Tom Purdie’s death, by which I have been greatly affected. He had
complained, or rather spoken, of a sore throat; and the day before
yesterday, as it came on a shower of rain, I wanted him to walk
fast on to Abbotsford before me, but you know well how impossible
that was. He took some jelly, or trifle of that kind, but made no
complaint. This morning he rose from bed as usual, and sat down
by the table with his head on his hand; and when his daughter
spoke to him, life had passed away without a sigh or groan. Poor
fellow! There is a heart cold that loved me well, and, I am sure,
thought of my interest more than his own. I have seldom been so
much shocked. I wish you would take a ride down and pass the night.
There is much I have to say, and this loss adds to my wish to see
you. We dine at four. The day is indifferent, but the sooner the
better.--Yours very truly,
WALTER SCOTT.
‘ABBOTSFORD, _31st October_.’
A few days afterwards (November 5), Laidlaw thus relates the story:
‘Tom Purdie, poor fellow! died on Friday night or Saturday morning. He
had fallen asleep with his head on his hands resting on the table, his
usual practice. Margaret and Mary’ [his wife and daughter] ‘left him
to go to bed when he should awaken; and Margaret found him exactly in
the same situation when she rose, but dead, cold, and stiff. Sir Walter
wrote to me, in great distress, to come down. I did so on Sunday, and
on Tuesday I went to poor Tom’s funeral. Sir Walter had my pony put
in again, and made me stay all day. He was in very great distress
about Tom, and will miss him continually, and in many ways that come
nearest to him. Sir Walter wants us to return to Kaeside at Whitsunday.
_Kindness of heart is positively the reigning quality of Sir Walter’s
character!_’
A noble eulogium, and pronounced by one better qualified, perhaps, than
any of his contemporaries, to form the opinion so expressed. Of the
greatest author of his age it might truly be said:
‘His highest honours to the heart belong.’
William Laidlaw _did_ return to Kaeside. At Whitsuntide 1830, he
dropped anchor safely at his old roadstead, which had been suitably
prepared for his reception. But before doing so, we find him putting in
a kind word for the Ettrick Shepherd, who was in difficulties. In March
1830, Laidlaw wrote to Sir Walter:
‘I had your letter from Bowhill, and was much gratified to learn that
you and Miss Scott had passed so much time with the duke and duchess.
I have no doubt that His Grace would bring our friend the Shepherd
and his concerns before you, and I am anxious to know if it is the
duke’s intention to render him a little more comfortable at Altrive.
You know that Hogg built the cottage there, at his own expense (with
an allowance of wood, perhaps), and he likewise built a considerable
addition to Mount Benger, and a barn--all which cost him a great sum
of money, quite disproportionate to a holding of £7 a year, even at a
nominal rent. The cottage was intended for a bachelor’s abode, and is
very inadequate to what is now required by the bard’s family; and I see
that if His Grace does not think of giving him some allowance as an
addition, it will most likely banish him from the district with which
his poetry and feeling are so closely associated. I mention all this
because I have observed that there is a prejudice against him among the
sub-agents since Christie left the service, or rather, since the late
duke’s death. One of them said to me, when I mentioned Hogg’s genius
and amiable character, _Cui bono?_ I, too, say, _Cui bono?_ What is the
use of all his poetry, and the rest? Now, from R.’s usage of him, there
is every reason to suspect that he is a _cui bono_ man too, and Hogg
stands a bad chance among them, and I believe the duke knows nothing
about the truth of the matter.’
Nothing was done. ‘As to the success of an application to the duke,’
writes Scott, ‘I am doubtful. The duke seemed to have made up his mind
on the subject, and I saw no chance of being of service.’ Literature
and the journey to London did something for the Shepherd. He wrote and
struggled on at Altrive till November 1835, when the ‘world’s poor
strife’ was over, and he sank to rest.
Among the dearest and most valued of all the visitors at Abbotsford
were the Fergusons of Huntly Burn. Here is a kindly note sent to
Kaeside:
‘Miss Ferrier is to be at Abbotsford this day, being Tuesday, 20th
October’ [1829], ‘and Mr Wilkie is to be there on Thursday; so, if
you come, you will have painting, poetry, history, and music--as
Miss Wilkie is a musician. In short, all the Muses will be there.
If this does not tempt you, I don’t know what will.--Yours truly,
ISABELLA FERGUSON.’
Ill-health and political agitation brought darker days to Abbotsford.
