Chapter XLIII

Declining Health of Charles, Duke of Buccleuch. -- Letter on the
Death of Queen Charlotte. -- Provincial Antiquities, Etc. --
Extensive Sale of Copyrights to Constable and Co. -- Death of Mr.
Charles Carpenter. -- Scott Accepts the Offer of a Baronetcy. --
He Declines to Renew his Application for a Seat on the Exchequer
Bench. -- Letters to Morritt, Richardson, Miss Baillie, The Duke
of Buccleuch, Lord Montagu, and Captain Ferguson. -- Rob Roy
Played at Edinburgh. -- Letter from Jedediah Cleishbotham to Mr.
Charles Mackay.

1818-1819

I have now to introduce a melancholy subject--one of the greatest afflictions that ever Scott encountered. The health of Charles, Duke of Buccleuch was by this time beginning to give way, and Scott thought it his duty to intimate his very serious apprehensions to his noble friend's brother.

TO THE RIGHT HON. LORD MONTAGU, DITTON PARK, WINDSOR.

EDINBURGH, 12th November, 1818.

MY DEAR LORD,--I am about to write to you with feelings of the
deepest anxiety. I have hesitated for two or three days whether I
should communicate to your Lordship the sincere alarm which I
entertain on account of the Duke's present state of health, but I
have come to persuade myself, that it will be discharging a part
of the duty which I owe to him, to mention my own most
distressing apprehensions. I was at the cattle-show on the 6th,
and executed the delegated task of toast-master, and so forth. I
was told by **** that the Duke is under the influence of the
muriatic bath, which occasions a good deal of uneasiness when the
medicine is in possession of the system. The Duke observed the
strictest diet, and remained only a short time at table, leaving
me to do the honors, which I did with a sorrowful heart,
endeavoring, however, to persuade myself that ****'s account, and
the natural depression of spirits incidental to his finding
himself unable for the time to discharge the duty to his guests,
which no man could do with so much grace and kindness, were
sufficient to account for the alteration of his manner and
appearance. I spent Monday with him quietly and alone, and I must
say that all I saw and heard was calculated to give me the
greatest pain. His strength is much less, his spirits lower, and
his general appearance far more unfavorable than when I left him
at Drumlanrig a few weeks before. What ****, and indeed what the
Duke himself, says of the medicine, may be true--but **** is very
sanguine, and, like all the personal physicians attached to a
person of such consequence, he is too much addicted to the
_placebo_--at least I think so--too apt to fear to give offence
by contradiction, or by telling that sort of truth which may
controvert the wishes or habits of his patient. I feel I am
communicating much pain to your Lordship, but I am sure that,
excepting yourself, there is not a man in the world whose sorrow
and apprehension could exceed mine in having such a task to
discharge; for, as your Lordship well knows, the ties which bind
me to your excellent brother are of a much stronger kind than
usually connect persons so different in rank. But the alteration
in voice and person, in features, and in spirits, all argue the
decay of natural strength, and the increase of some internal
disorder, which is gradually triumphing over the system. Much has
been done in these cases by change of climate. I hinted this to
the Duke at Drumlanrig, but I found his mind totally averse to
it. But he made some inquiries of Harden (just returned from
Italy), which seemed to imply that at least the idea of a winter
in Italy or the south of France was not altogether out of his
consideration. Your Lordship will consider whether he can or
ought to be pressed upon this point. He is partial to Scotland,
and feels the many high duties which bind him to it. But the air
of this country, with its alternations of moisture and dry frost,
although excellent for a healthy person, is very trying to a
valetudinarian.

I should not have thought of volunteering to communicate such
unpleasant news, but that the family do not seem alarmed. I am
not surprised at this, because, where the decay of health is very
gradual, it is more easily traced by a friend who sees the
patient from interval to interval, than by the affectionate eyes
which are daily beholding him.

Adieu, my dear Lord. God knows you will scarce read this letter
with more pain than I feel in writing it. But it seems
indispensable to me to communicate my sentiments of the Duke's
present situation to his nearest relation and dearest friend. His
life is invaluable to his country and to his family, and how dear
it is to his friends can only be estimated by those who know the
soundness of his understanding, the uprightness and truth of his
judgment, and the generosity and warmth of his feelings.

