already, in ' Waverley,' and elsewhere, shown us how well they mingled together; and with such singular skill had he blended them, that an ingenious friend wrote a clever dissertation, treating Waverley as current history, and pointing out sundry slight deviations from the truth. Besides, to write the life of Napoleon was to delineate the career of a man whose actions had outstripped all ordinary flights of imagination, and involved the destinies of the world. For this new task Sir Walter had high qualities besides those necessary to compose a romance: he had as much of the warrior in his nature, as enabled him to enjoy the movements and deeds of those dread campaigns, in which the chivalry of the old monarchies was trampled under foot by the fervent spirit of republicanism; and he had a power of description by which, like the genius of Napoleon, he could unite the distant with the near, and lay the combined movements of a wide-spread campaign before the reader, as he would lay a map on the table. He seems to have studied his subject deeply; indeed, the sword of the conqueror had forced this upon him; -a war which gave to France the land, and to Britain the sea, could not pass over such a mind as his without making deep impressions. He was familiar with the rigid routine and stately tactics of the old school of warriors, who wrought according to rules learned by heart, and would rather have lost a campaign than gone into battle with whiskers not cut by the Prussian regulations. In Napoleon he saw a soldier who conquered, not by despising routine rules, but from inventing a system of military mathematics, which, by its new combinations, rendered old wisdom obsolete; and yet enabled him to vanquish as much by rule as by rapid motion and fiery bravery. The great Napoleon and his great biographer, were bred in different schools of political feeling with the former all old things were too old-all matters of etiquette ridiculous; the princes of Europe he looked on as dotards; and his delight was to overturn them like mushrooms, and give their thrones to his comrades ;-the latter had all the chivalry of the old school, united with that reverence for princes of long-standing renown imputed to poets; he loved old institutions and hereditary attachments; and the principles which sought to tread down rank, that martial talent might rise and reign in its stead, were regarded with proper horror. In spite of these discordant feelings, the Life of Napoleon' is one of the noblest monuments of Scott's genius. The volumes, third, fourth, and fifth, are written in a spirit free, unprejudiced, and affectionate: he seems to enjoy the splendid march of the almost beardless adventurer from Paris to Vienna; for he had to conquer at home before he could conquer abroad; and he is ever willing to do justice to the generous qualities of his nature, and show him alike dutiful as a son and a friend, as he was unequalled as a general. The descriptions of the battles are clear and graphic-all other men's accounts are confused compared to his: they have fine words--he has fine images: they have plenty of smoke-he is all fire. I wish it had pleased the author to have condensed his two volumes on the Revolution into a single chapter, and to have dismissed the captivity of Napoleon with more brevity. 6 I saw him in London on the day after the publication of the Fair Maid of Perth: the first romance of all that splendid file, to which he had put his name, or at least publicly acknowledged. He asked, what I was doing with my pen; I said, at present I am doing nothing but fighting and wooing with Harry Wynd. He gave me one of his peculiar glances, and said, 'Ay! and how do ye like him? I said I was struck with two things, which to me were new-the skill with which he had made a blacksmith into a hero-and a youth of a martial race a coward, through his nurse. He smiled, and seemed pleased with my remark. We talked of romance-writing; When you wish to write a story, he said, 'I advise you to prepare a kind of outline—a skeleton of the subject; and, when you have pleased yourself with it, proceed to endow it with flesh and blood. I remember (I said) that you gave me much the same sort of advice before. And did you follow it?' he said, quickly. I tried (I answered,) but I had not gone far on my way till some will-o'-wisp or another dazzled my sight; so I deviated from the path, and never got on it again. 'Tis the same way with myself," he said, smiling: I form my plan, and then in executing it I deviate.' Ay, ay! (I said) I understand; but you deviate into excellence, and I into absurdity.-I amused him with an account of how I felt when his kind notice of my drama appeared in the Fortunes of Nigel.' I said I was in the situation of that personage in Scripture, who, unknown yesterday, heard the people cry to day, Behold the man whom the king delighteth to honor!' He said some kind things; and then I spoke of the public anxiety to see him. I told him, that when he passed through Oxford, a lady, at whose house he took breakfast, desirous of doing him all honor, borrowed a silver tray from her neighbor, who lent it at once, begging to be allowed to carry it to the table herself, that she might look upon the Author of Waverley. The highest compliment,' said Sir Walter, 'I ever received, was paid me by a soldier of the Scots Greys: I strove to get down to Abingdon Street on the Coronation day, and applied for help to a sergeant who guarded the way he shook his head, saying, Countryman, I can't help you.' I whispered my name-his face kindled up, and he said, ' Then, by G-d, Sir, you shall go down!' he instantly gave me an escort.' 