Chapter XIV (3)

Mr. Tumbler was not only a lover of music, but was likewise a professor of the divine art. During the delightful summer evenings, he would sit for hours on some cellar-door, producing strains from a jews-harp, whose melody floated enchantingly upon the air, adding still more to the witchery of the time, and causing a secret wish to arise, that it might be evening all the year round. There is a sympathy in music not to be withstood; and when a particular chord is struck, if it find a unison in human feeling, the sternest heart must melt at its thrill. Upon a particular moonlight night, our hero established himself upon a door-sill, and taking out his instrument, commenced the beautiful and pathetic ballad of 'Lord Lovell and Lady Nancy.' For a while he played on with no more interest than a performer usually exhibits in the execution of a piece. At length, however, he began to revert to the sorrows of the Lady Nancy, and the tears were seen stealing, one by one, down his countenance. Thought begat thought, and sympathy begat sympathy, until Mr. Tumbler, overpowered by his feelings, took the jews-harp from his mouth, and commenced sobbing like a child. For a full half hour he continued to weep, and might have kept on for an hour longer, had not a hard-hearted servant girl emptied a bucket of ancient soap-suds upon him, from the third-story window. This libation at once cooled his sorrows. Shaking the unpleasing liquid from his garments, he crossed over to the market-house, in order to seek that repose which always waits upon innocence and self-approbation.

We come now to one of the darkest passages of our hero's life; an event which we chronicle with a tear; and which nothing but an imperative sense of duty, as faithful biographers, would compel us to narrate. There breathes not the man, no matter where you may seek him, whose career has been, in every instance, one of purity, who can look back upon his past life, without remembering _some_ action that brings a feeling of remorse, and who can declare upon his honor that he has done nothing but what has been perfectly justifiable in the eyes of God and his fellow-men. Why then should it be expected that Mr. Tumbler should prove an exception to all mankind? It is not to be--it ought not to be.

Mr. Tumbler was one day passing along the street, when his attention was arrested by a stone jug, which he observed beside an awning-post. He stopped, looked a moment at the vessel, and then at the pavers who were working in the street, and to whom the jug evidently belonged. Mr. Tumbler then reflected a moment, turned about to satisfy himself that no one observed him, picked up the jug, shook it, reconnoitred again, hesitated an instant, and placing it under his coat, leisurely walked on. Unfortunately, however, for his success, the jug was missed. He was seen, suspected, pursued, caught, and taken by the collar before his honor the mayor. That dispenser of justice was induced to believe that he was an old offender; and accordingly ordered his pockets to be examined. But however Mr. Tumbler might have erred, in regard to the abstraction of the jug, he was nevertheless innocent of other crimes of the kind; and nothing rewarded the search, save an onion, and the fragment of a Bologna sausage. He was, however, in consequence of the affair on hand, imprisoned in the city gaol for the space of thirty days; which confinement, we have been informed, he bore with the resignation of a Christian, and the fortitude of a hero. At length he was released; but he came out an altered man. His spirits had been broken down by the disgrace he had suffered, and he now plunged deeper than ever into dissipation, seeking in its excitement to drive away the memory of the past. Happy, indeed, would it have been, had his sensibilities been less refined; but, like the flower which shrinks from the touch, he avoided all intercourse with his fellow-men, wrapping himself up in the gloom of his own thoughts, neglecting his jews-harp, neglecting himself, and neglected by the world.

Not a great while after our hero's release from incarceration, he might have been observed strolling leisurely along the wharf, with the manner of one who has no definite object of pursuit, and who is willing to amuse himself with whatever the time and place might present. As his eye rolled onward, he espied a cask, upon the head of which was written, in large black letters, the word '_Cogniac_.' But he little thought that fatal word was to him what the hand-writing upon the wall had been to the mighty Belshazzar. He little thought that the simple word 'Cogniac' was applied to him, at that moment, in as terrible a warning as was the 'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!' which foretold to the Chaldean king the destruction of his life and empire.

He regarded the cask for a moment, and then throwing his right leg over, he mounted it. Seating himself firmly, he looked briefly about him. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he very deliberately drew a large gimlet from his pocket, and commenced boring a hole in one of the staves, gazing over the river the while, as if attracted by some interesting object on the opposite shore. When the perforation was complete, he returned the instrument to his pocket, and took an additional survey of the premises. Seeing that he was not watched by any one, he produced the end of a tin tube--manufactured expressly for such occasions--from beneath his vest, and inserting it in the hole, applied his mouth to the other extremity of the conductor, which protruded from the upper part of the garment, and in this manner commenced extracting the contents of the cask. For the space of an hour, he remained in one position, not even stirring a limb. At length the curiosity of a passer-by was excited by his appearance; and going up to the cask, he was surprised to find a man, as he thought, asleep. The stranger shook him for a moment, as if to awaken him; and when he relaxed his grasp, our hero tumbled to the ground. Astonished that the fall did not rouse him, the stranger stooped down to examine his features. They were fixed and rigid. He took his hand; it was cold as marble. He felt for his pulse; but it had ceased for ever. To make use of a novel phrase, 'the vital spark was extinguished.' Mr. Tumbler had gone to a land of 'pure spirits;' a place which he often said he longed to visit; since the spirits he was in the habit of imbibing here were generally any thing but pure.

