Woodstock; or, The Cavalier
Sir Walter Scott
Part 11 out of 11
We will drink till we bring
In triumph back the King.'
In truth, if it could be done that way, this poet would be a stout
champion. Give the poor knave five pieces, Pearson, and bid him go sell
his ballads. If he come within twenty miles of our person, though, we
will have him flogged till the blood runs down to his heels."
"There remains only one sentenced person," said Pearson, "a noble
wolf-hound, finer than any your Excellency saw in Ireland. He belongs to
the old knight Sir Henry Lee. Should your Excellency not desire to keep
the fine creature yourself, might I presume to beg that I might have
"No, Pearson," said Cromwell; "the old man, so faithful himself, shall
not be deprived of his faithful dog--I would _I_ had any creature, were
it but a dog, that followed me because it loved me, not for what it
could make of me."
"Your Excellency is unjust to your faithful soldiers," said Zerubbabel,
bluntly, "who follow you like dogs, fight for you like dogs, and have
the grave of a dog on the spot where they happen to fall."
"How now, old grumbler," said the General, "what means this change of
"Corporal Humgudgeon's remains are left to moulder under the ruins of
yonder tower, and Tomkins is thrust into a hole in a thicket like a
"True, true," said Cromwell, "they shall be removed to the churchyard,
and every soldier shall attend with cockades of sea-green and blue
ribbon--Every one of the non-commissioned officers and adjutators shall
have a mourning-scarf; we ourselves will lead the procession, and there
shall be a proper dole of wine, burnt brandy, and rosemary. See that it
is done, Pearson. After the funeral, Woodstock shall be dismantled and
destroyed, that its recesses may not again afford shelter to rebels and
The commands of the General were punctually obeyed, and when the other
prisoners were dismissed, Albert Lee remained for some time in custody.
He went abroad after his liberation, entered in King Charles's Guards,
where he was promoted by that monarch. But his fate, as we shall see
hereafter, only allowed him a short though bright career.
We return to the liberation of the other prisoners from Woodstock. The
two divines, completely reconciled to each other, retreated arm in arm
to the parsonage-house, formerly the residence of Dr. Rochecliffe, but
which he now visited as the guest of his successor, Nehemiah Holdenough.
The Presbyterian had no sooner installed his friend under his roof, than
he urged upon him an offer to partake it, and the income annexed to it,
as his own. Dr. Rochecliffe was much affected, but wisely rejected the
generous offer, considering the difference of their tenets on Church
government, which each entertained as religiously as his creed. Another
debate, though a light one, on the subject of the office of Bishops in
the Primitive Church, confirmed him in his resolution. They parted the
next day, and their friendship remained undisturbed by controversy till
Mr. Holdenough's death, in 1658; a harmony which might be in some degree
owing to their never meeting again after their imprisonment. Dr.
Rochecliffe was restored to his living after the Restoration, and
ascended from thence to high clerical preferment.
The inferior personages of the grand jail-delivery at Woodstock Lodge,
easily found themselves temporary accommodations in the town among old
acquaintance; but no one ventured to entertain the old knight,
understood to be so much under the displeasure of the ruling powers; and
even the innkeeper of the George, who had been one of his tenants,
scarce dared to admit him to the common privileges of a traveller, who
has food and lodging for his money. Everard attended him unrequested,
unpermitted, but also unforbidden. The heart of the old man had been
turned once more towards him when he learned how he had behaved at the
memorable rencontre at the King's Oak, and saw that he was an object of
the enmity, rather than the favour, of Cromwell. But there was another
secret feeling which tended to reconcile him to his nephew--the
consciousness that Everard shared with him the deep anxiety which he
experienced on account of his daughter, who had not yet returned from
her doubtful and perilous expedition. He felt that he himself would
perhaps be unable to discover where Alice had taken refuge during the
late events, or to obtain her deliverance if she was taken into custody.
He wished Everard to offer him his service in making a search for her,
but shame prevented his preferring the request; and Everard, who could
not suspect the altered state of his uncle's mind, was afraid to make
the proposal of assistance, or even to name the name of Alice.
The sun had already set--they sat looking each other in the face in
silence, when the trampling of horses was heard--there was knocking at
the door--there was a light step on the stair, and Alice, the subject of
their anxiety, stood before them. She threw herself joyfully into her
father's arms, who glanced his eye needfully round the room, as he said
in a whisper, "Is all safe?"
