Table Talk [pp. 152-154]

152 APPLETONS' JO CT]? NAL OF POPULAR [SEPTEMBER 18,
statements. Sir Walter's family is not extinct, nor is his loved
domain going to decay. Abbotsford, when we visited it, was
in the most perfect order; and( a friend, who was there in July,
writes to us that the grounds have been beautified and improved
in various ways, since his previous visit during the summer of
1855. The only change made in this most interesting mediaeval
mansion, since the death of Sir Walter Scott, is the addition, to
the north end of the building, of a Romish chapel, its present
occupant being a member of that Church.
"The great unknown" died on a sunny September day,
1832, realizing, before he passed away, in reference to all his
fame, honor, and renown, the truth of Solomon: "Vanity of
vanities, saith the preacher-all is vanity and vexation of spir it." He left four children -Walter, who succeeded to the
baronetcy; Charles; Sophia, the wife of John Gibson Lockhart;
and Anne, who died on the 25th of June, 1833, her health and
high spirit being broken by her father's misfortunes, and the
care with which she had attended Sir Walter and Lady Scott in
their last illnesses. Her sister Sophia died four years after ward, in May, 1837. When Lockhart concluded his Life of his
father-in-law, he said: "There remain of Sir Walter's race
only his two sons, Walter, his successor in the baronetcy, ma jor in the 15th Regiment of Hussars, and Charles, a clerk in
the office of her majesty's secretary of state for foreign affairs,
with two children left by their sister Sophia-a boy and a girl."
Charles died a few years after Mrs. Lockhart, leaving his elder
brother Walter to perpetuate the name of the author of "Wa verley." Walter was six feet one, and as handsome a fellow as
ever put foot in a stirrup. He married, but died at the Cape
of Good Hope, in 1847, without issue. Lieutenant-Colonel Sir
Walter Scott, Bart., was succeeded by Walter Scott Lockhart,
a cornet in the 16th Lancers, the only son of the editor of the
Quarterly Review, and the only grandson of the great author.
He, too, passed away childless, many years ago, and was suc ceeded by his sister Charlotte, wife of James Hope, the eminent
parliamentary counsel, who took the name of Scott on the
death of his brother-in-law Walter Scott Lockhart. Mary
Monica Hope Scott, a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl, whose next
birthday will occur onl the 5th of October, when she will be
seventeen years of age, is the sole survivor of the Scotts of
Abbotsford, her mother having passed away, a few summers
since, to join two of her children who preceded her to
'" Those everlasting gardens
Where angels walk and seraphs are the wardens,"
leaving this fair young girl as the only representative of all
that noble race. Mr. Hope Scott has since married a daughter
of the Duke of Norfolk, and erected the Romish chapel, he and
his wife being members of that Church. Miss Scott, the greatgrandchild of Sir Walter by the female side, is the heiress of
Abbotsford house and estate, her father being merely the administrator, in respect to the property, at present. Should
Mary Monica marry, her husband must take the name of Scott;
and, should she die without issue, then the property, but not
the title, which is now extinct, will revert to the nephews of
Sir Walter, sons of his elder brother Thomas, who reside in
Canada. Thus, although there is no hope of founding a family
in the direct male line, there may yet exist a long line of
Scotts of Abbotsford.
Strange and sad is the fatality which has attended the
family of the modern Shakespeare. Sir Walter's brothers all
died young. His sons and daughters were summoned early to
the silent land. Lockhart, his gifted son-in-law, died brokenhearted, in 1854; and Scott's daughter-in-law, the pretty heiress of Lochore, has also gone to the mysterious realm whence
no traveller returns. Let us hope that the surviving scion of
the great minstrel's race may be long spared, that she may hand
down to posterity the name and the features of the distinguished Scotchman whose presence was so dear to the generation who knew and revered him, and whose genius is one of
the brightest inheritances of his native land!
TABLE-TALK.
