George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor
George Hillard, Ed.

He lives in a style of considerable elegance in the city¹ . . . . . Sophia Scott is a remarkable girl, about eighteen or nineteen, with great simplicity and naturalness of manners, not a remarkable degree of talent, and yet full of enthusiasm; with tact in everything, a lover of old ballads, a Jacobite; and, in short, in all respects, such a daughter as Scott ought to have and ought to be proud of. And he is proud of her, as I saw again and again when he could not conceal it.

One evening, after dinner, he told her to take her harp and play five or six ballads he mentioned to her, as a specimen of the different ages of Scottish music. I hardly ever heard anything of the kind that moved me so much. And yet, I imagine, many sing better; but I never saw such an air and manner, such spirit and feeling, such decision and power. . . . . I was so much excited, that I turned round to Mr. Scott and said to him, probably with great emphasis, ‘I never heard anything so fine’; and he, seeing how involuntarily I had said it, caught me by the hand, and replied, very earnestly, ‘Everybody says so, sir,’ but added in an instant, blushing a little, ‘but I must not be too vain of her.’

I was struck, too, with another little trait in her character and his, that exhibited itself the same evening. Lady Hume asked her to play Rob Roy, an old ballad. A good many persons were present, and she felt a little embarrassed by the recollection of how much her father's name had been mentioned in connection with this strange Highlander's; but, as upon all occasions, she took the most direct means to settle her difficulties;. . . . she ran across the room to her father, and, blushing pretty deeply, whispered to him. ‘Yes, my dear,’ he said, loud enough to be heard, ‘play it, to be sure, if you are asked, and Waverley and the Antiquary, too, if there be any such ballads.’²

One afternoon, after I had become more acquainted with them, he asked me to come and dine, and afterwards go to the theatre and hear Rob Roy,—a very good piece made out of his novel, and then playing in Edinburgh with remarkable success. It was a great treat, for he took his whole family, and now saw it himself for the first time. He did not attempt to conceal his delight during the whole performance, and when it was over, said to me, ‘That's fine, sir; I think that is very fine’; and then looked up at me with one of his