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His soul

never more so than when he said of Milton, was like a star, and dwelt apart!' For it dwelt in tumult, and mischief, and rebellion. Wordsworth is, in all things, the reverse of Milton-a good man, and a bad poet.

Tickler. What!-That Wordsworth whom Maga cries up as the Prince of Poets?

North. Be it so; I must humour the fancies of some of my friends. But had that man been a great poet, he would have produced a deep and lasting impression on the mind of England; whereas his verses are becoming less and less known every day, and he is, in good truth, already one of the illustrious obscure.

Tickler. I never thought him more than a very ordinary man-with some imagination, certainly, but with no

JOHN WILSON.

From the Portrait by Sir John Watson Gordon, P.R.S.A. (painted in 1833), in the National Portrait Gallery.

grasp of understanding, and apparently little acquainted with the history of his kind. My God! to compare such a writer with Scott and Byron !

North. And yet, with his creed, what might not a great poet have done? That the language of poetry is but the language of strong human passion!—That in the great elementary principles of thought and feeling, common to all the race, the subject-matter of poetry is to be sought and found!-That enjoyment and suffering, as they wring and crush, or expand and elevate, men's hearts, are the sources of song!-And what, pray, has he made out of this true and philosophical creed?-A few ballads (pretty at the best), two or three moral fables, some natural description of scenery, and half-adozen narratives of common distress or happiness. Not one single character has he created-not one incident -not one tragical catastrophe. He has thrown no light on man's estate here below; and Crabbe, with all his defects, stands immeasurably above Wordsworth as the Poet of the Poor.

Tickler. Good. And yet the youngsters, in that absurd Magazine of yours, set him up to the stars as their idol, and kiss his very feet, as if the toes were of gold.

North. Well, well; let them have their own way awhile. I confess that the Excursion' is the worst poem, of any character, in the English language. It contains about two hundred sonorous lines, some of which appear to be fine, even in the sense as well as the sound. The remaining seven thousand thrc: hundred are quite ineffectual. Then, what labour the builder of that lofty rhyme must have undergone! It is, in its own way, a small Tower of Babel, and all built by a single man! .

North. Scott's poetry puzzles me-it is often very bad. Tickler. Very.

North. Except when his martial soul is up, he is but a tame and feeble writer. His versification in general flows on easily-smoothly-almost sonorously-but seldom or never with impetuosity or grandeur. There is no strength, no felicity in his diction-and the substance of his poetry is neither rich nor rare. The atmosphere is becoming every moment more oppressive. How stands the Therm. ?

Tickler. Ninety. But then when his martial soul is up-and up it is at sight of a spear-point or a pennonthen indeed you hear the true poet of chivalry. What care I, Kit, for all his previous drivelling-if drivelling it be-and God forbid I should deny drivelling to any poet, ancient or modern-for now he makes my very soul to burn within me-and, coward and civilian though I be-yes, a most intense and insuperable coward, prizing life and limb beyond all other earthly possessions, and loath to shed one single drop of blood either for my King or country-yet such is the trumpet-power of the song of that son of genius that I start from my old elbow-chair, up with the poker, tongs, or shovel, no matter which, and flourishing it round my head, cry, 'Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!' and then, dropping my voice and returning to my padded bottom, whisper,

'Were the last words of Marmion!'

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North. Bravo-bravo-bravo!

Tickler. I care not one single curse for all the criticism that ever was canted, or decanted, or recanted. Neither does the world. The world takes a poet as it finds him, and seats him above or below the salt. The world is as obstinate as a million mules, and will not turn its head on one side or another for all the shouting of the critical population that ever was shouted. It is very possible that the world is a bad judge. Well, then-appeal to posterity, and be hanged to you-and posterity will affirm the judgment with costs.

North. How you can jabber away so, in such a temperature as this, confounds me. You are indeed a singular old man.

Tickler. Therefore I say that Scott is a Homer of a poet, and so let him doze when he has a mind to it; for no man I know is better entitled to an occasional half-canto of slumber.

North. Did you ever meet any of the Lake-Poets in private society?

