Leaving the Ettrick, we proceed once more in the direction of the Tweed, which we soon reach. How sweetly the river winds through this wooded region—quick and even impetuous in its flow, but so translucent that the white pebbles at the bottom are distinctly visible. What a picture of peaceful enjoyment is presented by that shepherd boy, leaning against the rock, and basking himself in the sun, while his sheep are nibbling the short grass on the edge of the water. But yonder is Abbotsford, with its castellated walls and pointed gables, shooting up from a sylvan declivity on the banks of the river, which almost encircles the place with a graceful sweep, and contrasts beautifully with the deep-green foliage of the straggling clumps of trees. But every traveller in Scotland visits Abbotsford, and therefore we say nothing about its singular construction, its curious ornaments, its ancient relics, its broad-swords and battle-axes, its coats armorial, oak carvings and blazoned windows, its old portraits and fine library. We will not describe the door taken from the old Tolbooth in Edinburgh, nor the pulpit from which Ralph Erskine preached; nay more, we shall not even moralize on "the broad-skirted blue coat, with metal buttons, the plaid trowsers, heavy shoes, broad-brimmed hat and stout walking stick," the last worn by "the Great Magician of the north," when he took to his bed in his last illness. We will pass, however, into his study, a room about twenty-five feet square, containing a small writing table in the centre, on which Sir Walter was accustomed to write, and a plain arm-chair, covered with black leather, on which he sat. A subdued light enters from a single window, and a few books lie on the shelves, used chiefly for reference. By the permission of the good lady who has charge of the house, we are permitted to seat ourselves, and linger here for an hour, calling up the memory of the most wonderful genius that Scotland has ever produced.
The father of Sir Walter Scott was a writer to the Signet in Edinburgh, an excellent and highly respectable man. His mother, Anne Rutherford, a noble and gentle-hearted woman, was the daughter of a physician, in extensive practice, and Professor of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh. By both parents he was remotely connected with some ancient and respectable Scottish families, a circumstance to which he frequently referred with satisfaction. He was born on the 15th of August, in the year 1771. In consequence of lameness and a delicate state of health, produced by a fall, he was sent, in early life to Sandyknowe, a romantic situation near Kelso, and placed under the care of his grandfather. Here he fortified his constitution by long rambles on foot and on horseback among the picturesque scenery and old ruins of the neighborhood. Smallholm, a ruined tower, and the scene of Scott's ballad, "The Eve of St. John's," was close to the farm, and beside it were the Eildon Hills, the ruins of Ercildoune, the residence, in ancient times, of Thomas the Rhymer, Dryburgh Abbey, the "silver Tweed," with its storied banks, and other localities renowned in song and story. It was here also that he delighted in supplying his memory with the tales of his nurse, and some old grandames, deeply versed in the traditions of the country. All these left indelible impressions on his young imagination, and nursed the latent germ of poetry and romance, so late, but so beautiful in its flowering. Subsequently he resided with another relation at Kelso. Here, under the shadow of a great platanus or oriental palm tree, in an old garden, he devoured "Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry," and permitted his fancy to wander at will amid the scenes of Border romance. This explains, in some degree, the peculiar characteristics of his first poems, and that fine strain of romantic feeling which runs through his tales. Speaking of this matter, he says himself: "In early youth I had been an eager student of ballad poetry, and the tree is still in my recollection beneath which I lay and first entered upon the enchanting perusal of 'Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry,' although it has long perished in the general blight which affected the whole race of oriental platanus, to which it belonged. The taste of another person had strongly encouraged my own researches into this species of legendary lore. But I had never dreamed of an attempt to imitate what gave me so much pleasure. Excepting the usual tribute to a mistress's eyebrow, which is the language of passion rather than poetry, I had not for ten years indulged the wish to couple so much as love and dove, when finding Lewis in possession of so much reputation, and conceiving that, if I fell behind him in poetical powers, I considerably exceeded him in general information, I suddenly took it into my head to attempt the style by which he had raised himself to fame." He refers to the same thing in the following lines:
"Thus, while I ape the measure wild,
Of tales that charmed me—yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time;
And feelings roused in life's first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay;
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour.
Though no broad river swept along,
To claim perchance heroic song;
Though sigh no groves in summer gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale,
Yet was poetic impulse given
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled,
But ever and anon between
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lovely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew.
And honeysuckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruined wall.