I am always, my dear Lord, most truly yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

Scott's letters of this and the two following months are very much occupied with the painful subject of the Duke of Buccleuch's health; but those addressed to his Grace himself are, in general, in a more jocose strain than usual. His friend's spirits were sinking, and he exerted himself in this way, in the hope of amusing the hours of languor at Bowhill. These letters are headed "Edinburgh Gazette Extraordinary," No. 1, No. 2, and so on; but they deal so much in laughable gossip about persons still living, that I find it difficult to make any extracts from them. The following paragraphs, however, from the Gazette of November the 20th, give a little information as to his own minor literary labors:--

"The article on Gourgaud's Narrative[1] _is_ by a certain _Vieux Routier_ of your Grace's acquaintance, who would willingly have some military hints from you for the continuation of the article, if at any time you should feel disposed to amuse yourself with looking at the General's most marvellous performance. His lies are certainly like the father who begot them. Do not think that at any time the little trumpery intelligence this place affords can interrupt my labors, while it amuses your Grace. I can scribble as fast in the Court of Session as anywhere else, without the least loss of time or hindrance of business. At the same time, I cannot help laughing at the miscellaneous trash I have been putting out of my hand, and the various motives which made me undertake the jobs. An article for the Edinburgh Review[2]--this for the love of Jeffrey, the editor--the first for ten years. Do., being the article _Drama_ for the Encyclopaedia--this for the sake of Mr. Constable, the publisher. Do. for the Blackwoodian Magazine--this for love of the cause I espoused. Do. for the Quarterly Review[3]--this for the love of myself, I believe, or, which is the same thing, for the love of L100, which I wanted for some odd purpose. As all these folks fight like dog and cat among themselves, my situation is much like the _Suave mare magno_, and so forth....

[Footnote 1: Article on _General Gourgaud's Memoirs_ in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for November, 1818.]

[Footnote 2: Article on Maturin's _Women, or Pour et Contre_. (_Miscellaneous Prose Works_, vol. xviii.)]

[Footnote 3: Article on _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. (_Miscellaneous Prose Works_, vol. xvii.)]

"I hope your Grace will never think of answering the Gazettes at all, or even replying to letters of business, until you find it quite convenient and easy. The Gazette will continue to appear as materials occur. Indeed I expect, in the end of next week, to look in upon Bowhill, per the Selkirk mail, about eight at night, with the hope of spending a day there, which will be more comfortable than at Abbotsford, where I should feel like a mouse below a firlot. If I find the Court can spare so important a person for one day, I shall order my pony up to meet me at Bowhill, and, supposing me to come on Friday night, I can easily return by the Blucher on Monday, dining and sleeping at Huntly Burn on the Sunday. So I shall receive all necessary reply in person."

Good Queen Charlotte died on the 17th of this month; and in writing to Mr. Morritt on the 21st, Scott thus expresses what was, I believe, the universal feeling at the moment:--

"So we have lost the old Queen. She has only had the sad prerogative of being kept alive by nursing for some painful weeks, whereas perhaps a subject might have closed the scene earlier. I fear the effect of this event on public manners--were there but a weight at the back of the drawing-room door, which would slam it in the face of w----s, its fall ought to be lamented; and I believe that poor Charlotte really adopted her rules of etiquette upon a feeling of duty. If we should suppose the Princess of Wales to have been at the head of the matronage of the land for these last ten years, what would have been the difference on public opinion! No man of experience will ever expect the breath of a court to be favorable to correct morals--_sed si non caste caute tamen_. One half of the mischief is done by the publicity of the evil, which corrupts those which are near its influence, and fills with disgust and apprehension those to whom it does not directly extend. Honest old Evelyn's account of Charles the Second's court presses on one's recollection, and prepares the mind for anxious apprehensions."

Towards the end of this month Scott received from his kind friend Lord Sidmouth, then Secretary of State for the Home Department, the formal announcement of the Prince Regent's desire (which had been privately communicated some months earlier through the Lord Chief Commissioner Adam) to confer on him the rank of Baronet. When Scott first heard of the Regent's gracious intention, he had signified considerable hesitation about the prudence of his accepting any such accession of rank; for it had not escaped his observation, that such airy sounds, however modestly people may be disposed to estimate them, are apt to entail in the upshot additional cost upon their way of living, and to affect accordingly the plastic fancies, feelings, and habits of their children. But Lord Sidmouth's letter happened to reach him a few days after he had heard of the sudden death of his wife's brother, Charles Carpenter, who had bequeathed the reversion of his fortune to his sister's family; and this circumstance disposed Scott to waive his scruples, chiefly with a view to the professional advantage of his eldest son, who had by this time fixed on the life of a soldier. As is usually the case, the estimate of Mr. Carpenter's property transmitted at the time to England proved to have been an exaggerated one; as nearly as my present information goes, the amount was doubled. But as to the only question of any interest, to wit, how Scott himself felt on all these matters at the moment, the following letter to one whom he had long leaned to as a brother, will be more satisfactory than anything else it is in my power to quote:--

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

EDINBURGH, 7th December, 1818.