Tickler. Five or six times. Wordsworth has a grave, solemn, pedantic, awkward, out-of-the-worldish look about him, that rather puzzles you as to his probable profession, till he begins to speak-and then, to be sure, you set him down at once for a Methodist preacher. North. I have seen Chantrey's bust.

Tickler. The bust flatters his head, which is not

intellectual. The forehead is narrow, and the skull altogether too scanty. Yet the baldness, the gravity, and the composure are impressive, and, on the whole, not unpoetical. The eyes are dim and thoughtful, and a certain sweetness of smile occasionally lightens up the strong lines of his countenance with an expression of courteousness and philanthropy.

North. Is he not extremely eloquent?

Tickler. Far from it. He labours like a whale spouting his voice is wearisomely monotonous-he does not know when to have done with a subject-oracularly announces perpetual truisms-never hits the nail on the head-and leaves you amazed with all that needless pother, which the simple bard opines to be eloquence, and which passes for such with his Cockney idolaters and his catechumens at Ambleside and Keswick.

North. Not during dinner, surely?

Tickler. Yes-during breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, and supper-every intermediate moment-nor have I any doubt that he proses all night long in his sleep.

(From the Noctes.)

The Shepherd on the Poor-Laws. North. Thank heaven for Winter! Would that it lasted all year long! Spring is pretty well in its way, with budding branches and carolling birds, and wimpling burnies, and fleecy skies, and dew-like showers softening and brightening the bosom of old mother-earth. Summer is not much amiss, with umbrageous woods, glittering atmosphere, and awakening thunder-storms. Nor let me libel Autumn in her gorgeous bounty and her beautiful decays. But Winter-dear, cold-handed, warmhearted Winter, welcome thou to my fur-clad bosom ! Thine are the sharp, short, bracing, invigorating days, that screw up muscle, fibre, and nerve, like the strings of an old Cremona discoursing excellent music-thine the long snow-silent or hail-rattling nights, with earthly firesides and heavenly luminaries, for home comforts, or travelling imaginations, for undisturbed imprisonment, or unbounded freedom, for the affections of the heart and the flights of the soul! Thine too

Shepherd. Thine too skatin, and curlin, and grewin, and a' sorts o' deevilry amang lads and lasses at rockins and kirns. Beef and greens! Beef and greens! O, Mr North, beef and greens!

North. Yes, James, I sympathise with your enthu siasm. Now, and now only, do carrots and turnips deserve the name. The season this of rumps and rounds. Now the whole nation sets in for serious eating-serious and substantial eating, James, half leisure, half labourthe table loaded with a lease of life, and each dish a year. In the presence of that Haggis I feel myself immortal.

Shepherd. Butcher-meat, though, and coals, are likely, let me tell you, to sell at a perfec' ransom frae Martinmas to Michaelmas.

North. Paltry thought. Let beeves and muttons look up, even to the stars, and fuel be precious as at the Pole. Another slice of the stot, James, another slice of the stot-and, Mr Ambrose, smash that half-ton lump of black diamond till the chimney roar and radiate like Mount Vesuvius. Why so glum, Tickler?-why so glum?

Tickler. This outrageous merriment grates my spirits. I am not in the mood. 'Twill be a severe winter, and I think of the poor.

North. Why the devil think of the poor at this time of day? Are not wages good, and work plenty, and is not charity a British virtue?

Shepherd. I never heard sic even-doun nonsense, Mr Tickler, in a' my born days. I met a puir woman ganging alang the brigg, wi' a deevil's dizzen o' bairns, ilka ane wi' a daud o' breid in the tae haun and a whang o' cheese i' the tither, while their cheeks were a' blawn out like sae many Boreases, wi' something better than wun'; and the mither hersel, a weel-faur'd hizzie, tearin awa at the fleshy shank o' a marrow-bane, mad wi' hunger, but no wi' starvation, for these are twa different things, Mr Tickler. I can assure you that puir folks, mair especially gin they be beggars, are hungry four or five times a-day; but starvation is seen at night sitting by an empty aumry and a cauld hearthstane. There's little or nae starvation the now, in Scotlan'!

