AN ABBOTSFORD BEAD-ROLL
Of Scott's friendships in the world of letters, Lockhart's account
runs like a silver thread through the Life. Many of his strongest
ties were on the literary side. His attitude to literature was
a curious one, however. Notwithstanding the unique place which
he held, and his unrivalled popularity, his successes, from an
author's point of view, were accepted with singular sang-froid.
Nor was he ever heard to profess a love of literature for its
own sake. Carlyle's statement that, with Scott, literature was
mainly a means to an end--and a material enough one at that--it
is to be feared, is only too true. His fictional work was made
entirely subsidiary to the other and more tangible creations of his
imagination and ambition--Abbotsford, and the race of Abbotsford
Scotts. Literary reputation, he was fond of saying, while a bright
enough feather in one's cap, is never a substantial covering for
the head. 'He never considered,' says Lockhart, 'any amount of
literary distinction as entitled to be spoken of in the same breath
with mastery in the higher departments of practical life--least
of all, with the glory of a first-rate captain. To have done
things worthy to be written was a dignity to which no man made any
approach who had only written things worthy to be read.' Of his
own work he seldom spoke, except to his intimates. The making of a
book he held to be no great matter, and to the glory which might be
won thereby 'one is apt,' he said, 'to ascribe an undue degree of
consequence.' Recounting his introduction to the Iron Duke, he told
Ballantyne that he had felt awed and abashed as never before in
the presence of the man whom he regarded not only as the greatest
soldier, but also as the greatest statesman of the age. Ballantyne
suggested that, on his part, the Duke had seen before him a great
poet, and the greatest novelist of the age. Scott smiled. 'What,'
said he, 'would the Duke of Wellington think of a few _bits of
novels_, which perhaps he had never read, and for which the strong
probability is that he would not care a sixpence if he had?' 'I
have more than once,' said Laidlaw, 'heard Sir Walter assert that,
had his father left him an estate of £500 or £600 a year, he
would have spent his time in miscellaneous reading, not writing.'
This, to a certain extent, might have been the case. It is hardly
likely, however. Had he not tasted blood in the success of the
'Minstrelsy,' and the magnificent reception given to the verse
romances, matters might have been different. But, so singularly
successful at the first venture, it was not possible for Scott to
restrain himself from further achievements. Writing was as natural
to him as breathing. From boyhood he had a penchant for letters.
And had he not been 'making himself' right on from Sandyknowe and
Kelso to Lasswade and Ashestiel? The fruit came late, but what a
crop! Still, it was nothing for him, in one aspect of it, to be the
uncrowned king of his country's literature. So far as it made him
Scott of Abbotsford, that was a much more real matter.
We have seen how Abbotsford, in its palmy days, was the most
popular guest-house in the kingdom. To the intellectual lions of
the time its doors offered a specially gracious welcome. Never
did gatherings glisten with a more resplendent genius or such
genuine good-fellowship. An Abbotsford 'noctes' was worth dozens at
Ambrose's, as Lockhart and the contemporary biographies evidence.
To the present bead-roll, which is based almost entirely on
the Biography, Thomas Faed's picture, 'Scott and his Literary
Friends,'[9] offers a good index. The piece is purely imaginary,
for the persons represented were never all at Abbotsford at the
same time, two of them, indeed--Crabbe and Campbell--never having
seen it. Scott is represented as reading the manuscript of a new
novel; on his right, Henry Mackenzie, his oldest literary friend,
occupies the place of honour. Hogg, the intentest figure in the
group, sits at Scott's feet to the left. Kit North's leonine head
and shoulders lean across the back of a chair. Next come Crabbe
and Lockhart--at the centre of the table--together with Wordsworth
and Francis (afterwards Lord) Jeffrey. Sir Adam Ferguson, a bosom
cronie, cross-legged, his military boots recalling Peninsular days
and the reading of the 'Lady of the Lake' to his comrades in the
lines of Torres Vedras, immediately faces Scott. Behind him, Moore
and Campbell sit opposite each other. At the end of the table are
the printers Constable and Ballantyne, and at theirback, standing,
the painters Allan and Wilkie. Thomas Thomson, Deputy Clerk
Register, is on the extreme left, and Sir Humphry Davy is examining
a sword-hilt. A second and smaller copy of Faed's picture (in the
Woodlands Park collection, Bradford) substitutes Lord Byron and
Washington Irving for Constable and Ballantyne. Allan, Davy, and
Thomson are also omitted. The artist might well have introduced
Scott's lady literary friends, Joanna Baillie and Maria Edgeworth,
and it is a pity that Laidlaw has been left out.
