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treme abundance in which he revels and riots, and versed with the living and the dead, and let them of the fertility of the imagination from which it is tell their story their own way; and by borrowing supplied, that he is at all times a little apt to overdo of others, has enriched his own genius with evereven those things which he does best. His most lasting variety, truth, and freedom. He has taken striking and highly-coloured characters appear his materials from the original, authentic sources, rather too often, and go on rather too long. It is in large concrete masses, and has not tampered astonishing, indeed, with what spirit they are sup-with, or too much frittered them away. ported, and how fresh and animated they are to the only amanuensis of truth and history. It is the very last; but still there is something too impossible to say how fine his writings in consemuch of them, and they would be more waited for quence are, unless we could describe how fine and welcomed, if they were not quite so lavish of nature is. All that portion of the history of his their presence. It was reserved for Shakspeare country that he has touched upon (wide as the alone to leave all his characters as new and un- scope is), the manners, the personages, the events, worn as he found them, and to carry Falstaff the scenery, lives over again in his volumes. Nothrough the business of three several plays, and thing is wanting-the illusion is complete. There leave us as greedy of his sayings as at the moment is a hurtling in the air, a trampling of feet upon of his first introduction. It is no light praise to the the ground, as these perfect representations of author before us, that he has sometimes reminded human character, or fanciful belief, come throngus of this, and, as we have before observed, of ing back upon the imagination. We will merely other inimitable excellencies in that most gifted of recal a few of the subjects of his pencil to the all inventors. reader's recollection, for nothing we could add by way of note or commendation, could make the

He is above all things national and Scottish, and never seems to feel the powers of a giant ex-impression more vivid. cept when he touches his native soil. His countrymen alone, therefore, can have a full sense of his merits, or a perfect relish of his excellencies; and those only, indeed, of them, who have mingled, as he has done, pretty freely with the lower orders, and made themselves familiar not only with their language, but with the habits and traits of character of which it then only becomes expressive. It is one thing to understand the meaning of words, as they are explained by other words in a glossary or dictionary, and another to know their value, as expressive of certain feelings and humours in the speakers to whom they are native, and as signs both of temper and condition among those who are familiar with their import.

"There is (first and foremost, because the earliest of our acquaintance), the Baron of Bradwardine, stately, kind-hearted, whimsical, and pedantic; and Flora Mac-Ivor (whom even we forgive for her jacobitism), the fierce Vich Jan Vohr, and Evan Dhu, constant in death, and Davie Gellatley, roasting his eggs, or turning his rhymes with restless volubility, and the two stag-hounds that met Waverley, as fine as ever Titian painted, or Paul Veronese:-then there is old Balfour of Burley, brandishing his sword and his Bible with fire-eyed fury, trying a fall with the insolent, gigantic Bothwell, at the 'change-house, and vanquishing him at the noble battle of Loudon-hill; there is Bothwell himself, drawn to the life, We shall make no apology to our readers for proud, cruel, selfish, profligate-but with the introducing here, the following animated deline-love-letters of the gentle Alice (written thirty ation of the author of Waverley, from the pen years before), and his verses to her memory, found of an acute critic.

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« Sir Walter, says this writer, « has found out that facts are better than fiction; that there is no romance like the romance of real life; and that can we but arrive at what men feel, do, and say, in striking and singular situations, the result will be more lively, audible, and full of vent, than the fine-spun cobwebs of the brain. Our author has conjured up the actual people he has to deal with, or as much as he could get of them, in 'their habits as they lived.' He has ransacked old chronicles, and poured the contents upon his page; he has squeezed out musty records; he has consulted way-faring pilgrims, bed-rid sibyls; he has invoked the spirits of the air; he has con

Mr Hazlitt, in the «Spirit of the Age.»

in his pocket after his death; in the same volume of Old Mortality, is that lone figure, like one in Scripture, of the woman sitting on the stone, at the turning to the mountain, to warn Burley that there is a lion in his path; and the fawning Claverhouse, beautiful as a panther, smooth-looking, blood-spotted: and the fanatics, Macbriar and Mucklewrath, crazed with zeal and sufferings: and the inflexible Morton, and the faithful Edith, who refused to 'give her hand to another, while her heart was with her lover in the deep and dead sea.' In The Heart of Mid-Lothian, we have Effie Deans (that sweet faded flower), and Jeanie, her more than sister, and old David Deans, the patriarch of St Leonard's Crags, and Butler, and Dumbiedikes, eloquent in his silence, and Mr Bartoline Saddletree, and his prudent helpmate,

