The visitor to Abbotsford, looking up at the ceiling of the hall, beholds3, in the painted shields, the heraldic record of the “heredity” of Sir Walter Scott. In his time the doctrine4 of heredity had not won its way into the realm of popular science, but no man was more interested in pedigree than the Laird. His ancestors were part of himself, though he was not descended5 from a “Duke of Buccleuch of the fourteenth century,” as the Dictionary of National Biography declares, with English innocence6. Three of the shields are occupied by white cloudlets on a blue ground; the arms of certain of the Rutherford ancestors, cadets of Hunthill, could not be traced. For the rest, if we are among those who believe that genius comes from the Celtic race alone, we learn with glee that the poet was not without his share of Celtic blood. He descended, on the female side, from the Macdougals of Makerston, and the Macdougals are
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perhaps the oldest family in Scotland, are certainly among the four or five oldest families. But they stood for the English cause against Bruce, a sorrow, no doubt, to their famous descendant. The wife, again, of Scott’s great grandfather, “Beardie” the Jacobite, was a Miss Campbell of Silvercraigs, counting cousins with the Campbells, (who are at least as much Douglases as Campbells) of Blythswood. Finally, the name of Scott, I presume, was originally borne by some infinitely7 remote forefather8, who was called “The Scot” because he was Irish by birth though his family was settled, first in Lanarkshire, later among the Cymri and English of Ettrickdale and Teviotdale. So much for the Celtic side of Sir Walter.
ANCESTRY
On the other hand, the Rutherfords—his mother was a Rutherford—are probably sprung from the Anglo-Norman noblesse who came into Scotland with David I, and obtained the lands whence they derive9 their name. They are an older family, on the Border, than the Scotts, who are not on record in Rankilburn before 1296. One of them (from whose loins also comes the present genealogist) frequently signs (or at all events seals) the charters of David I about 1140. The Swintons, famous in our early wars, and the Haliburtons, cadets of Dirleton, have a similar origin, so that in Scott met the blood of Highlands and
{3}
Lowlands, Celtic, Teutonic, and Norman. “There are few in Scotland,” says Lockhart, “under the titled nobility, who could trace their blood to so many stocks of historical distinction.” All Scottish men have a share in Sir Walter. The people of Scotland, “gentle” or “simple,” have ever set store on such ancestral connexions, and they certainly were a source of great pleasure to Scott.
His mind was, in the first place, historical; rooted in and turning towards the past, as the only explanation of the present. Before he could read with ease, say at the age of four or five, he pored over Scott of Satchells’ rhyming True History of several Honourable11 Families of the Right Honourable Name of Scot. “I mind spelling these lines,” he said, when Constable12 gave him a copy of the book, in 1818. Indeed, he was always “spelling” the legends and history of his race, while he was making it famous by his pen, since accident forbade him to make it glorious by his sword. One legend of the Scotts of Harden, the most celebrated13 of all, is, I think, a Märchen, or popular tale, the story of Muckle Mou’d Meg and her forced marriage with young Harden. Suppose the unlikely case that William Scott, younger, of Harden, did undertake a long expedition to seize the cattle of Murray of Elibank, on the upper Tweed. I deem this most improbable, in the reign14 of James VI,
{4}
when he was seated on the English throne. But suppose it occurred, who can believe that Elibank would dare to threaten young Harden with hanging on the Elibank doom15 tree? Even if Scots law would have borne him out, Elibank dared not face the feud16 of the strongest name on the Border. Thus it is not to be credited that young Harden chose “Muckle Mou’d Meg,” Elibank’s daughter, as an alternative to the gallows17. Moreover, the legend, I am informed, recurs18 in a province of Germany. If so, the tale may be much older than the Harden-Elibank marriage. The contract of that marriage is extant, and is not executed “on the parchment of a drum,” as Lockhart romantically avers19. Scott, better than most men, must have known how more than doubtsome is the old legend.
