CHAPTER XIV.
MEMORIES OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
And one excursion I took part in with the greatest delight and one small satchel—for we wuz to stay one night—wuz to Melrose Abbey and Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott.
“I could sing to you,” sez he.
Josiah said he wanted to see Melrose Abbey by moonlight. He said it would be so romantic, and, sez he, “I wish I could have a guitar. How stylish and romantic it would be for you and me, Samantha, to visit it by moonlight, and I could sing to you,” sez he.
But I sez, “A old couple a-viewin’ that seen by moonlight, with thick blanket shawls on, and heavy overshues—and I should wear ’em, Josiah,” sez I, “and make you wear ’em, for our rumatizes is bad, and lookin’ up at the moon through spectacles hain’t what it would be in younger and less bundled-up days.”
“Throw a blanket onto it!” sez he; “wet a blanket wet as sop, and throw it onto my plan. I never can git you to foller up any idees of mine that are stylish and romantic.”
“I’ll foller ’em,” sez I, “but I’ve got to foller ’em with an eye on azmy and rumatiz. And as for your singin’,” sez I, “it don’t seem as if I can bear it.” And I shuddered imperceptibly; I thought of the near past.
But the rubber strings that men’s memories and consciences are strung on a good deal of the time had sprung back, and he wuz jest as ready to be sentimental and bust out in song as if he hadn’t been took for a Banshee.