in a fine moonlight night, in the little garden behind the house in
Castle Street. My wife tells me she remembers the whole family in tears
about the grave, as her father himself smoothed the turf above Camp with
the saddest face she had ever seen. He had been engaged to dine abroad
that day, but apologized on account of the death of 'a dear old
friend.'"--_Lockhart's Life of Scott._]

He sat down in his large, green morocco elbow-chair, drew himself close
to his table, and glowered and gloomed at his writing apparatus, "a very
handsome old box, richly carved, lined with crimson velvet, and
containing ink-bottles, taper-stand, etc., in silver, the whole in such
order that it might have come from the silversmith's window half an hour
before." He took out his paper, then, starting up angrily, said, "'Go
spin, you jade, go spin.' No, d--- it, it won't do:--

'My spinnin'-wheel is auld and stiff;
The rock o't wunna stand, sir;
To keep the temper-pin in tiff
Employs ower aft my hand, sir.'

I am off the fang.[2] I can make nothing of 'Waverley' to-day; I'll awa'
to Marjorie. Come wi' me, Maida, you thief." The great creature rose
slowly, and the pair were off, Scott taking a _maud_ (a plaid) with him.
"White as a frosted plum-cake, by jingo!" said he, when he got to the
street. Maida gambolled and whisked among the snow; and her master
strode across to Young Street, and through it to 1 North Charlotte
Street, to the house of his dear friend, Mrs. William Keith of
Corstorphine Hill, niece of Mrs. Keith of Ravelston, of whom he said at
her death, eight years after, "Much tradition, and that of the best, has
died with this excellent old lady, one of the few persons whose spirits