University of Virginia Library

ABBOTSFORD.

I SIT down to perform my promise of giving
you an account of a visit made many years since
to Abbotsford. I hope, however, that you do
not expect much from me, for the travelling
notes taken at the time are so scanty and vague,
and my memory so extremely fallacious, that I
fear I shall disappoint you with the meagreness
and crudeness of my details.

Late in the evening of the 29th August, 1816,
I arrived at the ancient little border town of
Selkirk, where I put up for the night. I had
come down from Edinburgh, partly to visit Melrose
Abbey and its vicinity, but chiefly to get a
sight of the “mighty minstrel of the north.” I
had a letter of introduction to him from Thomas
Campbell the poet, and had reason to think, from
the interest he had taken in some of my earlier
scribblings, that a visit from me would not be
deemed an intrusion.

On the following morning, after an early

breakfast, I set off in a postchaise for the Abbey.
On the way thither I stopped at the gate of Abbotsford,
and sent the postillion to the house with
the letter of introduction and my card, on which
I had written that I was on my way to the ruins
of Melrose Abbey, and wished to know whether
it would be agreeable to Mr. Scott (he had not
yet been made a Baronet) to receive a visit from
me in the course of the morning.

While the postillion 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 court yard 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 alarum brought out the whole garrison
of dogs:
all open mouthed and vociferous.—I should
correct my quotation;—not a cur was to be
seen on the premises: Scott was too true a
sportsman, and had too high a veneration for
pure blood, to tolerate a mongrel.

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 button hole, 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 stag
hound of a 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, “ye'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 Ann 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;

I shall not be able to accompany you, as I have
some household affairs to attend to, but I will
put you in charge of my son Charles, who is very
learned in all things touching the old ruin and
the neighbourhood it stands in, and he and my
friend Johnny Bower will tell you the whole
truth about it, with a good deal more that you
are not called upon to believe—unless you be a
true and nothing-doubting antiquary. 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 breakfast I accordingly set off for the
Abbey with my little friend Charles, whom I
found a most sprightly and entertaining companion.
He had an ample stock of anecdote
about the neighbourhood, which he had learned
from his father, and many quaint remarks and
sly jokes, evidently derived from the same source,
all which were uttered with a Scottish accent

and a mixture of Scottish phraseology, that gave
them additional flavour.

On our way to the Abbey he gave me some
anecdotes of Johnny Bower to whom his father
had alluded; he was sexton of the parish and
custodian of the ruin, employed to keep it in
order and show it to strangers;—a worthy
little man, not without ambition in his humble
sphere. The death of his predecessor had
been mentioned in the newspapers, so that his
name had appeared in print throughout the land.
When Johnny succeeded to the guardianship of
the ruin, he stipulated that, on his death, his
name should receive like honourable blazon;
with this addition, that it should be from the
pen of Scott. The latter gravely pledged himself
to pay this tribute to his memory, and
Johnny now lived in the proud anticipation of a
poetic immortality.

I found Johnny Bower a decent looking little
old man, in blue coat and red waistcoat. He
received us with much greeting, and seemed delighted
to see my young companion, who was
full of merriment and waggery, drawing out his
peculiarities for my amusement. The old man
was one of the most authentic and particular of
cicerones; he pointed out every thing in the Abbey
that had been described by Scott in his Lay
of the Last Minstrel: and would repeat, with

broad Scottish accent, the passage which celebrated
it.

Thus, in passing through the cloisters, he made
me remark the beautiful carvings of leaves and
flowers wrought in stone with the most exquisite
delicacy, and, notwithstanding the lapse of centuries,
retaining their sharpness as if fresh from
the chisel; rivalling, as Scott has said, the real
objects of which they were imitations:

He pointed out also among the carved work
a nun's head of much beauty, which he said Scott
always stopped to admire—“for the shirra' had
a wonderful eye for all sic matters.”

I would observe, that Scott seemed to derive
more consequence in the neighbourhood from
being sheriff of the county, than from being
poet.

In the interior of the Abbey, Johnny Bower
conducted me to the identical stone on which
Stout William of Deloraine and the Monk took
their seat on that memorable night when the
wizard's book was to be rescued from the grave.
Nay, Johnny had even gone beyond Scott in
the minuteness of his antiquarian research, for
he had discovered the very tomb of the wizard,
the position of which had been left in doubt by
the poet. This he boasted to have ascertained

by the position of the Oriel window, and the direction
in which the moon beams fell at night,
through the stained glass, casting the shadow
to the red cross on the spot; as had all been
specified in the poem. “I pointed out the whole
to the shirra,” said he, “and he could na' gainsay
but it was varra clear.” I found afterwards,
that Scott used to amuse himself with the
simplicity of the old man, and his zeal in verifying
every passage of the poem, as though it
had been authentic history, and that he always
acquiesced in his deductions. I subjoin the
description of the wizard's grave, which called
forth the antiquarian research of Johnny Bower.

The fictions of Scott had become facts with
honest Johnny Bower. From constantly living
among the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and pointing
out the scenes of the poem, the Lay of the Last
Minstrel had, in a manner, become interwoven
with his whole existence, and I doubt whether
he did not now and then mix up his own identity
with the personages of some of its cantos.

He could not bear that any other production
of the poet should be preferred to the Lay of
the Last Minstrel. “Faith,” said he to me,
“it's just e'en as gude a thing as Mr. Scott has
written—an if he were stannin there I'd tell him
so—an' then he'd lauf.”

He was loud in his praises of the affability
of Scott. “He'll come here sometimes,” said
he, “with great folks in his company, an the first
I know of it is his voice, calling out Johnny!—
Johnny Bower!—and when I go out, I am sure
to be greeted with a joke or a pleasant word.
He'll stand and crack and lauff wi' me, just like

an auld wife—and to think that of a man that
has such an awfu' knowledge o' history!”

One of the ingenious devices on which the
worthy little man prided himself, was to place a
visiter opposite to the Abbey, with his back to
it, and bid him bend down and look at it between
his legs. This, he said, gave an entire different
aspect to the ruin. Folks admired the plan
amazingly, but as to the “leddies,” they were
dainty on the matter, and contented themselves
with looking from under their arms.

As Johnny Bower piqued himself upon showing
every thing laid down in the poem, there
was one passage that perplexed him sadly. It
was the opening of one of the cantos:

In consequence of this admonition, many of
the most devout pilgrims to the ruin could not
be contented with a daylight inspection, and insisted
it could be nothing, unless seen by the
light of the moon. Now, unfortunately, the moon
shines but for a part of the month; and what is
still more unfortunate, is very apt in Scotland to
be obscured by clouds and mists. Johnny was
sorely puzzled, therefore, how to accommodate
his poetry-struck visiters with this indispensable

moonshine. At length, in a lucky moment, he
devised a substitute. This was a great double
tallow candle stuck upon the end of a pole, with
which he would conduct his visiters about the
ruins on dark nights, so much to their satisfaction
that, at length, he began to think it even
preferable to the moon itself. “It does na light
up a' the Abbey at aince, to be sure,” he would
say, “but then you can shift it about and show
the auld ruin bit by bit, whiles the moon only
shines on one side.”

Honest Johnny Bower! so many years have
elapsed since the time I treat of, that it is more
than probable his simple head lies beneath the
walls of his favourite Abbey. It is to be hoped
his humble ambition has been gratified, and his
name recorded by the pen of the man he so loved
and honoured.

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 stag hound Maida, that I
have already mentioned, a noble animal, and a
great favourite of Scott's, and Hamlet, the black
greyhound, a wild thoughtless youngster, not yet
arrived to the years of discretion; and Finette, a

beautiful setter, with soft silken hair, long pendant
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 teaze 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?”'

Maida reminded him, he said, of a scene on
board an armed yacht in which he made an excursion
with his friend Adam Ferguson. They
had taken much notice of the boatswain, who was
a fine sturdy seaman, and evidently felt flattered
by their attention. On one occasion the crew
were “piped to fun,” and the sailors were
dancing and cutting all kinds of capers to the
music of the ship's band. The boatswain looked
on with a wistful eye, as if he would like to
join in; but a glance at Scott and Ferguson
showed that there was a struggle with his dignity,
fearing to lessen himself in their eyes. At
length one of his messmates came up, and seizing
him by the arm, challenged him to a jig.
The boatswain, continued Scott, after a little
hesitation complied, made an awkward gambol
or two, like our friend Maida, but soon gave it
up. “It's of no use,” said he, jerking up his
waistband and giving a side glance at us, “one
can't dance always nouther.”

Scott amused himself with the peculiarities
of another of his dogs, a little shamefaced terrier,
with large glassy eyes, one of the most
sensitive little bodies to insult and indignity in
the world. If ever he whipped him, he said,
the little fellow would sneak off and hide himself
from the light of day, in a lumber garret,
from whence there was no drawing him forth
but by the sound of the chopping-knife, as if
chopping up his victuals, when he would steal
forth with humbled and downcast look, but
would skulk away again if any one regarded
him.

While we were discussing the humours and
peculiarities of our canine companions, some
object provoked their spleen, and produced a
sharp and petulant barking from the smaller fry,
but it was some time before Maida was sufficiently
aroused to ramp forward two or three
bounds and join in the chorus, with a deep-mouthed
bow-wough!

It was but a transient outbreak, and he returned
instantly, wagging his tail, and looking up
dubiously in his master's face; uncertain whether
he would censure or applaud.

“Aye aye, old boy!” cried Scott, “you have
done wonders. You have shaken the Eildon
hills with your roaring, you may now lay by
your artillery for the rest of the day. Maida

is like the great gun at Constantinople,” continued
he; “it takes so long to get it ready, that
the small guns can fire off a dozen times first,
but when it does go off it plays the very d—l.”

These simple anecdotes may serve to show
the delightful play of Scott's humours and feelings
in private life. His domestic animals were
his friends; every thing about him seemed to
rejoice in the light of his countenance: the face
of the humblest dependant brightened at his
approach, as if he anticipated a cordial and
cheering word. I had occasion to observe this
particularly in a visit which we paid to a quarry,
whence several men were cutting stone for
the new edifice; who all paused from their labour
to have a pleasant “crack wi' the laird.”
One of them was a burgess of Selkirk, with
whom Scott had some joke about the old song:

Another was precentor at the Kirk, and, beside
leading the psalmody on Sunday, taught the lads
and lasses of the neighbourhood dancing on
week days, in the winter time, when out-of-door
labour was scarce.

