Carlyle, in his criticism on Scott—­a criticism which will hardly, I think, stand the test of criticism in its turn, so greatly does he overdo the reaction against the first excessive appreciation of his genius—­adds a contribution of his own to this charming idyll, in reference to the natural fascination which Scott seemed to exert over almost all dumb creatures.  A little Blenheim cocker, “one of the smallest, beautifullest, and tiniest of lapdogs,” with which Carlyle was well acquainted, and which was also one of the shyest of dogs, that would crouch towards his mistress and draw back “with angry timidity” if any one did but look at him admiringly, once met in the street “a tall, singular, busy-looking man,” who halted by.  The dog ran towards him and began “fawning, frisking, licking at his feet;” and every time he saw Sir Walter afterwards, in Edinburgh, he repeated his demonstration of delight.  Thus discriminating was this fastidious Blenheim cocker even in the busy streets of Edinburgh.

And Scott’s attraction for dumb animals was only a lesser form of his attraction for all who were in any way dependent on him, especially his own servants and labourers.  The story of his demeanour towards them is one of the most touching ever written.  “Sir Walter speaks to every man as if they were blood-relations” was the common formula in which this demeanour was described.  Take this illustration.  There was a little hunchbacked tailor, named William Goodfellow, living on his property (but who at Abbotsford was termed Robin Goodfellow).  This tailor was employed to make the curtains for the new library, and had been very proud of his work, but fell ill soon afterwards, and Sir Walter was unremitting in his attention to him.  “I can never forget,” says Mr. Lockhart, “the evening on which the poor tailor died.  When Scott entered the hovel, he found everything silent, and inferred from the looks of the good women in attendance that the patient had fallen asleep, and that they feared his sleep was the final one.  He murmured some syllables of kind regret:  at the sound of his voice the dying tailor unclosed his eyes, and eagerly and wistfully sat up, clasping his hands with an expression of rapturous gratefulness and devotion that, in the midst of deformity, disease, pain, and wretchedness, was at once beautiful and sublime.  He cried with a loud voice, ’The Lord bless and reward you!’ and expired with the effort."[28] Still more striking is the account of his relation with Tom Purdie, the wide-mouthed, under-sized, broad-shouldered, square-made, thin-flanked woodsman, so well known afterwards by all Scott’s friends as he waited for his master in his green shooting-jacket, white hat, and drab trousers.  Scott first made Tom Purdie’s acquaintance in his capacity as judge, the man being brought before him for poaching, at the time that Scott was living at Ashestiel.  Tom gave so touching an account of his circumstances—­work