SCOTT AT ABBOTSFORD
Of the Abbotsford life in the seven or eight brilliant seasons
preceding the disaster of 1826 Lockhart's exquisite word-pictures
are far the finest things in the Biography. Scott's dream was
now fairly realized. He was not only a lord of acres, but a kind
of mediæval chieftain as well. His cottage was transformed to a
superb mansion, like some creation of the 'Arabian Nights,' and
the whole estate, acquired at a cost far exceeding its real value,
had grown to one of the trimmest and snuggest on Tweedside. A
comparative failure at the Bar, Scott succeeded well otherwise
in his professional career. His income from the Court Clerkship
and Sheriffdom totalled £1,600, and from other sources he had an
additional £400 a year. As the most prosperous book-producer of the
period, he was netting an annual profit of no less than £10,000.
His family was grown up, and his home life, notwithstanding
some harsh things said about Lady Scott, was of the happiest.
Unliterary, and Frenchified to a degree, Charlotte Carpenter was
not the ideal helpmeet, perhaps, for a man of Scott's calibre and
temperament. But that they lived comfortably together, that she
made him an excellent wife, and that Scott was much attached to
her, must be taken for granted, else Lockhart and the others are
equivocating. There is at least one glimpse into Scott's heart
which cannot savour of hypocrisy--the occasion of her death. Some
of the most touching passages in the Diary belong to that event. As
lover, husband, father, there is no question of the acuteness with
which he felt her loss who had been his 'thirty years' companion.'
Within less than six months the two biggest blows of his life fell
upon Scott. Ruined, then widowed, his cup of grief was drained to
the utmost. But before the fatal '26 Scott's life was an eminently
ideal one. Abbotsford was all he could make it. He had reached the
loftiest rung of the ladder. Long had he been the celebrity of the
hour, not in Britain only, but throughout Europe itself. Probably
no British author of his time was more widely known, and none, it
is certain, was surrounded with so many of the material comforts.
It was truly a summer fulness for Scott at Abbotsford ere the
autumn winds or the biting breath of winter had begun to chill his
cheek.
A glance at the Abbotsford life will bring us nearer Scott as a
man--and as the most lovable of men. Treading, as one does to-day,
in his very footsteps, we shall want to know how he lived there,
and in what manner the pleasant days were spent. Scott's habits
at Abbotsford, as at Ashestiel, were delightfully simple. In the
country he was a rustic of the rustics. Formality vanished to a
considerable extent when he changed his town-house for the bracing
atmosphere of the Tweed. But always methodical in his literary
operations, he never allowed the freer life of Abbotsford to
interfere with whatever tasks he had on hand. He did not sit late
into the night. As a rule, the Abbotsford day ended for Scott by
ten o'clock. He rose at five, lit his own fire in the season,
shaving and dressing with precision. Attired generally in his green
shooting-jacket, he was at his desk by six, and hard at work till
nine. About half-past nine, when the family met for breakfast, he
would enter the room 'rubbing his hands for glee,' for by that time
he had done enough, as he said, 'to break the neck of the day's
work.' After breakfast, he allowed his guests to fill in the next
couple of hours or so for themselves--fishing, shooting, driving,
or riding, with a retinue of keepers and grooms at command.
Meantime he was busy with his correspondence, or a chapter for
Ballantyne to be dispatched by the 'Blucher,' the Edinburgh and
Melrose coach, by which he himself frequently travelled to and from
Abbotsford. At noon he was 'his own man,' and among his visitors,
or felling trees with the workmen on the estate, laying wagers,
and competing with the best of them. When the weather was wet and
stormy he kept to his study for several hours during the day, that
he might have a reserve fund to draw from on good days. To his
visitors he appeared more the man of leisure than the indefatigable
author conferring pleasure on thousands. Only a careful husbanding
of the moments could have enabled him to give the greater part of
afternoon and evening to his guests. 'I know,' said Cadell, the
publisher, once to him, 'that you contrive to get a few hours in
your own room, and that may do for the mere pen-work, but when
is it that you think?' 'Oh,' said Scott, 'I lie simmering over
things for an hour or so before I get up, and there's the time I
am dressing to overhaul my half-sleeping, half-waking _projet de
chapitre_, and when I get the paper before me it commonly runs off
pretty easily. Besides, I often take a dose in the plantations,
and while Tom marks out a dyke or a drain as I have directed,
one's fancy may be running its ain riggs in some other world.' His
maxim was never to be doing nothing, and in making the most of the
opportunities, he served both himself and his friends. Several of
Lockhart's reminiscences of the Abbotsford life are so delightfully
vivid, conveying probably better than anything else something of
the ideal charm of Scott and his circle, that the following may
well be printed in full:
'I remember saying to (Sir) William Allan one morning, as the
whole party mustered before the porch after breakfast, "A faithful
sketch of what you at this moment see would be more interesting a
hundred years hence than the grandest so-called historical picture
that you will ever exhibit in Somerset House"; and my friend
agreed with me so cordially that I often wondered afterwards he
had not attempted to realize the suggestion.[8]
The subject ought, however, to have been treated conjointly by him
(or Wilkie) and Edwin Landseer.