Thus died, in the prime of life, John Thomas Tumbler, Jr., a man whom nature had endowed with many excellent qualities, which were, however, all perverted by one vicious and unconquerable propensity. Under more favorable circumstances, he might have proved an ornament to society. Avoided, on all occasions, by the respectable of his species; treated with broad indifference, if not contumely; a subject of jest and ridicule for every body; how can we suppose he could burst these shackles, and soar to distinction? Emulation withered beneath the persecution which attended him through life, and which, we blush to say, did not cease with his death; for the papers, in noticing his demise, merely remarked, with cruel brevity: 'A loafer was found dead upon the wharf this morning.'

DEATH-BED REMORSE.

HOW awful is that hour, when conscience stings
The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears,
Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,
In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years,
And screaming like a vulture in his ears,
Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame;
How wild the fury of his soul careers!
His swart eye flashes with intensest flame,
And like the torture's rack, the wrestling of his frame!

J. G. PERCIVAL.

LITERARY NOTICES.

MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. By J. G. LOCKHART.
Part Second. pp. 198. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.

IN a notice of the first part of these Memoirs, we expressed an intention of renewing our broken intercourse with them, as they should appear, at intervals. The publication of two additional parts gives us ample scope for selection; and indeed this is all that a reviewer, not inclined to iterate, or 'bestow his tediousness' upon the reader, will be disposed to do. The pages before us are crowded with incidents, and with characteristic sketches of the personal and literary every-day life of their subject; and these, in themselves abundantly attractive, are rendered still more so, as we have already elsewhere remarked, by the pleasant style of the biographer, who will win enduring fame by this contribution to a literature which he had before not a little enriched.

Before entering upon our extracts, we cannot avoid remarking, that throughout the minuter history of the illustrious poet and novelist here presented, we are enabled to see the great secret of a literary career, unparalleled since the era of Shakspeare, if he who wrote for all mankind may be said to have had, or to have, an era. He stands forth, in these volumes, a shining example to all authors who would win a permanent hold upon the public regard. He _studied_ humanity, and the works of nature. He did not content himself with portraying the invisible and non-existent, and with _conceiving_ scenes and personages which have no counterparts in nature or in common life. He held rapt intercourse with the mountains, rivers, and vales of Scotland; and he sought the teachings of those natural instructors, the green fields. His ear was ever open to the 'silent voice of Nature, speaking in forms and colors.' The humblest peasant was a picture, and his qualities a study; and the lightest shade of character, in high or low, was not beneath his scrutiny. To this careful perception of nature, in all its forms and phases, he added a course of reading more various and extended, we cannot doubt, than any contemporary on the globe. But, unlike the many who lard their lean books with the fat of other authors, he read only to digest, and to _fuse_ his mind; hence, his resources were never exhausted, even when he was a gray soldier in the literary field, wherein he had borne arms so nobly and so long. How numerous the chaotic fictions, how many the trumpery novels, how large the amount of still-born poetry, now sunk into waste paper and oblivion, which might have been saved to the world, had their producers but followed the example of the author of Waverley! How much worse than useless labor might have been saved to the thousands who, unable to inform have striven to please, and have borne their ponderous loads into the literary mart, and expanded them on the stalls of their hapless publishers! We cannot but hope that, primarily, the publication of these Memoirs will be widely beneficial to novelists and poets, and secondarily, to the reading public; that they will improve the taste of those authors who are content to indulge in superficialities merely; to amuse the imagination, and convey infection to love-sick damsels, without satisfying the judgment, or touching the heart. So mote it be!

We commence our extracts with a brief history of the Lay of the Last Minstrel, a poem 'which has now kept its place for nearly a third of a century:'

"It is curious to trace the small beginnings and gradual
development of his design. The lovely Countess of Dalkeith
bears a wild rude legend of Border _diablerie_, and sportively
asks him to make it the subject of a ballad. He had been
already laboring in the elucidation of the 'quaint Inglis'
ascribed to an ancient seer and bard of the same district,
and perhaps completed his own sequel, intending the whole to
be included in the third volume of the Minstrelsy. He assents
to Lady Dalkeith's request, and casts about for some new
variety of diction and rhyme, which might be adopted without
impropriety in a closing strain for the same collection. Sir
John Stoddart's casual recitation, a year or two before, of
Coleridge's unpublished Christabel, had fixed the music of
that noble fragment in his memory; and it occurs to him, that
by throwing the story of Gilpin Horner into somewhat of a
similar cadence, he might produce such an echo of the later
metrical romance, as would serve to connect his _Conclusion_
of the primitive Sir Tristrem with his imitations of the
common popular ballad in the Grey Brother and Eve of St. John.
A single scene of feudal festivity in the hall of Branksome,
disturbed by some pranks of a nondescript goblin, was probably
all that he contemplated; but his accidental confinement in
the midst of a volunteer camp gave him leisure to meditate his
theme to the sound of the bugle; and suddenly there flashes
on him the idea of extending his simple outline, so as to
embrace a vivid panorama of that old Border life of war and
tumult, and all earnest passions, with which his researches
on the 'Minstrelsy' had by degrees fed his imagination, until
every the minutest feature had been taken home and realized
with unconscious intenseness of sympathy; so that he had won
for himself in the past another world, hardly less complete
or familiar than the present. Erskine or Cranstoun suggests
that he would do well to divide the poem into cantos, and
prefix to each of them a motto explanatory of the action,
after the fashion of Spenser in the Faëry Queen. He pauses for
a moment--and the happiest conception of the frame-work of
a picturesque narrative that ever occurred to any poet--one
that Homer might have envied--the creation of the ancient
harper, starts to life. By such steps did the 'Lay of the Last
Minstrel' grow out of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.'

