Closely allied with the pleasures of art are those of Literature, and in these perhaps we might if anywhere have expected to find an exemption from that law which has stamped on every unsanctified enjoyment the mark of vanity and vexation of spirit. But even here has that law been found in operation; and amidst the mass of persons who have been gifted with great literary powers it would be easy to adduce illustrations of the solemn moral which it has been the object of these pages to inculcate. "If to know wisdom," said Thomas Carlyle, "were to practice it; if fame brought true dignity and peace of mind; if happiness consisted in surrounding the imagination with ideal beauty, a literary life would be the most enviable which the lot of this world affords. But the truth is far otherwise. Look at the biography of authors! Except the Newgate Calendar, it is the most sickening chapter in the history of man." As one of the most striking instances of the mirage of literature in modern times—as a convincing evidence of the inefficacy of the highest genius to secure permanent happiness to its possessor—we select as our next type SIR WALTER SCOTT, or The Man of Literature.
All influences which could promise happiness or success were crowded around this remarkable man. His professional pursuits furnished him with ample leisure and an income bordering on affluence. His natural disposition, which was singularly amiable and generous and accompanied by a chivalrous sense of honor, procured him the attachment of numerous friends. He enjoyed, too, in a remarkable degree, the sweets of a happy home. Thus, on grounds entirely independent of his literary powers, he was in possession of many of the elements of worldly comfort. In addition, however, to the blessings we have enumerated, he was gifted with a genius of the highest order. Much as the Christian must deplore the misapplication in many respects of that genius, he must acknowledge the appropriateness of the eulogium:
“Brother of Homer, and of him
Who struck the lyre by Avon's stream,
Time shall through many a cycle be
E're he shall see a fourth like thee.”
Never, perhaps, in any period of the world's history did literary talent receive an homage so universal as that of Scott. His reputation was co-extensive, not only with the English language but also with the boundaries of civilization. It has been the lot of many meritorious authors to be unable to procure a profitable return for their writings. In one year, however, Scott's productions yielded him the enormous revenue of £15,000. Other writers have been condemned to wait a lifetime before they saw their works approved, but Scott's sprang into popularity the first day they issued from the press and procured their author an admiration that was almost idolatrous. The king conferred on him a baronetcy, accompanying that dignity with special marks of royal favor. When he traveled abroad, his appearance created an enthusiasm and attracted a crowd of spectators more like that which attends the passage of a monarch than the movements of a private individual. "If his carriage," says his biographer, describing Scott's visit to Ireland, "was recognized, the street was sure to be crowded before he came out again so as to make his departure as slow as a procession. When he entered a street, the watchword was passed down like lightning on both sides, and the shopkeepers and their wives stood bowing all the way, while the mob and boys huzzaed as at the chariot-wheels of a conqueror.”
All the good things, as they are termed, of this life were in Scott's possession. His mansion at Abbotsford realized the highest conceptions of a poetical imagination. "It seems," says one who visited it, "like a poem in stone." "This house," said another distinguished writer, "is like places we dream about." The company which crowded around the man of genius was no less wonderful. The highest nobleman felt honored in being allowed to take a place at his board, around which were collected from every part of the kingdom persons eminent in the various walks of life. Each day produced some novelty. Now a traveler recounted the wonders he had witnessed in foreign lands. Now a philosopher like Sir Humphry Davy detailed recent discoveries in science. Now a poet or a painter gave animation to the conversation by his genius. All sources of intellectual enjoyment were crowded together. It was worldly pleasure in its most concentrated form; and well might one of the visitors exclaim, "Surely Sir Walter Scott is, or ought to be, a happy man." And yet all this was but the mirage. Feelingly does one who was a witness of the pleasures of this man of genius in his palmiest days exclaim, "Death has laid a heavy hand on that happy circle. Bright eyes long since closed in dust, merry voices forever silenced seem to haunt me as I write." A shock of commercial adversity ruined Sir Walter and dispersed forever the brilliant assemblies which had gathered round his board. The death of one who was dearest to him followed close upon this blow. What consolation could literature then afford him in the hour of trial? Let Sir Walter's own touching words reply: "When I think," he writes, at a time when leaving Abbotsford apparently forever, "when I think what this place now is, with what it has been not long ago, I think my heart will break. Lonely, aged, deprived of all my family, I am an impoverished and embarrassed man." At another time he writes, "Death has closed the dark avenue of love and friendship. I look at them as through the grated door of a burial-place, filled with monuments of those who once were dear to me, and with no other wish than that it may open for me at no distant period." Not long after, he writes in the same strain, "Some new object of complaint comes every moment. Sicknesses come thicker and thicker; friends are fewer and fewer. The recollection of youth, health and powers of activity, neither improved nor enjoyed, is a poor strain of comfort. The best is, the long halt will arrive at length and close all." Such was the confession of one who had drunk so largely of the world's cup of enjoyment. Oh, how emphatically does it warn those whose hearts are still set upon similar vanities!
The closing scene at last came and is not less touching than the preceding passages. A most honorable attempt to pay off his creditors had by overtaxing his energies brought on an incurable disease. Sir Walter requested, we are told, to be wheeled to his desk. His daughter put his pen into his hand, but his fingers refused to do their office. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. "Take me back to my own room," he said. "There is no rest for Sir Walter but in his grave." A few days afterward he died. In such gloomy clouds did the sun of the man of literature set. Otway died of starvation; Voltaire, in the height of his literary glory, wished that he had never been born; but none of these instances proclaim so touchingly as the career of Sir Walter Scott that the highest genius, when not sanctified by being devoted to the glory of God, is in its results illusive as the Mirage.
“The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: the grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the Spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand forever" (Isa. 40:6-86The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: 7The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. 8The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever. (Isaiah 40:6‑8)).