'It was a clear, bright September morning, with a sharpness in the
air that doubled the animating influence of the sunshine, and all
was in readiness for a grand coursing match on Newark Hill. The
only guest who had chalked out other sport for himself was the
staunchest of anglers, Mr. Rose; but he, too, was there on his
_shelty_, armed with his salmon-rod and landing-net, and attended
by his humorous squire, Hinves, and Charlie Purdie, a brother of
Tom, in those days the most celebrated fisherman of the district.
This little group of Waltonians, bound for Lord Somerville's
preserve, remained lounging about to witness the start of the
main cavalcade. Sir Walter, mounted on Sybil, was marshalling the
order of procession with a huge hunting-whip; and among a dozen
frolicsome youths and maidens, who seemed disposed to laugh at
all discipline, appeared, each on horseback, each as eager as the
youngest sportsman in the troop, Sir Humphry Davy, Dr. Wollaston,
and the patriarch of Scottish belles-lettres, Henry Mackenzie. The
Man of Feeling, however, was persuaded with some difficulty to
resign his steed for the present to his faithful negro follower,
and to join Lady Scott in the sociable, until we should reach the
ground of our battue. Laidlaw, on a long-tailed, wiry Highlander,
yclept Hoddin Grey, which carried him nimbly and stoutly,
although his feet almost touched the ground as he sat, was the
adjutant. But the most picturesque figure was the illustrious
inventor of the safety-lamp. He had come for his favourite sport
of angling, and had been practising it successfully with Rose,
his travelling companion, for two or three days preceding this,
but he had not prepared for coursing fields, and had left Charlie
Purdie's troop for Sir Walter's on a sudden thought; and his
fisherman's costume--a brown hat with flexible brim, surrounded
with line upon line, and innumerable fly-hooks, jack-boots worthy
of a Dutch smuggler, and a fustian surtout dabbled with the
blood of salmon--made a fine contrast with the smart jackets,
white-cord breeches, and well-polished jockey-boots of the less
distinguished cavaliers about him. Dr. Wollaston was in black,
and, with his noble, serene dignity of countenance, might have
passed for a sporting archbishop. Mr. Mackenzie, at this time in
the seventy-sixth year of his age, with a white hat turned up with
green, green spectacles, green jacket, and long brown leathern
gaiters buttoned upon his nether anatomy, wore a dog-whistle round
his neck, and had all over the air of as resolute a devotee as
the gay Captain of Huntlyburn. Tom Purdie and his subalterns had
preceded us by a few hours with all the greyhounds that could be
collected at Abbotsford, Darnick, and Melrose; but the giant Maida
had remained as his master's orderly, and now gambolled about
Sybil Grey, barking for mere joy, like a spaniel puppy.
'The order of march had been all settled, and the sociable was just
getting under weigh, when _the Lady Anne_ broke from the line,
screaming with laughter, and exclaimed, "Papa! papa! I knew you
could never think of going without your pet." Scott looked round,
and I rather think there was a blush as well as a smile upon his
face, when he perceived a little black pig frisking about his pony,
and evidently a self-elected addition to the party of the day. He
tried to look stern, and cracked his whip at the creature, but was
in a moment obliged to join in the general cheers. Poor piggy soon
found a strap round his neck, and was dragged into the background.
Scott, watching the retreat, repeated with mock pathos the first
verse of an old pastoral song:
'What will I do gin my hoggie die?
My joy, my pride, my hoggie!
My only beast, I had nae mae,
And wow! but I was vogie!'
