Chapter VI: Part 6

‘We were much pleased with some days of Macdonald the sculptor, who modelled Sir Walter while he was dictating to me. Macdonald’s model was in a higher style of art than Chantrey’s, and from that cause, had not so much character. Macdonald confessed this was not so much his object. It was a faithful likeness, nevertheless, but not so familiar. For the same reason, he would not take the exact figure of the head, which is irregular. Chantrey likewise declined to shew this, which the phrenologists will probably regret.’

Mr Lawrence Macdonald still lives to delight his friends, and pursue his art in Rome, where he has long resided. He has no recollection of the ‘irregularity,’ referred to. Laidlaw knew nothing of art, and by ‘high style,’ he probably meant an idealised likeness--a look to ‘elevate and surprise.’ The extreme length of the upper lip was a personal characteristic of Sir Walter, which he was glad to see artists reduce, and which none of the portraits fully represents. It is by no means uncommon among the stalwart men of the Border, but is unquestionably a defect as respects personal appearance. The Stratford bust of Shakspeare, it will be recollected, has the same long upper lip, as well as the memorable high forehead, that distinguished Scott. Of Chantrey, Laidlaw writes:

‘I met at breakfast Chantrey the sculptor, a real blunt, spirited, fine Yorkshireman, with great good-humour, and an energy of character about him that would have made his fortune--and a great one--had he gone to London as a tailor. He killed a fine salmon in the Tweed, and led another a long time, but let it go among the great stones and cut his line. Colonel Ferguson said he believed he would rather have given his best statue than lost the fish.’

Chantrey was an enthusiastic angler.

The baronetcy was a step of rank which Sir Walter said was the king’s own free motion, and none of his seeking. To a lady whom he highly esteemed--the late Hon. Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth--he wrote:

‘The circumstance of my children being heirs to their uncle’s fortune, relieved me in a great degree of the chief objection to accepting with gratitude what was so graciously offered, namely, that which arose from a more limited income than becomes even the lowest step of hereditary rank.... Mr Lockhart, to whom Sophia is now married, is the husband of her choice. He is a man of excellent talents, master of his pen and of his pencil, handsome in person, and well-mannered, though wanting that ease which the _usage du monde_ alone can give. I like him very much; for having no son who promises to take a literary turn, it is of importance to me, both in point of comfort and otherwise, to have some such intimate friend and relation, whose pursuits and habits are similar to my own--so that, upon the whole, I trust I have gained a son instead of losing a daughter.’[10]

Early next year (1821), Scott was in London, and on February 16, took place the unfortunate duel, in which John Scott, editor of the _London Magazine_, fell. The antagonist of John Scott was Mr Christie, a barrister, the friend of Lockhart. ‘I have had much to plague me here,’ writes Sir Walter, ‘besides the death of John Scott, who departed last night; so much for being slow to take the field!’ And in another letter he recurs to the subject: ‘The death of my unlucky namesake, John Scott, you will have heard of. The poor man fought a most unnecessary duel to regain his lost character, and so lost his life into the bargain.’ The loss of life was chiefly owing to the blundering of John Scott’s second in the duel, who permitted a second fire to take place after Mr Christie had discharged his pistol down the field.

The visit of King George IV. to Scotland in 1822, was an event sure to call forth the enthusiastic loyalty of Sir Walter. His Majesty’s personal attentions, besides the distinction of the baronetcy, elicited his warmest gratitude, and, in addition, all his fervid nationality and veneration for the throne were kindled on this occasion. To see the king in the ancient palace of Holyrood, was itself an incident like the realisation of a dream. The whole city was in a state of frantic excitement: ‘Edinburgh is irrecoverably mad,’ said Scott. To Laidlaw, the chivalrous poet writes:

