[Edinburgh,January 26, 1826.]‘My dear Willie—I wrote to you some days since,but from yours by the carrier I see my letter has not reached you. It does not much signify, as it was not, and could not be, of any great consequence until I see how these untoward matters are to turn up. Of course, everything will depend on the way the friends of the great house in London, and those of Constable here, shall turn out. Were they to be ultimately good, or near it, this would pass over my head with little inconvenience. But I think it better to take the worst point of view, and suppose that I do not receive from them above five shillings in the pound; and even in that case, I am able to make a proposal to my creditors, that if they allow me to put my affairs into the hands of a private trustee, or trustees, and finish the literary engagements I have on hand, there is no great chance of their being ultimate losers. This is the course I should choose. But if they wish rather to do what they can for themselves, they will, in that case, give me a great deal of pain, and make a great deal less of the funds. For, it is needless to say, that no security can make a man write books, and upon my doing so—I mean completing those in hand—depends the instant payment of a large sum. I have no reason to apprehend that any of the parties concerned are blind to their interest in this matter. I have had messages from all the banks, &c., offering what assistance they could give, so that I think my offer will be accepted. Indeed, as they cannot sell Abbotsford, owing to its being settled in Walter’s marriage contract, there can be little doubt they will adopt the only way which promises, with a little time, to give them full payment, and my life may, in the meanwhile, be insured. My present occupations completed, will enable me to lay down, in the course of the summer,at least £20,000 of good cash, which, if things had remained sound among the booksellers, would have put me on velvet.‘The probable result being that we must be accommodated with the delay necessary, our plan is to sell the house and furniture in Castle Street, and Lady S. and Anne to come to Abbotsford, with a view of economising, while I take lodgings in Edinburgh, and work hard till the Session permits me to come out. All our farming operations must, of course, be stopped so soon as they can with least possible loss, and stock, &c., disposed of. In short, everything must be done to avoid outlay. At the same time, there can be no want of comfort. I must keep Peter and the horses for Lady Scott’s sake, though I make sacrifices in my own [case]. Bogie, I think, we will also keep, but we must sell the produce of the garden. As for Tom, he and I go to the grave together. All idle horses, &c., must be dispensed with.‘For you, my dear friend, we must part—that is, as laird and factor—and it rejoices me to think that your patience and endurance, which set me so good an example, are like to bring round better days. You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it is not the least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be useful to you. But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence; and I will have the advantage of your company and advice, and probably your services as amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer in affluence; and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must have honourable and easy means of life, although it will be my inclination to observe the most strict privacy, both to save expenseand also time; nor do we propose to see any one but yourself and the Fergusons.‘I will be obliged to you to think over all these matters; also whether anything could be done in leasing the saw-mill, or Swanston working it for the public. I should like to keep him if I could. I imagine they must leave me my official income, which, indeed, is not liable to be attached. That will be £1600 a year, but there is Charles’s college expenses come to £300 at least. I can add, however, £200 or £300 without interrupting serious work. Three or four years of my favour with the public, if my health and life permit, will make me better off than ever I have been in my life. I hope it will not inconvenience the Miss Smiths to be out of their money for a little while. It is a most unexpected chance on my part.‘All that I have said is for your consideration and making up your mind, for nothing can be certain till we hear what the persons principally concerned please to say. But then, if they accede to the trust, we will expect to have the pleasure of seeing you here with a list of stock and a scheme of what you think best to be done. My purpose is that everything shall be paid ready money from week to week.‘I have £180 to send to you, and it is in my hands. Of course it will be paid, but I am unwilling to send it until I know the exact footing on which I am to stand. The gentleman whom I wish should be my trustee—or one of them—is John Gibson, the Duke’s factor.‘Lady Scott’s spirits were affected at first, but she is getting better. For myself, I feel like the Eildon Hills—quite firm, though a little cloudy. I do not dislike the path which lies before me. I have seen all thatsociety can shew, and enjoyed all that wealth can give me, and I am satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit. I am arranging my affairs, and mean to economise a good deal, and I will pay every man his due.—Yours truly,Walter Scott.’
[Edinburgh,January 26, 1826.]
‘My dear Willie—I wrote to you some days since,but from yours by the carrier I see my letter has not reached you. It does not much signify, as it was not, and could not be, of any great consequence until I see how these untoward matters are to turn up. Of course, everything will depend on the way the friends of the great house in London, and those of Constable here, shall turn out. Were they to be ultimately good, or near it, this would pass over my head with little inconvenience. But I think it better to take the worst point of view, and suppose that I do not receive from them above five shillings in the pound; and even in that case, I am able to make a proposal to my creditors, that if they allow me to put my affairs into the hands of a private trustee, or trustees, and finish the literary engagements I have on hand, there is no great chance of their being ultimate losers. This is the course I should choose. But if they wish rather to do what they can for themselves, they will, in that case, give me a great deal of pain, and make a great deal less of the funds. For, it is needless to say, that no security can make a man write books, and upon my doing so—I mean completing those in hand—depends the instant payment of a large sum. I have no reason to apprehend that any of the parties concerned are blind to their interest in this matter. I have had messages from all the banks, &c., offering what assistance they could give, so that I think my offer will be accepted. Indeed, as they cannot sell Abbotsford, owing to its being settled in Walter’s marriage contract, there can be little doubt they will adopt the only way which promises, with a little time, to give them full payment, and my life may, in the meanwhile, be insured. My present occupations completed, will enable me to lay down, in the course of the summer,at least £20,000 of good cash, which, if things had remained sound among the booksellers, would have put me on velvet.
‘The probable result being that we must be accommodated with the delay necessary, our plan is to sell the house and furniture in Castle Street, and Lady S. and Anne to come to Abbotsford, with a view of economising, while I take lodgings in Edinburgh, and work hard till the Session permits me to come out. All our farming operations must, of course, be stopped so soon as they can with least possible loss, and stock, &c., disposed of. In short, everything must be done to avoid outlay. At the same time, there can be no want of comfort. I must keep Peter and the horses for Lady Scott’s sake, though I make sacrifices in my own [case]. Bogie, I think, we will also keep, but we must sell the produce of the garden. As for Tom, he and I go to the grave together. All idle horses, &c., must be dispensed with.
