"
"It's a fine old story," said he, "and might be wrought up into a
capital tale."
Scott continued on, leading the way as usual, and limping up the wizard
glen, talking as he went, but, as his back was toward me, I could only
hear the deep growling tones of his voice, like the low breathing of an
organ, without distinguishing the words, until pausing, and turning his
face toward me, I found he was reciting some scrap of border minstrelsy
about Thomas the Rhymer. This was continually the case in my ramblings
with him about this storied neighborhood. His mind was fraught with the
traditionary fictions connected with every object around him, and he
would breathe it forth as he went, apparently as much for his own
gratification as for that of his companion.
"Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,
But had its legend or its song."
His voice was deep and sonorous, he spoke with a Scottish accent, and
with somewhat of the Northumbrian "burr," which, to my mind, gave a
Doric strength and simplicity to his elocution. His recitation of
poetry was, at times, magnificent.
I think it was in the course of this ramble that my friend Hamlet, the
black greyhound, got into a bad scrape.
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