was still a matter of conjecture and uncertainty; though few doubted
their being principally written by Scott. One proof to me of his being
the author, was that he never adverted to them. A man so fond of
anything Scottish, and anything relating to national history or local
legend, could not have been mute respecting such productions, had they
been written by another. He was fond of quoting the works of his
contemporaries; he was continually reciting scraps of border songs, or
relating anecdotes of border story. With respect to his own poems, and
their merits, however, he was mute, and while with him I observed a
scrupulous silence on the subject.

I may here mention a singular fact, of which I was not aware at the
time, that Scott was very reserved with his children respecting his own
writings, and was even disinclined to their reading his romantic poems.
I learnt this, some time after, from a passage in one of his letters to
me, adverting to a set of the American miniature edition of his poems,
which, on my return to England, I forwarded to one of the young ladies.
"In my hurry," writes he, "I have not thanked you, in Sophia's name,
for the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I
am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted
with much more of papa's folly than she would otherwise have learned;
for I have taken special care they should never see any of these things
during their earlier years."

To return to the thread of my narrative. When Scott had got through his
brief literary occupation, we set out on a ramble. The young ladies
started to accompany us, but they had not gone far, when they met a
poor old laborer and his distressed family, and turned back to take
them to the house, and relieve them.