‘For you, my dear friend, we must part—that is, as laird and factor—and it rejoices me to think that your patience and endurance, which set me so good an example, are like to bring round better days. You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it is not the least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be useful to you. But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence; and I will have the advantage of your company and advice, and probably your services as amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer in affluence; and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must have honourable and easy means of life, although it will be my inclination to observe the most strict privacy, both to save expenseand also time; nor do we propose to see any one but yourself and the Fergusons.
‘I will be obliged to you to think over all these matters; also whether anything could be done in leasing the saw-mill, or Swanston working it for the public. I should like to keep him if I could. I imagine they must leave me my official income, which, indeed, is not liable to be attached. That will be £1600 a year, but there is Charles’s college expenses come to £300 at least. I can add, however, £200 or £300 without interrupting serious work. Three or four years of my favour with the public, if my health and life permit, will make me better off than ever I have been in my life. I hope it will not inconvenience the Miss Smiths to be out of their money for a little while. It is a most unexpected chance on my part.
‘All that I have said is for your consideration and making up your mind, for nothing can be certain till we hear what the persons principally concerned please to say. But then, if they accede to the trust, we will expect to have the pleasure of seeing you here with a list of stock and a scheme of what you think best to be done. My purpose is that everything shall be paid ready money from week to week.
‘I have £180 to send to you, and it is in my hands. Of course it will be paid, but I am unwilling to send it until I know the exact footing on which I am to stand. The gentleman whom I wish should be my trustee—or one of them—is John Gibson, the Duke’s factor.
‘Lady Scott’s spirits were affected at first, but she is getting better. For myself, I feel like the Eildon Hills—quite firm, though a little cloudy. I do not dislike the path which lies before me. I have seen all thatsociety can shew, and enjoyed all that wealth can give me, and I am satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit. I am arranging my affairs, and mean to economise a good deal, and I will pay every man his due.—Yours truly,
Walter Scott.’
There was some delusion in all this. Sir Walter never fully comprehended the state of his pecuniary affairs. It was one of his weaknesses, as James Ballantyne has said, to shrink too much from looking evil in the face, and he was apt to carry a great deal too far ‘sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ Laidlaw mentions another small weakness: ‘he was always in alarm lest the servants should suspect he was in want of money.’ This, of course, was subsequent to the public declaration of the failure. Laidlaw went to Edinburgh to report to the trustees with respect to the best way of closing the farm business, and there met Sir Walter.
‘He bears himself wonderfully. Miss Scott does not seem to be quite aware or sensible of anything but that they are to reside in retirement at Abbotsford. Lady Scott is rather unwilling to believe it, and does not see the necessity of such complete retrenchment as Sir Walter tells her is absolutely necessary. I have dined three times there, and there is not much difference in their manner. Sir W. is often merry, and so are they all, but still oftener silent. I think that if they were a week or two at Abbotsford they would be more happy than they have been for many a day. I am sure this would be the case with Sir Walter, for the weight of such an immense system of bills sent for his signature every now and then would be off his mind. I heard to-day that the Duke of Somerset and another Englishnobleman have written to Sir Walter, offering him £30,000 each, which he has firmly refused; and it is reported that the young Duke of Buccleuch has written him, offering to take the whole loss on himself, and to pay the interest of Sir Walter’s debt until he comes of age. If that is true, Sir Walter should accept the offer for the Duke’s own sake—for the glorious moral effect it would have upon the truly noble young fellow. But, apart from all this, cannot they set up Constable again? He has likewise been a real benefactor to his country, and then Sir Walter would, of course, be relieved.’
The private grief of Scott was for a short time merged in what he considered an important public cause. The Liverpool Administration at this time proposed to change the Scotch system of currency, abolishing the small bank-notes, and assimilating the monetary system of Scotland to that of England. This project was assailed by the wit, humour, sound sense, and nationality of Scott, in a series of letters signed ‘Malachi Malagrowther,’ and the letters of Malachi were as successful as those of Swift’s ‘M. B. Drapier’ concerning the currency of Ireland. The English government, in both cases, was compelled to abandon the denationalising scheme. Scott writes to Laidlaw, March 1, 1826:
‘I enclose a couple of copies of a pamphlet on the currency, which may amuse you. The other copy is for Mr Craig, Galashiels. I have got off some bile from my stomach which has been disturbing me for some years. The Scotch have a fair opportunity now to give battle, if they dare avail themselves of it. One would think I had little to do, that I should go loose upon politics.’
He had, in fact, entered upon his herculean task ofpaying off some £120,000 of debt by his pen! TheLife of Napoleonwas commenced, and in the autumn the biographer set off for London and Paris to consult state-papers and gather information. He succeeded well in his errand. ‘My collection of information,’ he writes, ‘goes on faster than I can take it in; but, then, it is so much coloured by passion and party-feeling, that it requires much scouring. I spent a day at the Royal Lodge at Windsor, which was a grand affair for John Nicholson, as he got an opportunity to see his Majesty.’ And the incident, no doubt, afforded as much gratification to the kind, indulgent master as it did to the servant.
After the Abbotsford establishment was broken up, Laidlaw was some time engaged in cataloguing the large library of Scott of Harden, and at times visiting his brothers, sheep-farmers in Ross-shire. The following description of a scene he witnessed, a Highland Summer Sacrament out of doors, evinces no mean powers of observation and description:
‘The people here gather in thousands to the sacraments, as they did in Ettrick in Boston’s time. We set out on Sunday to the communion at Ferrintosh, near Dingwall, to which the people resort from fifty miles’ distance. Macdonald, the minister who attracts this concourse of persons, was the son of a piper in Caithness (but from the Celtic population of the mountains there). He preached the sermon in the church in English, with a command of language and a justness of tone, action, and reasoning—keeping close to the pure metaphysics of Calvin—that I have seldom, if ever, heard surpassed. He had great energy on all points, but it never touched on extravagance. The Highlandcongregation sat in acleugh, or dell, of a long, hollow, oval shape, bordered with hazel and birch and wild roses. It seemed to be formed for the purpose. We walked round the outside of the congregated thousands, and looked down on the glen from the upper end, and the scene was really indescribable. Two-thirds of those present were women, dressed mostly in large, high, wide muslin caps, the back part standing up like the head of a paper kite, and ornamented with ribbons. They had wrapped round them bright-coloured plaid shawls, the predominant hue being scarlet.