"Safe and out of danger, as I trust," replied Alice--"I have a token for
Her eye then rested on Everard--she blushed, was embarrassed, and
"You need not fear your Presbyterian cousin," said the knight, with a
good-humoured smile, "he has himself proved a confessor at least for
loyalty, and ran the risk of being a martyr."
She pulled from her bosom the royal rescript, written on a small and
soiled piece of paper, and tied round with a worsted thread instead of a
seal. Such as it was, Sir Henry ere he opened it pressed the little
packet with oriental veneration to his lips, to his heart, to his
forehead; and it was not before a tear had dropt on it that he found
courage to open and read the billet. It was in these words:--
"LOYAL OUR MUCH ESTEEMED FRIEND, AND OUR TRUSTY SUBJECT,
"It having become known to us that a purpose of marriage has been
entertained betwixt Mrs. Alice Lee, your only daughter, and Markham
Everard, Esq. of Eversly Chase, her kinsman, and by affiancy your
nephew: And being assured that this match would be highly agreeable to
you, had it not been for certain respects to our service, which induced
you to refuse your consent thereto--We do therefore acquaint you, that,
far from our affairs suffering by such an alliance, we do exhort, and so
far as we may, require you to consent to the same, as you would wish to
do us good pleasure, and greatly to advance our affairs. Leaving to you,
nevertheless, as becometh a Christian King, the full exercise of your
own discretion concerning other obstacles to such an alliance, which may
exist, independent of those connected with our service. Witness our
hand, together with our thankful recollections of your good services to
our late Royal Father as well as ourselves, C. R."
Long and steadily did Sir Henry gaze on the letter, so that it might
almost seem as if he were getting it by heart. He then placed it
carefully in his pocket-book, and asked Alice the account of her
adventures the preceding night. They were briefly told. Their midnight
walk through the Chase had been speedily and safely accomplished. Nor
had the King once made the slightest relapse into the naughty Louis
Kerneguy. When she had seen Charles and his attendant set off, she had
taken some repose in the cottage where they parted. With the morning
came news that Woodstock was occupied by soldiers, so that return
thither might have led to danger, suspicion, and enquiry. Alice,
therefore, did not attempt it, but went to a house in the neighbourhood,
inhabited by a lady of established loyalty, whose husband had been major
of Sir Henry Lee's regiment, and had fallen at the battle of Naseby.
Mrs. Aylmer was a sensible woman, and indeed the necessities of the
singular times had sharpened every one's faculties for stratagem and
intrigue. She sent a faithful servant to scout about the mansion at
Woodstock, who no sooner saw the prisoners dismissed and in safety, and
ascertained the knight's destination for the evening, than he carried
the news to his mistress, and by her orders attended Alice on horseback
to join her father.
There was seldom, perhaps, an evening meal made in such absolute silence
as by this embarrassed party, each occupied with their own thoughts, and
at a loss how to fathom those of the others. At length the hour came
when Alice felt herself at liberty to retire to repose after a day so
fatiguing. Everard handed her to the door of her apartment, and was then
himself about to take leave, when, to his surprise, his uncle asked him
to return, pointed to a chair, and giving him the King's letter to read,
fixed his looks on him steadily during the perusal; determined that if
he could discover aught short of the utmost delight in the reading, the
commands of the King himself should be disobeyed, rather than Alice
should be sacrificed to one who received not her hand as the greatest
blessing earth had to bestow. But the features of Everard indicated
joyful hope, even beyond what the father could have anticipated, yet
mingled with surprise; and when he raised his eye to the knight's with
timidity and doubt, a smile was on Sir Henry's countenance as he broke
silence. "The King," he said, "had he no other subject in England,
should dispose at will of those of the house of Lee. But methinks the
family of Everard have not been so devoted of late to the crown as to
comply with a mandate, inviting its heir to marry the daughter of a
"The daughter of Sir Henry Lee," said Everard, kneeling to his uncle,
and perforce kissing his hand, "would grace the house of a duke."
"The girl is well enough," said the knight proudly; "for myself, my
poverty shall neither shame nor encroach on my friends. Some few pieces
I have by Doctor Rochecliffe's kindness, and Joceline and I will strike
"Nay, my dear uncle, you are richer than you think for," said Everard.
