nding the modest language of his autobiography,
the progress which had been made in his intellectual education was
extraordinary; and it is impossible to doubt that his hitherto almost
sole tutoress, Miss Jenny Scott, must have been a woman of tastes and
acquirements very far above what could have been often found among
Scotch ladies, of any but the highest class at least, in that day. In
the winter of 1777, she and her charge spent some few weeks--not happy
weeks, the Memoir hints them to have been--in George's Square,
Edinburgh; and it so happened, that during this little interval, Mr.
and Mrs. Scott received in their domestic circle a guest capable of
appreciating, and, fortunately for us, of recording in a very striking
manner the remarkable development of young Walter's faculties. Mrs.
Cockburn, mentioned by him in his Memoir as the authoress of the
modern Flowers of the Forest, born a Rutherford, of Fairnalie, in
Selkirkshire, was distantly related to the poet's mother, with whom
she had through life been in habits of intimate friendship. This
accomplished woman was staying at Ravelston, in the vicinity of
Edinburgh, a seat of the Keiths of Dunnottar, nearly related to Mrs.
Scott, and to herself. With some of that family she spent an evening
in George's Square. She chanced to be writing next day to Dr. Douglas,
the well-known and much respected minister of her native parish,
Galashiels; and her letter, of which the Doctor's son has kindly given
me a copy, contains the following passage:--

"Edinburgh, Saturday night, 15th of 'the gloomy month when the
people of England hang and drown themselves.'

... "I last night supped in Mr. Walter Scott's. He has the most
extraordinary genius of a boy I ever saw. He was reading a poem
to his mother when I went in. I made him read on; it was the
description of a shipwreck. His passion rose with the storm. He
lifted his eyes and hands. 'There's the {p.075} mast gone,'
says he; 'crash it goes!--they will all perish!' After his
agitation, he turns to me. 'That is too melancholy,' says he; 'I
had better read you something more amusing.' I preferred a little
chat, and asked his opinion of Milton and other books he was
reading, which he gave me wonderfully. One of his observations
was, 'How strange it is that Adam, just new come into the world,
should know everything--that must be the poet's fancy,' says he.
But