‘It was a warm, breezy day, one of the most glorious in June. The place will be about half a mile from the Frith on the south side, and at an elevation of five hundred feet. Dingwall was just opposite at the foot of Ben Wyvis, still spotted with wreaths of snow. Over the town, with its modern castle, its church, and Lombardy poplars, we saw up the richly cultivated valley of Strathpeffer. The tufted rocks and woods of Brahan (Mackenzie of Seaforth) were a few miles to the south, and fields of wheat and potatoes, separated with hedgerows of trees, intervened. Further off, the high-peaked mountains that divide the county of Inverness from Ross-shire towered in the distance. I never saw such a scene. We sat down on the brae among the people, the long white communion tables being conspicuous at the bottom. The congregation began singing the psalm to one of the plaintive, wild old tunes that I am told are only sung in the Gaelic service. The people all sing, but in such an extended multitude they could not sing all together. They chanted, as it were, in masses or large groups. I can compare the singing to nothing earthly, except it be imagining what wouldbe the effect of a gigantic and tremendous Æolian harp with hundreds of strings! There was no resisting the impression. After coming a little to myself, I went and paced the length and breadth of the amphitheatre, taking averages, and carefully noting, as well as I could, how the people were sitting together, and I could not, in this way, make them less than 9500, besides those in the church, amounting perhaps to 1500. Most of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood, with their families, were there. I enjoyed the scene as something perfect in its way, and of rare beauty and excellence—like Melrose Abbey under a fine light, or the back of old Edinburgh during an illumination, or the Loch of the Lowes in a fine calm July evening, five minutes after sunset!’
The following brief and pleasant note, without date, must be referred to 1827, as it was in June of that year that theLife of Napoleonwas published:
‘My dear Mr Laidlaw—I would be happy if you would come down atkail-timeto-day.Napoleon(6000 copies) is sold for £11,000.—Yours truly,W. S.‘Sunday.’
‘My dear Mr Laidlaw—I would be happy if you would come down atkail-timeto-day.Napoleon(6000 copies) is sold for £11,000.—Yours truly,
W. S.
‘Sunday.’
Mr Gibson, W.S., in hisReminiscences of Sir Walter Scott(1871), says of the transactions of this period: ‘OfWoodstock, 9850 copies were sold for £9500; and of theLife of Napoleon, 8000 copies were sold for £18,200, and these sums, with some other funds realised, were speedily divided amongst the creditors.’ Under the date of August 1827, Sir Walter writes in the following affectionate strain:
‘Your leaving Kaeside makes a most melancholy blank to us. You, Mrs Laidlaw, and the bairns, were objects we met with so much pleasure, that it is painfulto think of strangers being there. But they do not deserve good weather who cannot endure the bad, and so I would “set a stout heart to a stey†[steep] “brae;†yet I think the loss of our walks, plans, discussions, and debates, does not make the least privation that I experience from the loss of world’s gear. But,sursum corda, and we shall have many happy days yet, and spend some of them together. I expect Walter and Jane, and then our long-separated family will be all together in peace and happiness. I hope Mrs Laidlaw and you will come down and spend a few days with us, and revisit your old haunts. I miss you terribly at this moment, being engaged in writing a planting article for theQuarterly, and not having patience to make some necessary calculations.’
Mr Laidlaw has written on the back of the communication: ‘This letter lies in the drawer in which the unfinished manuscript ofWaverleywas found, amongst fishing-tackle, &c. which yet remain. I got the desk as a present from Sir Walter.’
The death, in the autumn of 1829, of faithful Tom Purdie—forester, henchman, and humble friend—was a heavy blow to Sir Walter, then fast sinking in vigour and alacrity. The proverbial difficulty of obtaining a precisely exact account of any contemporary event, even from parties most closely connected with it, is illustrated in this case. Lockhart reports the death as follows:
‘Thomas Purdie leaned his head one evening on the table, and dropped asleep. This was nothing uncommon in a hard-working man; and his family went and came about him for several hours, without taking any notice. When supper came, they tried to awaken him, and found that life had been for some time extinct.’
Scott’s account is different:
‘My dear Willie—I write to tell you the shocking news of poor Tom Purdie’s death, by which I have been greatly affected. He had complained, or rather spoken, of a sore throat; and the day before yesterday, as it came on a shower of rain, I wanted him to walk fast on to Abbotsford before me, but you know well how impossible that was. He took some jelly, or trifle of that kind, but made no complaint. This morning he rose from bed as usual, and sat down by the table with his head on his hand; and when his daughter spoke to him, life had passed away without a sigh or groan. Poor fellow! There is a heart cold that loved me well, and, I am sure, thought of my interest more than his own. I have seldom been so much shocked. I wish you would take a ride down and pass the night. There is much I have to say, and this loss adds to my wish to see you. We dine at four. The day is indifferent, but the sooner the better.—Yours very truly,Walter Scott.‘Abbotsford,31st October.’
‘My dear Willie—I write to tell you the shocking news of poor Tom Purdie’s death, by which I have been greatly affected. He had complained, or rather spoken, of a sore throat; and the day before yesterday, as it came on a shower of rain, I wanted him to walk fast on to Abbotsford before me, but you know well how impossible that was. He took some jelly, or trifle of that kind, but made no complaint. This morning he rose from bed as usual, and sat down by the table with his head on his hand; and when his daughter spoke to him, life had passed away without a sigh or groan. Poor fellow! There is a heart cold that loved me well, and, I am sure, thought of my interest more than his own. I have seldom been so much shocked. I wish you would take a ride down and pass the night. There is much I have to say, and this loss adds to my wish to see you. We dine at four. The day is indifferent, but the sooner the better.—Yours very truly,
Walter Scott.
‘Abbotsford,31st October.’