"A word more of its felicitous machinery. It was at Bowhill
that the Countess of Dalkeith requested a ballad on Gilpin
Horner. The ruined castle of Newark closely adjoins that seat,
and is now indeed included within its _pleasance_. Newark had
been the chosen residence of the first Duchess of Buccleuch,
and he accordingly shadows out his own beautiful friend in the
person of her lord's ancestress, the last of the original stock
of that great house; himself the favored inmate of Bowhill,
introduced certainly to the familiarity of its circle in
consequence of his devotion to the poetry of a by-past age, in
that of an aged minstrel, 'the last of all the race,' seeking
shelter at the gate of Newark, in days when many an adherent of
the fallen cause of Stewart--his own bearded ancestor, _who had
fought at Killiekrankie_, among the rest--owed their safety to
her who

'In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb.'"

The profits, to Scott, from the several editions of this poem were £769. The sales are given as follows:

"The first edition of the Lay was a magnificent quarto, 750
copies; but this was soon exhausted, and there followed an
octavo impression of 1500; in 1806, two more, one of 2000
copies, another of 2550; in 1807, a fifth edition of 2000,
and a sixth of 3000; in 1803, 3550; in 1809, 3000--a small
edition in quarto (the ballads and lyrical pieces being
then annexed to it,) and another octavo edition of 3250; in
1811, 3000; in 1812, 3000; in 1816, 3000; in 1823, 1000. A
fourteenth impression of 2000 foolscap appeared in 1825; and
besides all this, before the end of 1836, 11,000 copies had
gone forth in the collected editions of his poetical works.
Thus, nearly forty-four thousand copies had been disposed of
in this country, and by the legitimate trade alone, before he
superintended the edition of 1830, to which his biographical
introductions were prefixed. In the history of British Poetry,
nothing had ever equalled the demand for the Lay of the Last
Minstrel."

Subsequently to a very interesting account of Scott's partnership with Ballantine, and of his entering actively upon numerous literary projects--including his editions of the British poets, Ancient English Chronicles, Dryden, commencement of Waverley, etc.,--we find the following account of his personal habits of industry:

"He rose by five o'clock, lit his own fire, when the
season required one, and shaved and dressed with great
deliberation--for he was a very martinet as to all but the
mere coxcomberies of the toilet, not abhorring effeminate
dandyism itself so cordially as the slightest approach to
personal slovenliness, or even those 'bed-gown and slipper
tricks,' as he called them, in which literary men are so apt
to indulge. Arrayed in his shooting-jacket, or whatever dress
he meant to use till dinner time, he was seated at his desk by
six o'clock, all his papers arranged before him in the most
accurate order, and his books of reference marshalled around
him on the floor, while at least one favorite dog lay watching
his eye, just beyond the line of circumvallation. Thus, by the
time the family assembled for breakfast between nine and ten,
he had done enough (in his own language) '_to break the neck
of the day's work_.' After breakfast, a couple of hours more
were given to his solitary tasks, and by noon he was, as he
used to say, 'his own man.' When the weather was bad, he would
labor incessantly all the morning; but the general rule was to
be out and on horseback by one o'clock at the latest; while,
if any more distant excursion had been proposed over night, he
was ready to start on it by ten; his occasional rainy days of
unintermitted study forming, as he said, a fund in his favor,
out of which he was entitled to draw for accommodation whenever
the sun shone with special brightness.

"It was another rule, that every letter he received should
be answered that same day. Nothing else could have enabled
him to keep abreast with the flood of communications that
in the sequel put his good nature to the severest test; but
already the demands on him in this way also were numerous; and
he included attention to them among the necessary business
which must be despatched before he had a right to close
his writing-box, or, as he phrased it, 'to say _out damned
spot_, and be a gentleman.' In turning over his enormous
mass of correspondence, I have almost invariably found some
indication that, when a letter had remained more than a day or
two unanswered, it had been so because he found occasion for
inquiry or deliberate consideration."