"That part of your estate, which my father redeemed for payment of a
moderate composition, is still your own, and held by trustees in your
name, myself being one of them. You are only our debtor for an advance
of monies, for which, if it will content you, we will count with you
like usurers. My father is incapable of profiting by making a bargain on
his own account for the estate of a distressed friend; and all this you
would have learned long since, but that you would not--I mean, time did
not serve for explanation--I mean"--
"You mean I was too hot to hear reason, Mark, and I believe it is very
true. But I think we understand each other _now_. To-morrow I go with my
family to Kingston, where is an old house I may still call mine. Come
hither at thy leisure, Mark,--or thy best speed, as thou wilt--but come
with thy father's consent."
"With my father in person," said Everard, "if you will permit."
"Be that," answered the knight, "as he and you will--I think Joceline
will scarce shut the door in thy face, or Bevis growl as he did after
poor Louis Kerneguy.--Nay, no more raptures, but good-night, Mark,
good-night; and if thou art not tired with the fatigue of
yesterday--why, if you appear here at seven in the morning, I think we
must bear with your company on the Kingston road."
Once more Everard pressed the knight's hand, caressed Bevis, who
received his kindness graciously, and went home to dreams of happiness,
which were realized, as far as this motley world permits, within a few
* * * * *
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.
My life was of a piece.
Spent in your service--dying at your feet.
Years rush by us like the wind. We see not whence the eddy comes, nor
whitherward it is tending, and we seem ourselves to witness their flight
without a sense that we are changed; and yet Time is beguiling man of
his strength, as the winds rob the woods of their foliage.
After the marriage of Alice and Markham Everard, the old knight resided
near them, in an ancient manor-house, belonging to the redeemed portion
of his estate, where Joceline and Phoebe, now man and wife, with one or
two domestics, regulated the affairs of his household. When he tired of
Shakspeare and solitude, he was ever a welcome guest at his
son-in-law's, where he went the more frequently that Markham had given
up all concern in public affairs, disapproving of the forcible dismissal
of the Parliament, and submitting to Cromwell's subsequent domination,
rather as that which was the lesser evil, than as to a government which
he regarded as legal. Cromwell seemed ever willing to show himself his
friend; but Everard, resenting highly the proposal to deliver up the
King, which he considered as an insult to his honour, never answered
such advances, and became, on the contrary, of the opinion, which was
now generally prevalent in the nation, that a settled government could
not be obtained without the recall of the banished family. There is no
doubt that the personal kindness which he had received from Charles,
rendered him the more readily disposed to such a measure. He was
peremptory, however, in declining all engagements during Oliver's life,
whose power he considered as too firmly fixed to be shaken by any plots
which could be formed against it.
Meantime, Wildrake continued to be Everard's protected dependent as
before, though sometimes the connexion tended not a little to his
inconvenience. That respectable person, indeed, while he remained
stationary in his patron's house, or that of the old knight, discharged
many little duties in the family, and won Alice's heart by his attention
to the children, teaching the boys, of whom they had three, to ride,
fence, toss the pike, and many similar exercises; and, above all,
filling up a great blank in her father's existence, with whom he played
at chess and backgammon, or read Shakspeare, or was clerk to prayers
when any sequestrated divine ventured to read the service of the Church.
Or he found game for him while the old gentleman continued to go
a-sporting; and, especially he talked over the storming of Brentford,
and the battles of Edgehill, Banbury, Roundwaydown, and others, themes
which the aged cavalier delighted in, but which he could not so well
enter upon with Colonel Everard, who had gained his laurels in the
The assistance which he received from Wildrake's society became more
necessary, after Sir Henry was deprived of his gallant and only son, who
was slain in the fatal battle of Dunkirk, where, unhappily, English
colours were displayed on both the contending sides, the French being
then allied with Oliver, who sent to their aid a body of auxiliaries,
and the troops of the banished King fighting in behalf of the Spaniards.
Sir Henry received the melancholy news like an old man, that is, with
more external composure than could have been anticipated. He dwelt for
weeks and months on the lines forwarded by the indefatigable Dr.
Rochecliffe, superscribed in small letters, C. R., and subscribed Louis
Kerneguy, in which the writer conjured him to endure this inestimable
loss with the greater firmness, that he had still left one son,
(intimating himself,) who would always regard him as a father.
But in spite of this balsam, sorrow, acting imperceptibly, and sucking
the blood like a vampire, seemed gradually drying up the springs of
life; and, without any formed illness, or outward complaint, the old
man's strength and vigour gradually abated, and the ministry of Wildrake
proved daily more indispensable.
