Hence, Scott has given us 'the life' woven into the richness of his stories, with a naturalness so obvious, as to excite none but a continued emotion of pleasure; avoiding those gaunt, giant forms which while they astonish, drive away our fears or sympathies, by exciting suspicions of their reality. Hence it is, that Scott calls into exercise an art which the ordinary novelist does not possess the cheating of his reader, by the close reality of his portrait. He calls into the matter of his works, a blending of observation with imagination, and of both with an ingenuity, for the result of which, others trust to the unaided, and the unguided fervor of fancy. The fertility of Sir Walter's intellect, is a proof no less valid that he had a strong-a well tilled one. The delight experienced on the perusal of one tale had scarce died away, when another came to supply the vacancy; and he who had cherished Fergus McIvor, as the beau ideal of all conceptions, found him losing favor, as new rivals, with the rapidity of the changing month, flashed in all their excellence upon him. He who had saved his little earnings to become the owner of Waverley, found the tide of romance flowing too strong and fast, and was obliged to yield the palm, and withdraw his harvest earnings, from a competition with the mysterious agent of romance. Poor Ballantyne working at his types, found the torrent setting too strong for his feeble means, and launching into new and more extended efforts, for rolling on the avalanche, ruined himself and his patron author. And when fiction pure and elegant as it was, palled upon the sated appetite of thousands, history took up the magician's wand, and the author of Waverley told the story of his country's annals, and of the Emperor Napoleon. And this not in the prime of life, not in the enthusiasm of friendly succor, but in the damps of misfortune, when misery overshadowed him. In this fertility of Sir Walter's mind, we see ever a vigor, a cogency, a beauty characteristic of a great intellect. In every sphere, the poet, the historian, the translator, the novelist, the political pamphleteer, the chronologist, the reviewer, the biographer, in all, he evinced a fullness and freeness of diction, a purity of motive, a glow of imagination, a fervor of feeling, a power of observation, and an ingenuity of design perhaps never equaled. Imagination every where predominant, has drawn attention from the other attributes of his genius, which in lesser minds would have been hailed as the harbingers of a new and bright star in literature. But with Sir Walter's greatness of mind, was united a goodness of heart, which should ever claim the homage of his readers. There is in him no vain show-no strivings to beget an admiration as artificial as evanescent; no supercilious air and bearing, from his world-wide fame; no boastings, but ever is he the mild father, the gentlest of protectors, the most gracious entertainer, the true, one-hearted Walter Scott! His pure soul dealt not in wholesale infamy to astonish-to dazzle. In sooth, his conceptions of vice were almost universally aided by traditions, whose grossness he refined-whose ignominy he could not but tint with brighter colors. Kenilworth speaks higher of Leicester than history; the legend of Lammermoor was softened in the story of the unfortunate Ravenswood. The natural goodness of his heart, drew with sincerest fervor the virtues of Jeanie Deans-the pure benevolence of the Dominie-the frank hospitality of the old Udaller-the singleness of motive in the Baillie, Nicol Jarvie-the filial love, enhancing and adorning the female loveliness of Diana Vennon-the sainted purity of Alice Lee. In private life unimpeachable, with a high and excusable pride of country, and regard for the ancient institutions of his land, he saw with regret, not unmingled with indignation, the old clanships and chivalric dispositions of Highland customs, giving way to the march of revolution. A tory in principle, he sustained his character, not by extravagance, but by mild example; bore without a murmur the insults of an infuriated mob, and in his closet repined bitterly at the overthrow of institutions to which his heart was bound by a thousand familiar ties. None so humble in spirit, though he courted the power to give dignity to the loved wife of his bosom, and to children attached with an unwonted fondness. No vain hankerings after wealth for itself, spurred him on, but he sought opulence, to lavish in benevolent acts upon his neighbors-to be the generous host of multitudes, and with a mistaken zeal, to make his children heirs of a high inheritance. His generous disposition proved, alas! his overthrow; his keen sensibility wore that vigorous frame to agony almost insupportable. Misfortunes came upon him like a whirlwind, and though his spirit quailed like a reed, it strove against them, till striving brake it in twain! But a short time after the fortune which he had fondly hoped to bequeath to his loved children, was ruined, the friend of his youth-the mother of his children, wasted with anxiety, and perished! Thirty years of attachment had knit them closer in the bonds of love, and now she was snatched away; while he, toiling at his tasks in Edinburgh, for satisfying the demands of merciless creditors, was not permitted to perform even the last act of affection! But hear him May 15.-Received the melancholy intelligence that all is over at Abbotsford. "She died at nine in the morning, after being very ill for two days-easy at last. I arrived here late last night. Anne [his daughter] is worn out, and has had hysterics, which returned on my arrival. Her broken accents were like those of a child, the language as well as the tones broken, but in the most gentle voice of submission. Poor mamma-never return again-gone for ever-a better place.' For myself, I scarce know how I feel, sometimes as firm as the Ban Rock, sometimes as weak as the water that breaks on it. Lonely, aged, deprived of my family-all but poor Anne; an impoverished, an embarrassed man, deprived of the sharer of my thoughts and counsels, who could always talk down my sense of the calamitous apprehensions which break the heart that must bear them alone. "I have seen her. The figure I beheld is, and is not my Charlotte-my thirty years' companion. There is the same symmetry of form-but that yellow mask, with pinched features, which seem to mock life rather than emulate it, can it be the face that was ever so full of lively expression? I will not look on it again. "May 18.-Another day, and a bright one to the external world, again opens on us; the air soft, and the flowers smiling, and the leaves glittering. They cannot refresh her to whom mild weather was a natural enjoyment. Cerements of lead and of wood already hold her; and earth must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it is not the bride of my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid among the ruins of Dryburgh, which we have so often visited in gaiety and pastime. No, no. "I do not experience those paroxysms of grief which others do on the same occasion. I can exert myself and speak more cheerfully with the poor girls. But alone, or if any thing touches me-the choking sensation! I have been to her room; there was no voice in it—no stirring; the pressure of the coffin was visible on the bed, but it had been removed elsewhere; all was neat, as she loved it, but all was calm-calm as death. I remembered the last sight of her; she raised herself in bed, and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said, with a sort of smile, 'You all have such melancholy faces.' These were the last words I ever heard her utter, and I hurried away, for she did not seem quite conscious of what she said-when I returned, immediately departing, she was in a deep sleep. It is deeper now. "They are arranging the chamber of death. They are treading fast and thick. For weeks you could have heard a foot-fall Oh my God!" Here is a tragedy-deeper-deeper than that of Amy Robsart, or the Bride of Lammermoor! But let us drop the curtain over the keenness of his grief-the poignant, gnawing misery of his heart! And what has the great and good Sir Walter done for the world? Where has fallen his influence? Where has he reaped his reward? In befriending with the munificent hand of a king, made full by his own toil, the poor unknown aspirant for literary fame? In bringing up the Ettrick Shepherd from his cotter's dale, and throwing around him by his influence and friendship, a portion of his wide spread fame? Is it in meeting with his buoyant heart, and with his warm feelings, the cutting blasts of fortunein smiling when the soul sank, and left but the shadow of a life in that beaming countenance?-when the silvered hairs upon that fevered brow stood thick, clotted with the sweat of his agonizing labor?-when lying upon his couch, he dictated, amid the shrieks of piercing pain, that unrivalled story of the Disinherited? Has his influence fallen in his generous condescension-in pouring the light of his dark eye in pity on suffering—in indignation on tyranny-in love on all? Has he received his reward in giving up his life-blood, slowly, sufferingly, to the avaricious grasp of his creditors? Heaven forbid! His influence is as wide as the range of letters;-his reward, the gratitude of the literary world. He tore Romance from its darkness and impurity-gave it elegance and chastity. He refined and modified fiction from an idle tale, to the genius of his works. He turned in the crucible of his mind, the remnants of savage fancy to the brightness of a new creation. The radiant sunlight of truth stole in upon his romance, and blazoned it with new and unseen beauties! He redeemed Scottish literature from its ebbing state, and made it the admiration, if not the model of the world. And if he has not the perfection of rhetoric, it is because his genius admitted of no reflection upon forms; he poured out the resources of his mind in its own free, natural, unbiassed current. Thousands in the haunts of dissipation, stirred by the pathos of his stories, were lured away, if not to greater goodness-to less badness. Each character teaches its own moral, and sinks in the heart by its melting tenderness. The stern moralist was startled by the power of the new teacher; vice was terrified at its own ugliness, and shrunk into obscurity! Woman saw herself in the proud Lady Ashton-saw herself in the lowly maid of Mid Lothian; she chose between the two! Never before had she seen so clearly as in the portraiture of Jeanie Deans, that virtue was elegance, and fell like a robe of gold about the humblest cottage lass. But not only this: Scott unfolded to the admiring gaze of the world his own dear land. Scotland was known but as the wild home of the wilder mountaineer; her heaths and her 'wee modest' daisy had found only the short-lived Burns to weave them in fragmentary verse. Her legends-legends of her character, lay hid and might have lain for years, but the sun of his genius. threw a light amid her dells and mountain caverns that blazoned them to the world. Knowledge of her scenery begat admirationadmiration drew throngs of visitors to dwell about the enrapturing scenes. Civilization, with slow and steady pace, crept in amid the highlands of Loch Lomond. Slowly yet surely did he draw aside the dark folds which curtained Scotia's land, and revealed there in the richness of his creative portraiture, her forgotten customs-her lingering spirit-her chivalrous aspect; and again the pibroch pealed, as of old, amid those ancient hills—again filed down the plaid-clad Highlander from his fir-fringed glensagain marched on the Lowland border-man, with bonnet blue, and white plume floating high-to victory! Our bosoms felt the thrill, and our life-blood pulsated with the high heart of clan-divided Scotland. The home of Burns became our neighbor; we walked on hills which Loch Leven glassed upon her bosom; we trod where Fergus McIvor marshalled his eager clans; we strode in courts where 'Marmion's haughty crest threw back the glance of day;' we wept with Merrilies on Ellangowan's height. Scenes of Dalgetty's prowess with lance and at the board, were before us; again, within the kirk yard, -"with white locks flowing free, The pious sculptor of the grave, stood Old Mortality!" We saw the richness of Nithsdale spread in beauty around us; -"We look'd o'er hill and dale, VOL. VI. O'er Mertoun's wood, and Tweed's fair flood, And all down Teviot-dale." 2 Here it is, in giving national features of scenery-in abetting the knowledge of history, Scott is and must ever be unrivalled, as he is in tenderness and sublimity. Compare him with the most popular imaginative author of to-day, and we find Scott as much above Master Humphrey, as he is above ordinary story-tellers. What scenes has Dickens endeared to us? What ground has he made holy? What associations has he called up, pleasant and lasting? What national features see we mirrored forth clearly and elegantly in his tales? We are not insensible to his merits; he possesses a singular combination of wit and pathos that we have rarely seen equalled; and it is to the latter of these he trusts for the interest of his tales, and the continuance of his reputation. But we are protracting our article beyond reasonable limits; and we must leave poor Scott-leave him in his home at Dryburgh! And yet when we take up his books, we can hardly realize that he does not live and speak. And even now, with but a faint effort of the imagination, we can see him at his old home, again the cheerful, ready host. The splendid hall of Abbotsford is again lit, as in its days of glory; again the kingly board groans under true Scottish viands. The rich apartment is hung around with trophies of Southron spoil, and of Highland prowess. The famed border horn hangs yonder above the Gothic window-bow; the Wallace chair is drawn carefully to the head of the rich board. Sir Humphrey Davy, Wollaston, Mackenzie, and many a laird of Raeburn, and of the house of Ferguson-Laidlaw, with his shrewd Scotch countenance, even the portly Constable, and the leering visage of poor Johnnie Ballantyne-all are there. Lady Scott and Anne, and many a maiden of neighbor mansion, are now seated at the 'Shirra's' table. But more than all, yonder with silver locks just fringing his cheerful open countenance, and eyes beaming with benevolence, in his green hunting dress, sits the laird of the mansion-the Great Unknown! The joke and gibe flies gaily round; the true heart's laugh breaks from the lips of Sir Walter, in chorus to the tale of yeoman service; and now in turn, with a snatch of border minstrelsy, he enters upon a new story of enchantment. The silver tones, with the half smile-half Scottish accent, fall upon the ear like music! Every eye is open-every heart is enchained, and the tale speeds on. But, to quote from a beautiful poem, "the vision and the voice are o'er; their influence waned away, |