In illustration of the correctness of the remarks which introduce these extracts, we give the following passage from a letter of an early friend of Scott to his biographer. It is unnecessary to say, that it is kindred with numerous others which might be selected:

"One of our earliest expeditions was to visit the wild scenery
of the mountainous tract above Moffat, including the cascade of
the 'Gray Mare's Tail,' and the dark tarn called 'Loch Skene.'
In our ascent to the lake, we got completely bewildered in the
thick fog which generally envelopes the rugged features of
that lonely region; and, as we were groping through the maze
of bogs, the ground gave way, and down went horse and horsemen
pell-mell into a slough of peaty mud and black water, out of
which, entangled as we were with our plaids and floundering
nags, it was no easy matter to get extricated. Indeed, unless
we had prudently left our gallant steeds at a farm-house below,
and borrowed hill ponies for the occasion, the result might
have been worse than laughable. As it was, we rose like the
spirits of the bog, covered _cap-à-pie_ with slime, to free
themselves from which, our wily ponies took to rolling about
on the heather, and we had nothing for it but following their
example. At length, as we approached the gloomy loch, a huge
eagle heaved himself from the margin and rose right over us,
screaming his scorn of the intruders; and altogether it would
be impossible to picture any thing more desolately savage
than the scene which opened, as if raised by enchantment on
purpose to gratify the poet's eye; thick folds of fog rolling
incessantly over the face of the inky waters, but rent asunder
now in one direction, and then in another--so as to afford us
a glimpse of some projecting rock or naked point of land, or
island, bearing a few scraggy stumps of pine--and then closing
again in universal darkness upon the cheerless waste. Much of
the scenery of Old Mortality was drawn from that day's ride.

"It was also in the course of this excursion that we
encountered that amusing personage introduced into Guy
Mannering as 'Tod Gabbie,' though the appellation by which he
was known in the neighborhood was 'Tod Willie.' He was one of
these itinerants who gain a subsistence among the moorland
farmers by relieving them of foxes, pole-cats, and the like
depredators--a half-witted, stuttering, and most original
creature."

The subjoined extract will serve to show the great humility with which Scott bore his literary honors, at a time when he was beleaguered by the importunities of fashionable admirers. His bearing, says Mr. Lockhart, when first exposed to such influences, was exactly what it was to the end. The Border Minstrel is writing from London, whither he had proceeded upon business connected with an important prospective situation as Clerk of the Edinburgh Sessions, a lucrative and desirable station:

"It will give you pleasure to learn that, notwithstanding
some little rubs, I have been able to carry through the
transaction which your lordship sanctioned by your influence
and approbation, and that in a way very pleasing to my own
feelings. Lord Spencer, upon the nature of the transaction
being explained in an audience with which he favored me, was
pleased to direct the commission to be issued, as an act
of justice, regretting, he said, it had not been from the
beginning his own deed. This was doing the thing handsomely,
and like an English nobleman. I have been very much fêted and
caressed here, almost indeed to suffocation, but have been made
amends by meeting some old friends. One of the kindest was Lord
Somerville, who volunteered introducing me to Lord Spencer,
as much, I am convinced, from respect to your lordship's
protection and wishes, as from a desire to serve me personally.
He seemed very anxious to do any thing in his power which might
evince a wish to be of use to your protegé. Lord Minto was also
infinitely kind and active, and his influence with Lord Spencer
would, I am convinced, have been stretched to the utmost in
my favor, had not Lord Spencer's own view of the subject been
perfectly sufficient.

"After all, a little literary reputation is of some use here.
I suppose Solomon, when he compared a good name to a pot of
ointment, meant that it oiled the hinges of the hall-doors into
which the possessors of that inestimable treasure wished to
penetrate. What a _good_ name was in Jerusalem, a _known_ name
seems to be in London. If you are celebrated for writing verses
or for slicing cucumbers, for being two feet taller or two feet
less than any other biped, for acting plays when you should be
whipped at school, or for attending schools and institutions
when you should be preparing for your grave, your notoriety
becomes a talisman--'an Open Sesame' before which every thing
gives way--till you are voted a bore, and discarded for a new
plaything. As this is a consummation of notoriety which I am by
no means ambitious of experiencing, I hope I shall be very soon
able to shape my course northward, to enjoy my good fortune at
my leisure."

Elsewhere, a friend thus describes his bearing, in the presence of his London entertainers:

"'Scott,' his friend says, 'more correctly than any other
man I ever knew, appreciated the value of that apparently
enthusiastic _engouement_ which the world of London shows to
the fashionable wonder of the year. During the sojourn of 1809,
the homage paid him would have turned the head of any less
gifted man of eminence. It neither altered his opinions, nor
produced the affectation of despising it; on the contrary, he
received it, cultivated it, and repaid it in his own coin. 'All
this is very flattering,' he would say, 'and very civil; and if
people are amused with hearing me tell a parcel of old stories,
or recite a pack of ballads to lovely young girls and gaping
matrons, they are easily pleased, and a man would be very
ill-natured who would not give pleasure so cheaply conferred.'
If he dined with us, and found any new faces, 'Well, do you
want me to play lion to-day?' was his usual question; 'I will
roar, if you like it, to your heart's content.' He would,
indeed, in such cases, put forth all his inimitable powers
of entertainment; and day after day surprised me by their
unexpected extent and variety. Then, as the party dwindled, and
we were left alone, he laughed at himself, quoted, 'Yet know
that I one Snug the joiner am--no lion fierce,' etc.,--and was
at once himself again.