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round surveyed;
And still I thought that shattered tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvelled as the aged hind,
With some strange tale bewitched my mind,
Of foragers who, with headlong force
Down from that strength had spurred their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew
Far in the distant Cheviot's blue,
And home returning filled the hall,
With revel, wassail-route and brawl.—
Methought that still with tramp and clang
The gateway's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features seamed with scars,
Glared through the window's rusty bars.
And even by the winter hearth;
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretched at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat e'er,
Pebbles and shells in order laid
The mimic ranks of war displayed;
And onward still the Scottish lion bore,
And still the scattered Southron fled before."
In addition to this, young Scott was a perfect helluo librorum. He had access to a large library filled with romances, histories, biographies, and so forth, which he indiscriminately devoured. His memory was quick and tenacious, and his mind became stored with all sorts of facts, fables and fancies. Still, even in youth, he possessed a sound judgment, a clear, well balanced mind, and separated the chaff from the wheat with tolerable discrimination. His father was a good Presbyterian, and did what he could to imbue his mind with religious principles, which never deserted him. Among the first lines he is known to have written are the following. They were found wrapped up in a paper inscribed by Dr. Adam of the Edinburgh High School, 'Walter Scott, July, 1783.'
ON THE SETTING SUN.
Those evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints, serve to display
Their great Creator's praise;
Then let the short-lived thing called man
Whose life's comprised within a span,
To Him his homage raise.
We often praise the evening clouds,
And tints so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,
Who tinged these clouds with gold.
Scott was educated at the Edinburgh High School, and University. He had an aversion to Greek, a singular fact, but made some proficiency in Latin, moral philosophy and history. He also made himself tolerably familiar with the French, German and Italian tongues. Being much at home, he indulged in reading romances and poetry. From early life, he was an industrious collector of old ballads, many of which he committed to memory. Apprenticed to his father, as "a writer," he commenced the study of law, and began to practice in his twenty-first year. As his health was now vigorous, he made long excursions into the country, which he facetiously denominated raids, rambling over scenes of external beauty or of historic interest, making acquaintance with the country people, and picking up information about men and things. By this means he amassed an immense store of everyday facts, and an intimate knowledge of character, which were of immense service to him in the construction of his novels.
Scott's first appearance as an author was in the translation from the German of Burger's Leonore, and "Der Wilde Jäger," or the "Wild Huntsman," ballads of singular wildness and power. These, however, made little impression on the public mind. Of this he says, "The failure of my first publication did not operate, in any unpleasant degree, either on my feelings or spirits. To speak candidly, I found pleasure in the literary labor in which I had, almost by accident, become engaged, and labored less in the hope of pleasing others, though certainly without despair of doing so, than in the pursuit of a new and agreeable amusement to myself." He continued to read the German, and to make translations from it, and became more and more interested in the ballad poetry. He was delighted to find the affinity of the old English, and especially of the Scottish language to the German, not in sound merely, but in the turn of phrase, so that they were capable of being rendered line for line, with very little variation.
By degrees he acquired sufficient confidence to attempt the imitation of what he so much admired. His first original poem was "Glenfinlas." Next followed "The Eve of St. John." Owing to unfortunate circumstances these had no great success. Nothing daunted, however, he again appeared before the public with his "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," which immediately became popular. The success of this last work, not only established his reputation as an author, but encouraged him to devote himself to literary pursuits. Under appointment as Sheriff of Selkirkshire, he enjoyed the kind of associations and employments favorable to the cultivation of his poetical powers. Among other things, he edited the metrical romance of "Sir Tristrem," supposed to be written by "Thomas the Rhymer," or Thomas of Ercildoune, laird, poet and prophet, who flourished about the year 1280. The dissertations which accompanied this work, and the imitation of the original to complete the romance, evinced his antiquarian attainments and fine poetical taste. At length appeared "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," a higher, purer strain, which was received with universal enthusiasm, and stamped him a great and original poet. His fine conception of the minstrel, his easy versification, his admirable narrative, his glowing pictures, his wild ballad enthusiasm, his legendary lore, and his exquisite touches of the marvellous and supernatural, combined to render the poem popular beyond all precedent. Thirty thousand copies were speedily sold by the trade. Then, in quick succession, followed that splendid series of poems, so popular in their day, and still so interesting and delightful. Intrinsically, they are inferior to some of the higher strains of English poetry, but they possess certain qualities which gained the public ear, and found a place in the national heart. These doubtless were the novelty of their style, their natural and simple versification, their easy, dramatic narrative, and their lively descriptions of national scenes and manners, in contrast with the formal hexameters, with "all their buckram and binding," of which the public had become tired.