Among the rest was a tall, straight old fellow,
with a healthful complexion and silver hair, and
a small round-crowned white hat. He had been
about to shoulder a hod, but paused, and stood

looking at Scott, with a slight sparkling of his
blue eye, as if waiting his turn; for the old fellow
knew himself to be a favourite.

Scott accosted him in an affable tone, and
asked for a pinch of snuff. The old man drew
forth a horn snuff-box. “Hoot, man,” said Scott,
“not that old mull: where's the bonnie French
one that I brought you from Paris?” “Troth,
your honour,” replied the old fellow, “sic a mull
as that is nae for week days.”

On leaving the quarry, Scott informed me
that when absent at Paris, he had purchased
several trifling articles as presents for his dependants,
and among others the gay snuff-box
in question, which was so carefully reserved for
Sundays, by the veteran. “It was not so much
the value of the gifts,” said he, “that pleased
them, as the idea that the laird should think of
them when so far away.”

The old man in question, I found, was a great
favourite with Scott. If I recollect right, he
had been a soldier in early life, and his straight
erect person, his ruddy yet rugged countenance,
his gray hair, and an arch gleam in his blue eye,
reminded me of the description of Edie Ochiltree.
I find that the old fellow has since been
introduced by Wilkie, in his picture of the Scott
family.

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 Cowden
Knowes, peeping above the gray hills of the
Tweed: and what touching associations were
called up by the sight of Ettrick Vale, Galla 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. The Scottish songs, in general,
have something intrinsically melancholy in
them; owing, in all probability, to the pastoral
and lonely life of those who composed them;
who were often mere shepherds, tending their
flocks in the solitary glens, or folding them among
the naked hills. Many of these rustic bards
have passed away, without leaving a name behind
them; nothing remains of them but their
sweet and touching songs, which live, like echoes,

about the places they once inhabited. Most of
these simple effusions of pastoral poets are linked
with some favourite haunt of the poet; and
in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town or
tower, green shaw or running stream, in Scotland,
but has some popular air connected with
it, that makes its very name a key note to a
whole train of delicious fancies and feelings.

Let me step forward in time, and mention
how sensible I was to the power of these simple
airs, in a visit which I made to Ayr, the birthplace
of Robert Burns. I passed a whole morning
about “the banks and braes of bonnie Doon,”
with his tender little love verses running in my
head. I found a poor Scotch carpenter at work
among the ruins of Kirk Alloway, which was
to be converted into a school-house. Finding
the purpose of my visit, he left his work, sat
down with me on a grassy grave, close by
where Burns' father was buried, and talked of
the poet, whom he had known personally. He
said his songs were familiar to the poorest and
most illiterate of the country folk, “and it seemed
to him as if the country had grown more beautiful,
since Burns had written his bonnie little
songs about it.”

I found Scott was quite an enthusiast on the
subject of the popular songs of his country, and
he seemed gratified to find me so alive to them.

Their effect in calling up in my mind the recollections
of early times and scenes in which I
had first heard them, reminded him, he said, of
the lines of his poor friend Leyden, to the Scottish
muse:

Scott went on to expatiate on the popular
songs of Scotland. “They are a part of our
national inheritance,” said he, “and something
that we may truly call our own. They have no
foreign taint; they have the pure breath of the
heather and the mountain breeze. All the genuine
legitimate races that have descended from
the ancient Britons; such as the Scotch, the
Welsh, and the Irish, have national airs. The
English have none, because they are not natives
of the soil, or, at least, are mongrels. Their
music is all made up of foreign scraps, like a
harlequin jacket, or a piece of mosaic. Even

in Scotland, we have comparatively few national
songs in the eastern part, where we have had
most influx of strangers. A real old Scottish
song is a cairn gorm—a gem of our own mountains:
or rather, it is a precious relic of old
times, that bears the national character stamped
upon it:—like a cameo, that shows what the national
visage was in former days, before the
breed was crossed.”

While Scott was thus discoursing, we were
passing up a narrow glen, with the dogs beating
about, to right and left, when suddenly a black
cock burst upon the wing.

“Aha!” cried Scott, “there will be a good
shot for master Walter; we must send him this
way with his gun, when we go home. Walter's
the family sportsman now, and keeps us in game.
I have pretty nigh resigned my gun to him; for
I find I cannot trudge about as briskly as formerly.”

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 Lammermuir,

and Smalholme; and there you have Gallashiels,
and Torwoodlie, and Gallawater: 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 gray 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 far famed Tweed
appeared a naked stream, flowing between bare
hills, without a tree or a 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 gray 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 own honest gray 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. He vindicated
the Tweed, too, as a beautiful stream in
itself, and observed that he did not dislike it for
being bare of trees, probably from having been
much of an angler in his time, and an angler
does not like to have a stream overhung by
trees, which embarrass him in the exercise of his
rod and line.

I took occasion to plead, in like manner, the
associations of early life, for my disappointment,
in respect to the surrounding scenery. I
had been so accustomed to hills crowned with
forests, and streams breaking their way through
a wilderness of trees, that all my ideas of romantic
landscape were apt to be well wooded.

“Aye, and that's the great charm of your
country,” cried Scott. “You love the forest as
I do the heather—but I would not have you
think I do not feel the glory of a great woodland
prospect. There is nothing I should like more
than to be in the midst of one of your grand,
wild, original forests; with the idea of hundreds
of miles of untrodden forest around me. I once
saw, at Leith, an immense stick of timber, just
landed from America. It must have been an
enormous tree when it stood on its native soil,
at its full height, and with all its branches. I
gazed at it with admiration; it seemed like one
of the gigantic obelisks which are now and then
brought from Egypt, to shame the pigmy monuments
of Europe; and, in fact, these vast aboriginal
trees, that have sheltered the Indians
before the intrusion of the white men, are the
monuments and antiquities of your country.”

The conversation here turned upon Campbell's
poem of Gertrude of Wyoming, as illustrative
of the poetic materials furnished by
American scenery. Scott spoke of it in that
liberal style in which I always found him to
speak of the writings of his cotemporaries. He
cited several passages of it with great delight.
“What a pity it is,” said he, “that Campbell
does not write more and oftener, and give full
sweep to his genius. He has wings that would

bear him to the skies; and he does now and then
spread them grandly, but folds them up again
and resumes his perch, as if he was afraid to
launch away. He don't know or won't trust his
own strength. Even when he has done a thing
well, he has often misgivings about it. He left
out several fine passages of his Lochiel, but I got
him to restore some of them.” Here Scott repeated
several passages in a magnificent style.
“What a grand idea is that,” said he, “about
prophetic boding, or, in common parlance, second
sight—
It is a noble thought, and nobly expressed. And
there's that glorious little poem, too, of Hohenlinden;
after he had written it, he did not seem
to think much of it, but considered some of it
`d—d drum and trumpet lines.' I got him to
recite it to me, and I believe that the delight I
felt and expressed had an effect in inducing him
to print it. The fact is,” added he, “Campbell
is, in a manner, a bugbear to himself. The
brightness of his early success is a detriment to
all his further efforts. He is afraid of the shadow
that his own fame casts before him.”

While we were thus chatting, we heard the
report of a gun among the hills. “That's Walter,
I think,” said Scott, “he has finished his

morning's studies, and is out with his gun. I
should not be surprised if he had met with
the black cock; if so, we shall have an addition
to our larder, for Walter is a pretty sure
shot.”

I inquired into the nature of Walter's studies.
“Faith,” said Scott, “I can't say much on that
head. I am not over bent upon making prodigies
of any of my children. As to Walter, I
taught him, while a boy, to ride, and shoot, and
speak the truth; as to the other parts of his
education, I leave them to a very worthy young
man, the son of one of our clergymen, who instructs
all my children.”

I afterwards became acquainted with the
young man in question, who acted as private
tutor in the family, and whom I found possessed
of much intelligence and modest worth. I
believe he often acted as Scott's amanuensis,
when composing his novels. With him the
young people were occupied, in general, during
the early part of the day, after which they took
all kinds of healthful recreations in the open air;
for Scott was as solicitous to strengthen their
bodies as their minds.

We had not walked much further before we
saw the two Miss Scotts advancing along the
hill side to meet us. The morning's studies
being over, they had set off to take a ramble on

the hills, and gather heather blossoms with
which to decorate their hair for dinner. As they
came bounding lightly like young fawns, and
their dresses fluttering in the pure summer
breeze, I was reminded of Scott's own description
of his children in his introduction to one of
the cantos of Marmion—
As they approached, the dogs all sprang forward
and gambolled around them. They played with
them, for a time, and then joined us with countenances
full of health and glee. Sophia, the
eldest, was the most lively and joyous, having
much of her father's varied spirit in conversation,
and seeming to catch excitement from his
words and looks. Ann was of quieter mood,
rather silent, owing, in some measure, no doubt,
to her being some years younger.

At dinner Scott had laid by his half rustic
dress, and appeared clad in black. The girls,
too, in completing their toilet, had twisted in
their hair the sprigs of purple heather which
they had gathered on the hill side, and looked all
fresh and blooming from their breezy walk.

There was no guest at dinner but myself.
Around the table were two or three dogs in
attendance. Maida, the old stag hound, took
his seat at Scott's elbow, looking up wistfully in
his master's eye, while Finette, the pet spaniel,
placed herself near Mrs. Scott, by whom, I
soon perceived, she was completely spoiled.

The conversation happening to turn on the
merits of his dogs, Scott spoke with great feeling
and affection of his favourite, Camp, who
is depicted by his side in the earlier engravings
of him. He talked of him as of a real
friend whom he had lost, and Sophia Scott,
looking up archly in his face, observed that
Papa shed a few tears when poor Camp died.
I may here mention another testimonial of
Scott's fondness for his dogs, and his humorous
mode of showing it, which I subsequently met

with. Rambling with him one morning about the
grounds adjacent to the house, I observed a small
antique monument, on which was inscribed, in
Gothic characters—
I paused, supposing it to be the tomb of some
stark warrior of the olden time, but Scott drew
me on, “Pooh!” cried he, “it's nothing but one
of the monuments of my nonsense, of which
you'll find enough hereabouts.” I learnt afterwards
that it was the grave of a favourite greyhound.

