The delightful thing to remember is that Scott, who was not by nature a lover of cats, granted to Hinse a fair share of friendship. He was wont to say that his growing esteem for cats in general, and for Hinse in particular, was a sign of old age, of chimney-corner life,—dogs having been his boon companions in the vigorous years of manhood. Maida is a name to conjure by, and there is nothing in the wide world of English letters more touching than that first lament for Abbotsford, when the clouds were gathering fast, and the hopes of his heart were broken. "I feel my dogs' feet on my knees. I hear them whining and seeking me everywhere."
Yet Hinse lorded it over the great hound with all the arrogance of his race, and no one enjoyed more than Sir Walter such superb and unwarranted effrontery. Soon after the coming of Maida, he wrote in high glee to Joanna Baillie:—
"I have added a most romantic inmate to my family,—a large bloodhound, allowed to be the finest dog of the kind in Scotland; perfectly gentle, affectionate and good-natured, and the darling of all the children. I had him a present from Glengarry, who has refused the breed to people of the very first rank. He is between the deer-greyhound and mastiff, with a shaggy mane like a lion; and always sits beside me at dinner, his head as high