North. The people are, on the whole, well off. -Take some pickles, Timothy, to your steak. Dickson's mustard is superb.

Shepherd. I canna say that I a'thegither just properly understan' the system o' the puir-laws; but I ken this, that puir folks there will be till the end o' Blackwood's Magazine, and, that granted, maun there no be some kind o' provision for them, though it may be kittle to calculate the preceese amount ?

North. Are the English people a dependent, ignorant, grovelling, mean, debased, and brutal people?

Shepherd. Not they, indeed--they're a powerfu' population, second only to the Scotch. The English puirlaws had better be cut down some twa-three millions, but no abolished. Thae Political Economy creatures are a cruel set-greedier theirsels than gaberlunzies—yet grudging a handfu' o' meal to an auld wife's wallet. Charity is in the heart, not in the head, and the open haun should be stretched out o' the sudden, unasked and free, not held back wi' clutched fingers like a meeser, while the Wiseacre shakes his head in cauldrife calculation, and ties a knot on the purse o' him on principle. North. Well said, James, although perhaps your tenets are scarcely tenable.

Shepherd. Scarcely tenable? Wha'll take them frae me either by force or reason? Oh we're fa'en into argument, and that's what I canna thole at meals. Mr Tickler, there's nae occasion, man, to look sae dounin-the-mouth-everybody kens ye're a man o' genius, without your pretending to be melancholy.

Tickler. I have no appetite, James.

Shepherd. Nae appeteet! how suld ye hae an appeteet ? A bowl o' Mollygo-tawny soup, wi' bread in proportion -twa codlins (wi maist part o' a labster in that sass), the first gash o' the jiget-stakes-then I'm maist sure, pallets, and finally guse-no to count jeellies and coosturd, and bluemange, and many million mites in that Campsie Stilton-better than ony English-a pot o' Draught-twa lang shankers o' ale-noos an' thans a sip o' the auld port, and just afore grace a caulker o' Glenlivet, that made your een glower and water in your head as if you had been lookin at Mrs Siddons in the sleep-walking scene in Shakespeare's tragedy of Macbeth. Gin ye had an appeteet after a' that destruction o' animal and vegetable matter, your maw would be like that o' Death himsel, and your stamach insatiable as the grave.

Tickler. Mr Ambrose, no laughter, if you please, sir. North. Come, come, Tickler-had Hogg and Hera

clitus been contemporaries, it would have saved the shedding of a world of tears.

Shepherd. Just laugh your fill, Mr Ambrose. is aye becoming that honest face o' yours. be sae wutty again, gin I can help it.

A smile But I'll no (From the Noctes.) Grewin is coursing grews or greyhounds; stot is ox; daud is lump, chunk; whang, large slice; aumry, press; kittle, awkward, difficult; gaberlunzies, professional beggars; thole, endure. Wilson's works were edited by his son-in-law, Professor Ferrier (12 vols. 18551858). The Recreations of Christopher North and the Noctes were separately published (1842 and 1864). Sir J. Skelton published a selection from the Noctes as The Comedy of the Noctes (1876), and Dr Shelton a complete edition (5 vols., New York, 1854; 4th ed. 1857; revised ed. 1866). There was a (depreciatory) article on the Noctes in the Athenæum of 8th July 1876, believed to be by Mr Watts-Dunton. Wilson's Memoir was written by his daughter, Mrs Gordon (1862). His eldest daughter was the wife of Professor Ferrier; the youngest, of Professor Aytoun. See also Mrs Oliphant's William Blackwood and his Sons (1897), Saintsbury's Essays in English Literature (1891), Sir George Douglas's The Blackwood Group (1897), Lockhart's Peter's Letters (1819), and the articles in this work on Lockhart and Hogg.