The cheers were redoubled, and the squadron moved on. This pig
had taken, nobody could tell how, a most sentimental attachment
to Scott, and was constantly urging its pretension to be admitted
a regular member of his _tail_, along with the greyhounds and
terriers; but, indeed, I remember him suffering another summer
under the same sort of pertinacity on the part of an affectionate
hen. I leave the explanation for philosophers; but such were the
facts. I have too much respect for the vulgarly calumniated donkey
to name him in the same category of pets with the pig and the hen;
but, a year or two after this time, my wife used to drive a couple
of these animals in a little garden chair, and whenever her father
appeared at the door of our cottage, we were sure to see Hannah
More and Lady Morgan (as Anne Scott had wickedly christened them)
trotting from their pasture to lay their noses over the paling,
and, as Washington Irving says of the old white-haired hedger with
the Parisian snuff-box, "to have a pleasant crack with the laird."'
* * * * *
The Abbotsford Hunt, another of the great annual outings--a
coursing match on an extensive scale--affords material for
Lockhart's best vein, especially the Hunt dinner, which for many of
the neighbouring yeomen and farmers was _the_ event of the year.
'The company were seldom under thirty in number, and sometimes they
exceeded forty. The feast was such as suited the occasion--a baron
of beef, roasted, at the foot of the table, a salted round at the
head, while tureens of hare-soup, hotchpotch, and cockieleekie
extended down the centre, and such light articles as geese,
turkeys, an entire sucking-pig, a singed sheep's head, and the
unfailing haggis were set forth by way of side-dishes. Black-cock
and moor-fowl, snipe, black and white puddings, and pyramids of
pancakes, formed the second course. Ale was the favourite beverage
during dinner, but there was plenty of port and sherry for those
whose stomachs they suited. The quaighs of Glenlivet were filled
brimful, and tossed off as if they held water. The wine decanters
made a few rounds of the table, but the hints for hot punch and
toddy soon became clamorous. Two or three bowls were introduced
and placed under the supervision of experienced manufacturers--one
of these being usually the Ettrick Shepherd--and then the business
of the evening commenced in good earnest. The faces shone and
glowed like those at Camacho's wedding; the chairman told his
richest stories of old rural life, Lowland or Highland; Ferguson
and humbler heroes fought their Peninsular battles o'er again; the
stalwart Dandie Dinmonts lugged out their last winter's snow-storm,
the parish scandal, perhaps, or the dexterous bargain of the
Northumberland tryst. Every man was knocked down for the song that
he sung best, or took most pleasure in singing. Shortreed gave
"Dick o' the Cow," or "Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid"; his son
Thomas shone without a rival in the "Douglas Tragedy" and the
"Twa Corbies"; a weather-beaten, stiff-bearded veteran, "Captain"
Ormiston, had the primitive pastoral of "Cowdenknowes" in sweet
perfection. Hogg produced the "Women Folk," or "The Kye comes
Hame," and, in spite of many grinding notes, contrived to make
everybody delighted, whether with the fun or the pathos of his
ballad. The Melrose doctor sang in spirited style some of Moore's
masterpieces. A couple of retired sailors joined in "Bold Admiral
Duncan," and the gallant croupier crowned the last bowl with "Ale,
good ale, thou art my darling." And so it proceeded until some
worthy, who had fifteen or twenty miles to ride, began to insinuate
that his wife and bairns would be getting sorely anxious about the
fords, and the Dumples and Hoddins were at last heard neighing at
the gate, and it was voted that the hour had come for _doch an
dorrach_, the stirrup-cup, a bumper all round of the unmitigated
mountain dew. How they all contrived to get home in safety Heaven
only knows, but I never heard of any serious accident except upon
one occasion, when James Hogg made a bet at starting that he would
leap over his wall-eyed pony as she stood, and broke his nose in
this experiment of o'ervaulting ambition. One comely good-wife,
far off among the hills, amused Sir Walter by telling him the next
time he passed her homestead after one of these jolly doings,
what her husband's first words were when he alighted at his own
door--"Ailie, my woman, I'm ready for my bed; and oh, lass, I wish
I could sleep for a towmont, for there's only ae thing in this
warld worth living for, and that's the Abbotsford Hunt."'
Nor was the good old custom of the Kirn omitted at Abbotsford.
Every autumn, before proceeding to Edinburgh, Scott gave a 'Harvest
Home,' to which all the tenantry and their friends--as many as
the barn could hold--were invited. Sir Walter and his family were
present during the first part of the evening, to dispense the good
things and say a few words of farewell. Old and young danced from
sunset to sunrise, to the skirling of John o' Skye's pipes, or
the strains of some 'Wandering Willie's' fiddle, the laird having
his private joke for every old wife or 'gausie carle,' his arch
compliment for the ear of every bonnie lass, and his hand and his
blessing for the head of every little Eppie Daidle from Abbotstown
or Broomielees. Hogmanay, and the immemorial customs of the New
Year, as celebrated in Scotland--now fast dying out--obtained
full respect at Abbotsford. Scott said it was uncanny, and would
certainly have felt it very uncomfortable not to welcome the New
Year in the midst of his family and a few cronies in the orthodox
fashion. But nothing gave him such delight as the visit which he
received as laird from all the children on his estate on the last
morning of the year, when, as he was fond of quoting:
'The cottage bairns sing blythe and gay
At the ha' door for hogmanay.'