The Reform Bill was Sir Walter’s _bête noire_. The neighbouring Tory
lairds, proud of his co-operation, induced him to join in their local
movement against the bill, and this still further aggravated his morbid
feeling. In March 1831, he was present at a meeting of the freeholders
of Roxburgh, held at Jedburgh, to pass resolutions against the Reform
Bill. He was dragged to the meeting by the young Duke of Buccleuch and
Mr Henry Scott of Harden, contrary to his prior resolution, and his
promise to Miss Scott; for his health was then much shattered. ‘He
made a confused imaginative speech,’ says Laidlaw, ‘which was full of
evil forebodings and mistaken views. The people who were auditors,
in proportion to their love and reverence for him, felt disappointed
and sore, and, like himself, were carried away by their temporary
chagrin, to the great regret of the country around.’ At the election in
Jedburgh, Sir Walter was hooted at, and hissed, and saluted with cries
of ‘Burke Sir Walter!’ Laidlaw adds: ‘The same people, a few weeks
afterwards, when Mr Oliver, the sheriff of Roxburgh, was foolishly
swearing in constables at Melrose, said boldly they need not bring them
to fight against reform, for they would fight for it; but if any one
meddled with Sir Walter Scott, they would fight for him.’ Amidst all
the excitement of politics, and in sinking health, Sir Walter continued
to write, or rather to dictate, and worked steadily at his novel of
_Count Robert of Paris_.
‘I am now writing as amanuensis for Sir Walter,’ said Laidlaw; ‘and
have the satisfaction of finding that I am of essential service to him,
as he was attacked with chilblains on his hands to such a degree as to
unfit him for writing long unless with great pain. We go on with almost
as great spirit as when he dictated _Ivanhoe_. He has become a good
deal lamer, which prevents him from taking his usual walks; and he gets
upon a pony with great difficulty. But of late he has been in excellent
spirits. His memory seems to be as good as ever; at least, it is far
beyond that of other people. I come down at seven o’clock, and write
until nine; we are at it again before ten, and continue until one. He
is impatient and miserable when not employed.’
About this time--the spring of 1831--Joanna Baillie published a thin
volume of selections from the New Testament ‘regarding the nature and
dignity of Jesus Christ.’ The tendency of the work was Socinian, or
at least Arian; and Scott was indignant that his friend should have
meddled with such a subject. ‘What had _she_ to do with questions of
that sort?’ He refused to add the book to his library, and gave it to
Laidlaw. One day Sir Walter was loud in praise of one of the workmen
engaged at Abbotsford, a native of the neighbouring village of Darnick.
‘Yes,’ added Laidlaw; ‘and do you know, Sir Walter, he is an excellent
Burgher preacher.’[11] ‘A preacher, d--n him!’ exclaimed Scott
jocularly, and wheeling round as if to whistle the Burgher preacher
down the wind.
In a very manly and interesting letter, addressed to Lockhart (of which
he had kept a copy), Laidlaw enters into further particulars concerning
the studies at Abbotsford:
‘Sir Walter is very greatly better. He has given up smoking, and takes
porridge to his supper instead of the long and hearty pull of brown
stout. He is full of jokes and glee. Were it possible to prevail upon
him to wear a greatcoat when he rides out to the hills in a north-west
wind, and to take champagne and water instead of a monstrous tumbler
of strong ale after tea, I am positive--and so are the regular medical
people--that he would get right again. He drinks no wine, and has
been advised to take gin-toddy instead of whisky. He has given up the
regular dram out of a _quaich_, but takes a sly taste of the excellent
hollands before he _coups_ it into the tumbler, thereby satisfying
his conscience, no doubt, by reducing it to the half-glass which, it
seems, is the Abercromby law as to strong liquors. Don’t you mind the
style of his letters; that is all, or nearly all, humbug. What he
dictates of _Robert of Paris_ is, much of it, as good as anything he
ever wrote. He does not go on so fast; but I do not see that he is
much more apt to make blunders--that is, to let his imagination get
ahead of his speech--than when he wrote _Ivanhoe_. The worst business
was that accursed nonsensical petition in the name of the magistrates,
justices of the peace, and freeholders of the extensive, influential,
and populous county of Selkirk! We were more than three days at it.
