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cidence this gift of office required the concurrence of the two eminent and rival statesmen of the age; the sanction of Fox was requisite to complete a grant made by Pitt. That such sanction was freely given, notwithstanding the political principles of Scott, is not perhaps any very high praise, and yet it probably dictated to the tory poet a kindlier strain, when the grave had closed prematurely over both, and he sung a requiem on the one hand over England's stately column, and on the other, over her talented but reckless son.

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"The Lay of the Last Minstrel," published in the winter of 1805, was the first outbreaking of the genius of Scott. It was my chance to be at that time a temporary resident at Peter House College, Cambridge, (England,) where I was witness to its immediate, and what may well be termed its overwhelming popularity in that temple of the muses. It roused them quasi classico dato," as if with the sound of a trumpet:

"Awakening at the inspired strain,

They deemed their Shakspeare lived again."

It was in every hand and on every tongue, insomuch that it may be doubted whether any subsequent effort of his pen either acquired or deserved a higher popularity.

The task of its composition had been enjoined upon him "by one whom, as he says, to hear was to obey," the young and lovely countess of Dalkeith, of whom he has given us so touching a picture, "as one more like an angelic visitant than of a being belonging to this nether world,"—" a thought but too consistent with the short space she was permitted to tarry." When youth, rank, and beauty meet, to the poet

their command is inspiration, and so it proved; but if to one gifted being he owed his subject, to another not less highly gifted, though in other ways, was he indebted for the form of his poem. The Christabel of Coleridge was the model of his verse, and never surely did subject and measure better harmonize. The freedom and power with which it flows eminently fit it for action and movement; its variety of pause and melody, make it in the hand of a master, graphic as painting itself; while its novelty (for Christabel had failed to familiarize it even to English ears) made all its beauties stand out in double contrast to the tame and servile measures of the last followers of the school of Pope. The fame of Scott was now established, he stood before the public a literary man, an author of acknowledged merit and rising popularity, as the founder of a new and captivating school of poetry.

This was a novel situation, and called for the decision on his part of more than one momentous question. Should he repose upon his laurels, or go forth and peril them in new contests? Should he attach himself to literary society, or live engaged in the ordinary duties and intercourse of life? And lastly, should he show himself careful of his reputation and stand upon his defence, or give critics and criticism to the winds?

To the first of these questions nature may be said to have returned an answer, 66 my father, said young Scott to me, cannot live without writing." But it was also the dictate of reflection. "I looked, said he, around my library, and could not but observe that from the time of Chaucer to that of Byron, the most popular authors had been the most prolific,"

"that by a prolonged course of exertion their errors were obliterated, they became identified with the literature of their country, and after having long received law from the critics, came at last in some degree to impose it ;" should he fail, he

was yet resolved to eat no meal the worse, but should he succeed, then said he, in his own hearty manner, it was to be

"Up with the bonnie blue bonnet,

The dirk and the feather and a'."

"A writer's intellects," he was wont to say, 66 were not worth much, if they would not stand more than a single creaming." So he resolved to go on. He bethought him too of the enchanted chamber of Britomart, how all around it was writ

"Be bold-be bold-and every where be bold,"

and resolved to know no other bounds to his boldness than in his own words, "the sacred and eternal boundaries of honor and virtue." Acting on this rule, he became the most prolific author of his own or almost any other age.

To the second question he returned to himself an answer as full of good sense, as it was of resolution and self-denial. "It was my first resolution, said he, to keep as far as was in my power, abreast of society;" "maintaining my general interest in what was going on around me, reserving the man of letters for the desk and the library." By acting thus, he rightly imagined that he should escape the besetting sin of authors, "that of listening to language too favorable for a just opinion of their own importance in society." How strictly he observed this judicious and high-minded rule, may be judged of from the simple fact, that during four days' intimate intercourse, amid frequent recitations of poetry, he never once quoted a line of his own, or made reference to a single work, and when quoted or alluded to by others, turned off the subject with such perfect simplicity, as made me often doubtful whether he heard or understood what was said. To direct questions in relation to them, he returned indeed simple and satisfactory answers; but invariably dropped the topic when left in his hands, and introduced another so soon as courtesy permitted.

The result of this rule too, evinced its wisdom-it banished the author, and introduced the man-the kind-hearted, cheerful, and unassuming companion; in looking back to the intercourse with whom, while there is much to remember, there is still more to love.

On the third question, he was also a model to authors. Against the attacks of critics he was resolved to arm himself with the triple brass of Horace: "to laugh, if the jest were a good one, or if not, to let it buzz and hum itself asleep." The publication of his second poem, "Marmion," furnished him with a fair trial of the strength of his defensive armor. To the criticism of Jeffrey, his only reply was in the style of the ancient autocrat, an invitation to dinner, which the great critic, "who had done nothing in hate, but all in honor," and whose bitterness towards any man was never more than skin-deep, accepted, as good humoredly as it was given; though he acknowledged afterwards, in conversation, that he found the "womankind," as Monkbairns terms them, "less placable, as was natural, than the poet himself." Alluding one day in conversation to himself, on this point, Sir Walter laughingly said to me, with his peculiarly comic and inimitable expression of countenance" Ah sir! it is long since I gave up singing the old song of 'what will the world say, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor."

If, as a poet, Scott were happy in the possession of such splendid talents, still happier was he as a man, in the enjoyment of such a temper: the result was a life of peace, as well as fame. He was not only among the greatest of the great, but the happiest of the happy. No controversy, no envy, no enmity, to the very last hour of his life; the good approved, and the talented admired him, whom all admitted to be "the Muses' judge and friend;" while the envious and the irritable soon ceased to attack one whom they found they had no power to annoy. Such was the blessing attendant upon good sense and a tranquil mind, in that

which is proverbially the most irritable of professions; and if Scott had left to literary men no other legacy than this, he would yet be deserving of everlasting remembrance, for having taught them how to live together "like brethren in unity." It were not easy here to find a parallel in the history of poets, and even holier laborers might in this take a lesson, and learn from one who could cultivate the flowers of literature, without being wounded by their many thorns, how that more heavenly plant, whose flowers are thornless, and whose leaves balm, might be planted in peace by the still waters, and its fruits gathered in the spirit of brotherly kindness.

But in this matter Scott owed more, perhaps, to felicity of nature, than he was himself aware of; for never did man show in his ordinary deportment, more of those gentle qualities which sweeten life and banish envy—which cannot give, and therefore never take offence. He seemed to me to have his dwelling within the circle of his own happy benevolent imaginings, and when he came forth, it was not like the Baron bold, with visor barred and spear in rest, seeking cause of offence with all whom he chanced to meet-but rather like the minstrel, of his own sweet and simple picture.

on prancing palfry borne,

He caroll'd light, as lark at morn."

He was kind and courteous, even to those whose youth would have been to many the apology for neglect, and devoted himself to their entertainment, with an assiduity and sweetness of manner, that I need not say, sunk deep in the heart of a parent.

With scarcely a single exception, of all his eminent contemporaries I heard him speak, always with respect, generally in admiration, never in censure. Whenever he quoted, it was to commend; wherever he criticized, it was to point out beauties; or, when he spoke of those whose genius

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