Among the other important and privileged
members of the household who figured in attendance
at the dinner, was a large gray cat, who,
I observed, was regaled from time to time with
tit bits from the table. This sage grimalkin
was a favourite of both master and mistress, and
slept at night in their room; and Scott laughingly
observed, that one of the least wise parts
of their establishment was, that the window
was left open at night for puss to go in and out.
The cat assumed a kind of ascendency among
the quadrupeds—sitting in state in Scott's armchair,
and occasionally stationing himself on a
chair beside the door, as if to review his subjects
as they passed, giving each dog a cuff
beside the ears as he went by. This clapper-clawing

was always taken in good part; it
appeared to be, in fact, a mere act of sovereignty
on the part of grimalkin, to remind the others of
their vassalage; which they acknowledged by
the most perfect acquiescence. A general harmony
prevailed between sovereign and subjects,
and they would all sleep together in the sunshine.

Scott was full of anecdote and conversation
during dinner. He made some admirable
remarks upon the Scottish character, and spoke
strongly in praise of the quiet, orderly, honest
conduct of his neighbours, which one would
hardly expect, said he, from the descendants of
moss troopers, and borderers, in a neighbourhood
famed in old times for brawl and feud,
and violence of all kinds. He said he had, in
his official capacity of sheriff, administered the
laws for a number of years, during which there
had been very few trials. The old feuds and
local interests, and rivalries, and animosities of
the Scotch, however, still slept, he said, in their
ashes, and might easily be roused. Their hereditary
feeling for names was still great. It was
not always safe to have even the game of football
between villages, the old clannish spirit was
too apt to break out. The Scotch, he said, were
more revengeful than the English; they carried
their resentments longer, and would sometimes

lay them by for years, but would be sure to
gratify them in the end.

The ancient jealousy between the Highlanders
and the Lowlanders still continued to a certain
degree, the former looking upon the latter
as an inferior race, less brave and hardy, but at
the same time, suspecting them of a disposition
to take airs upon themselves under the idea of
superior refinement. This made them techy and
ticklish company for a stranger on his first coming
among them; ruffling up and putting themselves
upon their mettle on the slightest occasion,
so that he had in a manner to quarrel and
fight his way into their good graces.

He instanced a case in point in a brother of
Mungo Park, who went to take up his residence
in a wild neighbourhood of the Highlands. He
soon found himself considered as an intruder,
and that there was a disposition among these
cocks of the hills, to fix a quarrel on him, trusting
that, being a Lowlander, he would show the
white feather.

For a time he bore their flings and taunts with
great coolness, until one, presuming on his forbearance,
drew forth a dirk, and, holding it
before him, asked him if he had ever seen a
weapon like that in his part of the country.
Park, who was a Hercules in frame, seized the
dirk, and, with one blow, drove it through an

oaken table:—“Yes,” replied he, “and tell your
friends that a man from the Lowlands drove it
where the devil himself cannot draw it out
again.” All persons were delighted with the
feat, and the words that accompanied it. They
drank with Park to a better acquaintance, and
were staunch friends ever afterwards.

After dinner we adjourned to the drawing
room, which served also for study and library.
Against the wall on one side was a long writing
table, with drawers; surmounted by a small
cabinet of polished wood, with folding doors
richly studded with brass ornaments, within
which Scott kept his most valuable papers.
Above the cabinet, in a kind of niche, was a
complete corslet of glittering steel, with a closed
helmet, and flanked by gauntlets and battle axes.
Around were hung trophies and relics of various
kinds: a cimeter of Tippoo Saib; a Highland
broadsword from Floddenfield; a pair of Rippon
spurs from Bannockburn; and above all, a
gun which had belonged to Rob Roy, and bore
his initials, R. M. G., an object of peculiar interest
to me at the time, as it was understood
Scott was actually engaged in printing a novel
founded on the story of that famous outlaw.

On each side of the cabinet were book cases,
well stored with works of romantic fiction in various
languages, many of them rare and antiquated.
This, however, was merely his cottage
library, the principal part of his books being at
Edinburgh.

From this little cabinet of curiosities Scott
drew forth a manuscript picked up on the field
of Waterloo, containing copies of several songs
popular at the time in France. The paper was
dabbled with blood—“The life blood, very possibly,”
said Scott, “of some gay young officer,
who had cherished these songs as a keepsake
from some lady love in Paris.”

He adverted in a mellow and delightful manner
to the little half gay, half melancholy campaigning
song, said to have been composed by
General Wolfe, and sung by him at the mess table,
in the air of the Storming of Quebec, in
which he fell so gloriously.

“So,” added he, “the poor lad who fell at
Waterloo, in all probability had been singing
these songs in his tent the night before the battle,
and thinking of the fair dame that had taught
him them, and promising himself, should he outlive
the campaign, to return to her all glorious
from the wars.”

I find since that Scott published translations
of these songs among some of his smaller poems.

The evening passed away delightfully in this
quaint looking apartment, half study, half drawing
room. Scott read several passages from
the old romance of Arthur, with a fine deep sonorous
voice, and a gravity of tone that seemed
to suit the antiquated, black letter volume. It
was a rich treat, to hear such a work, read by
such a person, and in such a place; and his appearance
as he sat reading, in a large armed
chair, with his favourite hound Maida at his feet,
and surrounded by books, and relics, and border
trophies, would have formed an admirable and
most characteristic picture.

While Scott was reading, the sage grimalkin
already mentioned, had taken his seat in a chair
beside the fire, and remained with fixed eye
and grave demeanour, as if listening to the
reader. I observed to Scott that his cat seemed
to have a black letter taste in literature.

“Ah,” said he, “these cats are a very mysterious

kind of folk. There is always more passing
in their minds than we are aware of. It
comes no doubt from their being so familiar
with witches and warlocks.” He went on to
tell a little story about a gude man who was returning
to his cottage one night, when in a lonely
out of the way place, he met with a funeral procession
of cats all in mourning, bearing one of
their race to the grave in a coffin covered with
a black velvet pall. The worthy man, astonished
and half frightened at so strange a pageant,
hastened home and told what he had seen to his
wife and children. Scarce had he finished, when
a great black cat that sat beside the fire, raised
himself up, exclaimed “Then am I King of the
cats,” and vanished up the chimney. The funeral
seen by the gude man, was of one of the
cat dynasty.

“Our grimalkin, here,” added Scott, “sometimes
reminds me of the story, by the airs of
sovereignty which he assumes; and I am apt
to treat him with respect from the idea that he
may be a great prince incog., and may sometime
or other come to the throne.”

In this way Scott would make the habits and
peculiarities of even the dumb animals about
him, subjects for humorous remark or whimsical
story.

Our evening was enlivened also by an occasional

song from Sophia Scott, at the request of
her father. She never wanted to be asked
twice, but complied frankly and cheerfully. Her
songs were all Scotch, sung without any accompaniment,
in a simple manner, but with great
spirit and expression, and in their native dialects,
which gave them an additional charm.
It was delightful to hear her carol off in sprightly
style, and with an animated air, some of those
generous spirited old Jacobite songs, once current
among the adherents of the Pretender in
Scotland, in which he is designated bythe appellation
of "the Young Chevalier."

These songs were much relished by Scott,
notwithstanding his loyalty; for the unfortunate
"Chevalier" has always been a hero of romance
with him, as he has with many other staunch
adherents to the House of Hanover, now that
the Stuart line has lost all its terrors. In speaking
on the subject, Scott mentioned as a curious
fact, that, among the papers of the "Chevalier,"
which had been submitted by government to his
inspection, he had found a memorial to Charles,
from some adherents in America, dated 1778
proposing to set up his standard in the back settlements.
I regret that, at the time, I did not
make more particular inquiries of Scott on the
subject; the document in question, however, in
all probability, still exist among the Pretender's

papers, which are in the possession of the British
Government.

In the course of the evening, Scott related the
story of a whimsical picture hanging in the
room, which had been drawn for him by a lady
of his acquaintance. It represented the doleful
perplexity of a wealthy and handsome young
English knight of the olden time, who in the
course of a border foray, had been captured and
carried off to the castle of a hard-headed and
high-handed old baron. The unfortunate youth
was thrown into a dungeon, and a tall gallows
erected before the castle gate for his execution.
When all was ready, he was brought into the
castle hall where the grim baron was seated in
state, with his warriors armed to the teeth
around him, and was given his choice, either to
swing on the gibbet or to marry the baron's
daughter. The last may be thought an easy
alternative, but unfortunately, the baron's young
lady was hideously ugly, with a mouth from ear
to ear, so that not a suitor was to be had for
her, either for love or money, and she was
known throughout the border country by the
name of Muckle-mouthed Mag!

The picture in question represented the unhappy
dilemma of the handsome youth. Before
him sat the grim baron, with a face worthy of
the father of such a daughter, and looking daggers

and rat's bane. On one side of him was
Muckle-mouthed Mag, with an amorous smile
across the whole breadth of her countenance,
and a leer enough to turn a man to stone; on the
other side was the father confessor, a sleek friar,
jogging the youth's elbow, and pointing to the
gallows, seen in perspective through the open
portal.

The story goes, that after long labouring in
mind, between the altar and the halter, the love of
life prevailed, and the youth resigned himself to
the charms of Muckle-mouthed Mag. Contrary
to all the probabilities of romance, the match
proved a happy one. The baron's daughter, if
not beautiful, was a most exemplary wife; her
husband was never troubled with any of those
doubts and jealousies which sometimes mar the
happiness of connubial life, and was made the
father of a fair and undoubtedly legitimate line,
that still flourishes on the border.

I give but a faint outline of the story from
vague recollection; it may, perchance, be more
richly related elsewhere, by some one who may
retain something of the delightful humour with
which Scott recounted it.

When I retired for the night, I found it almost
impossible to sleep; the idea of being under
the roof of Scott; of being on the borders of the
Tweed, in the very centre of that region which

had for some time past been the favourite scene
of romantic fiction; and above all, the recollections
of the ramble I had taken, the company
in which I had taken it, and the conversation
which had passed, all fermented in my mind, and
nearly drove sleep from my pillow.

On the following morning, the sun darted his
beams from over the hills through the low lattice
window. I rose at an early hour, and looked
out between the branches of eglantine which
overhung the casement. To my surprise Scott
was already up and forth, seated on a fragment
of stone, and chatting with the workmen employed
on the new building. I had supposed,
after the time he had wasted upon me yesterday,
he would be closely occupied this morning: but
he appeared like a man of leisure, who had nothing
to do but bask in the sunshine and amuse
himself.

