‘Many a bold rider measured his length among the peat-bogs, and another stranger to the ground besides Davy plunged neck-deep into a treacherous well-head, which, till they were floundering in it, had borne all the appearance of a piece of delicate [424] ]green turf. When Sir Humphry emerged from his involuntary bath, garnished with mud, slime, and mangled water-cresses, Sir Walter received him with a triumphant encore. But the philosopher had his revenge, for Scott put Sibyl Grey at a leap beyond her powers and lay humbled in the ditch, while Davy who was better mounted cleared it and him at a bound. Happily there was little damage done, but no one was sorry that the sociable had been detained at the foot of the hill.
‘I have seen Sir Humphry on other occasions, and in company of many different descriptions, but never to such advantage as at Abbotsford. His host and he delighted in each other, and the modesty of their mutual admiration was a memorable spectacle. Davy was by nature a poet, and Scott, though anything but a philosopher, might have pursued the study of physical science with success, had he happened to fall in with Sir Humphry in early life. Each strove to make the other talk, and they did so in turn most charmingly. Scott in his romantic narratives touched a deeper chord of feeling than usual when he had such a listener as Davy; and Davy, when induced to open his views upon any question of scientific interest in Scott’s presence, did so with a clear, energetic eloquence and a flow of imagery and illustration of which neither his habitual tone of table-talk nor any of his prose writings (except, indeed, the Consolations in Travel) could suggest an adequate notion.
‘One night, when their “rapt talk” had kept the circle round the fire long after the usual [425] ]bedtime at Abbotsford, I remember Laidlaw whispering to me, “Gude preserve us! this is a very superior occasion! Eh, sirs!” he added, cocking his eye like a bird, “I wonder if Shakespeare and Bacon ever met to screw ilk other up?”
‘The other “superior occasion” came later in the season: the 28th of October, the birthday of Sir Walter’s eldest son, was that usually selected for the Abbotsford Hunt. This was a coursing match on a large scale, including as many of the younger gentry as pleased to attend, as well as all Scott’s personal favourites among the yeomen and farmers of the surrounding country. The Sheriff nearly always took the field, but latterly devolved the command upon his good friend Mr. John Usher, the ex-laird of Toftfield. The hunt took place on the moors above Cauld-Shiels Loch, or over some of the hills on the estate of Gala, and we had commonly, ere we returned, hares enough to supply the wife of every farmer that attended, with soup for a week following. The whole party then dined at Abbotsford: the Sheriff in the chair; Adam Fergusson, croupier; and Dominie Thomson, of course, chaplain. The company whose onset had been thus deferred, were seldom under thirty and sometimes exceeded forty. The feast suited the occasion. A baron of beef, roasted, at the foot of the table, a salted round at the head, while tureens of hare soup, hotch-potch, and cock-a-leekie extended down the centre, with such light articles as geese, turkeys, sucking pigs, singed sheep’s head, and the unfailing haggis, set forth by way of side dishes. Black cock and moorfowl, [426] ]bushels of snipe, black puddings, white puddings, and pyramids of pancakes, formed the second course. Ale was the favourite beverage during dinner, but there was plenty of port and sherry for those who preferred wine. The quaighs of Glenlivet were filled to the brim, and tossed off as if they held water. The wine decanters made a few rounds of the table, but the hints for hot punch and toddy soon became clamorous. Two or three bowls were introduced; then the business of the evening commenced in good earnest. The faces shone and glowed like those at Camacho’s wedding; the chairman told the richest stones of old rural life; the stalwart Dandie Dinmonts lugged out their last winter’s snowstorm, the parish scandal, perhaps, or the dexterous bargain of the Northumberland Tryst; Sheriff-substitute Shortreed gave us “Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid.” His son, Sir Walter’s most assiduous disciple and assistant in Border Heraldry and genealogy, shone without a rival in “Twa Corbies.” Captain Ormistoun gave the primitive pastoral of “Cowdenknowes” in sweet perfection; other ballads succeeded, until the gallant croupier crowned the last bowl with “Ale, good ale; thou art my darling!” Imagine some smart Parisian savant, some dreamy pedant of Halle or Heidelberg, a brace of stray young lords from Oxford or Cambridge, with perhaps their college tutors, planted here and there among these rustic wassailers, this being their first vision of the author of Marmion and Ivanhoe, and he appearing as much at home in the scene as if he had been a veritable “Dandie” himself, his face [427] ]radiant, his laugh gay as childhood, his chorus always ready. And so it proceeded until some worthy, who had fifteen or twenty miles to ride home, began to insinuate that his wife would be getting anxious about the fords, and the Dumples and Hoddins were at last heard neighing at the gate. It was voted that the hour had come for “Doch an dorrach,” the stirrup-cup—to wit, a bumper all round of the unmitigated mountain dew. How they all contrived to get home in safety Heaven only knows, but I never heard of any serious accident. One comely gude-wife amused Sir Walter, far off among the hills, the next time he passed her homestead, by repeating her husband’s first words when he alighted at his own door: “Ailie, my woman, I’m ready for my bed—and, oh! lass, I wish I could sleep for a towmont, for there’s only ae thing in this warld worth living for, and that’s the Abbotsford Hunt.”’
There was a considerable amount of laudatory remark when the reading of the ‘Abbotsford Hunt’ was concluded.
‘What a charming, delightful creature Sir Walter must have been!’ said Hermione. ‘What a pity he should ever have been hampered by debt and business worries. Such a model country gentleman, and, oh! as a companion, what an honour to have known him; to have watched his eye brighten and glow as some deed of valour or generous action came before him! Then his tenderness to children. Think of “Pet Marjorie”! Vanda and I cried our eyes out at her [428] ]death. And to know of her dying of measles, like any other child—with her wonderful intellect! It seems as if Providence should have intervened.’
‘We must get on with our work, my dear children,’ said Mrs. Banneret warningly. ‘Our time is short. We are all with you, I am sure! Vanda, haven’t you any pathetic fragment? I saw you reading A Legend of Montrose yesterday.’
‘I think that novel contains some of Sir Walter’s best examples of comic humour as well as of his deepest pathos. Captain Dalgetty on the one hand, with his memories of the immortal Gustavus and Marischal College, and, oh! while they are escaping from Inveraray Castle, the old Highlander, Ranald MacEagh, seeing his sons hanging on the gibbet, makes “a gesture of unutterable anguish.” Nothing is finer, stronger, more deeply tragical in the whole series of the writer’s prose and poetry.’
‘My husband will always regret,’ said Mrs. Maclean, ‘that he was away when you visited our sacred shrine. He is a devoted worshipper; nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to have gone round all the haunts and homes of the Bard. He would have been so pleased to know that in my country—my country,’ she repeated with a charming air of defiance, ‘the seer of Abbotsford is as fully appreciated, and perhaps even more widely venerated than in the land of his birth.’
‘I can confirm that statement,’ said Mr. Banneret, ‘for wherever you go in Australia and New Zealand, the Scots, “lowland or highland, far or near,” appear to predominate. And in energy, [429] ]industry, and material success they invariably excel the Saxon and the Irish Celt.’