"He often lamented the injurious effects for literature and
genius resulting from the influence of London celebrity on
weaker minds, especially in the excitement of ambition for this
subordinate and ephemeral _reputation du salon_. 'It may be a
pleasant gale to sail with,' he said, 'but it never yet led to
a port that I should like to anchor in.'"

In relation to the delightful introductory epistles to Marmion, we find the following:

"He frequently wandered far from home, attended only by
his dog, and would return late in the evening, having let
hours after hours slip away among the soft and melancholy
wildernesses where Yarrow creeps from her fountains. The lines,

'Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,
By lone Saint Mary's silent lake,' &c.

paint a scene not less impressive than what Byron found amidst
the gigantic pines of the forest of Ravenna; and how completely
does he set himself before us in the moment of his gentler and
more solemn inspiration, by the closing couplet,

'Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.'

But when the theme was of a more stirring order, he enjoyed
pursuing it over brake and fell, at the full speed of his
_Lieutenant_. I well remember his saying, as I rode with him
across the hills from Ashestiel to Newark one day in his
declining years: 'Oh, man, I had many a grand gallop among
these braes when I was thinking of Marmion, but a trotting
canny pony must serve me now.' His friend, Mr. Skene, however,
informs me, that many of the more energetic descriptions, and
particularly that of the battle of Flodden, were struck out
while he was in quarters again with his cavalry, in the autumn
of 1807. 'In the intervals of drilling,' he says, 'Scott used
to delight in walking his powerful black steed up and down
by himself upon the Portobello sands, within the beating of
the surge; and now and then you would see him plunge in his
spurs and go off as if at the charge, with the spray dashing
about him.' As we rode back to Musselburgh, he often came and
placed himself beside me to repeat the verses that he had been
composing during these pauses of our exercise."

We should be glad to follow the biographer through his account of the production of 'Marmion,' and to present some of the numerous criticisms which were received from the various personal friends of the author. Our space, however, will not permit. The popularity of the poem may be estimated from the fact, that more than fifty thousand copies of the work were subsequently sold in Great Britain alone.

Scott's personal appearance, at this period, is thus described by Miss Seward:

"'On Friday last,' she says, 'the poetically great Walter Scott
came 'like a sun-beam to my dwelling.' This proudest boast of
the Caledonian muse is tall, and rather robust than slender,
but lame in the same manner as Mr. Hayley, and in a greater
measure. Neither the contour of his face, nor yet his features,
are elegant; his complexion healthy, and somewhat fair, without
bloom. We find the singularity of brown hair and eye-lashes,
with flaxen eyebrows, and a countenance open, ingenuous, and
benevolent. When seriously conversing, or earnestly attentive,
though his eyes are rather of a lightish gray, deep thought
is on their lids; he contracts his brow, and the rays of
genius gleam aslant from the orbs beneath them. An upper lip
too long prevents his mouth from being decidedly handsome;
but the sweetest emanations of temper and heart play about
it, when he talks cheerfully, or smiles; and in company, he
is much oftener gay than contemplative. His conversation--an
overflowing fountain of brilliant wit, apposite allusion, and
playful archness--while on serious themes it is nervous and
eloquent; the accent decidedly Scotch, yet by no means broad.
On the whole, no expectation is disappointed which his poetry
must excite in all who feel the power and graces of human
inspiration."

We pass the details of his extraordinary literary labors and successes, to present two or three extracts, which serve to show us the _man_. A friend of the biographer's thus compares Scott and Jeffrey, whom he met at a dinner-party in Edinburgh:

"'There were,' he says, 'only a few people besides the two
lions--and assuredly I have seldom passed a more agreeable day.
A thousand subjects of literature, antiquities, and manners
were started; and much was I struck, as you may well suppose,
by the extent, correctness, discrimination, and accuracy of
Jeffrey's information; equally so with his taste, acuteness,
and wit in dissecting every book, author, and story that
came in our way. Nothing could surpass the variety of his
knowledge, but the easy rapidity of his manner of producing
it. He was then in his meridian. Scott delighted to draw him
out, delighted also to talk himself, and displayed, I think,
even a larger range of anecdote and illustration; remembering
every thing, whether true or false, that was characteristic
or impressive; every thing that was good, or lovely, or
lively. It struck me that there was this great difference:
Jeffrey, for the most part, entertained us, when books were
under discussion, with the detection of faults, blunders,
absurdities, or plagiarisms. Scott took up the matter where
he left it, recalled some compensating beauty or excellence
for which no credit had been allowed, and by the recitation,
perhaps, of one fine stanza, set the poor victim on his legs
again."

Here is a picture of his fine feeling of domestic attachment:

"Mr. and Mrs. Morritt reached Edinburgh soon after this letter
was written. Scott showed them the lions of the town and its
vicinity, exactly as if he had nothing else to attend to but
their gratification; and Mr. Morritt recollects with particular
pleasure one long day spent in rambling along the Esk by Roslin
and Hawthornden,

'Where Johnson sat in Drummond's social shade,'

down to the old haunts of Lasswade."

