Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

MY DEAR LORD DUKE,--I promised to let you hear of my
wanderings, however unimportant; and have now the pleasure
of informing your Grace that I am at this present time an
inhabitant of the Premier Hôtel de Cambrai, after having
been about a week upon the Continent. We landed at Helvoet,
and proceeded to Brussels, by Bergen-op-Zoom and Antwerp,
both of which are very strongly fortified. The ravages of
war are little remarked in a country so rich by nature; but
everything seems at present stationary, or rather
retrograde, where capital is required. The châteaux are
deserted, and going to decay; no new houses are built, and
those of older date are passing rapidly into the possession
of a class inferior to those for whom we must suppose them
to have been built. Even the old gentlewoman of Babylon has
lost much of her splendor, and her robes and pomp are of a
description far subordinate to the costume of her more
magnificent days. The dresses of the priests were worn and
shabby, both at Antwerp and Brussels, and reminded me of the
decayed wardrobe of a bankrupt theatre: yet, though the
gentry and priesthood have suffered, the eternal bounty of
nature has protected the lower ranks against much distress.
The unexampled fertility of the soil gives them all, and
more than they want; and could they but sell the grain which
they raise in the Netherlands, nothing else would be wanting
to render them the richest people (common people, that is to
say) in the world.

On Wednesday last, I rode over the field of Waterloo, now
forever consecrated to immortality. The more ghastly tokens
of the carnage are now removed, the bodies both of men and
horses being either burned or buried; but all the ground is
still torn with the shot and shells, and covered with
cartridges, old hats, and shoes, and various relics of the
fray which the peasants have not {p.050} thought worth
removing. Besides, at Waterloo and all the hamlets in the
vicinage, there is a mart established for cuirasses; for the
eagles worn by the imperial guard on their caps; for
casques, swords, carabines, and similar articles. I have
bought two handsome cuirasses, and intend them, one for
Bowhill, and one for Abbotsford, if I can get them safe
over, which Major Pryse Gordon has promised to manage for
me. I have also, for your Grace, one of the little
memorandum-books, which I picked up on the field, in which
every French soldier was obliged to enter his receipts and
expenditure, his services, and even his punishments. The
field was covered with fragments of these records. I also
got a good MS. collection of French songs, probably the work
of some young officer, and a croix of the Legion of Honor. I
enclose, under another cover, a sketch of the battle, made
at Brussels. It is not, I understand, strictly accurate; but
sufficiently so to give a good notion of what took place. In
fact, it would require twenty separate plans to give an idea
of the battle at its various stages. The front, upon which
the armies engaged, does not exceed a long mile. Our line,
indeed, originally extended half a mile farther towards the
village of Brain-la-Leude; but as the French indicated no
disposition to attack in that direction, the troops which
occupied this space were gradually concentrated by Lord
Wellington, and made to advance till they had reached
Hougomont--a sort of château, with a garden and wood
attached to it, which was powerfully and effectually
maintained by the Guards during the action. This place was
particularly interesting. It was a quiet-looking gentleman's
house, which had been burnt by the French shells. The
defenders, burnt out of the house itself, betook themselves
to the little garden, where, breaking loopholes through the
brick walls, they kept up a most destructive fire on the
assailants, who had possessed themselves of a little wood
which surrounds the villa on one side. In this spot vast
numbers {p.051} had fallen; and, being hastily buried, the
smell is most offensive at this moment. Indeed, I felt the
same annoyance in many parts of the field; and, did I live
near the spot, I should be anxious about the diseases which
this steaming carnage might occasion. The rest of the
ground, excepting this château, and a farmhouse called La
Hay Sainte, early taken, and long held, by the French,
because it was too close under the brow of the descent on
which our artillery was placed to admit of the pieces being
depressed so as to play into it,--the rest of the ground, I
say, is quite open, and lies between two ridges, one of
which (Mont St. Jean) was constantly occupied by the
English; the other, upon which is the farm of La Belle
Alliance, was the position of the French. The slopes between
are gentle and varied; the ground everywhere practicable for
cavalry, as was well experienced on that memorable day. The
cuirassiers, despite their arms of proof, were quite
inferior to our heavy dragoons. The meeting of the two
bodies occasioned a noise, not unaptly compared to the
tinkering and hammering of a smith's shop. Generally the
cuirassiers came on stooping their heads very low, and
giving point; the British frequently struck away their
casques while they were in this position, and then laid at
the bare head. Officers and soldiers all fought hand to hand
without distinction; and many of the former owed their life
to dexterity at their weapon, and personal strength of body.
Shaw, the milling Life-Guardsman, whom your Grace may
remember among the champions of The Fancy, maintained the
honor of the fist, and killed or disabled upwards of twenty
Frenchmen with his single arm, until he was killed by the
assault of numbers.[20] At one place, where there is a
precipitous sand or gravel pit, the heavy English cavalry
drove many of the cuirassiers over pell-mell, and followed
over themselves, like fox-hunters. The conduct of the
infantry and artillery was equally, {p.052} or, if
possible, more distinguished, and it was all fully
necessary; for, besides that our army was much outnumbered,
a great part of the sum-total were foreigners. Of these, the
Brunswickers and Hanoverians behaved very well; the Belgians
but sorrily enough. On one occasion, when a Belgic regiment
fairly ran off, Lord Wellington rode up to them, and said,
"My lads, you must be a little blown; come, do take your
breath for a moment, and then we'll go back, and try if we
can do a little better;" and he actually carried them back
to the charge. He was, indeed, upon that day, everywhere,
and the soul of everything; nor could less than his personal
endeavors have supported the spirits of the men through a
contest so long, so desperate, and so unequal. At his last
attack, Buonaparte brought up 15,000 of his Guard, who had
never drawn trigger during the day. It was upon their
failure that his hopes abandoned him.