A few days afterwards (November 5), Laidlaw thus relates the story:
‘Tom Purdie, poor fellow! died on Friday night or Saturday morning. He had fallen asleep with his head on his hands resting on the table, his usual practice. Margaret and Mary’ [his wife and daughter] ‘left him to go to bed when he should awaken; and Margaret found him exactly in the same situation when she rose, but dead, cold, and stiff. Sir Walter wrote to me, in great distress, to come down. I did so on Sunday, and on Tuesday I went to poor Tom’s funeral. Sir Walterhad my pony put in again, and made me stay all day. He was in very great distress about Tom, and will miss him continually, and in many ways that come nearest to him. Sir Walter wants us to return to Kaeside at Whitsunday.Kindness of heart is positively the reigning quality of Sir Walter’s character!’
A noble eulogium, and pronounced by one better qualified, perhaps, than any of his contemporaries, to form the opinion so expressed. Of the greatest author of his age it might truly be said:
‘His highest honours to the heart belong.’
‘His highest honours to the heart belong.’
‘His highest honours to the heart belong.’
‘His highest honours to the heart belong.’
William Laidlawdidreturn to Kaeside. At Whitsuntide 1830, he dropped anchor safely at his old roadstead, which had been suitably prepared for his reception. But before doing so, we find him putting in a kind word for the Ettrick Shepherd, who was in difficulties. In March 1830, Laidlaw wrote to Sir Walter:
‘I had your letter from Bowhill, and was much gratified to learn that you and Miss Scott had passed so much time with the duke and duchess. I have no doubt that His Grace would bring our friend the Shepherd and his concerns before you, and I am anxious to know if it is the duke’s intention to render him a little more comfortable at Altrive. You know that Hogg built the cottage there, at his own expense (with an allowance of wood, perhaps), and he likewise built a considerable addition to Mount Benger, and a barn—all which cost him a great sum of money, quite disproportionate to a holding of £7 a year, even at a nominal rent. The cottage was intended for a bachelor’s abode, and is very inadequate to what is now required by the bard’s family; and I see that if HisGrace does not think of giving him some allowance as an addition, it will most likely banish him from the district with which his poetry and feeling are so closely associated. I mention all this because I have observed that there is a prejudice against him among the sub-agents since Christie left the service, or rather, since the late duke’s death. One of them said to me, when I mentioned Hogg’s genius and amiable character,Cui bono?I, too, say,Cui bono?What is the use of all his poetry, and the rest? Now, from R.’s usage of him, there is every reason to suspect that he is acui bonoman too, and Hogg stands a bad chance among them, and I believe the duke knows nothing about the truth of the matter.’
Nothing was done. ‘As to the success of an application to the duke,’ writes Scott, ‘I am doubtful. The duke seemed to have made up his mind on the subject, and I saw no chance of being of service.’ Literature and the journey to London did something for the Shepherd. He wrote and struggled on at Altrive till November 1835, when the ‘world’s poor strife’ was over, and he sank to rest.
Among the dearest and most valued of all the visitors at Abbotsford were the Fergusons of Huntly Burn. Here is a kindly note sent to Kaeside:
‘Miss Ferrier is to be at Abbotsford this day, being Tuesday, 20th October’ [1829], ‘and Mr Wilkie is to be there on Thursday; so, if you come, you will have painting, poetry, history, and music—as Miss Wilkie is a musician. In short, all the Muses will be there. If this does not tempt you, I don’t know what will.—Yours truly,Isabella Ferguson.’
‘Miss Ferrier is to be at Abbotsford this day, being Tuesday, 20th October’ [1829], ‘and Mr Wilkie is to be there on Thursday; so, if you come, you will have painting, poetry, history, and music—as Miss Wilkie is a musician. In short, all the Muses will be there. If this does not tempt you, I don’t know what will.—Yours truly,
Isabella Ferguson.’
Ill-health and political agitation brought darker days to Abbotsford. The Reform Bill was Sir Walter’sbête noire. The neighbouring Tory lairds, proud of his co-operation, induced him to join in their local movement against the bill, and this still further aggravated his morbid feeling. In March 1831, he was present at a meeting of the freeholders of Roxburgh, held at Jedburgh, to pass resolutions against the Reform Bill. He was dragged to the meeting by the young Duke of Buccleuch and Mr Henry Scott of Harden, contrary to his prior resolution, and his promise to Miss Scott; for his health was then much shattered. ‘He made a confused imaginative speech,’ says Laidlaw, ‘which was full of evil forebodings and mistaken views. The people who were auditors, in proportion to their love and reverence for him, felt disappointed and sore, and, like himself, were carried away by their temporary chagrin, to the great regret of the country around.’ At the election in Jedburgh, Sir Walter was hooted at, and hissed, and saluted with cries of ‘Burke Sir Walter!’ Laidlaw adds: ‘The same people, a few weeks afterwards, when Mr Oliver, the sheriff of Roxburgh, was foolishly swearing in constables at Melrose, said boldly they need not bring them to fight against reform, for they would fight for it; but if any one meddled with Sir Walter Scott, they would fight for him.’ Amidst all the excitement of politics, and in sinking health, Sir Walter continued to write, or rather to dictate, and worked steadily at his novel ofCount Robert of Paris.
‘I am now writing as amanuensis for Sir Walter,’ said Laidlaw; ‘and have the satisfaction of finding that I am of essential service to him, as he was attacked with chilblains on his hands to such a degree as tounfit him for writing long unless with great pain. We go on with almost as great spirit as when he dictatedIvanhoe. He has become a good deal lamer, which prevents him from taking his usual walks; and he gets upon a pony with great difficulty. But of late he has been in excellent spirits. His memory seems to be as good as ever; at least, it is far beyond that of other people. I come down at seven o’clock, and write until nine; we are at it again before ten, and continue until one. He is impatient and miserable when not employed.’