‘DEAR WILLIE--You are quite right in your opinion of Saunders. He
never shewed himself a more true-blooded gentleman. The extreme
tact and taste of all ranks has surprised the king and all about
him. No rushing or roaring, but a devoted attachment, expressed
by a sort of dignified reverence, which seemed divided betwixt
a high veneration for their sovereign and a suitable regard for
themselves. I have seen in my day many a levee and drawing-room,
but none so august and free from absurdity and ridicule as those
of Holyrood. The apartments also, desolate and stripped as they
have been, are worth a hundred of Carlton or Buckingham House; but
the singular and native good-breeding of the people, who never
saw a court, is the most remarkable of all. The populace without,
shew the same propriety as the gentles within. The people that
our carriages passed amongst to-day were all full of feeling,
and it was remarkable that, instead of huzzaing, they shewed the
singular compliment of lifting up their children to see them--the
most affecting thing you ever witnessed. When Saunders goes wrong,
it must be from _malice prepense_; for no one knows so well how
to do right. Mamma (Lady Scott), Sophia, and Anne were dreadfully
frightened, and I, of course, though an old courtier, in such a
court as Holyrood, was a good deal uneasy. The king, however, spoke
to them, and they were all kissed in due form, though they protest
they are still at a loss how the ceremony was performed. The king
leaves on Wednesday, to my great joy, for strong emotions cannot
last. He has lived entirely within doors. To-morrow, I suppose,
there is a dinner-party at Dalkeith, as I am commanded there, but
it is the first. I have had, from over-exertion and distress of
mind, a strong cutaneous eruption in my legs and arms. You would
think I had adopted the national musical instrument to regale his
Majesty; but, seriously, I believe I should have been ill but for
the relief Nature has been pleased to afford me in this ungainly
way. Fortunately, my hands and face are clear.

W. S.’

And Laidlaw, writing to a friend, gives some further particulars:

‘Sir Walter was very full of the king for a while, but we went up Ettrick, and I have seen but little of him since. He had serious work with the English noblemen in the king’s train, who did not seem to wish that Scotland should shew off as an independent kingdom, which, by the articles of the Union, was provided for in the event of the king’s coming to Edinburgh. They wanted all to be done according to English form, as was the case in Ireland, but he settled them. They proposed, too, that the Highland guard (indeed they objected to the guard altogether) should have the flints taken from their pistols! A deputy, Colonel Stevenson, had the management, and corresponded with Sir Walter; and as he was to dine at Castle Street with a number of the Highland chiefs, Sir Walter proposed that the colonel should speak to them on the subject. After they were a little warmed with wine, Sir Walter addressed Stevenson, who sat beside him, saying he had better now propose what he had mentioned before. The Highlanders had got to telling old stories, and were in high spirits; they were, of course, in full dress. Colonel Stevenson said he saw now that he had mistaken the sort of people beside him; and on Sir Walter pressing him (rather slyly) to proceed, he declared he would rather not.

‘The king was greatly surprised and affected with the behaviour of the people on Sunday. They did not cheer as usual, but took off their hats and bowed as they passed along. He expressed himself strongly to Sir Walter about this. Sir Walter said the verses of the cavalier to his mistress might be applied to the people:

“Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.”

I found the lines were by Lovelace, addressed to his Lucasta, on his going to the wars. The king witnessed an incident that seemed, as Sir Walter said, to have made a deep impression on his mind. As he came along the Calton Hill road, the crowd made a rush down hill towards the royal carriage, and the king saw a child fall. Had it been in London, he said, the child would have been trampled to death, and he expected nothing else. But in a moment there was a loud cry of “Stop!” and five or six men linked themselves together arm-in-arm, and set themselves to keep off the crowd, standing like an arch; then a man stepped before them and lifted the boy, and held him up above the crowd, to shew that he was not hurt. Sir Walter heard the king relate this incident twice.’

In the autumn of 1825, Sir Walter visited Ireland, and thus, in homely confidential style, records his impressions:

‘MY DEAR WILLIE--I conclude you are now returned, with wife and
bairns, to Kaeside, and not the worse of your tour. I have been
the better of mine; and Killarney being the extreme point, I am
just about to commence my return to Dublin, where I only intend to
remain two or three days at farthest. I should like to find a line
from you, addressed “Care of David Macculloch, Esq., Cheltenham,”
letting me know how matters go on at Abbotsford--if you want money
(as I suppose you do), and so forth.