[Footnote 20: The skull of Shaw is now in the Museum at
Abbotsford.]

I spoke long with a shrewd Flemish peasant, called John de
Costar, whom he had seized upon as his guide, and who
remained beside him the whole day, and afterwards
accompanied him in his flight as far as Charleroi. Your
Grace may be sure that I interrogated Mynheer very closely
about what he heard and saw. He guided me to the spot where
Buonaparte remained during the latter part of the action. It
was in the highway from Brussels to Charleroi, where it runs
between two high banks, on each of which was a French
battery. He was pretty well sheltered from the English fire;
and, though many bullets flew over his head, neither he nor
any of his suite were touched. His other stations, during
that day, were still more remote from all danger. The story
of his having an observatory erected for him is a mistake.
There is such a thing, and he repaired to it during the
action; but it was built or erected some months before, for
the purpose of a trigonometrical survey of the country, by
the King of the Netherlands. Bony's last position was nearly
fronting a tree where the Duke of Wellington {p.053} was
stationed; there was not more than a quarter of a mile
between them; but Bony was well sheltered, and the Duke so
much exposed, that the tree is barked in several places by
the cannon-balls levelled at him. As for Bony, De Costar
says he was very cool during the whole day, and even gay. As
the cannon-balls flew over them, De Costar ducked; at which
the Emperor laughed, and told him they would hit him all the
same. At length, about the time he made his grand and last
effort, the fire of the Prussian artillery was heard upon
his right, and the heads of their columns became visible
pressing out of the woods. Aide-de-camp after aide-de-camp
came with the tidings of their advance, to which Bony only
replied, _Attendez, attendez un instant_, until he saw his
troops, _fantassins et cavaliers_, return in disorder from
the attack. He then observed hastily to a general beside
him, _Je crois qu'ils sont mêlés_. The person to whom he
spoke hastily raised the spyglass to his eye; but Bony, whom
the first glance had satisfied of their total discomfiture,
bent his face to the ground, and shook his head twice, his
complexion being then as pale as death. The general then
said something, to which Buonaparte answered, _C'est trop
tard--sauvons nous_. Just at that moment, the allied troops,
cavalry and infantry, appeared in full advance on all hands;
and the Prussians, operating upon the right flank of the
French, were rapidly gaining their rear. Bony, therefore,
was compelled to abandon the high-road, which, besides, was
choked with dead, with baggage, and with cannon; and,
gaining the open country, kept at full gallop, until he
gained, like Johnnie Cope, the van of the flying army. The
marshals followed his example; and it was the most complete
_sauve qui peut_ that can well be imagined. Nevertheless,
the prisoners who were brought into Brussels maintained
their national impudence, and boldly avowed their intention
of sacking the city with every sort of severity. At the same
time they had friends there. {p.054} One man of rank and
wealth went over to Bony during the action, and I saw his
hotel converted into an hospital for wounded soldiers. It
occupied one half of one of the sides of the Place Royale, a
noble square, which your Grace has probably seen. But, in
general, the inhabitants of Brussels were very differently
disposed; and their benevolence to our poor wounded fellows
was unbounded. The difficulty was to prevent them from
killing their guests with kindness, by giving them butcher's
meat and wine during their fever. As I cannot put my letter
into post until we get to Paris, I shall continue it as we
get along.

_12th August, Roye, in Picardy._--I imagine your Grace about
this time to be tolerably well fagged with a hard day on the
moors. If the weather has been as propitious as with us, it
must be delightful. The country through which we have
travelled is most uncommonly fertile, and skirted with
beautiful woods; but its present political situation is so
very uncommon, that I would give the world your Grace had
come over for a fortnight. France may be considered as
neither at peace nor war. Valenciennes, for example, is in a
state of blockade; we passed through the posts of the
allies, all in the utmost state of vigilance, with patrols
of cavalry and vedettes of infantry, up to the very gates,
and two or three batteries were manned and mounted. The
French troops were equally vigilant at the gates, yet made
no objections to our passing through the town. Most of them
had the white cockade, but looked very sulky, and were in
obvious disorder and confusion. They had not yet made their
terms with the King, nor accepted a commander appointed by
him; but as they obviously feel their party desperate, the
soldiers are running from the officers, and the officers
from the soldiers. In fact, the multiplied hosts which pour
into this country, exhibiting all the various dresses and
forms of war which can be imagined, must necessarily render
resistance impracticable. Yet, {p.055} like Satan, these
fellows retain the unconquered propensity to defiance, even
in the midst of defeat and despair. This morning we passed a
great number of the disbanded garrison of Condé, and they
were the most horrid-looking cut-throats I ever saw,
extremely disposed to be very insolent, and only repressed
by the consciousness that all the villages and towns around
are occupied by the allies. They began by crying to us in an
ironical tone, _Vive le Roi_; then followed, _sotto voce,
Sacre B----, Mille diables_, and other graces of French
eloquence. I felt very well pleased that we were armed, and
four in number; and still more so that it was daylight, for
they seemed most mischievous ruffians. As for the appearance
of the country, it is, notwithstanding a fine harvest, most
melancholy. The windows of all the detached houses on the
road are uniformly shut up; and you see few people,
excepting the peasants who are employed in driving the
contributions to maintain the armies. The towns are little
better, having for the most part been partially injured by
shells or by storm, as was the case both of Cambrai and
Peronne. The men look very sulky; and if you speak three
words to a woman, she is sure to fall a-crying. In short,
the _politesse_ and good-humor of this people have fled with
the annihilation of their self-conceit; and they look on you
as if they thought you were laughing at them, or come to
enjoy the triumph of our arms over theirs. Postmasters and
landlords are all the same, and hardly to be propitiated
even by English money, although they charge us about three
times as much as they durst do to their countryfolks. As for
the Prussians, a party of cavalry dined at our hotel at
Mons, eat and drank of the best the poor devils had left to
give, called for their horses, and laughed in the face of
the landlord when he offered his bill, telling him they
should pay as they came back. The English, they say, have
always paid honorably, and upon these they indemnify
themselves. It is impossible to _marchander_, for if
{p.056} you object, the poor landlady begins to cry, and
tells you she will accept whatever _your lordship_ pleases,
but that she is almost ruined and bankrupt, etc., etc., etc.

