now imbuing with honors unprecedented in literary annals the unknown magician. Criticism tried to divest itself of the magnifying wonder, and the mysterious charm. Its opinions came forth blended with all the effrontery of self-importance, until popular opinion laughed their frown to scorn, and adored their mythological hero, with all the assiduity of the Sun worshipers of old! Nothing could resist the charm, and the Waverley novels were found with the artisan after the day's labor had lain him toil-worn upon his couch-but not to sleep. The judge concealed the last issue under his gown, and with mock gravity pondered over the sayings of a new Baillie-Nicol Jarvie. But was Walter Scott a man of vigorous intellect? or was the attraction owing to some distorted imagery which caught up the passions-played the truant with the judgment, and excited pleasurable emotions from the strangeness and novelty of combinations -the wildness of an untamed fancy? Was his political sagacity which sent forth the epistles of Malagrowther, startling the nation, but the result of an overwrought imagination—weakened by sin gleness of effort? Scott had a great intellect. His poems, which Bulwer says have never yet been appreciated, and which the poet Crabbe avows worthy more applause than his after works-these exhibit the proofs-tangible and forcible, of a richness of mind rarely, if ever surpassed. The wild melody of the Last Bard-the beauty of its conception-the fervor of its thrilling scenes-all bespeak a mind of no ordinary tone. Marmion in lines of living fire rolled forth its strains to attest his power; and the sweet Lady of the Lake with a pathos and richness of imagery, and beauty of description equaling any thing ever penned, drew clouds of witnesses around Loch Katrine, till what was before a wilderness-sublime in its wildness, became softened to the tints of civilized life, and beauty usurped places of magnificence! The character of his first heroine of romance, could have been drawn by none other than a high intellectual hand; her nobly proud spirit, her high aims-her sweet disposition, her romantic hopes, all made her what she was, too pure for mortal associations, and wisely did Scott preserve the charm unbroken by finding no counterpart to her loveliness, this side the grave. The strange, wild pictures of Guy Mannering, with that native woman Meg Merrilies; the richness of description in Ivanhoe, which the belles-lettres scholar might study with advantage; the dark striking pictures of Old Mortality's scenes among the mountains -pale Habbakuk Mucklewrath with phrenzied ire, and zeal of a maniac kindling in his Cameronian heart-all these were drawn by none other than a soul of fire. The leading characters in the romances of Scott, are founded upon those of reality. Launcelot Whale, was pictured not inaptly in the Dominie; George Constable was his Oldbuck; the high hearted daughter of Davie Deans, was the portrait of her, whose monument commemorates in his own language, the theft of her virtues; an able Lowlander of Millburn-Holm, was his Dandie Dinmont; Peter Pattieson, has become immortal in the garb of Old Mortality. David Ritchie, of Tweedsdale, was the original of his Black Dwarf; Croftangry of the Chronicles died as his father died—not a feature of the scene at variance with the picture of the old barrister's last hours. And many an incident and scene of real life, has been engrafted with all the thrift of genuine fancy upon the body of his fiction. It may appear paradoxical to cite these in corroboration of his genius; yet the painter depicts more easily an imaginary beauty, than one real; he would startle more by his imaginary drawing of a cataract, than by filling the outlines of Niagara. In confining to reality, fancy is checked-made subservient to the bid of judgment, and reveals not all its wildest freaks, which unrestrained revel in the freedom of their nature. Hence, Scott has given us 'the life' woven into the richness of his stories, with a naturalness so obvious, as to excite none but a continued emotion of pleasure; avoiding those gaunt, giant forms. which while they astonish, drive away our fears or sympathies, by exciting suspicions of their reality. Hence it is, that Scott calls into exercise an art which the ordinary novelist does not possess― the cheating of his reader, by the close reality of his portrait. He calls into the matter of his works, a blending of observation with imagination, and of both with an ingenuity, for the result of which, others trust to the unaided, and the unguided fervor of fancy. The fertility of Sir Walter's intellect, is a proof no less valid that he had a strong-a well tilled one. The delight experienced on the perusal of one tale had scarce died away, when another came to supply the vacancy; and he who had cherished Fergus McIvor, as the beau ideal of all conceptions, found him losing favor, as new rivals, with the rapidity of the changing month, flashed in all their excellence upon him. He who had saved his little earnings to become the owner of Waverley, found