John Gibson Lockhart (1794-1854) was born in Cambusnethan manse, near Wishaw. His father (who was of gentle blood) having in 1796 been transferred to a Glasgow church, John's boyhood was spent in Glasgow, where at eleven he passed from the High School to the university, and thence at thirteen, with a Balliol Snell exhibition, he went up to Oxford. In 1813 he took a first-class in classics, reading widely the while in modern languages; then, after a visit to the Continent (to Goethe at Weimar), he studied law at Edinburgh, and in 1816 was called to the Scottish Bar. But he was no speaker; and having while still at Oxford written the article Heraldry' for the Edinburgh Encyclopædia, and soon after translated Schlegel's Lectures on the History of Literature, from 1817 he took more and more to literary work, and with Wilson became the chief mainstay of Blackwood's Magazine. In its pages he first exhibited the sharp and caustic wit that made him the terror of his Whig opponents. He had his full share in the 'vilipending' of the 'Cockney School' of which Leigh Hunt was assumed to be chief, but he afterwards relented towards Keats, and he was not responsible for the attacks on Coleridge and Wordsworth. Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk (2nd ed. 1819), a clever satirical view of Scottish society, was followed by four novels - Valerius (1821), a romance of the times of Trajan; Adam Blair (1822); Reginald Dalton (1823), a tale of university life; and Matthew Wald (1824). Of these Adam Blair alone retains its vitality-the strong, sad story of a good man's fall and repentance : Henry James has likened it to Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter. The spirited Ancient Spanish Ballads appeared in 1823; lives of Burns-an admirable picture on a small canvas-and of Napoleon in 1828 and 1829; and the Life of Scott, Lockhart's masterpiece and one of the greatest biographies in our or any tongue, in 1837-38. He had met Scott first in May 1818, in April 1820 had married his eldest daughter Sophia, and for five and a half years had divided his time pretty equally between

Edinburgh and Chiefs wood near Abbotsford. In 1825 he removed to London to assume the editorship of the Quarterly Review at a salary of £1000 (ultimately £1300) per annum; and this post he retained till 1853, writing more than a hundred articles on the most varied subjects-from dry-rot in timber to Mure's Literature of Greece, Croker's Boswell, Taylor's Artevelde, and on the lives of Theodore Hook, Maginn, Kean, Wilkie, and Southey. He severely handled Tennyson for his poems of 1833, but praised his work of 1842. He was singularly reserved and cold in manner; Miss Martineau and many others charged him with malignity; but his intimate friends were warmly attached to him. Mr Andrew Lang in summing up his 'strong and complex character,' while admitting faults of undue acerbity, especially in early years, and occasional perversity, argued from his life and his letters that the intensity of his affection rivalled and was partly the cause of his reserve;' and held that, despite his 'reputation for skill in satire, it must be said that in satire (save in the "chaff" about Tennyson) he is always at his worst, and is always at his best when he is most sympathetic'-as in his account of Scott's declining days and death. He wrote good verse besides the Spanish ballads: 'Captain Paton' is still chanted on festive occasions as a humorous picture of a 'fine old Glasgow gentleman,' and the memorable verses sent by Lockhart to Carlyle in bereavement are quoted below. In 1843 Lockhart became auditor of the duchy of Cornwall, a sinecure worth £400 a year. His closing years were clouded by illness and deep depression; by the secession to Rome of his only daughter, with her husband, Mr Hope-Scott; and by the loss of his wife in 1837, of his two boys in 1831 and 1853. The elder of them was the 'Hugh Littlejohn' of Scott's Tales of a Grandfather; the younger, Walter, was a scapegrace in the army. Like Scott, Lockhart visited Italy in search of health; like Scott, he came back to Abbotsford to die 25th November 1854. He is buried in Dryburgh at Sir Walter's feet.

Very unlike the rest of Lockhart's work in substance and temper is the following heartfelt religious lyric—which Carlyle used to quote with fervour, which Froude said no one who had read it could ever forget, and to whose consoling power for the distressed Mr Andrew Lang gives personal testimony: When youthful faith has fled, Of living take thy leave; Be constant to the dead,

The dead cannot deceive.
Sweet modest flowers of spring,
How fleet your balmy day!
And man's brief year can bring
No secondary May.
No earthly burst again

Of gladness out of gloom:
Fond hope and vision vain,

Ungrateful to the tomb!