6 6 Among the latter works of Sir Walter, the one from which I have derived as much pleasure as any, is his Tales of a Grandfather,' where he has related all that is poetic or picturesque, or characteristic, in the History of Scotland. The second series particularly, comprehending the period between the accession of James to the throne of England, and the Union of the whole Island-is above all interesting. It contains all the episodical occurrences, which such a history as Hume's was too stately to admit; and, indeed, no one will find elsewhere such a lively image of the domestic state of the country, or such an impartial and dramatic account of the jealousies, heart-burnings, and fatal rencounters that took place between two proud, high-spirited kingdoms, before they became, in every sense of the word, as one; I have no wish, however, to attempt a delineation-nor even to enumerate all the works which this eminent man poured upon the world, thick and fast, during his latter days. It may be sufficient to say, that in his hastiest effusions a spirit was visible, with which no living man could cope, and that, in the least popular, there were passages in abundance, equalling his earliest works, when he first began to give the world the advantage of his musings. We must consider, too, that he was now in his declining years, working both against time and fortune that his whole heart was applied to the colossal task of retrieving himself, and satisfying his creditors, and that it was his duty to do the best he could to perform an engagement, which seemed to all but himself, too great for his strength. On this, he feelingly touches in his last preface, writ ten on his birthday, in 1831, and says, when he found himself involved in the sweeping catastrophe of 1826, he surrendered on the instant every shred of property which he had been accustomed to call his own. Among other works which occurred to his fancy, was that of a new edition of his Novels, illustrated with engravings-and, more valuable still, with notes, indicating the sources of story and of character; Cadell, of Edinburgh, an old and tried friend, became the publisher, and this beautiful edition is now to be seen on every table, and found in every land. Some time in the beginning of the year 1831, a sore illness came upon him ; his astonishing efforts to satisfy his creditors, began to exhaust a mind apparently exhaustless; and the world heard with concern that a paralytic stroke had affected his speech and his right hand, so much as to render writing a matter of diffi culty. One of his letters to me, of this period, is not written with his own hand; the signature is his, and looks cramped and weak. I visited him at Abbotsford, about the end of July, 1831; he was a degree more feeble than I had ever seen him, and his voice seemed affected, not so his activity of fancy and surprising resources of conversation. He told anecdotes, and recited scraps of verse, old and new, always tending to illustrate something passing. He showed me his armory, in which he took visible pleasure; and was glad to hear me commend the design of his house, as well as the skill with which it was built. His heart seemed bound to the place it is said, that he felt more pleasure in being thought the builder of Abbotsford, and the layer out of the grounds and plantations around it, which certainly seemed most tastefully done, than to be thought the author of the Waverley Novels. This I am unwilling to believe. Of Abbotsford, and its fine armory and library, he might well, indeed, be proud: they contained presents from the first men of the world, either for rank or talent: the collection of volumes relating to the history, poetry, and antiquities of Scotland, is extensive. In a small room, half library and half armory, he usually sat and wrote: here he had some remarkable weapons, curious pieces of old Scottish furniture, such as chairs and cabinets, and an antique sort of table, on which lay his writing materials. A crooked headed staff of Abbotsford oak or hazel, usually lay beside him to support his steps as he went and came. Those who wish to have a distinct image of the illustrious poet, seated at his ease in this snuggery, may look at Allan's portrait lately exhibited; or those who wish to see him when, touched with ill health, he felt the approach of death, will also, I hear, be satisfied: a painting is in progress from the same hand, showing Sir Walter, as he lately appeared-lying on a couch in his principal room all the windows are closed save one, admitting a strong central light, and showing all that the room contains, in deep shadow, or in strong sun shine. When it was known that Sir Walter's health declined, the deep solicitude of all ranks became manifest: strangers came from far lands to look on the house which contained the great genius of our times; inquirers flocked around, of humble and high degree, and the amount of letters of inquiry or condolence was, I have heard, enormous. Amongst the visitors, not the least welcome was Wordsworth, the poet, who arrived when the air of the northern hills was growing too sharp for the enfeebled frame of Scott, and he had resolved to try if the fine air and climate of Italy would restore him to health and strength. The following fine sonnet was composed by the poet of Rydal, beneath the roof of his illustrious brother in song; the kindness of the editor of the Literary