It is a cheerful, comfortable room, marked by the taste and culture of Edinburgh literary society at its best, with the elegance of fashion. A few portraits of Scots men of letters and action hang on the wall—Allan Ramsay, Robert Fergusson, James VI., Robert Bruce; in addition there are books and a pair or two of claymores, and two or three prints, including one by Bunbury of a dead soldier and his dog. On the mantelpiece is a bust of David Hume. The chill Scots winter day is brightened by a large fire in the grate; outside is snow.
Folding doors are open to a room beyond, where a luncheon party has been taking place. The ladies have left the table, and are seated round the room before us. They are the hostess, Mrs. Ferguson, the Duchess of Gordon, Mrs. Montgomery, Miss Taylor, and with them a boy of fifteen, the young Walter Scott. Men’s voices can be heard from time to time.
Another lady, young and beautiful, Mrs. Stewart of Stair, is seated at the piano, singing to her own accompaniment.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,