and Porteous, swinging in the wind, and Madge Wildfire, full of finery and madness, and her ghastly mother. Again, there is Meg Merrilies, standing on her rock, stretched on her bier with 'her head to the east,' and Dirk Hatteraick (equal to Shakspeare's Master Barnardine), and Glossin, the soul of an attorney, and Dandie Dinmont, with his terrier-pack and his pony Dumple, and the fiery Colonel Mannering, and the modish old counsellor Pleydell, and Dominie Sampson: and Rob Roy (like the eagle in his eyrie), and Bailie Nicol Jarvie, and the inimitable Major Galbraith, Rashleigh Osbaldistone, and Die Vernon, the best of secret-keepers; and in the Antiquary, the ingenious Mr Oldbuck, and the old bedesman, Edie Ochiltree, and that preternatural figure of old Elspeth, a living shadow, in whom the lamp of life had been long extinguished, had it not been fed by remorse and thick-coming' recollections; and that striking picture of feudal tyranny and fiendish pride, the unhappy Earl of Glenallan; and the Black Dwarf, and his friend, Hobbie of the Heughfoot (the cheerful hunter), and his cousin Grace Armstrong, fresh and laugh- || ing like the morning; and the Children of the Mist, and the baying of the blood-hound, that tracks their steps at a distance (the hollow echoes are in our ears now), and Amy and her hapless love, and the villain Varney, and the deep voice of George of Douglas—and the iminoveable Balafré, and Master Oliver, the barber, in Quentin Durward—and the quaint humour of the Fortunes of Nigel, and the comic spirit of Peveril of the Peak-and the fine old English romance of Ivanhoe. What a list of names! What a host of associations! What a thing is human life! What a power is that of genius! What a world of thought and feeling is thus rescued from oblivion! How many hours of heartfelt satisfaction has our author given to the gay and thoughtless! How many sad hearts has he soothed in pain and solitude! It is no wonder that the public repay, with lengthened applause and gratitude, the pleasure they receive. He writes as fast as they can read, and he does not write himself down. He is always in the public eye, and we do not tire of him. His worst is better than any other person's best. His back-grounds (and his latter works are little else but back-grounds capitally made out), are more attractive than the principal and most complicated figures of other writers. His works (taken together) are almost like a new edition of human nature. This is indeed to be an author! The political bearing of the Scotch Novels has been a considerable recommendation to them. They are a relief to the mind, rarified as it has been with modern philosophy, and heated with ultra-radicalism. The candour of Sir Walter's

historic pen levels our bristling prejudices, and sees fair play between roundheads and cavaliers between protestant and papist. He is a writer reconciling all the diversities of human nature to the reader. He does not enter into the hostile distinctions of sects and parties, but treats of the strength or the infirmity of the human mind, of the virtues and vices of the human breast, as they are to be found blended in the whole race of mankind. Nothing can show more handsomely, or be more gallantly executed.»

« a

The Waverley novels were highly admired by Byron; he never travelled without them. They are,» said he to Captain Medwin one day, library in themselves-a perfect literary treasure. I could read them once a year with new pleasure.» During that morning he had been reading one of Sir Walter's novels, and delivered the following criticism : How difficult it is to say any thing new! Who was that voluptuary of antiquity who offered a reward for a new pleasure? Perhaps all nature and art could not supply a new idea. This page, for instance, is a

But let us see how

brilliant one; it is full of wit. much is original. This passage,» continued his lordship, « comes from Shakspeare; this bon mot from one of Sheridan's comedies; this observation from another writer; and yet the ideas are new moulded, and perhaps Scott was not aware of their being plagiarisms. It is a bad thing to have a good memory.. "I should not like to have you for a critic,» observed Captain Medwin. «Set a thief to catch a thief, was the reply.

On the death of the illustrious Byron, Sir Walter Scott evinced his candour and liberality of mind in the following tribute to his lordship's memory:

That mighty genius, which walked amongst men as something superior to ordinary mortality, and whose powers were beheld with wonder, and something approaching to terror, as if we knew not whether they were of good or of evil, is laid as soundly to rest as the poor peasant whose ideas never went beyond his daily task. The voice of just blame, and that of malignant censure, are at once silenced; and we feel almost as if the great luminary of heaven had suddenly disappeared from the sky, at the moment when every telescope was levelled for the examination of the spots which dimmed its brightness. It is not now the question what were Byron's faultswhat his mistakes: but how is the blank which he has left in British literature to be filled up? Not, we fear, in one generation, which, among many highly-gifted persons, has produced none who approach Byron in originality, the first attribute of genius. Only thirty-seven years oldso much already done for immortality—so much

time remaining, as it seemed to us short-sighted mortals, to maintain and to extend his fame, and to atone for errors in conduct and levities in composition: who will not grieve that such a race has been shortened, though not always keeping the straight path-such a light extinguished, though somtimes flaming to dazzle and to bewilder? One word on this ungrateful subject ere we quit it for ever.

