In Sinclair’s “Old Times and Distant Places,” a characteristic story is related by Mr. Guthrie Wright, one of Scott’s friends: “I called one day,” he says, “at the Edinburgh Post Office, and began to read in the lobby a letter from Lady Abercorn, in which she gave an answer to some arguments I had stated to her in proof that Sir Walter was the author of ‘Waverley’; while thus employed I stumbled on Sir Walter himself. He immediately inquired about whom I was reading so busily. ‘About _you_,’ I replied, and put the letter into his hands. I soon observed him blush as red as scarlet, and recollected that Lady Abercorn in her letter had said, ‘I am quite sure you are wrong, for Sir Walter Scott declared to me _upon his honour_ that he was not the author of “Waverley.”’ On reading this, Sir Walter exclaimed, ‘I am sure I never said so, I never pledged my honour—she is quite mistaken.’ Then, perceiving that he had thus betrayed himself, he stammered out some unintelligible sentence, and then continued: ‘Well, Mr. Wright, it is a very curious question, who can be the author of these novels. Suppose we take a walk round the Calton Hill, and lay our heads together to find him out.’ We proceeded arm-in-arm, and I said, ‘I think that we can soon so completely hedge in the author that he cannot escape us.’ ‘Well, then,’ said Sir Walter, ‘how would you hedge him in?’ I replied, ‘You will agree with me that the author of “Waverley,” whoever he may be, must be a lawyer?’ ‘True, it is evident he must be a lawyer.’ ‘You will also admit that he must be an antiquary?’ ‘No doubt he must be an antiquary.’ ‘He must also be of Jacobite connections?’ ‘Certainly, he must have Jacobite propensities.’ ‘He must also have a strong turn for poetry?’ ‘Yes, he must be something of a poet.’ I next assigned some reasons why he must be rather more than forty years of age, and then added, ‘Now, among our friends in the Parliament House, let us consider how many there are who, besides being lawyers, poets, antiquaries, and of Jacobite connections, are rather more than forty years of age.’ ‘Well,’ says Sir Walter, ‘what do you think of Cranstoun?’ I gave reasons for setting aside Lord Cranstoun’s pretensions, adverting particularly to his want of humour; and then Sir Walter, seeing that he himself must inevitably come next, unloosed his arm and said, ‘Mr. Wright, the author of “Waverley,” whoever he may be, gets people to buy his books without a name; and he would be a greater fool than I think he is, were he to give a name. Good morning.’”