MY DEAR MORRITT,--I know you are indifferent to nothing that
concerns us, and therefore I take an early opportunity to
acquaint you with the mixture of evil and good which has very
lately befallen us. On Saturday last we had the advice of the
death of my wife's brother, Charles Carpenter, commercial
resident at Salem, in the Madras Establishment. This event has
given her great distress. She has not, that we know of, a single
blood-relation left in the world, for her uncle, the Chevalier de
la Volere,[4] colonel of a Russian regiment, is believed to have
been killed in the campaign of 1813. My wife has been very unwell
for two days, and is only now sitting up and mixing with us. She
has that sympathy which we are all bound to pay, but feels she
wants that personal interest in her sorrow which could only be
grounded on a personal acquaintance with the deceased.

Mr. Carpenter has, with great propriety, left his property in
life-rent to his wife--the capital to my children. It seems to
amount to about L40,000. Upwards of L30,000 is in the British
funds; the rest, to an uncertain value, in India. I hope this
prospect of independence will not make my children different from
that which they have usually been--docile, dutiful, and
affectionate. I trust it will not. At least, the first expression
of their feelings was honorable, for it was a unanimous wish to
give up all to their mother. This I explained to them was out of
the question; but that, if they should be in possession at any
time of this property, they ought, among them, to settle an
income of L400 or L500 on their mother for her life, to supply
her with a fund at her own uncontrolled disposal, for any
indulgence or useful purpose that might be required. Mrs. Scott
will stand in no need of this; but it is a pity to let kind
affections run to waste; and if they never have it in their power
to pay such a debt, their willingness to have done so will be a
pleasant reflection. I am Scotchman enough to hate the breaking
up of family ties, and the too close adherence to personal
property. For myself, this event makes me neither richer nor
poorer _directly_; but indirectly it will permit me to do
something for my poor brother Tom's family, besides pleasing
myself in "_plantings_, and _policies_, and _biggings_,"[5] with
a safe conscience.

There is another thing I have to whisper to your faithful ear.
Our fat friend, being desirous to honor Literature in my unworthy
person, has intimated to me, by his organ the Doctor,[6] that,
with consent ample and unanimous of all the potential voices of
all his ministers, each more happy than another of course on so
joyful an occasion, he proposes to dub me Baronet. It would be
easy saying a parcel of fine things about my contempt of rank,
and so forth; but although I would not have gone a step out of my
way to have asked, or bought, or begged or borrowed a
distinction, which to me personally will rather be inconvenient
than otherwise, yet, coming as it does directly from the source
of feudal honors, and as an honor, I am really gratified with
it;--especially as it is intimated that it is his Royal
Highness's pleasure to heat the oven for me expressly, without
waiting till he has some new _batch_ of Baronets ready in dough.
In plain English, I am to be gazetted _per se_. My poor friend
Carpenter's bequest to my family has taken away a certain degree
of _impecuniosity_, a necessity of saving cheese-parings and
candle-ends, which always looks inconsistent with any little
pretension to rank. But as things now stand, Advance banners in
the name of God and Saint Andrew. Remember, I anticipate the
jest, "I like not such grinning honor as Sir Walter hath."[7]
After all, if one must speak for himself, I have my quarters and
emblazonments, free of all stain but Border theft and High
Treason, which I hope are gentlemanlike crimes; and I hope Sir
Walter Scott will not sound worse than Sir Humphry Davy, though
my merits are as much under his, in point of utility, as can well
be imagined. But a name is something, and mine is the better of
the two. Set down this flourish to the account of national and
provincial pride, for you must know we have more Messieurs de
Sotenville[8] in our Border counties than anywhere else in the
Lowlands--I cannot say for the Highlands. The Duke of Buccleuch,
greatly to my joy, resolves to go to France for a season. Adam
Ferguson goes with him, to glad him by the way. Charlotte and the
young folks join in kind compliments.

Most truly yours, WALTER SCOTT.

[Footnote 4: I know nothing of the history or fate of this gentleman, except that he was an ardent Royalist, and emigrated from France early in the Revolution.]

[Footnote 5: I believe this is a quotation from some old Scotch chronicler on the character of King James V.]

[Footnote 6: _The Doctor_ was Mr. Canning's nickname for Lord Sidmouth, the son of an accomplished physician, the intimate friend of the great Lord Chatham. Mr. Sheridan, when the Scotch Members deserted the Addington administration upon a trying vote, had the grace to say to the Premier, across the table of the House of Commons,--"Doctor! the Thanes fly from thee!"]

[Footnote 7: Sir Walter Blunt--_1st King Henry IV._, Act V. Scene 3.]

[Footnote 8: See Moliere's _George Dandin_.]