He let no family tradition drop: rather, he gave a sword and a cocked hat, in his own phrase, to each story. The ballad20 of Kinmont Willie, the tale of the most daring and bloodless of romantic exploits, certainly owes much to him, and he “brought out with a wet finger” (in Randolph’s phrase) all the dim exploits and fading legends of Tweed, Ettrick, Ail21, Yarrow, and Teviot; streams, Dr. John Brown says, “fabulosi as ever was Hydaspes.”
ANCESTRY
The son of a Writer to the Signet, Scott was grandson of a speculative22 Border yeoman, who
{5}
laid out the entire sum necessary for stocking his farm on one mare23, and sold her at a double advantage. Possibly Scott may have inherited the sanguine24 disposition25 of this adventurer. He was born to make all the world familiar with the life and history of an ancient kingdom, that, as a kingdom, had ceased to be, and with adventures rapidly winning their way to oblivion.
Just when Scotland, seventy years after she was “no longer Scotland” (according to Lockhart of Carnwath), merged26 into England, Nature sent Burns to make Scottish peasant life immortal27, and Scott to give immortality28 to chivalrous29 Scottish romance. There are traces of love of history and traces of intellectual ability in Scott’s nearest kin2. His lawyer father, born in 1729, was naturally more devoted30 to “analysing abstruse31 feudal32 doctrines,” and to studying “Knox’s and Spottiswoode’s folios” of the history of Kirk and State, than to the ordinary business of his calling. Scott’s maternal33 uncle, Dr. Rutherford, “was one of the best chemists in Europe”—we have Sir Walter’s word for it. Scott’s mother was not only fond of the best literature, but had a memory for points of history and genealogy34 almost as good as his own. “She connected a long period of time with the present generation.” Scott wrote when she died (1819), “for she remembered, and had often
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spoken with a person who perfectly36 recollected37 the battle of Dunbar....” She knew all about the etiquette38 of the covenanting39 conventicles under the Restoration, when the lairds’ wives, little to the comfort of their lords, sat on their saddles on the ground, listening to preachers like Walsh or Cameron.
CHILDHOOD
Fortunate indeed was Scott in his mother, who did not spoil him, though he must have been her favourite child. His eldest40 brother who attained41 maturity42 not only fought under the glorious Rodney, but “had a strong talent for literature,” and composed admirable verses. His brother Thomas was credited by Sir Walter with considerable genius, and was put forward by popular rumour43 as the author of the Waverley novels. His only surviving sister, Anne (died 1801), “lived in an ideal world, which she had framed to herself by the force of imagination.” Scott himself was well aware of his own tendency “to live in fantasy,” in the kingdom of dreams, and in the end he discovered that in the kingdom of dreams he had actually been living, as regards his own affairs, despite his strong practical sense, and “the thread of the attorney” in his nature. His genius, in short, was the flower and consummation of qualities existing in his family; while it was associated, though we may presume not casually44, with such maladies as
{7}
are current amongst families in general. There would be genius abundantly, if genius were merely a “sport” of disease.
At Abbotsford, in Sir Walter’s desk, are six bright locks of the hair of six brothers and sisters of his, who were born and died between 1759 and 1766, an Anne, a Jean, and a Walter, two Roberts, and a John. These early deaths were suspected to be due to the air of the old house in College Wynd, built on the site of Kirk o’ Field, where Darnley was murdered, perhaps on the site of the churchyard. But it was not till after the birth of the second Walter (August 15, 1771) that his father flitted to the pleasant wide George’s Square, beside the Meadows, and thereafter no children of the house died in childhood.
His own life-long malady45 was perhaps of an osseous nature. An American specialist has advanced the theory that “the peak”, the singularly tall and narrow head of Scott (“better be Peveril of the Peak than Peter of the Paunch,” he said to “Lord Peter”), was due to the early closure of the sutures of the skull46. The brain had to force a way upwards47, not laterally48! However that may be, at the age of eighteen months, after gambolling49 one night like a fey child, little Walter was seized with a teething fever, and, on the fourth day, was found to have lost the use of his right leg. The
{8}
malady, never cured entirely50, but always the cause of lameness51, probably deprived Wellington of a gallant52 officer, for Scott was by nature a man of action. But Wellington had lieutenants53 enough, and the accident made possible the career of a poet.