Souvenir' enables me to work it into my narrative. A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice, again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good' wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue Than sceptered kings, or laurelled conqueror knows, Ye winds of ocean and the midland sea, When government heard of Sir Walter's wishes, they offered him a ship; he left Abbotsford, as many thought, forever, and arrived in London, where he was welcomed as never mortal was welcomed before. He visited several friends, nor did he refuse to mingle in company; and, having written something almost ap. proaching to a farewell to the world, which was published with Castle Dangerous,' the last of his works, he set sail for Italy, with the purpose of touching at Malta. He seemed revived, but it was only for a while he visited Naples, but could not enjoy the high honors paid to him: he visited Rome, and sighed, amid its splendid temples and glorious works of art, for gray Melrose and the pleasant banks of Tweed; and, passing out of Italy, proceeded homewards down the Rhine. Word came to London, that a dreadful attack of paralysis had nearly deprived him of life, and that but for the presence of mind of a faithful servant he must have perished. This alarming news was closely followed by his arrival in London : : a strong desire of home had come upon him: he travelled with fatal rapidity night and day, and was all but worn out, when carried into St. James' Hotel, Jermyn Street, by his servants. As soon as he had recovered a little, he ordered his journey to be resumed, and on Saturday, July 7th, 1832, departed by sea to Scotland, reached Abbotsford, and seemed revived. He recognized and spoke kindly to several friends; smiled when borne into his library; listened with patience amounting to pleasure, to the reading of passages from the poems of Crabbe and Wordsworth; and was always happiest when he had his children around him. When he was leaving London, the people, wherever he was recognized, took off their hats, saying, God bless you, Sir Walter!' His arrival in Scot and was hailed with the same sympathetic greetings; and so much was his spirit cheered, that hopes were entertained of his recovery. But the cloud gradually descended upon him; he grew weaker and weaker-and, on the 21st of September, 1832, died amidst his family, without any appearance of pain. On his head being opened, part of the brain was found injured; several globules of a watery nature were pressing upon it. He was buried at Dryburgh, on Wednesday, September 25th: the hills were covered, and the villages filled with mourners: he was borne from the hearse by his own domestics, and laid in the grave by the hands of his children. In person, Sir Walter Scott was nearly six feet high, well formed, strongly knit and compactly built; his arms were long and sinewy; his looks stately and commanding, and his face as he related a heroic story flushed up as a crystal cup, when one fills it with wine. His eyes were deep seated under his somewhat shaggy brows; their color was a bluish grey: they laughed more than his lips did at a humorous story: his tower-like head, and thin white hair, marked him out amongst a thousand, while any one might swear to his voice again who heard it once, for it had both a touch of the lisp and the burr; yet, as the minstrel said of Douglas, it became him wonder well,' and gave great softness to a sorrowful story; indeed, I imagined that he kept the burr part of the tone for matters of a facetious or humorous kind, and brought out the lisp part in those of tenderness or woe. When I add, that in a meeting of a hundred men, his hat was sure to be the least, and would fit no one's head but his own, I have said all that I have to say about his appearance. He delighted in manly exercises: in his youth, he was foremost in all sports and matters of harmless mischief: his health, as he wrote to Sir Andrew Halliday, continued excellent till the year 1820, when stitches in his sides and cramps in his stomach attacked him, and were mastered with difficulty. He loved to ride in a short coat, with wide trowsers, on a little stout galloway, and the steepest hill did not stop him, nor the deepest water daunt him; it was his pleasure moreover to walk out frequently among his plantations, with a small hatchet and hand-saw, with which he lopped off superfluous boughs, or removed an entire tree, when it was marring the growth of others. He was widely and generally beloved-his great genius hardly equalled the kindliness of his heart, and the generosity of his nature. I do not mean that he stood foremost in all subscriptions which were likely to be advertised: I mean that he aided the humble and the deserving; he assumed no patronizing airs, and wished rather to be thought doing an act of kindness to himself, than obliging others. To his friendship I owe so much, that I know not the extent of what I owe through him, two of my sons are Engineer officers in the East India Company's service; and he did this, because, said he, complimenting and obliging me in the same sentence, 'One Scottish Makker (Poet) should aid another." I never heard him say an unkind word of any one: and if he said a sharp one, which on some occasions he did, he instantly softened the impression by relating some kindly trait. The sternest words I ever heard him utter were concerning a certain poet: That man,' he said,' has had much in his power, but he never befriended rising genius yet.' I could not say anything