“Yes, sir,” said the old man, with pride and affection, “them books is my chief amusement. Sir Walter Scott's works; I've read 'em over again and again, every one of 'em, though I must confess there's two or three that's pretty rough travellin'. But the others!—well, I've tried a good many authors, but gimme Scott. Take his characters! There's stacks of novels comes out nowadays that call themselves historical; but the people in 'em seems like they was cut out o' pasteboard; a bit o' wind would blow 'em away. But look at the body to Scott's people! They're all the way round, and clear through, his characters are.—Of course, I'm no literary man, gentlemen. I only give my own small opinion.” Mr. Bud's manner, on his suddenly considering his audience, had fallen from its bold enthusiasm.
“Your small opinion is quite right,” said Davenport. “There's no doubt about the thoroughness and consistency of Scott's characters.” He took one of the books, and turned over the leaves, while Mr. Bud looked on with brightened eyes. “Andrew Fairservice—there's a character. 'Gude e'en—gude e'en t' ye'—how patronizing his first salutation! 'She's a wild slip, that'—there you have Diana Vernon sketched by the old servant in a touch. And what a scene this is, where Diana rides with Frank to the hilltop, shows him Scotland, and advises him to fly across the border as fast as he can.”
“Yes, and the scene in the Tolbooth where Rob Roy gives Bailie Nicol Jarvie them three sufficient reasons fur not betrayin' him.” The old man grinned. He seemed to be at his happiest in praising, and finding another to praise, his favorite author.
“Interesting old illustrations these are,” said Davenport, taking up another volume. “Dryburgh Abbey—that's how it looks on a gray day. I was lucky enough to see it in the sunshine; it's loveliest then.”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Bud. “You been to Dryburgh Abbey?—to Scott's grave?”
“Oh, yes,” said Davenport, smiling at the old man's joyous wonder, which was about the same as he might have shown upon meeting somebody who had been to fairy-land, or heaven, or some other place equally far from New York.
“You don't say! Well, to think of it! I am happy to meet you. By George, I never expected to get so close to Sir Walter Scott! And maybe you've seen Abbotsford?”
“Oh, certainly. And Scott's Edinburgh house in Castle Street, and the house in George Square where he lived as a boy and met Burns.”
Mr. Bud's excitement was great. “Maybe you've seen Holyrood Palace, and High Street—”
“Why, of course. And the Canongate, and the Parliament House, and the Castle, and the Grass-market, and all the rest. It's very easy; thousands of Americans go there every year. Why don't you run over next summer?”