'Yesterday (December 31, 1825) being Hogmanay,' says Basil Hall's
'Journal'--the clearest, cleverest, most picturesque sketch of
the Abbotsford life from an outsider's point of view--'there was
a constant succession of guizards--boys dressed up in fantastic
caps, with their shirts over their jackets, and with wooden swords
in their hands. These players acted a sort of scene before us,
of which the hero was one Goloshin, who gets killed in a battle
for love, but is presently brought to life again by a doctor
of the party. As may be imagined, the taste of our host is to
keep up these old ceremonies. Thus, in the morning, I observed
crowds of boys and girls coming to the back-door, where each got
a penny and an oaten-cake. No less than seventy pennies were thus
distributed--and very happy the little bodies looked with their
well-stored bags.' Guizarding--that is, masquerading, guising--has
lost practically all the scope and popularity it once had in the
South of Scotland. The present writer well remembers how, as a boy,
he took part scores of times during Christmas and New Year weeks
in the grotesque but picturesque play referred to. The words and
form of the drama exist in various versions in every part of the
Border Country, almost every parish possessing its own rendering.
The _dramatis personæ_, three or four in number, sometimes five,
arrayed in the fashion described above, proceeded from house to
house, generally contenting themselves with the kitchen for an
arena, where the performance was carried through in presence of
the entire household. Galations (not Goloshin) is the title of the
play. Some account of it will be found in Chambers' 'Popular Rhymes
of Scotland' and in Maidment's scarce pamphlet on the subject
(1835).
From what has been said, it is not difficult to imagine the
ideal relationship existing between Scott and his dependents at
Abbotsford. They were surely the happiest retainers and domestics
in the world. How considerate he was in the matter of dwellings,
for instance! He realized that he owed them a distinct duty
in diffusing as much comfort and security into their lives as
possible. They were not mere goods and chattels, but beings of
flesh and blood, with human sympathies like himself. And he treated
them as such. Amid the severities of winter, some of his Edinburgh
notes to Laidlaw are perfect little gems of their kind: 'This
dreadful weather will probably stop Mercer (the weekly carrier).
It makes me shiver in the midst of superfluous comforts to think
of the distress of others. I wish you to distribute £10 amongst
our poorer neighbours so as may best aid them. I mean not only the
actually indigent, but those who are, in our phrase, _ill off_. I
am sure Dr. Scott (of Darnlee) will assist you with his advice in
this labour of love. I think part of the wood-money, too, should
be given among the Abbotstown folks if the storm keeps them off
work, as is like.' And again: 'If you can devise any means by which
hands can be beneficially employed at Abbotsford, I could turn £50
or £100 extra into service. If it made the poor and industrious
people a little easier, I should have more pleasure in it than any
money I ever spent in my life.' 'I think of my rooks amongst this
snow-storm, also of the birds, and not a little of the poor. For
benefit of the former, I hope Peggy throws out the crumbs, and a
cornsheaf or two for the game, if placed where poachers could not
come at them. For the poor people I wish you to distribute £5 or so
among the neighbouring poor who may be in distress, and see that
our own folks are tolerably well off.' 'Do not let the poor bodies
want for a £5, or even a £10, more or less'--
'We'll get a blessing wi' the lave,
And never miss 't.'
Socially, the bond between Scott and his servants was a
characteristic object-lesson. 'He speaks to us,' said one, 'as
if we were blood relations.' Like Swift, he maintained that an
affectionate and faithful servant should always be considered in
the character of a humble friend. Even the household domestics
'stayed on' year after year. Some of them grew grey in his service.
One or two died. He had always several pensioners beside him.
Abbotsford was like a little happy world of its own--the most
emphatic exception to the cynic's rule. Scott was 'a hero and a
gentleman' to those who knew him most intimately in the common and
disillusionizing routine of domestic life.