HE revival of comedy in our New York theatres is a subject for
congratulation, although we cannot rest assured that the reform
is permanent. New-Yorkers are probably the most inveterate theatre goers existing, but it may be questioned whether any real love for the
drama exists among them. As a rule our people like excitement, and
if a gaudy spectacle, a salacious ballet, or a spicy comedy, can supply
it, they are content to accept either the one or the other, satisfied if
for the time being they are amused. Comedy is now up, and the bur lesque down, in the sort of theatrical see-saw that continually occurs
with us, simply because the public appetite is jaded with the latter,
and seeks other fields for entertainment. The few who really like
good comedy, as an intellectual amusement, may congratulate them selves, however, upon the shifting changes in the public likings, as they
serve, at least, to bring their favorite performances round to them in
due time. At the present writing we are enjoying Mr. Jefferson at
Booth's, Mr. Owens at Wallack's, and, at the elegant little Fifth Ave nue Theatre, a new comedy of Mr. Robertson's, entitled "Play." Mr.
Owens is now playing his famous part of Solon Shingle, but this per formance, although highly artistic, is not a pleasing one. An equally
excellent and much more agreeable rendition is that of JTohn Unit, in
Mrs. Bateman's comedy of "Self." This character springs from those
traditions of the stage which exact some peculiar and often-repeated
whimsicality as necessary to a humorous character. There is, of course,
more artifice than art in creations of this kind; there is no attempt at
close fidelity to Nature: to build up something very quaint and eccen tric is the sole purpose. But these characteristics, like those of many
of Mr. Dickens's characters, are often very enjoyable. And it is cer tain that Mr. Unit's short, crisp, "It don't pay, sir; no, sir, it don't
pay, sir," gives a pungent relish to the character, without which half
its comic force would be lost. Mr. Owens has a great deal of the
breadth and crusty flavor of the old school of acting-a school rapidly
passing away, to give place to the accurate, realistic niceties of the
new or French method-and this makes a piece of acting like that
of John Unit peculiarly satisfactory to those whose affections still
cling around an art enriched by the graces of Munden and Liston,
and more recently by those of Burton, Blake, and Placide. Mrs. Bate man's comedy of "Self," however, exhibits, by the side of Mr. Robert son's comedy of "Play," the singular clumsiness that marks almost all
our American plays. Mr. Robertson has caught more successfully
than any other English dramatist the skilful dexterity of the French
writers. His plots are deftly woven; his characters and situations
happily conceived. His plays are always delightful little transcripts
from Nature, as delicate and fresh as a newly-culled bouquet. "Play"
is very charmingly acted at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, where Mr. Daly,
the manager, has gathered an exceedingly good little company. The
theatre is small, but elegant, and one would suppose that New York
could always fill so small a house as this with genuine lovers of
high comedy. It is true, Wallack's is its formidable rival, and will
be more so the coming season than ever, inasmuch as it is to restore to us young New York's great favorite, Madeline Henriques
(now Mrs. Jennings), and is promising a number of new English comedies; but the little Fifth Avenue drawing-room-for this it is, more
than a theatre-with dramas as happily rendered as the comedy of
" Play" is, can scarcely fail to secure the comparatively small patronage
it requires. Were we all really lovers of the drama, did we understand
its aim, admire its better manifestations, discriminate in our appreciation; were there, in short, a genuine, well-seated taste for what is truly
elegant and refining in pure comedy, there are enough theatre-goers in
the town to support a dozen such bijou houses as the Fifth Avenue.
Before the days of jockey-hats and chignons, a certain grade
of young women in New York was always distinguished by wearing a
green veil. This appendage could be seen fluttering in the wind along
our streets in great numbers, at about seven o'clock in the morning,
and at about six in the evening. It was worn almost exclusively by
shop-girls and working-women, and very few in either class were ever
seen without it. It came to be a sort of distinctive badge, indicating
almost invariably the rank and condition of the wearer. Usually
worn over the face, it gave a softness, delicacy, and modesty to the
features, that notably added to their other charms. Poets recognized
it as an institution, and addressed verses to it. Story-writers wove
it into their romances, and thrilled the whole heart of girldom by the
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