“The making of him” began at once, for the child was removed to the grandpaternal farm of Sandy Knowe, beneath the crags whence the Keep of Smailholme (in The Eve of St. John) looks over “Tweed’s fair flood, and all down Teviotdale,” over the wide plain and blue hills that had seen so many battles and border frays54. Here he was “first conscious of existence”—or first remembered his consciousness—swathed in the skin of a newly slain55 sheep, and crawling along the floor after a watch dangled56 by his kinsman57, Sir George Macdougal of Makerstoun.
And ever, by the winter hearth58,
Old tales I heard of woe59 or mirth,
Of lovers’ slights, of ladies’ charms,
Of witches’ spells, of warriors’ arms,—
Of patriot60 battles won of old
By Wallace Wight and Bruce the Bold,—
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland10 height,
The Scottish clans61, in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet62 ranks away.
CHILDHOOD
Sandyknowe was indeed “fit nurse for a poetic63
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child,” “a sweet tempered bairn, a darling with all about the house.” A miniature of three years later shows us the tall forehead, the frank and eager air, the force and charm of the child, certainly “a comely64 creature,” who, left alone among the hills, “clapped his hands at the lightning, and cried ‘bonny, bonny’ at every flash.” He was “as eager to hear of the defeat of Washington, as if I had had some deep and personal cause of antipathy65 to him”; while he was already under the charm of the King over the Water, Charles, lingering out his life at Florence, not answering the petition that he would raise the standard among the faithful in America. “I remember detesting66 the name of Cumberland with more than infant hatred,” for he had heard, from an eye-witness, the story of the execution of the Highland prisoners at Carlisle (1746). He learned by heart his first ballad, a modern figment, Hardiknute; he shouted it through the house, and disturbed an old divine who had seen Pope, and the wits of Queen Anne’s time. It was not easy to keep young Walter “at the bit,” but his aunt soon taught him “to read brawly.” He himself says that he “acquired the rudiments67 of reading” at Bath, whither he was carried between the ages of four and six.
Just afterwards, at Prestonpans, he made the acquaintance of a veteran bearing the deathless
{10}
name of Dalgetty, and of a Mr. Constable, in part the original of Monkbarns, in The Antiquary, “the first person who told me about Falstaff and Hotspur.” Returned to Edinburgh, he read Homer (in Pope’s version), and the Border Ballads68, with his mother, who had “a strong turn to study poetry and works of devotion”—no poetry on Sundays, a day “which in the end did none of us any good.”
We see “the making of him.” Before he was six Sir Walter was “made”; he was a bold rider, a lover of nature and of the past, he was a Jacobite, and the friend of epic69 and ballad. In short, as Mrs. Cockburn (a Rutherford of the beautiful old house of Fairnalie-on-Tweed) remarked before he was six, “he has the most extraordinary genius of a boy I ever saw.... He reads like a Garrick.” No doubt his mother saw and kept these things in her heart, but we do not hear that others of the family recognized a genius in a boy who was a bookworm at home, and idle at school.
He once, at this period, said a priggish thing, which Lockhart knew, but has omitted. Some one, finding him at his book asked (as people do), “Walter, why don’t you play with the other boys in the Square?”
“Oh, you can’t think how ignorant these boys are!
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”
YOUTH
One deeply sympathizes, but later he found nobody from whom he could not learn something, were it but about “bend leather.”