But 'tis an old belief,

That on some solemn shore, Beyond the sphere of grief,

Dear friends will meet once more.

Beyond the sphere of time,

And sin, and fate's control, Serene in changeless prime Of body and of soul.

That creed I fain would keep,
That hope I'll not forgo;

Eternal be the sleep,
Unless to waken so.

The Cid and the Leper.

He has ta'en some twenty gentlemen along with him to go, For he will pay that ancient vow he to Saint James doth

owe;

To Compostella, where the shrine doth by the altar stand, The good Rodrigo de Bivar is riding through the land.

Where'er he goes, much alms he throws, to feeble folk and poor;

Beside the way for him they pray, him blessings to procure;
For, God and Mary Mother, their heavenly grace to win,
His hand was ever bountiful: great was his joy therein.

And there, in middle of the path, a leper did appear;
In a deep slough the leper lay-none would to help come

near.

With a loud voice he thence did cry, 'For God our Saviour's sake,

From out this fearful jeopardy a Christian brother take.' When Roderick heard that piteous word, he from his horse came down ;

For all they said, no stay he made, that noble champion ; He reached his hand to pluck him forth, of fear was no account,

Then mounted on his steed of worth, and made the leper

mount.

Behind him rode the leprous man; when to their hostelrie

They came, he made him eat with him at table cheerfully; While all the rest from that poor guest with loathing shrank away,

To his own bed the wretch he led, beside him there he lay.

All at the mid-hour of the night, while good Rodrigo slept, A breath came from the leprous man, it through his shoulders crept ;

Right through the body, at the breast, passed forth that breathing cold;

I wot he leaped up with a start, in terrors manifold.

He groped for him in the bed, but him he could not find, Through the dark chamber gropèd he, with very anxious mind;

Loudly he lifted up his voice, with speed a lamp was brought,

Yet nowhere was the leper seen, though far and near they sought.

He turned him to his chamber, God wot, perplexed sore With that which had befallen-when lo! his face before, There stood a man, all clothed in vesture shining white: Thus said the vision, ‘Sleepest thou, or wakest thou, Sir Knight?'

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'I sleep not,' quoth Rodrigo; but tell me who art thou, For, in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy brow?'

'I am the holy Lazarus; I come to speak with thee; I am the same poor leper thou sav'dst for charity.

'Not vain the trial, nor in vain thy victory hath been; God favours thee, for that my pain thou didst relieve yestreen.

There shall be honour with thee, in battle and in peace, Success in all thy doings, and plentiful increase.

'Strong enemies shall not prevail thy greatness to undo; Thy name shall make men's cheeks full pale-Christians and Moslem too;

A death of honour shalt thou die, such grace to thee is given,

Thy soul shall part victoriously, and be received in heaven.'

When he these gracious words had said, the spirit vanished quite ;

Rodrigo rose and knelt him down-he knelt till morning light:

Unto the Heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear, He made his prayer right humbly, till dawned the morning clear.

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The other 'superior occasion' came later in the season; the 28th of October, the birthday of Sir Walter's eldest son, was, I think, that usually selected for the Abbotsford Hunt. This was a coursing-field on a large scale, including, with as many of the young gentry as pleased to attend, all Scott's personal favourites among the yeomen and farmers of the surrounding country. The Sheriff always took the field, but latterly devolved the command upon his good friend Mr John Usher, the ex- laird of Toftfield; and he could not have had a more skilful or a better-humoured lieutenant. The hunt took place either on the moors above the Cauldshields Loch, or over some of the hills on the estate of Gala, and we had commonly, ere we returned, hares enough to supply the wife of every farmer that attended with soup for a week following. The whole then dined at Abbotsford, the Sheriff in the chair, Adam Fergusson croupier, and Dominie Thomson, of course, chaplain. George, by the way, was himself an eager partaker in the preliminary sport; and now he would favour us with a grace, in Burns's phrase, 'as long as my arm,' beginning with thanks to the Almighty, who had given man dominion over the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field, and expatiating on this text with so luculent a commentary that Scott, who had been