A few additional circumstances are given in a letter of the same week to Joanna Baillie. To her, after mentioning the testamentary provisions of Mr. Carpenter, Scott says:--

MY DEAR FRIEND,--I am going to tell you a little secret. I have
changed my mind, or rather existing circumstances have led to my
altering my opinions in a case of sublunary honor. I have now
before me Lord Sidmouth's letter, containing the Prince's
gracious and unsolicited intention to give me a Baronetcy. It
will neither make me better nor worse than I feel myself--in
fact it will be an incumbrance rather than otherwise; but it may
be of consequence to Walter, for the title is worth something in
the army, although not in a learned profession. The Duke of
Buccleuch and Scott of Harden, who, as the heads of my clan and
the sources of my gentry, are good judges of what I ought to do,
have both given me their earnest opinion to accept of an honor
directly derived from the source of honor, and neither begged nor
bought, as is the usual fashion. Several of my ancestors bore the
title in the seventeenth century; and were it of consequence, I
have no reason to be ashamed of the decent and respectable
persons who connect me with that period when they carried into
the field, like Madoc--

"The crescent, at whose gleam the _Cambrian_ oft,
Cursing his perilous tenure, wound his horn"--

so that, as a gentleman, I may stand on as good a footing as
other new creations. Respecting the reasons peculiar to myself
which have made the Prince show his respect for general
literature in my person, I cannot be a good judge, and your
friendly zeal will make you a partial one: the purpose is fair,
honorable, and creditable to the Sovereign, even though it should
number him among the monarchs who made blunders in literary
patronage. You know Pope says:--

"The Hero William, and the Martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one pensioned Quarles."[9]

So let the intention sanctify the error, if there should be one
on this great occasion. The time of this grand affair is
uncertain: it is coupled with an invitation to London, which it
would be inconvenient to me to accept, unless it should happen
that I am called to come up by the affairs of poor Carpenter's
estate. Indeed, the prospects of my children form the principal
reason for a change of sentiments upon this flattering offer,
joined to my belief that, though I may still be a scribbler from
inveterate habit, I shall hardly engage again in any work of
consequence.

We had a delightful visit from the Richardsons, only rather too
short. He will give you a picture of Abbotsford, but not as it
exists in my mind's eye, waving with all its future honors. The
pinasters are thriving very well, and in a year or two more
Joanna's Bower will be worthy of the name. At present it is like
Sir Roger de Coverley's portrait, which hovered between its
resemblance to the good knight and to a Saracen. Now the said
bower has still such a resemblance to its original character of a
gravel pit, that it is not fit to be shown to "bairns and fools,"
who, according to our old canny proverb, should never see
half-done work; but Nature, if she works slowly, works surely,
and your laurels at Abbotsford will soon flourish as fair as
those you have won on Parnassus. I rather fear that a quantity of
game, which was shipped awhile ago at Inverness for the Doctor,
never reached him: it is rather a transitory commodity in London;
there were ptarmigan, grouse, and black game. I shall be grieved
if they have miscarried.--My health, thank God, continues as
strong as at any period in my life; only I think of rule and diet
more than I used to do, and observe as much as in me lies the
advice of my friendly physician, who took such kind care of me:
my best respects attend him, Mrs. Baillie, and Mrs. Agnes. Ever,
my dear friend, most faithfully yours,

W. S.

[Footnote 9: _Imitations of Horace._ B. ii. Ep. 1. v. 386.]

In the next of these letters Scott alludes, among other things, to a scene of innocent pleasure which I often witnessed afterwards. The whole of the ancient ceremonial of the _daft days_, as they are called in Scotland, obtained respect at Abbotsford. He said it was _uncanny_, and would certainly have felt it very uncomfortable, not to welcome the new year in the midst of his family and a few old friends, with the immemorial libation of a _het pint_; but of all the consecrated ceremonies of the time, none gave him such delight as the visit which he received as _Laird_ from all the children on his estate, on the last morning of every December--when, in the words of an obscure poet often quoted by him,

"The cottage bairns sing blithe and gay,
At the ha' door for _hogmanay_."

TO MISS JOANNA BAILLIE, HAMPSTEAD.