I soon dressed myself and joined him. He
talked about his proposed plans of Abbotsford:
happy would it have been for him could he have
contented himself with his delightful little vine
covered cottage, and the simple, yet hearty and
hospitable style, in which he lived at the time of

my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with
the huge expense it entailed upon him, of servants,
retainers, guests, and baronial style, was a
drain upon his purse, a task upon his exertions,
and a weight upon his mind, that finally crushed
him.

As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective,
and Scott pleased himself with picturing
out his future residence, as he would one of
the fanciful creations of his own romances. “It
was one of his air castles,” he said, “which he
was reducing to solid stone and mortar.” About
the place were strewed various morsels from the
ruins of Melrose Abbey, which were to be incorporated
in his mansion. He had already
constructed out of similar materials a kind of
Gothic shrine over a spring, and had surmounted
it by a small stone cross.

Among the relics from the Abbey which
lay scattered before us, was a most quaint and
antique little lion, either of red stone, or painted
red, which hit my fancy. I forget whose cognizance
it was; but I shall never forget the delightful
observations concerning old Melrose to
which it accidentally gave rise.

The Abbey was evidently a pile that called
up all Scott's poetic and romantic feelings; and
one to which he was enthusiastically attached
by the most fanciful and delightful of his early

associations. He spoke of it, I may say, with
affection. “There is no telling,” said he, “what
treasures are hid in that glorious old pile. It is
a famous place for antiquarian plunder; there
are such rich bits of old time sculpture for the
architect, and old time story for the poet. There
is as rare picking in it as in a Stilton cheese,
and in the same taste—the mouldier the better.”

He went on to mention circumstances of
“mighty import” connected with the Abbey,
which had never been touched, and which had
even escaped the researches of Johnny Bower.
The heart of Robert Bruce, the hero of Scotland,
had been buried in it. He dwelt on the
beautiful story of Bruce's pious and chivalrous
request in his dying hour, that his heart might
be carried to the Holy Land and placed in the
Holy Sepulchre, in fulfilment of a vow of pilgrimage;
and of the loyal expedition of Sir
James Douglas to convey the glorious relic.
Much might be made, he said, out of the adventures
of Sir James in that adventurous age; of
his fortunes in Spain, and his death in a crusade
against the Moors; with the subsequent fortunes
of the heart of Robert Bruce, until it was brought
back to its native land, and enshrined within the
holy walls of old Melrose.

As Scott sat on a stone talking in this way,
and knocking with his staff against the little red

lion which lay prostrate before him, his gray
eyes kindled beneath his shagged eyebrows;
scenes, images, incidents, kept breaking upon
his mind as he proceeded, mingled with touches
of the mysterious and supernatural as connected
with the heart of Bruce. It seemed as if a poem
or romance were breaking vaguely on his imagination.
That he subsequently contemplated
something of the kind, as connected with this
subject, and with his favourite ruin of Melrose,
is evident from his introduction to `The Monastery;'
and it is a pity that he never succeeded
in following out these shadowy but enthusiastic
conceptions.

A summons to breakfast broke off our conversation,
when I begged to recommend to
Scott's attention my friend the little red lion,
who had led to such an interesting topic, and
hoped he might receive some niche or station in
the future castle, worthy of his evident antiquity
and apparent dignity. Scott assured me, with
comic gravity, that the valiant little lion should
be most honourably entertained; I hope, therefore,
that he still flourishes at Abbotsford.

Before dismissing the theme of the relics from
the Abbey, I will mention another, illustrative of
Scott's varied humours. This was a human
scull, which had probably belonged of yore to

one of those jovial friars, so honourably mentioned
in the old border ballad:—

This scull Scott had caused to be cleaned and
varnished, and placed it on a chest of drawers
in his chamber, immediately opposite his bed;
where I have seen it, grinning most dismally. It
was an object of great awe and horror to the
superstitious housemaids; and Scott used to
amuse himself with their apprehensions. Sometimes
in changing his dress, he would leave his
neckcloth coiled round it like a turban, and none
of the “lasses” dared to remove it. It was a
matter of great wonder and speculation among
them that the laird should have such an “awsome
fancy for an auld girning scull.”

At breakfast that morning, Scott gave an
amusing account of a little Highlander called
Campbell of the North, who had a lawsuit of
many years' standing with a nobleman in his
neighbourhood about the boundaries of their estates.
It was the leading object of the little
man's life; the running theme of all his conversations;

he used to detail all the circumstances
at full length to every body he met, and, to aid
him in his description of the premises, and make
his story “mair preceese,” he had a great map
made of his estate, a huge roll several feet long,
which he used to carry about on his shoulder.
Campbell was a long bodied, but short and bandy-legged
little man, always clad in the highland
garb; and as he went about with this great roll
on his shoulder, and his little legs curving like a
pair of parentheses below his kilt, he was an
odd figure to behold. He was like little David
shouldering the spear of Goliath, which was
“like unto a weaver's beam.”

Whenever sheep shearing was over, Campbell
used to set out for Edinburgh to attend to his
lawsuit. At the inns he paid double for all his
meals and his nights' lodgings; telling the landlords
to keep it in mind until his return, so that
he might come back that way at free cost; for he
knew, he said, that he would spend all his money
among the lawyers at Edinburgh, so he thought
it best to secure a retreat home again.

On one of his visits he called upon his lawyer,
but was told he was not at home, but his
lady was. “It is just the same thing,” said little
Campbell. On being shown into the parlour,
he unrolled his map, stated his case at full length,
and, having gone through with his story, gave

her the customary fee. She would have declined
it, but he insisted on her taking it. “I ha' had
just as much pleasure,” said he, “in telling the
whole tale to you, as I should have had in telling
it to your husband, and I believe full as much
profit.”

The last time he saw Scott, he told him he
believed he and the laird were near a settlement,
as they agreed to within a few miles of the
boundary. If I recollect right, Scott added that
he advised the little man to consign his cause
and his map to the care of “Slow Willie Mowbray,”
of tedious memory; an Edinburgh worthy,
much employed by the country people, for
he tired out every body in office by repeated
visits and drawling, endless prolixity, and gained
every suit by dint of boring.

These little stories and anecdotes which
abounded in Scott's conversation, rose naturally
out of the subject, and were perfectly unforced;
though in thus relating them in a detached way,
without the observations or circumstances which
led to them, and which have passed from my
recollection, they want their setting to give them
proper relief. They will serve, however, to show
the natural play of his mind, in its familiar moods,
and its fecundity in graphic and characteristic
detail.

His daughter Sophia and his son Charles

were those of his family who seemed most to
feel and understand his humours, and to take
delight in his conversation. Mrs. Scott did not
always pay the same attention, and would now
and then make a casual remark which would
operate a little like a damper. Thus, Scott was
going on with great glee to relate an anecdote
of the laird of Macnab, “who, poor fellow!” said
he, “is dead and gone—” “Why, Mr. Scott,”
exclaimed the good lady, “Macnab's not dead,
is he?” “Faith, my dear,” replied Scott with humorous
gravity, “if he's not dead they've done
him great injustice,—for they've buried him!”

After breakfast, Scott was occupied for some
time correcting proof sheets, which he had received
by the mail. The novel of Rob Roy, as
I have already observed, was at that time in the
press, and I supposed them to be the proof
sheets of that work. The authorship of the
Waverly novels was still a matter of conjecture
and uncertainty; though few doubted their being
principally written by Scott. One proof to
me of his being the author, was that he never
adverted to them. A man so fond of any
thing Scottish, and any thing relating to national
history or local legend, could not have been

mute respecting such productions, had they been
written by another. He was fond of quoting
the works of his cotemporaries; he was continually
reciting scraps of border songs, or relating
anecdotes of border story. With respect to his
own poems, and their merits, however, he was
mute, and while with him I observed a scrupulous
silence on the subject.

I may here mention a singular fact, of which
I was not aware at the time, that Scott was
very reserved with his children respecting his
own writings, and was even disinclined to their
reading his romantic poems. I learnt this, some
time after, from a passage in one of his letters to
me, adverting to a set of the American miniature
edition of his poems, which, on my return
to England, I forwarded to one of the young ladies.
“In my hurry,” writes he, “I have not
thanked you, in Sophia's name, for the kind attention
which furnished her with the American
volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my
own, since you have made her acquainted with
much more of papa's folly, than she would otherwise
have learned; for I have taken special
care they should never see any of these things
during their earlier years.”

To return to the thread of my narrative.
When Scott had got through his brief literary
occupation, we set out on a ramble. The young

ladies started to accompany us, but had not gone
far, when they met a poor old labourer and
his distressed family, and turned back to take
them to the house, and relieve them.

On passing the bounds of Abbotsford, we
came upon a bleak looking farm, with a forlorn
crazy old manse, or farm house, standing in naked
desolation. This, however, Scott told me
was an ancient hereditary property called Lauckend,
about as valuable as the patrimonial estate
of Don Quixote, and which, in like manner, conferred
a hereditary dignity upon its proprietor,
who was a laird, and though poor as a rat,
prided himself upon his ancient blood, and the
standing of his house. He was accordingly
called Lauckend, according to the Scottish custom
of naming a man after his family estate, but
he was more generally known through the country
round, by the name of Lauckie Long Legs,
from the length of his limbs. While Scott was
giving this account of him, we saw him at a distance
striding along one of his fields, with his
plaid fluttering about him, and he seemed well
to deserve his appellation, for he looked all legs
and tartan.

Lauckie knew nothing of the world beyond
his neighborhood. Scott told me that on returning
to Abbotsford from his visit to France, immediately
after the war, he was called on by

his neighbours generally, to inquire after foreign
parts. Among the number, came Lauckie Long
Legs and an old brother as ignorant as himself.
They had many inquiries to make about the
French, who they seemed to consider some remote
and semi-barbarous horde—“And what
like are thae barbarians in their own country?”
said Lauckie, “can they write?—can they cypher?”
He was quite astonished to learn that
they were nearly as much advanced in civilization
as the gude folks of Abbotsford.

After living for a long time in single blessedness,
Lauckie all at once, and not long before my
visit to the neighbourhood, took in into his head
to get married. The neighbours were all surprised;
but the family connexion, who were as
proud as they were poor, were grievously scandalized,
for they thought the young woman on
which he had set his mind quite beneath him.
It was in vain, however, that they remonstrated
on the misalliance he was about to make: he
was not to be swayed from his determination.
Arraying himself in his best, and saddling a
gaunt steed that might have rivalled Rosinante,
and placing a pillion behind his saddle, he departed
to wed and bring home the humble lassie
who was to be made mistress of the venerable
hovel of Lauckend, and who lived in a village
on the opposite side of the Tweed.

