outside, was placed in my hands. I had had a great curiosity about this identical performance, for some years,—I recollected its appearance the mo- ment saw it, and turned, with no little satisfac- tion, to gratify my curiosity. In the winter of 1823, I was sitting in my quiet parlour, engaged with one of the Waverly Novels, and the sleet and rain, which were battering against my win- dow, added, no doubt, tothe selfish and Lucre- tian comforts of my situation. at the outer door, startled me from my delightful repose, and conjecture went speedily to work as to who could be my visitor at that untimely hour. My wife looked almost alarmed, and a certain bustle which soon after took place in the lobby did not tend to quiet her apprehensions. Ina short time the parlour door was opened, and a stranger walked very composedly in. He wasa tall man, with his hair slightly grizzled, fine bold grey eyes,and a brow of uncommon height. I am (I may say, in a parenthesis) so far a disciple of Lavater, as to place great confidence in a man’s genius, from the size and shape of his forehead. The stranger’s rank was dubious,—he might be a gentleman, though, at first-sight, he looked more like a substantial farmer, than one of the more aristocratic classes of society. His man- ners, however, were the easiest I had ever seen. In a few words, he told me he had thrown himself on my hospitality, as he had been overtaken by the storm, and added, that he always preferred the society in the parsonage to that which he might be thrown into at an ina. I welcomed him to my “humble shed,” and, with a sigh, laid aside my book, just when Jeanie Deans was presented to the Duke of Argyle. He was not wet; he had put his horses into my stable, and gave sundry hints that the sooner supper was produced the better. I perceived, im a moment, from the sound of his voice, that he was an honest Caledonian, and the Doric simplicity of his dialect added a great zest to the enjoyment of his conversation. His information was exact and various. On all subjects he seemed equally well prepared, and I was very soon led not to regret the interruption which his presence had put to my perusal, even of the Heart of Midlothian. I asked him, in the course of conversation, if he had read the work, and, to my surprise, he replied in the negative. Of all the other books, by the same author, he professed an equal degree of ignorance. “Never,” he said, ‘have I read ony o’ these printed books; they Wad be a great waste o’ time, for I’m thinken I ken as muckle about the Heart o’ Mid louden as ony body could tell me.” I remarked a very odd expression in my wife’s countenance after these remarks, and, when I went out to make some extra preparation for our unexpected guest, she took an opportunity of following me, and stating her perfect conviction that the stranger was no other than the Great Unknown. I was somewhat staggered by her suspicion —I had seen prints of the distinguished person, who was at that time only suspected to be the author, and his resemblance to our nameless guest was striking— the same fine deep eye, the same magnificent brow. I went down and brought out a bottle of Champagne from the cellar, on the chance of its really being the Shakspeare of the North. His appetite, when supper was laid before him, was the most wonderful exhibition I had ever witnessed, but it in no respect interfered with his conversation. Plateful after plateful disappeared with the most marvellous celerity; story after story gave us food for laughter or admiration, and, in short, I must confess I was, at last, firmly of my wife’s opinion. I asked him for a contribution, whether in prose or verse, for the box, which was in the room at the time; and immediately after the cloth was removed, while preparations were making for an attack on the brandy and water, he took up a half sheet of paper, wrote something on it, and slipped it through the chink, without saying a word. He now proceeded to his potations, which, I was fairly forced to acknowledge, left his previous exertions, in the eating department, completely in the shade. Whether it was that my pride, on having such a guest, deprived me of my usual prudence, or the agitation of my spirits produced a speedier effect, I don’t know, but I must candidly confess, that for the last half-dozen tumblers which he took, I had lost all relish or understanding of his conversation; but at length, in a delirium of delight, I moved off to my bed, prepared to boast, to my dying day, that my table had been honoured by the presence of the author of “Ivanhoe” and “Waverley.” Next morning, my disappointment was as great as had been my delight. The stranger had gone off, almost before the dawn, and left no token by which he could be recognised. I continued in a state of great uncertainty for a length of time,—I became very cross, and uncertain in my temper, and turned off my butler on suspi- cion of stealing half-a-dozen silver spoons; I made many inquiries as to the movements of Sir Walter, but could hear ho exact tidings of when he had been in England. At last,I began to give up all hopes, unless in the scrap of paper he had put into the box, and looked forward to the day of its being opened with no little anxiety. I accordingly unrolled the paper, with trembling hands, and read the following words:—
“Sir,—I am much obligated to ye for the gude enterteenment, and also as I am in want o’ some siller; the noo havin’ just come out o’ the Heart o’ Mid louden that you and yer wife is aye clacking about, I hae help it mysel to yer saxe bits o’ spoons, and will ever remain yer dettor for the same. James Murpocuson.”
There was, you may well suppose, no lack of laughter on this unfortunate discovery; for though I had never openly stated that I had had so ce- lebrated a man as my guest, I confess I had given the neighbourhood to understand, by implication, that he had honoured me with a visit. The laughter was still further increased by the information which one of the company bestowed, that the Heart o’ Mid Lothian, from which my mysterious friend had just come out, was nothing
more or less than the common prison of Edinburgh.