and curiosity they contained, that I retain
a very confused and imperfect recollection of what I saw and heard. It
was a strong proof of his good-nature that in showing the many works of
art and relics of antiquity he had continued to accumulate and arrange
with so much taste and skill, he should have been at such pains to point
out the merits and relate the history of most of them to one so
incapable of appreciating their value. But he never allowed one to feel
their own deficiencies, for he never appeared to be aware of them
himself.

[1] One of Miss Ferrier's characters in her novel of _The Inheritance._

It was in the quiet of a small domestic circle I had again an
opportunity of enjoying the society of Sir Walter Scott, and of
witnessing, during the ten days I remained, the unbroken serenity of his
temper, the unflagging cheerfulness of his spirits, and the unceasing
courtesy of his manners. I had been promised a quiet time, else I should
not have gone; and indeed the state of the family was a sufficient
guarantee against all festivities. Mrs. Lockhart was confined to bed
by severe indisposition, while Mr. Lockhart was detained in London
by the alarming illness of their eldest boy, and both Captain Scott and
his brother were absent. The party, therefore, consisted only of Sir
Walter and Miss Scott, Miss Macdonald Buchanan (who was almost one of
the family), and myself. Being the only stranger, I consequently came in
for a larger share of my amiable host's time and attention than I should
otherwise have been entitled to expect. Many a pleasant tale and amusing
anecdote I might have had to relate had I written down half of what I
daily heard; but I had always an invincible repugnance to playing the
_reporter_ and taking down people's words under their own roof. Every day
Sir Walter was ready by one o'clock to accompany us either in driving or
walking, often in both, and in either there was the same inexhaustible
flow of legendary lore, romantic incident, apt quotation, curious or
diverting story; and sometimes old ballads were recited, commemorative
of some of the localities through which he passed. Those who had seen
him only amidst the ordinary avocations of life, or even doing the
honours of his own table, could scarcely have conceived the fire and
animation of his countenance at such times, when his eyes seemed
literally to kindle, and even (as some one has remarked) to change their
colour and become a sort of d