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teeth (all our family have white teeth), and flourish my ratteen to show my shapes. And though in a room, I am to speak as low and mumbling as I can, to look as if I did not care whether I was heard or not; yet in a public place, I am to talk as loud and as fast as possible, and call the men by their plain surnames, and tell all about our last night's parties, and a great many other things, Mr. Lounger, which I can't do for the heart of me; but my sisterin-law comes on amazingly, as Miss Gusto says. But then she has been in India, and she was not brought up with my grandmother. I protest, though I would be ashamed to let Miss Gusto know it, that often, when I am wishing to practice some of her lessons, I think I see my grandmother with her bunch of keys at her apron-string, her amber-headed stick in one hand and the Ladies' Calling in the other, looking at me from under her spectacles with such a frown, Mr. Lounger, it frightens me quite out of my head.

After all, I am apt to believe that the very great trouble and the many inconveniences to which we put ourselves to attain this distinction of the Ton, are, in a great measure, labor in vain; that our music, our dancing, and our good-breeding will perhaps be out of fashion before we have come to any degree of perfection in all or any of these accomplishments, for some of the fine ladies and fine gentlemen who visit us say that the Ton here is no Ton at all, for that the true and genuine Ton (like the true and genuine Milk of Roses) is only to be found in London. Nay, some of the finest of those fine ladies and gentlemen go a step farther, and inform us that the Ton of London itself is mere Twaddle, and that the only right Ton is to be found in Paris. I hope in goodness, however, that my sister, if she is determined, as she sometimes hints, to chase the Ton that length, will drop me by the way, or rather allow me to return again to the country. Old sparrows (the proverb says, Mr. Lounger) are ill to tame. Not that I am old, neither; but I believe I am not quite young enough to learn to be happy in the sort of life we lead here; and though I try all I can to think it a happy one, and I am sure to say so in every place to which we go, yet I can't help often secretly wishing I were back again at my father's, where I should not be obliged to be happy whether I would or not.

Your afflicted (if I may venture to say so), humble servant, MARJORY MUSHROOM.

22*

WALTER SCOTT, 1771-1832.

THIS illustrious author, the son of Walter Scott, who was a writer to the Signet in the Scottish capital, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 1771. He received the chief portion of his school education at the High-school of Edinburgh, then under the care of the celebrated Dr. Adam; but, during the four years that he remained there, he does not appear to have displayed any remarkable abilities, excepting for tale-telling, in which he excelled. "The chief employment of my holidays" (says he, in the general introduction to his novels) "was to escape with a chosen friend, who had the same taste with myself, and alternately to recite to each other such wild adventures as we were able to devise." In October, 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh, and left it in a year or two, without having added much to his stock of classical knowledge. At the age of fifteen, the breaking of a blood-vessel brought on an illness, which, to use his own words, "threw him back on the kingdom of fiction, as if by a species of fatality." Being for some time forbidden to speak or move, he did nothing but read from morning till night; and, by a perusal of old romances, old plays, and epic poetry, was unconsciously amassing materials for his future writings.

In his sixteenth year, he commenced studying for the bar, and became an apprentice to his father. In 1792, he became an advocate; but he had no taste for the law, and, as his father was in affluent circumstances, he resolved to devote himself to literary pursuits. In 1797, he married Miss Margaret Carpenter, the daughter of a French refugee, and soon after took a house at Lasswade, on the banks of the Tweed. In 1802, appeared his first publication of any note, "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," in two volumes, which displayed much curious and abstruse learning, and gained the author a considerable reputation as an historical and traditionary poet. In 1803, he came to the final resolution of quitting his profession, observing, "there was no great love between us at the beginning, and it pleased Heaven to decrease it on farther acquaintance." In 1805, he published "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," which was composed at the rate of a canto per week, and for which he obtained six hundred pounds. In 1803, appeared his "Marmion," which he sold for one thousand pounds, the extraordinary success of which induced him, he says, for the first and last time of his life, to feel something approaching to vanity. This was succeeded by an edition of Dryden's works, in eighteen volumes, with notes historical and explanatory, and a life of the author. In 1810, he composed his "Lady of the Lake," which had extraordinary success, and which has been characterized by some as the finest specimen of his poetical genius.

The signet is one of the king's seals used in sealing his private letters and all grants signed under his hand. It is always in the custody of the Secretaries of State. "A writer to the Signet" is therefore one who holds an office in the department of State.

"Vision of Don Roderick," These, however, did not meet

Within four years after this appeared his
"Rokeby," and "The Lord of the Isles."
with the success which attended his former poems.

But, determined to continue his literary career, he resolved to try his powers in the composition of fictitious prose writings, and in 1814 appeared "Waverley, or 'tis Sixty Years Since," a tale of the rebellion of 1745. Though it had not the name of its distinguished author attached to it, it soon rose to great popularity, and he now had fairly entered upon the field in which he earned triumphs even more splendid than he had gained in the domain of poetry. "Waverley" was followed within a few years by that brilliant series of prose fictions which made the "Great Unknown," as he was called, the wonder of the age. From 1815 to 1819 appeared, successively, "Guy Mannering," ," "The Antiquary," and the first series of the "Tales of my Landlord," containing the " Black Dwarf" and "Old Mortality;""Rob Roy," and the second series of the "Tales of my Landlord," containing "The Heart of Mid Lothian ;" and the third series, containing "The Bride of Lammermoor" and "A Legend of Montrose." In 1821,1 appeared "Kenilworth," which was succeeded, successively, by "The Pirate," "The Fortunes of Nigel," Peveril of the Peak," "Quentin Durward," ," "Tales of the Crusaders," &c.

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The great success of all these works enabled Scott to carry out the longcherished object of his wishes-to possess a large baronial estate. 1811, he purchased one hundred acres of land on the banks of the Tweed, near Melrose, for four thousand pounds, "and the interesting and now immortal name of Abbotsford was substituted for the very ordinary one of Cartley Hole." Other purchases of land followed, to a great extent, which, together with the noble mansion, cost more than fifty thousand pounds. In this princely mansion, the poet received for years, and entertained with bounteous hospitality, innumerable visitors-princes, peers, and poetsmen of all ranks and grades. In the mean time, he entered into partnership with his old school-fellow James Ballantyne, then rising into extensive business as a printer, in Edinburgh. The copartnership was kept a secret, and to all appearance the house of Ballantyne & Co. was doing a most prosperous business. Little did he dream what sad reverses awaited himhow soon his all was to be swept away

"Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,

That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey."

In the great commercial distresses of 1825 and 1826, his publishers, Constable & Co., stopped payment, and the failure of the firm of Ballantyne, for a very large sum, followed instantly, and thus these two firms involved Scott to the amount of more than one hundred thousand pounds.

In 1820, say his biographers, "the honor of the baronetcy was conferred upon him by George IV.," just as if he did not honor the "baronetcy" far more than the "baronetcy" honored him. Such men as John Milton, Isaac Newton, William Shakspeare, and Walter Scott need no unmeaning titles to make them greater. Scott, however, was pleased with it. To have a title, and a large landed estate, was his great ambition.

But these immense losses did not dishearten him. If he had been imprudent in forming such connections, most nobly and courageously did he come forward, and insisted that he would not be dealt with as an ordinary bankrupt, and pledged himself that the labor of his future life should be unremittingly devoted to the discharge of his debts.' He did more than fulfil his noble promise; for the gigantic toil to which, during years after this, he submitted, was the immediate cause that shortened his life. His self-sacrifice realized for his creditors, between January, 1826, and January, 1828, the surprising sum of forty thousand pounds; and soon after his death the principal of the whole Ballantyne debt was paid up by his executors. Language fails to express the honor and glory of such an act of moral heroism and severe integrity. It has encircled the brow of Sir Walter Scott with greener laurels than all the works of poetry and fiction he ever wrote.2 In 1826, our author removed from Abbotsford to Edinburgh, and entered vigorously upon his renewed labors. "Woodstock," the first and second series of the "Chronicles of the Canongate," ""Anne of Geierstein," the first, second, and third series of "Tales of my Grandfather," the "Life of Napoleon," in nine volumes, octavo, followed in rapid succession. But these great labors were too much for him. In 1830, he had an attack of paralysis; yet he continued to write several hours every day. In April, 1831, he suffered a still more severe attack, and he was prevailed upon to undertake a foreign tour. He sailed for Malta and Naples, and resided at the latter place from December, 1831, to the following April. The next month he set his face towards home, and reached London on the 13th of

"It is very hard," was his observation to a friend on the occasion, "thus to lose all the labors of a lifetime, and be made a poor man at last, when I ought to have been otherwise. But if God grant me health and strength for a few years longer, I have no doubt that I shall redeem it all."

"English literature presents two memorable and striking events, which have never been paralleled in any other nation. The first is Milton, advanced in years, blind, and in misfortune, entering upon the composition of a great epic that was to determine his future fame, and hazard the glory of his country in competition with what had been achieved in the classic ages of antiquity. The counterpart to this noble picture is Walter Scott, at nearly the same age, his private affairs in ruin, undertaking to liquidate, by intellectual labors alone, a debt of one hundred and seventeen thousand pounds. Both tasks may be classed with the moral sublime of life. Glory, pure and unsullied, was the ruling aim and motive of Milton; honor and integrity formed the incentives to Scott. Neither shrunk from the steady prosecution of his gigantic, self-imposed labor. But years rolled on, seasons returned and passed away, amidst public cares and private calamity, and the pressure of increasing infirmities, ere the seed sown amidst clouds and storms was white in the field. In six years Milton had realized the object of his hopes and prayers by the completion of 'Paradise Lost.' His task was done; the field of glory was gained; he held in his hand his passport to immortality. In six years Scott had nearly reached the goal of his ambition. He had ranged the wide fields of romance, and the public had liberally rewarded their illustrious favorite. The ultimate prize was within view, and the world cheered him on, eagerly anticipating his triumph; but the victor sank exhausted on the course. He had spent his life in the struggle. The strong man was bowed down, and his living honor, genius, and integrity were extinguished by delirium and death." Chambers' Cyclopedia.

June. He was conveyed to Abbotsford, the perfect wreck in body and mind of what he once was. "He lingered on for some time, listening occasionally to passages read to him from the Bible, and from his favorite author Crabbe. But the contest was soon to be over. About half-past one, P. M.," says Mr. Lockhart, "on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day-so warm that every window was wide open-and so perfectly still, that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around his bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes."

It now remains to speak of the character of the writings of this prolific and gifted genius. And here our own convictions of truth compel us to say that their moral tone is not all we could wish. Of his poetry, even a most partial biographer1 admits, "If its moral tone is not high, it must be at least admitted that it is uniformly inoffensive." This last we cannot admit. Much of it is "offensive" to us, because it delights in scenes of carnage and blood; and this same biographer remarks that, "very few in any age or country have portrayed with such admirable force and fire the soldier's thirst for battle, and the headlong fury of the field of slaughter." Now the question is, is not such poetry destined to die? As the world advances in true humanity, as war is more and more looked upon as legalized murder, will not such poetry as tends to excite all the most hateful passions of the human breast be less and less esteemed! We think it will. Even the genius of a Scott cannot interest the world in the border wars of rival nations, nor in the fierce encounters of hostile clans, nor make the "spirit of chivalry" respectable in the minds of the world generally, nor otherwise than hateful to the Christian; a "spirit" which, as the great Dr. Arnold justly remarked, "predominantly deserved the name of Antichrist, and is the more detestable for the very guise of archangel ruined." But his poetry, merely as poetry, without considering its moral bearing, takes by no means the highest rank. It skims over the surface-pleases us with its graphic descriptions-animates us by its lively measure-but goes not down into the depths of the soul, to call forth its deepest feelings or awaken its strongest sympathies.

His prose works have given him a higher rank. But it is only in the character of a novelist that his name will go down to posterity, as the inventor of a new class of fictitious writings. His Life of Napoleon is a decided failure, not displaying the accurate research of the historian, nor the profundity of the philosopher, which was expected from one of such established fame. That his romances awaken a deep interest in the reader, none will deny : but they are characterized by two things that detract much from their merit, and which will be felt more as society advances in humanity. One is the ridicule cast, in a number of his novels, upon a class of men as devotedly religious as any that ever lived-the Scotch Covenanters of the last century: another is the tone of aristocratic hauteur that pervades them all. Though

"Encyclopædia Britannica," vol. xix. p. 777.

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