"'When we approached that village,' says the memorandum with
which Mr. Morritt favors me, 'Scott, who had laid hold of my
arm, turned along the road in a direction not leading to the
place where the carriage was to meet us. After walking some
minutes towards Edinburgh, I suggested that we were losing the
scenery of the Esk, and, besides, had Dalkeith Palace yet to
see. 'Yes,' said he, 'and I have been bringing you where there
is little enough to be seen--only that Scotch cottage' (one
by the road side, with a small garth); 'but, though not worth
looking at, I could not pass it. It was our first country-house
when newly married, and many a contrivance we had to make it
comfortable. I made a dining-table for it with my own hands.
Look at those two miserable willow-trees on either side the
gate into the enclosure: they are tied together at the top to
be an arch, and a cross made of two sticks over them is not
yet decayed. To be sure it is not much of a lion to show a
stranger; but I wanted to see it again myself, for I assure
you that after I had constructed it, _mamma_ (Mrs. Scott)
and I both of us thought it so fine, we turned out to see it
by moonlight, and walked backwards from it to the door, in
admiration of our own magnificence and its picturesque effect.
I did want to see if it was still there: so now we will look
after the barouche, and make the best of our way to Dalkeith.'
Such were the natural feelings that endeared the Author of
Marmion and the Lay to those who 'saw him in his happier hours
of social pleasure.'"

A brief paragraph or two, descriptive of Scott's feelings when he first called the now classic grounds of Abbotsford his own, must close our quotations for the present:

"As my lease of this place is out, I have bought, for about
4000 pounds, a property in the neighborhood, extending along
the banks of the river Tweed for about half a mile. It is
very bleak at present, having little to recommend it but the
vicinity of the river; but as the ground is well adapted by
nature to grow wood, and is considerably various in form and
appearance, I have no doubt that by judicious plantations it
may be rendered a very pleasant spot; and it is at present
my great amusement to plan the various lines which may be
necessary for that purpose. The farm comprehends about a
hundred acres, of which I shall keep fifty in pasture and
tillage, and plant all the rest, which will be a very valuable
little possession in a few years, as wood bears a high price
among us. I intend building a small cottage for my summer
abode, being obliged by law, as well as induced by inclination,
to make this country my residence for some months every year.
This is the greatest incident which has lately taken place in
our domestic concerns; and I assure you we are not a little
proud of being greeted as _laird_ and _lady_ of _Abbotsford_.
We will give a grand gala when we take possession of it, and
as we are very _clannish_ in this corner, all the Scots in the
country, from the duke to the peasant, shall dance on the green
to the bagpipes, and drink whiskey-punch." * * * "The same week
he says to Joanna Baillie: 'My dreams about my cottage go on;
of about a hundred acres I have manfully resolved to plant from
sixty to seventy; as to my scale of dwelling, why, you shall
see my plan when I have adjusted it. My present intention is
to have only two spare bed-rooms, with dressing-rooms, each
of which will, on a pinch, have a couch-bed; but I cannot
relinquish my Border principle of accommodating all the cousins
and _duniwastles_, who will rather sleep on chairs, and on
the floor, and in the hay-loft, than be absent when folks are
gathered together; and truly I used to think Ashestiel was very
much like the tent of Paribanou, in the Arabian Nights, that
suited alike all numbers of company equally; ten people fill it
at any time, and I remember its lodging thirty-two without any
complaint."

Speaking of a species of his visitors at this time--'the go-about folks, who generally pay their score one way or other'--he says:

"I never heard of a stranger that utterly baffled all
efforts to engage him in conversation, excepting one whom an
acquaintance of mine met in a stage-coach. My friend, who
piqued himself on his talents for conversation, assailed this
tortoise on all hands, but in vain, and at length descended to
expostulation. 'I have talked to you, my friend, on all the
ordinary subjects--literature, farming, merchandise--gaming,
game-laws, horse-races--suits at law--politics, and swindling,
and blasphemy, and philosophy; is there any one subject that
you will favor me by opening upon?' The wight writhed his
countenance into a grin: 'Sir,' said he, 'can you say any thing
clever about _bend-leather_?' There, I own, I should have
been as much nonplussed as my acquaintance; but upon any less
abstruse subject, I think, in general, something may be made
of a stranger, worthy of his clean sheets, and beef-steak, and
glass of port."

We shall resume our notice of these admirable Memoirs, as they appear in the successive 'parts' of the American edition. 'Part Four' is in course of publication, and will soon be issued.

EDITORS' TABLE.