At the beginning of the third day, he walked backwards and forwards,
enunciating the half-sentences with a deep and awful voice, his
eyebrows seemingly more shaggy than ever, and his eyes more fierce and
glaring--altogether, like the royal beast in his cage! It suddenly came
over me, as politics was always Sir Walter’s weak point, that he was
crazy, and that I should have to come down to Abbotsford, and write
on and away at the petition until the crack of doom! I was seized at
the same moment with an inclination, almost uncontrollable, to burst
into laughter. But seriously, you know, as well as anybody, his great
excitability on political matters; and I must say it surprised me not a
little that a person of your sagacity and acuteness should have thought
of writing him upon politics at all, the more, because I believe that
if a magpie were to come and chatter politics, or even that body,
Lord M., he would believe all they said, if they spoke of change, and
danger, and rumours of war--_belli servilis_ more than all. (May I
speak and live!) I felt inclined to doubt whether you had not _gane
gyte_’ [gone crazy] ‘yourself! Could you not have sent him literary
chit-chat and amusing anecdotes from London, which would have been the
very thing for him, as it was of great consequence that his mind should
be kept calm and cheerful?’
Mental disease and physical infirmity continued to increase, and a
winter at Naples, with complete abstinence from literary labour, was
prescribed. Wordsworth prayed for favouring gales:
‘Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope!’
Alas! it was all in vain. Before quitting the country, Sir Walter gave
Laidlaw a mandate, or letter of authority, to represent him at county
meetings, and a paper of directions as to keeping the house, the books,
and garden in order. Two items are worth quoting as characteristic:
‘The dogs to be taken care of, especially to shut them up separately
when there is anything to quarrel about.
‘When Mr Laidlaw thinks it will be well taken, to consult Mr Nicol
Milne, and not to stop young Mr Nicol when shooting on our side of the
hedge.’
Having made these arrangements, the invalid thought of taking a
farewell look of Melrose Abbey. One morning Mr Laidlaw’s family were
startled to see Sir Walter approaching Kaeside, feeble, and wearing
his nightcap, which apparently he had forgotten to exchange for a
hat. No notice was taken of the circumstance. After the usual kindly
salutations, he said, with a tremulous voice, that he had come to take
a last look of the abbey. He proceeded to an elevated point commanding
a view of the spot, and after gazing long and anxiously down on the
town and abbey, he said slowly: ‘It is a venerable ruin!’ and returned
to Abbotsford.
The government, as is well known, placed a frigate at his disposal
for the voyage to the Mediterranean. The reception at Portsmouth, and
the arrangements on board the _Barham_, were highly gratifying to Sir
Walter and his family. ‘The ship is magnificent,’ writes Mrs Lockhart,
‘and carries four hundred and eighty men. The rooms are excellent, and
everything that could be thought of for papa’s comfort, in every way,
has been done.’ Hopes of his ultimate recovery were entertained. Cadell
writes, December 29, 1831: ‘I have two long letters from Sir Walter,
one dated “Off Trafalgar, 14th November,” and finished at Malta on the
23d. He is in great glee, and must be much better. He has made some
progress with a new novel, _The Siege of Malta_.’ At the date of the
second letter, he had got through thirty of his own pages. Major Scott
arrived from Naples on the 1st of April 1832, and brought no very
flattering tidings. ‘From his talk,’ writes Lockhart, ‘and from a huge
bundle of letters which he conveyed, we draw one inference--namely,
that though the bodily strength of your friend has improved since he
left us, there has been rather, if anything, a further dislocation and
prostration of the better part. Cadell is here, and he and I and the
major spent a sad enough evening over the budget.’ All hope was soon
dispelled. The hurried journey home from Italy induced another attack
of apoplexy. He was struck while in the steamboat on the Rhine at
Cologne, and fell into Miss Scott’s arms. Nicholson bled him instantly,
and restored animation. They pushed on for Rotterdam, and got there
just as the London boat was setting off for England. Laidlaw writes to
a friend:
‘You will see by the newspapers that Sir Walter is coming home to die,
I fear, or worse. It has come to what I always feared since he told
me that Mr Cadell had half the proceeds of the great new edition.
Sir Walter’s permanent income is, as you know, reduced salary, £840;
sheriffdom, £300--total, £1140. No person can live at Abbotsford, and
keep it up, in a country-gentlemanly way, under £2000 a year, for it
will take nearly £1200 for servants, taxes, coals, garden, horses,
&c. The run of strangers was immense. Sir Walter wrote for Keepsakes,
Reviews, &c., and kept things going; but of late this stream dried up,
and he has been confused in his notions of money matters. He is much
involved, and will not be able to draw any more than his salaries. He
has all this winter taken it into his head that his debts are paid
off, and this was from catching at an idea of Cadell’s of borrowing
money and paying the creditors all except the interest. He will know
the truth when he comes to London, and this, with the winter and cold
weather, will kill him. How can a man with his sensibility, used
for thirty years to the strongest excitement, and living on popular
applause, in luxury, glitter, and show, survive when all is gone, and
nothing but ruin, coldness, and darkness remain?’
