This opening Essay was signed C. for Coryphæus, the name given to the presiding genius of the contributors to the periodical. It continued for twenty-eight numbers, the last being issued on Saturday, July 12, 1817. It consisted of weekly essays of varying length of from six to eight pages, and, when the subject matter was only sufficient to fill six or seven, the remaining pages were left blank.[21]
John Ballantyne was much in request as musical critic on the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, of which his brother James was editor. He also made at least one excursion into the field of letters. This was a novel in two volumes called “The Widow’s Lodgings.” It had little merit, but reached a second edition.
A curious story of John’s volatile nature and indiscreet vivacity is related in the second volume of Mrs. Charles Mathews’ life of her husband, the well-known humorist and actor. At a dinner-party where Constable, Terry, and John Ballantyne were present, he closed a speech he had been making about some books with the startling announcement: “I shall soon send you Scott’s new novel!” Mrs. Mathews goes on to say: “I shall never forget the consternation of Messrs. Constable and Terry, and, indeed, we were as much embarrassed. Constable looked daggers—and Terry used some—for, with a stern brow and a correcting tone, he cried out ‘John!’ adding, with a growl resembling what is generally made to check or reprove a mischievous dog,—‘Ah! what are you about?’ which made us drop our eyes in pain for the indiscreet tattler; while Wee Johnny looked like an impersonation of Fear, startled at the sound himself had made. Not another word was said; but our little good-natured friend’s lapse was sacred with us, and the secret was never divulged while it was important to preserve it.”
John Ballantyne visited the Continent shortly after Waterloo, and published an account of his travels, in which the “long-bow” did good service. Being on one occasion rebuked by a lady for having stated as facts what were transparent fictions, his reply to the censure was in these few words: “Very true, madam, what you say; but truth is a great hamperer of genius.”[22]
During the earlier and perhaps most interesting years in the career of the “Great Unknown,” John Ballantyne managed all the business connected with the communication of the author’s works to the public. When Scott began “The Bride of Lammermoor,” his amanuenses were William Laidlaw and John Ballantyne, “of whom he preferred the latter, when he could be at Abbotsford, on account of the superior rapidity of his pen, and also because John kept his pen to the paper without interruption; and, though with many an arch twinkle in his eyes, and now and then an audible smack of his lips, had resolution to work on like a well-trained clerk; whereas good Laidlaw entered with such keen zest into the interest of the story as it flowed from the author’s lips, that he could not suppress exclamations of surprise and delight—‘Gude keep us a’!—the like o’ that!—eh sirs!’ and so forth, which did not promote despatch.”[23]
In several long articles which appeared in Tait’s Magazine in 1843, entitled “Random Recollections of Scott and the Ettrick Shepherd,” by Mr. John Morrison, a land-surveyor, there are several notices of James and John Ballantyne. The following is one of those relating to John: “On a day appointed,” says Mr. Morrison, “we all set out on a hare-hunting expedition. Miss Scott rode Queen Mab, a little pony; John Ballantyne was mounted on Old Mortality, an old gaunt white horse. He was dressed in a green coat, the buttons of mother-of-pearl, silver and gold—with, if I remember well, a precious stone in the centre, and altogether a most harlequin and piebald figure. Sir Walter appeared to laugh and amuse himself with his grotesque appearance. I admired the buttons. ‘And well you may,’ said Sir Walter. ‘These buttons, sir, belonged to the Great Montrose, and were cut, by our friend John, from an old coat belonging to the Marquis, which he purchased from an unworthy descendant of the family, Graham of Gartmore, with many other nick-nackets too tedious to enumerate.’ On the same day,” Mr. Morrison continues, “at and after dinner, although he looked very kindly on Johnny Ballantyne, Scott made himself merry at his expense, and Ballantyne seemed awed in his presence; although, when addressed, he turned a bold front to any one else. I ventured to joke him a little on the quality of his coat, and said it was the best at table. ‘Yes,’ said John, ‘and it belonged to a better man.’ You will find some difficulty in convincing Mr. Morrison of that,’ said Sir Walter”—the latter well knowing that Morrison’s sentiments regarding the character of Montrose were at variance with his own.
After some years of failing health, John Ballantyne retired to a villa which he had built near Kelso, and here he was frequently visited by Sir Walter. On one of these occasions, the latter revived a long-forgotten project of their early connection in business, and offered his gratuitous services as editor of a Novelists’ Library, to be printed and published for the benefit of his friend. The offer was eagerly embraced, and the first volume of “Ballantyne’s Novelists’ Library” appeared in February 1821, though the collection, notwithstanding the Biographies and Introductions which Scott wrote for it,[24] did not prove a fortunate speculation.
On the 16th of June 1821, John Ballantyne died at Edinburgh. Until a week or two before, Sir Walter had not entertained any thought that his end was so near. “I (Lockhart) accompanied Sir Walter when one of their last interviews took place, and John’s deathbed was a thing not to be forgotten. We sat by him for perhaps an hour, and I think half that space was occupied with his predictions of a speedy end, and details of his last will, which he had just been executing, and which lay on his coverlid; the other half being given, five minutes or so at a time, to questions and remarks, which intimated that the hope of life was still flickering before him—nay, that his interest in all its concerns remained eager. The proof-sheets of a volume of his Novelists’ Library lay also by his pillow; and he passed from them to his will, and then back to them, as by jerks and starts the unwonted veil of gloom closed upon his imagination, or was withdrawn again.... Scott was visibly and profoundly shaken by this scene and sequel. As we stood together a few days afterwards, while they were smoothing the turf over John’s remains in the Canongate Churchyard, the heavens, which had been dark and slaty, cleared up suddenly, and the midsummer sun shone forth in his strength. Scott, ever awake to the skyey influences, cast his eye along the overhanging line of the Calton Hill, with its gleaming walls and towers, and then turning to the grave again, ‘I feel,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘I feel as if there would be less sunshine for me from this day forth.’
“As we walked homewards, Scott told me, among other favourable traits of his friend, one little story which I must not omit. He remarked one day to a poor student of divinity attending his auction, that he looked as if he were in bad health. The young man assented with a sigh. ‘Come,’ said Ballantyne, ‘I think I ken the secret of a sort of draft that would relieve you—particularly,’—he added, handing him a cheque for £5 or £10—‘particularly, my dear, if taken upon an empty stomach.’”[25]
In the “Noctes Ambrosianæ” (vol. iii. pp. 93-95), there is the following tribute to the memory of John Ballantyne:—