[Illustration: SANDYKNOWE TOWER]
'Then rise those crags, that mountain tower
Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour;
It was a barren scene and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honeysuckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruin'd wall.
And still I thought that shatter'd tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvell'd as the aged bind
With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind,
Of forayers who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew
Far in the distant Cheviots blue.
Methought grim features seam'd with scars
Glared through the window's rusty bars.'
Such a picture suggests instinctively the table-talk of Abbotsford.
One cannot help regretting the absence of a volume on the subject,
apart from Lockhart. What would 'Bozzy' not have given for the
opportunity! Lockhart, naturally, scorned to 'Boswellize' his hero.
Notwithstanding the sterling excellence of the Biography, with
its reproductions of many rare conversations and chronicling of
scores of delightful little incidents, some of the finest things
that fell from Scott's lips and from his guests must have perished
irretrievably. Laidlaw, it is said, was urged to play the rôle of
Boswell, but declined, yet few could have done it better. He was
part of the establishment, and hardly any company was considered
complete without his quiet and sagacious presence. Scott once
remarked when they were alone, after a specially brilliant night,
that many a one, meeting such people and hearing such talk, might
make excellent 'copy' out of it in a very lively and entertaining
book, which would be sure to be read with interest. Hence the value
of the 'Abbotsford Notanda'--Laidlaw's correspondence and other
papers, collected and edited by Robert Carruthers--with no thought,
possibly, on Laidlaw's part, of their ever being printed. It is a
perfect little gem of its kind--one of the sweetest pictures of
the Abbotsford life and of that winsomely ideal relationship which
existed between Sir Walter and his steward. No student of Scott can
overlook it. As the writer, be it noted also, of one of the most
touching and characteristic Scottish ballads, 'Lucy's Flittin','
and an enthusiastic collaborateur with Scott in the 'Minstrelsy,'
Laidlaw will always merit the most honourable remembrance.
It is interesting to recall that Scott's first really distinguished
visitor from the arena of letters was from the other side of
the Atlantic--Washington Irving, an American of the Americans.
Irving's visit, doubtless, helped to modify Scott's estimate of
his countrymen. He did not at first care for many of his Yankee
admirers, but by-and-by not a few of them became friends for
life. Campbell introduced Irving to Scott. 'When you see Tom
Campbell,' wrote Scott to Richardson of Kirklands, 'tell him,
with my best love, that I have to thank him for making me known
to Mr. Washington Irving, who is one of the best and pleasantest
acquaintances I have made this many a day.' Irving was the
guest--if we except Basil Hall at a later period--who made the most
of his brief stay at Abbotsford. He was there in August, 1817,
whilst the building operations were in progress. Some parts of his
famous and classical essay are too good and too graphic not to be
quoted at length.
'While the postilion was on his errand, I had time to survey the
mansion. It stood some short distance below the road, on the
side of a hill sweeping down to the Tweed; and was as yet but a
snug gentleman's cottage, with something rural and picturesque
in its appearance. The whole front was overrun with evergreens,
and immediately above the portal was a great pair of elk horns,
branching out from beneath the foliage, and giving the cottage the
look of a hunting-lodge. The huge baronial pile, to which this
modest mansion in a manner gave birth, was just emerging into
existence; part of the walls, surrounded by scaffolding, already
had risen to the height of the cottage, and the courtyard in front
was encumbered by masses of hewn stone.
