I soon dressed myself and joined him. He talked about his proposed plans of Abbotsford; happy would it have been for him could he have contented6 himself with his delightful7 little vine-covered cottage, and the simple, yet hearty8 and hospitable9 style, in which he lived at the time of my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with the huge expense it entailed10 upon him, of servants, retainers, guests, and baronial style, was a drain upon his purse, a tax upon his exertions11, and a weight upon his mind, that finally crushed him.
As yet, however, all was in embryo12 and perspective, and Scott pleased himself with picturing out his future residence, as he would one of the fanciful creations of his own romances. "It was one of his air castles," he said, "which he was reducing to solid stone and mortar13." About the place were strewed14 various morsels16 from the ruins of Melrose Abbey, which were to be incorporated in his mansion17. He had already constructed out of similar materials a kind of Gothic shrine18 over a spring, and had surmounted19 it by a small stone cross.
Among the relics20 from the Abbey which lay scattered22 before us, was a most quaint23 and antique little lion, either of red stone, or painted red, which hit my fancy. I forgot whose cognizance it was; but I shall never forget the delightful observations concerning old Melrose to which it accidentally gave rise. The Abbey was evidently a pile that called up all Scott's poetic24 and romantic feelings; and one to which he was enthusiastically attached by the most fanciful and delightful of his early associations. He spoke25 of it, I may say, with affection. "There is no telling," said he, "what treasures are hid in that glorious old pile. It is a famous place for antiquarian plunder26; there are such rich bits of old time sculpture for the architect, and old time story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it as a Stilton cheese, and in the same taste—the mouldier the better."
He went on to mention circumstances of "mighty27 import" connected with the Abbey, which had never been touched, and which had even escaped the researches of Johnny Bower28. The heart of Robert Bruce, the hero of Scotland, had been buried in it. He dwelt on the beautiful story of Bruce's pious29 and chivalrous30 request in his dying hour, that his heart might be carried to the Holy Land and placed in the Holy Sepulchre, in fulfilment of a vow31 of pilgrimage; and of the loyal expedition of Sir James Douglas to convey the glorious relic21. Much might be made, he said, out of the adventures of Sir James in that adventurous32 age; of his fortunes in Spain, and his death in a crusade against the Moors33; with the subsequent fortunes of the heart of Robert Bruce, until it was brought back to its native land, and enshrined within the holy walls of old Melrose.
As Scott sat on a stone talking in this way, and knocking with his staff against the little red lion which lay prostrate34 before him, his gray eyes twinkled beneath his shagged eyebrows35; scenes, images, incidents, kept breaking upon his mind as he proceeded, mingled36 with touches of the mysterious and supernatural as connected with the heart of Bruce. It seemed as if a poem or romance were breaking vaguely37 on his imagination. That he subsequently contemplated38 something of the kind, as connected with this subject, and with his favorite ruin of Melrose, is evident from his introduction to "The Monastery39;" and it is a pity that he never succeeded in following out these shadowy, but enthusiastic conceptions.
A summons to breakfast broke off our conversation, when I begged to recommend to Scott's attention my friend the little red lion, who had led to such an interesting topic, and hoped he might receive some niche40 or station in the future castle, worthy41 of his evident antiquity42 and apparent dignity. Scott assured me, with comic gravity, that the valiant43 little lion should be most honorably entertained; I hope, therefore, that he still flourishes at Abbotsford.
Before dismissing the theme of the relics from the Abbey, I will mention another, illustrative of Scott's varied44 humors. This was a human skull45, which had probably belonged of yore to one of those jovial46 friars, so honorably mentioned in the old border ballad47:
"O the monks48 of Melrose made gude kale
On Fridays, when they fasted;
They wanted neither beef nor ale,
As long as their neighbors lasted."
This skull he had caused to be cleaned and varnished49, and placed it on a chest of drawers in his chamber51, immediately opposite his bed; where I have seen it, grinning most dismally52. It was an object of great awe50 and horror to the superstitious53 housemaids; and Scott used to amuse himself with their apprehensions54. Sometimes, in changing his dress, he would leave his neck-cloth coiled round it like a turban, and none of the "lasses" dared to remove it. It was a matter of great wonder and speculation55 among them that the laird should have such an "awsome fancy for an auld56 girning skull."