« It was the same with his politics, which on several occasions assumed a tone menacing and contemptuous to the constitution of his country; while, in fact, he was in his own heart sufficiently sensible, not only of his privileges as a Briton, but of the distinction attending his high birth and rank, and was peculiarly sensitive of those shades which constitute what is termed the manners of a gentleman. Indeed, notwithstanding his having employed epigrams, and all the petty

better abstained from, he would have been found, had a collision taken place between the different parties in the state, exerting all his energies in defence of that to which he naturally belonged.

"We are not Byron's apologists, for now, alas! he needs none. His excellencies will now be universally acknowledged, and his faults (let us hope and believe) not remembered in his epitaph. It will be recollected what a part he has sustained in British literature since the first appearance of Childe Harold, a space of nearly sixteen years. There has been no reposing under the shade of his laurels, no living upon the resource of past reputation; none of those petty precautions which little authors call taking care of their fame. Byron let his fame take care of itself. His foot was always in the arena, his shield hung always in the lists; and although his own gigantic renown increased the difficulty of the struggle, since he could produce nothing, however great, which exceeded the public estimate of his genius, yet he advanced to the ho

The errors of Lord Byron arose neither from depravity of heart,—for Nature had not commit-war of wit, when such would have been much ted the anomaly of uniting to such extraordinary talents an imperfect moral sense,—nor from feelings dead to the admiration of virtue. No man had ever a kinder heart for sympathy, or a more open hand for the relief of distress; and no mind was ever more formed for the enthusiastic admiration of noble actions, provided he was convinced that the actors had proceeded on disinterested principles. But his wonderful genius was of a nature which disdained restraint, even when restraint was most wholesome. When at school, the tasks in which he excelled were those only which he undertook voluntarily; and his situation as a young man of rank, with strong passions, and in the uncontrolled enjoyment of considerable fortune, added to that impatience of strictness or coercion which was natural to him as an author; he refused to plead at the bar of criticism. As a man, he would not submit to be morally amenable to the tribunal of public opinion. Remonstrances from a friend, of whose intentions and kindness he was secure, had often great weight with him; but there were few whonourable contest again and again, and came alcould venture on a task so difficult. Reproof he endured with impatience, and reproach hardened him in his error; so that he often resembled the gallant war-steed, who rushes forward on the steel that wounds him. In the most painful crisis of his private life, he evinced this irritability and impatience of censure in such a degree, as almost to resemble the noble victim of the bull-fight, which is more maddened by the squibs, darts, and petty annoyances of the unworthy crowds beyond the lists, than by the lance of his nobler, and (so to speak) his more legitimate autagonist. In a word, much of that in which he erred was in bravado and scorn of his censors, and was done with the motive of Dryden's despot, to show his arbitrary power.' It is needless to say that his was a false and prejudicial view of such a contest; and, if the noble bard gained a sort of triumph, by compelling the world to read poetry, though mixed with baser matter, because it was his, he gave in return an unworthy triumph to the unworthy, beside deep sorrow to those whose applause, in his cooler moments, he most valued.

ways off with distinction, almost always with
complete triumph. As various in composition as
Shakspeare himself (this will be admitted by all
who are acquainted with his Don Juan), he has
embraced every topic in human life, and sounded
every string on the divine harp, from its slightest
to its most powerful and heart-astounding tones.
There is scarce a passion or a situation which
has escaped his pen; and he might be drawn, like
Garrick, between the weeping and the laughing
muse, although his most powerful efforts have
certainly been dedicated to Melpomene. His ge-
nius seemed as prolific as various.
The most
prodigal use did not exhaust his powers, but
seemed rather to increase their vigour. Neither
Childe Harold, nor any of the most beautiful of
his earlier tales, contain more exquisite morsels
of poetry than are to be found scattered through
the cantos of Don Juan, amidst verses which he
appears to have thrown off with an effort as
spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its leaves
to the wind. But that noble tree will never more
bear fruit or blossom! It has been cut down in
its strength, and the past is all that remains to

us of Byron. We can scarce reconcile ourselves to the idea-scarce think that the voice is silent for ever, which, bursting so often on our ear, was often heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes with regret, but always with the deepest interest:

All that's bright must fade,

The brightest still the fleetest.

with whom it appears he spends many an hour, but I was just thirty minutes too late! Sir Walter had been there, had told the painter some anecdotes which he assured me threw him into convulsions, and that he had been laughing ever since; and I believed him, for he was hardly out of a convulsion when I entered. DisappointedI proceeded to the Parliament-house (where Sir Walter sits as chief clerk to the Lord Commission. With a strong feeling of awful sorrow, we ers), and as soon as I found out my way into take leave of the subject. Death creeps upon court, I had the good luck to find the object of our most serious as well as upon our most idle my pursuit. I needed no monitor to point him employments; and it is a reflection solemn and out-I knew him instantly. I had never seen gratifying, that he found our Byron in no mo- him before in my life; but I had read some of ment of levity, but contributing his fortune, and his works, and, from the pictorial and ideal togehazarding his life, in behalf of a people only en-ther, I had formed in my mind his face exactlydeared to him by their past glories, and as fellow- and had I seen him hobbling in his favourite creatures suffering under the yoke of a heathen 'Prince's-street,' I should have known him to oppressor. To have fallen in a crusade for free-be Sir Walter Scott. I pushed on to the advodom and humanity, as in olden times, it would have been an atonement for the blackest crimes, and may in the present be allowed to expiate greater follies than even exaggerated calumny has propagated against Byron.»

cates' bench (a place reserved exclusively for the advocates), to be as near him as possible-there I had no right to be, certainly, but, much to the credit of Scotch manners, they saw I was a stranger-knew no better-and they suffered me to remain.-On first beholding Sir W. Scott, I felt all the veneration which is due to the good and the great. I confess I could have knelt down and

You

The first person on whom his Majesty George IV conferred a baronetage, was Sir Walter Scott; and in August, 1822, when the king honoured Edinburgh with a visit, Sir Walter acted as crou-worshipped him, though to man I never bent a pier, or vice-president, at a dinner given by the Lord Provost and corporation, to the royal guest. In the summier of 1825, Sir Walter paid a visit to Ireland, where he was most hospitably received by the sons of the Shamrock. During his stay in Dublin, he frequently visited the library adjoining St Patrick's cathedral; on one of these occasions the deputy librarian, who happened to be a collegian, having got into conversation with the (then) « Great Unknown,» wished to take him by surprise, and thereby prove his own dexterity. With this view he exclaimed, «Oh, Sir Walter, do you know that it is only lately I have had time to get through your Redgauntlet.» «Sir," replied Sir Walter, «I never met with such a book. The librarian stood rebuked, and said nothing.

The following lively description of Sir Walter's personal appearance was written by a gentleman who visited Edinburgh in 1825.

My departure from ➖➖➖➖was so sudden that I had no time to seek letters of introduction; and the Scotch are not naturally fond of introductions which only give them trouble; but I had resolved upon seeing Sir Walter Scott before I left Edinburgh, and, had Constable been open, I could have been at no loss, but his door was unfortunately shut. I contrived, however, to get an introduction to Mr ——, the historical painter, with whom I knew the poet was acquainted, and

knee. I shall endeavour to describe his person—
he is tall, five feet ten or cleven inches, rather
stout than otherwise, but not corpulent-appears
to be about sixty-is healthy, but lamed in one
of his legs, and walks with difficulty. His hair
is pure white, 'and, falling thinly over his ruddy
forehead, gives him a venerable aspect.
might fancy him the 'Village Preacher' of Oli-
ver Goldsmith, and his costume heightens the re-
semblance. His complexion is ruddy. His head
is singularly formed; uncommonly high from the
eye-brows to the crown, and tapers upwards,
somewhat in the conical form, but there is no
projection of forehead, the bump which philoso-
phers lay so much stress upon as being a sign of
great intellect. His eyes are small, and I think
dark-blue-you can seldom catch their expres-
sion, on account of the great projection of the
eye-brows; but when you do, the look is divine;
they express a mine of intellect, and a kind heart.
I wonder many who have seen him say,
his coun-
tenance is expressive of
shrewd cunning'-
there is no cunning in his looks-nothing but
goodness and genius. His manners are prepos-
sessing, and he is very accessible. I perceived,
whenever an advocate or law-man came to speak
with him, he took him kindly by the hand-and
then looked so kindly. The Scotch venerate him,
as well they may :-suum magnum ingenium ho-
norem illis facit.' I gazed on this extraordinary