This is a long stupid letter, but I will endeavor to send a
better from Paris. Ever your Grace's truly obliged,

Walter SCOTT.

The only letter which Scott addressed to Joanna Baillie, while in Paris, goes over partly the same ground: I transcribe the rest.

PARIS, 6th September, 1815.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--I owe you a long letter, but my late
travels and the date of this epistle will be a tolerable
plea for your indulgence. The truth is, I became very
restless after the battle of Waterloo, and was only detained
by the necessity of attending a friend's marriage, from
setting off instantly for the Continent. At length, however,
I got away to Brussels, and was on the memorable field of
battle about five weeks after it had been fought....

If our army had been all British, the day would have been
soon decided; but the Duke, or, as they call him here, from
his detestation of all manner of foppery, the _Beau_, had
not above 35,000 British. All this was to be supplied by
treble exertion on the part of our troops. The Duke was
everywhere during the battle; and it was the mercy of Heaven
that protected him, when all his staff had been killed or
wounded round him. I asked him, among many other questions,
if he had seen Buonaparte; he said, "No; but at one time,
from the repeated shouts of _Vive l'Empereur_, I thought he
must be near." This was when John de Costar placed him in
the hollow way. I think, so near as I can judge, there may
at that time have been a quarter of a mile between these two
great generals.

The fate of the French, after this day of decisive appeal,
has been severe enough. There were never people {p.057}
more mortified, more subdued, and apparently more broken in
spirit. They submit with sad civility to the extortions of
the Prussians and the Russians, and avenge themselves at the
expense of the English, whom they charge three prices for
everything, because they are the only people who pay at all.
They are in the right, however, to enforce discipline and
good order, which not only maintains the national character
in the mean time, but will prevent the army from suffering
by habits of indulgence. I question if the Prussians will
soon regain their discipline and habits of hardihood. At
present their powers of eating and drinking, which are
really something preternatural, are exerted to the very
utmost. A thin Prussian boy, whom I sometimes see, eats in
one day as much as three English ploughmen. At daybreak he
roars for chocolate and eggs; about nine he breakfasts more
solemnly, _à la fourchette_, when, besides all the usual
apparatus of an English _déjeuner_, he eats a world of
cutlets, oysters, fruit, etc., and drinks a glass of brandy
and a bottle of champagne. His dinner might serve Gargantua,
at which he gets himself about three parts drunk--a
circumstance which does not prevent the charge upon cold
meat, with tea and chocolate, about six o'clock; and
concluding the whole with an immense supper. Positively the
appetite of this lad reminds one of the Eastern tale of a
man taken out of the sea by a ship's crew, who, in return,
ate up all the provisions of the vessel. He was, I think,
flown away with by a roc; but from what quarter of the
heavens the French are to look for deliverance from these
devourers, I cannot presume to guess.

The needless wreck and ruin which they make in the houses
adds much to the inconvenience of their presence. Most of
the châteaux, where the Prussians are quartered, are what is
technically called _rumped_, that is to say, plundered out
and out. In the fine château of Montmorency, for instance,
the most splendid apartments, {p.058} highly ornamented
with gilding and carving, were converted into barracks for
the dirtiest and most savage-looking hussars I have yet
seen. Imagine the work these fellows make with velvet
hangings and embroidery. I saw one hag boiling her
camp-kettle with part of a picture frame; the picture itself
has probably gone to Prussia. With all this greediness and
love of mischief, the Prussians are not bloodthirsty; and
their utmost violence seldom exceeds a blow or two with the
flat of the sabre. They are also very civil to the women,
and in both respects behave much better than the French did
in their country; but they follow the bad example quite
close enough for the sake of humanity and of discipline. As
for our people, they live in a most orderly and regular
manner. All the young men pique themselves on imitating the
Duke of Wellington in _nonchalance_ and coolness of manner;
so they wander about everywhere, with their hands in the
pockets of their long waistcoats, or cantering upon Cossack
ponies, staring and whistling, and trotting to and fro, as
if all Paris was theirs. The French hate them sufficiently
for the _hauteur_ of their manner and pretensions, but the
grounds of dislike against us are drowned in the actual
detestation afforded by the other powers.