It was not, however, always to be had. The cavalier was one of those
happy persons whom a strong constitution, an unreflecting mind, and
exuberant spirits, enable to play through their whole lives the part of
a school-boy--happy for the moment, and careless of consequences.
Once or twice every year, when he had collected a few pieces, the
Cavaliero Wildrake made a start to London, where, as he described it, he
went on the ramble, drank as much wine as he could come by, and led a
_skeldering_ life, to use his own phrase, among roystering cavaliers
like himself, till by some rash speech or wild action, he got into the
Marshalsea, the Fleet, or some other prison, from which he was to be
delivered at the expense of interest, money, and sometimes a little
At length Cromwell died, his son resigned the government, and the
various changes which followed induced Everard, as well as many others,
to adopt more active measures in the King's behalf. Everard even
remitted considerable sums for his service, but with the utmost caution,
and corresponding with no intermediate agent, but with the Chancellor
himself, to whom he communicated much useful information upon public
affairs. With all his prudence he was very nearly engaged in the
ineffectual rising of Booth and Middleton in the west, and with great
difficulty escaped from the fatal consequences of that ill-timed
attempt. After this, although the estate of the kingdom was trebly
unsettled, yet no card seemed to turn up favourable to the royal cause,
until the movement of General Monk from Scotland. Even then, it was when
at the point of complete success, that the fortunes of Charles seemed at
a lower ebb than ever, especially when intelligence had arrived at the
little Court which he then kept in Brussels, that Monk, on arriving in
London, had put himself under the orders of the Parliament.
It was at this time, and in the evening, while the King, Buckingham,
Wilmot, and some other gallants of his wandering Court, were engaged in
a convivial party, that the Chancellor (Clarendon) suddenly craved
audience, and, entering with less ceremony than he would have done at
another time, announced extraordinary news. For the messenger, he said,
he could say nothing, saving that he appeared to have drunk much, and
slept little; but that he had brought a sure token of credence from a
man for whose faith he would venture his life. The King demanded to see
the messenger himself.
A man entered, with something the manners of a gentleman, and more those
of a rakebelly debauchee--his eyes swelled and inflamed--his gait
disordered and stumbling, partly through lack of sleep, partly through
the means he had taken to support his fatigue. He staggered without
ceremony to the head of the table, seized the King's hand, which he
mumbled like a piece of gingerbread; while Charles, who began to
recollect him from his mode of salutation, was not very much pleased
that their meeting should have taken place before so many witnesses.
"I bring good news," said the uncouth messenger, "glorious news!--the
King shall enjoy his own again!--My feet are beautiful on the mountains.
Gad, I have lived with Presbyterians till I have caught their language--
but we are all one man's children now--all your Majesty's poor babes.
The Rump is all ruined in London--Bonfires flaming, music playing, rumps
roasting, healths drinking, London in a blaze of light from the Strand
to Rotherhithe--tankards clattering"--
"We can guess at that," said the Duke of Buckingham.
"My old friend, Mark Everard, sent me off with the news; I'm a villain
if I've slept since. Your Majesty recollects me, I am sure. Your Majesty
remembers, sa--sa--at the King's Oak, at Woodstock?--
'O, we'll dance, and sing, and play,
For 'twill be a joyous day
When the King shall enjoy his own again.'"
"Master Wildrake, I remember you well," said the King. "I trust the good
news is certain?"
"Certain! your Majesty; did I not hear the bells?--did I not see the
bonfires?--did I not drink your Majesty's health so often, that my legs
would scarce carry me to the wharf? It is as certain as that I am poor
Roger Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincoln."
The Duke of Buckingham here whispered to the King, "I have always
suspected your Majesty kept odd company during the escape from
Worcester, but this seems a rare sample."
"Why, pretty much like yourself, and other company I have kept here so
many years--as stout a heart, as empty a head," said Charles--"as much
lace, though somewhat tarnished, as much brass on the brow, and nearly
as much copper in the pocket."
"I would your Majesty would intrust this messenger of good news with me,
to get the truth out of him," said Buckingham.
