What a picture the
_animosa infans_ gives us of herself,--her vivacity, her passionateness,
her precocious love-making, her passion for nature, for swine, for all
living things, her reading, her turn for expression, her satire, her
frankness, her little sins and rages, her great repentances! We don't
wonder Walter Scott carried her off in the neuk of his plaid, and played
himself with her for hours.
The year before she died, when in Edinburgh, she was at a Twelfth Night
Supper at Scott's, in Castle Street. The company had all come,--all but
Marjorie. Scott's familiars, whom we all know, were there,--all were
come but Marjorie; and all were dull because Scott was dull. "Where's
that bairn? what can have come over her? I'll go myself and see." And he
was getting up, and would have gone; when the bell rang, and in came
Duncan Roy and his henchman Tougald, with the sedan chair, which was
brought right into the lobby, and its top raised. And there, in its
darkness and dingy old cloth, sat Maidie in white, her eyes gleaming,
and Scott bending over her in ecstasy,--"hung over her enamored." "Sit
ye there, my dautie, till they all see you"; and forthwith he brought
them all. You can fancy the scene. And he lifted her up and marched to
his seat with her on his stout shoulder, and set her down beside him;
and then began the night, and such a night! Those who knew Scott best
said, that night was never equalled; Maidie and he were the stars; and
she gave them _Constance's_ speeches and "Helvellyn," the ballad then
much in vogue, and all her _repertoire_,--Scott showing her off, and
being ofttimes rebuked by her for his intentional blunders.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150