At breakfast that morning Scott gave an amusing account of a little Highlander58 called Campbell of the North, who had a lawsuit59 of many years' standing60 with a nobleman in his neighborhood about the boundaries of their estates. It was the leading object of the little man's life; the running theme of all his conversations; he used to detail all the circumstances at full length to everybody he met, and, to aid him in his description of the premises61, and make his story "mair preceese," he had a great map made of his estate, a huge roll several feet long, which he used to carry about on his shoulder. Campbell was a long-bodied, but short and bandy-legged little man, always clad in the Highland57 garb62; and as he went about with this great roll on his shoulder, and his little legs curving like a pair of parentheses63 below his kilt, he was an odd figure to behold64. He was like little David shouldering the spear of Goliath, which was "like unto a weaver's beam."
Whenever sheep-shearing was over, Campbell used to set out for Edinburgh to attend to his lawsuit. At the inns he paid double for all his meals and his night's lodgings65, telling the landlords to keep it in mind until his return, so that he might come back that way at free cost; for he knew, he said, that he would spend all his money among the lawyers at Edinburgh, so he thought it best to secure a retreat home again.
On one of his visits he called upon his lawyer, but was told he was not at home, but his lady was. "It's just the same thing," said little Campbell. On being shown into the parlor66, he unrolled his map, stated his case at full length, and, having gone through with his story, gave her the customary fee. She would have declined it, but he insisted on her taking it. "I ha' had just as much pleasure," said he, "in telling the whole tale to you, as I should have had in telling it to your husband, and I believe full as much profit."
The last time he saw Scott, he told him he believed he and the laird were near a settlement, as they agreed to within a few miles of the boundary. If I recollect67 right, Scott added that he advised the little man to consign68 his cause and his map to the care of "Slow Willie Mowbray," of tedious memory, an Edinburgh worthy, much employed by the country people, for he tired out everybody in office by repeated visits and drawling, endless prolixity69, and gained every suit by dint70 of boring.
These little stories and anecdotes71, which abounded73 in Scott's conversation, rose naturally out of the subject, arid74 were perfectly75 unforced; though, in thus relating them in a detached way, without the observations or circumstances which led to them, and which have passed from my recollection, they want their setting to give them proper relief. They will serve, however, to show the natural play of his mind, in its familiar moods, and its fecundity76 in graphic77 and characteristic detail.
His daughter Sophia and his son Charles were those of his family who seemed most to feel and understand his humors, and to take delight in his conversation. Mrs. Scott did not always pay the same attention, and would now and then make a casual remark which would operate a little like a damper. Thus, one morning at breakfast, when Dominie Thomson, the tutor, was present, Scott was going on with great glee to relate an anecdote72 of the laird of Macnab, "who, poor fellow," premised he, "is dead and gone—" "Why, Mr. Scott," exclaimed the good lady, "Macnab's not dead, is he?" "Faith, my dear," replied Scott, with humorous gravity, "if he's not dead they've done him great injustice—for they've buried him."
The joke passed harmless and unnoticed by Mrs. Scott, but hit the poor Dominie just as he had raised a cup of tea to his lips, causing a burst of laughter which sent half of the contents about the table. After breakfast, Scott was occupied for some time correcting proof-sheets which he had received by the mail. The novel of Rob Roy, as I have already observed, was at that time in the press, and I supposed them to be the proof-sheets of that work. The authorship of the Waverley novels was still a matter of conjecture78 and uncertainty79; though few doubted their being principally written by Scott. One proof to me of his being the author, was that he never adverted80 to them. A man so fond of anything Scottish, and anything relating to national history or local legend, could not have been mute respecting such productions, had they been written by another. He was fond of quoting the works of his contemporaries; he was continually reciting scraps81 of border songs, or relating anecdotes of border story. With respect to his own poems, and their merits, however, he was mute, and while with him I observed a scrupulous82 silence on the subject.