to the contrary. He delighted in looking at old ruins, and he loved to converse with old people of any station, but particularly shepherds. He had a great respect for landmarks: he knew and could describe every battle field in Britain: he had visited the scenes of the best Scottish songs, and had drinking cups from the Bash aboon Traquair, the Broom of the Cowden-knowes, and Alloway's auld haunted kirk. He disliked to see a stone displaced on an old castle wall, or a field ploughed up which was famed in story; and I was told, he was never seen moved to anger, save once, and that was against a clergyman, who unthinkingly began to remove one of the large gray stones which mark the tragic event, recorded in that mournful ballad- The Dowie Dens of Yarrow.' Of his habits as an author, I know little, save what he happened to tell me, or what I casually gathered from men intimate with him. He told me that he was an early riser: I have since learned, that his usual hour of beginning to write was seven o'clock in the morning: that he continued it, saving the brief hour of breakfast, till one, and sometimes two o'clock; then shaved, dressed, and went to the hills with his favorite dogs-two tall rough strong hounds, fit to pull down a stag, and, after some hours' exercise, returned to see such friends as chance or invitation brought to his door. By this mode of economizing time, he marched fast on with a romance; as he was always inspired alike when in health, he had no occasion to wait for the descent of the muse, but dashed away at the rate of sixteen pages of print daily. He wrote freely and without premeditation; and his corrections were beyond all example few. When he wrote fastest he wrote best, because his heart was in trim. Though the most accomplished author of his day, yet he had none of the airs of authorship; and when he came forth from his study, he laid aside the poet's mantle, and put on the dress of the country gentleman who knew the world, and loved to practise courtesy and indulge in hospitality. He was a proud man,-not a proud poet, or historian, or novelist; he loved to be looked on as a gentleman of old family, who built Abbotsford, and laid out its gardens and planted its avenues, rather than a genius, whose works influenced mankind and diffused happiness among millions. It was not of the builder or the planter, that the people of Glasgow thought, when they lowered their colors in the Clyde shipping half-mast high, the moment they heard of his death; but perhaps the truest compliment ever uttered, was by the west country weaver: 'the only consolation which I have,' said he, 'in these times of depression, is in reading Walter Scott's novels.' The genius of Scott was almost universal; he has shown himself great in every way that literature has displayed itself in for these hundred years: Shakspeare, Milton, Burns, and Byron, have each, in their particular line, equalled or excelled him; but then he surpassed them all, save perhaps the first, in the combination of many and various excellencies. He was poet, historian, biographer, novclist and critic. As a poet, he may dispute in many things supremacy with the loftiest of his day; as a historian, he is only equalled by Southey; as a biographer, he had not the highest success, because he took up the characters of the changeable Dryden and shuffling Swift; as a critic, he ranks with the best; and as a novelist, he is not only unrivalled, but he stands on the scale of excellence above all preceding writers, save Cervantes. By his poetry he was first known to the world, though much of the prose of his Border Minstrelsy' shows the largeness and variety of his powers. The astonishing case, vigor, and vehemence of his verse captivated all Europe. His poems are a succession of historical figures, which have all the fine proportion and welldefined forms of sculpture, with this difference-they move, and speak, and act, and are inspired with love or heroism, according to the will of the poet. I have made this allusion to a sister art, to show that I think the aid of science is necessary in the conception of the characters of Epic song, and that nature must be refined and elevated. Yet, though works of art, the heroes of Scott have less of the repose of sculpture about them than any characters with which I am acquainted. No one, since the days of Homer, has with a burning and impetuous breath, sung of the muster, the march, the onset, and all the fiery vicissitudes of battle. He remembers the precept of Punch, and keeps moving; his soldiers are not like those of the gifted Gilfillan, who were an hungered by the way, and tarried for a word of refreshment in season; and the poet is not the of Milton, but a leader blessed with a ready promptitude of soul, who eyes his enemy, marks a vulnerable part, and rushes to the fray at once. I know nothing, in verse, to compare with many of the passages of his historical poems;—the Night March of Deloraine,' and his winning the magic book, in the Lay of the Last Minstrel' the battle scene, and the quarrel with the Earl of Angus, in Marmion: the ambush of Roderick Dhu, and his single combat with Fitz James, in the Lady of the Lake:' the deeds of Bertram Risinghame, in Rokeby,' and the characters and different bearings of Robert and Edward Bruce, with the ambush which surprised the castle of Kildrummie, in the Lord of the Isles, are alike unequalled and wonderful. Action-action-action is the fault as well as the excellence of Scott: Tasso and Spenser have indulged their heroes with |