A small event of the kind makes a great stir
in a little quiet country neighbourhood. The
word soon circulated through the village of Melrose,
and the cottages in its vicinity, that Lauckie
Long Legs had gone over the Tweed to fetch
home his bride. All the good folks assembled
at the bridge to await his return. Lauckie,
however, disappointed them; for he crossed the
river at a distant ford, and conveyed his bride
safe to his mansion, without being perceived.

Let me step forward in the course of events,
and relate the fate of poor Lauckie, as it was
communicated to me a year or two afterwards
in letter by Scott. From the time of his marriage
he had no longer any peace, owing to the
constant intermeddlings of his relations, who
would not permit him to be happy in his own
way, but endeavoured to set him at variance
with his wife. Lauckie refused to credit any
of their stories to her disadvantage; but the incessant
warfare he had to wage, in defence of
her good name, wore out both flesh and spirit.
His last conflict was with his own brothers, in
front of his paternal mansion. A furious scolding
match took place between them; Lauckie
made a vehement profession of faith in her immaculate
honesty, and then fell dead at the
threshold of his own door. His person, his
character, his name, his story, and his fate, entitled

him to be immortalized in one of Scott's
novels, and I looked to recognise him in some of
the succeeding works from his pen; but I looked
in vain.

After passing by the domains of honest
Lauckie, Scott pointed out, at a distance, the Eildon
stone. There in ancient days stood the Eildon
tree, beneath which Thomas the Rhymer, according
to popular tradition, dealt forth his prophecies,
some of which still exist in antiquated
ballads.

Here we turned up a little glen with a small
burn or brook whimpering and dashing along it,
making an occasional waterfall, and overhung,
in some places, with mountain ash and weeping
birch. We are now, said Scott, treading classic,
or rather fairy ground. This is the haunted glen
of Thomas the Rhymer, where he met with the
queen of fairy land, and this the bogle burn, or
goblin brook, along which she rode on her dapple
gray palfrey, with silver bells ringing at the
bridle.

“Here,” said he, pausing, “is Huntley Bank,
on which Thomas the Rhymer lay musing and
sleeping when he saw, or dreamt he saw, the
queen of Elfland:

Here Scott repeated several of the stanzas and
recounted the circumstance of Thomas the Rhymer's
interview with the fairy, and his being
transported by her to fairy land—
It is a fine old story, said he, and might be
wrought up into a capital tale.

Scott continued on, leading the way as usual,
and limping up the wizard glen, talking as he
went, but as his back was toward me, I could
only hear the deep growling tones of his voice,
like the low breathing of an organ, without distinguishing
the words, until pausing, and turning
his face towards me, I found he was reciting
some scrap of border minstrelsy about Thomas
the Rhymer. This was continually the case in
my ramblings with him about this storied neighbourhood.
His mind was fraught with the traditionary
fictions connected with every object
around him, and he would breathe it forth as he

went, apparently as much for his own gratification
as for that of his companion.
His voice was deep and sonorous, he spoke with
a Scottish accent, and with somewhat of the
Northumbrian “burr,” which, to my mind, gave
a doric strength and simplicity to his elocution.
His recitation of poetry was, at times,
magnificent.

I think it was in the course of this ramble that
my friend Hamlet, the black greyhound, got into
a sad scrape. The dogs were beating about the
glens and fields as usual, and had been for some
time out of sight, when we heard a barking at
some distance to the left. Shortly after we saw
some sheep scampering on the hills, with the dogs
after them. Scott applied to his lips the ivory
whistle, always hanging at his button-hole, and
soon called in the culprits, excepting Hamlet.
Hastening up a bank which commanded a view
along a fold or hollow of the hills, we beheld
the sable prince of Denmark standing by the
bleeding body of a sheep. The carcass was
still warm, the throat bore marks of the fatal
grip, and Hamlet's muzzle was stained with
blood. Never was culprit more completely
caught in flagrante delictu. I supposed the
doom of poor Hamlet to be sealed; for no higher

offence can be committed by a dog in a country
abounding with sheep walks. Scott, however,
had a greater value for his dogs than for his
sheep. They were his companions and friends.
Hamlet, too, though an irregular impertinent
kind of youngster, was evidently a favourite.
He would not for some time believe it could be
he who had killed the sheep. It must have been
some cur of the neighbourhood, that had made
off on our approach, and left poor Hamlet in the
lurch. Proofs, however, were too strong, and
Hamlet was generally condemned. “Well,
well,” said Scott, “it's partly my own fault. I
have given up coursing for some time past, and
the poor dog has had no chance after game to
take the fire edge off of him. If he was put
after a hare occasionally he never would meddle
with sheep.”

I understood, afterwards, that Scott actually
got a pony, and went out now and then coursing
with Hamlet, who, in consequence, showed no
further inclination for mutton.

A FURTHER stroll among the hills brought us
to what Scott pronounced the remains of a
Roman camp, and as we sat upon a hillock
which had once formed a part of the ramparts,

he pointed out the traces of the lines and
bulwarks, and the prætorium, and showed a
knowledge of castramatation that would not have
disgraced the antiquarian Oldbuck himself. Indeed,
various circumstances that I observed
about Scott during my visit, concurred to persuade
me that many of the antiquarian humours
of Monkbarns were taken from his own richly
compounded character, and that some of the
scenes and personages of that admirable novel
were furnished by his immediate neighbourhood.

He gave me several anecdotes of a noted
pauper named Andrew Gemmells, or Gammel,
as it was pronounced, who had once flourished
on the banks of Galla Water, immediately opposite
Abbotsford, and whom he had seen and
talked and joked with when a boy; and I instantly
recognised the likeness of that mirror of
philosophic vagabonds and Nestor of beggars,
Edie Ochiltree. I was on the point of pronouncing
the name and recognising the portrait, when
I recollected the incognito observed by Scott
with respect to the novels, and checked myself;
but it was one among many things that tended
to convince me of his authorship.

His picture of Andrew Gemmells exactly accorded
with that of Edie as to his height, carriage,
and soldier-like air, as well as his arch and
sarcastic humour. His home, if home he had,

was at Gallashiels; but he went “daundering”
about the country, along the green shaws and
beside the burns, and was a kind of walking
chronicle throughout the valleys of the Tweed,
the Ettrick, and the Yarrow; carrying the gossip
from house to house, commenting on the inhabitants
and their concerns, and never hesitating
to give them a dry rub as to any of their
faults or follies.

A shrewd beggar like Andrew Gemmells, Scott
added, who could sing the old Scotch airs, tell
stories and traditions, and gossip away the long
winter evenings, was by no means an unwelcome
visiter at a lonely manse or cottage. The children
would run to welcome him, and place his
stool in a warm corner of the ingle nook, and
the old folks would receive him as a privileged
guest.

As to Andrew, he looked upon them all as a
parson does upon his parishioners, and considered
the alms he received as much his due as the
other does his tythes. I rather think, added
Scott, Andrew considered himself more of a
gentleman than those who toiled for a living, and
that he secretly looked down upon the painstaking
peasants that fed and sheltered him.

He had derived his aristocratical notions in
some degree from being admitted occasionally
to a precarious sociability with some of the small

country gentry, who were sometimes in want
of company to help while away the time. With
these Andrew would now and then play at cards
and dice, and he never lacked “siller in pouch”
to stake on a game, which he did with a perfect
air of a man to whom money was a matter of
little moment, and no one could lose his money
with more gentlemanlike coolness.

Among those who occasionally admitted him
to this familiarity, was old John Scott of Galla,
a man of family, who inhabited his paternal mansion
of Torwoodlee. Some distinction of rank,
however, was still kept up. The laird sat on
the inside of the window and the beggar on the
outside, and they played cards on the sill.

Andrew now and then told the laird a piece
of his mind very freely; especially on one occasion,
when he had sold some of his paternal
lands to build himself a larger house with the
proceeds. The speech of honest Andrew smacks
of the shrewdness of Edie Ochiltree.

“It's a' varra weel—it's a' varra weel, Torwoodlee,”
said he; “but who would ha' thought
that your father's son would ha' sold two gude
estates to build a shaw's (cuckoo's) nest on the
side of a hill?”

That day there was an arrival at Abbotsford
of two English tourists; one a gentleman of fortune
and landed estate, the other a young clergyman
whom he appeared to have under his
patronage, and to have brought with him as a
travelling companion.

The patron was one of those well bred, commonplace
gentlemen with which England is
overrun. He had great deference for Scott,
and endeavoured to acquit himself learnedly in
his company, aiming continually at abstract disquisitions,
for which Scott had little relish. The
conversation of the latter, as usual, was studded
with anecdotes and stories, some of them of
great pith and humour: the well bred gentleman
was either too dull to feel their point, or too decorous
to indulge in hearty merriment; the
honest parson, on the contrary, who was not too
refined to be happy, laughed loud and long at
every joke, and enjoyed them with the zest of a
man who has more merriment in his heart than
coin in his pocket.

After they were gone, some comments were
made upon their different deportments. Scott
spoke very respectfully of the good breeding and
measured manners of the man of wealth, but
with a kindlier feeling of the honest parson, and
the homely but hearty enjoyment with which he
relished every pleasantry. “I doubt,” said he,

“whether the parson's lot in life is not the best;
if he cannot command as many of the good things
of this world by his own purse as his patron can,
he beats him all hollow in his enjoyment of them
when set before him by others. Upon the whole,”
added he, “I rather think I prefer the honest
parson's good humour to his patron's good breeding;
I have a great regard for a hearty laugher.”

He went on to speak of the great influx of
English travellers, which of late years had inundated
Scotland; and doubted whether they had
not injured the old fashioned Scottish character.
“Formerly, they came here occasionally as
sportsmen,” said he, “to shoot moor game, without
any idea of looking at scenery; and they
moved about the country in hardy simple style,
coping with the country people in their own
way; but now they come rolling about in their
equipages, to see ruins, and spend money, and
their lavish extravagance has played the vengeance
with the common people. It has made
them rapacious in their dealings with strangers,
greedy after money, and extortionate in their
demands for the most trivial services. Formerly,”
continued he, “the poorer classes of our
people, were, comparatively, disinterested; they
offered their services gratuitously, in promoting
the amusement, or aiding the curiosity of strangers,
and were gratified by the smallest compensation;

but now they make a trade of showing
rocks and ruins, and are as greedy as Italian
cicerones. They look upon the English as so
many walking money bags, the more they are
shaken and poked, the more they will leave behind
them.”