About this time—the spring of 1831—Joanna Baillie published a thin volume of selections from the New Testament ‘regarding the nature and dignity of Jesus Christ.’ The tendency of the work was Socinian, or at least Arian; and Scott was indignant that his friend should have meddled with such a subject. ‘What hadsheto do with questions of that sort?’ He refused to add the book to his library, and gave it to Laidlaw. One day Sir Walter was loud in praise of one of the workmen engaged at Abbotsford, a native of the neighbouring village of Darnick. ‘Yes,’ added Laidlaw; ‘and do you know, Sir Walter, he is an excellent Burgher preacher.’11‘A preacher, d—n him!’ exclaimed Scott jocularly, and wheeling round as if to whistle the Burgher preacher down the wind.
In a very manly and interesting letter, addressed to Lockhart (of which he had kept a copy), Laidlaw enters into further particulars concerning the studies at Abbotsford:
‘Sir Walter is very greatly better. He has given upsmoking, and takes porridge to his supper instead of the long and hearty pull of brown stout. He is full of jokes and glee. Were it possible to prevail upon him to wear a greatcoat when he rides out to the hills in a north-west wind, and to take champagne and water instead of a monstrous tumbler of strong ale after tea, I am positive—and so are the regular medical people—that he would get right again. He drinks no wine, and has been advised to take gin-toddy instead of whisky. He has given up the regular dram out of aquaich, but takes a sly taste of the excellent hollands before hecoupsit into the tumbler, thereby satisfying his conscience, no doubt, by reducing it to the half-glass which, it seems, is the Abercromby law as to strong liquors. Don’t you mind the style of his letters; that is all, or nearly all, humbug. What he dictates ofRobert of Parisis, much of it, as good as anything he ever wrote. He does not go on so fast; but I do not see that he is much more apt to make blunders—that is, to let his imagination get ahead of his speech—than when he wroteIvanhoe. The worst business was that accursed nonsensical petition in the name of the magistrates, justices of the peace, and freeholders of the extensive, influential, and populous county of Selkirk! We were more than three days at it. At the beginning of the third day, he walked backwards and forwards, enunciating the half-sentences with a deep and awful voice, his eyebrows seemingly more shaggy than ever, and his eyes more fierce and glaring—altogether, like the royal beast in his cage! It suddenly came over me, as politics was always Sir Walter’s weak point, that he was crazy, and that I should have to come down to Abbotsford, and write on and away at the petition until the crack ofdoom! I was seized at the same moment with an inclination, almost uncontrollable, to burst into laughter. But seriously, you know, as well as anybody, his great excitability on political matters; and I must say it surprised me not a little that a person of your sagacity and acuteness should have thought of writing him upon politics at all, the more, because I believe that if a magpie were to come and chatter politics, or even that body, Lord M., he would believe all they said, if they spoke of change, and danger, and rumours of war—belli servilismore than all. (May I speak and live!) I felt inclined to doubt whether you had notgane gyte’ [gone crazy] ‘yourself! Could you not have sent him literary chit-chat and amusing anecdotes from London, which would have been the very thing for him, as it was of great consequence that his mind should be kept calm and cheerful?’
Mental disease and physical infirmity continued to increase, and a winter at Naples, with complete abstinence from literary labour, was prescribed. Wordsworth prayed for favouring gales:
‘Be true,Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope!’
‘Be true,Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope!’
‘Be true,Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope!’
‘Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope!’
Alas! it was all in vain. Before quitting the country, Sir Walter gave Laidlaw a mandate, or letter of authority, to represent him at county meetings, and a paper of directions as to keeping the house, the books, and garden in order. Two items are worth quoting as characteristic:
‘The dogs to be taken care of, especially to shut them up separately when there is anything to quarrel about.
‘When Mr Laidlaw thinks it will be well taken, to consult Mr Nicol Milne, and not to stop young Mr Nicol when shooting on our side of the hedge.’
Having made these arrangements, the invalid thought of taking a farewell look of Melrose Abbey. One morning Mr Laidlaw’s family were startled to see Sir Walter approaching Kaeside, feeble, and wearing his nightcap, which apparently he had forgotten to exchange for a hat. No notice was taken of the circumstance. After the usual kindly salutations, he said, with a tremulous voice, that he had come to take a last look of the abbey. He proceeded to an elevated point commanding a view of the spot, and after gazing long and anxiously down on the town and abbey, he said slowly: ‘It is a venerable ruin!’ and returned to Abbotsford.
The government, as is well known, placed a frigate at his disposal for the voyage to the Mediterranean. The reception at Portsmouth, and the arrangements on board theBarham, were highly gratifying to Sir Walter and his family. ‘The ship is magnificent,’ writes Mrs Lockhart, ‘and carries four hundred and eighty men. The rooms are excellent, and everything that could be thought of for papa’s comfort, in every way, has been done.’ Hopes of his ultimate recovery were entertained. Cadell writes, December 29, 1831: ‘I have two long letters from Sir Walter, one dated “Off Trafalgar, 14th November,†and finished at Malta on the 23d. He is in great glee, and must be much better. He has made some progress with a new novel,The Siege of Malta.’ At the date of the second letter, he had got through thirty of his own pages. Major Scott arrived from Naples on the 1st of April 1832, and brought no veryflattering tidings. ‘From his talk,’ writes Lockhart, ‘and from a huge bundle of letters which he conveyed, we draw one inference—namely, that though the bodily strength of your friend has improved since he left us, there has been rather, if anything, a further dislocation and prostration of the better part. Cadell is here, and he and I and the major spent a sad enough evening over the budget.’ All hope was soon dispelled. The hurried journey home from Italy induced another attack of apoplexy. He was struck while in the steamboat on the Rhine at Cologne, and fell into Miss Scott’s arms. Nicholson bled him instantly, and restored animation. They pushed on for Rotterdam, and got there just as the London boat was setting off for England. Laidlaw writes to a friend:
‘You will see by the newspapers that Sir Walter is coming home to die, I fear, or worse. It has come to what I always feared since he told me that Mr Cadell had half the proceeds of the great new edition. Sir Walter’s permanent income is, as you know, reduced salary, £840; sheriffdom, £300—total, £1140. No person can live at Abbotsford, and keep it up, in a country-gentlemanly way, under £2000 a year, for it will take nearly £1200 for servants, taxes, coals, garden, horses, &c. The run of strangers was immense. Sir Walter wrote for Keepsakes, Reviews, &c., and kept things going; but of late this stream dried up, and he has been confused in his notions of money matters. He is much involved, and will not be able to draw any more than his salaries. He has all this winter taken it into his head that his debts are paid off, and this was from catching at an idea of Cadell’s of borrowing money and paying the creditors all except the interest. Hewill know the truth when he comes to London, and this, with the winter and cold weather, will kill him. How can a man with his sensibility, used for thirty years to the strongest excitement, and living on popular applause, in luxury, glitter, and show, survive when all is gone, and nothing but ruin, coldness, and darkness remain?’