I may here mention a singular fact, of which I was not aware at the time, that Scott was very reserved with his children respecting his own writings, and was even disinclined to their reading his romantic poems. I learnt this, some time after, from a passage in one of his letters to me, adverting83 to a set of the American miniature edition of his poems, which, on my return to England, I forwarded to one of the young ladies. "In my hurry," writes he, "I have not thanked you, in Sophia's name, for the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly84 than she would otherwise have learned; for I have taken special care they should never see any of these things during their earlier years."
To return to the thread of my narrative85. When Scott had got through his brief literary occupation, we set out on a ramble86. The young ladies started to accompany us, but they had not gone far, when they met a poor old laborer87 and his distressed88 family, and turned back to take them to the house, and relieve them.
On passing the bounds of Abbotsford, we came upon a bleak-looking farm, with a forlorn, crazy old manse, or farmhouse89, standing in naked desolation. This, however, Scott told me, was an ancient hereditary90 property called Lauckend, about as valuable as the patrimonial91 estate of Don Quixote, and which, in like manner, conferred an hereditary dignity upon its proprietor92, who was a laird, and, though poor as a rat, prided himself upon his ancient blood, and the standing of his house. He was accordingly called Lauckend, according to the Scottish custom of naming a man after his family estate, but he was more generally known through the country round by the name of Lauckie Long Legs, from the length of his limbs. While Scott was giving this account of him, we saw him at a distance striding along one of his fields, with his plaid fluttering about him, and he seemed well to deserve his appellation93, for he looked all legs and tartan.
Lauckie knew nothing of the world beyond his neighborhood. Scott told me that on returning to Abbotsford from his visit to France, immediately after the war, he was called on by his neighbors generally to inquire after foreign parts. Among the number came Lauckie Long Legs and an old brother as ignorant as himself. They had many inquiries94 to make about the French, whom they seemed to consider some remote and semi-barbarous horde—"And what like are thae barbarians95 in their own country?" said Lauckie, "can they write?—can they cipher96?" He was quite astonished to learn that they were nearly as much advanced in civilization as the gude folks of Abbotsford.
After living for a long time in single blessedness, Lauckie all at once, and not long before my visit to the neighborhood, took it into his head to get married. The neighbors were all surprised; but the family connection, who were as proud as they were poor, were grievously scandalized, for they thought the young woman on whom he had set his mind quite beneath him. It was in vain, however, that they remonstrated97 on the misalliance he was about to make; he was not to be swayed from his determination. Arraying himself in his best, and saddling a gaunt steed that might have rivalled Rosinante, and placing a pillion behind his saddle, he departed to wed15 and bring home the humble98 lassie who was to be made mistress of the venerable hovel of Lauckend, and who lived in a village on the opposite side of the Tweed.
A small event of the kind makes a great stir in a little quiet country neighborhood. The word soon circulated through the village of Melrose, and the cottages in its vicinity, that Lauckie Long Legs had gone over the Tweed to fetch home his bride. All the good folks assembled at the bridge to await his return. Lauckie, however, disappointed them; for he crossed the river at a distant ford5, and conveyed his bride safe to his mansion without being perceived. Let me step forward in the course of events, and relate the fate of poor Lauckie, as it was communicated to me a year or two afterward99 in letter by Scott. From the time of his marriage he had no longer any peace, owing to the constant intermeddling of his relations, who would not permit him to be happy in his own way, but endeavored to set him at variance100 with his wife. Lauckie refused to credit any of their stories to her disadvantage; but the incessant101 warfare102 he had to wage in defence of her good name, wore out both flesh and spirit. His last conflict was with his own brothers, in front of his paternal103 mansion. A furious scolding match took place between them; Lauckie made a vehement104 profession of faith in favor of her immaculate honesty, and then fell dead at the threshold of his own door. His person, his character, his name, his story, and his fate, entitled him to be immortalized in one of Scott's novels, and I looked to recognize him in some of the succeeding works from his pen; but I looked in vain.
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1
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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19
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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26
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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43
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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48
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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49
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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50
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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51
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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52
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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53
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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parentheses
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲（ parenthesis的名词复数 ） | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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prolixity
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| n.冗长，罗嗦 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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80
adverted
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| 引起注意（advert的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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81
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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83
adverting
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| 引起注意（advert的现在分词形式） | |
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84
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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85
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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