ABBOTSFORD, 1st January, 1819.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--Many thanks for your kind letter. Ten brace of
ptarmigan sailed from Inverness about the 24th, directed for Dr.
Baillie;--if they should have reached, I hope you would seize
some for yourself and friends, as I learn the Doctor is on duty
at Windsor. I do not know the name of the vessel, but they were
addressed to Dr. Baillie, London, which I trust was enough, for
there are not _two_. The Doctor has been exercising his skill
upon my dear friend and chief, the Duke of Buccleuch, to whom I
am more attached than to any person beyond the reach of my own
family, and has advised him to do what, by my earnest advice, he
ought to have done three years ago--namely, to go to Lisbon: he
left this vicinity with much reluctance to go to Toulouse, but if
he will be advised, should not stop save in Portugal or the south
of Spain. The Duke is one of those retired and high-spirited men
who will never be known until the world asks what became of the
huge oak that grew on the brow of the hill, and sheltered such an
extent of ground. During the late distress, though his own
immense rents remained in arrears, and though I know he was
pinched for money, as all men were, but more especially the
possessors of entailed estates, he absented himself from London
in order to pay with ease to himself the laborers employed on his
various estates. These amounted (for I have often seen the roll
and helped to check it) to nine hundred and fifty men, working at
day wages, each of whom on a moderate average might maintain
three persons, since the single men have mothers, sisters, and
aged or very young relations to protect and assist. Indeed it is
wonderful how much even a small sum, comparatively, will do in
supporting the Scottish laborer, who is in his natural state
perhaps one of the best, most intelligent, and kind-hearted of
human beings; and in truth I have limited my other habits of
expense very much since I fell into the habit of employing mine
honest people. I wish you could have seen about a hundred
children, being almost entirely supported by their fathers' or
brothers' labor, come down yesterday to dance to the pipes, and
get a piece of cake and bannock, and pence apiece (no very deadly
largess) in honor of _hogmanay_. I declare to you, my dear
friend, that when I thought the poor fellows who kept these
children so neat, and well taught, and well behaved, were slaving
the whole day for eighteen-pence or twenty-pence at the most, I
was ashamed of their gratitude, and of their becks and bows. But,
after all, one does what one can, and it is better twenty
families should be comfortable according to their wishes and
habits, than half that number should be raised above their
situation. Besides, like Fortunio in the fairy tale, I have my
gifted men--the best wrestler and cudgel-player--the best runner
and leaper--the best shot in the little district; and as I am
partial to all manly and athletic exercises, these are great
favorites, being otherwise decent persons, and bearing their
faculties meekly. All this smells of sad egotism, but what can I
write to you about, save what is uppermost in my own thoughts:
and here am I, thinning old plantations and planting new ones;
now undoing what has been done, and now doing what I suppose no
one would do but myself, and accomplishing all my magical
transformations by the arms and legs of the aforesaid genii,
conjured up to my aid at eighteen-pence a day. There is no one
with me but my wife, to whom the change of scene and air, with
the facility of easy and uninterrupted exercise, is of service.
The young people remain in Edinburgh to look after their
lessons, and Walter, though passionately fond of shooting, only
stayed three days with us, his mind running entirely on
mathematics and fortification, French and German. One of the
excellencies of Abbotsford is very bad pens and ink; and besides,
this being New Year's Day, and my writing-room above the
servants' hall, the progress of my correspondence is a little
interrupted by the Piper singing Gaelic songs to the servants,
and their applause in consequence. Adieu, my good and indulgent
friend: the best influences of the New Year attend you and yours,
who so well deserve all that they can bring. Most affectionately
yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

Before quitting the year 1818, I ought to have mentioned that among Scott's miscellaneous occupations in its autumn, he found time to contribute some curious materials toward a new edition of Burt's Letters from the North of Scotland, which had been undertaken by his old acquaintance, Mr. Robert Jameson. During the winter session he appears to have made little progress with his novel; his painful seizures of cramp were again recurring frequently, and he probably thought it better to allow the story of Lammermoor to lie over until his health should be reestablished. In the mean time he drew up a set of topographical and historical essays, which originally appeared in the successive numbers of the splendidly illustrated work, entitled Provincial Antiquities of Scotland.[10] But he did this merely to gratify his own love of the subject, and because, well or ill, he must be doing something. He declined all pecuniary recompense; but afterwards, when the success of the publication was secure, accepted from the proprietors some of the beautiful drawings by Turner, Thomson, and other artists, which had been prepared to accompany his text. These drawings are now in the little breakfast-room at Abbotsford--the same which had been constructed for his own den, and which I found him occupying as such in the spring of 1819.

[Footnote 10: These charming essays are now reprinted in his _Miscellaneous Prose Works_ (Edition 1834) vol. vii.]

In the course of December, 1818, he also opened an important negotiation with Messrs. Constable, which was completed early in the ensuing year. The cost of his building had, as is usual, exceeded his calculation; and he had both a large addition to it, and some new purchases of land, in view. Moreover, his eldest son had now fixed on the cavalry, in which service every step infers very considerable expense. The details of this negotiation are remarkable;--Scott considered himself as a very fortunate man when Constable, who at first offered L10,000 for all his then existing copyrights, agreed to give for them L12,000. Meeting a friend in the street, just after the deed had been executed, he said he wagered no man could guess at how large a price Constable had estimated his "eild kye" (cows barren from age). The copyrights thus transferred were, as specified in the instrument:--

"The said Walter Scott, Esq.'s present share, being the entire copyright,
of Waverley.