This morning I saw a grand military spectacle--about 20,000
Russians pass in review before all the Kings and Dominations
who are now resident at Paris. The Emperor, King of Prussia,
Duke of Wellington, with their numerous and brilliant
attendance of generals, staff-officers, etc., were in the
centre of what is called the Place Louis Quinze, almost on
the very spot where Louis XVI. was beheaded. A very long
avenue, which faces the station where they were placed, was
like a glowing furnace, so fiercely were the sunbeams
reflected from the arms of the host by which it was filled.
A body of Cossacks kept the ground with their pikes, and, by
their wild appearance, added to the singularity of the
scene. On one {p.059} hand was the extended line of the
Tuileries, seen through the gardens and the rows of
orange-trees; on the other, the long column of troops
advancing to the music. Behind was a long colonnade, forming
the front to the palace, where the Chamber of
Representatives are to hold their sittings; and in front of
the monarchs was a superb row of buildings, on which you
distinguish the bronze pillar erected by Napoleon to
commemorate his victories over Russia, Prussia, and Austria,
whose princes were now reviewing their victorious armies in
what was so lately his capital. Your fancy, my dear friend,
will anticipate, better than I can express, the thousand
sentiments which arose in my mind from witnessing such a
splendid scene, in a spot connected with such various
associations. It may give you some idea of the feelings of
the French--once so fond of _spectacles_--to know that, I
think, there were not a hundred of that nation looking on.
Yet this country will soon recover the actual losses she has
sustained, for never was there a soil so blessed by nature,
or so rich in corn, wine, and oil, and in the animated
industry of its inhabitants. France is at present the fabled
giant, struggling, or rather lying supine, under the load of
mountains which have been precipitated on her; but she is
not, and cannot be crushed. Remove the incumbent weight of
600,000 or 700,000 foreigners, and she will soon stand
upright--happy, if experience shall have taught her to be
contented to exert her natural strength only for her own
protection, and not for the annoyance of her neighbors. I am
cut short in my lucubrations by an opportunity to send this
letter with Lord Castlereagh's despatches, which is of less
consequence, as I will endeavor to see you in passing
through London. I leave this city for Dieppe on Saturday,
but I intend to go round by Harfleur, if possible.

Ever your truly obliged and affectionate

Walter SCOTT.

{p.060} "Paul" modestly acknowledges, in his last letter, the personal attentions which he received, while in Paris, from Lords Cathcart, Aberdeen, and Castlereagh; and hints that, through their intervention, he had witnessed several of the splendid _fêtes_ given by the Duke of Wellington, where he saw half the crowned heads of Europe grouped among the gallant soldiers who had cut a way for them to the guilty capital of France. Scott's reception, however, had been distinguished to a degree of which Paul's language gives no notion. The Noble Lords above named welcomed him with cordial satisfaction; and the Duke of Wellington, to whom he was first presented by Sir John Malcolm, treated him then, and ever afterwards, with a kindness and confidence, which, I have often heard him say, he considered as "the highest distinction of his life." He used to tell, with great effect, the circumstances of his introduction to the Emperor Alexander, at a dinner given by the Earl of Cathcart. Scott appeared, on that occasion, in the blue and red dress of the Selkirkshire Lieutenancy; and the Czar's first question, glancing at his lameness, was, "In what affair were you wounded?" Scott signified that he suffered from a natural infirmity; upon which the Emperor said, "I thought Lord Cathcart mentioned that you had served." Scott observed that the Earl looked a little embarrassed at this, and promptly answered, "Oh yes; in a certain sense I have served--that is, in the yeomanry cavalry; a home force resembling the Landwehr, or Landsturm."--"Under what commander?"--"Sous M. le Chevalier Rae."--"Were you ever engaged?"--"In some slight actions--such as the battle of the Cross Causeway and the affair of Moredun-Mill."--"This," says Mr. Pringle of Whytbank, "was, as he saw in Lord Cathcart's face, quite sufficient, so he managed to turn the conversation to some other subject." It was at the same dinner that he first met Platoff,[21] who {p.061} seemed to take a great fancy to him, though, adds my friend, "I really don't think they had any common language to converse in." Next day, however, when Pringle and Scott were walking together in the Rue de la Paix, the Hetman happened to come up, cantering with some of his Cossacks; as soon as he saw Scott, he jumped off his horse, leaving it to the Pulk, and, running up to him, kissed him on each side of the cheek with extraordinary demonstrations of affection--and then made him understand, through an aide-de-camp, that he wished him to join his staff at the next great review, when he would take care to mount him on the gentlest of his Ukraine horses.

[Footnote 21: Scott acknowledges, in a note to _St.
Ronan's Well_ (chap. xv.), that he took from Platoff
this portrait of Mr. Touchwood: "His face, which at the
distance of a yard or two seemed hale and smooth,
appeared, when closely examined, to be seamed with a
million of wrinkles, crossing each other in every
direction possible, but as fine as if drawn by the point
of a very small needle." Thus did every little
peculiarity remain treasured in his memory, to be used
in due time for giving the air of minute reality to some
imaginary personage.]

It will seem less surprising that Scott should have been honored with much attention by the leading soldiers and statesmen of Germany then in Paris. The fame of his poetry had already been established for some years in that country. Yet it may be doubted whether Blücher had heard of Marmion any more than Platoff; and old Blücher struck Scott's fellow-travellers as taking more interest in him than any foreign general, except only the Hetman.

A striking passage in Paul's 10th letter indicates the high notion which Scott had formed of the personal qualities of the Prince of Orange. After depicting, with almost prophetic accuracy, the dangers to which the then recent union of Holland and Belgium must be exposed, he concludes with expressing his hope that the firmness and sagacity of the King of the Netherlands, and the admiration which his heir's character and bearing had already excited among all, even Belgian observers, might {p.062} ultimately prove effective in redeeming this difficult experiment from the usual failure of "_arrondissements_, indemnities, and all the other terms of modern date, under sanction of which cities and districts, and even kingdoms, have been passed from one government to another, as the property of lands or stock is transferred by a bargain between private parties."