Such were, in the old French phrase of chivalry70, Les Enfances Gualtier. Now the technical Age of Innocence was past, and, in October 1778, having seen seven summers, he went to the old Edinburgh High School, to Mr. Frazer’s class. The age of entry was not, perhaps, unnaturally71 early.[1]
“Duxships,” and gold medals, and the making of Greek Iambics were not for Walter Scott. He was, he tells us, younger than the other boys in the second class, and had made less progress than they in Latin. “This was a real disadvantage,” as there was leeway to make up. He sat near the bottom of the huge string of boys, perhaps eighty, and, as he truly says, the boys used to fall into sets, “clubs and coteries,” according to the benches which they occupied. There they used to sit, and play at ingenious games—e.g. (in my time) a match between the Caesars and the Apostles—conducted on the principle of a raffle72; or a regatta of paper boats blown across the floor. The tawse (a leather strap) descended on their palms, but learn
{12}
ing never came near them, and they moved up from class to class by seniority, not by merit.
Scott was not always on the lowest benches, but flew to the top by answering questions in “general information” (which nobody has), and fell, by a rapid dégringolade, when topics were afoot about which every industrious73 boy knew everything. He was the meteor of the form, the translator of Horace or Virgil into rhyme, “the historian of the class” (as Dr. Adam, the headmaster said), and he was “a bonny fechter.” Owing to his lameness, he and his opponent used to fight sitting on opposite benches—his victories were won, as he said, in banco. He dared “the three kittle steps” on the narrow ledge74 of rock outside the wall of Edinburgh Castle; helped to man the Cowgate in snowball riots, and took part in the “stone bickers” against the street boys, which he describes in the anecdote75 of Green Breeks. His private tutor had “a very strong turn to anaticism,” and in argument with him Scott adopted the side of Claverhouse and the Crown against Argyll and the Covenanters. “I took up my politics at that period as King Charles II did his religion” (King Charles is here much misunderstood), “from an idea that the Cavalier creed76 was the more gentlemanlike of the two.”
YOUTH
In these controversies77 were the germs of Old
{13}
Mortality. “The beastly Covenanters,” wrote Scott to Southey in 1807, “hardly had any claim to be called men, unless what was founded on their walking upon their hind78 feet. You can hardly conceive the perfidy79, cruelty, and stupidity of these people, according to the accounts they have themselves preserved.” But, when he came to write history, Scott adopted another view, and, out of sheer love of fairness, was unfair to the Cavaliers. By “a nice derangement80 of” dates, he introduced the worst cruelties of the Cavaliers before they occurred, and did not mention at all the cause of the severities—the Cameronian declaration of war by murder.
His old tutor could have done no better for “the good old cause,” but modern popular historians do as much. Under the Headmaster, Dr. Adam, “learned, useful, simple,” Scott rose to the highest form, though, like St. Augustine, and for no better reason, he refused to learn Greek. He certainly “never was a first-rate Latinist”—his quotations81 from Roman poets prove that fact, no less than a false quantity in his only brace82 of Latin elegiacs, for the tomb of his deerhound, Maida.[2]
Scott regretted his ignorance of Greek, “a loss
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never to be repaired, considering what that language is, and who they were who employed it in their compositions.” The most Homeric of later poets knew nothing of Homer, which was to himself, certainly, an irreparable loss, for Pope and Cowper could not impart to him a shadow of what Homer would have been to him in the Greek. But great as is the delight which he missed, it is not probable that a knowledge of Greek literature would have moved Scott to imitate its order, its beauty, and its deep and poignant83 vein84 of reflection on human destiny.