Deprived of the use of his right arm and side, weak and depressed, Sir Walter reached London on the evening of the 13th of June 1832. Five days later, Cadell writes: ‘Our poor friend is still alive, but very ill. He took leave of his children to-day, very clearly and distinctly. In the morning, he mistook Lockhart for me; and it was some time before he could be put right. The doctors doubt his getting over to-night.’ He rallied, however, and next month was conveyed to Abbotsford. Laidlaw’s account of Sir Walter’s arrival (written the day after) differs in some particulars from the narrative of Lockhart—one of the most affecting narratives in the language.
‘I was at the door when he’ [Sir Walter], ‘Mr and Mrs Lockhart, and Miss Scott arrived. They said he would not know me. He was in a sort of long carriage that opened at the back. He had an uncommon stupid look, staring straight before him; and assuredly he did not know where he was. It was very dismal. I began to feel myself agitated in spite of all my resolution. Lockhart ordered away the ladies; and two servants, in perfect silence, lifted him out, and carried him into the dining-room. I followed, of course. They had placed him in a low arm-chair, where he reclined. Mrs Lockhart made a sign for me to step forward to see if he would recognise me. She said: “Mr Laidlaw, papa.â€He raised his eyes a little, and when he caught mine, he started, and exclaimed: “Good God, Mr Laidlaw! I have thought of you a thousand times!†and he held out his hand. They were all very much surprised; and it being quite unexpected, I was much affected. He was put to bed. I had gone into one of the empty rooms, and some little time after Nicholson came to tell me that Sir Walter wished to see me. He spoke a little confusedly, but inquired if the people were suffering any hardship, if they were satisfied, &c. I had written to him that I had paid off nine or ten of the men after he had gone away last year. I did not remain long.
‘I understand Sir Walter’s mind has been wandering from one dream to another; but now and then breaking through the cloud that hangs over it, and surprising his attendants with glimpses of his original intellect. Alas, alas! However, he has rested better than for some time past, and was wheeled into the library’ [July 12], ‘and seemed gratified. When I called about eleven o’clock, he was sound asleep.’
A fortnight later, Laidlaw writes:
‘Sir Walter is generally collected in the morning, and very restless and troublesome to his daughters during the afternoon and night; often raving, but always quiet, and generally shewing command of himself when Lockhart comes in. Sometimes he seemed gratified at being at home, and even once or twice made pertinent quotations, and spoke of books, &c. Until yesterday, he always knew me, and I clearly saw he had then a distressing desire to speak to me. I perceived that although he might appear to feel little pain, he was really suffering a great deal, partly from a sense of his situation and inaction, but chiefly from the overpoweringcloud and weight upon his great intellect. Yesterday, he was apparently unconscious; he could not speak, but was wheeled into the library for awhile. I never witnessed a more moving or more melancholy sight. Once, when Lockhart spoke of his restlessness, he replied: “There will be rest in the grave.â€â€™
One delusion under which the illustrious sufferer laboured was preparing Abbotsford for the reception of the Duke of Wellington. Another was, his personation of the character of a Scottish judge trying his own daughters. In the course of the latter, there were painful bursts of violence and excitement. ‘It is strange,’ said Laidlaw, ‘that he never refers to any of his works or literary plans.’ The truth is, he had thrown them off, to use an expression of his own, with ‘an effort as spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its leaves to the wind,’ and they soon passed from his memory. Besides, he had, when in health, always practised a modest reticence respecting his works, which had become habitual. The following points to the end of the struggle:
‘Poor papa still lingers, although in the most hopeless state of mind and body. For this week past, the doctor has taken leave every day, saying he could not survive the twenty-four hours; and to-day, he says the pulse is weaker and worse than ever it has been, and that his living is almost a miracle. How thankful we shall be when it pleases God he is at rest, for a more complete aberration of mind never was before; and he even now is so violent we sometimes dare not go within reach of his hand. And the miserable scenes we have witnessed before his strength was reduced as it now is! Onegreat comfort has been, all suffering, so far as we can judge, mental or bodily, has been spared, and that for two months past he has not for an instant been aware of his situation. My brothers were sent for, and have been here for two days. When all is over, Anne and I and the children will leave this now miserable place for ever. Lockhart is obliged to go straight to London, but we mean to spend a couple of weeks with his relations in Lanarkshire, and perhaps take Rokeby in our way up. We are both much better than you would expect under such sad circumstances. Excuse this miserable scrawl; I hardly know what I write....C. Sophia Lockhart.‘Abbotsford,Sunday’ [September 16, 1832].12
‘Poor papa still lingers, although in the most hopeless state of mind and body. For this week past, the doctor has taken leave every day, saying he could not survive the twenty-four hours; and to-day, he says the pulse is weaker and worse than ever it has been, and that his living is almost a miracle. How thankful we shall be when it pleases God he is at rest, for a more complete aberration of mind never was before; and he even now is so violent we sometimes dare not go within reach of his hand. And the miserable scenes we have witnessed before his strength was reduced as it now is! Onegreat comfort has been, all suffering, so far as we can judge, mental or bodily, has been spared, and that for two months past he has not for an instant been aware of his situation. My brothers were sent for, and have been here for two days. When all is over, Anne and I and the children will leave this now miserable place for ever. Lockhart is obliged to go straight to London, but we mean to spend a couple of weeks with his relations in Lanarkshire, and perhaps take Rokeby in our way up. We are both much better than you would expect under such sad circumstances. Excuse this miserable scrawl; I hardly know what I write....