Do. do Guy Mannering.
Do. do Antiquary.
Do. do Rob Roy.
Do. do Tales of My Landlord, 1st Series.
Do. do do. 2d Series.
Do. do do. 3d Series.
Do. do Bridal of Triermain.
Do. do Harold the Dauntless.
Do. do Sir Tristrem.
Do. do Roderick Collection,
Do. do Paul's Letters.
Do. being one eighth of The Lay of the Last Minstrel.
Do. being one half of The Lady of the Lake.
Do. being one half of Rokeby.
Do. being one half of The Lord of the Isles."

The instrument contained a clause binding Messrs. Constable never to divulge the name of the Author of Waverley during his life, under a penalty of L2000.

I may observe, that had these booksellers fulfilled their part of this agreement, by paying off, prior to their insolvency in 1826, the whole bonds for L12,000, which they signed on the 2d of February, 1819, no interest in the copyrights above specified could have been expected to revert to the Author of Waverley: but more of this in due season.

He alludes to the progress of the treaty in the following letter to Captain Adam Ferguson, who had, as has already appeared, left Scotland with the Duke of Buccleuch. His Grace hearing, when in London, that one of the Barons of Exchequer at Edinburgh meant speedily to resign, the Captain had, by his desire, written to urge on Scott the propriety of renewing his application for a seat on that bench; which, however, Scott at once refused to do. There were several reasons for this abstinence; among others, he thought such a promotion at this time would interfere with a project which he had formed of joining "the Chief and the Aide-de-Camp" in the course of the spring, and accomplishing in their society the tour of Portugal and Spain--perhaps of Italy also. Some such excursion had been strongly recommended to him by his own physicians, as the likeliest means of interrupting those habits of sedulous exertion at the desk, which they all regarded as the true source of his recent ailments, and the only serious obstacle to his cure; and his standing as a Clerk of Session, considering how largely he had labored in that capacity for infirm brethren, would have easily secured him a twelve-month's leave of absence from the Judges of his Court. But the principal motive was, as we shall see, his reluctance to interfere with the claims of the then Sheriff of Mid-Lothian, his own and Ferguson's old friend and schoolfellow, Sir William Rae--who, however, accepted the more ambitious post of Lord Advocate, in the course of the ensuing summer.

TO CAPTAIN ADAM FERGUSON, DITTON PARK, WINDSOR.

15th January, 1819.

DEAR ADAM,--Many thanks for your kind letter, this moment
received. I would not for the world stand in Jackie (I beg his
pardon, Sir John) Peartree's way.[11] He has merited the cushion
_en haut_, and besides he needs it. To me it would make little
difference in point of income. The _otium cum dignitate_, if it
ever come, will come as well years after this as now. Besides, I
am afraid the opening will be soon made, through the death of our
dear friend the Chief Baron, of whose health the accounts are
unfavorable.[12] Immediate promotion would be inconvenient to me,
rather than otherwise, because I have the desire, like an old
fool as I am, _courir un peu le monde_. I am beginning to draw
out from my literary commerce. Constable has offered me L10,000
for the copyrights of published works which have already produced
more than twice the sum. I stand out for L12,000. Tell this to
the Duke; he knows how I managed to keep the hen till the rainy
day was past. I will write two lines to Lord Melville, just to
make my bow for the present, resigning any claims I have through
the patronage of my kindest and best friend, for I have no other,
till the next opportunity. I should have been truly vexed if the
Duke had thought of writing about this. I don't wish to hear from
him till I can have his account of the lines of Torres Vedras. I
care so little how or where I travel, that I am not sure at all
whether I shall not come to Lisbon and surprise you, instead of
going to Italy by Switzerland; that is, providing the state of
Spain will allow me, without any unreasonable danger of my
throat, to get from Lisbon to Madrid, and thence to Gibraltar. I
am determined to roll a little about, for I have lost much of my
usual views of summer pleasure here. But I trust we shall have
one day the Maid of Lorn (recovered of her lameness), and Charlie
Stuart (reconciled to bogs), and Sibyl Grey (no longer
retrograde), and the Duke set up by a southern climate, and his
military and civil aides-de-camp, with all the rout of younkers
and dogs, and a brown hillside, introductory to a good dinner at
Bowhill or Drumlanrig, and a merry evening. Amen, and God send
it. As to my mouth being stopped with the froth of the title,
that is, as the learned Partridge says, a _non sequitur_. You
know the schoolboy's expedient of first asking mustard for his
beef, and then beef for his mustard. Now, as they put the mustard
on my plate, without my asking it, I shall consider myself, time
and place serving, as entitled to ask a slice of beef; that is to
say, I would do so if I cared much about it; but as it is, I
trust it to time and chance, which, as you, dear Adam, know, have
(added to the exertions of kind friends) been wonderful allies of
mine. People usually wish their letters to come to hand, but I
hope you will not receive this in Britain. I am impatient to hear
you have sailed. All here are well and hearty. The Baronet[13]
and I propose to go up to the Castle to-morrow to fix on the most
convenient floor of the Crown House for your mansion, in hopes
you will stand treat for gin-grog and Cheshire cheese on your
return, to reward our labor. The whole expense will fall within
the Treasury order, and it is important to see things made
convenient. I will write a long letter to the Duke to Lisbon.
Yours ever,

