Chapter VII: {p.169} (3)

MY CHÈRE AMIE,--Nothing doubting that your curiosity will be upon
the tenters to hear the wonderful events of the long-expected 4th
of June, I take the pen to inform you that not one worth
mentioning has taken place. Were I inclined to prolixity, I
might, indeed, narrate at length _how_ near a thousand gentlemen
(myself among the number) offered their services to the
magistrates to act as _constables_ for the preservation of the
peace--how their services were accepted--what fine speeches were
made upon the occasion--_how_ they were furnished with pretty
painted brown _batons_--_how_ they were assembled in the aisle of
the New Church, and treated with claret and sweetmeats--_how_ Sir
John Whiteford was chased by the mob, and _how_ Tom, Sandy Wood,
and I rescued him, and dispersed his tormentors _à beaux coups de
batons_--_how_ the Justice-Clerk's windows were broke by a few
boys, and _how_ a large body of constables and a press-gang of
near two hundred men arrived, and were much disappointed at
finding the coast entirely clear; with many other matters of
equal importance, but of which you must be contented to remain in
ignorance till you return to your castle. Seriously, everything,
with the exception of the very trifling circumstances above
mentioned, was perfectly quiet--much more so than during any
King's birthday I can recollect. That very stillness, however,
shows that something is brewing among our friends the Democrats,
which they will take their own time of bringing forward. By the
wise precautions of the magistrates, or rather of the provost,
and {p.220} the spirited conduct of the gentlemen, I hope their
designs will be frustrated. Our association meets to-night, when
we are to be divided into districts according to the place of our
abode, places of rendezvous and captains named; so that, upon the
hoisting of a flag on the Tron-steeple, and ringing out all the
large bells, we can be on duty in less than five minutes. I am
sorry to say that the complexion of the town seems to justify all
precautions of this kind. I hope we shall demean ourselves as
_quiet_ and _peaceable_ magistrates; and intend, for the purpose
of learning the duties of my new office, to con diligently the
instructions delivered to the watch by our brother Dogberry, of
facetious memory. So much for information. By way of inquiry,
pray let me know--that is, when you find a very idle hour--how
you accomplished the perilous passage of her Majestie's Ferry
without the assistance and escort of your preux-chevalier, and
whether you will receive them on your return--how Miss R. and you
are spending your time, whether stationary or otherwise--above
all, whether you have been at [Invermay] and all the etcs.,
etcs., which the question involves. Having made out a pretty long
scratch, which, as Win Jenkins says, will take you some time to
decipher, I shall only inform you farther, that I shall tire
excessively till you return to your shop. I beg to be remembered
to Miss Kerr, and in particular to La Belle Jeanne. Best love to
Miss Rutherford; and believe me ever, my dear Miss Christy,
sincerely and affectionately your

WALTER SCOTT

During the autumn of 1796 he visited again his favorite haunts in Perthshire and Forfarshire. It was in the course of this tour that he spent a day or two at Montrose with his old tutor Mitchell, and astonished and grieved that worthy Presbyterian by his zeal about witches and fairies.[122] The only letter of his, written during this {p.221} expedition, that I have recovered, was addressed to another of his clerical friends--one by no means of Mitchell's stamp--Mr. Walker, the minister of Dunnottar, and it is chiefly occupied with an account of his researches at a vitrified fort, in Kincardineshire, commonly called Lady Fenella's Castle, and, according to tradition, the scene of the murder of Kenneth III. While in the north, he visited also the residence of the lady who had now for so many years been the object of his attachment; and that his reception was not adequate to his expectations, may be gathered pretty clearly from some expressions in a letter addressed to him when at Montrose by his friend and confidante, Miss Cranstoun:--

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., POST-OFFICE, MONTROSE.

DEAR SCOTT,--Far be it from me to affirm that there are no
diviners in the land. The voice of the people and the voice of
God are loud in their testimony. Two years ago, when I was in the
neighborhood of Montrose, we had recourse for amusement one
evening to chiromancy, or, as the vulgar say, having our fortunes
read; and read mine were in such a sort, that either my letters
must have been inspected, or the devil was by in his own proper
person. I never mentioned the circumstance since, for obvious
reasons; but now that you are on the spot, I feel it my bounden
duty to conjure you not to put your shoes rashly from off your
feet, for you are not standing on holy ground.

I bless the gods for conducting your poor dear soul safely to
Perth. When I consider the wilds, the forests, the lakes, the
rocks--and the spirits in which you must have whispered to their
startled echoes, it amazeth me how you escaped. Had you but
dismissed your little squire and Earwig,[123] and spent a few
days as Orlando would have done, all posterity might have
profited by it; but to trot quietly away, without so much as one
stanza to despair--never talk to me of love again--never, never,
never! I am dying for your collection of exploits. When {p.222}
will you return? In the mean time, Heaven speed you! Be sober,
and hope to the end.

William Taylor's translation of your ballad is published, and so
inferior, that I wonder we could tolerate it. Dugald Stewart read
yours to **** the other day. When he came to the fetter
dance,[124] he looked up, and poor ***** was sitting with his hands
nailed to his knees, and the big tears rolling down his innocent
nose in so piteous a manner, that Mr. Stewart could not help
bursting out a-laughing. An angry man was *****. have seen another
edition, too, but it is below contempt. So many copies make the
ballad famous, so that every day adds to your renown.

This here place is very, very dull. Erskine is in London; my dear
Thomson at Daily; Macfarlan hatching Kant--and George[125]
Fountainhall.[126] I have nothing more to tell you, but that I am
most affectionately yours. Many an anxious thought I have about
you. Farewell.--J. A. C.

