them for a time, and then joined us, with countenances full of health and glee. Sophia, the eldest, was the most lively and joyous, having much of her father's varied spirit in conversation, and seeming to catch excitement from his words and looks. Ann was of a quieter mood, rather silent, owing, in some measure, no doubt, to her being some years younger.

"At dinner, Scott had laid by his half-rustic dress, and appeared clad in black. The girls, too, in completing their toilet, had twisted in their hair the sprigs of purple heather which they had gathered on the hill-side, and looked all fresh and blooming from their breezy walk.

"Scott was full of anecdote and conversation during dinner. He made some admirable remarks upon the Scottish character, and spoke strongly in praise of the quiet, orderly, honest conduct of his neighbors, which one would hardly expect, said he, from the descendants of moss trooper borderers, in a neighborhood famed in old times for brawl and feud, and violence of all kinds. He said he had, in his official capacity of sheriff, administered the law for a number of years, during which there had been very few trials. The old feuds, and local interests, and rivalries, and animosities of the Scotch, however, still slept, he said, in their ashes, and might easily be roused.

"In the morning, Scott was occupied for some time, correcting proof-sheets, which he had received by the mail. The novel of Rob Roy was, at that time, in the press, and I supposed them to be the proof-sheets of that work. The authorship of the Waverly

novels was still a matter of conjecture and uncertainty; though few doubted their being written by Scott. One proof to me of his being the author was that he never adverted to them.

"It is time, however, to draw this rambling narrative to a close. Several days were passed by me in the way I have attempted to describe, in almost constant, familiar and joyous conversation with Scott. It was as if I were admitted to a social communion with Shakspeare, for it was one of a kindred, if not equal genius. Every night I retired with my mind filled with delightful recollections of the day, and every morning I rose with the certainty of new enjoyment. The days thus spent, I shall ever look back to as among the very happiest of my life; for I was conscious at the time of being happy."

It was a few years subsequent to this, that is, in the summer of 1824, that the writer of these pages became acquainted with Sir Walter. The first time I saw him, was in the Court of Sessions. He was

seated at a small table, his large and massive form bent quite over it, while he was sedulously engaged in writing. I saw the side of his face, and knew him at once, by the likenesses I had seen. He was here in his capacity of clerk of the court-the white-wigged members of which sat in a high seat, railed off from the room. Here was Scott, the mighty man of the age, discharging clerical duties to a bench of portentous judges, whose wigs were objects of almost as much consideration as their heads!

Being introduced to Scott, he arose from the table, and I was struck with the robustness of his figure

and appearance. He was more than six feet high, deep and broad chested, his head of remarkable height and small circumference. His eyebrow was projecting, and hedged with coarse, reddish gray hair; his eye was deep-set, small and piercing; his features were coarse, but his expression sagacious and keen. The skin of his face was coarse and dappled with freckles. His voice was deep and rough, but hearty. His speech smacked of the broad Scottish dialect.

I saw him frequently afterwards. On one occasion, I met him at the house of his son-in-law, Mr. Lockhart, then living in Edinburgh, a lawyer of high standing, and since renowned for his literary works, which had already attracted general attention. Nothing could be more quiet and simple than Sir Walter's manners. He abounded in anecdote, relating his stories with the least possible ostentation.

He spoke of Miss Edgeworth, and related an amusing scene which took place upon her first introduction to Abbotsford. A wild man, from the Highlands, had for some reason gone thither, and Sir Walter had taken so much notice of him as to entertain him, and at evening requested him to sing a Gaelic song. The man consented, but required the whole party to sit down in a circle upon the floor, in the dining-room, when he commenced his strain with truly stentorian lungs. While all, including Sir Walter, were engaged in this way, Miss Edgeworth was announced and introduced into the room!

Sir Walter spoke of several American writers; of Irving, whom he claimed to have introduced to Mur

ray, the London publisher, thus setting him forward in the path of fashion and success; of Charles Brockden Brown, the author of Wieland-whom he regarded as possessing a genius superior to his model, Godwin; and of Cooper, whose "Pilot" had been recently published, and which Sir Walter had just read. He expressed great admiration of the work; and when I told him that Mr. Cooper published nothing under his own name, until after he was thirty years of age, he remarked—" A man is generally foolish who does otherwise."

We sat at the dinner table for some hours after the ladies had withdrawn. The news of Byron's death had just reached Edinburgh, and the noble poet became the subject of conversation. Sir Walter spoke of him with great feeling; indeed, with a melancholy and touching interest. When we went to the drawing-room, Mrs. Lockhart was requested to sing. She was a small, lively lady, rather handsome, and of much grace and graciousness of manner. She sung several Scottish songs, accompanying herself upon the harp. Sir Walter seemed to relish the songs greatly; he beat time vigorously with his lame foot, and struck into the chorusses-but neither in tune nor time. His heart was affected by the sentiment of the song and the music, though his defective ear could not accurately appreciate the measure or the melody. His eyes often rested with fondness upon his daughter, who gave him back a look of recognised and returned affection. These beautiful lines were brought forcibly to my mind by the

scene:

"Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven:
And if there be a human tear,

From passion's dross refined and clear—
A tear so limpid and so meek-

It would not stain an angel's cheek-
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head."

I was most agreeably impressed with Sir Walter's manners; he was kind and condescending to me, and his demeanor toward Mr. Lockhart was that of a father to a son. Charles Scott, then a youth, and since dead, was present, and having been recently at a school in Wales, one of the party present, a great mimic, gave us an address in Welsh. He stood in a chair, making the bald, broad pate of Mr. William Blackwood, the bookseller and publisher of the magazine, his desk, and one of Mrs. Lockhart's music books, his notes. The whole scene was amusing, and Sir Walter joined very heartily in the laugh.

Mrs. Lockhart told me some pleasing anecdotes of her father. It seems she was much in the habit of taking long walks with him, when they lived at Abbotsford. Scott had himself a knack of recognising horse-shoes, and he had learned to know, at sight, the track of every horse in the neighborhood, by the size and shape of the impression his shoe made in the path. This art he had also taught Mrs. Lockhart.

On one occasion, Southey, the poet, had come to pay Sir Walter a visit at Abbotsford. The two were walking at a distance of some three or four miles from Abbotsford, when coming to a bridle path, Scott saw