'SISTE 'VIATOR!'--But a little while ago, we published in these pages a brief tribute to the memory of a gifted and distinguished female contributor to the poetical department of this Magazine; and it now becomes our painful duty to record the recent demise of another child of song, with whom our readers have not unfrequently held pleasant communion. We gather from a letter before us, from an attentive literary friend, now in Massachusetts, that J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT, ESQ. died recently at Manchester, (Miss.,) at the early age of thirty-three. He was the only son of JONATHAN BRIGHT, ESQ., of Salem, (Mass.) Early in life he came to this city, where he resided until the death of his parents, when he removed to Albany, and subsequently to Norfolk, (Va.,) where he married. Last autumn he sailed for New-Orleans; and, soon after his arrival, was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take part in an important mercantile interest at Manchester, a new town, hewn but recently from the forest. Here, undue exposure to the night air brought on the fever of the country; and in this cheerless frontier region, away from his kindred and friends, after an illness of a few hours, he yielded up his gentle spirit. There is an irrepressible melancholy in the thought, that one so open to all the tender influences of affection, should breathe his last far from the endearments of home, and lay his bones among strangers. Yet, to adopt a stanza of a charming fragment written by him for the KNICKERBOCKER:

'Yet it matters not much, when the bloom is fled,
And the light is gone from the lustrous eye,
And the sensitive heart is cold and dead,
Where the mouldering ashes are left to lie:
It matters not much, if the soaring mind,
Like the flower's perfume, is exhaled to heaven,
That its earthly shroud should be cast behind,
To decay, wherever a place is given.'

Mr. BRIGHT, under the signature of 'VIATOR,' has contributed many gems of pure feeling, imbued with the true spirit of poetry, to the fugitive literature of the day. The 'Albany Argus' gave to the world many of his choicest effusions, previous to his appearance before our readers. Of his later efforts, it is unnecessary to speak. They will recommend themselves to every affectionate and sympathetic heart, not less by the graces of composition, than the spirit which pervades them. When the depressing influences which have so seriously affected the book-market shall cease to be operative, we hope to see a volume of poetry collated from the literary remains of Mr. BRIGHT; and we cannot doubt that it will be well received by the public at large, as it will certainly be most acceptable to his numerous friends and admirers.

We are confident that Mr. BRIGHT was capable of even higher and more sustained flights than characterize any of the fine productions which he has given to the public. There was promise of _varied_ endowments, too, of which we had scarcely deemed him possessed. Parts of the 'Vision of Death,' published in these pages, would have done no discredit to our best poets. The reader will recall its wild, German-like air, from the opening stanzas:

'The moon rode high in the Autumn sky,
The stars waned cold and dim,
While hoarsely the mighty Oregon
Pealed his eternal hymn;
And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads
Far over the river's brim.

'An impulse I might not defy,
Constrained my footsteps there;
When through the gloom a red eye burned
With a fixed and steady glare,
And a huge misshapen form of mist
Loom'd in the midnight air.'

* * * * *

Upon what tender filaments the fabric of existence hangs! Death, an unseen spectre, walked by the far-travelling poet's side; and when he deemed the journey of life but just begun, '_Siste Viator!_' rang in his dying ear. Well did Sir Thomas Browne exclaim, 'Our life is indeed but short, a very dream; and while we look about, eternity is at hand!'

Mr. BRIGHT has left an amiable and accomplished wife, with two pledges of an affectionate union. May the blessing of the widow and the fatherless be theirs, in full fruition!--and may consolation in bereavement be found in the reflection, that, to use the beautiful language of the dear departed,

'Though his bowed head be with Death's blossoms decked,
Warm in the smile of God his spirit walks erect.'

THE DEBUT OF MISS HILDRETH.

'And smooth success be strew'd before thy feet.'--ANTONY AND
CLEOPATRA.

AT the close of the late summer season, at the Park Theatre, a young lady from Massachusetts, of about the age of eighteen years, made her 'first appearance on any stage,' as the play-bills phrase it, in the character of 'The Wife of Mantua.'

We learn from authentic sources, that this was by no means the ordinary case of a stage-struck-heroine, gratifying a long-indulged desire to dash upon the boards, with the fond anticipation of achieving immortal renown at a stroke. Nor was it necessity which drove the _débutante_ to the choice of a profession, in which every department is so full of toil, and often of unrequited labor and suffering. Of good family, and having an excellent education, she was early smitten with the love of poetry, especially that of the better and the elder bards; and contracted a habit of reading aloud, which developed, gradually, the talent of expressive and forcible recitation, to a degree which astonished and deeply interested her friends. This talent, strengthened with her increasing knowledge of books and its exercise, led her to think of the histrionic profession as one congenial with her feelings, and enabling her to give such utterance to her appreciations of her favorite poets, as would gratify her own ambition, and that of her friends for her. But of the stage she knew literally nothing, even when this idea found a place in her imagination. She had seen only two or three plays performed, and had gleaned no lessons in the art from any fields but those of her own mind and fancy; and from these, we are happy to predict, she will yet reap an abundant harvest of success and renown.

Having taken some lessons in 'stage business' of one of the most accomplished actresses on the Park boards, and recited some passages, as a specimen of her powers, in the presence of the manager, she was permitted a trial, and chose the night of Mr. Chippendale's Benefit for her _début_. She had never seen the character she was to appear in performed, and never fully rehearsed the part, until the very day she came out: and even then, it was hastily rehearsed, and with reference less to the language than the positions, attitudes, etc., of the different characters. Thus, and thus only prepared, she came before a crowded house, to make her first attempt.