"Thank your Grace," replied the King; "but he has a will as well as
yourself, and such seldom agree. My Lord Chancellor hath wisdom, and to
that we must trust ourselves.--Master Wildrake, you will go with my Lord
Chancellor, who will bring us a report of your tidings; meantime, I
assure you that you shall be no loser for being the first messenger of
good news." So saying, he gave a signal to the Chancellor to take away
Wildrake, whom he judged, in his present humour, to be not unlikely to
communicate some former passages at Woodstock which might rather
entertain than edify the wits of his court.
Corroboration of the joyful intelligence soon arrived, and Wildrake was
presented with a handsome gratuity and small pension, which, by the
King's special desire, had no duty whatever attached to it.
Shortly afterwards, all England was engaged in chorusing his favourite
"Oh, the twenty-ninth of May,
It was a glorious day,
When the King did enjoy his own again."
On that memorable day, the King prepared to make his progress from
Rochester to London, with a reception on the part of his subjects so
unanimously cordial, as made him say gaily, it must have been his own
fault to stay so long away from a country where his arrival gave so much
joy. On horseback, betwixt his brothers, the Dukes of York and
Gloucester, the Restored Monarch trode slowly over roads strewn with
flowers--by conduits running wine, under triumphal arches, and through
streets hung with tapestry. There were citizens in various bands, some
arrayed in coats of black velvet, with gold chains; some in military
suits of cloth of gold, or cloth of silver, followed by all those
craftsmen who, having hooted the father from Whitehall, had now come to
shout the son into possession of his ancestral place. On his progress
through Blackheath, he passed that army which, so long formidable to
England herself, as well as to Europe, had been the means of restoring
the Monarchy which their own hands had destroyed. As the King passed the
last files of this formidable host, he came to an open part of the
heath, where many persons of quality, with others of inferior rank, had
stationed themselves to gratulate him as he passed towards the capital.
There was one group, however, which attracted peculiar attention from
those around, on account of the respect shown to the party by the
soldiers who kept the ground, and who, whether Cavaliers or Roundheads,
seemed to contest emulously which should contribute most to their
accommodation; for both the elder and younger gentlemen of the party had
been distinguished in the Civil War.
It was a family group, of which the principal figure was an old man
seated in a chair, having a complacent smile on his face, and a tear
swelling to his eye, as he saw the banners wave on in interminable
succession, and heard the multitude shouting the long silenced
acclamation, "God save King Charles." His cheek was ashy pale, and his
long beard bleached like the thistle down; his blue eye was cloudless,
yet it was obvious that its vision was failing. His motions were feeble,
and he spoke little, except when he answered the prattle of his
grandchildren, or asked a question of his daughter, who sate beside him,
matured in matronly beauty, or of Colonel Everard who stood behind.
There, too, the stout yeoman, Joceline Joliffe, still in his silvan
dress, leaned, like a second Benaiah, on the quarter-staff that had done
the King good service in its day, and his wife, a buxom matron as she
had been a pretty maiden, laughed at her own consequence; and ever and
anon joined her shrill notes to the stentorian halloo which her husband
added to the general acclamation.
These fine boys and two pretty girls prattled around their grandfather,
who made them such answers as suited their age, and repeatedly passed
his withered hand over the fair locks of the little darlings, while
Alice, assisted by Wildrake, (blazing in a splendid dress, and his eyes
washed with only a single cup of canary,) took off the children's
attention from time to time, lest they should weary their grandfather.
We must not omit one other remarkable figure in the group--a gigantic
dog, which bore the signs of being at the extremity of canine life,
being perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. But though exhibiting the
ruin only of his former appearance, his eyes dim, his joints stiff, his
head slouched down, and his gallant carriage and graceful motions
exchanged for a stiff, rheumatic, hobbling gait, the noble hound had
lost none of his instinctive fondness for his master. To lie by Sir
Henry's feet in the summer or by the fire in winter, to raise his head
to look on him, to lick his withered hand or his shrivelled cheek from
time to time, seemed now all that Bevis lived for.
Three or four livery servants attended to protect this group from the
thronging multitude, but it needed not. The high respectability and
unpretending simplicity of their appearance gave them, even in the eyes
of the coarsest of the people, an air of patriarchal dignity, which
commanded general regard; and they sat upon the bank which they had
chosen for their station by the way-side, as undisturbed as if they had
been in their own park.