In reading Lockhart, one feels that, aristocrat as Scott was,
familiar with the nobility and literary lions of the time, he
was most at home, and happiest, perhaps, in the fellowship of
commoner men, such as Laidlaw, and Purdie, and John Usher, and
James Hogg, who were knit to him as soul to soul. Of some of these
he declared that they had become almost an integral part of his
existence. We know how life was inexpressibly changed for Scott
minus Tom Purdie, and to dispense with Laidlaw, when that had
become absolutely necessary, was as the iron entering his soul.
The most perfect pen-portraits in Lockhart are those of Purdie
(the Cristal Nixon of 'Redgauntlet'), that faithful factotum and
friend for whom he mourned as a brother; and 'dear Willie' Laidlaw,
betwixt whom and Scott the most charming of all master and servant
correspondence passed; and 'auld Pepe'--Peter Mathieson, his
coachman, a wondrously devoted soul, content to set himself in the
plough-stilts, and do the most menial duties, rather than quit
Abbotsford at its darkest. John Swanston, too, Purdie's successor,
and Dalgleish, the butler, occupy exalted niches in the temple of
humble and honest worth and sweet sacrificing service for a dear
master's sake who was much more than master to them all. Purdie's
grave, close to Melrose Abbey, with a modest stone erected by Scott
(see closing chapter), is probably the most visited of the 'graves
of the common people' almost anywhere. It is seventy-six years,
since, apparently in the fullest enjoyment of health and vigour, he
bowed his head one evening on the table, and dropped asleep--for
ever. Laidlaw lies at Contin amid the Highland solitudes. But
few from Tweedside have beheld the green turf beneath which his
loyal heart has been long resting, or read the simple inscription
on the white marble that marks a spot so sacred to all lovers of
Abbotsford and Sir Walter.
'Here lie the remains of William Laidlaw,
Born at Blackhouse in Yarrow,
November, 1780. Died at Contin, May 18, 1845.'
No account of the Abbotsford life can fail to take notice of the
extraordinary number of visitors, who, even at that early date,
flocked to the shrine of Sir Walter. The year 1825, as has been
said, must be regarded as the high-water mark in the splendours
of Abbotsford. From the dawn of 'Waverley,' but particularly the
period immediately preceding the crash, Abbotsford was the most
sought-after house in the kingdom. It was seldom without its quota
of guests. 'Like a cried fair,' Scott described it on one occasion.
'A hotel widout de pay,' was Lady Scott's more matter-of-fact
comparison. What a profoundly interesting and curious record a
register of visitors to Abbotsford would have been! We may regret,
like Lockhart, that none was ever attempted. His pages, however,
supply to some extent the lack of such a list. One is amazed at
its vastness and cosmopolitanism. Scott's visitors came from all
parts of the compass. Even then the ubiquitous American led the
way, much less reticent and more irrepressible than his modern
representative. Of Continental visitors to Britain in the early
part of last century, not a few, Lockhart says, crossed the
Channel, chiefly as a consequence of their interest in Scott's
writings, and in the hope of seeing the man himself under his own
roof. As for the more intellectual of his own countrymen, Lockhart
will be surprised if it can be shown that any of them crossed the
Tweed without spending a day at Abbotsford.
It was Scott's ambition to assemble at his board some of the best
blood of the country, and at the height of his prosperity he is
said to have entertained as many persons of distinction in rank,
politics, art, literature, and science, as the foremost nobleman of
his age ever did in the like space of time. Lockhart computes that
one out of every six of the British Peerage had dined at Scott's
table. Prince Leopold, afterwards Leopold I. of the Belgians,
husband of the Princess Charlotte, and the exiled Crown Prince
Gustavus of Sweden, were guests at Abbotsford in 1819 and 1820
respectively. With the leading Border families Scott was on the
best of terms, and the neighbouring gentry were all, more or less,
included within the Abbotsford circle. Of his literary friendships
some account will be found in the next chapter.
Nor was Scott above introducing his poorer relations to Abbotsford.
No old acquaintance or family connections, however remote their
station or style of manners, were forgotten or lost sight of. These
were welcome guests, whoever might be under his roof; and it was
the same with many an old classmate, or the fellow-apprentice who
had faced him at the desk when he was proud to earn threepence
a page in drudging pen-work. 'To dwell on nothing else,' says
Lockhart, 'it was surely a beautiful perfection of real universal
humanity and politeness that could enable this great and good man
to blend guests so multifarious in one group, or contrive to make
them all equally happy with him, with themselves, and with each
other.'