It is not less curious to compare, with the subsequent course of affairs in France, the following brief hint in Paul's 16th letter: "The general rallying point of the _Libéralistes_ is an avowed dislike to the present monarch and his immediate connections. They will sacrifice, they pretend, so much to the general inclinations of Europe, as to select a king from the Bourbon race; but he must be one of their own choosing, and the Duke of Orleans is most familiar in their mouths." Thus, in its very bud, had his eye detected the _conjuration de quinze ans!_

Among the gay parties of this festive period, Scott mentioned with special pleasure one fine day given to an excursion to Ermenonville, under the auspices of Lady Castlereagh. The company was a large one, including most of the distinguished personages whom I have been naming, and they dined _al fresco_ among the scenes of Rousseau's retirement, but in a fashion less accordant with the spirit of his _rêveries d'un promeneur solitaire_, than with the song which commemorates some earlier tenants of that delicious valley,--

"La belle Gabrielle
Étoit dans ces lieux--
Et le souvenir d'elle
Nous rend heureux," etc.

At some stage of this merry day's proceedings, the ladies got tired of walking, and one of Lord Castlereagh's young diplomatists was despatched into a village in quest of donkeys for their accommodation. The _attaché_ returned by and by with a face of disappointment, complaining that the charge the people made was so extravagant, {p.063} he could not think of yielding to the extortion. "_Marshal Forwards_" said nothing, but nodded to an aide-de-camp. They had passed a Prussian picket a little while before;--three times the requisite number of donkeys appeared presently, driven before half-a-dozen hussars, who were followed by the screaming population of the refractory hamlet; and "an angry man was Blücher," said Scott, "when Lord Castlereagh condescended to go among them, all smiles, and sent them back with more Napoleons than perhaps the fee-simple of the whole stud was worth."

Another evening of more peaceful enjoyment has left a better record. But I need not quote here the lines on Saint Cloud.[22] They were sent, on the 16th of August, to the late Lady Alvanley, with whom and her daughters he spent much of his time while in Paris.

[Footnote 22: See _Poetical Works_ (Edin. Ed.), vol. xi.
p. 295 [Cambridge Ed. p. 420].]

As yet, the literary reputation of Scott had made but little way among the French nation; but some few of their eminent men vied even with the enthusiastic Germans in their courteous and unwearied attentions to him. The venerable _Chevalier_, in particular, seemed anxious to embrace every opportunity of acting as his cicerone; and many mornings were spent in exploring, under his guidance, the most remarkable scenes and objects of historical and antiquarian interest both in Paris and its neighborhood. He several times also entertained Scott and his young companions at dinner; but the last of those dinners was thoroughly poisoned by a preliminary circumstance. The poet, on entering the saloon, was presented to a stranger, whose physiognomy struck him as the most hideous he had ever seen; nor was his disgust lessened, when he found, a few minutes afterwards, that he had undergone the _accolade_ of David "of the blood-stained brush."

From Paris, Mr. Bruce and Mr. Pringle went on to {p.064} Switzerland, leaving the poet and Gala to return home together, which they did by way of Dieppe, Brighton, and London. It was here, on the 14th of September, that Scott had that last meeting with Lord Byron, alluded to in his communication to Mr. Moore, already quoted. He carried his young friend in the morning to call on Lord Byron, who agreed to dine with them at their hotel, where he met also Charles Mathews and Daniel Terry. The only survivor of the party[23] has recorded it in his note-book as the most interesting day he ever spent. "How I did stare," he says, "at Byron's beautiful pale face, like a spirit's--good or evil. But he was _bitter_--what a contrast to Scott! Among other anecdotes of British prowess and spirit, Scott mentioned that a young gentleman ---- ---- ---- had been awfully shot in the head while conveying an order from the Duke, and yet staggered on, and delivered his message when at the point of death. 'Ha!' said Byron, 'I dare say he could do as well as most people without his head--it was never of much use to him.' Waterloo did not delight him, probably--and Scott could talk or think of scarcely anything else."

[Footnote 23: John Scott, Esq., of Gala, died at
Edinburgh, 19th April, 1840.--(1842.)]

Mathews accompanied them as far as Warwick and Kenilworth, both of which castles the poet had seen before, but now reëxamined with particular curiosity. They spent a night at Sheffield; and early next morning Scott sallied forth to provide himself with a planter's knife of the most complex contrivance and finished workmanship. Having secured one to his mind, and which for many years after was his constant pocket-companion, he wrote his name on a card, "Walter Scott, Abbotsford," and directed it to be engraved on the handle. On his mentioning this acquisition at breakfast, young Gala expressed his desire to equip himself in like fashion, and was directed to the shop accordingly. When he had {p.065} purchased a similar knife, and produced his name in turn for the engraver, the master cutler eyed the signature for a moment, and exclaimed, "John Scott of Gala! Well, I hope your ticket may serve me in as good stead as another Mr. Scott's has just done. Upon my word, one of my best men, an honest fellow from the North, went out of his senses when he saw it--he offered me a week's work if I would let him keep it to himself--and I took _Saunders_ at his word." Scott used to talk of this as one of the most gratifying compliments he ever received in his literary capacity.

Their next halt was at Rokeby; but since Scott had heard from thence, Mrs. Morritt's illness had made such alarming progress, that the travellers regretted having obtruded themselves on the scene of affliction, and resumed their journey early next morning.

Reaching Abbotsford, Scott found with his family his old friend Mr. Skene of Rubislaw, who had expected him to come home sooner, and James Ballantyne, who had arrived with a copious budget of bills, calendars, booksellers' letters, and proof sheets. From each of these visitors' _memoranda_ I now extract an anecdote. Mr. Skene's is of a small enough matter, but still it places the man so completely before myself, that I am glad he thought it worth setting down.