'The noise of the chaise had disturbed the quiet of the
establishment. Out sallied the warder of the castle, a black
greyhound, and, leaping on one of the blocks of stone, began a
furious barking. His alarm brought out the whole garrison of dogs,
all open-mouthed and vociferous. In a little while the "lord of
the castle" himself made his appearance. I knew him at once by the
descriptions I had read and heard, and the likenesses that had
been published of him. He was tall, and of a large and powerful
frame. His dress was simple, and almost rustic. An old green
shooting-coat, with a dog-whistle at the buttonhole, brown linen
pantaloons, stout shoes that tied at the ankles, and a white hat
that had evidently seen service. He came limping up the gravel
walk, aiding himself by a stout walking-staff, but moving rapidly
and with vigour. By his side jogged along a large iron-grey
staghound of most grave demeanour, who took no part in the clamour
of the canine rabble, but seemed to consider himself bound, for
the dignity of the house, to give me a courteous reception.
'Before Scott had reached the gate he called out in a hearty tone,
welcoming me to Abbotsford, and asking news of Campbell. Arrived
at the door of the chaise, he grasped me warmly by the hand:
"Come, drive down, drive down to the house," said he; "you're
just in time for breakfast, and afterwards ye shall see all the
wonders of the Abbey."
'I would have excused myself, on the plea of having already made
my breakfast. "Hout, man," cried he, "a ride in the morning in
the keen air of the Scotch hills is warrant enough for a second
breakfast."
'I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the cottage, and in
a few moments found myself seated at the breakfast-table. There
was no one present but the family, which consisted of Mrs. Scott,
her eldest daughter Sophia, then a fine girl about seventeen,
Miss Anne Scott, two or three years younger, Walter, a well-grown
stripling, and Charles, a lively boy, eleven or twelve years of
age. I soon felt myself quite at home, and my heart in a glow
with the cordial welcome I experienced. I had thought to make a
mere morning visit, but found I was not to be let off so lightly.
"You must not think our neighbourhood is to be read in a morning,
like a newspaper," said Scott. "It takes several days of study
for an observant traveller that has a relish for auld-world
trumpery. After breakfast you shall make your visit to Melrose
Abbey. When you come back, I'll take you out on a ramble about the
neighbourhood. To-morrow we will take a look at the Yarrow, and
the next day we will drive over to Dryburgh Abbey, which is a fine
old ruin well worth your seeing." In a word, before Scott had got
through with his plan, I found myself committed for a visit of
several days, and it seemed as if a little realm of romance was
suddenly opened before me....
'After my return from Melrose Abbey, Scott proposed a ramble to
show me something of the surrounding country. As we sallied forth,
every dog in the establishment turned out to attend us. There was
the old staghound Maida, a noble animal, and a great favourite
of Scott's; and Hamlet, the black greyhound, a wild, thoughtless
youngster, not yet arrived to years of discretion; and Finette, a
beautiful setter, with soft silken hair, long pendent ears, and
a mild eye--the parlour favourite. When in front of the house,
we were joined by a superannuated greyhound, who came from the
kitchen wagging his tail, and was cheered by Scott as an old
friend and comrade.
'In our walks, Scott would frequently pause in conversation to
notice his dogs and speak to them, as if rational companions; and,
indeed, there appears to be a vast deal of rationality in these
faithful attendants on man, derived from their close intimacy with
him. Maida deported himself with a gravity becoming his age and
size, and seemed to consider himself called upon to preserve a
great degree of dignity and decorum in our society. As he jogged
along a little distance ahead of us, the young dogs would gambol
about him, leap on his neck, worry at his ears, and endeavour to
tease him into a frolic. The old dog would keep on for a long
time with imperturbable solemnity, now and then seeming to rebuke
the wantonness of his young companions. At length he would make a
sudden turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in the dust; then,
giving a glance at us, as much as to say, "You see, gentlemen, I
can't help giving way to this nonsense," would resume his gravity
and jog on as before.
'Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. "I make no doubt,"
said he, "when Maida is alone with these young dogs he throws
gravity aside, and plays the boy as much as any of them; but he
is ashamed to do so in our company, and seems to say, 'Ha' done
with your nonsense, youngsters; what will the laird and that other
gentleman think of me if I give way to such foolery?'" ...