WALTER SCOTT.

P. S.--No news here, but that the goodly hulk of conceit and
tallow, which was called Macculloch, of the Royal Hotel, Prince's
Street, was put to bed dead-drunk on Wednesday night, and taken
out the next morning dead-by-itself-dead. Mair skaith at
Sheriffmuir.

[Footnote 11: _Jackie Peartree_ had, it seems, been Sir William Rae's nickname at the High School. He probably owed it to some exploit in an orchard.]

[Footnote 12: The Right Honorable Robert Dundas of Arniston, Chief Baron of the Scotch Exchequer, died 17th June, 1819. See _post_, p. 123.]

[Footnote 13: Mr. William Clerk.]

TO J. RICHARDSON, ESQ., FLUDYER STREET, WESTMINSTER.

EDINBURGH, 18th January, 1819.

MY DEAR RICHARDSON,--Many thanks for your kind letter. I own I
did mystify Mrs. **** a little about the report you mention; and
I am glad to hear the finesse succeeded.[14] She came up to me
with a great overflow of gratitude for the delight and pleasure,
and so forth, which she owed to me on account of these books.
Now, as she knew very well that I had never owned myself the
author, this was not _polite_ politeness, and she had no right to
force me up into a corner and compel me to tell her a word more
than I chose, upon a subject which concerned no one but
myself--and I have no notion of being pumped by any old dowager
Lady of Session, male or female. So I gave in dilatory defences,
under protestation to add and eik; for I trust, in learning a new
slang, you have not forgot the old. In plain words, I denied the
charge, and as she insisted to know who else _could_ write these
novels, I suggested Adam Ferguson as a person having all the
information and capacity necessary for that purpose. But the
inference that he _was_ the author was of her own deducing; and
thus ended her attempt, notwithstanding her having primed the
pump with a good dose of flattery. It is remarkable, that among
all my real friends to whom I did not choose to communicate this
matter, not one ever thought it proper or delicate to tease me
about it. Respecting the knighthood, I can only say, that coming
as it does, and I finding myself and my family in circumstances
which will not render the _petit titre_ ridiculous, I think there
would be more vanity in declining than in accepting what is
offered to me by the express wish of the Sovereign as a mark of
favor and distinction. Will you be so kind as to inquire and let
me know what the fees, etc., of a baronetcy amount to--for I must
provide myself accordingly, not knowing exactly when this same
title may descend upon me. I am afraid the sauce is rather smart.
I should like also to know what is to be done respecting
registration of arms and so forth. Will you make these inquiries
for me _sotto voce_? I should not suppose, from the persons who
sometimes receive this honor, that there is any inquiry about
descent or genealogy; mine were decent enough folks, and enjoyed
the honor in the seventeenth century, so I shall not be first of
the title; and it will sound like that of a Christian knight, as
Sir Sidney Smith said.

I had a letter from our immortal Joanna some fortnight since,
when I was enjoying myself at Abbotsford. Never was there such a
season, flowers springing, birds singing, grubs eating the
wheat--as if it was the end of May. After all, nature had a
grotesque and inconsistent appearance, and I could not help
thinking she resembled a withered beauty who persists in looking
youthy, and dressing conform thereto. I thought the loch should
have had its blue frozen surface, and russet all about it,
instead of an unnatural gayety of green. So much are we the
children of habit, that we cannot always enjoy thoroughly the
alterations which are most for our advantage.--They have filled
up the historical chair here. I own I wish it had been with our
friend Campbell, whose genius is such an honor to his country.
But he has cast anchor I suppose in the south. Your friend, Mrs.
Scott, was much cast down with her brother's death. His bequest
to my family leaves my own property much at my own disposal,
which is pleasant enough. I was foolish enough sometimes to be
vexed at the prospect of my library being sold _sub hasta_, which
is now less likely to happen. I always am, most truly yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

[Footnote 14: The wife of one of the Edinburgh Judges is alluded to.]

