"'Scott,' said I.
"'Ah, it is some relation of yours,' he said; 'you have invited him, and you would pass off, as an example of your Scottish gift of prophecy, a matter previously agreed upon!'
"'Not at all,' said I. 'I assure you that, till this moment, I never thought of such a thing.'
"When we got home, I was told that Mr. Scott, a farmer living some three or four miles distant, and a relative of mine, was waiting to see me. Southey looked astounded. The man remained to dinner, and he was asked if he had given any intimation of his coming. He replied in the negative: that, indeed, he had no idea of visiting Abbotsford when he left home. After enjoying Southey's wonder for some time, I told him that I saw the tracks of Mr. Scott's horse in the bridle-path, and inferring that he was going to Abbotsford, easily foresaw that we should have him to dinner."
Presently the conversation turned upon Burns. Scott knew him well. He said that Tam O'Shanter was written to please a stonecutter, who had executed a monument for the poet's father, on condition that he should write him a witch-story in verse. He stated that Burns was accustomed in his correspondence, more especially with ladies, to write an elaborate letter, and then send a copy of it to several persons; modifying local and personal passages to suit each individual. He said that of some of these letters he had three or four copies, thus addressed to different persons, and all in the poet's handwriting.
The evening passed in pleasant conversation, varied by the music of Mrs. Lockhart's voice and harp; and some amusing imitations by a gentleman of the party, till twelve o'clock. It will readily be supposed that my eye often turned upon the chief figure in this interesting group. I could not for a moment forget his presence; though nothing could be more unpretending and modest than his whole air and bearing.
The general effect of his face was that of calm dignity; and now, in the presence of children and friends, lighted by genial emotions, it was one of the pleasantest countenances I have ever seen. When standing or walking, his manly form, added to an aspect of benevolence, completed the image; at once exciting affection and commanding respect.
His manners were quiet, unpretending, absolutely without self-assertion. He appeared to be happy, and desirous of making others so. He was the only person present who seemed unconscious that he was the author of Waverley. His intercourse with his daughter was most charming. She seemed quite devoted to him; watching his lips when he was speaking, and seeking in everything to anticipate and fulfil his wishes. When she was singing, his eye dwelt upon her; his ear catching and seeming to relish every tone. Frequently, when she was silent, his eye rested upon her, and the lines came to my mind,—
"Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven:
And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek
It would not stain an angel's cheek:
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!"
Eight years later, when I was again in London, Scott was on his death-bed at Abbotsford. Overburdened with the struggle to extricate himself from the wreck of his fortunes, his brain had given way, and the mighty intellect was in ruins. On the morning of the 17th he woke from a paralytic slumber; his eye clear and calm, every trace of delirium having passed away. Lockhart came to his bedside. "My dear," he said, "I may have but a moment to speak to you. Be a good man: be virtuous; be religious: be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you are called upon to lie here!"