'We rambled on among scenes which had been familiar in Scottish
song, and rendered classic by the pastoral muse, long before Scott
had thrown the rich mantle of his poetry over them. What a thrill
of pleasure did I feel when first I saw the broom-covered tops of
the Cowdenknowes peeping above the grey hills of the Tweed! and
what touching associations were called up by the sight of Ettrick
Vale, Gala Water, and the Braes of Yarrow! Every turn brought
to mind some household air--some almost forgotten song of the
nursery, by which I had been lulled to sleep in my childhood; and
with them the looks and voices of those who had sung them, and
who were now no more. It is these melodies, chanted in our ears
in the days of infancy, and connected with the memory of those
we have loved, and who have passed away, that clothe Scottish
landscape with such tender associations....
'Our ramble took us on the hills, commanding an extensive
prospect. "Now," said Scott, "I have brought you, like the
pilgrim in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' to the top of the Delectable
Mountains, that I may show you all the goodly regions hereabouts.
Yonder is Lammermoor and Smailholm; and there you have Galashiels,
and Torwoodlee, and Gala Water; and in that direction you see
Teviotdale, and the Braes of Yarrow, and Ettrick stream, winding
along, like a silver thread, to throw itself into the Tweed."
'He went on thus to call over names celebrated in Scottish song,
and most of which had recently received a romantic interest from
his own pen. In fact, I saw a great part of the Border Country
spread out before me, and could trace the scenes of those poems
and romances which had, in a manner, bewitched the world. I gazed
about me for a time with mute surprise, I may almost say with
disappointment. I beheld a mere succession of grey waving hills,
line beyond line, as far as my eye could reach, monotonous in
their aspect, and so destitute of trees that one could almost see
a stout fly walking along their profile; and the farfamed Tweed
appeared a naked stream, flowing between bare hills, without a
tree or thicket on its banks; and yet, such had been the magic web
of poetry and romance thrown over the whole, that it had a greater
charm for me than the richest scenery I beheld in England.
'I could not help giving utterance to my thoughts. Scott hummed
for a moment to himself, and looked grave; he had no idea of
having his muse complimented at the expense of his native hills.
"It may be partiality," said he, at length; "but to my eye, these
grey hills and all this wild Border Country have beauties peculiar
to themselves. I like the very nakedness of the land; it has
something bold, and stern, and solitary about it. When I have been
for some time in the rich scenery about Edinburgh, which is like
ornamented garden land, I begin to wish myself back again among
my honest grey hills; and if I did not see the heather at least
once a year, _I think I should die_!" The last words were said
with an honest warmth, accompanied with a thump on the ground with
his staff, by way of emphasis, that showed his heart was in his
speech.'
Following Irving's visit came Lady Byron--for a day only--spent
on the banks of the Yarrow. Lord Byron never was at Abbotsford.
Scott and he met at John Murray's London house and elsewhere,
and they frequently corresponded. Like the old heroes in Homer,
they exchanged gifts. Scott gave Byron a beautiful dagger mounted
with gold, which had been the property of the redoubted Elfi Bey,
and some time after, Byron sent to Abbotsford a large sepulchral
vase of silver, filled with dead men's bones from the Piræus, and
suitably inscribed. A letter from the noble poet accompanying the
gift was filched from the vase, much to Scott's annoyance.
That same year, 1817, Sir David Wilkie painted his incongruous
'Abbotsford Family' (in the Scottish National Gallery), wherein
Scott figures as a miller and the rest of the group as peasants.
Sir Adam Ferguson, who commissioned the picture, was depicted as
a poacher. Wilkie's impressions of Abbotsford, in a letter to his
sister, reveal the pleasant nature of his visit. 'I have never been
in any place,' he says, 'where there is so much real good humour
and merriment. There is nothing but amusement from morning till
night, and if Scott is really writing "Rob Roy," it must be while
we are sleeping.' (That was practically so.) 'He is either out
planting trees, superintending the masons, or erecting fences, the
whole of the day. He goes frequently out hunting, and this morning
there was a whole cavalcade of us out hunting hard.'
