THE TWEED — ABBOTSFORD. 67 



hundred years ago, who can doubt but he would have 

 drawn a poaching cross-bow in immortal company in 

 Charlcote park, and taken his full share in a memorable 

 ale -drinking match in the neighbouring village, from 

 which the young men of Stratford walked off victo- 

 rious, but had to succumb before they reached home, 

 and sleep all night under the hedge ? 



In 1812 Sir Walter had finished Abbotsford, which 

 is about six miles below Ashiesteel on the Tweed, and 

 bade the latter place good-bye, not without a pang. 

 But he was proud of his new creation, and of the title 

 of border-laird which was now his due. Here it was 

 that he lived for a space, deservedly waited upon, if 

 ever man was so, by " honour, love, obedience, troops 

 of friends;" hither, after the crash of his fortunes and 

 the death of his wife, he fled when he could from his 

 duties in Edinburgh, and toiled to redeem his position 

 and his credit, until his wonderful brain gave way ; 

 hither, from the blue skies of Italy, he was driven by 

 the yearnings of his love for his native country to die. 

 Lockhart draws a delightful picture of the life at Ab- 

 botsford in 1820 :— 



" It was a clear, bright, September morning, with a sharp- 

 ness in the air that doubled the animating influence of the 

 sunshine, and all was in readiness for a general coursing-match 

 on ^N'ewark Hill. The only guest who had chalked out other 

 sport for himself was the staunchest of anglers, Mr. Rose ; but 

 he too was there on his shelty, and with his salmon-rod and 

 landing-net, and attended by his humourous squire Hinves 

 and Charlie Purdie, a brother of Tom, in those daj's the most 

 celebrated fishermen of the district. This little group of Wal- 

 tonians, bound for Lord Somerville's preserve, remained loun- 

 ging about to witness the start of the main cavalcade. Sir Walter, 

 mounted on Sybil, was marshalling the order of procession with 



