Literary Notices [pp. 646-651]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
We give a short extract from each of these sketches,
although they canafford no idea of their collectivecharms.
The conversational powers and social qualities of Sir
Walter Scott, are thus described:
"The conversation of Scott was frank, hearty, picturesque, and dramatic. During the time of my visit
he inclined to the comic rather than the grave, in his
anecdotes and stories, and such, I was told, was his
general inclination. He relished a joke, or a trait of
humor in social intercourse, and laughed with right
good will. He talked not for effect or display, but from
the flow of his spirits, the stores of his memory, and
the vigor of his imagination. lHe had a natural turn
for narration, and his narratives and descriptions were
without effort, yet wonderfully graphic. He placed the
scene before you like a picture; he gave the dialogue
with the appropriate dialect or peculiarities, and described the appearance and characters of his personages
with that spirit and felicity evinced in his writings. Indeed, his conversation reminded me continually of hi
novels; and it seemed to me, that during the whole
time I was with him, he talked enough to fill volumes,
and that they could not have been filled more delightfully.
"He was as good a listener as talker, appreciating
every thing that others said, however humble nmight be
their rank or pretensions, and was quick to testity his
perception of any point in their discourse. He arrogated nothing to himself, but was perfectly unassuming
and unpretending, entering with heart and soul into the
business, or pleasure, or, I had almost said folly, of the
hour and the company. No one's concerns, no one's
thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastes and pleasures seemed beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly the companion of those with whom he happened
to be, that they forgot for a time his vast superiority
and only recollected and wondered, when all was over
that it was Scott with whom they had been on familiar
terms, and in whose society they had felt so perfectly
at their ease.
"It was delightful to observe the generous mode in
which he spoke of all his literary cotemporaries, quoting
the beauties of their works, and this, too, with respect
to persons with whom he might be supposed to be at
variance in literature or politics. Jeffrey, it was thought
had ruffled his plumes in one of his reviews, yet Scott
spoke of him in terms of high and warm eulogy, both
as an author and as a man.
"His humor in conversation, as in his works, was
genial and free from all causticity. He had a quick
perception of faults and foibles, but he looked upon
poor human nature with an indulgent eye, relishing
what was good and pleasant, tolerating what was frail,
and pitying what was evil. It is this beneficent spirit
which gives such an air of bonhommie to Scott's humor
throughout all his works. He played with the foibles
and errors of his fellow beings, and presented them in
a thousand whimsical and characteristic lights, but the
kindness and generosity of his nature would not allow
him to be a satirist. I do not recollect asneer throughout his conversation any more than there is throughout
his works."
It is more difficult to fix upon an extract from the
sketch of Newstead Abbey, but we take the following
as coming within the limits of our notice:
"I was attracted to this grove, however, by memorials of a more touching character. It had been one of
the favorite haunts of the late Lord Byron. In his farewell visit to the abbey, after he had parted with the
possession of it, he passed some time in this grove, in
company with his sister; and as a last memento, engraved their names on the bark of a tree.
"The feelings that agitated his bosom during this
farewell visit, when he beheld around him objects dear
to his pride, and dear to his juvenile recollections, but
of which the narrowness of his fortune would not per
mit him to retain possession, may be gathered from a
passage in a poetical epistle, written to his sister in after
years.
"'I did remind you of our own dear lake
By the old hall, which may be mine no more;
Lemans is fair; but think not I forsake
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;
Though, like all things which I have loved, theyare
Resign'd for ever, or divided far.
I feel almost at times as I have felt
In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,
Which do remember me of where I dwelt
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
My heart with recognition of their looks,
And even at moments I would think I see
Some living things I love-but none like thee.'
"I searched the grove for sometime, before I found
the tree on which Lord Byron had left his frail memorial. It was an elm of peculiar form, having two trunks,
which sprang from the same root, and after growing
side by side, mingled their branches together. He had
selected it doubtless, as emblematical of his sister and
himself. The names of BYRON and AUGUSTA were still
visible. They had been deeply cut in the bark, but the
natural growth of the tree was gradually rendering them
illegible, and a few years hence, strangers will seek in
vain for this record of fraternal affection.
* * * * * *:
"At a distance on the border of the lawn, stood
another memento of Lord Byron; an oak planted by
him in his boyhood, on his first visit to the abbey.
With a superstitious feeling inherent in him, he linked
his own destiny with that of the tree.'As it fares,'
said he,'so will fare my fortunes.' Several years
elapsed, many of them passed in idleness and dissipation. He returned to the abbey a youth scarce grown
to manhood, but as he thought with vices and follies
beyond his years. He found his emblem oak almost
choked by weeds and brambles, and took the lesson to
himself.
"' Young oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine,
That thy dark waving branches would flourish around,
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
Such, such was my hope-when in infancy's years
On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride;
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.'
"I leaned over the stone ballustrade of the terrace,
and gazed upon the valley of Newstead, with its silver
sheets of water gleaming in the morning sun. It was
a Sabbath morning, which always seems to have a hallowed influence over the landscape, probably from the
quiet of the day, and the cessation of all kinds of week
day labor. As I mused upon the mild and beautiful
scene, and the wayward destinies of the man whose
stormy temperament forced him from this tranquil paradise to battle with the passions and perils of the world,
the sweet chime of bells from a village a few miles distant, came stealing up the valley. Every sight and
sound this morning, seemed calculated to summon up
touching recollections of poor Byron. The chime was
from the village spire of Hucknall Torkard, beneath
which his remains lie buried!
"I have since visited his tomb. It is in an old gray
country church, venerable with the lapse of centuries.
He lies buried beneath the pavement, at one end of the
principal aisle. A light falls upon the spot through the
stained glass of a gothic window, and a tablet on the
adjacent wall announces the family vault of the Byrons.
It had been the wayward intention of the poet to be
entombed with his faithful dog in the monument erect
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