The Bride of Lammermoor. Вальтер Скотт

were expected in the composition of a fine gentleman in ancient than modern times:

           His body, though not very large or tall,

      Was sprightly, active, yea and strong withal.

      His constitution was, if right I’ve guess’d,

      Blood mixt with choler, said to be the best.

      In’s gesture, converse, speech, discourse, attire,

      He practis’d that which wise men still admire,

      Commend, and recommend. What’s that? you’ll say.

      ‘Tis this: he ever choos’d the middle way

      ‘Twixt both th’ extremes. Amost in ev’ry thing

      He did the like, ‘tis worth our noticing:

      Sparing, yet not a niggard; liberal,

      And yet not lavish or a prodigal,

      As knowing when to spend and when to spare;

      And that’s a lesson which not many are

      Acquainted with. He bashful was, yet daring

      When he saw cause, and yet therein not sparing;

      Familiar, yet not common, for he knew

      To condescend, and keep his distance too.

      He us’d, and that most commonly, to go

      On foot; I wish that he had still done so.

      Th’ affairs of court were unto him well known;

      And yet meanwhile he slighted not his own.

      He knew full well how to behave at court,

      And yet but seldom did thereto resort;

      But lov’d the country life, choos’d to inure

      Himself to past’rage and agriculture;

      Proving, improving, ditching, trenching, draining,

      Viewing, reviewing, and by those means gaining;

      Planting, transplanting, levelling, erecting

      Walls, chambers, houses, terraces; projecting

      Now this, now that device, this draught, that measure,

      That might advance his profit with his pleasure.

      Quick in his bargains, honest in commerce,

      Just in his dealings, being much adverse

      From quirks of law, still ready to refer

      His cause t’ an honest country arbiter.

      He was acquainted with cosmography,

      Arithmetic, and modern history;

      With architecture and such arts as these,

      Which I may call specifick sciences

      Fit for a gentleman; and surely he

      That knows them not, at least in some degree,

      May brook the title, but he wants the thing,

      Is but a shadow scarce worth noticing.

      He learned the French, be’t spoken to his praise,

      In very little more than fourty days.

      Then comes the full burst of woe, in which, instead of saying much himself, the poet informs us what the ancients would have said on such an occasion:

           A heathen poet, at the news, no doubt,

      Would have exclaimed, and furiously cry’d out

      Against the fates, the destinies and starrs,

      What! this the effect of planetarie warrs!

      We might have seen him rage and rave, yea worse,

      ‘Tis very like we might have heard him curse

      The year, the month, the day, the hour, the place,

      The company, the wager, and the race;

      Decry all recreations, with the names

      Of Isthmian, Pythian, and Olympick games;

      Exclaim against them all both old and new,

      Both the Nemaean and the Lethaean too:

      Adjudge all persons, under highest pain,

      Always to walk on foot, and then again

      Order all horses to be hough’d, that we

      Might never more the like adventure see.

      Supposing our readers have had enough of Mr. Symson’s woe, and finding nothing more in his poem worthy of transcription, we return to the tragic story.

      It is needless to point out to the intelligent reader that the witchcraft of the mother consisted only in the ascendency of a powerful mind over a weak and melancholy one, and that the harshness with which she exercised her superiority in a case of delicacy had driven her daughter first to despair, then to frenzy. Accordingly, the Author has endeavoured to explain the tragic tale on this principle. Whatever resemblance Lady Ashton may be supposed to possess to the celebrated Dame Margaret Ross, the reader must not suppose that there was any idea of tracing the portrait of the first Lord Viscount Stair in the tricky and mean-spirited Sir William Ashton. Lord Stair, whatever might be his moral qualities, was certainly one of the first statesmen and lawyers of his age.

      The imaginary castle of Wolf’s Crag has been identified by some lover of locality with that of Fast Castle. The Author is not competent to judge of the resemblance betwixt the real and imaginary scenes, having never seen Fast Castle except from the sea. But fortalices of this description are found occupying, like ospreys’ nests, projecting rocks, or promontories, in many parts of the eastern coast of Scotland, and the position of Fast Castle seems certainly to resemble that of Wolf’s Crag as much as any other, while its vicinity to the mountain ridge of Lammermoor renders the assimilation a probable one.

      We have only to add, that the death of the unfortunate bridegroom by a fall from horseback has been in the novel transferred to the no less unfortunate lover.

      CHAPTER I

           By Cauk and keel to win your bread,

      Wi’ whigmaleeries for them wha need,

      Whilk is a gentle trade indeed

      To carry the gaberlunzie on.

Old Song.

      FEW have been in my secret while I was compiling these narratives, nor is it probable that they will ever become public during the life of their author. Even were that event to happen, I am not ambitious of the honoured distinction, digito monstrari. I confess that, were it safe to cherish such dreams at all, I should more enjoy the thought of remaining behind the curtain unseen, like the ingenious manager of Punch and his wife Joan, and enjoying the astonishment and conjectures of my audience. Then might I, perchance, hear the productions of the obscure Peter Pattieson praised by the judicious and admired by the feeling, engrossing the young and attracting even the old; while the critic traced their fame up to some name of literary celebrity, and the question when, and by whom, these tales were written filled up the pause of conversation in a hundred circles and coteries. This I may never enjoy during my lifetime; but farther than this, I am certain, my vanity should never induce me to aspire.

      I am too stubborn in habits, and too little polished in manners, to envy or aspire to the honours assigned to my literary contemporaries. I could not think a whit more highly of myself were I found worthy to “come in place as a lion” for a winter in the great metropolis. I could not rise, turn round, and show all my honours, from the shaggy mane to the tufted tail, “roar you an’t were any nightingale,” and so lie down again like a well-behaved beast of show, and all at the cheap and easy rate of a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter as thin as a wafer. And I could ill stomach the fulsome flattery with which the lady of the evening indulges her show-monsters on such occasions, as she crams her parrots with sugar-plums, in order to make them talk before company. I cannot be tempted to “come aloft”