And now the distant clarions announced the Royal Presence. Onward came
pursuivant and trumpet--onward came plumes and cloth of gold, and waving
standards displayed, and swords gleaming to the sun; and at length,
heading a group of the noblest in England, and supported by his royal
brothers on either side, onward came King Charles. He had already halted
more than once, in kindness perhaps as well as policy, to exchange a
word with persons whom he recognized among the spectators, and the
shouts of the bystanders applauded a courtesy which seemed so well
timed. But when he had gazed an instant on the party we have described,
it was impossible, if even Alice had been too much changed to be
recognized, not instantly to know Bevis and his venerable master. The
Monarch sprung from his horse, and walked instantly up to the old
knight, amid thundering acclamations which rose from the multitudes
around, when they saw Charles with his own hand oppose the feeble
attempts of the old man to rise to do his homage. Gently replacing him
on his seat--"Bless," he said, "father--bless your son, who has returned
in safety, as you blessed him when he departed in danger."
"May God bless--and preserve"--muttered the old man, overcome by his
feelings; and the King, to give him a few moments' repose, turned
"And you," he said, "my fair guide, how have you been employed since our
perilous night-walk? But I need not ask," glancing around--"in the
service of King and Kingdom, bringing up subjects, as loyal as their
ancestors.--A fair lineage, by my faith, and a beautiful sight, to the
eye of an English King!--Colonel Everard, we shall see you, I trust, at
Whitehall?" Here he nodded to Wildrake. "And thou, Joceline, thou canst
hold thy quarter-staff with one hand, sure?--Thrust forward the
Looking down in sheer bashfulness, Joceline, like a bull about to push,
extended to the King, over his lady's shoulder, a hand as broad and hard
as a wooden trencher, which the King filled with gold coins. "Buy a
handful for my friend Phoebe with some of these," said Charles, "she too
has been doing her duty to Old England."
The King then turned once more to the knight, who seemed making an
effort to speak. He took his aged hand in both his own, and stooped his
head towards him to catch his accents, while the old man, detaining him
with the other hand, said something faltering, of which Charles could
only catch the quotation--
"Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,
And welcome home again discarded faith."
Extricating himself, therefore, as gently as possible, from a scene
which began to grow painfully embarrassing, the good-natured King said,
speaking with unusual distinctness to insure the old man's comprehending
him, "This is something too public a place for all we have to say. But
if you come not soon to see King Charles at Whitehall, he will send down
Louis Kerneguy to visit you, that you may see how rational that
mischievous lad is become since his travels."
So saying, he once more pressed affectionately the old man's hand, bowed
to Alice and all around, and withdrew; Sir Henry Lee listening with a
smile, which showed he comprehended the gracious tendency of what had
been said. The old man leaned back on his seat, and muttered the _Nunc
"Excuse me for having made you wait, my lords," said the King, as he
mounted his horse; "indeed, had it not been for these good folks, you
might have waited for me long enough to little purpose.--Move on, sirs."
The array moved on accordingly; the sound of trumpets and drums again
rose amid the acclamations, which had been silent while the King
stopped; while the effect of the whole procession resuming its motion,
was so splendidly dazzling, that even Alice's anxiety about for her
father's health was for a moment suspended, while her eye followed the
long line of varied brilliancy that proceeded over the heath. When she
looked again at Sir Henry, she was startled to see that his cheek, which
had gained some colour during his conversation with the King, had
relapsed into earthly paleness; that his eyes were closed, and opened
not again; and that his features expressed, amid their quietude, a
rigidity which is not that of sleep. They ran to his assistance, but it
was too late. The light that burned so low in the socket, had leaped up,
and expired in one exhilarating flash.
The rest must be conceived. I have only to add that his faithful dog did
not survive him many days; and that the image of Bevis lies carved at
his master's feet, on the tomb which was erected to the memory of Sir
Henry Lee of Ditchley.
[Footnote: It may interest some readers to know that Bevis, the gallant
hound, one of the handsomest and active of the ancient Highland
deer-hounds, had his prototype in a dog called Maida, the gift of the
late Chief of Glengarry to the author. A beautiful sketch was made by
Edwin Landseer, and afterwards engraved. I cannot suppress the avowal of
some personal vanity when I mention that a friend, going through Munich,
picked up a common snuff-box, such as are sold for one franc, on which
was displayed the form of this veteran favourite, simply marked as Der
lieblung hund von Walter Scott. Mr. Landseer's painting is at
Blair-Adam, the property of my venerable friend, the Right Honourable
Lord Chief Commissioner Adam.]
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