I told him that he had a great deal to answer
for on that head, since it was the romantic associations
he had thrown by his writings, over so
many out of the way places in Scotland, that
had brought in the influx of curious travellers.

Scott laughed, and said he believed I might
be in some measure in the right, as he recollected
a circumstance in point. Being one time
at Glenross, an old woman who kept a small inn,
which had but little custom, was uncommonly
officious in her attendance upon him, and absolutely
incommoded him with her civilities. The
secret at length came out. As he was about
to depart, she addressed him with many curtsies,
and said she understood he was the gentleman
that had written a bonnie book about
Loch Katrine. She begged him to write a little
about their lake also, for she understood his
book had done the inn at Loch Katrine a muckle
deal of good.

On the following day, I made an excursion
with Scott and the young ladies, to Dryburgh
Abbey. We went in an open carriage, drawn
by two sleek old black horses, for which Scott
seemed to have an affection, as he had for every
dumb animal that belonged to him. Our road
lay through a variety of scenes, rich in poetical
and historical associations, about most of which
Scott had something to relate. In one part of
the drive, he pointed to an old border keep, or
fortress, on the summit of a naked hill, several
miles off, which he called Smallholm Tower, and
a rocky knoll on which it stood, the “Sandy
Knowe crags.” It was a place, he said, peculiarly
dear to him, from the recollections of
childhood. His grandfather had lived there in
the old Smallholm Grange, or farm house: and
he had been sent there, when but two years old,
on account of his lameness, that he might have
the benefit of the pure air of the hills, and be under
the care of his grandmother and aunts.

In the introduction of one of the cantos of Marmion,
he has depicted his grandfather, and the
fireside of the farm house; and has given an
amusing picture of himself in his boyish years.

It was, he said, during his residence at Smallholm
crags, that he first imbibed his passion for
legendary tales, border traditions, and old national
songs and ballads. His grandmother and aunts,
were well versed in that kind of lore, so current
in Scottish country life. They used to recount
them in long, gloomy, winter days, and about the
ingle nook at night, in conclave with their gossip
visiters; and little Walter would sit and listen
with greedy ear; thus, taking into his infant
mind, the seeds of many a splendid fiction.

There was an old shepherd, he said, in the
service of the family, who used to sit under the
sunny wall, and tell marvellous stories, and recite
old time ballads, as he knitted stockings.
Scott used to be wheeled out in his chair, in

fine weather, and would sit beside the old man,
and listen to him for hours.

The situation of Sandy Knowe was favourable
both for story teller and listener. It commanded
a wide view over all the border country, with
its feudal towers, its haunted glens, and wizard
streams. As the old shepherd told his tales, he
could point out the very scene of action. Thus,
before Scott could walk, he was made familiar
with the scenes of his future stories; they were
all seen as through a magic medium, and took
that tinge of romance, which they ever after retained
in his imagination. From the height of
Sandy Knowe, he may be said to have had the
first look out upon the promised land of his future
glory.

On referring to Scott's works, I find many
of the circumstances related in this conversation,
about the old tower, and the boyish scenes connected
with it, recorded in the introduction to
Marmion, already cited. This was frequently
the case with Scott; incidents and feelings that
had appeared in his writings, were apt to be
mingled up in his conversation, for they had
been taken from what he had witnessed and felt
in real life, and were connected with those
scenes among which he lived, and moved, and
had his being. I make no scruple at quoting the
passage relative to the tower, though it repeats

much of the foregone imagery, and with vastly
superior effect.

Scott eyed the distant height of Sandy Knowe
with an earnest gaze as we rode along, and said
he had often thought of buying the place, repairing
the old tower, and making it his residence.
He has in some measure, however, paid off his
early debt of gratitude, in clothing it with poetic
and romantic associations, by his tale of “The
Eve of St. John.” It is to be hoped that those
who actually possess so interesting a monument
of Scott's early days, will preserve it from further
dilapidation.

Not far from Sandy Knowe, Scott pointed out
another old border hold, standing on the summit
of a hill, which had been a kind of enchanted
castle to him in his boyhood. It was the tower of
Bemerside, the baronial residence of the Haigs',
or De Haga's, one of the oldest families of the
border. “There had seemed to him,” he said,
“almost a wizard spell hanging over it, in consequence
of a prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer, in
which, in his young days, he most potently believed:”

Scott added some particulars which showed
that, in the present instance, the venerable
Thomas had not proved a false prophet, for it
was a noted fact, that, amid all the changes and
chances of the border; through all the feuds,
and forays, and sackings, and burnings, which
had reduced most of the castles to ruins, and
the proud families that once possessed them to
poverty, the tower of Bemerside still remained
unscathed, and was still the strong hold of the
ancient family of Haig.

Prophecies, however, often ensure their own
fulfilment. It is very probable that the prediction
of Thomas the Rhymer has linked the
Haigs to their tower, as their rock of safety, and
has induced them to cling to it, almost superstitiously,

through hardship and inconveniences that
would, otherwise, have caused its abandonment.

I afterwards saw, at Dryburgh Abbey, the
burying place of this predestinated and tenacious
family, the inscription of which showed the
value they set upon their antiquity:—

In reverting to the days of his childhood, Scott
observed that the lameness that had disabled
him in infancy gradually decreased; he soon
acquired strength in his limbs, and though he
always limped, he became, even in boyhood, a
great walker. He used frequently to stroll from
home and wander about the country for days
together, picking up all kinds of local gossip,
and observing popular scenes and characters.
His father used to be vexed with him for this
wandering propensity, and shaking his head,
would say he fancied the boy would make nothing
but a pedler. As he grew older, he became
a keen sportsman, and passed much of his time
hunting and shooting. His field sports led him
into the most wild and unfrequented parts of the
country, and in this way he picked up much of
that local knowledge which he has since evinced
in his writings.

His first visit to Loch Katrine, he said, was
in his boyish days, on a shooting excursion. The
island, which he has made the romantic residence
of the Lady of the Lake, was then garrisoned
by an old man and his wife. Their
house was vacant: they had put the key under
the door, and were absent fishing. It was at that
time a peaceful residence, but became afterwards
a resort of smugglers, until they were
ferreted out.

In after years, when Scott began to turn this
local knowledge to literary account, he revisited
many of those scenes of his early ramblings, and
endeavoured to secure the fugitive remains of the
traditions and songs that had charmed his boyhood.
When collecting materials for his Border
Minstrelsy, he used, he said, to go from cottage
to cottage and make the old wives repeat all
they knew, if but two lines; and by putting these
scraps together, he retrieved many a fine characteristic
old ballad or tradition from oblivion.

I regret to say that I can recollect scarce any
thing of our visit to Dryburgh Abbey. It is on
the estate of the Earl of Buchan. The religious
edifice is a mere ruin, rich in Gothic antiquities,
but especially interesting to Scott, from containing
the family vault, and the tombs and monuments
of his ancestors. He appeared to feel
much chagrin at their being in the possession,

and subject to the intermeddlings of the Earl,
who was represented as a nobleman of an
eccentric character. The latter, however, set
great value on these sepulchral relics, and had
expressed a lively anticipation of one day or
other having the honour of burying Scott, and
adding his monument to the collection, which he
intended should be worthy of the “mighty minstrel
of the north,”—a prospective compliment
which was by no means relished by the object
of it.

One of my pleasantest rambles with Scott,
about the neighbourhood of Abbotsford, was
taken in company with Mr. William Laidlaw, the
steward of his estate. This was a gentleman
for whom Scott entertained a particular value.
He had been born to a competency, had been
well educated, his mind was richly stored with
varied information, and he was a man of sterling
moral worth. Having been reduced by misfortune,
Scott had got him to take charge of his
estate. He lived at a small farm on the hill
side above Abbotsford, and was treated by Scott
as a cherished and confidential friend, rather
than a dependant.

As the day was showery, Scott was attended
by one of his retainers, who carried his plaid.

This man, whose name, I think, was George,
deserves especial mention. Sophia Scott used
to call him her father's grand vizier, and she
gave a playful account one evening, as she was
hanging on her father's arm, of the consultations
which he and George used to have about matters
relative to farming. George was tenacious
of his opinions, and he and Scott would have
long disputes in front of the house, as to something
that was to be done on the estate, until the
latter, fairly tired out, would abandon the ground
and the argument, exclaiming, “Well, well,
George, have it your own way.”

After a time, however, George would present
himself at the door of the parlour, and observe,
“I ha' been thinking over the matter, and
upon the whole, I think I'll take your honour's
advice.”

Scott laughed heartily when this anecdote was
told of him. “It was with him and George,”
he said, “as it was with an old laird and a pet
servant, whom he had indulged until he was
positive beyond all endurance. `This won't
do!' cried the old laird, in a passion, `we can't
live together any longer—we must part;' `An'
where the deel does your honour mean to go?'
replied the other.”

I would, moreover, observe of George, that he
was a firm believer in ghosts, and warlocks, and

all kinds of old wives' fable. He was a religious
man, too, mingling a little degree of Scottish
pride in his devotion; for though his salary was
but twenty pounds a year, he had managed to
afford seven pounds for a family bible. It is
true, he had one hundred pounds clear of the
world, and was looked up to by his comrades as
a man of property.

In the course of our morning's walk, we stopped
at a small house belonging to one of the
labourers on the estate. The object of Scott's
visit was to inspect a relic which had been
digged up in the Roman camp, and which, if I
recollect right, he pronounced to have been a
tongs. It was produced by the cottager's wife,
a ruddy, healthy looking dame, whom Scott addressed
by the name of Ailie. As he stood
regarding the relic, turning it round and round,
and making comments upon it, half grave, half
comic, with the cottage group around him, all
joining occasionally in the colloquy, the inimitable
character of Monkbarns was again brought
to mind, and I seemed to see before me that
prince of antiquarians and humourists holding
forth to his unlearned and unbelieving neighbours.