YOUTH
People blame Scott because he has not the depth of Shakespeare or of Wordsworth, because Homer, a poet of war, of the sea, of the open air, is far more prone85 than Scott was to melancholy86 reflection on the mystery of human fortunes. But Scott was silent, not because he did not reflect, but because he knew the futility87 of human reflection. Humana perpessi sumus is a phrase which escapes him in his age, when he looks back on a lost and unforgotten love, on a broken life, on what might have been, and what had been. “We are men, and have endured what men are born to bear”—that is his brief philosophy. Why add words about it all? The silence of Scott better proves the depth of his thought, and the splendour of his courage, than the finest “reflections” that poets have ut
{15}
tered in immortal words. It is not because his thought is shallow that he never shows us the things which lie in the deep places of his mind. “Men and houses have stood long enough, if they stand till they fall with honour,” says his Baron88 Bradwardine. “Ilios must perish, the city of Priam of the ashen89 spear,” says Homer—and what more is there to say, for a man who does not wear his heart on his sleeve? Knowledge of Greek poetry would not have induced Scott to write a line in the sense of the melancholy of Greek epic poetry; a noble melancholy, but he will utter none of its inspirations. On the side of precision, exquisite90 proportion, rich delicacy91 of language, “loading every reef with gold,” as Keats advised Shelley to do, Scott would have learned nothing from Greece.
His genius was of another bent—
Flow forth92, flow unconstrained, my Tale!
he says, knowing himself to be an improviser93, not a minutely studious artist. He knew his own path, and he followed it, holding his own art at a lowly price. No critic is more severe on him for his laxities, for his very “unpremeditated art” than he is himself. But, such as that art may be, it was what he was born to accomplish, and, had he read as
{16}
much Greek as Tennyson, he would still have written as he rode
Without stop or stay down the rocky way,
and through the wan94 water of the river in spate95. He was obedient to his nature, and all the Greek Muses96 singing out of Olympus could not have altered his nature, or changed the riding lilt of Dick o’ the Cow for more classical measures and a more chastened style.
For these reasons, as he was not, like Keats, a Greek born out of due time, but a minstrel of the Mosstroopers, we need not regret that he was ignorant of the greatest of all literatures. Of Latin, he had enough to serve his ends. He seldom cites Virgil: he appears to have preferred Lucan. He could read, at sight, such Latin as he wanted to read, which was mainly medieval. His knowledge of Italian, German, Spanish, and French was of the same handy homemade character. He picked up the tongues in the course of reading books in the tongues, books of chivalry and romance. His French, when he spoke35 in that language was, as one of the Court of the exiled Charles X in Holyrood said, “the French of the good Sire de Joinville.”
YOUTH
From childhood, and all through his schoolboy days, and afterwards, he was a narrator. A lady who knew him in early boyhood says that he had a
{17}
myth for every occasion. “Even when he wanted ink to his pen he would get up some ludicrous story about sending his doggie to the mill again.” We are reminded of the two Stevensons, telling each other stories about the continents and isles97 in the milk and porridge which they were eating. “He used also to interest us ...” says a lady, “by telling us the visions, as he called them, which he had when lying alone ... when kept from going to church on a Sunday by ill-health ... misty98 and sublime99 sketches100 of the regions above which he had visited in his trance.” The lady thought that he had a tendency to “superstition,” but he was only giving examples of the uprisings from the “subliminal” regions which are open to genius. It was with invented stories that he amused his friends, Irving and James Ballantyne, whom he met at a school of which he was a casual pupil at Kelso. He once kept a fellow-traveller awake all night, by his narrative101 of the foul102 murder of Archbishop Sharp, told as they drove across Magus Moor103, the scene of that “godly fact.”
The men and women whom he met in boyhood, oddities, “characters,” people his novels. Chance scraps104 of humour remained in the most retentive105 of memories, reappeared in his romances, and made it impossible for his old friends to doubt his authorship. His long country walks were directed to
{18}
places of historical interest, in which he found that scarce any one else was interested, before he peopled them with the figures of his dreams.
In his thirteenth year Scott matriculated at the town’s college of Edinburgh. At this time he was once in the same room with Burns, whom he enlightened as to the authorship of lines by Langhorne, written under a weak engraving106 of Bunbury’s, a soldier dead in the snow beside his wife and dog. It is curious that the author’s name, in fact, is printed under the verses. Scott remarked of Burns’ eyes, that “he never saw their like in a human head.” “His countenance107 was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits.” The late Dr. Boyd of St. Andrews (A.K.H.B.) once asked a sister of Burns which of the portraits of her brother was the best likeness108? “They a’ mak’ him ower like a gentleman,” she replied, and no doubt she meant that they missed the massiveness of his countenance. Scott thought Burns too humble109 in his attitude towards young Ferguson, in whom he recognized his master; not wholly an error, and a generous error at worst. Scott also thought himself “unworthy to tie Burns’ shoes,” so noble was the generosity110 of either poet.