C. Sophia Lockhart.
‘Abbotsford,Sunday’ [September 16, 1832].12
On the day succeeding that on which this melancholy letter would seem to have been written, Sir Walter had a brief interval of consciousness, as described by Lockhart, although the biographer would appear to have misdated the arrival of the sons of the poet. A few more days terminated the struggle; Sir Walter died on the 21st of September. In October, Laidlaw notes that Major Scott had given him, accompanied with a most gratifying letter, the locket which Sir Walter constantly wore about his neck. This was presented to Sir Walter by Major Scott and his wife (inscribed ‘From Walter and Jane’) on the day of their marriage, and it contained some of the hair of each. Major Scott enclosed as much of Sir Walter’s hair as would supply the place of theirs, which he wished to be taken out of the locket. ‘I shall try to find room for all,’ said Mr Laidlaw; and he did find room, interlacing the varioushairs, and wearing the invaluable jewel to his dying day. ‘What a change the loss of Abbotsford must be to the Fergusons and you all!’ writes Mrs Lockhart, ‘the gentle Sophia,’ as Miss Martineau describes the fair sufferer. ‘It breaks my heart when I think of the silence and desolation that now reign there. They talk of a monument! God knows papa needs no monument; he has left behind him that which won’t pass away. But if the people of Melrose do anything, I think a great cairn on one of the hills would be what he would have chosen himself.’ Let the hills themselves suffice!
‘A mightier monument commandThe mountains of his native land.’13
‘A mightier monument commandThe mountains of his native land.’13
‘A mightier monument commandThe mountains of his native land.’13
‘A mightier monument command
The mountains of his native land.’13
After the death of his chief, Mr Laidlaw removed to the county of Ross, and was successively factor on the estates of Seaforth and Balnagown. His health failing,he went to reside with his brother, Mr James Laidlaw, sheep-farmer at Contin, also in Ross-shire, and there he died May 18, 1845. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Contin, a retired spot under the shade of Tor Achilty, one of the loftiest and most picturesque of the Ross-shire mountains, and amidst the most enchanting Highland scenery. The lord of the manor, Sir George S. Mackenzie of Coul, Bart., erected a tomb, with a marble tablet, to his memory.
Mr Laidlaw cherished with religious care all his memorials of Abbotsford, where, indeed, his heart may be said to have remained till its last pulsation. The desk in which the first manuscript ofWaverleywas deposited stood in his room; the works inscribed and presented by the author were carefully ranged on his shelves; the letters he had received from him were treasured up; the pens with whichIvanhoewas written were laid past, and kept as a sacred thing; but above all he valued the brooch which was round the neck of Scott when he died. That most interesting ornament Mr Laidlaw wore while a trace of sensibility remained, and it has descended to another generation—one of the most precious of the personalreliquiæof a splendid but melancholy friendship.
* * * * *
The biographer of Scott, John Gibson Lockhart, was not a social or clubable man. He was fastidious and reserved, silent in mixed company (he heard with only one ear, and was too proud to acknowledge it), and was inveterately prone to satire, so that he earned for himself the appellation of ‘The Scorpion,’ and he was avictim to dyspepsia, which, perhaps, like charity, ought to cover a multitude of sins. His fine acute intellect and classic taste were often obscured and his better sympathies chilled by pain and languor. To a few friends, however, Lockhart at times unbosomed himself. With them his cold, sarcastic, haughty manner melted away—at least for a season—and in those genial hours he was the most confiding and delightful of companions. As shewing the better nature and higher feelings of the man, we are tempted to subjoin one of his letters to William Laidlaw, in which he speaks of the sense of duty and responsibility under which he wrote the Memoirs of Scott—a work which, with all its faults, is unquestionably the best biography since Boswell’sLife of Johnson. There is great tenderness in the following letter; and the picture which the writer draws of his happy fireside contrasts painfully with his latter years, when broken health, a desolate hearth, and feelings lacerated by paternal troubles and anxieties, might have made him join in that lamentation of the ancient British bard which he applied to the old age of Thomas Campbell:
‘God hath provided unpleasant things for me;Dead is Morgeneu, dead is Mordav,Dead is Morien, dead are those I love.’14
‘God hath provided unpleasant things for me;Dead is Morgeneu, dead is Mordav,Dead is Morien, dead are those I love.’14
‘God hath provided unpleasant things for me;Dead is Morgeneu, dead is Mordav,Dead is Morien, dead are those I love.’14
‘God hath provided unpleasant things for me;
Dead is Morgeneu, dead is Mordav,
Dead is Morien, dead are those I love.’14
Few letters of Lockhart’s are so generally interesting or so valuable, biographically, as the following:
‘London,January 19, 1837.‘My dear Laidlaw—I received yesterday your letter and a very munificent donation of ptarmigan, for both which accept my best thanks. They were both welcomeas remembrancers of Scotland, of old days, and of your kindness and affection, of which last, though I am the worst of correspondents, neither I nor my wife are ever forgetful. The account you give of your situation at present is, considering how the world wags, not unsatisfactory. Would it were possible to find myself placed in something of a similar locality, and with the means of enjoying the country by day and my books at night, without the necessity of dividing most of my time between the labours of the desk—mere drudge-labours mostly—and the harassing turmoil of worldly society, for which I never had much, and now-a-days have rarely indeed any, relish! But my wife and children bind me to the bit, and I am well pleased with the fetters. Walter is now a tall and very handsome boy of near eleven years; Charlotte, a very winsome gipsy of eight—both intelligent in the extreme, and both, notwithstanding all possible spoiling, as simple, natural, and unselfish as if they had been bred on a hillside and in a family of twelve. Sophia is your old friend—fat, fair, and by-and-by to be forty, which I now am, and over, God bless the mark! but though I think I am wiser, at least more sober, neither richer nor more likely to be rich than I was in the days of Chiefswood and Kaeside—after all,ourbest days, I still believe.‘Politics, over which we used sometimes to dispute, I have quite forsworn. I have satisfied myself that the age of Toryism is by for ever; and the business of a party which can in reason propose to itself nothing but a defensive attitude, without hope either of plunder or honour, seems to me to have few claims on those who, when it was in power, never were permitted to share any of the advantages it so lavishly bestowed on foolsand knaves. So I am a very tranquil and indifferent observer.