the tide of romance flowing too strong and fast, and was obliged to yield the palm, and withdraw his harvest earnings, from a competition with the mysterious agent of romance. Poor Ballantyne working at his types, found the torrent setting too strong for his feeble means, and launching into new and more extended efforts, for rolling on the avalanche, ruined himself and his patron author. And when fiction pure and elegant as it was, palled upon the sated appetite of thousands, history took up the magician's wand, and the author of Waverley told the story of his country's annals, and of the Emperor Napoleon. And this not in the prime of life, not in the enthusiasm of friendly succor, but in the damps of misfortune, when misery overshadowed him. In this fertility of Sir Walter's mind, we see ever a vigor, a cogency, a beauty characteristic of a great intellect. In every sphere, the poet, the historian, the translator, the novelist, the political pamphleteer, the chronologist, the reviewer, the biographer, in all, he evinced a fullness and freeness of diction, a purity of motive, a glow of imagination, a fervor of feeling, a power of observation, and an ingenuity of design perhaps never equaled. Imagination every where predominant, has drawn attention from the other attributes of his genius, which in lesser minds would have been hailed as the harbingers of a new and bright star in literature. But with Sir Walter's greatness of mind, was united a goodness of heart, which should ever claim the homage of his readers. There is in him no vain show-no strivings to beget an admiration as artificial as evanescent; no supercilious air and bearing, from his world-wide fame; no boastings, but ever is he the mild father, the gentlest of protectors, the most gracious entertainer, the true, one-hearted Walter Scott! His pure soul dealt not in wholesale infamy to astonish-to dazzle. In sooth, his conceptions of vice were almost universally aided by traditions, whose grossness he refined-whose ignominy he could not but tint with brighter colors. Kenilworth speaks higher of Leicester than history; the legend of Lammermoor was softened in the story of the unfortunate Ravenswood. The natural goodness of his heart, drew with sincerest fervor the virtues of Jeanie Deans-the pure benevolence of the Dominie-the frank hospitality of the old Udaller-the singleness of motive in the Baillie, Nicol Jarvie-the filial love, enhancing and adorning the female loveliness of Diana Vennon-the sainted purity of Alice Lee. In private life unimpeachable, with a high and excusable pride of country, and regard for the ancient institutions of his land, he saw with regret, not unmingled with indignation, the old clanships and chivalric dispositions of Highland customs, giving way to the march of revolution. A tory in principle, he sustained his character, not by extravagance, but by mild example; bore without a murmur the insults of an infuriated mob, and in his closet repined bitterly at the overthrow of institutions to which his heart was bound by a thousand familiar ties. None so humble in spirit, though he courted the power to give dignity to the loved wife of his bosom, and to children attached with an unwonted fondness. No vain hankerings after wealth for itself, spurred him on, but he sought opulence, to lavish in benevolent acts upon his neighbors-to be the generous host of multitudes, and with a mistaken zeal, to make his children heirs of a high inheritance. His generous disposition proved, alas! his overthrow; his keen sensibility wore that vigorous frame to agony almost insupportable. Misfortunes came upon him like a whirlwind, and though his spirit quailed like a reed, it strove against them, till striving brake it in twain! But a short time after the fortune which he had fondly hoped to bequeath to his loved children, was ruined, the friend of his youth-the mother of his children, wasted with anxiety, and perished! Thirty years of attachment had knit them closer in the bonds of love, and now she was snatched away; while he, toiling at his tasks in Edinburgh, for satisfying the demands of merciless creditors, was not permitted to perform even the last act of affection! But hear him "May 15.-Received the melancholy intelligence that all is over at Abbotsford. "She died at nine in the morning, after being very ill for two days-easy at last. I arrived here late last night. Anne [his daughter] is worn out, and has had hysterics, which returned on my arrival. Her broken accents were like those of a child, the language as well as the tones broken, but in the most gentle voice of submission. Poor mamma-never return again-gone for ever-a better place.' For myself, I scarce know how I feel, sometimes as firm as the Ban Rock, sometimes as weak as the water that breaks on it. Lonely, aged, deprived of my family-all but poor Anne; an impoverished, an embarrassed man, deprived of the sharer of my thoughts and counsels, who could always talk down my sense of the calamitous apprehensions which break the heart that must bear them alone. |