YOUTH
His fifteenth year saw Scott, already a lawyer’s apprentice111, in the Highlands, happy in the society of Stewart of Invernahyle, who had fought a sword
{19}
and target duel112 with Rob Roy (at Ardsheil, I think), had been out with the Prince, and supplied the central incidents of Waverley. “The blawing bleezing lairds” were not much to the taste of the elder Mr. Scott, who was unconsciously sitting for his own portrait as the elder Fairford in Redgauntlet, a picture rich in affectionate humour. “The office,” in Edinburgh, swallows up a large proportion of the schoolboys. To Mr. R. L. Stevenson, “the office” seemed a Minotaur, but Scott found in it his profit. He acquired, as a copyist, the quality of steady prolonged writing; the faculty113 of sitting at it which Anthony Trollope called “rump.” He once covered, without interruption, a hundred and twenty pages of folio, at three-pence the page, gaining thirty shillings to spend on books or a dirk. Looking at the MSS. of his novels, down to the never-to-be-published Knights114 of Malta, written during his last voyage to Italy, we see the steady, unfaltering, speedy hand of the law writer, with scarce a correction or an erasure115. After his ruin, after his breakdown116 in health, he once wrote the “copy” of sixty printed pages of a novel in a day. He had acquired the power of sitting at it, without which his colossal117 labours, in the leisure hours of a busy official life, would have been impossible. He could not have done this had he not been of Herculean strength, the strongest
{20}
man in the acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd. “Though you may think him a poor lamiter, he’s the first to begin a row, and the last to end it,” said a naval118 officer. Like his own Corporal Raddlebanes, he once fought three men with his stick, for an hour by the Tron clock—not that of Shrewsbury.
We are apt to forget how young Scott was, at this period. He was only eighteen when he piloted a young English friend through the shoals and reefs of early misadventure. He can scarcely have been nineteen when he met Le Manteau Vert, Miss Stewart Belches119 (daughter of Sir John Stewart Belches of Invermay), the object of his first and undying love. His friends thought him cold towards the fair, but, in truth, he was shielded by a pure affection. Concerning the lady, I have heard much, from Mrs. Wilson (née Macleod), whose aged120 aunt, or great-aunt, like Scott, fell in love with the bride of William Forbes. “She was more like an angel than a woman,” the old lady would say. Scott’s passion endured for five years (“three years of dreaming and two of wakening,” he says), inspiring him, as time went on, to severe application in his legal studies, and to his first efforts in literature.
FIRST LOVE
Lockhart did not know the details of the ending of the vision. “What a romance to tell—and told
{21}
I fear it will one day be,” wrote Scott after his ruin. But told the romance never will or can be, except in the merest outline. Scott thought that he had something to complain of, as appears from his poem, The Violet, about “my false love,” and in verses describing Fitz James’ broken sleep, in The Lady of the Lake.
Then, ... from my couch may heavenly might
Chase that worst phantom121 of the night—
Again return the scenes of youth,
Of confident undoubting truth
* * * *
They come, in dim procession led,
The cold, the faithless, and the dead.
* * * *
Dreamed he of death, or broken vow122,
Or is it all a vision now?
Scott, according to Lady Louisa Stuart, said that he always, in later life, dreamed of his lost love before any great misfortune. In age and sickness, his Journal tells much of his thoughts of her, of the name he had cut in runic characters on the grass below the tower of St. Rule’s at St. Andrews, the name that “still had power to stir his heart.” But years went by before the vision ended—the vision of the lady of Rokeby, of Redgauntlet, and of the Lay of the Last Minstrel; “by many names one form.