‘I have every reason to make a good report of Ireland, having
been received with distinction, which is flattering, and with
warm-hearted kindness, which is much better. I am happy to say the
country is rapidly improving every year, which argues the spirit
that is afloat, and indicates that British capital is finding its
way into a country where it can be employed to advantage. The idea
of security is gaining ground even in those districts which are, or
rather were, the most unsettled, and plenty has brought her usual
companion content, in her hand. But the public peace is secured
chiefly by large bodies of armed police, called by the civil term
of constables, but very unlike the Dogberries of England, being,
in fact, soldiers on foot and horse, well armed and mounted, and
dressed exactly like our yeomen. It is not pleasant to see this,
but it is absolutely necessary for some time at least; and from all
I can hear, the men are under strict discipline, and behave well.
They are commanded by the magistracy, and are very alert.

‘The soil is in most places extremely rich, but cultivation is
not as yet well understood. That accursed system of making peats
interferes with everything; and I have passed through whole
counties where a very noble harvest, ripe for the sickle, was
waiting for the next shower of rain; while all the population who
should cut were up to the midst in bogs. Not a single field of
turnips have I seen, owing probably to the same reason.

‘The political disputes are of far less consequence here than we
think in Britain; but, on the whole, it would be highly desirable
that the Catholic Bill should pass. It would satisfy most of the
higher classes of that persuasion, who seem much inclined to form a
sort of Low Church, differing in ceremonies more than in essential
points from that of the English Church. I mean they would do this
tacitly and gradually. The lower class will probably continue for a
long time bigoted Papists; but education becoming general, it is to
be supposed that popery, in its violent tenets, will decline even
amongst them. By the way, education is already far more general
than in England. I saw in the same village four hundred Catholic
children attending school, and about two hundred Protestants
attending another. The peculiar doctrines of neither church were
permitted to be taught; and there were Protestants amongst the
Papist children, and Papists among the Protestant.

‘The general condition of the peasantry requires much improvement.
Their cabins are wretched, and their dress such a labyrinth of
rags, that I have often feared some button would give way, and
shame us all. But this is mending, and the younger people are all
more decently dressed, and the new huts which are arising are
greatly better than the old pigsties. In short, all is on the move
and the mend. But as I must be on the move myself, I must defer the
rest of my discoveries till we meet. We have in our party, Anne,
Lockhart, Walter and his wife, and two Miss Edgeworths, so we are a
jolly party. Will you shew this to Lady Scott? I wrote to her two
days since.--Always truly yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

‘KILLARNEY, _8th August_.’

The brilliance of Abbotsford had now reached its culminating point. The commercial crisis of 1825–26 was close at hand, and the first note of the alarm and confusion in the money-market suspended all improvements, and occasioned intense anxiety to Sir Walter. We add two letters as supplementing Lockhart’s narrative:

‘MY DEAR WILLIAM--The money-market in London is in a tremendous
state, so much so that, whatever good reason I have, and I have
the best, for knowing that Constable and his allies, Hurst and
Robinson, are in perfect force, yet I hold it wise and necessary to
prepare myself for making good my engagements, which come back on
me suddenly, or by taking up those which I hold good security for.
For this purpose I have resolved to exercise my reserved faculty
to burden Abbotsford with £8000 or £10,000. I can easily get the
money, and having no other debts, and these well secured, I hold it
better to “put money in my purse,” and be a debtor on my land for a
year or two, till the credit of the public is restored. I may not
want the money, in which case I will buy into the funds, and make
some cash by it. But I think it would be most necessary, and even
improper not to be fully prepared.

‘What I want of you is to give me a copy of the rental of
Abbotsford, as it now stands, mentioning the actual rents of ground
let, and the probable rents of those in my hand. You gave me one
last year, but I would rather have the actual rents, and as such
business is express, I would have you send it immediately, and keep
it all as much within as you think fair and prudent. Your letter
need only contain the rental, and you may write your remarks
separately. I have not the slightest idea of losing a penny, but
the distrust is so great in London that the best houses refuse the
best bills of the best tradesmen, and as I have retained such a
sum in view of protecting my literary commerce, I think it better
to make use of it, and keep my own mind easy, than to carry about
bills to unwilling banks, and beg for funds which I can use of my
own. I have more than £10,000 to receive before Midsummer, but then
I might be put to vexation before that, which I am determined to
prevent.

