Sir Walter Scott possessed, in an eminent degree, the power of imagination, with the gift of memory. If to this be added his strong tendency to venerate past things, we at once have the most obvious features of his intellectual character. A desultory course of reading had brought him into acquaintance with almost all the fictitious literature that existed before his own day, as well as the minutest points of British, and more particularly Scottish history. His easy and familiar habits had also introduced him to an extensive observation of the varieties of human character. His immense memory retained the ideas thus acquired, and his splendid imagination gave them new shape and colour. Thus, his literary character rests almost exclusively upon his power of combining and embellishing past events, and his skill in delineating natural character. In early life, accident threw his exertions into the shape of verse—in later life, into prose; but, in whatever form they appear, the powers are not much different. The same magician is still at work, reawaking the figures and events of history, or sketching the characters which we every day see around us, and investing the whole with the light of a most extraordinary fancy. His versified writings, though replete with good feeling, display neither the high imaginings nor the profound sympathies which are expected in poetry; their charm lies almost entirely in the re-creation of beings long since passed away, or the conception of others who might be supposed to have once existed. As some of the material elements of poetry were thus wanting, it was fortunate that he at last preferred prose as a vehicle for his ideas—a medium of communication in which no more was expected than what he was able or inclined to give, while it afforded a scope for the delineation of familiar character, which was nearly denied in poetry. As the discoverer and successful cultivator of this kind of fictitious writing, Sir Walter Scott must rank among the very highest names in British literature—Shakspeare, Milton, and Byron being the only others who can be said to stand on the same level.

Among the minor powers of his mind, humour was one of the most prominent. Both in his prose writings and in private conversation, he was perpetually making droll application of some ancient adage, or some snatch of popular literature, or some whimsical anecdote of real life, which he happened to think appropriate to the occasion.[2] A strong feeling of nationality was another of the features of his character, though perhaps it ought, in some measure, to be identified with his tendency to admire whatever belonged to the past. He loved Scotland and Scotchmen, but, it may be remarked, fully as much with a view to what they were, and what they did long ago, as to their later or present condition. Of the common people, when they came individually before him, it cannot be said that he was a despiser: to them, as to all who came in his way, he was invariably kind and affable. Nevertheless, from the highly aristocratic tone of his mind, he had no affection for the people as a body. He seems to have never conceived the idea of a manly and independent character in middle or humble life; and in his novels, where an individual of these classes is introduced, he is never invested with any virtues, unless obedience, or even servility to superiors, be of the number. Among the features of his character, it would be improper to omit noticing his passion for field-sports, and for all the machinery by which they are carried on. He was so fond of a good horse, that the present writer has seen him turn the most serious conversation, in order to remark the strength and speed of one of these animals which he saw passing. He has also recorded his attachment to dogs, by being frequently drawn with one by his side.

The gravest charge against Sir Walter Scott lies undeniably in his heedlessness regarding his affairs. Apart altogether from his accommodations to Constable and Company, he had entered deeply into a false system of credit on his own account; and while much debt was consequently hanging over him, he is found transferring the only solid security for it—his estate—to his son. This, however, should be contemplated in connection with all the circumstances which we can suppose to have justified it in his own mind. To one who was producing ten thousand a year by his pen, and who had done so for years, who, moreover, saw large possessions in his own hands, there might appear no pressing reason for looking anxiously into the accounts concerning even so large a sum of floating debt as forty-six thousand pounds; at least to one whose temperament, we now see, was sanguine and ideal as ever poet manifested, though in his case usually veiled under an air of worldly seeming. When this is considered, the weight of the charge will, we think, appear much lessened, though it cannot be altogether done away. For what remains, let us reflect on the latter days of Scott, and surely we must own that never was fault more nobly expiated, or punishment more nobly borne, than by the great Minstrel.

It is by far the greatest glory of Sir Walter Scott, that he shone equally as a good and virtuous man, as he did in his capacity of the first fictitious writer of the age. His behaviour through life was marked by undeviating integrity and purity, insomuch that no scandalous whisper was ever yet circulated against him. The traditionary recollection of his early life is burdened with no stain of any sort. His character as a husband and father is altogether irreproachable. Indeed, in no single relation of life does it appear that he ever incurred the least blame. His good sense, and good feeling united, appear to have guided him aright through all the difficulties and temptations of life; and, even as a politician, though blamed by many for his exclusive sympathy with the cause of established rule, he was always acknowledged to be too benevolent and too unobtrusive to call for severe censure. Along with the most perfect uprightness of conduct, he was characterised by extraordinary simplicity of manners. He was invariably gracious and kind, and it was impossible ever to detect in his conversation a symptom of his grounding the slightest title to consideration upon his literary fame, or of his even being conscious of it. Of all men living, the most modest, as likewise the greatest and most virtuous, was Sir Walter Scott.

[CONCLUSION.