Her fine figure, expressive face, and tasteful attire, joined with her modest mien, and graceful, dignified carriage, struck the audience very favorably, and she was received with cheering applause. Soon, to these recommendations she added a clear, distinct and well-modulated voice, the first articulations of which, though low and somewhat timidly tremulous, proved the signal for a repetition of the plaudits of the audience. As the play proceeded, she gained more confidence, though still somewhat constrained, as was quite obvious, by the novelty of her situation, and soon began to give abundant evidence of her right to claim still higher praise, in the fine appreciation of the character she was personating, and in the truth to nature which marked her readings.

Miss Hildreth's performance of Marianna was of course purely an original one. She had been no play-goer, had seen no acting of any consequence, and had never witnessed the representation of 'The Wife.' Her faults were only those which the judicious advice of experienced friends, added to careful study, and a close but not servile observation of good models, will be found fully adequate to remove. These are simply, ignorance of stage-business, and of the magic art of by-play, a knowledge of which comes slowly, with the gradual growth of confidence, and that experience of the stage which a long acquaintance with it gives, and which enables the histrion to think not of the audience, but of the character he is personating. In her perfect understanding of the language set down for her, in the appropriateness of her gesticulation, attitudes, and articulation, while actually reading her own part, she evinced the possession of all the primary and fundamental materials of an actress of the first order; and she has only to work them judiciously, to convince the world, ere long, that ours has not been an erroneous estimate of her abilities.

A contemporary critic has objected to Miss Hildreth's performance of 'Marianna,' that she stood with her arms by her side until her cue was given, when, he concedes, she went through the part allotted to her creditably. This objection, it will be seen, refers to her 'by-play.' We have already touched on this point; and in support of the criticism, would instance the interview of 'Marianna' with St. Pierre, when they discourse of their own native Switzerland. There was none of that exquisite aside-play, (so to speak,) representing the enthusiastic interest which the Swiss girl is supposed to feel in the eloquent descant of her countryman upon its beauties; a feature which gives such a fascinating charm to the personation of the character by Ellen Tree. And was this to be expected, under the circumstances? The whole scene was new to the young _débutante_. Like ourselves, she too was a looker-on, during that beautiful apostrophe, (never better uttered than then, by Charles Mason,) and in short, was interested, as we were, in all the progress of 'the swelling act;' seemingly forgetting that she was to act while he was acting, and listening even as we were listening, until her cue was given; and then, wherein did she fail?

Certainly, not in the modest yet firm narration of her love-prompted journey from her mountain-home to Mantua, nor in the trial scene before the usurping duke, when, to save herself from brutal violation, she awes the assembled court by threatening 'the slightest motion of her little hand,' as it held the poisoned vial to her lips. Nor in the scenes with her confessor, when she so indignantly spurns the imputation of disloyalty to her lord, and creeps, child-like, to crave accustomed kindness from her ghostly friend, whose mind has been poisoned by a villain's arts against her; nor in the interview with St. Pierre, while she is giving utterance to the heart-felt joy which fills her bosom upon meeting with her countryman; nor, lastly, in the camp scene, where she so nobly refuses to go back to the trusting bosom of her lord, until he had proved that trust well-founded. We might give more particular citations of natural and striking points in her performance of all these scenes, but we forbear. Certainly, we repeat, in none of these was there aught that looked like failure, so far as her reading and action were concerned; and in this opinion we are confirmed by the concurrent testimony of many of the most distinguished members of the profession, who witnessed the début.

With great confidence, then, do we predict a brilliant career for this young lady, in the profession she has adopted, if she be only true to herself, and uses aright the talents she possesses. Careful study, observation, experience, and 'careful study,' after all, and with all the rest, will realize the fondest hopes of her friends, and the proudest of her own most ambitious anticipations.

J. F. O.

PARK THEATRE.--If an exception to the influence of that mighty incubus which has borne so heavily upon all trades, business, corporations, and professions, were demanded, the Park Theatre, in its undisturbed prosperity, would be selected as the most prominent. Whether from their old love of the drama, or from a desire to divert their thoughts from the misery that surrounded them without, they have sought a refuge in the gay illusions of the mimic scene within, the theatre has, through the entire period of this pecuniary pestilence, met with constant support from a suffering public. And it is well that such has been the case. It is far better that the mind, depressed with care, and racked with continued anxiety, should seek, in such rational recreation as the Theatre affords, a healthy relief, than by shutting out, in gloomy despondency, all amusement or relaxation, make its great grief to grow by what it feeds upon. Varied attractions have, during the past season, followed each other in quick succession. Bright and particular stars have shot their glories across the theatrical horizon, to the wonder of many, and the admiration of all. New plays, of every variety of the drama, have been brought forward, some to receive the stamp of approval, and others of condemnation. Débutantes have strutted their hour, some giving promise of growing excellence, and others of quick oblivion. So far, so good. The establishment has been growing rich, and the public have been satisfied with these _prominent_ evidences of its desire to maintain its old renown.