Lockhart at Abbotsford, which he first saw in 1818, merits a
chapter to himself. Sir Humphry Davy and Dr. Wollaston, natural
philosophers both, Henry Mackenzie, and William Stewart Rose,
translator of Ariosto, to whom Scott dedicated the first canto of
'Marmion,' were at Abbotsford in 1820. Of their doings (unliterary)
some account will be found in the preceding pages. The year 1823,
when Miss Edgeworth visited Abbotsford, Lockhart believes to be the
happiest in Scott's life. Probably no more welcome guest crossed
his threshold. Scott and she corresponded occasionally. As a matter
of fact, it was Maria's delightful delineations of Irish life
and character which inspired him to try his own hand at fiction.
Long had he hoped to meet her. At last the novelist of 'Castle
Rackrent' and 'The Absentee' was in Scotland, with Abbotsford as
her objective. Barely had she and her sister reached Edinburgh
before a note came from Scott begging them to venture to his house
that very night, late as it was, and just as they were, to hear
the Laird of Staffa and some of his clansmen singing Highland
boat-songs. 'Ten o'clock struck,' writes Miss Edgeworth, 'as I read
this note. We were tired; we were not fit to be seen; but I sent
for a hackney, and just as we were, without dressing, we went. As
the coach stopped, we saw the hall lighted, and the moment the door
opened, heard the joyous sounds of loud singing. Three servants:
'The Miss Edgeworths!' sounded from hall to landing-place; and as
I paused for a moment in the ante-room, I heard the first sound
of Walter Scott's voice--'The Miss Edgeworths?--come!' Thus the
eventful meeting took place, and the friendship of two lives long
intimate, so far as correspondence can be said to create intimacy,
seems to have grown to its full height, literally at their first
hand-clasp. Here is Scott's opinion of the 'little Irish lioness,'
as he called her: 'It is scarcely possible to say more of this
remarkable person than that she not only completely answered, but
exceeded the expectations which I had formed. I am particularly
pleased with the naïveté and good-humoured ardour of mind which she
unites with such formidable powers of acute observation.' 'Never
did I see a brighter day at Abbotsford,' says Lockhart, 'than that
on which Miss Edgeworth first arrived there; never can I forget
her look and accent when she was received by Scott at his archway,
and exclaimed: 'Everything about you is exactly what one ought to
have had wit enough to dream!' The visit was a series of fêtes. The
weather, on its good behaviour, allowed of an out-of-doors life to
the full. One day they picnicked at Cauldshiels. Another, the whole
party feasted by the Rhymer's Waterfall in the Glen, and the stone
on which Maria sat was ever afterwards called 'Edgeworth's stone.'
A third day they drove to the Upper Yarrow, and about sunset the
baskets were unpacked beside St. Mary's Chapel of the Lowes, or
all that remains of it, high up on the hillside, overlooking the
shining waters of the Loch. The young ladies trimmed their hair
with heather and blue-bells, and some of the party sang, and
Scott recited, until it was time to go home beneath the softest
of harvest moons. So passed that halcyon fortnight, and Miss
Edgeworth never saw Abbotsford again. But exactly two years later,
Mr. Lovell Edgeworth threw open the doors of his classical mansion
at Edgeworthstown to the Wizard of the North, and Maria, with her
brother and sister, accompanied him to Killarney amid a succession
of festive gaiety wherever they halted.
[Illustration: CAULDSHIELS LOCH]
'The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.'
John Leycester Adolphus, author of the 'Letters to Heber,'
unmasking the 'Great Unknown' in proof that 'Marmion' and
'Waverley' were from the same pen, was a frequent guest from 1823
onwards. His 'Memoranda, like Irving's and Hall's, discloses
interesting little sidelights of Scott as seen by an outsider.
There is nothing better than his exquisite description of Scott's
laugh: 'Never, perhaps, did a man go through all the gradations of
laughter with such complete enjoyment and a countenance so radiant.
