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-And must I ravel out

My weaved-up follies?

Richard II. Act IV.

HAVING undertaken to give an Introductory Account of the compositions which are here offered to the public, with Notes and Illustrations, the author, under whose name they are now for the first time collected, feels that he has the delicate task of speaking more of himself and his personal concerns, than may perhaps be either graceful or prudent. In this particular, he runs the risk of presenting himself to the public in the relation that the dumb wife in the jest-book held to her husband, when, having spent half of his fortune to obtain the cure of her imperfection, he was willing to have bestowed the other half to restore her to her former condition. But this is a risk inseparable from the task which the author has undertaken, and he can only promise to be as little of an egotist as the situation will permit. It is perhaps an indifferent sign of a disposition to keep his word, that having introduced himself in the third person singular, he proceeds in the second paragraph to make use of the first. But it appears to him that the seeming modesty connected with the former mode of writing, is overbalanced by the inconvenience of stiffness and affectation which attends it during a narrative of some length, and which may be observed less or more in every work in which the third person is used, from the Commentaries of Cæsar, to the Autobiography of Alexander the Corrector.

I must refer to a very early period of my life, were I to point out my first achievements as a tale-teller-but I believe Some of my old schoolfellows can still bear witness that I had distinguished character for that talent, at a time when the applause of my companions was my recompense for the disgraces and punishments which the future romance writer incurred for being idle himself, and keeping others idle, during hours that should have been employed on our tasks. The chief enjoyment of my holidays was to escape with a chosen riend, who had the same taste with myself, and alternately to

recite to each other such wild adventures as we were able to devise. We told, each in turn, interminable tales of knighterrantry and battles and enchantments, which were continued from one day to another as opportunity offered, without our ever thinking of bringing them to a conclusion. As we observed a strict secrecy on the subject of this intercourse, it acquired all the character of a concealed pleasure, and we used to select, for the scenes of our indulgence, long walks through the solitary and romantic environs of Arthur's Seat, Salisbury Crags, Braid Hills, and similar places in the vicinity of Edinburgh; and the recollection of those holidays still forms an oasis in the pilgrimage which I have to look back upon. I have only to add, that my friend still lives, a prosperous gentleman, but too much occupied with graver business, to thank me for indicating him more plainly as a confident of my childish mystery.

When boyhood advancing into youth required more serious studies and graver cares, a long illness threw me back on the kingdom of fiction, as if it were by a species of fatality. My in disposition arose, in part at least, from my having broken a blood-vessel; and motion and speech were for a long time pronounced positively dangerous. For several weeks I was confined strictly to my bed, during which time I was not allowed to speak above a whisper, to eat more than a spoonful or two of boiled rice, or to have more covering than one thin counterpane. When the reader is informed that I was at this time a growing youth, with the spirits, appetite, and impatience of fifteen, and suffered, of course, greatly under this severe regimen, which the repeated return of my disorder rendered indispensable, he will not be surprised that I was abandoned to my own discretion, so far as reading (my almost sole amusement) was concerned, and still less so, that I abused the indulgence which left my time so much at my own disposal.

There was at this time a circulating library in Edinburgh, founded, I believe, by the celebrated Allan Ramsay, which, besides containing a most respectable collection of books of every description, was, as might have been expected, peculiarly rich in works of fiction. It exhibited specimens of every kind, from the romances of chivalry, and the ponderous folios of Cyrus and Cassandra, down to the most approved works of later times. I was plunged into this great ocean of reading without compass or pilot; and unless when some one had the

charity to play at chess with me, I was allowed to do nothing Save read, from morning to night. I was, in kindness and pity, which was perhaps erroneous, however natural, permitted to select my subjects of study at my own pleasure, upon the same principle that the humours of children are indulged to keep them out of mischief. As my taste and appetite were gratified in nothing else, I indemnified myself by becoming a glutton of books. Accordingly, I believe I read almost all the romances, old plays, and epic poetry, in that formidable collection, and no doubt was unconsciously amassing materials for the task in which it has been my lot to be so much employed.

At the same time I did not in all respects abuse the license permitted me. Familiar acquaintance with the specious miracles of fiction brought with it some degree of satiety, and I began, by degrees, to seek in histories, memoirs, voyages and travels, and the like, events nearly as wonderful as those which were the work of imagination, with the additional advantage that they were at least in a great measure true. The lapse of nearly two years, during which I was left to the exercise of my own free will, was followed by a temporary residence in the country, where I was again very lonely but for the amusement which I derived from a good though old-fashioned library. The vague and wild use which I made of this advantage I cannot describe better than by referring my reader to the desultory studies of Waverley in a similar situation; the passages concerning whose course of reading were imitated from recollections of my own. It must be understood that the resemblance extends no farther.