{22}
”
It is because he knew passion too well that he is not a poet of passion. There is nothing in Scott like the melancholy or peevish123 repining of the lovers in Locksley Hall and in Maud. Only in the fugitive124 farewell caress125 of Diana Vernon, stooping from her saddle on the darkling moor before she rides into the night, do we feel the heart-throb of Walter Scott. Of love as of human life he knew too much to speak. He did not “make copy” of his deepest thoughts or of his deepest affections. I am not saying “They were pedants126 who could speak,” or blaming those who can “unlock their hearts” with a sonnet127 or any other poetic key. But simply it was not Sir Walter’s way; and we must take him with his limitations—honourable to the man, if unfortunate for the poet.
We see him, a splendid figure, “tall, much above the usual stature128, cast in the very mould of a youthful Hercules; the head set on with singular grace, the throat and chest after the truest model of the antique, the hands delicately finished, the whole outline that of extraordinary vigour129, without as yet a touch of clumsiness.” The “lamiter” “could persuade a pretty young woman to sit and talk with me, hour after hour, in a corner of a ballroom130, while all the world were capering131 in our view.”
FIRST LOVE
This was the lad who shone in The Speculative
{23}
Society; who roamed with Shortreed from Charlieshope to Charlieshope, dear to all the Dandie Dinmonts of Liddesdale, “sober or drunk, he was aye the gentleman.” You could not wander in Liddesdale, in these days, without the risk of being “fou”: though even among these “champion bowlsmen” Scott had the strongest head. “How brawlie he suited himself to every body,” as to “auld Thomas of Twizzlehope,” who possessed132 “the real lilt of Dick o’ the Cow,” and a punch bowl fatal to sobriety. The real lilt, or “a genuine old Border war horn” was worth a headache. Mr. Hutton, in his book on Scott, made his moan over the story of the arrival of a keg of brandy that interrupted religious exercise in Liddesdale. Autres temps, autres moeurs, and Scott, during these ballad-hunting expeditions, was not yet twenty-one. In defending the Rev133. Mr. Macnaught, before the General Assembly, on a charge of lack of sobriety, and of “toying with a sweetie wife” and singing sculdudery chants, Scott edified134 the General Assembly by the distinction between ebrius and ebriosus, between being drunk and being a drunkard. But the Assembly decided135 that Mr. Macnaught was ebriosus. In getting up this case Scott visited, for the only time, the country of the Picts of Galloway, and of Guy Mannering.
The period of the Reign of Terror, in France,
{24}
found Scott taking part in anti-revolutionary “rows” in Edinburgh. Nothing hints that he, like Wordsworth, conceived a passionate136 affection for the Revolution. The Radicals137 had a plot of the good old Jacobite kind for seizing the Castle (1794), but Scott rejected such romance, and was a volunteer on the side of order. In 1795 he conceived that his love suit was prospering138, as appears plainly in a letter; despite “his habitual139 effort to suppress, as far as words were concerned, the more tender feelings, which in no heart were deeper than in his.” He translated Bürger’s ballad of Lenore (a refashioning of a volkslied current in modern Greece, and as The Suffolk Tragedy, in England), and laid “a richly bound and blazoned140 copy” at his lady’s feet (1796). The rhymes are spirited—
Tramp, tramp! along the land they rode,
Splash, splash, along the sea,
The scourge141 is red, the spur drops blood,
The flashing pebbles142 flee!
FIRST LOVE
But the lady “gave to gold, what song could never buy,” as her unfriends may have said. But as her chosen lover was William Forbes, of the house of the good old Lord Pitsligo of the Forty-Five, and as Mr. (later Sir William) Forbes remained the staunchest friend of Scott, we may be
{25}
certain that Green Mantle143 merely obeyed her heart.
