Scott had wickedly christened them) trotting from their
pasture to lay their noses over the paling, and, as
Washington Irving says of the old white-haired hedger with
the Parisian snuff-box, 'to have a pleasant crack wi' the
laird.'"[27]

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