On the morning of Sunday the 15th, he was again taken out into the little pleasaunce, and got as far as his favourite 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 even to the tale of Phoebe Dawson, which not many months before 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 deathbed. 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' hymns by his chair, he seemed also to remember them perfectly. That evening 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 endeavoured to close his fingers upon it, but they refused their officeit 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 awaking, Laidlaw said to me Walter has had a little repose.' 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." "Sir -"No Perceiving, towards the close of August, that the end was near, and thinking it very likely that Abbotsford might soon undergo 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 Edinburgh for that purpose Sir Walter's dear friend, Sir William Allan - whose presence, I well knew, would even under the circumstances of that time be nowise troublesome to any of the family, but the contrary in all respects. Sir William willingly complied, and executed a series of beautiful drawings. He also shared our watchings, and witnessed 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 Mary 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 him sons. self, though in the last extreme of feeble- for an instant on the arrival of his ness. 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. be virtuous My dear, be a good man 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 afterwards gave any sign of consciousness, except They, on learning that the scene was about to close, obtained a new leave of absence from their posts, and both reached Abbotsford on the 19th. About halfpast one p.m. on the 21st of September, Sir Walter breathed his last, in 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. MINOR POETS OF THE EARLY NINETEENTH CENTURY Here is a fitting place to mention a few of the minor Scottish and English poets whose special poems, here reprinted, have become well known to all readers, The Burial of Thomas Moore by Charles Wolfe (1791-1823), The Bridge of Sighs and The Song of the Shirt by Thomas Hood (1799-1845), To the Grasshopper and the Cricket by Leigh Hunt (1784-1859), The Battle of Blenheim by Robert Southey (1774-1843), Ye Mariners of England, Hohenlinden, Battle of the Baltic, Lord Ullin's Daughter by Thomas Campbell (1777-1844), The Harp That Once through Tara's Halls, by Thomas Moore (1779-1852). Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully; Make no deep scrutiny Death has left on her Still, for all slips of hers, Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Alas! for the rarity Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver With many a light The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: In she plunged boldly - The rough river ran Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Ere her limbs frigidly Smooth and compose them; Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Into her rest Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast! |