better days, which I think myself now entitled to suppose she, as well as I myself, will look forward to with pleasure. If you were surprised at reading the important billet, you may guess how agreeably I was so at receiving it; for I had, to anticipate disappointment, struggled to suppress every rising gleam of hope; and it would be very difficult to describe the mixed feelings her letter occasioned, which, entre nous, terminated in a very hearty fit of crying. "I read over her epistle about ten times a day, and always with new admiration of her generosity and candor — and as often take shame to myself for the mean suspicions which, after knowing her so long, I could listen to, while endeavoring to guess how she would conduct herself. ... I think of being in town some time next month [the lady he loved had come to Edinburgh for the winter], but whether for good and all, or only for a visit, I am not certain. O for November! Our meeting will be a little embarrassing one. How will she look, etc., etc., etc., are the important subjects of my present conjectures-how different from what they were three weeks ago! I give you leave to laugh when I tell you seriously, I had begun to 'dwindle, peak, and pine' upon the subject, but now, after the charge I have received, it were a shame to resemble Pharaoh's lean kine." In the autumn of this year, 1795, Scott made a spirited translation from the German of Bürger's "Lenore." His friend, Miss Cranstoun, afterwards Countess of Purgstall, was astonished and said, "Upon my word, Walter Scott is going to turn out a poet-something of a cross, I think, between Burns and Gray." At the suggestion of this lady, an elegantly bound copy of the translation from Bürger was presented to Miss Margaret Belches. On January 19, 1797, Miss Belches was married, not to Scott, but to William Forbes of Pitsligo, the eldest son of a baronet, afterwards Sir William Forbes, a man of wealth and fine character, who, in Scott's misfortunes in later years, showed himself a noble friend. The cause of this seeming change in the mind of the young lady is not known. It is quite possible, could she have looked forward a few years and seen Scott, the idol of his country, rich and famous, the result would have been different. That Scott felt for a time that he had been wronged, is shown by the following poem, published in the "English Minstrelsy," "On a Violet." "The violet in her green wood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, In glen or copse or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue I've seen an eye of lovelier blue More sweet through watery lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the sun be past its morrow, Nor longer in my false love's eye Remained the tear of parting sorrow." If Scott, at first, felt his pride wounded, this feeling soon subsided, and was replaced by an unchangeable and eternal affection. She became the heroine of "Rokeby" and of "Woodstock." He wrote in his journal, years afterwards: "What a life mine has been!-half educated, almost wholly neglected, or left to myself; stuffing my head with most nonsensical trash, and undervalued by most of my companions for a time; getting forward, and held a bold and a clever fellow, contrary to the opinion of all who thought me a mere dreamer; broken-hearted for two years; my heart handsomely pieced again - but the crack will remain to my dying day." Lockhart gives a touching incident, which occurred thirty years later, when Europe and America rang with Scott's praises. "He had taken for that winter [1827] the house No. 6 Shandwick Place, which he occupied by the month during the remainder of his servitude as a clerk of session. Very near this house, he was told, a few days after he took possession, dwelt the aged mother of his first love; and he expressed to his friend, Mrs. Skene, a wish that she should carry him to renew an acquaintance which seems to have been interrupted from the period of this youthful romance. Mrs. Skene complied with his desire, and she tells me that a very painful scene ensued." Began to mind and Scott wrote in his diary: "November 7. settle myself this morning after the hurry of even of body which I have lately undergone. I went to make a visit, and fairly softened myself, like an old fool, with recalling old stories till I was fit for nothing but shedding tears and repeating verses for the whole night. This is sad work. The very grave gives up its dead" [Margaret (Lady Forbes) had died soon after the publication of "The Lady of the Lake," about thirteen years after her marriage], "and time rolls back thirty years to add to my perplexities. I don't care. I begin to grow case-hardened, and, like a stag turning at bay, my naturally good temper grows fierce and dangerous. Yet what a romance to tell — and told, I fear, it will one day be. And then my three years of dreaming and my two years of wakening will be chronicled, doubtless. But the dead will feel no pain. "November 10. At twelve o'clock I went again to poor Lady Jane to talk over old stories. I am not clear that it is a right or healthful indulgence to be ripping up old sores, but it seems to give her deep-rooted sorrow words, and that is a mental blood-letting. To me these things are now matter of calm and solemn recollection, never to be forgotten, yet scarce to be remembered with pain." Among Scott's manuscripts was found a poem "To Time by a Lady," recited to him by Margaret, and perhaps composed by her. It is a long poem, which Scott retained in his mind for thirty years, and when a gray-haired man wrote it from memory. "Tis thine the wounded soul to heal, That hopeless bleeds from sorrow's smart, What though with thee the roses fly, And jocund youth's gay reign is o'er; Yet in thy train come dove-eyed peace, In "Peveril of the Peak," in 1823, Scott wrote out of his own heart: "The period at which love is formed for the first time and felt most strongly is seldom that at which there is much prospect of its being brought to a happy issue. The state of artificial society opposes many complicated obstructions to early marriages; and the chance is very great that such obstacles prove insurmountable. In fine, there are few men who do not look back in secret to some period of their youth, at which a sincere and early affection was repulsed or betrayed, or became abortive from opposing circumstances. It is these little passages of secret history which leave a tinge of romance in every bosom, scarce permitting us, even in the most busy or the most advanced period of life, to listen with total indifference to a tale of true love." After the marriage of Lady Forbes, Scott set himself to his work more diligently than ever. He often read late at night, though he said, "he was but half a man if he had not full seven hours of utter unconsciousness." But there was necessarily an unsatisfied longing in his heart. In July, 1797, six months after the marriage, Scott met, while making a tour of the English lakes, a pretty young lady on horseback. The same evening at a ball, he was introduced to her; Charlotte Margaret, the daughter of Jean Charpentier of Lyons, France. He had held an office under government. At the beginning of the Revolution he died, and Madame Charpentier and her children made their escape to England. Miss Charpentier, with black hair, brown eyes, olive complexion, and the French vivacity of manner, was certainly unlike Scott's first vision of loveliness, the blue-eyed Margaret Belches. Her cheerfulness was an attraction in his loneliness. He wrote his mother after his engagement: "Without flying into raptures, for I must assure you that my judgment as well as my affections are consulted upon this occasion, — without flying |