"During Scott's absence," says his friend, "his wife had had
the tiny drawing-room of the cottage fitted up with new
chintz furniture,--everything had been set out in the best
style,--and she and her girls had been looking forward to
the pleasure which they supposed the little surprise of the
arrangements would give him. He was received in the spruce
fresh room, set himself comfortably down in the chair
prepared for him, and remained in the full enjoyment of his
own fireside, and a return to his family circle, without the
least consciousness that any change had taken place--until,
at length, Mrs. Scott's patience could hold out no longer,
and his attention was expressly called to it. The vexation
he showed at having caused {p.066} such a disappointment,
struck me as amiably characteristic--and in the course of
the evening he every now and then threw out some word of
admiration to reconsole _mamma_."

Ballantyne's note of their next morning's conference is in these terms:--

"He had just been reviewing a pageant of emperors and kings,
which seemed, like another Field of the Cloth of Gold, to
have been got up to realize before his eyes some of his own
splendid descriptions. I begged him to tell me what was the
general impression left on his mind. He answered, that he
might now say he had seen and conversed with all classes of
society, from the palace to the cottage, and including every
conceivable shade of science and ignorance--but that he had
never felt awed or abashed except in the presence of one
man--the Duke of Wellington. I expressed some surprise. He
said I ought not, for that the Duke of Wellington possessed
every one mighty quality of the mind in a higher degree than
any other man did, or had ever done. He said he beheld in
him a great soldier and a great statesman--the greatest of
each. When it was suggested that the Duke, on his part, saw
before him a great poet and novelist, he smiled, and said,
'What would the Duke of Wellington think of a few _bits of
novels_, which perhaps he had never read, and for which the
strong probability is that he would not care a sixpence if
he had?' You are not" (adds Ballantyne) "to suppose that he
looked either sheepish or embarrassed in the presence of the
Duke--indeed you well know that he did not, and could not do
so; but the feeling, qualified and modified as I have
described it, unquestionably did exist to a certain extent.
Its origin forms a curious moral problem; and may probably
be traced to a secret consciousness, which he might not
himself advert to, that the Duke, however great as a soldier
and statesman, was so defective in imagination as to be
incapable of appreciating that which had formed the charm of
his own life, as well as of his works."

It is proper to add to Mr. Ballantyne's solution of his "curious moral problem," that he was in his latter days a strenuous opponent of the Duke of Wellington's politics; {p.067} to which circumstance he ascribes, in these same _memoranda_, the only coolness that ever occurred between him and Scott. I need hardly repeat, what has been already distinctly stated more than once, that Scott never considered any amount of literary distinction as entitled to be spoken of in the same breath with mastery in the higher departments of practical life--least of all, with the glory of a first-rate captain. To have done things worthy to be written was in his eyes a dignity to which no man made any approach, who had only written things worthy to be read. He on two occasions, which I can never forget, betrayed painful uneasiness when his works were alluded to as reflecting honor on the age that had produced Watt's improvement of the steam-engine, and the safety-lamp of Sir Humphry Davy. Such was his modest creed--but from all I ever saw or heard of his intercourse with the Duke of Wellington, I am not disposed to believe that he partook it with the only man in whose presence he ever felt awe and abashment.[24]

[Footnote 24: I think it very probable that Scott had
his own first interview with the Duke of Wellington in
his mind when he described the introduction of Roland
Græme to the Regent Murray, in the novel of _The Abbot_,
chap. xviii.:--"Such was the personage before whom
Roland Græme now presented himself with a feeling of
breathless awe, very different from the usual boldness
and vivacity of his temper. In fact, he was, from
education and nature, ... much more easily controlled by
the moral superiority arising from the elevated talents
and renown of those with whom he conversed, than by
pretensions founded only on rank or external show. He
might have braved with indifference the presence of an
Earl merely distinguished by his belt and coronet; but
he felt overawed in that of the eminent soldier and
statesman, the wielder of a nation's power, and the
leader of her armies."]

A charming page in Mr. Washington Irving's Abbotsford and Newstead affords us another anecdote connected with this return from Paris. Two years after this time, when the amiable American visited Scott, he walked with him to a quarry, where his people were at work.

"The face of the humblest dependent," he says, "brightened
at his approach--all paused from their labor to have a
pleasant {p.068} 'crack wi' the laird.' Among the rest was
a tall straight old fellow, with a healthful complexion and
silver hairs, and a small round-crowned white hat. He had
been about to shoulder a hod, but paused, and stood looking
at Scott with a slight sparkling of his blue eye as if
waiting his turn; for the old fellow knew he was a favorite.
Scott accosted him in an affable tone, and asked for a pinch
of snuff. The old man drew forth a horn snuff-box. 'Hoot
man,' said Scott, 'not that old mull. Where's the bonnie
French one that I brought you from Paris?'--'Troth, your
honor,' replied the old fellow, 'sic a mull as that is nae
for week-days.' On leaving the quarry, Scott informed me,
that, when absent at Paris, he had purchased several
trifling articles as presents for his dependents, and, among
others, the gay snuff-box in question, which was so
carefully reserved for Sundays by the veteran. 'It was not
so much the value of the gifts,' said he, 'that pleased
them, as the idea that the laird should think of them when
so far away.'"