Whenever Scott touched, in this way, upon
local antiquities, and in all his familiar conversations
about local traditions and superstitions,

there was always a sly and quiet humour running
at the bottom of his discourse, and playing
about his countenance, as if he sported with the
subject. It seemed to me as if he distrusted his
own enthusiasm, and was disposed to droll upon
his own humours and peculiarities, yet, at the
same time, a poetic gleam in his eye would
show that he really took a strong relish and interest
in them. “It was a pity,” he said, “that
antiquarians were generally so dry, for the subjects
they handled were rich in historical and
poetic recollections, in picturesque details, in
quaint and heroic characteristics, and in all
kinds of curious and obsolete ceremonials. They
are always groping among the rarest materials
for poetry, but they have no idea of turning
them to poetic use. Now every fragment from
old times has, in some degree, its story with it,
or gives an inkling of something characteristic
of the circumstances and manners of its day, and
so sets the imagination at work.”

For my own part I never met with antiquarian
so delightful, either in his writings or his conversation,
and the quiet subacid humour that was
prone to mingle in his disquisitions, gave them,
to me, a peculiar and an exquisite flavour. But he
seemed, in fact, to undervalue every thing that
concerned himself. The play of his genius was
so easy that he was unconscious of its mighty

power, and made light of those sports of intellect
that shamed the efforts and labours of other
minds.

Our ramble this morning took us again up the
Rhymer's glen, and by Huntley bank, and Huntley
wood, and the silver waterfall overhung with
weeping birches and mountain ashes, those delicate
and beautiful trees which grace the green
shaws and burn sides of Scotland. The heather,
too, that closely woven robe of Scottish landscape
which covers the nakedness of its hills
and mountains, tinted the neighbourhood with
soft and rich colours. As we ascended the glen,
the prospects opened upon us; Melrose, with its
towers and pinnacles, lay below; beyond was
the Eildon hills, the Cowden Knowes, the Tweed,
the Galla water, and all the storied vicinity;
the whole landscape varied by gleams of sunshine
and driving showers.

Scott, as usual, took the lead, limping along
with great activity, and in joyous mood, giving
scraps of border rhymes and border stories;
two or three times in the course of our walk
there were drizzling showers, which I supposed
would put an end to our ramble, but my companions
trudged on as unconcernedly as if it had
been fine weather.

At length, I asked whether we had not better
seek some shelter. “True,” said Scott, “I did

not recollect that you were not accustomed to
our Scottish mists. This is a lachrymose climate,
evermore showering. We, however, are children
of the mist, and must not mind a little
whimpering of the clouds any more than a man
must the weeping of an hysterical wife. As
you are not accustomed to be wet through, as a
matter of course, in a morning's walk, we will
bide a bit under the lee of this bank until the
shower is over.” Taking his seat under shelter
of a thicket, he called to his man George for his
tartan, then turning to me, “come,” said he,
“come under my plaidy, as the old song goes;”
so, making me nestle down beside him, he
wrapped a part of the plaid round me, and took
me, as he said, under his wing.

While we were thus nestled together, he pointed
to a hole in the opposite bank of the glen.
That, he said, was the hole of an old gray
badger, who was, doubtless, snugly housed in
this bad weather. Sometimes he saw him at
the entrance of his hole, like a hermit at the
door of his cell, telling his beads, or reading a
homily. He had a great respect for the venerable
anchorite, and would not suffer him to be
disturbed. He was a kind of successor to Thomas
the Rhymer, and perhaps might be Thomas
himself returned from fairy land, but still under
fairy spell.

Some accident turned the conversation upon
Hogg, the poet, in which Laidlaw, who was
seated beside us, took a part. Hogg had once
been a shepherd in the service of his father, and
Laidlaw gave many interesting anecdotes of
him, of which I now retain no recollection.
They used to tend the sheep together when
Laidlaw was a boy, and Hogg would recite the
first struggling conceptions of his muse. At
night when Laidlaw was quartered comfortably
in bed, in the farm house, poor Hogg would take
to the shepherd's hut, in the field on the hill side,
and there lie awake for hours together, and look
at the stars and make poetry, which he would
repeat the next day to his companion.

Scott spoke in warm terms of Hogg, and repeated
passages from his beautiful poem of
Kelmeny, to which he gave great and well merited
praise. He gave, also, some amusing
anecdotes of Hogg and his publisher, Blackwood,
who was at that time just rising into the bibliographical
importance which he has since enjoyed.

Hogg in one of his poems, I believe the
Pilgrims of the Sun, had dabbled a little in
metaphysics, and like his heroes, had got into
the clouds. Blackwood, who began to affect
criticism, argued stoutly with him as to the
necessity of omitting or elucidating some obscure
passage. Hogg was immoveable.

“But, man,” said Blackwood, “I dinna ken
what ye mean in this passage.” “Hout tout,
man,” replied Hogg, impatiently, “I dinna ken
always what I mean mysel.” There is many a
metaphysical poet in the same predicament with
honest Hogg.

Scott promised to invite the Shepherd to Abbotsford
during my visit, and I anticipated much
gratification in meeting with him, from the account
I had received of his character and manners,
and the great pleasure I had derived from
his works. Circumstances, however, prevented
Scott from performing his promise; and to my
great regret I left Scotland without seeing one
of its most original and national characters.

When the weather held up, we continued our
walk until we came to a beautiful sheet of water,
in the bosom of the mountain, called, if I recollect
right, the lake of Cauldshiel. Scott prided
himself much upon this little Mediterranean sea
in his dominions, and hoped I was not too much
spoiled by our great lakes in America to relish it.
He proposed to take me out to the centre of it,
to a fine point of view; for which purpose we
embarked in a small boat, which had been put
on the lake by his neighbour Lord Somerville.
As I was about to step on board, I observed in
large letters on one of the benches, “Search No.
2.” I paused for a moment and repeated the

inscription aloud, trying to recollect something I
had heard or read to which it alluded. “Pshaw,”
cried Scott, “it is only some of Lord Somerville's
nonsense—get in!” In an instant scenes
in the Antiquary connected with “Search No. 1”
flashed upon my mind. “Ah! I remember now,”
said I, and with a laugh took my seat, but adverted
no more to the circumstance.

We had a pleasant row about the lake, which
commanded some pretty scenery. The most
interesting circumstance connected with it, however,
according to Scott, was, that it was haunted
by a bogle in the shape of a water bull, which
lived in the deep parts, and now and then came
forth upon dry land and made a tremendous
roaring, that shook the very hills. This story
had been current in the vicinity from time immemorial;—there
was a man living who declared
he had seen the bull,—and he was believed by
many of his simple neighbours. “I don't choose
to contradict the tale,” said Scott, “for I am
willing to have my lake stocked with any fish,
flesh, or fowl that my neighbours think proper
to put into it; and these old wives' fables are a
kind of property in Scotland that belong to the
estates and go with the soil. Our streams and
lochs are like the rivers and pools in Germany,
that have all their Wasser Nixe, or water witches,

and I have a fancy for these kind of amphibious
bogles and hobgoblins.”

Scott went on after we had landed to make
many remarks, mingled with picturesque anecdotes,
concerning the fabulous beings with which
the Scotch were apt to people the wild streams
and lochs that occur in the solemn and lonely
scenes of their mountains; and to compare them
with similar superstitions among the northern
nations of Europe; but Scotland, he said, was
above all other countries for this wild and vivid
progeny of the fancy, from the nature of the
scenery, the misty magnificence and vagueness
of the climate, the wild and gloomy events of its
history; the clanish divisions of its people; their
local feelings, notions, and prejudices; the individuality
of their dialect, in which all kinds of
odd and peculiar notions were incorporated; by
the secluded life of their mountaineers; the
lonely habits of their pastoral people, much of
whose time was passed on the solitary hill sides;
their traditional songs, which clothed every rock
and stream with old world stories, handed down
from age to age and generation to generation.
The Scottish mind, he said, was made up of
poetry and strong common sense; and the very

strength of the latter gave perpetuity and luxuriance
to the former. It was a strong tenacious
soil, into which, when once a seed of poetry fell,
it struck deep root and brought forth abundantly.
“You will never weed these popular stories
and songs and superstitions out of Scotland,”
said he. “It is not so much that the people believe
in them, as that they delight in them. They
belong to the native hills and streams of which
they are fond, and to the history of their forefathers
of which they are proud.”

“It would do your heart good,” continued he,
“to see a number of our poor country people
seated round the ingle nook, which is generally
capacious enough, and passing the long dark
dreary winter nights listening to some old wife,
or strolling gaberlunzie, dealing out auld
world stories, about bogles and warlocks, or
about raids and forays, and border skirmishes;
or reciting some ballad stuck full of those fighting
names that stir up a true Scotchman's blood
like the sound of a trumpet. These traditional
tales and ballads have lived for ages in mere
oral circulation, being passed from father to son,
or rather from grandam to grandchild, and are a
kind of hereditary property of the poor peasantry,
of which it would be hard to deprive them,
as they have not circulating libraries to supply
them with works of fiction in their place.”

I do not pretend to give the precise words,
but, as nearly as I can from scanty memorandums
and vague recollections, the leading ideas
of Scott. I am constantly sensible, however,
how far I fall short of his copiousness and richness.

He went on to speak of the elves and sprites,
so frequent in Scottish legend. “Our fairies,
however,” said he, “though they dress in green,
and gambol by moonlight about the banks, and
shaws, and burn sides, are not such pleasant little
folks as the English fairies, but are apt to bear
more of the warlock in their natures, and to
play spiteful tricks. When I was a boy, I used
to look wistfully at the green hillocks that were
said to be haunted by fairies, and felt sometimes
as if I should like to lie down by them and
sleep, and be carried off to Fairy land, only that
I did not like some of the cantrips which used
now and then to be played off upon visiters.”

Here Scott recounted, in graphic style, and
with much humour, a little story which used to
be current in the neighbourhood, of an honest
burgess of Selkirk, who, being at work upon
the hill of Peatlaw, fell asleep upon one of these
`fairy knowes,' or hillocks. When he awoke, he
rubbed his eyes and gazed about him with astonishment,
for he was in the market place of a
great city, with a crowd of people bustling

about him, not one of whom he knew. At length
he accosted a bystander, and asked him the
name of the place. “Hout man,” replied the
other, “are ye in the heart o' Glasgow, and
speer the name of it.” The poor man was astonished,
and would not believe either ears or
eyes; he insisted that he had laid down to sleep
but half an hour before on the Peatlaw, near
Selkirk. He came well nigh being taken up for
a mad man, when, fortunately a Selkirk man
came by, who knew him, and took charge of
him, and conducted him back to his native place.
Here, however, he was likely to fare no better,
when he spoke of having been whisked in his
sleep from the Peatlaw to Glasgow. The truth
of the matter at length came out; his coat, which
he had taken off when at work on the Peatlaw,
was found lying near a “fairy knowe,” and his
bonnet, which was missing, was discovered on
the weathercock of Lanark steeple. So it was
as clear as day that he had been carried through
the air by the fairies while he was sleeping, and
his bonnet had been blown off by the way.