The vast exertions made by Scott in his latter years to redeem his financial blunders were happily successful. Since his death, the whole of his debts have been cleared off by the profits of his writings. More than a generation has elapsed since his decease, yet the popularity of his works remains unabated. Written to satisfy no temporary feeling, but founded on a knowledge of human character, and ever enduring and elevating in their tendency, the fictions of Scott do not seem destined to grow old or out of date. From the frantic novel-writing of the period, too commonly the mere rack of invention, with characters and incidents in violation of all known experience, one turns to the fictions of Sir Walter with undiminished, if not increasing, delight and admiration. Mr Cadell’s interest in the Waverley Novels having been transferred in 1851 to Messrs A. & C. Black, innumerable editions have since testified the lasting appreciation of these interesting works, to which much justice has certainly been done as regards the method of publication; though, like some others among the original readers of the fictions, we could have spared the explanatory notes of the author, which, with all their merits, are somewhat calculated to destroy the vraisemblance of the respective narratives. A few years after the death of Sir Walter, the citizens of Edinburgh resolved to erect a monument to his memory, and the device adopted was that magnificent Norman cross, from plans of Mr George M. Kemp, placed in so conspicuous a situation in Princes Street as to strike the eye of every passing traveller. It encloses, under open Gothic arches, a marble statue (life-size) of the poet in a sitting posture, by a native artist, Mr John Steell. The monument, which was completed in 1846, is open daily for the inspection of strangers. The cost of the structure has been upwards of £15,000.

There is something sorrowful in the failure of Scott’s high hopes of founding a family. The fond dream of his life may be said to have come to nought. He left two sons and two daughters, who did not long survive him. Miss Anne Scott died in London, 25th June 1833. Sophia, who was married to John Gibson Lockhart, and who, in appearance and character, most resembled her father, died 17th May 1837. Charles Scott, the second son, died, unmarried, while acting as an attaché to a diplomatic embassy to Persia, 28th October 1841. Walter, the eldest son, who succeeded to the baronetcy, and rose to be lieutenant-colonel in the 15th Hussars, died on his passage home from India, 8th February 1847. He was married, but left no issue, and the baronetcy is extinct. Mrs Lockhart had three children, John Hugh Lockhart—the ‘Hugh Littlejohn’ for whom Scott so lovingly wrote the Tales of a Grandfather—who died 15th December 1831; Walter Scott Lockhart, an officer in the army, who died at Versailles, 10th January 1853; and Charlotte Harriet Jane Lockhart, who was married in 1847 to James Robert Hope, barrister, grandson of the Earl of Hopetoun. This lady, the last surviving child of the novelist, died at Edinburgh 26th October 1858. She had three children, two of whom died young, the only survivor being Mary Monica, born 2d October 1852, who is now the only living descendant of Sir Walter Scott. Mrs Hope having, in virtue of inheritance, succeeded to the estate of Abbotsford, assumed with her husband the surname Scott, in addition to that of Hope. Their daughter is accordingly known as Miss Hope-Scott. Mr Hope-Scott, who occupies Abbotsford, was by a second marriage united to a sister of the present Duke of Norfolk, 1861. All Sir Walter Scott’s brothers pre-deceased him. The only one of them who was married was Thomas, who left a son and three daughters.

In the occupancy of Mr Hope-Scott, Abbotsford remains a central point of attraction to tourists, who, for the purpose of visiting it, and also the mausoleum at Dryburgh, make the village of Melrose the spot to which they first direct their pilgrimage. Carefully preserved in every respect, the mansion of Abbotsford will be found almost in the condition in which it was left by the great Scottish novelist. The lapse of forty years, however, has effected great changes on the grounds. The belts and clumps of plantation, the laying out and thinning of which afforded so much delight to Sir Walter in the days of his prosperity, when accompanied by Tom Purdie or William Laidlaw, have become thick, umbrageous woods, clothing with beauty the once bare hill-sides, and otherwise realising the anticipations of one who fondly watched over their early development. The scene, one of the most admired in the south of Scotland, ought not to be passed over hurriedly. Here, within the murmuring sound of the Tweed, Sir Walter Scott breathed his last, and here is the memorable shrine of his affections.]

ABBOTSFORD NOTANDA
OR
SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS FACTOR
BY
ROBERT CARRUTHERS. LL.D.

Looking over the correspondence and other papers of my old friend, William Laidlaw, long since deceased, and sleeping at the foot of a Highland hill, far from his beloved Tweedside, it occurred to me that certain portions of the letters and memoranda might possess interest to some readers, and not be without value to future biographers. Mr Laidlaw, it is well known, was factor or steward to Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, and also occasional amanuensis. Lockhart has done justice to his gentle, unassuming character, and merits, and to his familiar intercourse with the Great Minstrel. Still, there are domestic details and incidents unrecorded, such as we should rejoice to have concerning Shakspeare at New Place, with his one hundred and seven acres of land in the neighbourhood, or from Horace addressing the bailiff on his Sabine farm. Such personal memorials of great men, if genuine and correct, are seldom complained of, as Gibbon has observed, for their minuteness or prolixity.