One more incident of this return--it was told to me by himself, some years afterwards, with gravity, and even sadness. "The last of my chargers," he said, "was a high-spirited and very handsome one, by name Daisy, all over white, without a speck, and with such a mane as Rubens delighted to paint. He had, among other good qualities, one always particularly valuable in my case, that of standing like a rock to be mounted. When he was brought to the door, after I came home from the Continent, instead of signifying, by the usual tokens, that he was pleased to see his master, he looked askant at me like a devil; and when I put my foot in the stirrup, he reared bolt upright, and I fell to the ground rather awkwardly. The experiment was repeated twice or thrice, always with the same result. It occurred to me that he might have taken some capricious dislike to my dress; and Tom Purdie, who always falls heir to the white hat and green jacket, and so forth, when Mrs. Scott has made me discard a set of garments, was sent for, to try whether these habiliments would produce him a similar reception from his old friend Daisy: but Daisy {p.069} allowed Tom to back him with all manner of gentleness. The thing was inexplicable--but he had certainly taken some part of my conduct in high dudgeon and disgust; and after trying him again, at the interval of a week, I was obliged to part with Daisy--and wars and rumors of wars being over, I resolved thenceforth to have done with such dainty blood. I now stick to a good sober cob." Somebody suggested that Daisy might have considered himself as ill-used, by being left at home when _the laird_ went on his journey. "Ay," said he, "these creatures have many thoughts of their own, no doubt, that we can never penetrate." Then, laughing, "Troth," said he, "maybe some bird had whispered Daisy that I had been to see the grand reviews at Paris on a little scrag of a Cossack, while my own gallant trooper was left behind bearing Peter and the post-bag to Melrose."

A few letters, written shortly after this return to Abbotsford, will, among other things, show with what zeal he at once resumed his literary industry, if indeed that can be said to have been at all interrupted by a journey, in the course of which a great part of Paul's narrative, and also of the poem of The Field of Waterloo, must have been composed.

TO J. B. S. MORRITT, ESQ., M. P., ROKEBY PARK.

ABBOTSFORD, 2d October, 1815.

MY DEAR MORRITT,--Few things could have given me more real
pain, than to see Mrs. Morritt under such severe suffering,
and the misery you sustain in witnessing it. Yet let us
trust in the goodness of Providence, which restored the
health so deservedly dear to you, from as great a state of
depression upon a former occasion. Our visit was indeed a
melancholy one, and, I fear, added to your distress, when,
God knows, it required no addition.--The contrast of this
quiet bird's-nest of a place, with the late scene of
confusion and military splendor which I have witnessed, is
something of a stunning {p.070} nature--and, for the first
five or six days, I have been content to fold my hands, and
saunter up and down in a sort of indolent and stupefied
tranquillity, my only attempt at occupation having gone no
farther than pruning a young tree now and then. Yesterday,
however, and to-day, I began, from necessity, to prune
verses, and have been correcting proofs of my little attempt
at a poem on Waterloo. It will be out this week, and you
shall have a copy by the Carlisle coach, which pray judge
favorably, and remember it is not always the grandest
actions which are best adapted for the arts of poetry and
painting. I believe I shall give offence to my old friends
the Whigs, by not condoling with Buonaparte. Since his
sentence of transportation, he has begun to look wonderfully
comely in their eyes. I would they had hanged him, that he
might have died a perfect Adonis. Every reasonable creature
must think the Ministers would have deserved the cord
themselves, if they had left him in a condition again to
cost us the loss of 10,000 of our best and bravest, besides
thirty millions of good money. The very threats and frights
which he has given the well-meaning people of this realm
(myself included), deserved no less a punishment than
banishment, since the "putting in bodily fear" makes so
material a part of every criminal indictment. But, no doubt,
we shall see Ministers attacked for their want of generosity
to a fallen enemy, by the same party who last year, with
better grounds, assailed them for having left him in a
situation again to disturb the tranquillity of Europe.--My
young friend Gala has left me, after a short visit to
Abbotsford. He is my nearest (conversible) neighbor, and I
promise myself much comfort in him, as he has a turn both
for the sciences and for the arts, rather uncommon among our
young Scotch lairds. He was delighted with Rokeby and its
lord, though he saw both at so melancholy a period, and
endured, not only with good-humor but with sympathy, the
stupidity of his fellow-traveller, who was not by {p.071}
any means _dans son brillant_ for some time after leaving
you.

We visited Corby Castle on our return to Scotland, which
remains, in point of situation, as beautiful as when its
walks were celebrated by David Hume, in the only rhymes he
was ever known to be guilty of. Here they are, from a pane
of glass in an inn at Carlisle:--

"Here chicks in eggs for breakfast sprawl,
Here godless boys God's glories squall,
Here Scotchmen's heads do guard the wall,
But Corby's walks atone for all."

Would it not be a good quiz to advertise _The Poetical Works
of David Hume_, with notes, critical, historical, and so
forth--with an historical inquiry into the use of eggs for
breakfast, a physical discussion on the causes of their
being addled; a history of the English Church music, and of
the choir of Carlisle in particular; a full account of the
affair of 1745, with the trials, last speeches, and so
forth, of the poor _plaids_ who were strapped up at
Carlisle; and, lastly, a full and particular description of
Corby, with the genealogy of every family who ever possessed
it? I think, even without more than the usual waste of
margin, the Poems of David would make a decent
twelve-shilling touch. I shall think about it when I have
exhausted mine own _century of inventions_.

I do not know whether it is perverseness of state, or old
associations, but an excellent and very handsome modern
house, which Mr. Howard has lately built at Corby, does not,
in my mind, assimilate so well with the scenery as the old
irregular monastic hall, with its weather-beaten and antique
appearance, which I remember there some years ago.

Out of my Field of Waterloo has sprung an odd wild sort of
thing, which I intend to finish separately, and call it The
Dance of Death.[25] These matters take up my {p.072} time
so much, that I must bid you adieu for the present. Besides,
I am summoned to attend a grand _chasse_, and I see the
children are all mounted upon the ponies. By the way, Walter
promises to be a gallant horseman. Ever most truly yours,

Walter SCOTT.

[Footnote 25: This was published in the _Edinburgh
Annual Register_ in 1815.--See _Poetical Works_ (Ed.
1834), vol. xi. p. 297 [Cambridge Ed. p. 421].]

