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exquisite ruins of which are in sight from many points of the estate. All readers of Washington Irving are familiar with his account of this handsome residence and its occupants, and no traveller in Scotland ever fails to spend some hours within its sacred enclosure. The massive structure of dark gray granite with its picturesque turrets somewhat resembles a feudal castle, and we are surprised at the air of cosy comfort within. The broad, low win. dows overlooking the lawn and the Tweed are as inviting as is the well-stocked armory. Through the kindness of Sir Walter's descendants, the Scott-Maxwells, we may pass through room after room filled with mementos of the great magician. The spacious and cheery library with its leather-covered seats remains just as he left it, and many a trophy of his exploits in the chase adorns the walls of the various apartments. Here was Sir Walter's abiding-place for the remainder of his days, -cept for some seasons on Castle Street, Edinburgh, and 1 occasional journey; and here he died on a bright day in 1832, with the ripple of the river singing a soft requiem.
Friends. The same traits which made the schoolboy so great a favorite with his mates in the Edinburgh high school, won for him the lasting friendships of his maturer years. Every one loved him, from Tom Purdie, his devoted body-servant, up (or down) to his Majesty George IV. Wordsworth, the poet, was a life-long friend, and many tales are told at Grasmere of Scott's visits to his brother author at Dove Cottage. It was the most brilliant period in the literary life of Scotland, and almost all of the
philosophers and reviewers of the time belonged to one or another of the literary clubs of which Scott was a leading member. In 1820 he was made President of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and it is of interest to know also that, when Quentin Durward was published three years later, he had just been elected a member of “The Club” of clubs. That means, of course, the one which still flourishes in London, and which was established at the Turk's Head by Dr. Samuel Johnsou and his friends, Burke, Reynolds, Goldsmith, and the others.
Both Abbotsford and the house on Castle Street were filled with guests. Among them Scott was always the same genial host and sensible, manly conversationalist. Perhaps the best known of his intimate friends is “Willie" Laidlaw. This old acquaintance had lost his property, and Scott gave him a cottage near Abbotsford. Ever after Mr Laidlaw was his principal literary helper and trusted assistant in all things. Sir Walter's relations to his depen-lants, including the humblest, were as kindly, even to familiarity, as his own political principles were aristocratic. In 1820 a baronetcy was conferred upon him as a personal gift of friendship from the King.
No account of his friends is complete without reference to his cats, dogs, and ponies. Mettlesome Brown Adam could be mounted by no one except his owner. Sybil Grey and the Covenanter were later boon companions. Every one knows his dogs. Maida, to whom he raised a marble slab, was the “Bevis” of Woodstock. When Camp, the deerhound, died, Sir Walter declined a pre
viously accepted invitation to dinner on the score of the “death of an old friend.” When he failed financially, one of his chief anxieties was lest his four-footed pets and his servants should not be comfortably provided for in their old age. The magnificent monument in Edinburgh, opposite the Old Waverley Hotel, is covered with statues of different personages in his novels; but the place of honor, beside the seated master under the canopy of exquisite marble, is occupied by one of these loved dogs.
Financial Affairs. With the free-handed generosity of his temperament, it was natural that Scott should always have been inclined to spend money before he had earned it. As Abbotsford grew, his ambitions grew still faster, until only a princely fortune could satisfy them. It is a raatter of regret to his lovers that he should have cared more to possess a great manorial estate and to have placed upon his tomb,“ Walter Scott, Baronet,” than to be known
“The Magician of the North.” But it was so. Dur. ing his prosperous years money poured in so lavishly from his romances that the supply seemed inexhaustible and was constantly overdrawn. A most unfortunate partner. ship was formed with two brothers named Ballantyne, one of whom had been an old schoolfellow; the other was none too honest; all three lacked judgment regarding the merits of most books except. Scott's own, and brought out many unsalable works. In 1825 came the crash, precipitated by the failure of the Constables, his other publishers. Scott refused to shield himself behind the bankrupt law, and, rising to his full height, said to his creditors : “Gentlemen, time and I against any two
Let me take this good ally into company and I believe I shall be able to pay you every farthing." In three years be paid back £40,000, and when he died, his son-in-law, Mr. Lockhart, completed the task, seeing that every far. thing then due was paid within fifteen years after Scott's death.
Further Troubles. - No soldier ever showed himself braver in battle than was Sir Walter during the seven years in which he struggled to pay off the whole £117,000, more than half a million dollars. To these years might be applied even more truly the words used concerning the writing of Waverley by a young student who roomed in Edinburgh, across the street from the untiring author. “I have been watching that hand,” he said; “it fascinates my eye; it never stops; page after page is finished and thrown on that heap of manuscript, and still it goes on unwearied; and so it will be until candles are brought in, and God knows how long after that. It is the same every night, — I can't stand a sight of it when I am not at my books." “Some stupid, dogged, engrossing clerk, probably,” exclaimed a listener, “or some giddy youth in our society.” “No, boys," interrupted the host, “I well know what hand it is 'tis Walter Scott's."
The blow to his pride was perhaps hardest of all. But other afflictions followed quickly. His wife died within a few months; his daughter Anne was far from well; then his own health began to fail, and the dogged labor brought on paralysis. His publishers reproached him because the old witchery seemed to have departed, and he blamed himself because his numbed brain could create no more novels
like the early ones. But through it all, courage and faith in God never left the dying hero.
The End. - In 1831 he was taken to the Continent for his health. Immediately before his departure he was visited by Wordsworth, and the two spent a day on the banks of Yarrow. The following lines are taken from
Yarrow Revisited, written by the English poet in mem. ory of that occasion :
“ For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change
Green Eildon-bill and Cheviot,
And leave thy Tweed and Teviot
May classic fancy, linking
Preserve thy heart from sinking.
The next March occurred the death of his admired contemporary, Goethe; this made him the more impatient to return to Abbotsford before his own approaching end. He reached the Tweed, to be met there by Mr. Laidlaw and the welcoming dogs.
For a little he revived, and lingered two months more