Whilst, however, Abbotsford was a kind of ever open door to an
unparalleled variety of guests, there was another and a much larger
company constantly invading its precincts--the great army of the
uninvited. Such interruptions were a constant source of worry to
Scott. Lockhart counted in one day no fewer than sixteen parties
begging admittance. It was impossible at that time, it was said, to
pass between Melrose and Abbotsford 'without encountering some odd
figure, armed with a sketch-book, evidently bent on a peep at the
Great Unknown.' Some came furnished with letters of introduction
from friends for whose sake Scott received them cordially, and
treated them kindly. Others had no introduction at all, but, pencil
and note-book in hand, took the most impertinent liberties with
the place and its occupants. On returning to Abbotsford upon one
occasion, Lockhart recalls how Scott and he found Mrs. Scott and
her daughters doing penance under the merciless curiosity of a
couple of tourists who had been with her for some hours. They were
rich specimens--tall, lanky young men, both of them rigged out in
new jackets and trousers of the Macgregor tartan, the one a lawyer,
the other a Unitarian preacher from New England. These gentlemen,
when told on their arrival that Scott was not at home, had shown
such signs of impatience that the servant took it for granted
they must have serious business, and asked if they would wish to
speak a word with his lady. They grasped at this, and so conducted
themselves in the interview that Mrs. Scott never doubted they had
brought letters of introduction to her husband, and invited them
accordingly to partake of her luncheon. They had been walking about
the house and grounds with her and her daughters ever since that
time, and appeared at the porch, when the Sheriff and his party
returned to dinner, as if they had been already fairly enrolled on
his visiting-list. For the moment he too was taken in; he fancied
that his wife must have received and opened their credentials,
and shook hands with them with courteous cordiality. But Mrs.
Scott, with all her overflowing good nature, was a sharp observer;
and she, before a minute had elapsed, interrupted the ecstatic
compliments of the strangers by reminding them that her husband
would be glad to have the letters of the friends who had been so
good as to write by them. It then turned out that there were no
letters to be produced, and Scott, signifying that his hour for
dinner approached, added that, as he supposed they meant to walk
to Melrose, he could not trespass further on their time. The two
lion-hunters seemed quite unprepared for this abrupt escape. But
there was about Scott, in perfection, when he chose to exert it,
the power of civil repulsion. He bowed the overwhelmed originals
to the door, and on reentering the parlour, found Mrs. Scott
complaining very indignantly that they had gone so far as to pull
out their note-book and beg an exact account, not only of his age,
but of her own. Scott, already half relenting, laughed heartily at
this misery, afterwards saying, 'Hang the Yahoos, Charlotte, but
we should have bid them stay dinner.' 'Devil a bit,' quoth Captain
Ferguson, who had come over from Huntlyburn, 'they were quite in
a mistake, I could see. The one asked Madame whether she deigned
to call her new house Tully Veolan or Tillietudlem, and the other,
when Maida happened to lay his head against the window, exclaimed,
"_Pro-di-gi-ous!_"' 'Well, well, Skipper,' was the reply, 'for a'
that, the loons would hae been nane the waur o' their kail.'
Much has been written of Scott and his dogs--not the least
important part of the establishment. All true poets, from Homer
downwards, have loved dogs. Scott was seldom without a 'tail' at
his heels. His special favourites, Camp and Maida (the Bevis of
'Woodstock'), are as well-known as himself. Both were frequently
painted by Raeburn and others. When Camp died at Castle Street,
Scott excused himself from a dinner-party on account of 'the death
of a dear old friend'--a fine compliment to the canine tribe--a
finer index to the heart of the man. Scott looked upon his dogs as
companions, 'not as the brute, but the mute creation.' He loved
them for their marvellously human traits, and we know how they
reciprocated his affection. He was always caring for them. When
the financial cloud burst, there is this touching record in the
Diary: 'I was to have gone there (Abbotsford) on Saturday in joy
and prosperity to receive my friends. My dogs will wait for me in
vain. It is foolish, but the thought of parting with these dumb
creatures has moved me more than any of the painful reflections I
have put down. Poor things! I must get them kind masters! There
may be yet those who, loving me, may love my dog, because it has
been mine.... I feel my dogs' feet on my knees; I hear them whining
and seeking me everywhere. This is nonsense, but it is what they
would do could they know how things may be.' 'Be very careful of
the dogs,' was his last request to Laidlaw on the eve of setting
out for Italy. And when, close on a year afterwards, he returned so
deadly stricken, it was his dogs fondling about him which for the
most part resuscitated the sense of 'home, sweet home.'
AN ABBOTSFORD BEAD-ROLL