fumbling with his spoon long before he reached his Amen, could not help exclaiming as he sat down, 'Well done, Mr George! I think we've had everything but the view holla!' The company, whose onset had been thus deferred, were seldom, I think, under thirty in number, and sometimes they exceeded forty. The feast was such as suited the occasion-a baron of beef, roasted, at the foot of the table, a salted round at the head, while tureens of hare-soup, hotchpotch, and cockey-leekie extended down the centre, and such light articles as geese, turkeys, entire sucking-pigs, a singed sheep's head, and the unfailing haggis were set forth by way of side-dishes. Blackcock and moorfowl, bushels of snipe, black puddings, white puddings, and pyramids of pancakes, formed the second course. Ale was the favourite beverage during dinner,

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. After the Portrait by Sir Francis Grant.

but there was plenty of port and sherry for those whose stomachs they suited. The quaighs of Glenlivet were filled brim-full, and tossed off as if they held water. The wine decanters made a few rounds of the table, but the hints for hot punch and toddy soon became clamorous. Two or three bowls were introduced, and placed under the supervision of experienced manufacturers-one of these being usually the Ettrick Shepherd-and then the business of the evening commenced in good earnest. The faces shone and glowed like those at Camacho's wedding; the chairman told his richest stories of old rural life, Lowland or Highland; Fergusson and humbler heroes fought their peninsular battles o'er again; the stalwart Dandie Dinmonts lugged out their last winter's snow-storm, the parish scandal perhaps, or the dexterous bargain of the Northumberland tryste; and every man was knocked down for the song that he sang best or took most pleasure in singing. Sheriff-Substitute Shortreed-a cheerful, hearty little man, with a sparkling eye and a most infectious laugh-gave us 'Dick o' the Cow' or 'Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid; his son Thomas (Sir Walter's assiduous disciple and assistant in Border Heraldry and Genealogy) shone without a rival in 'The Douglas

Tragedy' and 'The Twa Corbies;' a weather-beaten, stiff-bearded veteran, Captain Ormistoun, as he was called (though I doubt if his rank was recognised at the Horse-Guards), had the primitive pastoral of Cowdenknowes' in sweet perfection; Hogg produced 'The Women-folk,' or 'The Kye comes hame,' and, in spite of many grinding notes, contrived to make everybody delighted, whether with the fun or the pathos of his ballad; the Melrose doctor sang in spirited style some of Moore's masterpieces; a couple of retired sailors joined in Bould Admiral Duncan upon the high sea;'-and the gallant croupier crowned the last bowl with Ale, good ale, thou art my darling!' Imagine some smart Parisian savant-some dreamy pedant of Halle or Heidelberg-a brace of stray young Lords from Oxford or Cambridge, or perhaps their prim college tutors, planted here and there amidst these rustic wassailers-this being their first vision of the author of Marmion and Ivanhoe, and he appearing as heartily at home in the scene as if he had been a veritable 'Dandie' himself-his face radiant, his laugh gay as childhood, his chorus always ready. And so it proceeded until some worthy, who had fifteen or twenty miles to ride home, began to insinuate that his wife and bairns would be getting sorely anxious about the fords, and the Dumples and Hoddins were at last heard neighing at the gate, and it was voted that the hour had come for doch an dorrach-the stirrup-cup-to wit, a bumper all round of the unmitigated mountain dew. How they all contrived to get home in safety, Heaven only knows-but I never heard of any serious accident except upon one occasion, when James Hogg made a bet at starting that he would leap over his wall-eyed pony as she stood, and broke his nose in this experiment of 'o'ervaulting ambition.' One comely goodwife, far off among the hills, amused Sir Walter by telling him, the next time he passed her homestead after one of these jolly doings, what her husband's first words were when he alighted at his own door-Ailie, my woman, I'm ready for my bed -and oh lass (he gallantly added), I wish I could sleep for a towmont [twelvemonth], for there's only ae thing in this warld worth living for, and that's the Abbotsford hunt!'

Death of Sir Walter Scott.

On Monday he remained in bed, and seemed extremely feeble; but after breakfast on Tuesday the 17th [July 1832] 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 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

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