‘By all I can learn, this is just such an embarrassment as may
arise when pickpockets cry “Fire!” in a crowd, and honest men
get trampled to death. Thank God, I can clear myself of the
_mêlée_, and am not afraid of the slightest injury. If the money
horizon does not clear up in a month or two, I will abridge my
farming, &c. I cannot find there is any real cause for this; but
an imaginary one will do equal mischief. I need not say this is
confidential.--Yours truly,

WALTER SCOTT.

‘_16th December_ [1825], EDINBURGH.’

‘The confusion of 1814 is a joke to this. I have no debts of my own. On the contrary, £3000 and more lying out on interest, &c. It is a little hard that, making about £7000 a year, and working hard for it, I should have this botheration. But it arises out of the nature of the same connection which gives, and has given me, a fortune, and therefore I am not entitled to grumble.’

[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 expense and 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 that society 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 English nobleman 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 of paying off some £120,000 of debt by his pen! The _Life of Napoleon_ was 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 Highland congregation sat in a _cleugh_, 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 would be 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 the _Life of Napoleon_ was published:

‘MY DEAR MR LAIDLAW--I would be happy if you would come down
at _kail-time_ to-day. _Napoleon_ (6000 copies) is sold for
£11,000.--Yours truly,

W. S.

‘_SUNDAY._’

Mr Gibson, W.S., in his _Reminiscences of Sir Walter Scott_ (1871), says of the transactions of this period: ‘Of _Woodstock_, 9850 copies were sold for £9500; and of the _Life 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 painful to 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 the _Quarterly_, 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 of _Waverley_ was 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_.’

A few days afterwards (November 5), Laidlaw thus relates the story:

‘Tom Purdie, poor fellow! died on Friday night or Saturday morning. He had fallen asleep with his head on his hands resting on the table, his usual practice. Margaret and Mary’ [his wife and daughter] ‘left him to go to bed when he should awaken; and Margaret found him exactly in the same situation when she rose, but dead, cold, and stiff. Sir Walter wrote to me, in great distress, to come down. I did so on Sunday, and on Tuesday I went to poor Tom’s funeral. Sir Walter had my pony put in again, and made me stay all day. He was in very great distress about Tom, and will miss him continually, and in many ways that come nearest to him. Sir Walter wants us to return to Kaeside at Whitsunday. _Kindness of heart is positively the reigning quality of Sir Walter’s character!_’

A noble eulogium, and pronounced by one better qualified, perhaps, than any of his contemporaries, to form the opinion so expressed. Of the greatest author of his age it might truly be said:

‘His highest honours to the heart belong.’

William Laidlaw _did_ return to Kaeside. At Whitsuntide 1830, he dropped anchor safely at his old roadstead, which had been suitably prepared for his reception. But before doing so, we find him putting in a kind word for the Ettrick Shepherd, who was in difficulties. In March 1830, Laidlaw wrote to Sir Walter:

‘I had your letter from Bowhill, and was much gratified to learn that you and Miss Scott had passed so much time with the duke and duchess. I have no doubt that His Grace would bring our friend the Shepherd and his concerns before you, and I am anxious to know if it is the duke’s intention to render him a little more comfortable at Altrive. You know that Hogg built the cottage there, at his own expense (with an allowance of wood, perhaps), and he likewise built a considerable addition to Mount Benger, and a barn--all which cost him a great sum of money, quite disproportionate to a holding of £7 a year, even at a nominal rent. The cottage was intended for a bachelor’s abode, and is very inadequate to what is now required by the bard’s family; and I see that if His Grace does not think of giving him some allowance as an addition, it will most likely banish him from the district with which his poetry and feeling are so closely associated. I mention all this because I have observed that there is a prejudice against him among the sub-agents since Christie left the service, or rather, since the late duke’s death. One of them said to me, when I mentioned Hogg’s genius and amiable character, _Cui bono?_ I, too, say, _Cui bono?_ What is the use of all his poetry, and the rest? Now, from R.’s usage of him, there is every reason to suspect that he is a _cui bono_ man too, and Hogg stands a bad chance among them, and I believe the duke knows nothing about the truth of the matter.’

Nothing was done. ‘As to the success of an application to the duke,’ writes Scott, ‘I am doubtful. The duke seemed to have made up his mind on the subject, and I saw no chance of being of service.’ Literature and the journey to London did something for the Shepherd. He wrote and struggled on at Altrive till November 1835, when the ‘world’s poor strife’ was over, and he sank to rest.