Deprived of the use of his right arm and side, weak and depressed, Sir
Walter reached London on the evening of the 13th of June 1832. Five
days later, Cadell writes: ‘Our poor friend is still alive, but very
ill. He took leave of his children to-day, very clearly and distinctly.
In the morning, he mistook Lockhart for me; and it was some time before
he could be put right. The doctors doubt his getting over to-night.’ He
rallied, however, and next month was conveyed to Abbotsford. Laidlaw’s
account of Sir Walter’s arrival (written the day after) differs in some
particulars from the narrative of Lockhart--one of the most affecting
narratives in the language.
‘I was at the door when he’ [Sir Walter], ‘Mr and Mrs Lockhart, and
Miss Scott arrived. They said he would not know me. He was in a sort
of long carriage that opened at the back. He had an uncommon stupid
look, staring straight before him; and assuredly he did not know
where he was. It was very dismal. I began to feel myself agitated in
spite of all my resolution. Lockhart ordered away the ladies; and two
servants, in perfect silence, lifted him out, and carried him into
the dining-room. I followed, of course. They had placed him in a low
arm-chair, where he reclined. Mrs Lockhart made a sign for me to step
forward to see if he would recognise me. She said: “Mr Laidlaw, papa.”
He raised his eyes a little, and when he caught mine, he started, and
exclaimed: “Good God, Mr Laidlaw! I have thought of you a thousand
times!” and he held out his hand. They were all very much surprised;
and it being quite unexpected, I was much affected. He was put to bed.
I had gone into one of the empty rooms, and some little time after
Nicholson came to tell me that Sir Walter wished to see me. He spoke
a little confusedly, but inquired if the people were suffering any
hardship, if they were satisfied, &c. I had written to him that I had
paid off nine or ten of the men after he had gone away last year. I did
not remain long.
‘I understand Sir Walter’s mind has been wandering from one dream
to another; but now and then breaking through the cloud that hangs
over it, and surprising his attendants with glimpses of his original
intellect. Alas, alas! However, he has rested better than for some
time past, and was wheeled into the library’ [July 12], ‘and seemed
gratified. When I called about eleven o’clock, he was sound asleep.’
A fortnight later, Laidlaw writes:
‘Sir Walter is generally collected in the morning, and very restless
and troublesome to his daughters during the afternoon and night; often
raving, but always quiet, and generally shewing command of himself when
Lockhart comes in. Sometimes he seemed gratified at being at home, and
even once or twice made pertinent quotations, and spoke of books, &c.
Until yesterday, he always knew me, and I clearly saw he had then a
distressing desire to speak to me. I perceived that although he might
appear to feel little pain, he was really suffering a great deal,
partly from a sense of his situation and inaction, but chiefly from the
overpowering cloud and weight upon his great intellect. Yesterday,
he was apparently unconscious; he could not speak, but was wheeled
into the library for awhile. I never witnessed a more moving or more
melancholy sight. Once, when Lockhart spoke of his restlessness, he
replied: “There will be rest in the grave.”’
One delusion under which the illustrious sufferer laboured was
preparing Abbotsford for the reception of the Duke of Wellington.
Another was, his personation of the character of a Scottish judge
trying his own daughters. In the course of the latter, there were
painful bursts of violence and excitement. ‘It is strange,’ said
Laidlaw, ‘that he never refers to any of his works or literary plans.’
The truth is, he had thrown them off, to use an expression of his own,
with ‘an effort as spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its leaves
to the wind,’ and they soon passed from his memory. Besides, he had,
when in health, always practised a modest reticence respecting his
works, which had become habitual. The following points to the end of
the struggle:
‘Poor papa still lingers, although in the most hopeless state of
mind and body. For this week past, the doctor has taken leave every
day, saying he could not survive the twenty-four hours; and to-day,
he says the pulse is weaker and worse than ever it has been, and
that his living is almost a miracle. How thankful we shall be when
it pleases God he is at rest, for a more complete aberration of
mind never was before; and he even now is so violent we sometimes
dare not go within reach of his hand. And the miserable scenes we
have witnessed before his strength was reduced as it now is! One
great comfort has been, all suffering, so far as we can judge,
mental or bodily, has been spared, and that for two months past he
has not for an instant been aware of his situation. My brothers
were sent for, and have been here for two days. When all is over,
Anne and I and the children will leave this now miserable place for
ever. Lockhart is obliged to go straight to London, but we mean
to spend a couple of weeks with his relations in Lanarkshire, and
perhaps take Rokeby in our way up. We are both much better than you
would expect under such sad circumstances. Excuse this miserable
scrawl; I hardly know what I write....