[Footnote 122: See _ante_, p. 97.]

[Footnote 123: A servant-boy and pony.]

[Footnote 124:

"'Dost fear? dost fear?--The moon shines clear;--
Dost fear to ride with, me?
Hurrah! hurrah! the dead can ride!'--
Oh, William, let them be!'

"'See there! see there! What yonder swings
And creaks 'mid whistling rain?'--
Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel,
A murderer in his chain.

"'Hollo! thou felon, follow here,
To bridal bed we ride;
And thou shalt prance a fetter dance
Before me and my bride.'

"And hurry, hurry! clash, clash, clash!
The wasted form descends;
And fleet as wind, through hazel bush,
The wild career attends.

"Tramp, tramp! along the land they rode;
Splash, splash! along the sea;
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood.
The flashing pebbles flee."]

[Footnote 125: George Cranstoun, Lord Corehouse.]

[Footnote 126: Decisions by Lord Fountainhall.]

The {p.223} affair in which this romantic creature took so lively an interest was now approaching its end. It was known, before this autumn closed, that the lady of his vows had finally promised her hand to his amiable rival; and, when the fact was announced, some of those who knew Scott the best appear to have entertained very serious apprehensions as to the effect which the disappointment might have upon his feelings. For example, one of those brothers of _the Mountain_ wrote as follows to another of them, on the 12th October, 1796: "Mr. [Forbes] marries Miss [Stuart]. This is not good news. I always dreaded there was some self-deception on the part of our romantic friend, and I now shudder at the violence of his most irritable and ungovernable mind. Who is it that says, 'Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for LOVE'? I hope sincerely it may be verified on this occasion."

Scott had, however, in all likelihood, digested his agony during the solitary ride in the Highlands to which Miss Cranstoun's last letter alludes.

Talking of this story with Lord Kinnedder, I once asked him whether Scott never made it the subject of verses at the period. His own confession, that, even during the time when he had laid aside the habit of versification, he did sometimes commit "a sonnet on a mistress's eyebrow," had not then appeared. Lord Kinnedder answered, "Oh yes, he made many little stanzas about the lady, and he sometimes showed them to Cranstoun, Clerk, and myself--but we really thought them in general very poor. Two things of the kind, however, have been preserved--and one of them was done just after the conclusion of the business." He then took down a volume of the English Minstrelsy, and pointed out to me some lines On a Violet, which had not at that time been included in Scott's collected works. Lord Kinnedder read them over in his usual impressive, though not quite unaffected, manner, and said, "I remember well, that when I first saw {p.224} these, I told him they were his best, but he had touched them up afterwards."

"The violet in her greenwood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen or copse or forest dingle.

"Though fair her gems of azure hue
Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining,
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue
More sweet through watery lustre shining.

"The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the sun be past its morrow,
Nor longer in my false love's eye
Remained the tear of parting sorrow!"

In turning over a volume of MS. papers, I have found a copy of verses, which, from the hand, Scott had evidently written down within the last ten years of his life. They are headed "To Time--by a Lady;" but certain _initials_ on the back satisfy me that the authoress was no other than the object of his first passion.[127] I think I must be pardoned for transcribing the lines which had dwelt so long on his memory--leaving it to the reader's fancy to picture the mood of mind in which the fingers of a gray-haired man may have traced such a relic of his youthful dreams:--

"Friend of the wretch oppress'd with grief,
Whose lenient hand, though slow, supplies
The balm that lends to care relief,
That wipes her tears--that checks her sighs!

"'Tis thine the wounded soul to heal
That hopeless bleeds from sorrow's smart,
From stern misfortune's shaft to steal
The barb that rankles in the heart.

"What {p.225} though with thee the roses fly,
And jocund youth's gay reign is o'er;
Though dimm'd the lustre of the eye,
And hope's vain dreams enchant no more?

"Yet in thy train come dove-eyed peace,
Indifference with her heart of snow;
At her cold couch, lo! sorrows cease,
No thorns beneath her roses grow.

"O haste to grant thy suppliant's prayer,
To me thy torpid calm impart;
Rend from my brow youth's garland fair,
But take the thorn that's in my heart.

"Ah! why do fabling poets tell
That thy fleet wings outstrip the wind?
Why feign thy course of joy the knell,
And call thy slowest pace unkind?

"To me thy tedious feeble pace
Comes laden with the weight of years;
With sighs I view morn's blushing face,
And hail mild evening with my tears."

[Footnote 127: A very intimate friend both of Scott and of
the lady tells me that these verses were great favorites of
hers--she gave himself a copy of them, and no doubt her
recitation had made them known to Scott--but that he believes
them to have been composed by Mrs. Hunter of
Norwich.--(1839.)]

I venture to recall here to the reader's memory the opening of the twelfth chapter of Peveril of the Peak, written twenty-six years after the date of this youthful disappointment.

"Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth!"

_Midsummer Night's Dream._

"The celebrated passage which we have prefixed to this chapter has, like most observations of the same author, its foundation in real experience. The period at which love is formed for the first time, and felt most strongly, is seldom that at which there is much prospect of its being brought to a happy issue. The state of artificial society opposes many complicated obstructions to early marriages; and the chance is very great, that such obstacles prove insurmountable. In fine, there are few men who do not look back in secret to some period of their {p.226} youth, at which a sincere and early affection was repulsed or betrayed, or became abortive from opposing circumstances. It is these little passages of secret history, which leave a tinge of romance in every bosom, scarce permitting us, even in the most busy or the most advanced period of life, to listen with total indifference to a tale of true love."