It is not generally known that there was a poet of the name of Walter Scott, before the present celebrated bard. He lived about the middle of the seventeenth century, and describes himself as An old souldier and no scholler; And one that can write none

man until his image was indelibly engraven on that every circumstance derives a value from the my organs of vision; and, were I a port rait paint-person to whom it relates; but an apparently iner, I could now paint his likeness from recollec-significant anecdote often throws an entirely new tion. Observing I was a stranger, placed in the light on the history of the most admired works : advocates' seat, and no advocate, and appearing, the most noble actions, intellectual discoveries, I have no doubt, very curious, he gazed upon me or brilliant deeds, though they shed a broad and —we looked at each other, like poor Sterne and lasting lustre round those who have achieved the fair glover, for some time-it was curiosity them, occupy but a small portion of the life of in me, but condescension in him." an individual; and we are not unwilling to penetrate the dazzling glory, and to see how the remaining intervals are filled up-to look into the minor details, to detect incidental foibles, and to be satisfied what qualities they have in common with ourselves, as well as distinct from us, entitled to our pity, or raised above our imitation. The heads of great men, in short, are not all we want to get a sight of; we wish to add the limbs, the drapery, the back-ground. It is thus that, in the intimacy of retirement, we enjoy with them «< calm contemplation and poetic ease.» We see the careless smile play upon their expressive features; we hear the dictates of unstudied wisdom, or the sallies of sportive wit, fall without disguise from their lips; we see, in fine, how poets, and philosophers, and scholars, live, converse and behave.

But just the letters of his name.

On the death of his grandfather, Sir Robert
Scott, of Thirlstone, his father, having no means
to bring up his children, put this Walter to at-
tend cattle in the field; «but," says he, I gave
them the short cut at last, and left the kine in the
corn; and ever since that time, I have continued
a souldier abroad and at home. »
He left a poem
written at the age of seventy-three, dedicated to
two gentlemen of the name of Scott, which he
thus concludes:

Begone my book, stretch forth thy wings and fly,
Amongst the nobles and gentility;
Thou 'rt not to sell to scavengers and clowns,
But given to worthy persons of renown.

The number's few I've printed, in regard

My charges have been great, and I hope reward;

I caused not to print many above twelve score,

The dreadful crisis consequent on the commercial panic of 1825, which began with the bankers and ended with the booksellers, caused the failure of the house of Constable and Co. of Edinburgh, who were not only the publishers of our author's works, but with whom he was associated in business, as a sleeping partner. This disastrous event

And the printers are engaged that they shall print no necessarily removed the thin veil which had hi

more.

Some time since, at a private dinner-party, Sir Walter Scott, Mr H. Mackenzie,' and Mr Alison? happened to be present. In taking their seats, sans cérémonie, the baronet found himself placed between these two illustrious individuals. The relative position of these three celebrated characters soon attracted the attention of a gentleman present, who exclaimed

Our host hath his guests most happily placed;
See GENIUS supported by FEELING and TASTE.

therto concealed the « Great Unknown, from the full Sir Walter himself was made at the Edinburgh Haze of an admiring public. The avowal of Theatrical Fund Dinner on the 23d February, 1827. Sir Walter Scott was in the chair, and previous to the commencement of dinner Lord Meadowbank asked him whether he still wished to preserve his plied that it was now a matter of indifference to incognito respecting the novels. Sir Walter rehim. Lord Meadowbank, without any further communication with him, took occasion, in proposing his health, to allude to the novels in so de-pointed a manner that Sir Walter was compelled to notice it, which he did to the following effect. He said he certainly did not think that, in coming here to-day, he would have the task of acknowledging, before three hundred gentlemen, a secret which, considering that it was communicated to more than twenty people, was remarkably well kept. He was now before the bar of his country, and might be understood to be on trial before Lord Meadowbank as an offender;

We know of no species of composition so lightful as that which presents us with personal anecdotes of eminent men; and if its greatest charm be in the gratification of our curiosity, it is a curiosity, at least, that has its origin in enthusiasm. We are anxious to know all that is possible to be known of those who have an honoured place in public opinion. It is not merely

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The celebrated author of the « Man of Feeling.»
Author of «Essays on the Nature and Principles of yet he was sure that every impartial jury would

Taste.>>

bring in a verdict of Not Proven. He did not now

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