Among the dearest and most valued of all the visitors at Abbotsford were the Fergusons of Huntly Burn. Here is a kindly note sent to Kaeside:

‘Miss Ferrier is to be at Abbotsford this day, being Tuesday, 20th
October’ [1829], ‘and Mr Wilkie is to be there on Thursday; so, if
you come, you will have painting, poetry, history, and music--as
Miss Wilkie is a musician. In short, all the Muses will be there.
If this does not tempt you, I don’t know what will.--Yours truly,

ISABELLA FERGUSON.’

Ill-health and political agitation brought darker days to Abbotsford. The Reform Bill was Sir Walter’s _bête noire_. The neighbouring Tory lairds, proud of his co-operation, induced him to join in their local movement against the bill, and this still further aggravated his morbid feeling. In March 1831, he was present at a meeting of the freeholders of Roxburgh, held at Jedburgh, to pass resolutions against the Reform Bill. He was dragged to the meeting by the young Duke of Buccleuch and Mr Henry Scott of Harden, contrary to his prior resolution, and his promise to Miss Scott; for his health was then much shattered. ‘He made a confused imaginative speech,’ says Laidlaw, ‘which was full of evil forebodings and mistaken views. The people who were auditors, in proportion to their love and reverence for him, felt disappointed and sore, and, like himself, were carried away by their temporary chagrin, to the great regret of the country around.’ At the election in Jedburgh, Sir Walter was hooted at, and hissed, and saluted with cries of ‘Burke Sir Walter!’ Laidlaw adds: ‘The same people, a few weeks afterwards, when Mr Oliver, the sheriff of Roxburgh, was foolishly swearing in constables at Melrose, said boldly they need not bring them to fight against reform, for they would fight for it; but if any one meddled with Sir Walter Scott, they would fight for him.’ Amidst all the excitement of politics, and in sinking health, Sir Walter continued to write, or rather to dictate, and worked steadily at his novel of _Count Robert of Paris_.

‘I am now writing as amanuensis for Sir Walter,’ said Laidlaw; ‘and have the satisfaction of finding that I am of essential service to him, as he was attacked with chilblains on his hands to such a degree as to unfit him for writing long unless with great pain. We go on with almost as great spirit as when he dictated _Ivanhoe_. He has become a good deal lamer, which prevents him from taking his usual walks; and he gets upon a pony with great difficulty. But of late he has been in excellent spirits. His memory seems to be as good as ever; at least, it is far beyond that of other people. I come down at seven o’clock, and write until nine; we are at it again before ten, and continue until one. He is impatient and miserable when not employed.’

About this time--the spring of 1831--Joanna Baillie published a thin volume of selections from the New Testament ‘regarding the nature and dignity of Jesus Christ.’ The tendency of the work was Socinian, or at least Arian; and Scott was indignant that his friend should have meddled with such a subject. ‘What had _she_ to do with questions of that sort?’ He refused to add the book to his library, and gave it to Laidlaw. One day Sir Walter was loud in praise of one of the workmen engaged at Abbotsford, a native of the neighbouring village of Darnick. ‘Yes,’ added Laidlaw; ‘and do you know, Sir Walter, he is an excellent Burgher preacher.’[11] ‘A preacher, d--n him!’ exclaimed Scott jocularly, and wheeling round as if to whistle the Burgher preacher down the wind.

In a very manly and interesting letter, addressed to Lockhart (of which he had kept a copy), Laidlaw enters into further particulars concerning the studies at Abbotsford:

‘Sir Walter is very greatly better. He has given up smoking, and takes porridge to his supper instead of the long and hearty pull of brown stout. He is full of jokes and glee. Were it possible to prevail upon him to wear a greatcoat when he rides out to the hills in a north-west wind, and to take champagne and water instead of a monstrous tumbler of strong ale after tea, I am positive--and so are the regular medical people--that he would get right again. He drinks no wine, and has been advised to take gin-toddy instead of whisky. He has given up the regular dram out of a _quaich_, but takes a sly taste of the excellent hollands before he _coups_ it into the tumbler, thereby satisfying his conscience, no doubt, by reducing it to the half-glass which, it seems, is the Abercromby law as to strong liquors. Don’t you mind the style of his letters; that is all, or nearly all, humbug. What he dictates of _Robert of Paris_ is, much of it, as good as anything he ever wrote. He does not go on so fast; but I do not see that he is much more apt to make blunders--that is, to let his imagination get ahead of his speech--than when he wrote _Ivanhoe_. The worst business was that accursed nonsensical petition in the name of the magistrates, justices of the peace, and freeholders of the extensive, influential, and populous county of Selkirk! We were more than three days at it. At the beginning of the third day, he walked backwards and forwards, enunciating the half-sentences with a deep and awful voice, his eyebrows seemingly more shaggy than ever, and his eyes more fierce and glaring--altogether, like the royal beast in his cage! It suddenly came over me, as politics was always Sir Walter’s weak point, that he was crazy, and that I should have to come down to Abbotsford, and write on and away at the petition until the crack of doom! I was seized at the same moment with an inclination, almost uncontrollable, to burst into laughter. But seriously, you know, as well as anybody, his great excitability on political matters; and I must say it surprised me not a little that a person of your sagacity and acuteness should have thought of writing him upon politics at all, the more, because I believe that if a magpie were to come and chatter politics, or even that body, Lord M., he would believe all they said, if they spoke of change, and danger, and rumours of war--_belli servilis_ more than all. (May I speak and live!) I felt inclined to doubt whether you had not _gane gyte_’ [gone crazy] ‘yourself! Could you not have sent him literary chit-chat and amusing anecdotes from London, which would have been the very thing for him, as it was of great consequence that his mind should be kept calm and cheerful?’

Mental disease and physical infirmity continued to increase, and a winter at Naples, with complete abstinence from literary labour, was prescribed. Wordsworth prayed for favouring gales:

‘Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope!’

Alas! it was all in vain. Before quitting the country, Sir Walter gave Laidlaw a mandate, or letter of authority, to represent him at county meetings, and a paper of directions as to keeping the house, the books, and garden in order. Two items are worth quoting as characteristic:

‘The dogs to be taken care of, especially to shut them up separately when there is anything to quarrel about.

‘When Mr Laidlaw thinks it will be well taken, to consult Mr Nicol Milne, and not to stop young Mr Nicol when shooting on our side of the hedge.’

Having made these arrangements, the invalid thought of taking a farewell look of Melrose Abbey. One morning Mr Laidlaw’s family were startled to see Sir Walter approaching Kaeside, feeble, and wearing his nightcap, which apparently he had forgotten to exchange for a hat. No notice was taken of the circumstance. After the usual kindly salutations, he said, with a tremulous voice, that he had come to take a last look of the abbey. He proceeded to an elevated point commanding a view of the spot, and after gazing long and anxiously down on the town and abbey, he said slowly: ‘It is a venerable ruin!’ and returned to Abbotsford.

The government, as is well known, placed a frigate at his disposal for the voyage to the Mediterranean. The reception at Portsmouth, and the arrangements on board the _Barham_, were highly gratifying to Sir Walter and his family. ‘The ship is magnificent,’ writes Mrs Lockhart, ‘and carries four hundred and eighty men. The rooms are excellent, and everything that could be thought of for papa’s comfort, in every way, has been done.’ Hopes of his ultimate recovery were entertained. Cadell writes, December 29, 1831: ‘I have two long letters from Sir Walter, one dated “Off Trafalgar, 14th November,” and finished at Malta on the 23d. He is in great glee, and must be much better. He has made some progress with a new novel, _The Siege of Malta_.’ At the date of the second letter, he had got through thirty of his own pages. Major Scott arrived from Naples on the 1st of April 1832, and brought no very flattering tidings. ‘From his talk,’ writes Lockhart, ‘and from a huge bundle of letters which he conveyed, we draw one inference--namely, that though the bodily strength of your friend has improved since he left us, there has been rather, if anything, a further dislocation and prostration of the better part. Cadell is here, and he and I and the major spent a sad enough evening over the budget.’ All hope was soon dispelled. The hurried journey home from Italy induced another attack of apoplexy. He was struck while in the steamboat on the Rhine at Cologne, and fell into Miss Scott’s arms. Nicholson bled him instantly, and restored animation. They pushed on for Rotterdam, and got there just as the London boat was setting off for England. Laidlaw writes to a friend:

‘You will see by the newspapers that Sir Walter is coming home to die, I fear, or worse. It has come to what I always feared since he told me that Mr Cadell had half the proceeds of the great new edition. Sir Walter’s permanent income is, as you know, reduced salary, £840; sheriffdom, £300--total, £1140. No person can live at Abbotsford, and keep it up, in a country-gentlemanly way, under £2000 a year, for it will take nearly £1200 for servants, taxes, coals, garden, horses, &c. The run of strangers was immense. Sir Walter wrote for Keepsakes, Reviews, &c., and kept things going; but of late this stream dried up, and he has been confused in his notions of money matters. He is much involved, and will not be able to draw any more than his salaries. He has all this winter taken it into his head that his debts are paid off, and this was from catching at an idea of Cadell’s of borrowing money and paying the creditors all except the interest. He will know the truth when he comes to London, and this, with the winter and cold weather, will kill him. How can a man with his sensibility, used for thirty years to the strongest excitement, and living on popular applause, in luxury, glitter, and show, survive when all is gone, and nothing but ruin, coldness, and darkness remain?’

Deprived of the use of his right arm and side, weak and depressed, Sir Walter reached London on the evening of the 13th of June 1832. Five days later, Cadell writes: ‘Our poor friend is still alive, but very ill. He took leave of his children to-day, very clearly and distinctly. In the morning, he mistook Lockhart for me; and it was some time before he could be put right. The doctors doubt his getting over to-night.’ He rallied, however, and next month was conveyed to Abbotsford. Laidlaw’s account of Sir Walter’s arrival (written the day after) differs in some particulars from the narrative of Lockhart--one of the most affecting narratives in the language.

‘I was at the door when he’ [Sir Walter], ‘Mr and Mrs Lockhart, and Miss Scott arrived. They said he would not know me. He was in a sort of long carriage that opened at the back. He had an uncommon stupid look, staring straight before him; and assuredly he did not know where he was. It was very dismal. I began to feel myself agitated in spite of all my resolution. Lockhart ordered away the ladies; and two servants, in perfect silence, lifted him out, and carried him into the dining-room. I followed, of course. They had placed him in a low arm-chair, where he reclined. Mrs Lockhart made a sign for me to step forward to see if he would recognise me. She said: “Mr Laidlaw, papa.” He raised his eyes a little, and when he caught mine, he started, and exclaimed: “Good God, Mr Laidlaw! I have thought of you a thousand times!” and he held out his hand. They were all very much surprised; and it being quite unexpected, I was much affected. He was put to bed. I had gone into one of the empty rooms, and some little time after Nicholson came to tell me that Sir Walter wished to see me. He spoke a little confusedly, but inquired if the people were suffering any hardship, if they were satisfied, &c. I had written to him that I had paid off nine or ten of the men after he had gone away last year. I did not remain long.

‘I understand Sir Walter’s mind has been wandering from one dream to another; but now and then breaking through the cloud that hangs over it, and surprising his attendants with glimpses of his original intellect. Alas, alas! However, he has rested better than for some time past, and was wheeled into the library’ [July 12], ‘and seemed gratified. When I called about eleven o’clock, he was sound asleep.’

A fortnight later, Laidlaw writes:

‘Sir Walter is generally collected in the morning, and very restless and troublesome to his daughters during the afternoon and night; often raving, but always quiet, and generally shewing command of himself when Lockhart comes in. Sometimes he seemed gratified at being at home, and even once or twice made pertinent quotations, and spoke of books, &c. Until yesterday, he always knew me, and I clearly saw he had then a distressing desire to speak to me. I perceived that although he might appear to feel little pain, he was really suffering a great deal, partly from a sense of his situation and inaction, but chiefly from the overpowering cloud and weight upon his great intellect. Yesterday, he was apparently unconscious; he could not speak, but was wheeled into the library for awhile. I never witnessed a more moving or more melancholy sight. Once, when Lockhart spoke of his restlessness, he replied: “There will be rest in the grave.”’