The Waverley Novels | Page 6

only by the strenuous hand in which it was placed.
The history of my first publications is sufficiently well known. Nor did
I relinquish the purpose of concluding these "Tales of my Landlord,"
which had been so remarkably fortunate; but Death, which steals upon
us all with an inaudible foot, cut short the ingenious young man to
whose memory I composed that inscription, and erected, at my own
charge, that monument which protects his remains, by the side of the
river Gander, which he has contributed so much to render immortal,
and in a place of his own selection, not very distant from the school
under my care. [Footnote: See Vol. II. of the present Edition, for some
circumstances attending this erection.] In a word, the ingenious Mr.
Pattison was removed from his place.
Nor did I confine my care to his posthumous fame alone, but carefully
inventoried and preserved the effects which he left behind him, namely,
the contents of his small wardrobe, and a number of printed books of
somewhat more consequence, together with certain, wofully blurred
manuscripts, discovered in his repository. On looking these over, I

found them to contain two Tales called "Count Robert of Paris," and
"Castle Dangerous;" but was seriously disappointed to perceive that
they were by no means in that state of correctness, which would induce
an experienced person to pronounce any writing, in the technical
language of bookcraft, "prepared for press." There were not only hiatus
valde deflendi, but even grievous inconsistencies, and other mistakes,
which the penman's leisurely revision, had he been spared to bestow it,
would doubtless have cleared away. After a considerate perusal, I no
question flattered myself that these manuscripts, with all their faults,
contained here and there passages, which seemed plainly to intimate
that severe indisposition had been unable to extinguish altogether the
brilliancy of that fancy which the world had been pleased to
acknowledge in the creations of Old Mortality, the Bride of
Lammermoor, and others of these narratives. But I, nevertheless, threw
the manuscripts into my drawer, resolving not to think of committing
them to the Ballantynian ordeal, until I could either obtain the
assistance of some capable person to supply deficiencies, and correct
errors, so as they might face the public with credit, or perhaps
numerous and more serious avocations might permit me to dedicate my
own time and labour to that task.
While I was in this uncertainty, I had a visit from a stranger, who was
announced as a young gentleman desirous of speaking with me on
particular business. I immediately augured the accession of a new
boarder, but was at once checked by observing that the outward man of
the stranger was, in a most remarkable degree, what mine host of the
Sir William Wallace, in his phraseology, calls seedy. His black cloak
had seen service; the waistcoat of grey plaid bore yet stronger marks of
having encountered more than one campaign; his third piece of dress
was an absolute veteran compared to the others; his shoes were so
loaded with mud as showed his journey must have been pedestrian; and
a grey maud, which fluttered around his wasted limbs, completed such
an equipment as, since Juvenal's days, has been the livery of the poor
scholar. I therefore concluded that I beheld a candidate for the vacant
office of usher, and prepared to listen to his proposals with the dignity
becoming my station; but what was my surprise when I found I had
before me, in this rusty student, no less a man than Paul, the brother of

Peter Pattison, come to gather in his brother's succession, and possessed,
it seemed, with no small idea of the value of that part of it which
consisted in the productions of his pen!
By the rapid study I made of him, this Paul was a sharp lad, imbued
with some tincture of letters, like his regretted brother, but totally
destitute of those amiable qualities which had often induced me to say
within myself, that Peter was, like the famous John Gay,--
"In wit a man, simplicity a child."
He set little by the legacy of my deceased assistant's wardrobe, nor did
the books hold much greater value in his eyes: but he peremptorily
demanded to be put in possession of the manuscripts, alleging, with
obstinacy, that no definite bargain had been completed between his late
brother and me, and at length produced the opinion to that effect of a
writer, or man of business,--a class of persons with whom I have
always chosen to have as little concern as possible.
But I had one defence left, which came to my aid, _tanquam deus ex
machina_. This rapacious Paul Pattison could not pretend to wrest the
disputed manuscripts out of my possession, unless upon repayment of