are as greedy as Italian cicerones. They look upon the English as so
many walking money-bags; the more they are shaken and poked, the more
they will leave behind them."

I told him that he had a great deal to answer for on that head, since
it was the romantic associations he had thrown by his writings over so
many out-of-the-way places in Scotland, that had brought in the influx
of curious travellers.

Scott laughed, and said he believed I might be in some measure in the
right, as he recollected a circumstance in point. Being one time at
Glenross, an old woman who kept a small inn, which had but little
custom, was uncommonly officious in her attendance upon him, and
absolutely incommoded him with her civilities. The secret at length
came out. As he was about to depart, she addressed him with many
curtsies, and said she understood he was the gentleman that had written
a bonnie book about Loch Katrine. She begged him to write a little
about their lake also, for she understood his book had done the inn at
Loch Katrine a muckle deal of good.

On the following day I made an excursion with Scott and the young
ladies to Dryburgh Abbey. We went in an open carriage, drawn by two
sleek old black horses, for which Scott seemed to have an affection, as
he had for every dumb animal that belonged to him. Our road lay through
a variety of scenes, rich in poetical and historical associations,
about most of which Scott had something to relate. In one part of the
drive, he pointed to an old border keep, or fortress, on the summit of
a naked hill, several miles off, which he called Smallholm Tower, and a
rocky knoll on which it stood, the "Sandy Knowe crags." It was a place,
he said, peculiarly dear to him, from the recollections of childhood.