‘Perhaps, however, much of this equanimity as to passing affairs has arisen from the call which has been made on me to live in the past, bestowing for so many months all the time I could command, and all the care I have had really any heart in, upon the manuscript remains of our dear friend. I am glad that Cadell and the few others who have seen what I have done with these are pleased, but I assure you none of them can think more lightly of my own part in the matter than I do myself. My sole object is to do him justice, or rather to let him do himself justice, by so contriving it that he shall be as far as possible, from first to last, his own historiographer; and I have therefore willingly expended the time that would have sufficed for writing a dozen books on what will be no more than the compilation of one. A stern sense of duty—that kind of sense of it which is combined with the feeling of his actual presence in a serene state of elevation above all terrestrial and temporary views—will induce me to touch the few darker points in his life and character as freely as the others which were so predominant; and my chief anxiety on the appearance of the book will be, not to hear what is said by the world, but what isthoughtby you and the few others who can really compare the representation as a whole with the facts of the case. I shall, therefore, desire Cadell to send you the volumes as they are printed, though long before publication, in the confidence that they will be kept sacred, while unpublished, to yourself and your own household; and if you can give me encouragement on seeing the first and second, now I think nearly out of the printer’s hands,it will be very serviceable to me in the completion of the others. I have waived all my own notions as to the manner of publication, &c., in deference to the bookseller,15who is still so largely our creditor, and, I am grieved to add, will probably continue to be so for many years to come.‘Your letters of the closing period I wish you would send to me; and of these I am sure some use, and some good use, may be made, as of those addressed to myself at the same time, which all, however melancholy to compare with those of the better day, have traces of the man. Out of these confused and painful scraps I think I can contrive to put together a picture that will be highly touching of a great mind shattered, but never degraded, and always to the last noble, as his heart continued pure and warm as long as it could beat.—Ever affectionately yours,J. G. Lockhart.’
‘London,January 19, 1837.
‘My dear Laidlaw—I received yesterday your letter and a very munificent donation of ptarmigan, for both which accept my best thanks. They were both welcomeas remembrancers of Scotland, of old days, and of your kindness and affection, of which last, though I am the worst of correspondents, neither I nor my wife are ever forgetful. The account you give of your situation at present is, considering how the world wags, not unsatisfactory. Would it were possible to find myself placed in something of a similar locality, and with the means of enjoying the country by day and my books at night, without the necessity of dividing most of my time between the labours of the desk—mere drudge-labours mostly—and the harassing turmoil of worldly society, for which I never had much, and now-a-days have rarely indeed any, relish! But my wife and children bind me to the bit, and I am well pleased with the fetters. Walter is now a tall and very handsome boy of near eleven years; Charlotte, a very winsome gipsy of eight—both intelligent in the extreme, and both, notwithstanding all possible spoiling, as simple, natural, and unselfish as if they had been bred on a hillside and in a family of twelve. Sophia is your old friend—fat, fair, and by-and-by to be forty, which I now am, and over, God bless the mark! but though I think I am wiser, at least more sober, neither richer nor more likely to be rich than I was in the days of Chiefswood and Kaeside—after all,ourbest days, I still believe.
‘Politics, over which we used sometimes to dispute, I have quite forsworn. I have satisfied myself that the age of Toryism is by for ever; and the business of a party which can in reason propose to itself nothing but a defensive attitude, without hope either of plunder or honour, seems to me to have few claims on those who, when it was in power, never were permitted to share any of the advantages it so lavishly bestowed on foolsand knaves. So I am a very tranquil and indifferent observer.
‘Perhaps, however, much of this equanimity as to passing affairs has arisen from the call which has been made on me to live in the past, bestowing for so many months all the time I could command, and all the care I have had really any heart in, upon the manuscript remains of our dear friend. I am glad that Cadell and the few others who have seen what I have done with these are pleased, but I assure you none of them can think more lightly of my own part in the matter than I do myself. My sole object is to do him justice, or rather to let him do himself justice, by so contriving it that he shall be as far as possible, from first to last, his own historiographer; and I have therefore willingly expended the time that would have sufficed for writing a dozen books on what will be no more than the compilation of one. A stern sense of duty—that kind of sense of it which is combined with the feeling of his actual presence in a serene state of elevation above all terrestrial and temporary views—will induce me to touch the few darker points in his life and character as freely as the others which were so predominant; and my chief anxiety on the appearance of the book will be, not to hear what is said by the world, but what isthoughtby you and the few others who can really compare the representation as a whole with the facts of the case. I shall, therefore, desire Cadell to send you the volumes as they are printed, though long before publication, in the confidence that they will be kept sacred, while unpublished, to yourself and your own household; and if you can give me encouragement on seeing the first and second, now I think nearly out of the printer’s hands,it will be very serviceable to me in the completion of the others. I have waived all my own notions as to the manner of publication, &c., in deference to the bookseller,15who is still so largely our creditor, and, I am grieved to add, will probably continue to be so for many years to come.
‘Your letters of the closing period I wish you would send to me; and of these I am sure some use, and some good use, may be made, as of those addressed to myself at the same time, which all, however melancholy to compare with those of the better day, have traces of the man. Out of these confused and painful scraps I think I can contrive to put together a picture that will be highly touching of a great mind shattered, but never degraded, and always to the last noble, as his heart continued pure and warm as long as it could beat.—Ever affectionately yours,
J. G. Lockhart.’
We are tempted to add a short extract from another letter of Lockhart’s, because it mentions a pleasingincident in the life of the second Sir Walter Scott. He writes, 25th May 1843, that Major Scott and his wife enjoyed perfect health in India, and he adds: ‘He (Sir W. S.) tells me that hearing a Highland battalion was to pass about fifty miles off from his station (Bangalore), he rode that distance one day, and back the next, merely to hear theskirlof the pipes! No doubt there would be a jolly mess for his reception besides; but I could not but be pleased with the touch of the “auld man.â€â€™
LUCY’S FLITTIN’.