“I shudder,” wrote a friend, “at the violence of his most irritable144 and ungovernable mind.” He little knew Scott, who rode from his lady’s house into the hills, “eating his own heart, avoiding the paths of men,” and said nothing. The fatal October of his rejection145 (1796) saw the publication of his first book, a slim quarto, containing translations of Bürger’s ballads. The lady of Harden, a Saxon by birth, corrected “his Scotticisms, and more especially his Scottish rhymes.” He had become the minstrel of “the Rough Clan” of Scott, and was a friend of the Houses of Harden (his chief’s) and of Buccleuch.
Scotland lost Burns in 1796, but did not yet take up Scott, whose ballads literally146 served “to line a box,” as Tennyson says, and were delivered over to the trunk-makers. He made no moan, and, in April 1797, his heart, as he says, “was handsomely pierced.” At Gilsland he met the dark-eyed Miss Charpentier, of French origin, daughter of M. Jean Charpentier (Ecuyer du Roi), and fell in love. I think that, in Julia Mannering, the lively dark beauty of Guy Mannering, we have a portrait from the life of Scott’s bride. In personal appearance the two ladies are unmistakably identical, and Miss Charpentier, in a letter of November 27,
{26}
1797, chaffs her lover exactly as Julia Mannering chaffs her austere147 father. Scott had written about his desire to be buried in Dryburgh Abbey, and Miss Charpentier thought him dismal148 and premature149. She did not care for romance, she did not pamper150 Scott by pretending to the faintest sympathy with his studies, but she was a merry bride, a true wife, and, when the splendour of celebrity151 shone on Scott, it did not burn up (as a friend feared that it might) the unmoved Semele who shared the glory. Scott was married at Carlisle, in the church of St. Mary, on Christmas Eve, 1797.
I have often wondered whether, after his marriage, Scott was in the habit of meeting his “false love” in the society of Edinburgh. His heart was “handsomely pieced,” he says, but haeret lethalis arundo.
Sir Walter Scott.
After a painting by Sir Henry Raeburn.
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1
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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4
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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6
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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7
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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8
forefather
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| n.祖先；前辈 | |
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9
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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10
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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11
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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12
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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13
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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14
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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15
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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16
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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17
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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18
recurs
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| 再发生，复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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19
avers
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| v.断言( aver的第三人称单数 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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20
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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21
ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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22
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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23
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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24
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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25
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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26
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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27
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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28
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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29
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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30
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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31
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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32
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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33
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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34
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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35
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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36
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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37
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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39
covenanting
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的现在分词 ) | |
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40
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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41
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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42
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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43
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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44
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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45
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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46
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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47
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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48
laterally
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| ad.横向地；侧面地；旁边地 | |
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49
gambolling
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的现在分词 ) | |
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50
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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51
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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52
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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53
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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54
frays
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| n.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的名词复数 )v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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56
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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57
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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58
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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59
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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60
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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61
clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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62
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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63
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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64
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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65
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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66
detesting
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的现在分词 ) | |
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67
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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68
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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69
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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70
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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71
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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72
raffle
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| n.废物，垃圾，抽奖售卖；v.以抽彩出售 | |
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73
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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74
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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75
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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76
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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77
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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78
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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79
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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80
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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81
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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82
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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83
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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84
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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85
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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86
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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87
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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88
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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89
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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90
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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91
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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92
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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93
improviser
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| n.即席演奏者 | |
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94
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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95
spate
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| n.泛滥，洪水，突然的一阵 | |
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96
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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97
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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98
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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99
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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100
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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101
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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102
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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103
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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104
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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105
retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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106
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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107
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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108
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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109
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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110
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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111
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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112
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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113
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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114
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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115
erasure
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| n.擦掉，删去；删掉的词；消音；抹音 | |
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116
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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117
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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118
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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119
belches
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| n.嗳气( belch的名词复数 )；喷吐；喷出物v.打嗝( belch的第三人称单数 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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120
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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121
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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126
pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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127
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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128
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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129
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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130
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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131
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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137
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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138
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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141
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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142
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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143
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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150
pamper
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| v.纵容，过分关怀 | |
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151
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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