The first dawn of a humorous thought would show itself sometimes,
as he sat silent, by an involuntary lengthening of the upper lip,
followed by a shy sidelong glance at his neighbours, indescribably
whimsical, and seeming to ask from their looks whether the spark
of drollery should be suppressed or allowed to blaze out. In
the full tide of mirth he did, indeed, laugh the heart's laugh,
like Walpole, but it was not boisterous and overpowering, nor
did it check the course of his words. He could go on telling or
descanting, while his lungs did 'crow like chanticleer,' his
syllables, in the struggle, growing more emphatic, his accent more
strongly Scotch, and his voice plaintive with excess of merriment.'
Tom Moore came in 1825--the culminating year. Scott and he had
only once met, in public, some twenty years earlier. Abbotsford,
curiously, but luckily for Moore, was absolutely guestless during
his visit. Scott enjoyed having the author of 'Lalla Rookh'
all to himself, and sacrificed his mornings, usually sacred to
work, in honour of the occasion. The liking between the two men
was immediate, but none the less profound. To Moore--and tired,
doubtless, of the long mask-wearing--Scott confessed the Novels'
authorship, the first avowal outside his own circle. On the third
day Moore's Diary notes that Scott, 'laying his hand cordially on
my breast, said: "Now, my dear Moore, we are friends for life."'
Together they called on Laidlaw at Kaeside, the Fergusons at
Huntlyburn, saw Melrose, and in the evening Scott 'collected his
neighbours to enjoy his guest, with the wit and humour of Sir
Adam Ferguson, his picturesque stories of the Peninsula, and his
inimitable singing of the old Jacobite ditties.' 'I parted from
Scott,' says Moore, 'with the feeling that all the world might
admire him in his works, but that those only could learn to love
him as he deserved who had seen him at Abbotsford.' And there is
no passage in Moore's memoirs more evidently sincere than that in
which he expresses (only a few months later) his 'deep and painful
sympathy' in the news of Scott's financial misfortune: 'For poor
devils like me (who have never known better) to fag and to be
pinched for means, becomes, as it were, a second nature; but for
Scott, whom I saw living in such luxurious comfort, and dispensing
such cordial hospitality, to be thus suddenly reduced to the
necessity of working his way is too bad, and I grieve for him from
my heart.'
Arthur Henry Hallam, of 'In Memoriam,' cut off in the very bloom of
life and genius, accompanied by his father, the historian, was at
Abbotsford in 1829. His beautiful verses, 'written after visiting
Melrose Abbey in company of Scott,' have been often reprinted:
'I lived an hour in fair Melrose;
It was not when the "pale moonlight"
Its magnifying charm bestows;
Yet deem I that I "viewed it right."
The wind-swept shadows fast careered,
Like living things that joyed or feared,
Adown the sunny Eildon Hill,
And the sweet winding Tweed the distance crownèd well.
'I inly laughed to see that scene
Wear such a countenance of youth,
Though many an age those hills were green,
And yonder river glided smooth,
Ere in these now disjointed walls
The Mother Church held festivals,
And full-voiced anthemings the while
Swelled from the choir, and lingered down the echoing aisle.
'I coveted that Abbey's doom;
For if, I thought, the early flowers
Of our affection may not bloom,
Like those green hills, through countless hours,
Grant me at least a tardy waning,
Some pleasure still in age's paining;
Though lines and forms must fade away,
Still may old Beauty share the empire of Decay!
'But looking toward the grassy mound
Where calm the Douglas chieftains lie
Who, living, quiet never found,
I straightway learnt a lesson high:
For there an old man sat serene,
And well I knew that thoughtful mien
Of him whose early lyre had thrown
Over these mouldering walls the magic of its tone.
'Then ceased I from my envying state,
And knew that aweless intellect
Hath power upon the ways of fate,
And works through time and space uncheck'd.
That minstrel of old chivalry
In the cold grave must come to be,
But his transmitted thoughts have part
In the collective mind, and never shall depart.
'It was a comfort, too, to see
Those dogs that from him ne'er would rove,
And always eyed him reverently,
With glances of depending love.
They know not of that eminence
Which marks him to my reasoning sense;
They know but that he is a man,
And still to them is kind, and glads them all he can.'
That same summer Mrs. Hemans, visiting the Hamiltons at Chiefswood,
was daily at Abbotsford. Lockhart has no mention of the occasion.