On the 15th of February, 1819, Scott witnessed the first representation, on the Edinburgh boards, of the most meritorious and successful of all the _Terryfications_, though Terry himself was not the manufacturer. The drama of Rob Roy will never again be got up so well, in all its parts, as it then was by William Murray's company; the manager's own _Captain Thornton_ was excellent--and so was the _Dugald Creature_ of a Mr. Duff--there was also a good _Mattie_--(about whose equipment, by the bye, Scott felt such interest that he left his box between the acts to remind Mr. Murray that she "must have a mantle with her lanthorn;")--but the great and unrivalled attraction was the personification of _Bailie Jarvie_, by Charles Mackay, who, being himself a native of Glasgow, entered into the minutest peculiarities of the character with high _gusto_, and gave the west-country dialect in its most racy perfection. It was extremely diverting to watch the play of Scott's features during this admirable realization of his conception; and I must add, that the behavior of the Edinburgh audience on all such occasions, while the secret of the novels was preserved, reflected great honor on their good taste and delicacy of feeling. He seldom, in those days, entered his box without receiving some mark of general respect and admiration; but I never heard of any pretext being laid hold of to connect these demonstrations with the piece he had come to witness, or, in short, to do or say anything likely to interrupt his quiet enjoyment of the evening in the midst of his family and friends. The Rob Roy had a continued run of forty-one nights, during February and March; and it was played once a week, at least, for many years afterwards.[15] Mackay, of course, always selected it for his benefit;--and I now print from Scott's MS. a letter, which, no doubt, reached the mimic Bailie in the handwriting of one of the Ballantynes, on the first of these occurrences:--

[Footnote 15: "Between February 15, 1819, and March 14, 1837, _Rob Roy_ was played in the Theatre-Royal, Edinburgh, 285 times."--_Letter from Mr. W. Murray._ [Nicol Jarvie remained Mr. Mackay's masterpiece, but his Dominie Sampson and Meg Dods in the dramas founded on _Guy Mannering_ and _St. Ronan's Well_ were very successful. He died in Glasgow in 1857.]]

TO MR. CHARLES MACKAY, THEATRE-ROYAL, EDIN{R}.

(_Private._)

FRIEND MACKAY,--My lawful occasions having brought me from my
residence at Gandercleuch to this great city, it was my lot to
fall into company with certain friends, who impetrated from me a
consent to behold the stage-play, which hath been framed forth of
an history entitled Rob (_seu potius_ Robert) Roy; which history,
although it existeth not in mine erudite work, entitled Tales of
my Landlord, hath nathless a near relation in style and structure
to those pleasant narrations. Wherefore, having surmounted those
arguments whilk were founded upon the unseemliness of a personage
in my place and profession appearing in an open stage-play house,
and having buttoned the terminations of my cravat into my bosom,
in order to preserve mine incognito, and indued an outer coat
over mine usual garments, so that the hue thereof might not
betray my calling, I did place myself (much elbowed by those who
little knew whom they did incommode) in that place of the Theatre
called the two-shilling gallery, and beheld the show with great
delectation, even from the rising of the curtain to the fall
thereof.

_From the painting by Sir D. Macnee_]

Chiefly, my facetious friend, was I enamored of the very lively
representation of Bailie Nicol Jarvie, in so much that I became
desirous to communicate to thee my great admiration thereof,
nothing doubting that it will give thee satisfaction to be
apprised of the same. Yet further, in case thou shouldst be of
that numerous class of persons who set less store by good words
than good deeds, and understanding that there is assigned unto
each stage-player a special night, called a benefit (it will do
thee no harm to know that the phrase cometh from two Latin words,
_bene_ and _facio_), on which their friends and patrons show
forth their benevolence, I now send thee mine in the form of a
five-ell web (_hoc jocose_, to express a note for L5), as a meet
present for the Bailie, himself a weaver, and the son of a worthy
deacon of that craft. The which propine I send thee in token that
it is my purpose, business and health permitting, to occupy the
central place of the pit on the night of thy said beneficiary or
benefit.

Friend Mackay! from one, whose profession it is to teach others,
thou must excuse the freedom of a caution. I trust thou wilt
remember that, as excellence in thine art cannot be attained
without much labor, so neither can it be extended, or even
maintained, without constant and unremitted exertion; and
further, that the decorum of a performer's private character (and
it gladdeth me to hear that thine is respectable) addeth not a
little to the value of his public exertions.

Finally, in respect there is nothing perfect in this world,--at
least I have never received a wholly faultless version from the
very best of my pupils--I pray thee not to let Rob Roy twirl thee
around in the ecstasy of thy joy, in regard it oversteps the
limits of nature, which otherwise thou so sedulously preservest
in thine admirable national portraiture of Bailie Nicol
Jarvie.--I remain thy sincere friend and well-wisher,

JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM.