English Literature For Boys And Girls by H.E. Marshall

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"Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse,

Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviots blue,
And, home returning, fill'd the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl."*

*Marmion.

At other times Walter listened to the stories of his grandmother,
hearing all about the wild doings of his forbears, or the brave
deeds of Bruce and Wallace. He was taken to the seaside, to
Bath, and to London, and at length, grown into a sturdy little
boy, though still lame, he went back to his father's house in
Edinburgh. Here he says he soon felt the change from being a
single indulged brat, to becoming the member of a large family.

He now went to school, but did not show himself to be very
clever. He was not a dunce, but an "incorrigibly idle imp," and
in spite of his lameness he was better at games than at lessons.
In some ways, owing to his idleness, he was behind his fellows,
on the other hand he had read far more than they. And now he
read everything he could, in season and out of season. Pope's
Homer, Shakespeare, Ossian, and especially Spenser were among his
favorites. Then one happy day he came upon a volume of Percy's
Reliques. All one summer day he read and read, forgetting the
world, forgetting even to be hungry. After that he was for ever
entertaining his schoolfellows with scraps of tragic ballads, and
as soon as he could scrape enough money together, he bought a
copy of the book for himself.

So the years passed, Walter left school, went to Edinburgh
University, and began to study law. It was at this time, as a
boy of sixteen, that for the first and only time he met Robert
Burns, who had just come to Edinburgh, and was delighted at
receiving a kind word and look from the poet. He still found
time to read a great deal, to ride, and to take long, rambling
walks, for, in spite of his limp, he was a great walker and could
go twenty or thirty miles. Indeed he used to tramp the
countryside so far and so long that his father would say he
feared his son was born to be nothing better than a wandering
peddler.

After a time it was decided that Walter should be a barrister,
or, as it is called in Scotland, an advocate, and in 1792 he was
called to the Bar. His work as an advocate was at first not very
constant, and it left him plenty of time for long, rambling
excursions or raids, as he used to call them, in different parts
of Scotland and in the north of England. He traveled about,
listening to the ballads of the country folk, gathering tales,
storing his mind with memories of people and places. "He was
making himself a' the time," said a friend who went with him,
"but he didna ken maybe what he was about till years had passed.
At first he thought o' little, I daresay, but the queerness and
the fun."

It was in an expedition to the English Lakes with his brother and
a friend that Scott met his wife. One day while out riding he
saw a lady also riding. She had raven black hair and deep brown
eyes, which found a way at once to the poet's heart. In true
poet fashion he loved her. That night there was a ball, and
though Walter Scott could not dance, he went to the ball and met
his lady love. She was Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, the
daughter of a Frenchman who had taken refuge in England from the
fury of the Revolution. Walter was able to win his lady's heart,
and before the end of the year had married her and carried her
off to Scotland.

Two or three years after his marriage, Scott published a book of
Border Ballads. It was the outcome of his wanderings in the
Border country. In it Scott had gathered together many ballads
which he heard from the country folk, but he altered and bettered
them as he thought fit, and among them were new ballads by
himself and some of his friends.

The book was only a moderate success, but in it we may find the
germ of all Scott's later triumphs. For it was the spirit of
these ballads with which his mind was so full which made it
possible for him to write the Metrical Romances that made him
famous.

It is now many chapters since we spoke of Metrical Romances.
They were, you remember, the chief literature from the twelfth to
the fifteenth century, which time was also the time of the early
ballads. And now that people had begun again to see the beauty
of ballads, they were ready also to turn again to the simplicity
of Metrical Romances. These rime stories which Scott now began
to write, burst on our Island with the splendor of something new,
and yet it was simply the old-time spirit in which Scott had
steeped himself, which found a new birth--a Renascence. Scott
was a stalwart Border chieftain born out of time. But as another
writer says, instead of harrying cattle and cracking crowns, this
Border chief was appointed to be the song-singer and pleasant
tale-teller to Britain and to Europe. "It was the time for such
a new literature; and this Walter Scott was the man for it."*

*Carlyle.

"The mightiest chiefs of British song
Scorn'd not such legends to prolong:
They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream,
And mix in Milton's heavenly theme."*

*Marmion.

The first of Scott's song stories was called The Lay of the Last
Minstrel. In it he pictures an old minstrel, the last of all his
race, wandering neglected and despised about the countryside.
But at Newark Castle, the seat of the Duchess of Buccleuch, he
receives kindly entertainment.

"When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride:
And he began to talk anon,
Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone,
And of Earl Walter, rest him, God!
A braver ne'er to battle rode;
And how full many a tale he knew,
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch;
And, would the noble Duchess deign
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He though even yet, the sooth to speak,

That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear."

This humble boon was granted. The minstrel was led to the room
of state where sat the noble-hearted Duchess with her ladies, and
there began his lay. You must read The Lay itself to learn about
William of Deloraine, the Goblin Page, the Lady Margaret, and
Lord Canstoun, and all the rest. The meter in which Scott wrote
was taken from Coleridge's Christabel. For, though it was not
yet published, it had long been in manuscript, and Scott had
heard part of it repeated by a friend.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel was a success. From henceforth
Scott was an author. But he had no need to write for money, as
money came to him in other ways. So none of the struggles of a
rising author fell to his lot. His career was simply a
triumphant march. And good-natured, courteous, happy-hearted
Scott took his triumphs joyously.

Other poems followed The Lay, the best being Marmion and The Lady
of the Lake. Scott's son-in-law says, "The Lay is, I should say,
generally considered as the most natural and original, Marmion as
the most powerful and splendid, The Lady of the Lake as the most
interesting, romantic, picturesque, and graceful of his great
poems." Fame and money poured in upon Scott, and not upon him
only, but upon Scotland. For the new poet had sung the beauties
of the rugged country so well that hundreds of English flocked to
see it for themselves. Scotland became the fashion, and has
remained so ever since.

In 1799 Scott had been appointed Sheriff-deputy of Selkirkshire,
and as this obliged him to live part of the year at least in the
district, he rented a house not far from Selkirk. But now that
he saw himself becoming wealthy, he bought an estate in his
beloved Border country and began to build the house of
Abbotsford. To this house he and his family removed in May 1812.
Here, amid the noise of carpenters and masons, with only one room
fit to sit in, and that shared by chattering children, he went on
with his work. To a friend he writes, "As for the house and the
poem, there are twelve masons hammering at the one, and one poor
noddle at the other--so they are both in progress."

It was at Abbotsford that Scott made his home for the rest of his
life. Here he put off the gown and wig of a barrister, and
played the part of a country gentleman. He rode about
accompanied by his children and his friends, and followed by his
dogs. He fished, and walked, and learned to know every one
around, high and low. He was beloved by all the countryside, for
he was kindly and courteous to all, and was "aye the gentleman."
He would sit and talk with a poor man in his cottage, listening
to his tales of long ago, with the same ease and friendliness as
he would entertain the great in his own beautiful house. And
that house was always thronged with visitors, invited and
uninvited, with friends who came out of love of the genial host,
with strangers who came out of curiosity to see the great
novelist. For great as Scott's fame as a poet, it was nothing to
the fame he earned as a story-teller.

The first story he published was called Waverley, or 'Tis Sixty
Years Since. He had begun to write this tale years before, but
had put it aside as some of his friends did not think well of it.
One day he came upon the manuscript by accident, thought himself
that the story was worth something, and resolved to publish it.
Finishing the writing in three weeks he published the novel
without putting his name upon the title-page. He did this, he
said, because he thought it was not quite dignified for a grave
advocate and Sheriff of the county to write novels. The book was
a wild success, everybody read it, everybody was eager to know
who the author was. Many people guessed that it was Scott, but,
for more than ten years, he would not own it. At public dinners
when the health of the author of Waverley was drunk, people would
look meaningly at Scott, but he would appear quite unconcerned,
and drink the health and cheer with the rest. To keep the
mystery up he even reviewed his own books. And so curiosity
grew. Who was this Great Unknown, this Wizard of the North?

Waverley is a story of the Jacobite times, of the rebellion of
'45. The hero, Edward Waverley, who is no such great hero
either, his author calling him indeed "a sneaking piece of
imbecility," gives his name to the book. He meets Bonnie Prince
Charlie, is present at the famous ball at Holyrood, fights at the
battle of Prestonpans, and marches with the rebel army into
England.

Thus we have the beginning of the historical novel. Scott takes
real people, and real incidents, and with them he interweaves the
story of the fortunes of make-believe people and make-believe
incidents. Scott does not always keep quite strictly to fact.
He is of the same mind as the old poet Davenant who thought it
folly to take away the liberty of a poet and fetter his feet in
the shackles of an historian. Why, he asked, should a poet not
make and mend a story and frame it more delightfully, merely
because austere historians have entered into a bond to truth. So
Scott takes liberties with history, but he always gives us the
spirit of the times of which he writes. Thus in one sense he is
true to history. And perhaps from Waverley we get the better
idea of the state of Scotland, at the time of the last Jacobite
rebellion, than from any number of histories. In the next
chapter Scott himself shall give you an account of the battle of
Prestonpans.

Chapter LXXVIII SCOTT--"THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH"

"THE army, moving by its right from off the ground on which they
had rested, soon entered the path through the morass, conducting
their march with astonishing silence and great rapidity. The
mist had not risen to the higher grounds, so that for some time
they had the advantage of starlight. But this was lost as the
stars faded before approaching day, and the head of the marching
column, continuing its descent, plunged as it were into the heavy
ocean of fog, which rolled its white waves over the whole plain,
and over the sea by which it was bounded. Some difficulties were
now to be encountered, inseparable from darkness, a narrow,
broken, and marshy path, and the necessity of preserving union in
the march. These, however, were less inconvenient to
Highlanders, from their habits of life, than they would have been
to any other troops, and they continued a steady and swift
movement.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .
"The clan of Fergus had now gained the firm plain, which had
lately borne a large crop of corn. But the harvest was gathered
in, and the expanse was unbroken by trees, bush, or interruption
of any kind. The rest of the army were following fast, when they
heard the drums of the enemy beat the general. Surprise,
however, had made no part of their plan, so they were not
disconcerted by this intimation that the foe was upon his guard
and prepared to receive them. It only hastened their
dispositions for the combat, which were very simple.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .
"'Down with your plaid, Waverley,' cried Fergus, throwing off his
own; 'we'll win silks for our tartans before the sun is above the
sea.'

"The clansmen on every side stripped their plaids, prepared their
arms, and there was an awful pause of about three minutes, during
which the men, pulling off their bonnets, raised their faces to
heaven, and uttered a short prayer; then pulled their bonnets
over their brows and began to move forward at first slowly.
Waverley felt his heart at that moment throb as it would have
burst his bosom. It was not fear, it was not ardour--it was a
compound of both, a new and deeply energetic impulse, that with
its first emotion chilled and astounded, then fevered and
maddened his mind. The sounds around him combined to exalt his
enthusiasm; the pipes played, and the clans rushed forward, each
in its own dark column. As they advanced they mended their pace,
and the muttering sounds of the men to each other began to swell
into a wild cry. At this moment, the sun, which was not risen
above the horizon, dispelled the mist. The vapours rose like a
curtain, and showed the two armies in the act of closing. The
line of the regulars was formed directly fronting the attack of
the Highlanders; it glittered with the appointments of a complete
army, and was flanked by cavalry and artillery. But the sight
impressed no terror on the assailants.

"'Forward, sons of Ivor,' cried their chief, 'or the Camerons
will draw the first blood!' They rushed on with a tremendous
yell.

"The rest is well known. The horses, who were commanded to
charge the advancing Highlanders in the flank, received an
irregular fire from their fusees as they ran on, and, seized
with a disgraceful panic, wavered, halted, disbanded, and
galloped from the field. The artillerymen, deserted by the
cavalry, fled after discharging their pieces, and the
Highlanders, who dropped their guns when fired, and drew their
broadswords, rushed with headlong fury against the infantry.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .
"The English infantry, trained in the wars in Flanders, stood
their ground with great courage. But their extended files were
pierced and broken in many places by the close masses of the
clans; and in the personal struggle which ensued, the nature of
the Highlanders' weapons, and their extraordinary fierceness and
activity, gave them a decided superiority over those who had been
accustomed to trust much to their array and discipline, and felt
that the one was broken and the other useless.
. . . . . . . . . .
. .
"Loud shouts now echoed over the whole field. The battle was
fought and won, and the whole baggage, artillery, and military
stores of the regular army remained a possession of the victors.
Never was a victory more complete."

Such is Scott's picture of the battle of Prestonpans. And
throughout the whole book we have wonderful pictures of Scottish
life as it then was--pictures of robbers' caves, and chieftains'
halls, of the chiefs themselves, and their followers, of
mountain, loch, and glen, all drawn with such a true and living
touch that we cannot forget them.

After Waverley other novels followed fast, each one adding to the
reputation of the unknown author, and now, from the name of the
first, we call them all the Waverley Novels.

Scott's was one of the most wonderful successes--perhaps the most
wonderful--that has ever been known in our literature. "As long
as Sir Walter Scott wrote poetry," said a friend, "there was
neither man nor woman ever thought of either reading or writing
anything but poetry. But the instant that he gave over writing
poetry, there was neither man nor woman ever read it more! All
turned to tales and novels."*

*James Hogg.

Everybody read The Novels, from the King to the shepherd.
Friends, money, and fame came tumbling in upon the author. He
had refused to be made Poet Laureate, and passed the honor on to
Southey, but he accepted a baronetcy. He added wing after wing
to his beautiful house, and acre after acre to his land, and
rejoiced in being laird of Abbotsford.

The speed with which Scott wrote was marvelous. His house was
always full of visitors, yet he always had time to entertain
them. He was never known to refuse to see a friend, gentle or
simple, and was courteous even to the bores who daily invaded his
home. He had unbounded energy. He rose early in the morning,
and before the rest of the family was astir had finished more
than half of his daily task of writing. Thus by twelve o'clock
he was free to entertain his guests.

If ever man was happy and successful, Scott seemed to be that
man. But suddenly all his fair prospects were darkened over.
Sir Walter was in some degree a partner in the business both of
his publisher and his printer. Now both publisher and printer
failed, and Scott found himself ruined with them. At fifty-five
he was not only a ruined man, but loaded with a terrible debt of
117,000 pounds.

It was a staggering blow, and most men would have been utterly
crushed by it. Not so Scott. He was proud, proud of his old
name and of his new-founded baronial hall. He was stout of heart
too. At fifty-five he began life again, determined with his pen
to wipe out the debt. Many were the hands stretched out to help
him; rich men offered their thousands, poor men their scanty
savings, but Scott refused help from both rich and poor. His own
hand must wipe out the debt, he said. Time was all he asked. So
with splendid courage and determination, the like of which has
perhaps never been known, he set to work.

But evil days had begun for Sir Walter. Scarcely four months
after the crash, his wife died, and so he lost a companion of
nearly thirty years. "I think my heart will break," he cries in
the first bitterness of sorrow. "Lonely, aged, deprived of my
family, an impoverished, an embarrassed man." But dogged courage
comes to him again. "Well, that is over, and if it cannot be
forgotten must be remembered with patience." So day after day he
bent to his work. Every morning saw his appointed task done.
Besides novels and articles he wrote a History of Napoleon, a
marvelous book, considering it was written in eighteen months.

Then Scott began the book which will be the first of all his
books to interest you, The Tales of a Grandfather. This is a
history of Scotland, and it was written for his grandson John
Hugh Lockhard, or Hugh Littlejohn as he is called in The Tales.
"I will make," said Scott, "if possible, a book that a child
shall understand, yet a man shall feel some temptation to peruse
should he chance to take it up."

Hugh Littlejohn was a delicate boy, indeed he had not long to
live, but many a happy day he spent, this summer (1827), riding
about the woods of Abbotsford with his kind grandfather,
listening to the tales he told. For Scott, too, the rides were a
joy, and helped to make him forget his troubles. When he had
told his tale in such a simple way that Littlejohn understood, he
returned home and wrote it down.

In the December of the same year the first part of The Tales was
published, and at once was a tremendous success, a success as
great almost as any of the novels. Hugh Littlejohn liked The
Tales too. "Dear Grandpapa," he writes, "I thank you for the
books. I like my own picture and the Scottish chief: I am going
to read them as fast as I can."

Two more volumes of Tales followed. Then there was no need to
write more for the dearly loved grandson, as a year or two later,
when he was only eleven, poor Littlejohn died. But already the
kind grandfather was near his end also, the tremendous effort
which he made to force himself to work beyond his strength could
not be kept up. His health broke down under it. Still he
struggled on, but at last, yielding to his friends' entreaties,
he went to Italy in search of health and strength. It gives us
some idea of the high place Sir Walter had won for himself in the
hearts of the people, when we learn that his health seemed a
national concern, and that a warship was sent to take him on his
journey. But the journey was of no avail. Among the great hills
and blue lakes of Italy Scott longed for the lesser hills and
grayer lochs of Scotland. So he turned homewards. And at home,
in his beloved Abbotsford, in the still splendor of an autumn
day, with the meadow-scented air he loved fanning his face, and
the sound of rippling Tweed in his ears, he closed his eyes for
ever. In the grass-grown ruin of Dryburgh Abbey, not far from
his home, he was laid to rest, while the whole countryside
mourned Sir Walter.

Before he died Scott had paid 70,000 pounds of his debt, an
enormous sum for one man to make by his pen in six years. He
died in the happy belief that all was paid, as indeed it all was.
For after the author's death, his books still brought in a great
deal of money, so that in fifteen years the debt was wiped out.

I have not told you any of Scott's stories here, because, unlike
many of the books we have spoken of, they are easily to be had.
And the time will soon come, if it has not come already, when you
can read Sir Walter's books, just as he wrote them. It is best,
I think, that you should read them so, for Sir Walter Scott is
perhaps the first of all our great writers nearly the whole of
whose books a child can read without help. You will find many
long descriptions in them, but do not let them frighten you. You
need not read them all the first time, and very likely you will
want to read them the second time.

But perhaps before you read his novels you will like to read his
Metrical Romances. For when we are children--big children
perhaps, but still children--is the time to read them. Long ago
in the twelfth century, when the people of England were simple
and unlearned, they loved Metrical Romances, and we when we are
simple and unlearned may love them too. Many of these old
romances, however, are hard to get, and they are written in a
language hard for many of us to understand. But Sir Walter
Scott, in the nineteenth century, has recreated for us all the
charm of those old tales. For this then, let us thank and
remember him.

"His legendary song could tell
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot;
Of feuds, whose memory was not;
Of forests, now laid waste and bare;
Of towers, which harbour now the hare;
Of manners, long since chang'd and gone;
Of chiefs, who under their grey stone
So long had slept, that fickle Fame
Had blotted from her rolls their name,
And twin'd round some new minion's head
The fading wreath for which they bled."*

*Lay of the Last Minstrel.

Chapter LXXIX BYRON--"CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE"

WHEN Sir Walter Scott ceased to write Metrical Romances, he said
it was because Byron had beaten him. But the metrical romances
of these two poets are widely different. With Sir Walter we are
up among the hills, out on the wide moorland. With him we tramp
the heather, and ford the rushing streams; his poems are full of
healthy, generous life. With Byron we seem rather to be in the
close air of a theater. His poems do not tell of a rough and
vigorous life, but of luxury and softness; of tyrants and slaves,
of beautiful houris and dreadful villains. And in the villains
we always seem to see Byron himself, who tries to impress us with
the fact that he is indeed a very "bold, bad man." In his poetry
there is something artificial, which takes us backward to the
time of Pope, rather than forward with the nature poets.

The boyhood of George Gordon Byron was a sad one. He came of an
ancient and noble family, but one which in its later generations
had become feeble almost to madness. His father, who was called
Mad Jack, was wild and worthless, his mother was a wealthy woman,
but weak and passionate, and in a short time after her marriage
her husband spent nearly all her money. Mrs. Byron then took her
little baby and went to live quietly in Aberdeen on what was left
of her fortune.