My father and I could therefore only take short drives with Mrs. Scott,
while the bard (about one o'clock:) mounted his pony, and accompanied by
Mr. Terry the comedian, his own son Walter, and our young relative
George Kinloch, sallied forth for a long morning's ride in spite of wind
and rain. In the evening Mr. Terry commonly read some scenes from a play,
to which Mr. Scott listened with delight, though every word must have
been quite familiar to him, as he occasionally took a part in the
dialogue impromptu; at other times he recited old and awesome ballads
from memory, the very names of which I have forgot. The night preceding
our departure had blown a perfect hurricane; we were to leave
immediately after breakfast, and while the carriage was preparing Mr.
Scott stepped to a writing-table and wrote a few hurried lines in the
course of a very few minutes; these he put into my hand as he led me to
the carriage; they were in allusion to the storm, coupled with a
friendly adieu, and are to be found in my autograph album.
"The mountain winds are up, and proud
O'er heath and hill careering loud;
The groaning forest to its power
Yields all that formed our summer bower.
The summons wakes the anxious swain,
Whose tardy shocks still load the plain,
And bids the sleepless merchant weep,
Whose richer hazard loads the deep.
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