“Never mind,” replied Scott. “His Lordship’s head was turned when he was alive, and it is not worth our while to shift it now.”
Long before the secret of the Waverley novels had been blown about, the Ettrick Shepherd divined it, and as the novels appeared he had them re-bound and lettered “Scott’s Novels.” While visiting Hogg at Altrive, the author ventured to remark in a dry humorous tone, “Jamie, your bookseller must be a stupid fellow, to spell Scott’s with two t’s.” Hogg replied, “Ah, Watty, I am ower auld a cat to draw that strae before.”
Mrs. John Ballantyne tells a story of Scott and Hogg not to be found in Lockhart.
At her dinner table in Hanover Street, she says, the Shepherd was present, and was amusing the company very much by his attempts to dissect “twa teugh auld chuckies,” and was making the legs and wings and gravy fly in every direction, to the annoyance of every one in his neighbourhood. Suddenly he stopped, dipped a napkin in the finger-glass, and began to mop his face, which was “a’ jappit wi’ the juice.”
Scott saw his friend’s dilemma, and out of the goodness of his heart determined to create a diversion in his favour. Addressing Mrs. Ballantyne, he asked this question—“Mrs. John, once on a time all the letters of the alphabet were invited out to their dinner—they all came but U. Why did not U come?” On giving it up, Scott said, “Why, then, the reason why U did not come to dinner is very clear—because U never comes till after (T).”
Sometimes a very trifling joke or anecdote adds to the gaiety of a company. It was so in this case, the story passed round, but Hogg could not understand it, and he asked what they were all laughing at. “It’s about U (you),” cried Mrs. Ballantyne, and this made Hogg quite indignant. He rose and brandished his knife, and inquired in a blood-thirsty sort of way what they could possibly see about him to speak and laugh about. This made the joke tell all the better, when it was explained to him.
Carlyle recites with approbation a saying of somebody to the effect that no man has written so many volumes as Scott having so few sentences that can be quoted, and Gilfillan, replying to the charge, says he is prepared to prove that in no other novelist—not even Cervantes, or Bulwer, or Goodwin—is there to be found a greater number of separate and quotable beauties than in Scott. Gilfillan’s offer is not extravagant. Regarding the humorous side of the Waverley novels alone, which is all that concerns us here, one has only to think of Caleb Balderston, of Edie Ochiltree, of Cuddie Headrigg, of Andrew Fairservice; has but to utter aloud to himself the familiar “Ma conscience!” of Bailie Nicol Jarvie; the “Prodigious!” of Dominie Samson; the “Jeanie, woman!” of the Laird of Dumbiedikes—to have his mind peopled like a market-place with familiar figures, and his memory serving his tongue with passage upon passage, page upon page, and all with the freedom and rapidity of electric telegraphy. The temptation to quote now is strong; but I must resist it in order to overtake less familiar, though perhaps less delectable matter.
How humour will serve one in circumstances where sheer eloquence might pall is well illustrated by an important incident in the life of Scott. When George IV. visited Scotland in 1812, Sir Walter was largely “in evidence” in Edinburgh, eager to greet his Sovereign and afford him a royal welcome. Elaborate preparations had been made in the Capital in order that the reception might be worthy of the illustrious visitor, but when the royal yacht arrived in the Forth, the rain poured down in torrents. Sir Walter accordingly visited the King on board, and, in asking him to defer his landing on account of the inclemency of the weather, made one of the happiest speeches of his life—a speech which we may be sure delighted no one more than the King himself:—
“Impatient, Sire,” said he, “as your loyal subjects are to see you plant your foot upon their soil, they hope you will consent to postpone your public entry until to-morrow. In seeing the state of the weather, I am myself forcibly reminded of a circumstance which once occurred to me. I was about to make a tour through the Western Highlands with part of my family. I wrote to the innkeeper of a certain hostelry, where I meant to halt a day or two, to have rooms prepared for me. On the day appointed it rained, as it does to-day, ceaselessly. As we drew near our quarters, we were met on the hill over his house by our Boniface, with bared head, and backing every yard as I advanced, who thus addressed me:—
“‘Guid guide us, Sir Walter! This is just awfu’! Siccan a downpour! Was ever the like? I really beg your pardon! I’m sure it’s nae faut o’ mine; I canna think how it should happen to rain this way, just as you, o’ a’ men in the warld, should come to see us! It looks amaist personal! I can only say for my part, I’m just ashamed o’ the weather!’