See, however, the references in the 'Journal.' As with Miss
Edgeworth, Scott piloted the 'poet of womanhood' to Yarrow, and
over into Ettrick, and in the Rhymer's Glen he related the incident
which gave origin to her inspiring 'Rhine Song.'[10] At parting
with her, he said, 'There are some whom we meet and should like
ever after to claim as kith and kin; and you are one of these.'
Susan Ferrier, authoress of 'Marriage,' 'Inheritance,' etc.,
novels of the older school (in need of modern revival), visited
Scott in 1829, and again in 1831. 'This gifted personage,' says
the 'Journal,'' besides having great talents, has conversation the
least _exigeante_ of any author--female, at least--whom I have
ever seen among the long list I have encountered--simple, full of
humour, and exceedingly ready at repartee; and all this without the
least affectation of the blue-stocking.'[11]
[Illustration: THE RHYMER'S GLEN]
'Come now, O Queen of Faery,
With the first love-steps of spring;
The larch holds out its tassels,
The birks their splendour fling.
* * * * *
Thy Rhymer's Glen is yearning,
Methinks thou tarriest long,
While breeze, and bird, and burnie
Sing one expectant song.'
Wordsworth was the last of the giants to visit Scott at Abbotsford.
They met for the first time at Lasswade Cottage as far back as
1803, and at least on four other occasions, both in Scotland
and England. But how altered the circumstances of their present
meeting! Scott, a confirmed invalid, was on the eve of saying
farewell to Abbotsford practically for ever. Wordsworth arrived
on September 21, 1831, and Scott was to leave on the 23rd. On the
22nd--the last day at home, and the last one of real enjoyment--the
two friends spent the morning together in a visit to Newark. 'It
was a day to deepen both in Scott and Wordsworth whatever of
sympathy either of them had with the very different genius of the
other'; and that it had this result in Wordsworth's case we know
from the very beautiful poem 'Yarrow Revisited,' and the Sonnet ('A
trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain'), which the occasion also
produced. As long as English poetry lives, so will the memory of
that last day of the Last Minstrel at Newark:
'Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed--
The Forest to embolden;
Redden'd the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.
* * * * *
'For thee, O Scott! compelled to change
Green Eildon Hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes;
And leave thy Tweed and Teviot
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves;
May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking!
'O! while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age
With Strength, her venturous brother;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory!
'For Thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,
Hast shed the power of Yarrow!
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,
With gladness must requite Thee.'
Sitting in the Library that same night, the talk turned on Smollett
and Fielding, both driven abroad, as Scott recalled, like himself,
through declining health, and we hardly wonder if there was the
feeling present to his mind that, like them, he, too, might not
return.
Mention of Yarrow instinctively calls up the name of James Hogg,
a true friend of Scott, notwithstanding Lockhart's farrago. Hogg
and Lockhart were constantly misunderstanding one another. In one
sense, they were wide as the poles asunder--Lockhart aristocratic
to the finger-tips, Hogg excessively plebeian. But that should have
made no difference. It made no difference with Scott. Lockhart
undoubtedly tried to help Hogg a good deal, which Hogg resented
more than once; hence Lockhart's strictures. But for all that, the
Shepherd is a picturesque and lovable figure, even in the pages
of Lockhart. Hogg's alleged 'insult' to the dust of Scott--the
'Scorpion's' most stinging charge against him--amounts, after all,
to very little. That Hogg was never further from insult in the
writing of his little brochure[12] seems perfectly clear. There
are, to be sure, some things that had been better left unsaid. But
the book is, nevertheless, one of the brightest and most natural
pen-portraits of Scott that we have. Hogg was a regular visitor
at Abbotsford. Laidlaw denies that he ever, even in his cups,
descended to 'Wattie' and 'Charlotte.' Scott smiled at Hogg's
inordinate vanity, and Hogg had one or two stupid estrangements
with him. But Sir Walter's attachment to his more humble compeer
was never lessened in the least until the day when the two friends
parted for ever at the Gordon Arms in Yarrow--the dearest vale on
earth to them both.[13]
THE WIZARD'S FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD