His 'Life of Burns' is a most charming piece of work, which renders
all other biographies of the Scotch singer superfluous.
all other biographies of the Scotch singer superfluous.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v16 - Lev to Mai
The
work he is best known by is 'Lyra Elegantiarum'; an anthology of
airy graceful verse, which has exhausted the field where he gathered
his gleanings.
Up to the event of Mr. Locker's first marriage, the 'Confidences'
observe a sequence more or less historical. The story then breaks
off abruptly, and a series of essays follow, on the incidents of his
life, portraits of authors, and criticisms on their books. In his clos-
ing paragraph in 'My Confidences' he asks his readers to think kindly
of Pierrot. They will regard him also with gratitude and affection.
The evening of his days was passed at Rowfant, where he died in
May 1895.
The verse of Frederick Locker-Lampson is of the kind which the
French call vers de société, and which may be seen in all its English
varieties in his Lyra Elegantiarum. ' He belongs to the seventeenth-
century school of light and airy singers; of which Carew, Suckling,
Lovelace, Herrick, and Sedley were masters, and which in the days
of Queen Anne was conducted by such modish, jaunty ushers as
Pope and Prior. But he belongs to it in its nineteenth-century con-
ditions, which, in common with Hood, Praed, and Thackeray, he has
bettered and enlarged with his finer taste, purer sentiment, and more
genuine human feeling. His 'London Lyrics' are the perfection of
humorous-pathetic poetry.
Elizabeth Stoddard
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD
THE
HE characters of great and small
Come ready-made, we can't bespeak one;
Their sides are many, too- and all
(Except ourselves) have got a weak one.
Some sanguine people love for life;
Some love their hobby till it flings them;
And many love a pretty wife
For love of the éclat she brings them!
## p. 9115 (#119) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9115
We all have secrets: you have one
Which may not be your charming spouse's;
We all lock up a skeleton
In some grim chamber of our houses;
Familiars who exhaust their days
And nights in probing where our smart is,
And who, excepting spiteful ways,
Are quiet, confidential "parties. "
We hug the phantom we detest,
We rarely let it cross our portals:
It is a most exacting guest,-
Now are we not afflicted mortals?
Your neighbor Gay, that joyous wight,-
As Dives rich, and bold as Hector,-
Poor Gay steals twenty times a night,
On shaking knees, to see his spectre.
-
Old Dives fears a pauper fate,
And hoarding is his thriving passion;
Some piteous souls anticipate
A waistcoat straiter than the fashion.
She, childless, pines. -that lonely wife,-
And hidden tears are bitter shedding;
And he may tremble all his life,
And die but not of that he's dreading.
―
Ah me, the World! how fast it spins!
The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles;
They dance, and stir it for our sins,
And we must drain it for our troubles.
We toil, we groan, - the cry for love
Mounts upward from this seething city;
And yet I know we have above
A Father, infinite in pity.
When Beauty smiles, when sorrow weeps,
When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
A ghastly carnival - but hearken!
How dry the rattle of those bones! -
The sound was not to make you start meant -
Stand by your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
## p. 9116 (#120) ###########################################
9116
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
MY NEIGHBOR ROSE
TH
HOUGH slender walls our hearths divide,
No word has passed from either side.
Your days, red-lettered all, must glide
Unvexed by labor:
I've seen you weep, and could have wept;
I've heard you sing, and may have slept;
Sometimes I hear your chimneys swept,
My charming neighbor!
Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail
The pup, once eloquent of tail?
I wonder why your nightingale
Is mute at sunset!
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems
Too fat to mouse. She much esteems
Yon sunny wall-and sleeps and dreams
Of mice she once ate.
Our tastes agree.
I doat upon
Frail jars, turquoise and celadon,
The 'Wedding March' of Mendelssohn,
And Penseroso. '
When sorely tempted to purloin
Your pietà of Marc Antoine,
Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin,
Fair Virtuoso!
At times an Ariel, cruel-kind,
Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind,
And whisper low, "She hides behind:
Thou art not lonely. "
The tricksy sprite did erst assist
At hushed Verona's moonlight tryst;
Sweet Capulet! thou wert not kissed
By light winds only.
I miss the simple days of yore,
When two long braids of hair you wore,
And chat botté was wondered o'er
In corner cosy.
But gaze not back for tales like those:
'Tis all in order, I suppose;
The Bud is now a blooming Rose,-
A rosy posy!
## p. 9117 (#121) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9117
Indeed, farewell to bygone years:
How wonderful the change appears,—
For curates now and cavaliers
In turn perplex you;
The last are birds of feather gay,
Who swear the first are birds of prey:
I'd scare them all, had I my way,
But that might vex you.
At times I've envied, it is true,
That joyous hero, twenty-two,
Who sent bouquets and billets-doux,
And wore a sabre.
The rogue! how tenderly he wound
His arm round one who never frowned:
He loves you well. Now, is he bound
To love my neighbor?
The bells are ringing. As is meet,
White favors fascinate the street;
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet,
'Twixt tears and laughter;
They crowd the door to see her go:
The bliss of one brings many woe,—
Oh! kiss the bride, and I will throw
The old shoe after.
What change in one short afternoon,-
My charming neighbor gone,- so soon!
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon
Slow rising hither?
O lady, wan and marvelous,
How often have we communed thus;
Sweet memories shall dwell with us.
And joy go with her!
-
## p. 9118 (#122) ###########################################
9118
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
THE ROSE AND THE RING
CHRISTMAS 1854, AND CHRISTMAS 1863
(W. M. T. )
SHE
HE smiles but her heart is in sable,
And sad as her Christmas is chill:
She reads, and her book is the fable
He penned for her while she was ill.
It is nine years ago since he wrought it
Where reedy old Tiber is king;
And chapter by chapter he brought it-
And read her the Rose and the Ring.
And when it was printed, and gaining
Renown with all lovers of glee,
He sent her this copy containing
His comical little croquis;
A sketch of a rather droll couple-
---
She's pretty-he's quite t'other thing!
He begs (with a spine vastly supple)
She will study the Rose and the Ring.
It pleased the kind Wizard to send her
The last and the best of his toys:
His heart had a sentiment tender
For innocent women and boys;
And though he was great as a scorner,
The guileless were safe from his sting:
How sad is past mirth to the mourner! -
A tear on the Rose and the Ring!
She reads-I may vainly endeavor
Her mirth-chequered grief to pursue:
For she hears she has lost and for ever-
-
A Heart that was known by so few:
But I wish on the shrine of his glory
One fair little blossom to fling;
And you see there's a nice little story
Attached to the Rose and the Ring!
## p. 9119 (#123) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9119
THE WIDOW'S MITE
HE Widow had but only one,-
A puny and decrepit son;
Yet day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,
A loving child, he was her all-
The Widow's Mite.
THE
---
-
The Widow's might; - yes! so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained
When friends were fewer;
And cheerful at her daily care,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
I saw her then, - and now I see,
Though cheerful and resigned, still she
Has sorrowed much:
She has - He gave it tenderly -
Much faith; and, carefully laid by,
A little crutch.
Τ
TO MY GRANDMOTHER
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY
HIS relative of mine-
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,-
As a bride.
Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her revery
Has a charm;
-
Her ringlets are in taste, -
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
Falbala;
## p. 9120 (#124) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9120
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love,—
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb? –
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
"Come. "
To say,
What funny fancy slips
From between these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
That good-for-nothing Time.
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Her locks (as white as snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow.
By-and-by,
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:-
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,-
Would she not?
Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropped away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was.
Will be done. "
« Thy
## p. 9121 (#125) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9121
XVI-571
D
In travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,-
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.
I'm fain to meet you there; -
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
That the better it must please
Grandpapa.
ADVICE TO A POET
EAR Poet, never rhyme at all:-
But if you must, don't tell your neighbors;
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,
Will dub you donkey for your labors.
This epithet may seem unjust
To you or any verse-begetter:
Oh, must we own I fear we must! .
That nine in ten deserve no better.
---
Then let them bray with leathern lungs,
And match you with the beast that grazes;
Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues,
Or damn you with the faintest praises.
Be patient, you will get your due
Of honors, or humiliations;
So look for sympathy-but do
Not look to find it from relations.
―――――
When strangers first approved my books,
My kindred marveled what the praise meant,
They now wear more respectful looks,
But can't get over their amazement.
Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond
That wielded by the fiercest hater;
For all the time they are so fond-
Which makes the aggravation greater.
Most warblers now but half express
The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:
## p. 9122 (#126) ###########################################
9122
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
If they attempted naught - or less! —
They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter.
Fly low, my friend; then mount, and win
The niche for which the town's contesting:
And never mind your kith and kin
But never give them cause for jesting.
--
A bard on entering the lists
Should form his plan; and having conned it,
Should know wherein his strength consists,
And never, never go beyond it.
Great Dryden all pretense discards;
Does Cowper ever strain his tether?
And Praed (Watteau of English Bards) -
How well he keeps his team together!
Hold Pegasus in hand-control
A vein for ornament ensnaring;
Simplicity is still the soul
Of all that Time deems worth the sparing.
Long lays are not a lively sport;
Reduce your own to half a quarter:
Unless your public thinks them short,
Posterity will cut them shorter.
I look on bards who whine for praise
With feelings of profoundest pity:
They hunger for the poet's bays,
And swear one's spiteful when one's witty.
The critic's lot is passing hard:
Between ourselves, I think reviewers,
When called to truss a crowing bard,
Should not be sparing of the skewers.
We all the foolish and the wise—
Regard our verse with fascination,
Through asinine paternal eyes,
And hues of Fancy's own creation;
Then pray, sir, pray, excuse a queer
And sadly self-deluded rhymer,
Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer! )
Has all the gust of alt hochheimer.
Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx,
So tricksy, it were wrong to let her
## p. 9123 (#127) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9123
Rest satisfied with what she thinks
Is perfect: try and teach her better.
And if you only use, perchance,
One half the pains to learn that we, sir,
Still use to hide our ignorance ·
-
How very clever you will be, sir!
THE JESTER'S PLEA
[These verses were published in a volume by several hands, issued for the
benefit of the starving Lancashire weavers during the American Civil
War. ]
HE World! Was jester ever in
A viler than the present?
Yet if it ugly be-as sin,
It almost is-as pleasant!
It is a merry world (pro tem. );
And some are gay, and therefore
It pleases them- but some condemn
The fun they do not care for.
THE
It is an ugly world. Offend
Good people-how they wrangle!
The manners that they never mend!
The characters they mangle!
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,
And go to church on Sunday;
And many are afraid of God-
And more of Mrs. Grundy.
The time for Pen and Sword was when
"My ladye fayre" for pity
Could tend her wounded knight, and then
Grow tender at his ditty!
Some ladies now make pretty songs,
And some make pretty nurses;
Some men are good for righting wrongs
And some for writing verses.
I wish We better understood
The tax that poets levy!
I know the Muse is very good-
I think she's rather heavy.
## p. 9124 (#128) ###########################################
9124
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
She now compounds for winning ways
By morals of the sternest:
Methinks the lays of nowadays
Are painfully in earnest.
When Wisdom halts, I humbly try
To make the most of Folly;
If Pallas be unwilling, I
Prefer to flirt with Polly:
To quit the goddess for the maid
Seems low in lofty musers;
But Pallas is a haughty jade —
And beggars can't be choosers.
I do not wish to see the slaves
Of party, stirring passion;
Or psalms quite superseding staves,
Or piety "the fashion. "
I bless the hearts where pity glows,
Who, here together banded,
Are holding out a hand to those
That wait so empty-handed!
A righteous work! - My Masters, may
A Jester by confession,
Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay,
The close of your procession?
The motley here seems out of place
With graver robes to mingle;
But if one tear bedews his face,
Forgive the bells their jingle.
## p. 9125 (#129) ###########################################
9125
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
(1794-1854)
HE poet and essayist John Gibson Lockhart is a striking ex-
ample of the class of men of no mean literary attainments
whose names have been overshadowed by being connected
with one greater than themselves. He is generally remembered as
the biographer and son-in-law of Walter Scott. He is less often named
as the admirable translator of the 'Spanish Ballads,' and still more
seldom spoken of as the scholarly editor
of the Quarterly Review. Yet he was one
of the most brilliant and most versatile of
the lesser men of English literature.
JOHN G. LOCKHART
Lockhart was born in the manse of Cam-
busnethan in Lanarkshire, where his father
was then a minister of the gospel. Two
years later the preacher was transferred to
Glasgow, and here presently the boy entered
the High School, and in time the Glasgow
College. He was remarkably clever,-en-
dowed with such unusual powers of concen-
tration and memory that study seemed no
effort; and he seemed to idle through his
class hours, chiefly employed in drawing car-
icatures of the instructors. He entered Balliol College, Oxford, when
just past fourteen; an unusually early age even for those days. He
was well equipped in languages, ancient and modern, and had a store
of curious information picked up in voracious reading; but he cared
little for mathematics, excellence in which was greatly insisted upon.
He continued caricaturing his tutors, and playing other harmless jokes
upon them; for he had an irrepressibly frolicsome turn of mind, and
was unconsciously developing his vein of satire and sarcasm. But he
was proud and reserved, and of a constitutional shyness that remained
with him all his life.
After graduation, he went to the Continent on money advanced by
Blackwood for a prospective translation of Friedrich Schlegel's 'Lect-
ures on the Study of History,' his first essay in authorship,-which
however did not appear until some years later. He visited Goethe at
Weimar, and went through France and the Netherlands studying art
## p. 9126 (#130) ###########################################
9126
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
Returning to Edinburgh, he read law, and was
and architecture.
called to bar in 1816. But he soon joined the staff of Black-
wood's Magazine, contributing literary papers and exercising his un-
rivaled powers of satire in political and critical essays. Here also
he printed a number of the 'Spanish Ballads. ' About this time he
became acquainted with Walter Scott, who took a great fancy to
the handsome, scholarly, witty young fellow, and accepted him as a
son-in-law in 1820. In the cottage which he fitted up for the young
couple on his own estate, they lived for some years in an ideal family
relation.
Having made himself a famous name for caustic wit and luminous
exposition, the brilliant critic of Blackwood was invited to take charge
of the (Tory) London Quarterly, from which "Anti-Jacobin" Gifford
was about to retire. He seems to have had, like Jeffrey, some doubts
as to whether well-paid editorship was an office quite becoming a
gentleman. But at Scott's advice he accepted the post, for which he
was admirably fitted. A born critic, his wide scholarship, his sane,
unbiased judgment, and his decided literary and political views, gave
great weight to his opinions. Aside from his editorial duties he con-
tributed many papers to the magazine. He is credited with having
written in his twenty-eight years of editorship no fewer than one hun-
dred carefully finished articles, besides scores of less elaborate papers.
His was the celebrated review on Tennyson's volume of 1832, which
began with a sarcastic pretense of retracting the Quarterly's adverse
judgment of Keats (plainly intimating that the writer still thought the
public admiration was the real mistake), and went on to say that here
at least was a case where it would never be necessary to retract any-
thing! The new mistake was fully as bad as the old; but it by no
means follows that the reviewer was altogether wrong in either case.
There were weak spots in the early work of both poets; and their
most individual note-a luxurious lingering over sensuous imagery,
and sometimes almost effeminate dalliance with verbal prettiness—
was precisely what most revolted the balladist, whose preference was
for rough and vigorous manliness of style.
Busy as he was, Lockhart managed to find time for contributions
to Blackwood's and to Fraser's. In 1843 he was appointed to the
auditorship of the Duchy of Lancaster, his only political preferment,
which he resigned in 1853 to spend that winter in Rome. Like Sir
Walter, however, he returned home to die. At Abbotsford, November
25th, 1854, he passed away, in the arms of his only surviving daughter,
Mrs. Hope-Scott, to whose son descended the title and estate of his
great-grandfather.
Lockhart was a brilliant talker and a delightful companion among
a few friends. In larger assemblies his shyness made him appear
## p. 9127 (#131) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9127
haughty and reserved. He had not the gift of attracting the good-
will of strangers, and this debarred him from success as a public
speaker. His caustic pen, and his delicate position as responsible
editor of a great magazine, made him many enemies, both among
persons whose opinions he criticized and contributors whose articles
he blue-penciled. He was a man of most affectionate nature, not
expansive but deep, with almost a woman's love for children and
compassion for suffering. His life, outwardly uneventful, was sad-
dened by family bereavements: the death in 1831 of his eldest and
favorite son,—the Hugh Littlejohn of the Tales of a Grandfather,'
-the death of his beloved wife in 1837, and the waywardness of his
second son, who also died before him.
Lockhart's writings have never been collected, nor have all his
review articles been identified. In 1819 was published 'Peter's Let-
ters to his Kinsfolk,' purporting to be written by a Welsh dentist, one
"Dr. Peter Morris, the Odontist," on a visit to Edinburgh,— a mock-
ing satire on the society of the Scotch capital. It originated from an
ostensible "review," by Lockhart in Blackwood's, of this (then non-
existent) book, with copious "extracts. " There were so many calls
for the book in consequence that Lockhart wrote it,- probably with
some help from John Wilson,-incorporating the "extracts," and Black-
wood published it as a "second edition. " The first would surpass
all bibliophilic treasures in existence. He tried his hand at novel-
writing, producing within the next five years Valerius: A Roman
Story,' of the time of the Emperor Trajan; 'Adam Blair,' a tale of
great power, involving the moral downfall of a Scotch minister; 'Regi-
nald Dalton,' a story of undergraduate life at Oxford; and Matthew
Wald. ' These stories, though scholarly and well written, lack vital
interest. Lockhart had not the novelist's gift of projecting himself
into his characters and making them alive to the reader, and he
wisely desisted from further efforts. He was a perfect biographer,
for the same reason that he was a foremost critic. In 1829 he opened
Murray's Family Library' with a 'Life of Napoleon,' which however
is little more than a clever abridgment of Scott's Life of the Emperor.
His 'Life of Burns' is a most charming piece of work, which renders
all other biographies of the Scotch singer superfluous. The Life of
Theodore Hook,' within a smaller compass, is adequate to its pur-
pose; but his most enduring work is the Life of Scott. ' He was
well fitted to undertake that task by his long and loving friendship,
which yet did not cloud his judgment. He sets his hero before
the reader as a living being, great-hearted, generous, full of life and
energy. The self-effacement of the biographer is remarkable; he
never dogmatizes, but gives an entirely objective picture. The task
was a delicate one for a son-in-law to undertake, but it was executed
## p. 9128 (#132) ###########################################
9128
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
1
I
I
to perfection. Next to Boswell's 'Johnson' the book is the best
biography in the language. By his translations of the Spanish Bal-
lads,' Lockhart showed himself a vigorous poet with great command
over English ballad metres. They are Englished with great force and
spirit; and while closely following the Spanish, yet read like original
poems.
THE LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT
From the Life of Scott'
THE
HE last jotting of Sir Walter's Diary-perhaps the last speci-
men of his handwriting-records his starting from Naples
on the 16th of April. After the 11th of May the story can
hardly be told too briefly.
The irritation of impatience, which had for a moment been
suspended by the aspect and society of Rome, returned the
moment he found himself on the road, and seemed to increase
hourly. His companions could with difficulty prevail on him to
see even the Falls of Terni, or the church of Santa Croce at
Florence. On the 17th, a cold and dreary day, they passed the
Apennines, and dined on the top of the mountains. The snow
and the pines recalled Scotland, and he expressed pleasure at the
sight of them. That night they reached Bologna, and he would
see none of the interesting objects therein; and next day, hurry-
ing in like manner through Ferrara, he proceeded as far as Mon-
selice. On the 19th he arrived at Venice, and he remained there
till the 23d; but showed no curiosity about anything except the
Bridge of Sighs and the adjoining dungeons,-down into which
he would scramble, though the exertion was exceedingly painful
to him. On the other historical features of that place- one so
sure in other days to have inexhaustible attractions for him — he
would not even look; and it was the same with all that he came
within reach of - even with the fondly anticipated chapel at Inns-
pruck as they proceeded through the Tyrol, and so onwards,
by Munich, Ulm, and Heidelberg, to Frankfort. Here (June 5th)
he entered a bookseller's shop; and the people seeing an English
party, brought out among the first things a lithographed print of
Abbotsford. He said, "I know that already, sir," and hastened
back to the inn without being recognized. Though in some parts
of the journey they had very severe weather, he repeatedly
wished to travel all the night as well as all the day; and the
-
## p. 9129 (#133) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9129
symptoms of an approaching fit were so obvious that he was
more than once bled, ere they reached Mayence, by the hand of
his affectionate domestic.
In this town they embarked on the 8th of June in the Rhine
steamboat; and while they descended the famous river through
its most picturesque region, he seemed to enjoy, though he said.
nothing, the perhaps unrivaled scenery it presented to him. His
eyes were fixed on the successive crags and castles and ruined
monasteries, each of which had been celebrated in some German
ballad familiar to his ear, and all of them blended in the immor-
tal panorama of 'Childe Harold. ' But so soon as he resumed
his carriage at Cologne, and nothing but flat shores, and here
and there a grove of poplars and a village spire, were offered to
the vision, the weight of misery sunk down again upon him.
was near Nimeguen, on the evening of the 9th, that he sustained
another serious attack of apoplexy, combined with paralysis.
Nicolson's lancet restored, after the lapse of some minutes, the
signs of animation; but this was the crowning blow. Next day
he insisted on resuming his journey, and on the 11th was lifted
from the carriage into a steamboat at Rotterdam.
He reached London about six o'clock on the evening of
Wednesday, the 13th of June. Owing to the unexpected rapidity
of the journey, his eldest daughter had had no notice when to
expect him; and fearful of finding her either out of town, or
unprepared to receive him and his attendants under her roof,
Charles Scott drove to the St. James's Hotel in Jermyn Street,
and established his quarters there before he set out in quest of
his sister and myself. When we reached the hotel, he recognized
us with every mark of tenderness, but signified that he was
totally exhausted; so no attempt was made to remove him fur-
ther, and he was put to bed immediately. Dr. Ferguson saw
him the same night, and next day Sir Henry Halford and Dr.
Holland saw him also; and during the next three weeks the two
former visited him daily, while Ferguson was scarcely absent
from his pillow. The Major was soon on the spot. To his
children, all assembled once more about him, he repeatedly gave
his blessing in a very solemn manner, as if expecting immediate
death; but he was never in a condition for conversation, and sunk
either into sleep or delirious stupor upon the slightest effort.
Mrs. Thomas Scott came to town as soon as she heard of
his arrival, and remained to help us. She was more than once
## p. 9130 (#134) ###########################################
9130
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
recognized and thanked. Mr. Cadell too arrived from Edinburgh
to render any assistance in his power. I think Sir Walter saw
no other of his friends except Mr. John Richardson, and him
only once. As usual, he woke up at the sound of a familiar
voice and made an attempt to put forth his hand; but it dropped
powerless, and he said with a smile, "Excuse my hand. " Rich-
ardson made a struggle to suppress his emotion, and after a mo-
ment got out something about Abbotsford and the woods, which
he had happened to see shortly before. The eye brightened, and
he said, "How does Kirklands get on? " Mr. Richardson had
lately purchased the estate so called on the Teviot, and Sir Wal-
ter had left him busied with plans of building. His friend told
him that his new house was begun, and that the Marquis of
Lothian had very kindly lent him one of his own, meantime, in
its vicinity. "Ay, Lord Lothian is a good man," said Sir Walter:
"he is a
man from whom one may receive a favor, and that's
saying a good deal for any man. in these days. " The stupor
then sank back upon him, and Richardson never heard his voice
again. This state of things continued till the beginning of July.
During these melancholy weeks great interest and sympa-
thy were manifested. Allan Cunningham mentions that, walking
home late one night, he found several workingmen standing to-
gether at the corner of Jermyn Street; and one of them asked
him, as if there was but one death-bed in London, "Do you
know, sir, if this is the street where he is lying? " The inquiries
both at the hotel and at my house were incessant; and I think
there was hardly a member of the royal family who did not send
every day. The newspapers teemed with paragraphs about Sir
Walter: and one of these, it appears, threw out a suggestion
that his travels had exhausted his pecuniary resources; and that
if he were capable of reflection at all, cares of that sort might
probably harass his pillow. This paragraph came from a very
ill-informed but I daresay a well-meaning quarter. It caught the
attention of some members of the then Government; and in con-
sequence I received a private communication to the effect that
if the case were as stated, Sir Walter's family had only to say
what sum would relieve him from embarrassment, and it would
be immediately advanced by the Treasury. The then Paymaster
of the Forces, Lord John Russell, had the delicacy to convey this
message through a lady with whose friendship he knew us to
be honored. We expressed our grateful sense of his politeness
## p. 9131 (#135) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9131
and of the liberality of the Government, and I now beg leave to
do so once more; but his Lordship was of course informed that
Sir Walter Scott was not situated as the journalist had repre-
sented.
·
On this his last journey Sir Walter was attended by his two
daughters, Mr. Cadell, and myself; and also by Dr. James Wat-
son, who (it being impossible for Dr. Ferguson to leave town at
that moment) kindly undertook to see him safe at Abbotsford.
We embarked in the James Watt steamboat, the master of which
(Captain John Jamieson), as well as the agent of the proprietors,
made every arrangement in their power for the convenience of
the invalid. The Captain gave up for Sir Walter's use his own
private cabin, which was a separate erection, a sort of cottage on
the deck: and he seemed unconscious, after being laid in bed
there, that any new removal had occurred. On arriving at New-
haven, late on the 9th, we found careful preparations made for
his landing by the manager of the Shipping Company (Mr. Ham-
ilton); and Sir Walter, prostrate in his carriage, was slung on
shore, and conveyed from thence to Douglas's Hotel in St. An-
drew's Square, in the same complete apparent unconsciousness.
Mrs. Douglas had in former days been the Duke of Buccleuch's
housekeeper at Bowhill, and she and her husband had also made
the most suitable provision. At a very early hour on the morn-
ing of Wednesday the 11th we again placed him in his carriage;
and he lay in the same torpid state during the first two stages.
on the road to Tweedside. But as we descended the vale of the
Gala he began to gaze about him, and by degrees it was obvious.
that he was recognizing the features of that familiar landscape.
Presently he murmured a name or two: "Gala Water, surely-
Buckholm - Torwoodlee. " As we rounded the hill at Ladhope,
and the outline of the Eildons burst on him, he became greatly
excited; and when, turning himself on the couch, his eye caught
at length his own towers at the distance of a mile, he sprang up
with a cry of delight. The river being in flood, we had to go
round a few miles by Melrose bridge; and during the time this
occupied, his woods and house being within prospect, it required
occasionally both Dr. Watson's strength and mine, in addition to
Nicolson's, to keep him in the carriage. After passing the bridge,
the road for a couple of miles loses sight of Abbotsford, and he
relapsed into his stupor; but on gaining the bank immediately
above it, his excitement became again ungovernable.
-
## p. 9132 (#136) ###########################################
9132
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
Mr. Laidlaw was waiting at the porch, and assisted us in, lift-
ing him into the dining-room, where his bed had been prepared.
He sat bewildered for a few moments, and then resting his eye
on Laidlaw, said, "Ha! Willie Laidlaw! O man, how often have
I thought of you! " By this time his dogs had assembled about
his chair; they began to fawn upon him and lick his hands; and
he alternately sobbed and smiled over them until sleep oppressed
him.
Dr. Watson, having consulted on all things with Mr. Clark-
son and his father, resigned the patient to them and returned to
London. None of them could have any hope but that of sooth-
ing irritation. Recovery was no longer to be thought of; but
there might be euthanasia.
And yet something like a ray of hope did break in upon us
next morning. Sir Walter awoke perfectly conscious where he
was, and expressed an ardent wish to be carried out into his
garden. We procured a Bath-chair from Huntly-Burn; and Laid-
law and I wheeled him out before his door, and up and down
for some time on the turf, and among the rose beds then in full
bloom. The grandchildren admired the new vehicle, and would
be helping in their way to push it about. He sat in silence,
smiling placidly on them and the dogs their companions, and now
and then admiring the house, the screen of the garden, and the
flowers and trees. By-and-by he conversed a little, very com-
posedly, with us: said he was happy to be at home,- that he felt
better than he had ever done since he left it, and would perhaps
disappoint the doctors after all.
He then desired to be wheeled through his rooms, and we
moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and down the hall
and the great library. "I have seen much," he kept saying,
"but nothing like my ain house: give me one turn more! " He
was gentle as an infant, and allowed himself to be put to bed
again the moment we told him that we thought he had had
enough for one day.
Next morning he was still better; after again enjoying the
Bath-chair for perhaps a couple of hours out of doors, he desired
to be drawn into the library and placed by the central window,
that he might look down upon the Tweed. Here he expressed
a wish that I should read to him; and when I asked from what
book, he said, "Need you ask? —there is but one. " I chose the
fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel; he listened with mild
## p. 9133 (#137) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9133
devotion, and said when I had done, "Well, this is a great com-
fort: I have followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet
to be myself again. " In this placid frame he was again put to
bed, and had many hours of soft slumber.
On the third day Mr. Laidlaw and I again wheeled him about
the small piece of lawn and shrubbery in front of the house for
some time; and the weather being delightful, and all the rich-
ness of summer around him, he seemed to taste fully the balmy
influences of nature. The sun getting very strong, we halted the
chair in a shady corner, just within the verge of his verdant
arcade around the court-wall; and breathing the coolness of the
spot, he said, "Read me some amusing thing; read me a bit of
Crabbe. " I brought out the first volume of his own favorite
that I could lay hand on, and turned to what I remembered as
one of his most favorite passages in it,-the description of the
arrival of the Players in the Borough. He listened with great in-
terest, and also, as I soon perceived, with great curiosity. Every
now and then he exclaimed, "Capital - excellent - very good —
Crabbe has lost nothing"; and we were too well satisfied that he
considered himself as hearing a new production, when, chuckling
over one couplet, he said, "Better and better-but how will poor
Terry endure these cuts? " I went on with the poet's terrible
sarcasms upon the theatrical life, and he listened eagerly, mutter-
ing, "Honest Dan! "-"Dan won't like this. " At length I reached
those lines-
-
"Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depressed,
Your days all passed in jeopardy and jest:
Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain,
Not warned by misery nor enriched by gain. ”
"Shut the book," said Sir Walter,-"I can't stand more of
this: it will touch Terry to the very quick. "
On the morning of Sunday the 15th he was again taken out
into the little pleasaunce, and got as far as his favorite terrace
walk between the garden and the river, from which he seemed
to survey the valley and the hills with much satisfaction. On
re-entering the house he desired me to read to him from the
New Testament: and after that he again called for a little of
Crabbe; but whatever I selected from that poet seemed to be
listened to as if it made part of some new volume published
while he was in Italy. He attended with this sense of novelty
## p. 9134 (#138) ###########################################
9134
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
even to the tale of Phoebe Dawson,' which not many months be-
fore he could have repeated every line of, and which I chose for
one of these readings because, as is known to every one, it had
formed the last solace of Mr. Fox's death-bed. On the contrary,
his recollection of whatever I read from the Bible appeared to
be lively; and in the afternoon, when we made his grandson, a
child of six years, repeat some of Dr. Watts's hymns by his
chair, he seemed also to remember them perfectly. That even-
ing he heard the Church service; and when I was about to close
the book, said, "Why do you omit the visitation for the sick? "
which I added accordingly.
On Monday he remained in bed and seemed extremely feeble;
but after breakfast on Tuesday the 17th, he appeared revived
somewhat, and was again wheeled about on the turf. Presently
he fell asleep in his chair, and after dozing for perhaps half an
hour, started awake, and shaking the plaids we had put about
him from off his shoulders, said, "This is sad idleness. I shall
forget what I have been thinking of, if I don't set it down now.
Take me into my own room, and fetch the keys of my desk. "
He repeated this so earnestly that we could not refuse; his
daughters went into his study, opened his writing-desk, and laid
paper and pens in the usual order; and I then moved him.
through the hall and into the spot where he had always been
accustomed to work. When the chair was placed at the desk,
and he found himself in the old position, he smiled and thanked
us, and said, "Now give me my pen, and leave me for a little
to myself. " Sophia put the pen into his hand, and he endeavored
to close his fingers upon it; but they refused their office-it
dropped on the paper. He sank back among his pillows, silent
tears rolling down his cheeks; but composing himself by-and-by,
motioned to me to wheel him out of doors again. Laidlaw met
us at the porch, and took his turn of the chair. Sir Walter, after
a little while, again dropped into slumber. When he was awak-
ing, Laidlaw said to me, "Sir Walter has had a little repose. "
"No, Willie," said he,-"no repose for Sir Walter but in the
grave. " The tears again rushed from his eyes. "Friends," said
he, "don't let me expose myself-get me to bed- that's the only
place. "
With this scene ended our glimpse of daylight. Sir Walter
never, I think, left his room afterwards, and hardly his bed,
except for an hour or two in the middle of the day; and after
## p. 9135 (#139) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9135
another week he was unable even for this. During a few days
he was in a state of painful irritation; and I saw realized all that
he had himself prefigured in his description of the meeting be-
tween Crystal Croftangry and his paralytic friend. Dr. Ross
came out from Edinburgh, bringing with him his wife, one of the
dearest nieces of the Clerk's Table. Sir Walter with some diffi-
culty recognized the Doctor, but on hearing Mrs. Ross's voice,
exclaimed at once, "Isn't that Kate Hume? " These kind friends
remained for two or three days with us. Clarkson's lancet was
pronounced necessary; and the relief it afforded was, I am happy
to say, very effectual.
After this he declined daily; but still there was great strength
to be wasted, and the process was long. He seemed however to
suffer no bodily pain; and his mind, though hopelessly obscured,
appeared, when there was any symptom of consciousness, to be
dwelling with rare exceptions on serious and solemn things; the
accent of the voice grave, sometimes awful, but never querulous,
and very seldom indicative of any angry or resentful thoughts.
Now and then he imagined himself to be administering justice as
sheriff; and once or twice he seemed to be ordering Tom Purdie
about trees. A few times also, I am sorry to say, we could
perceive that his fancy was at Jedburgh; and "Burk Sir Walter »
escaped him in a melancholy tone. But commonly whatever we
could follow him in was a fragment of the Bible (especially the
Prophecies of Isaiah, and the Book of Job), or some petition in
the Litany, or a verse of some psalm (in the old Scotch metrical
version) or of some of the magnificent hymns of the Roman
ritual,—in which he had always delighted, but which probably
hung on his memory now in connection with the church services
he had attended while in Italy. We very often heard distinctly
the cadence of the 'Dies Iræ': and I think the very last stanza
that we could make out was the first of a still greater favorite:
"Stabat Mater dolorosa,
Juxta crucem lachrymosa,
Dum pendebat Filius. "
All this time he continued to recognize his daughters, Laid-
law, and myself, whenever we spoke to him; and received every
attention with a most touching thankfulness. Mr. Clarkson too
was always saluted with the old courtesy, though the cloud
## p. 9136 (#140) ###########################################
9136
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
opened but a moment for him to do so. Most truly might it be
said that the gentleman survived the genius.
After two or three weeks had passed in this way, I was
obliged to leave Sir Walter for a single day, and go into Edin-
burgh to transact business, on his account, with Mr. Henry
Cockburn (now Lord Cockburn), then Solicitor-General for Scot-
land. . .
Perceiving, towards the close of August, that the end was
near, and thinking it very likely that Abbotsford might soon un-
dergo many changes, and myself at all events never see it again,
I felt a desire to have some image preserved of the interior
apartments as occupied by their founder; and invited from Edin-
burgh for that purpose Sir Walter's dear friend, William Allan,—
whose presence, I well knew, would even under the circum-
stances of that time be nowise troublesome to any of the family,
but the contrary in all respects. Mr. Allan willingly complied,
and executed a series of beautiful drawings, which may probably
be engraved hereafter. He also shared our watchings, and wit-
nessed all but the last moments. Sir Walter's cousins, the ladies
of Ashestiel, came down frequently for a day or two at a time;
and did whatever sisterly affection could prompt, both for the
sufferer and his daughters. Miss Barbara Scott (daughter of his
uncle Thomas), and Mrs. Scott of Harden did the like.
As I was dressing on the morning of Monday the 17th of
September, Nicolson came into my room, and told me that his
master had awoke in a state of composure and consciousness, and
wished to see me immediately. I found him entirely himself,
though in the last extreme of feebleness. His eye was clear and
calm, every trace of the wild fire of delirium extinguished.
"Lockhart," he said, "I may have but a minute to speak to you.
My dear, be a good man-be virtuous-be religious-be a good
man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come
to lie here. " He paused, and I said, "Shall I send for Sophia
and Anne? " "No," said he, "don't disturb them. Poor souls!
I know they were up all night-God bless you all. " With this
he sunk into a very tranquil sleep, and indeed he scarcely after-
wards gave any sign of consciousness, except for an instant on
the arrival of his sons. They, on learning that the scene was
about to close, obtained anew leave of absence from their posts,
and both reached Abbotsford on the 19th. About half-past one
P. M. on the 21st of September Sir Walter breathed his last, in
―
## p. 9137 (#141) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9137
the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day: so warm
that every window was wide open; and so perfectly still that the
sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple
of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt
around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes.
ZARA'S EARRINGS
From the Spanish Ballads'
Y EARRINGS! my earrings! they've dropt into the well,
And what to Muça I shall say, I cannot, cannot tell.
work he is best known by is 'Lyra Elegantiarum'; an anthology of
airy graceful verse, which has exhausted the field where he gathered
his gleanings.
Up to the event of Mr. Locker's first marriage, the 'Confidences'
observe a sequence more or less historical. The story then breaks
off abruptly, and a series of essays follow, on the incidents of his
life, portraits of authors, and criticisms on their books. In his clos-
ing paragraph in 'My Confidences' he asks his readers to think kindly
of Pierrot. They will regard him also with gratitude and affection.
The evening of his days was passed at Rowfant, where he died in
May 1895.
The verse of Frederick Locker-Lampson is of the kind which the
French call vers de société, and which may be seen in all its English
varieties in his Lyra Elegantiarum. ' He belongs to the seventeenth-
century school of light and airy singers; of which Carew, Suckling,
Lovelace, Herrick, and Sedley were masters, and which in the days
of Queen Anne was conducted by such modish, jaunty ushers as
Pope and Prior. But he belongs to it in its nineteenth-century con-
ditions, which, in common with Hood, Praed, and Thackeray, he has
bettered and enlarged with his finer taste, purer sentiment, and more
genuine human feeling. His 'London Lyrics' are the perfection of
humorous-pathetic poetry.
Elizabeth Stoddard
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD
THE
HE characters of great and small
Come ready-made, we can't bespeak one;
Their sides are many, too- and all
(Except ourselves) have got a weak one.
Some sanguine people love for life;
Some love their hobby till it flings them;
And many love a pretty wife
For love of the éclat she brings them!
## p. 9115 (#119) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9115
We all have secrets: you have one
Which may not be your charming spouse's;
We all lock up a skeleton
In some grim chamber of our houses;
Familiars who exhaust their days
And nights in probing where our smart is,
And who, excepting spiteful ways,
Are quiet, confidential "parties. "
We hug the phantom we detest,
We rarely let it cross our portals:
It is a most exacting guest,-
Now are we not afflicted mortals?
Your neighbor Gay, that joyous wight,-
As Dives rich, and bold as Hector,-
Poor Gay steals twenty times a night,
On shaking knees, to see his spectre.
-
Old Dives fears a pauper fate,
And hoarding is his thriving passion;
Some piteous souls anticipate
A waistcoat straiter than the fashion.
She, childless, pines. -that lonely wife,-
And hidden tears are bitter shedding;
And he may tremble all his life,
And die but not of that he's dreading.
―
Ah me, the World! how fast it spins!
The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles;
They dance, and stir it for our sins,
And we must drain it for our troubles.
We toil, we groan, - the cry for love
Mounts upward from this seething city;
And yet I know we have above
A Father, infinite in pity.
When Beauty smiles, when sorrow weeps,
When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
A ghastly carnival - but hearken!
How dry the rattle of those bones! -
The sound was not to make you start meant -
Stand by your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
## p. 9116 (#120) ###########################################
9116
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
MY NEIGHBOR ROSE
TH
HOUGH slender walls our hearths divide,
No word has passed from either side.
Your days, red-lettered all, must glide
Unvexed by labor:
I've seen you weep, and could have wept;
I've heard you sing, and may have slept;
Sometimes I hear your chimneys swept,
My charming neighbor!
Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail
The pup, once eloquent of tail?
I wonder why your nightingale
Is mute at sunset!
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems
Too fat to mouse. She much esteems
Yon sunny wall-and sleeps and dreams
Of mice she once ate.
Our tastes agree.
I doat upon
Frail jars, turquoise and celadon,
The 'Wedding March' of Mendelssohn,
And Penseroso. '
When sorely tempted to purloin
Your pietà of Marc Antoine,
Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin,
Fair Virtuoso!
At times an Ariel, cruel-kind,
Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind,
And whisper low, "She hides behind:
Thou art not lonely. "
The tricksy sprite did erst assist
At hushed Verona's moonlight tryst;
Sweet Capulet! thou wert not kissed
By light winds only.
I miss the simple days of yore,
When two long braids of hair you wore,
And chat botté was wondered o'er
In corner cosy.
But gaze not back for tales like those:
'Tis all in order, I suppose;
The Bud is now a blooming Rose,-
A rosy posy!
## p. 9117 (#121) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9117
Indeed, farewell to bygone years:
How wonderful the change appears,—
For curates now and cavaliers
In turn perplex you;
The last are birds of feather gay,
Who swear the first are birds of prey:
I'd scare them all, had I my way,
But that might vex you.
At times I've envied, it is true,
That joyous hero, twenty-two,
Who sent bouquets and billets-doux,
And wore a sabre.
The rogue! how tenderly he wound
His arm round one who never frowned:
He loves you well. Now, is he bound
To love my neighbor?
The bells are ringing. As is meet,
White favors fascinate the street;
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet,
'Twixt tears and laughter;
They crowd the door to see her go:
The bliss of one brings many woe,—
Oh! kiss the bride, and I will throw
The old shoe after.
What change in one short afternoon,-
My charming neighbor gone,- so soon!
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon
Slow rising hither?
O lady, wan and marvelous,
How often have we communed thus;
Sweet memories shall dwell with us.
And joy go with her!
-
## p. 9118 (#122) ###########################################
9118
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
THE ROSE AND THE RING
CHRISTMAS 1854, AND CHRISTMAS 1863
(W. M. T. )
SHE
HE smiles but her heart is in sable,
And sad as her Christmas is chill:
She reads, and her book is the fable
He penned for her while she was ill.
It is nine years ago since he wrought it
Where reedy old Tiber is king;
And chapter by chapter he brought it-
And read her the Rose and the Ring.
And when it was printed, and gaining
Renown with all lovers of glee,
He sent her this copy containing
His comical little croquis;
A sketch of a rather droll couple-
---
She's pretty-he's quite t'other thing!
He begs (with a spine vastly supple)
She will study the Rose and the Ring.
It pleased the kind Wizard to send her
The last and the best of his toys:
His heart had a sentiment tender
For innocent women and boys;
And though he was great as a scorner,
The guileless were safe from his sting:
How sad is past mirth to the mourner! -
A tear on the Rose and the Ring!
She reads-I may vainly endeavor
Her mirth-chequered grief to pursue:
For she hears she has lost and for ever-
-
A Heart that was known by so few:
But I wish on the shrine of his glory
One fair little blossom to fling;
And you see there's a nice little story
Attached to the Rose and the Ring!
## p. 9119 (#123) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9119
THE WIDOW'S MITE
HE Widow had but only one,-
A puny and decrepit son;
Yet day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,
A loving child, he was her all-
The Widow's Mite.
THE
---
-
The Widow's might; - yes! so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained
When friends were fewer;
And cheerful at her daily care,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
I saw her then, - and now I see,
Though cheerful and resigned, still she
Has sorrowed much:
She has - He gave it tenderly -
Much faith; and, carefully laid by,
A little crutch.
Τ
TO MY GRANDMOTHER
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY
HIS relative of mine-
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,-
As a bride.
Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her revery
Has a charm;
-
Her ringlets are in taste, -
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
Falbala;
## p. 9120 (#124) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9120
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love,—
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb? –
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
"Come. "
To say,
What funny fancy slips
From between these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
That good-for-nothing Time.
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Her locks (as white as snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow.
By-and-by,
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:-
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,-
Would she not?
Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropped away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was.
Will be done. "
« Thy
## p. 9121 (#125) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9121
XVI-571
D
In travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,-
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.
I'm fain to meet you there; -
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
That the better it must please
Grandpapa.
ADVICE TO A POET
EAR Poet, never rhyme at all:-
But if you must, don't tell your neighbors;
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,
Will dub you donkey for your labors.
This epithet may seem unjust
To you or any verse-begetter:
Oh, must we own I fear we must! .
That nine in ten deserve no better.
---
Then let them bray with leathern lungs,
And match you with the beast that grazes;
Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues,
Or damn you with the faintest praises.
Be patient, you will get your due
Of honors, or humiliations;
So look for sympathy-but do
Not look to find it from relations.
―――――
When strangers first approved my books,
My kindred marveled what the praise meant,
They now wear more respectful looks,
But can't get over their amazement.
Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond
That wielded by the fiercest hater;
For all the time they are so fond-
Which makes the aggravation greater.
Most warblers now but half express
The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:
## p. 9122 (#126) ###########################################
9122
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
If they attempted naught - or less! —
They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter.
Fly low, my friend; then mount, and win
The niche for which the town's contesting:
And never mind your kith and kin
But never give them cause for jesting.
--
A bard on entering the lists
Should form his plan; and having conned it,
Should know wherein his strength consists,
And never, never go beyond it.
Great Dryden all pretense discards;
Does Cowper ever strain his tether?
And Praed (Watteau of English Bards) -
How well he keeps his team together!
Hold Pegasus in hand-control
A vein for ornament ensnaring;
Simplicity is still the soul
Of all that Time deems worth the sparing.
Long lays are not a lively sport;
Reduce your own to half a quarter:
Unless your public thinks them short,
Posterity will cut them shorter.
I look on bards who whine for praise
With feelings of profoundest pity:
They hunger for the poet's bays,
And swear one's spiteful when one's witty.
The critic's lot is passing hard:
Between ourselves, I think reviewers,
When called to truss a crowing bard,
Should not be sparing of the skewers.
We all the foolish and the wise—
Regard our verse with fascination,
Through asinine paternal eyes,
And hues of Fancy's own creation;
Then pray, sir, pray, excuse a queer
And sadly self-deluded rhymer,
Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer! )
Has all the gust of alt hochheimer.
Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx,
So tricksy, it were wrong to let her
## p. 9123 (#127) ###########################################
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
9123
Rest satisfied with what she thinks
Is perfect: try and teach her better.
And if you only use, perchance,
One half the pains to learn that we, sir,
Still use to hide our ignorance ·
-
How very clever you will be, sir!
THE JESTER'S PLEA
[These verses were published in a volume by several hands, issued for the
benefit of the starving Lancashire weavers during the American Civil
War. ]
HE World! Was jester ever in
A viler than the present?
Yet if it ugly be-as sin,
It almost is-as pleasant!
It is a merry world (pro tem. );
And some are gay, and therefore
It pleases them- but some condemn
The fun they do not care for.
THE
It is an ugly world. Offend
Good people-how they wrangle!
The manners that they never mend!
The characters they mangle!
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,
And go to church on Sunday;
And many are afraid of God-
And more of Mrs. Grundy.
The time for Pen and Sword was when
"My ladye fayre" for pity
Could tend her wounded knight, and then
Grow tender at his ditty!
Some ladies now make pretty songs,
And some make pretty nurses;
Some men are good for righting wrongs
And some for writing verses.
I wish We better understood
The tax that poets levy!
I know the Muse is very good-
I think she's rather heavy.
## p. 9124 (#128) ###########################################
9124
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON
She now compounds for winning ways
By morals of the sternest:
Methinks the lays of nowadays
Are painfully in earnest.
When Wisdom halts, I humbly try
To make the most of Folly;
If Pallas be unwilling, I
Prefer to flirt with Polly:
To quit the goddess for the maid
Seems low in lofty musers;
But Pallas is a haughty jade —
And beggars can't be choosers.
I do not wish to see the slaves
Of party, stirring passion;
Or psalms quite superseding staves,
Or piety "the fashion. "
I bless the hearts where pity glows,
Who, here together banded,
Are holding out a hand to those
That wait so empty-handed!
A righteous work! - My Masters, may
A Jester by confession,
Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay,
The close of your procession?
The motley here seems out of place
With graver robes to mingle;
But if one tear bedews his face,
Forgive the bells their jingle.
## p. 9125 (#129) ###########################################
9125
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
(1794-1854)
HE poet and essayist John Gibson Lockhart is a striking ex-
ample of the class of men of no mean literary attainments
whose names have been overshadowed by being connected
with one greater than themselves. He is generally remembered as
the biographer and son-in-law of Walter Scott. He is less often named
as the admirable translator of the 'Spanish Ballads,' and still more
seldom spoken of as the scholarly editor
of the Quarterly Review. Yet he was one
of the most brilliant and most versatile of
the lesser men of English literature.
JOHN G. LOCKHART
Lockhart was born in the manse of Cam-
busnethan in Lanarkshire, where his father
was then a minister of the gospel. Two
years later the preacher was transferred to
Glasgow, and here presently the boy entered
the High School, and in time the Glasgow
College. He was remarkably clever,-en-
dowed with such unusual powers of concen-
tration and memory that study seemed no
effort; and he seemed to idle through his
class hours, chiefly employed in drawing car-
icatures of the instructors. He entered Balliol College, Oxford, when
just past fourteen; an unusually early age even for those days. He
was well equipped in languages, ancient and modern, and had a store
of curious information picked up in voracious reading; but he cared
little for mathematics, excellence in which was greatly insisted upon.
He continued caricaturing his tutors, and playing other harmless jokes
upon them; for he had an irrepressibly frolicsome turn of mind, and
was unconsciously developing his vein of satire and sarcasm. But he
was proud and reserved, and of a constitutional shyness that remained
with him all his life.
After graduation, he went to the Continent on money advanced by
Blackwood for a prospective translation of Friedrich Schlegel's 'Lect-
ures on the Study of History,' his first essay in authorship,-which
however did not appear until some years later. He visited Goethe at
Weimar, and went through France and the Netherlands studying art
## p. 9126 (#130) ###########################################
9126
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
Returning to Edinburgh, he read law, and was
and architecture.
called to bar in 1816. But he soon joined the staff of Black-
wood's Magazine, contributing literary papers and exercising his un-
rivaled powers of satire in political and critical essays. Here also
he printed a number of the 'Spanish Ballads. ' About this time he
became acquainted with Walter Scott, who took a great fancy to
the handsome, scholarly, witty young fellow, and accepted him as a
son-in-law in 1820. In the cottage which he fitted up for the young
couple on his own estate, they lived for some years in an ideal family
relation.
Having made himself a famous name for caustic wit and luminous
exposition, the brilliant critic of Blackwood was invited to take charge
of the (Tory) London Quarterly, from which "Anti-Jacobin" Gifford
was about to retire. He seems to have had, like Jeffrey, some doubts
as to whether well-paid editorship was an office quite becoming a
gentleman. But at Scott's advice he accepted the post, for which he
was admirably fitted. A born critic, his wide scholarship, his sane,
unbiased judgment, and his decided literary and political views, gave
great weight to his opinions. Aside from his editorial duties he con-
tributed many papers to the magazine. He is credited with having
written in his twenty-eight years of editorship no fewer than one hun-
dred carefully finished articles, besides scores of less elaborate papers.
His was the celebrated review on Tennyson's volume of 1832, which
began with a sarcastic pretense of retracting the Quarterly's adverse
judgment of Keats (plainly intimating that the writer still thought the
public admiration was the real mistake), and went on to say that here
at least was a case where it would never be necessary to retract any-
thing! The new mistake was fully as bad as the old; but it by no
means follows that the reviewer was altogether wrong in either case.
There were weak spots in the early work of both poets; and their
most individual note-a luxurious lingering over sensuous imagery,
and sometimes almost effeminate dalliance with verbal prettiness—
was precisely what most revolted the balladist, whose preference was
for rough and vigorous manliness of style.
Busy as he was, Lockhart managed to find time for contributions
to Blackwood's and to Fraser's. In 1843 he was appointed to the
auditorship of the Duchy of Lancaster, his only political preferment,
which he resigned in 1853 to spend that winter in Rome. Like Sir
Walter, however, he returned home to die. At Abbotsford, November
25th, 1854, he passed away, in the arms of his only surviving daughter,
Mrs. Hope-Scott, to whose son descended the title and estate of his
great-grandfather.
Lockhart was a brilliant talker and a delightful companion among
a few friends. In larger assemblies his shyness made him appear
## p. 9127 (#131) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9127
haughty and reserved. He had not the gift of attracting the good-
will of strangers, and this debarred him from success as a public
speaker. His caustic pen, and his delicate position as responsible
editor of a great magazine, made him many enemies, both among
persons whose opinions he criticized and contributors whose articles
he blue-penciled. He was a man of most affectionate nature, not
expansive but deep, with almost a woman's love for children and
compassion for suffering. His life, outwardly uneventful, was sad-
dened by family bereavements: the death in 1831 of his eldest and
favorite son,—the Hugh Littlejohn of the Tales of a Grandfather,'
-the death of his beloved wife in 1837, and the waywardness of his
second son, who also died before him.
Lockhart's writings have never been collected, nor have all his
review articles been identified. In 1819 was published 'Peter's Let-
ters to his Kinsfolk,' purporting to be written by a Welsh dentist, one
"Dr. Peter Morris, the Odontist," on a visit to Edinburgh,— a mock-
ing satire on the society of the Scotch capital. It originated from an
ostensible "review," by Lockhart in Blackwood's, of this (then non-
existent) book, with copious "extracts. " There were so many calls
for the book in consequence that Lockhart wrote it,- probably with
some help from John Wilson,-incorporating the "extracts," and Black-
wood published it as a "second edition. " The first would surpass
all bibliophilic treasures in existence. He tried his hand at novel-
writing, producing within the next five years Valerius: A Roman
Story,' of the time of the Emperor Trajan; 'Adam Blair,' a tale of
great power, involving the moral downfall of a Scotch minister; 'Regi-
nald Dalton,' a story of undergraduate life at Oxford; and Matthew
Wald. ' These stories, though scholarly and well written, lack vital
interest. Lockhart had not the novelist's gift of projecting himself
into his characters and making them alive to the reader, and he
wisely desisted from further efforts. He was a perfect biographer,
for the same reason that he was a foremost critic. In 1829 he opened
Murray's Family Library' with a 'Life of Napoleon,' which however
is little more than a clever abridgment of Scott's Life of the Emperor.
His 'Life of Burns' is a most charming piece of work, which renders
all other biographies of the Scotch singer superfluous. The Life of
Theodore Hook,' within a smaller compass, is adequate to its pur-
pose; but his most enduring work is the Life of Scott. ' He was
well fitted to undertake that task by his long and loving friendship,
which yet did not cloud his judgment. He sets his hero before
the reader as a living being, great-hearted, generous, full of life and
energy. The self-effacement of the biographer is remarkable; he
never dogmatizes, but gives an entirely objective picture. The task
was a delicate one for a son-in-law to undertake, but it was executed
## p. 9128 (#132) ###########################################
9128
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
1
I
I
to perfection. Next to Boswell's 'Johnson' the book is the best
biography in the language. By his translations of the Spanish Bal-
lads,' Lockhart showed himself a vigorous poet with great command
over English ballad metres. They are Englished with great force and
spirit; and while closely following the Spanish, yet read like original
poems.
THE LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT
From the Life of Scott'
THE
HE last jotting of Sir Walter's Diary-perhaps the last speci-
men of his handwriting-records his starting from Naples
on the 16th of April. After the 11th of May the story can
hardly be told too briefly.
The irritation of impatience, which had for a moment been
suspended by the aspect and society of Rome, returned the
moment he found himself on the road, and seemed to increase
hourly. His companions could with difficulty prevail on him to
see even the Falls of Terni, or the church of Santa Croce at
Florence. On the 17th, a cold and dreary day, they passed the
Apennines, and dined on the top of the mountains. The snow
and the pines recalled Scotland, and he expressed pleasure at the
sight of them. That night they reached Bologna, and he would
see none of the interesting objects therein; and next day, hurry-
ing in like manner through Ferrara, he proceeded as far as Mon-
selice. On the 19th he arrived at Venice, and he remained there
till the 23d; but showed no curiosity about anything except the
Bridge of Sighs and the adjoining dungeons,-down into which
he would scramble, though the exertion was exceedingly painful
to him. On the other historical features of that place- one so
sure in other days to have inexhaustible attractions for him — he
would not even look; and it was the same with all that he came
within reach of - even with the fondly anticipated chapel at Inns-
pruck as they proceeded through the Tyrol, and so onwards,
by Munich, Ulm, and Heidelberg, to Frankfort. Here (June 5th)
he entered a bookseller's shop; and the people seeing an English
party, brought out among the first things a lithographed print of
Abbotsford. He said, "I know that already, sir," and hastened
back to the inn without being recognized. Though in some parts
of the journey they had very severe weather, he repeatedly
wished to travel all the night as well as all the day; and the
-
## p. 9129 (#133) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9129
symptoms of an approaching fit were so obvious that he was
more than once bled, ere they reached Mayence, by the hand of
his affectionate domestic.
In this town they embarked on the 8th of June in the Rhine
steamboat; and while they descended the famous river through
its most picturesque region, he seemed to enjoy, though he said.
nothing, the perhaps unrivaled scenery it presented to him. His
eyes were fixed on the successive crags and castles and ruined
monasteries, each of which had been celebrated in some German
ballad familiar to his ear, and all of them blended in the immor-
tal panorama of 'Childe Harold. ' But so soon as he resumed
his carriage at Cologne, and nothing but flat shores, and here
and there a grove of poplars and a village spire, were offered to
the vision, the weight of misery sunk down again upon him.
was near Nimeguen, on the evening of the 9th, that he sustained
another serious attack of apoplexy, combined with paralysis.
Nicolson's lancet restored, after the lapse of some minutes, the
signs of animation; but this was the crowning blow. Next day
he insisted on resuming his journey, and on the 11th was lifted
from the carriage into a steamboat at Rotterdam.
He reached London about six o'clock on the evening of
Wednesday, the 13th of June. Owing to the unexpected rapidity
of the journey, his eldest daughter had had no notice when to
expect him; and fearful of finding her either out of town, or
unprepared to receive him and his attendants under her roof,
Charles Scott drove to the St. James's Hotel in Jermyn Street,
and established his quarters there before he set out in quest of
his sister and myself. When we reached the hotel, he recognized
us with every mark of tenderness, but signified that he was
totally exhausted; so no attempt was made to remove him fur-
ther, and he was put to bed immediately. Dr. Ferguson saw
him the same night, and next day Sir Henry Halford and Dr.
Holland saw him also; and during the next three weeks the two
former visited him daily, while Ferguson was scarcely absent
from his pillow. The Major was soon on the spot. To his
children, all assembled once more about him, he repeatedly gave
his blessing in a very solemn manner, as if expecting immediate
death; but he was never in a condition for conversation, and sunk
either into sleep or delirious stupor upon the slightest effort.
Mrs. Thomas Scott came to town as soon as she heard of
his arrival, and remained to help us. She was more than once
## p. 9130 (#134) ###########################################
9130
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
recognized and thanked. Mr. Cadell too arrived from Edinburgh
to render any assistance in his power. I think Sir Walter saw
no other of his friends except Mr. John Richardson, and him
only once. As usual, he woke up at the sound of a familiar
voice and made an attempt to put forth his hand; but it dropped
powerless, and he said with a smile, "Excuse my hand. " Rich-
ardson made a struggle to suppress his emotion, and after a mo-
ment got out something about Abbotsford and the woods, which
he had happened to see shortly before. The eye brightened, and
he said, "How does Kirklands get on? " Mr. Richardson had
lately purchased the estate so called on the Teviot, and Sir Wal-
ter had left him busied with plans of building. His friend told
him that his new house was begun, and that the Marquis of
Lothian had very kindly lent him one of his own, meantime, in
its vicinity. "Ay, Lord Lothian is a good man," said Sir Walter:
"he is a
man from whom one may receive a favor, and that's
saying a good deal for any man. in these days. " The stupor
then sank back upon him, and Richardson never heard his voice
again. This state of things continued till the beginning of July.
During these melancholy weeks great interest and sympa-
thy were manifested. Allan Cunningham mentions that, walking
home late one night, he found several workingmen standing to-
gether at the corner of Jermyn Street; and one of them asked
him, as if there was but one death-bed in London, "Do you
know, sir, if this is the street where he is lying? " The inquiries
both at the hotel and at my house were incessant; and I think
there was hardly a member of the royal family who did not send
every day. The newspapers teemed with paragraphs about Sir
Walter: and one of these, it appears, threw out a suggestion
that his travels had exhausted his pecuniary resources; and that
if he were capable of reflection at all, cares of that sort might
probably harass his pillow. This paragraph came from a very
ill-informed but I daresay a well-meaning quarter. It caught the
attention of some members of the then Government; and in con-
sequence I received a private communication to the effect that
if the case were as stated, Sir Walter's family had only to say
what sum would relieve him from embarrassment, and it would
be immediately advanced by the Treasury. The then Paymaster
of the Forces, Lord John Russell, had the delicacy to convey this
message through a lady with whose friendship he knew us to
be honored. We expressed our grateful sense of his politeness
## p. 9131 (#135) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9131
and of the liberality of the Government, and I now beg leave to
do so once more; but his Lordship was of course informed that
Sir Walter Scott was not situated as the journalist had repre-
sented.
·
On this his last journey Sir Walter was attended by his two
daughters, Mr. Cadell, and myself; and also by Dr. James Wat-
son, who (it being impossible for Dr. Ferguson to leave town at
that moment) kindly undertook to see him safe at Abbotsford.
We embarked in the James Watt steamboat, the master of which
(Captain John Jamieson), as well as the agent of the proprietors,
made every arrangement in their power for the convenience of
the invalid. The Captain gave up for Sir Walter's use his own
private cabin, which was a separate erection, a sort of cottage on
the deck: and he seemed unconscious, after being laid in bed
there, that any new removal had occurred. On arriving at New-
haven, late on the 9th, we found careful preparations made for
his landing by the manager of the Shipping Company (Mr. Ham-
ilton); and Sir Walter, prostrate in his carriage, was slung on
shore, and conveyed from thence to Douglas's Hotel in St. An-
drew's Square, in the same complete apparent unconsciousness.
Mrs. Douglas had in former days been the Duke of Buccleuch's
housekeeper at Bowhill, and she and her husband had also made
the most suitable provision. At a very early hour on the morn-
ing of Wednesday the 11th we again placed him in his carriage;
and he lay in the same torpid state during the first two stages.
on the road to Tweedside. But as we descended the vale of the
Gala he began to gaze about him, and by degrees it was obvious.
that he was recognizing the features of that familiar landscape.
Presently he murmured a name or two: "Gala Water, surely-
Buckholm - Torwoodlee. " As we rounded the hill at Ladhope,
and the outline of the Eildons burst on him, he became greatly
excited; and when, turning himself on the couch, his eye caught
at length his own towers at the distance of a mile, he sprang up
with a cry of delight. The river being in flood, we had to go
round a few miles by Melrose bridge; and during the time this
occupied, his woods and house being within prospect, it required
occasionally both Dr. Watson's strength and mine, in addition to
Nicolson's, to keep him in the carriage. After passing the bridge,
the road for a couple of miles loses sight of Abbotsford, and he
relapsed into his stupor; but on gaining the bank immediately
above it, his excitement became again ungovernable.
-
## p. 9132 (#136) ###########################################
9132
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
Mr. Laidlaw was waiting at the porch, and assisted us in, lift-
ing him into the dining-room, where his bed had been prepared.
He sat bewildered for a few moments, and then resting his eye
on Laidlaw, said, "Ha! Willie Laidlaw! O man, how often have
I thought of you! " By this time his dogs had assembled about
his chair; they began to fawn upon him and lick his hands; and
he alternately sobbed and smiled over them until sleep oppressed
him.
Dr. Watson, having consulted on all things with Mr. Clark-
son and his father, resigned the patient to them and returned to
London. None of them could have any hope but that of sooth-
ing irritation. Recovery was no longer to be thought of; but
there might be euthanasia.
And yet something like a ray of hope did break in upon us
next morning. Sir Walter awoke perfectly conscious where he
was, and expressed an ardent wish to be carried out into his
garden. We procured a Bath-chair from Huntly-Burn; and Laid-
law and I wheeled him out before his door, and up and down
for some time on the turf, and among the rose beds then in full
bloom. The grandchildren admired the new vehicle, and would
be helping in their way to push it about. He sat in silence,
smiling placidly on them and the dogs their companions, and now
and then admiring the house, the screen of the garden, and the
flowers and trees. By-and-by he conversed a little, very com-
posedly, with us: said he was happy to be at home,- that he felt
better than he had ever done since he left it, and would perhaps
disappoint the doctors after all.