I shall close this chapter with a transcript of some _Notes_ on the proof sheets of The Field of Waterloo. John Ballantyne being at Abbotsford on the 3d of October, his brother the printer addressed the packet containing the sheets to him. John appears to have considered James's observations on the margin before Scott saw them; and the record of the style in which the Poet repelled, or yielded to, his critics, will at all events illustrate his habitual good-nature.

John Ballantyne writes on the fly-leaf of the proofs, to his confidential clerk: "Mr. Hodgson, I beg these sheets and all the MS. may be carefully preserved just as they stand, and put in my father's desk. J. B."

James prefaces his animadversions with this quotation:--

"Cut deep and spare not.--_Penruddock._"

The _Notes_ are these:--

STANZA I.--"Fair Brussels, thou art far behind."

_James Ballantyne._--I do not like this line. It is tame, and the
phrase "far behind," has, to my feeling, some associated vulgarity.

_Scott._--Stet.

STANZA II.--"Let not _the_ stranger with disdain
_The_ architecture view."

_James._--These two words are cacophonous. Would not _its_ do?

_Scott._--Th. is a bad sound. Ts. a much worse. Read _their_.

STANZA IV.--"A stranger might reply."

_James._--My objection to this is probably fantastical, and I state
it only because, from the first moment to the last, it has always
made me boggle. I don't like a _stranger_--Query, "The
questioned"--The "spectator"--"gazer," etc.

_Scott._--_Stranger_ is appropriate--it means stranger to the
circumstances.

{p.073} STANZA VI.--_James._--You had changed "garner-house
profound," which I think quite admirable, to "garner under ground,"
which I think quite otherways. I have presumed not to make the
change--must I?

_Scott._--I acquiesce, but with doubts; _profound_ sounds affected.

STANZA VIII.--"The deadly tug of war at length
Must limits find in human strength,
And _cease_ when these are passed.
Vain hope!" etc.

_James._--I must needs repeat, that the deadly tug _did_ cease in
the case supposed. It lasted long--very long; but, when the limits
of resistance, of human strength, were past--that is, after they had
fought for ten hours, then the deadly tug _did_ cease. Therefore the
"hope" was not "vain."

_Scott._--I answer, it did _not_,--because the observation relates
to the strength of those actually engaged, and when _their_ strength
was exhausted, other squadrons were brought up. Suppose you saw two
lawyers scolding at the bar, you might say this must have an
end--human lungs cannot hold out--but, if the debate were continued
by the senior counsel, your well-grounded expectations would be
disappointed--"Cousin, thou wert not wont to be so dull!"--

IBID.--"Nor ceased the _intermitted_ shot."

_James._--Mr. Erskine contends that "intermitted" is redundant.

_Scott._--"Nor ceased the _storm of shell and shot_."

STANZA X.--"---- Never shall our country say
We gave one inch of ground away,
_When battling_ for her right."

_James._--_In conflict?_

_John B._--_Warring?_ I am afraid _battling_ must stand.

_Scott._--All worse than the text.

STANZA XI.--"Peal'd wildly the imperial name."

_James._--I submit with diffidence whether this be not a somewhat
tame conclusion to so very animated a stanza? And, at any rate, you
will observe, that as it stands, you have no rhyme whatever to "The
Cohort eagles _fly_."--You have no rhyme to _fly_. _Flew_ and _fly_,
also, are perhaps too near, considering that each word closes a line
of the same sort. I don't well like "_Thus_ in a torrent," either.
If it were, "In one broad torrent," etc., it strikes me that it
would be more spirited.

_Scott._--Granted as to most of these observations--Read, "in one
_dark_ torrent broad and strong," etc.--The "imperial name" is
_true_, therefore must stand.

STANZA XII.--"Nor was one forward footstep _stopped_."

_James._--This staggering word was intended, I presume, but I don't
like it.

{p.074} _Scott._--Granted. Read _staid_, etc.

IBID.--"Down were the eagle banners sent,
Down, down the horse and horsemen went."

_James._--This is very spirited and very fine; but it is
unquestionably liable to the charge of being very nearly a direct
repetition of yourself. See _Lord of the Isles_, Canto vi. Stanza
24:--

"_Down! down!_ in headlong overthrow,
_Horseman and horse_, the foremost go," etc.

This passage is at once so striking and so recent, that its close similarity to the present, if not indeed its identity, must strike every reader; and really, to borrow from one's self is hardly much better than to borrow from one's neighbors. And yet again, a few lines lower--

"As hammers on the _anvils_ reel,
Against the cuirass _clangs_ the steel."

See _Lady of the Lake_, Canto vi. Stanza 18:--

"I heard the broadswords' deadly _clang_,
As if an hundred _anvils_ rang."

Here is precisely the same image, in very nearly the same words.

_Scott._--I have altered the expression, but made a note, which, I
think, will vindicate my retaining the simile.

STANZA XIII.--"As their own Ocean-rocks hold _stance_."

_John._--I do not know such an English word as _stance_.

_Scott._--Then we'll make it one for the _nance_.

IBID.--"And _newer_ standards fly."

_James._--I don't like _newer_.

_Scott._--"And _other_ standards fly."

IBID.--"Or can thy memory fail to _quote_,
Heard to thy cost the vengeful note."

_James._--Would to God you would alter this _quote_!

_John._--Would to God _I_ could!--I certainly should.--

_Scott._--"Or can thy memory fail to know,
Heard oft before in hour of woe."

Or--

"Or dwells not in thy memory still,
Heard frequent in thine hour of ill."

STANZA XV.--"Wrung forth by pride, _regret_, and shame."

_James._--I have ventured to submit to your choice--

"Wrung forth by pride, _and rage_, and shame."

_Regret_ appearing a faint epithet amidst such a combination of
bitter feelings.

_Scott._--Granted.