Time, as it glided on, brought the blessings of confirmed health and personal strength, to a degree which had never been expected or hoped for. The severe studies necessary to render me fit for my profession occupied the greater part of my time; and the society of my friends and companions who were about to enter life along with me, filled up the interval, with the usual amusements of young men. I was in a situation which rendered serious labour indispensable; for, neither possessing, on the one hand, any of those peculiar advantages which are supposed to favour a hasty advance in the profession of the law, nor being, on the other hand, exposed to unusual obstacles to interrupt my progress, I might reasonably expect to succeed according to the greater or less degree of trouble which I should take to qualify myself as a pleader.

It makes no part of the present story to detail how th success of a few ballads had the effect of changing all the pu pose and tenor of my life, and of converting a pains-takin lawyer of some years' standing into a follower of literature. is enough to say, that I had assumed the latter character f several years before I seriously thought of attempting a wo of imagination in prose, although one or two of my poetic attempts did not differ from romances otherwise than by bein written in verse. But yet, I may observe, that about this tim (now, alas! thirty years since) I had nourished the ambitio desire of composing a tale of chivalry, which was to be in th style of the Castle of Otranto, with plenty of Border character and supernatural incident. Having found unexpectedly chapter of this intended work among some old papers, I hav subjoined it to this introductory essay, thinking some reade may account as curious, the first attempts at romantic comp sition by an author who has since written so much in that d partment.1 And those who complain, not unreasonably, of th profusion of the Tales which have followed Waverley, may bles their stars at the narrow escape they have made, by the con mencement of the inundation which had so nearly taken plac in the first year of the century, being postponed for fiftee years later.

This particular subject was never resumed, but I did n abandon the idea of fictitious composition in prose, though determined to give another turn to the style of the work.

My early recollections of the Highland scenery and custom made so favourable an impression in the poem called th Lady of the Lake, that I was induced to think of attemptin something of the same kind in prose. I had been a goo deal in the Highlands at a time when they were much les accessible, and much less visited, than they have been of la years, and was acquainted with many of the old warriors 1745, who were, like most veterans, easily induced to figl their battles over again, for the benefit of a willing listener lik myself. It naturally occurred to me, that the ancient tradition and high spirit of a people, who, living in a civilised age an country, retained so strong a tincture of manners belonging an early period of society, must afford a subject favourable f romance, if it should not prove a curious tale marred in th telling.

It was with some idea of this kind, that, about the yea

1 See the Fragment alluded to, in the Appendix, No. 1.

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805, I threw together about one-third part of the first volume Waverley. It was advertised to be published by the late Ir. John Ballantyne, bookseller in Edinburgh, under the name "Waverley, or 'tis Fifty Years since," a title afterwards tered to "Tis Sixty Years since," that the actual date of ublication might be made to correspond with the period in hich the scene was laid. Having proceeded as far, I think, $ the Seventh Chapter, I showed my work to a critical friend, hose opinion was unfavourable; and having then some oetical reputation, I was unwilling to risk the loss of it by tempting a new style of composition. I therefore threw side the work I had commenced, without either reluctance or monstrance. I ought to add, that though my ingenious end's sentence was afterwards reversed, on an appeal to the ublic, it cannot be considered as any imputation on his good iste; for the specimen subjected to his criticism did not xtend beyond the departure of the hero for Scotland, and, onsequently, had not entered upon the part of the story which as finally found most interesting.

Be that as it may, this portion of the manuscript was laid side in the drawers of an old writing-desk, which, on my first oming to reside at Abbotsford, in 1811, was placed in a imber garret, and entirely forgotten. Thus, though I somemes, among other literary avocations, turned my thoughts to te continuation of the romance which I had commenced, yet I could not find what I had already written, after searching ich repositories as were within my reach, and was too inolent to attempt to write it anew from memory, I as often id aside all thoughts of that nature.

Two circumstances, in particular, recalled my recollection the mislaid manuscript. The first was the extended and ell-merited fame of Miss Edgeworth, whose Irish characters ave gone so far to make the English familiar with the characer of their gay and kind-hearted neighbours of Ireland, that e may be truly said to have done more towards completing he Union, than perhaps all the legislative enactments by which has been followed up.

Without being so presumptuous as to hope to emulate the ch humour, pathetic tenderness, and admirable tact, which ervade the works of my accomplished friend, I felt that someing might be attempted for my own country, of the same nd with that which Miss Edgeworth so fortunately achieved Ireland-something which might introduce her natives to

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