I give this little story but meagerly from a
scanty memorandum; Scott has related it in
somewhat different style in a note to one of his
poems; but in narration these anecdotes derived
their chief zest, from the quiet but delightful
humour, the bonhommie with which he seasoned

them, and the sly glance of the eye from under
his bushy eyebrows, with which they were accompanied.

That day at dinner, we had Mr. Laidlaw and
his wife, and a female friend who accompanied
them. The latter was a very intelligent, respectable
person, about the middle age, and was
treated with particular attention and courtesy
by Scott. Our dinner was a most agreeable
one; for the guests were evidently cherished
visiters to the house, and felt that they were appreciated.

When they were gone, Scott spoke of them
in the most cordial manner. “I wished to show
you,” said he, “some of our really excellent,
plain Scotch people: not fine gentlemen and
ladies, for such you can meet every where, and
they are every where the same. The character
of a nation is not to be learnt from its fine folks.”

He then went on with a particular eulogium
on the lady who had accompanied the Laidlaws.
She was the daughter, he said, of a poor country
clergyman, who had died in debt, and left her
an orphan and destitute. Having had a good
plain education, she immediately set up a child's
school, and had soon a numerous flock under her

care, by which she earned a decent maintenance.
That, however, was not her main object.
Her first care was to pay off her father's
debts, that no ill word or ill will might rest upon
his memory. This, by dint of Scottish economy,
backed by filial reverence and pride, she
accomplished, though in the effort, she subjected
herself to every privation. Not content with
this, she in certain instances refused to take pay
for the tuition of the children of some of her
neighbours, who had befriended her father in his
need, and had since fallen into poverty. “In a
word,” added Scott, “she is a fine old Scotch
girl; and I delight in her, more than in many a
fine lady I have known, and I have known many
of the finest.”

It is time, however, to draw this rambling
narrative to a close. Several days were passed
by me, in the way I have attempted to describe,
in almost constant, familiar, and joyous conversation
with Scott; it was, as if I were admitted
to a social communion with Shakspeare, for it
was with one of a kindred, if not equal genius.
Every night I retired with my mind filled with
delightful recollections of the day, and every
morning I rose with the certainty of new enjoyment.

The days thus spent, I shall ever look
back to, as among the very happiest of my life;
for I was conscious at the time of being happy.

The only sad moment that I experienced at
Abbotsford, was that of my departure; but it
was cheered with the prospect of soon returning;
for I had promised, after making a tour in the
Highlands, to come and pass a few more days on
the banks of the Tweed, when Scott intended
to invite Hogg the poet to meet me. I took a
kind farewell of the family, with each of whom
I had been highly pleased; if I have refrained
from dwelling particularly on their several characters,
and giving anecdotes of them individually,
it is because I consider them shielded by
the sanctity of domestic life: Scott, on the contrary,
belongs to history. As he accompanied
me on foot, however, to a small gate on the confines
of his premises, I could not refrain from
expressing the enjoyment I had experienced in
his domestic circle, and passing some warm
eulogiums on the young folks, from whom I had
just parted. I shall never forget his reply. “They
have kind hearts,” said he, “and that is the
main point as to human happiness. They love
one another, poor things, which is every thing in
domestic life. The best wish I can make you,
my friend,” added he, laying his hand upon my
shoulder, “is, that when you return to your own

country, you may get married, and have a family
of young bairns about you. If you are happy,
there they are to share your happiness—and if
you are otherwise—there they are to comfort
you.”

By this time we had reached the gate, when
he halted and took my hand. “I will not say
farewell,” said he, “for it is always a painful
word, but I will say, come again. When you
have made your tour to the Highlands, come
here and give me a few more days—but come
when you please, you will always find Abbotsford
open to you, and a hearty welcome.”

I have thus given, in a rude style, my main
recollections of what occurred during my sojourn
at Abbotsford, and I feel mortified that I can
give but such meager, scattered, and colourless
details of what was so copious, rich, and varied.
During several days that I passed there Scott
was in admirable vein. From early morn until
dinner time, he was rambling about showing me
the neighbourhood, and during dinner, and until
late at night, engaged in social conversation. No
time was reserved for himself; he seemed as if
his only occupation was to entertain me; and
yet I was almost an entire stranger to him, one

of whom he knew nothing, but an idle book I had
written, and which, some years before, had
amused him. But such was Scott—he appeared
to have nothing to do but lavish his time, attention,
and conversation on those around. It was
difficult to imagine what time he found to write
those volumes that were incessantly issuing
from the press; all of which, too, were of a nature
to require reading and research. I could
not find that his life was ever otherwise than a
life of leisure and hap-hazard recreation, such as
it was during my visit. He scarce ever balked
a party of pleasure, or a sporting excursion, and
rarely pleaded his own concerns as an excuse
for rejecting those of others. During my visit I
heard of other visiters who had preceded me,
and who must have kept him occupied for many
days, and I have had an opportunity of knowing
the course of his daily life for some time subsequently.
Not long after my departure from
Abbotsford, my friend Wilkie arrived there, to
paint a picture of the Scott family. He found
the house full of guests. Scott's whole time was
taken up in riding and driving about the country,
or in social conversation at home. “All this
time,” said Wilkie to me, “I did not presume to
ask Mr. Scott to sit for his portrait, for I saw he
had not a moment to spare; I waited for the
guests to go away, but as fast as one set went
another arrived, and so it continued for several
days, and with each set he was completely occupied.
At length all went off, and we were quiet.
I thought, however, Mr. Scott will now shut
himself up among his books and papers, for he
has to make up for lost time; it won't do for me
to ask him now to sit for his picture. Laidlaw,
who managed his estate, came in, and Scott
turned to him, as I supposed, to consult about
business. `Laidlaw,' said he, `to-morrow morning
we'll go across the water and take the dogs
with us—thre's a place where I think we shall
be able to find a hare.'

“In short,” added Wilkie, “I found that instead
of business, he was thinking only of amusement,
as if he had nothing in the world to occupy
him; so I no longer feared to intrude upon
him.”

The conversation of Scott was frank, hearty,
picturesque, and dramatic. During the time of
my visit he inclined to the comic rather than
the grave, in his anecdotes and stories, and such,
I was told, was his general inclination. He
relished a joke, or a trait of humour in social
intercourse, and laughed with right good will.
He talked not for effect or display, but from the
flow of his spirits, the stores of his memory, and
the vigour of his imagination. He had a natural
turn for narration, and his narratives and descriptions

were without effort, yet wonderfully
graphic. He placed the scene before you like a
picture; he gave the dialogue with the appropriate
dialect or peculiarities, and described the
appearance and characters of his personages
with that spirit and felicity evinced in his writings.
Indeed, his conversation reminded me
continually of his novels; and it seemed to me,
that during the whole time I was with him, he
talked enough to fill volumes, and that they
could not have been filled more delightfully.

He was as good a listener as talker, appreciated
every thing that others said, however humble
might be their rank or pretensions, and was
quick to testify his perception of any point in
their discourse. He arrogated nothing to himself,
but was perfectly unassuming and unpretending,
entering with heart and soul into the business, or
pleasure, or, I had almost said folly, of the hour
and the company. No one's concerns, no one's
thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastes and
pleasures seemed beneath him. He made himself
so thoroughly the companion of those with
whom he happened to be, that they forgot for a
time his vast superiority, and only recollected
and wondered, when all was over, that it was
Scott with whom they had been on such familiar
terms, and in whose society they had felt so perfectly
at their ease.

It was delightful to observe the generous mode
in which he spoke of all his literary cotemporaries,
quoting the beauties of their works, and
this, too, with respect to persons with whom he
might have been supposed to be at variance in
literature or politics. Jeffrey, it was thought,
had ruffled his plumes in one of his reviews, yet
Scott spoke of him in terms of high and warm
eulogy, both as an author and as a man.

His humour in conversation, as in his works,
was genial and free from all causticity. He had
a quick perception of faults and foibles, but he
looked upon poor human nature with an indulgent
eye, relishing what was good and pleasant,
tolerating what was frail, and pitying what was
evil. It is this beneficent spirit which gives such
an air of bonhommie to Scott's humour throughout
all his works. He played with the foibles
and errors of his fellow beings, and presented
them in a thousand whimsical and characteristic
lights, but the kindness and generosity of his
nature would not allow him to be a satirist. I
do not recollect a sneer throughout his conversation
any more than there is throughout his
works.

Such is a rough sketch of Scott, as I saw him
in private life, not merely at the time of the visit
here narrated, but in the casual intercourse of
subsequent years. Of his public character and

merits, all the world can judge. His works have
incorporated themselves with the thoughts and
concerns of the whole civilized world, for a
quarter of a century, and have had a controlling
influence over the age in which he lived. But
when did a human being ever exercise
an influence more salutary and benignant? Who
is there that, on looking back over a great portion
of his life, does not find the genius of Scott
administering to his pleasures, beguiling his
cares, and soothing his lonely sorrows? Who
does not still guard his works as a treasury of
pure enjoyment, an armoury to which to resort
in time of need, to find weapons with which to
fight off the evils and the griefs of life? For my
own part, in periods of dejection, I have hailed
the announcement of a new work from his pen
as an earnest of certain pleasure in store for me,
and have looked forward to it as a traveller in a
waste looks to a given spot at a distance, where
he feels assured of solace and refreshment.
When I consider how much he has thus contributed
to the better hours of my past existence,
and how independent his works still make me,
at times, of all the world for my enjoyment, I
bless my stars that cast my lot in his days, to be
thus cheered and gladdened by the outpourings
of his genius. I consider it one of the greatest
advantages that I have derived from my literary
career, that it has elevated me into genial communion
with such a spirit; and as a tribute of
gratitude for his friendship, and veneration for
his memory, I cast this humble stone upon his
cairn, which will soon, I trust, be piled aloft with
the contributions of abler hands.