C. SOPHIA LOCKHART.
‘ABBOTSFORD, _Sunday’ [September 16, 1832]_.[12]
On the day succeeding that on which this melancholy letter would seem
to have been written, Sir Walter had a brief interval of consciousness,
as described by Lockhart, although the biographer would appear to
have misdated the arrival of the sons of the poet. A few more days
terminated the struggle; Sir Walter died on the 21st of September. In
October, Laidlaw notes that Major Scott had given him, accompanied with
a most gratifying letter, the locket which Sir Walter constantly wore
about his neck. This was presented to Sir Walter by Major Scott and his
wife (inscribed ‘From Walter and Jane’) on the day of their marriage,
and it contained some of the hair of each. Major Scott enclosed as
much of Sir Walter’s hair as would supply the place of theirs, which
he wished to be taken out of the locket. ‘I shall try to find room for
all,’ said Mr Laidlaw; and he did find room, interlacing the various
hairs, and wearing the invaluable jewel to his dying day. ‘What a
change the loss of Abbotsford must be to the Fergusons and you all!’
writes Mrs Lockhart, ‘the gentle Sophia,’ as Miss Martineau describes
the fair sufferer. ‘It breaks my heart when I think of the silence and
desolation that now reign there. They talk of a monument! God knows
papa needs no monument; he has left behind him that which won’t pass
away. But if the people of Melrose do anything, I think a great cairn
on one of the hills would be what he would have chosen himself.’ Let
the hills themselves suffice!
‘A mightier monument command
The mountains of his native land.’[13]
After the death of his chief, Mr Laidlaw removed to the county of Ross,
and was successively factor on the estates of Seaforth and Balnagown.
His health failing, he went to reside with his brother, Mr James
Laidlaw, sheep-farmer at Contin, also in Ross-shire, and there he died
May 18, 1845. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Contin,
a retired spot under the shade of Tor Achilty, one of the loftiest
and most picturesque of the Ross-shire mountains, and amidst the most
enchanting Highland scenery. The lord of the manor, Sir George S.
Mackenzie of Coul, Bart., erected a tomb, with a marble tablet, to his
memory.
Mr Laidlaw cherished with religious care all his memorials of
Abbotsford, where, indeed, his heart may be said to have remained
till its last pulsation. The desk in which the first manuscript of
_Waverley_ was deposited stood in his room; the works inscribed and
presented by the author were carefully ranged on his shelves; the
letters he had received from him were treasured up; the pens with
which _Ivanhoe_ was written were laid past, and kept as a sacred
thing; but above all he valued the brooch which was round the neck of
Scott when he died. That most interesting ornament Mr Laidlaw wore
while a trace of sensibility remained, and it has descended to another
generation--one of the most precious of the personal _reliquiæ_ of a
splendid but melancholy friendship.
* * * * *
The biographer of Scott, John Gibson Lockhart, was not a social or
clubable man. He was fastidious and reserved, silent in mixed company
(he heard with only one ear, and was too proud to acknowledge it),
and was inveterately prone to satire, so that he earned for himself
the appellation of ‘The Scorpion,’ and he was a victim to dyspepsia,
which, perhaps, like charity, ought to cover a multitude of sins.
His fine acute intellect and classic taste were often obscured and
his better sympathies chilled by pain and languor. To a few friends,
however, Lockhart at times unbosomed himself. With them his cold,
sarcastic, haughty manner melted away--at least for a season--and
in those genial hours he was the most confiding and delightful of
companions. As shewing the better nature and higher feelings of the
man, we are tempted to subjoin one of his letters to William Laidlaw,
in which he speaks of the sense of duty and responsibility under which
he wrote the Memoirs of Scott--a work which, with all its faults, is
unquestionably the best biography since Boswell’s _Life of Johnson_.
There is great tenderness in the following letter; and the picture
which the writer draws of his happy fireside contrasts painfully with
his latter years, when broken health, a desolate hearth, and feelings
lacerated by paternal troubles and anxieties, might have made him join
in that lamentation of the ancient British bard which he applied to the
old age of Thomas Campbell:
‘God hath provided unpleasant things for me;
Dead is Morgeneu, dead is Mordav,
Dead is Morien, dead are those I love.’[14]