He then desired to be wheeled through his rooms, and we
moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and down the hall
and the great library. "I have seen much," he kept saying,
"but nothing like my ain house: give me one turn more! " He
was gentle as an infant, and allowed himself to be put to bed
again the moment we told him that we thought he had had
enough for one day.
Next morning he was still better; after again enjoying the
Bath-chair for perhaps a couple of hours out of doors, he desired
to be drawn into the library and placed by the central window,
that he might look down upon the Tweed. Here he expressed
a wish that I should read to him; and when I asked from what
book, he said, "Need you ask? —there is but one. " I chose the
fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel; he listened with mild
## p. 9133 (#137) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
9133
devotion, and said when I had done, "Well, this is a great com-
fort: I have followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet
to be myself again. " In this placid frame he was again put to
bed, and had many hours of soft slumber.
On the third day Mr. Laidlaw and I again wheeled him about
the small piece of lawn and shrubbery in front of the house for
some time; and the weather being delightful, and all the rich-
ness of summer around him, he seemed to taste fully the balmy
influences of nature. The sun getting very strong, we halted the
chair in a shady corner, just within the verge of his verdant
arcade around the court-wall; and breathing the coolness of the
spot, he said, "Read me some amusing thing; read me a bit of
Crabbe. " I brought out the first volume of his own favorite
that I could lay hand on, and turned to what I remembered as
one of his most favorite passages in it,-the description of the
arrival of the Players in the Borough. He listened with great in-
terest, and also, as I soon perceived, with great curiosity. Every
now and then he exclaimed, "Capital - excellent - very good —
Crabbe has lost nothing"; and we were too well satisfied that he
considered himself as hearing a new production, when, chuckling
over one couplet, he said, "Better and better-but how will poor
Terry endure these cuts? " I went on with the poet's terrible
sarcasms upon the theatrical life, and he listened eagerly, mutter-
ing, "Honest Dan! "-"Dan won't like this. " At length I reached
those lines-
-
"Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depressed,
Your days all passed in jeopardy and jest:
Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain,
Not warned by misery nor enriched by gain. ”
"Shut the book," said Sir Walter,-"I can't stand more of
this: it will touch Terry to the very quick. "
On the morning of Sunday the 15th he was again taken out
into the little pleasaunce, and got as far as his favorite terrace
walk between the garden and the river, from which he seemed
to survey the valley and the hills with much satisfaction. On
re-entering the house he desired me to read to him from the
New Testament: and after that he again called for a little of
Crabbe; but whatever I selected from that poet seemed to be
listened to as if it made part of some new volume published
while he was in Italy. He attended with this sense of novelty
## p. 9134 (#138) ###########################################
9134
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
even to the tale of Phoebe Dawson,' which not many months be-
fore he could have repeated every line of, and which I chose for
one of these readings because, as is known to every one, it had
formed the last solace of Mr. Fox's death-bed. On the contrary,
his recollection of whatever I read from the Bible appeared to
be lively; and in the afternoon, when we made his grandson, a
child of six years, repeat some of Dr. Watts's hymns by his
chair, he seemed also to remember them perfectly. That even-
ing he heard the Church service; and when I was about to close
the book, said, "Why do you omit the visitation for the sick? "
which I added accordingly.
On Monday he remained in bed and seemed extremely feeble;
but after breakfast on Tuesday the 17th, he appeared revived
somewhat, and was again wheeled about on the turf. Presently
he fell asleep in his chair, and after dozing for perhaps half an
hour, started awake, and shaking the plaids we had put about
him from off his shoulders, said, "This is sad idleness. I shall
forget what I have been thinking of, if I don't set it down now.
Take me into my own room, and fetch the keys of my desk. "
He repeated this so earnestly that we could not refuse; his
daughters went into his study, opened his writing-desk, and laid
paper and pens in the usual order; and I then moved him.
through the hall and into the spot where he had always been
accustomed to work. When the chair was placed at the desk,
and he found himself in the old position, he smiled and thanked
us, and said, "Now give me my pen, and leave me for a little
to myself. " Sophia put the pen into his hand, and he endeavored
to close his fingers upon it; but they refused their office-it
dropped on the paper. He sank back among his pillows, silent
tears rolling down his cheeks; but composing himself by-and-by,
motioned to me to wheel him out of doors again. Laidlaw met
us at the porch, and took his turn of the chair. Sir Walter, after
a little while, again dropped into slumber. When he was awak-
ing, Laidlaw said to me, "Sir Walter has had a little repose. "
"No, Willie," said he,-"no repose for Sir Walter but in the
grave. " The tears again rushed from his eyes. "Friends," said
he, "don't let me expose myself-get me to bed- that's the only
place. "
With this scene ended our glimpse of daylight. Sir Walter
never, I think, left his room afterwards, and hardly his bed,
except for an hour or two in the middle of the day; and after
## p. 9135 (#139) ###########################################
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
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another week he was unable even for this. During a few days
he was in a state of painful irritation; and I saw realized all that
he had himself prefigured in his description of the meeting be-
tween Crystal Croftangry and his paralytic friend. Dr. Ross
came out from Edinburgh, bringing with him his wife, one of the
dearest nieces of the Clerk's Table. Sir Walter with some diffi-
culty recognized the Doctor, but on hearing Mrs. Ross's voice,
exclaimed at once, "Isn't that Kate Hume? " These kind friends
remained for two or three days with us. Clarkson's lancet was
pronounced necessary; and the relief it afforded was, I am happy
to say, very effectual.
After this he declined daily; but still there was great strength
to be wasted, and the process was long. He seemed however to
suffer no bodily pain; and his mind, though hopelessly obscured,
appeared, when there was any symptom of consciousness, to be
dwelling with rare exceptions on serious and solemn things; the
accent of the voice grave, sometimes awful, but never querulous,
and very seldom indicative of any angry or resentful thoughts.
Now and then he imagined himself to be administering justice as
sheriff; and once or twice he seemed to be ordering Tom Purdie
about trees. A few times also, I am sorry to say, we could
perceive that his fancy was at Jedburgh; and "Burk Sir Walter »
escaped him in a melancholy tone. But commonly whatever we
could follow him in was a fragment of the Bible (especially the
Prophecies of Isaiah, and the Book of Job), or some petition in
the Litany, or a verse of some psalm (in the old Scotch metrical
version) or of some of the magnificent hymns of the Roman
ritual,—in which he had always delighted, but which probably
hung on his memory now in connection with the church services
he had attended while in Italy. We very often heard distinctly
the cadence of the 'Dies Iræ': and I think the very last stanza
that we could make out was the first of a still greater favorite:
"Stabat Mater dolorosa,
Juxta crucem lachrymosa,
Dum pendebat Filius. "
All this time he continued to recognize his daughters, Laid-
law, and myself, whenever we spoke to him; and received every
attention with a most touching thankfulness. Mr. Clarkson too
was always saluted with the old courtesy, though the cloud
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9136
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART
opened but a moment for him to do so. Most truly might it be
said that the gentleman survived the genius.
After two or three weeks had passed in this way, I was
obliged to leave Sir Walter for a single day, and go into Edin-
burgh to transact business, on his account, with Mr. Henry
Cockburn (now Lord Cockburn), then Solicitor-General for Scot-
land. . .
Perceiving, towards the close of August, that the end was
near, and thinking it very likely that Abbotsford might soon un-
dergo many changes, and myself at all events never see it again,
I felt a desire to have some image preserved of the interior
apartments as occupied by their founder; and invited from Edin-
burgh for that purpose Sir Walter's dear friend, William Allan,—
whose presence, I well knew, would even under the circum-
stances of that time be nowise troublesome to any of the family,
but the contrary in all respects. Mr. Allan willingly complied,
and executed a series of beautiful drawings, which may probably
be engraved hereafter. He also shared our watchings, and wit-
nessed all but the last moments. Sir Walter's cousins, the ladies
of Ashestiel, came down frequently for a day or two at a time;
and did whatever sisterly affection could prompt, both for the
sufferer and his daughters. Miss Barbara Scott (daughter of his
uncle Thomas), and Mrs. Scott of Harden did the like.
As I was dressing on the morning of Monday the 17th of
September, Nicolson came into my room, and told me that his
master had awoke in a state of composure and consciousness, and
wished to see me immediately. I found him entirely himself,
though in the last extreme of feebleness. His eye was clear and
calm, every trace of the wild fire of delirium extinguished.
"Lockhart," he said, "I may have but a minute to speak to you.
My dear, be a good man-be virtuous-be religious-be a good
man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come
to lie here. " He paused, and I said, "Shall I send for Sophia
and Anne? " "No," said he, "don't disturb them. Poor souls!
I know they were up all night-God bless you all. " With this
he sunk into a very tranquil sleep, and indeed he scarcely after-
wards gave any sign of consciousness, except for an instant on
the arrival of his sons. They, on learning that the scene was
about to close, obtained anew leave of absence from their posts,
and both reached Abbotsford on the 19th. About half-past one
P. M. on the 21st of September Sir Walter breathed his last, in
―
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the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day: so warm
that every window was wide open; and so perfectly still that the
sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple
of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt
around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes.
ZARA'S EARRINGS
From the Spanish Ballads'
Y EARRINGS! my earrings! they've dropt into the well,
And what to Muça I shall say, I cannot, cannot tell.
