he did not care, into a sentence which began anywhere and died out anyhow. This was arrant carelessness. But it was usually accompanied by simplicity and spontaneity; if it does not charm us by cadence, it never irritates us by self-consciousness and futile research. Such are Scott's palpable defects: and he had of course the "oldfashionedness" of his generation,- not a graceful or magnificent sort of old fashion. For his heroes, and many of his heroines, he entertained a complete contempt,-especially for Waverley. They are only ordinary young people: brave, strong, not clever, honorable, a good deal puzzled by the historical crises in which they find themselves. They are often neither Whig nor Tory, neither Covenanter nor Cavalier, with any energy. The story moves on round them; the characters come and go,- they are not the real interest. Rose Bradwardine is a good, affectionate, ignorant, confiding, pretty girl; perfectly true to nature, but no Rosalind nor Beatrice. Di Vernon, and Catherine Seton, and Rebecca- especially Miss Vernon - are among the few heroines whom we can remember and adore. Then it must be conceded that Scott does not deal in moral or social "problems." His characters, not unlike most of us, know what is the right thing to do, and do it or leave it alone. Ivanhoe vastly preferred Rebecca to Rowena. An author might give us chapters on his moral and psychological difficulties, and they might be excellent chapters. But Ivanhoe merely conquers his passion practically; and as to the secret of his heart, only a word is dropped. Scott never lingers over interminable tragedies of the emotions. Most of us can supply what is lacking for ourselves in that respect.

It will be seen that Scott's novels have the obvious blemishes of which many readers are most intolerant, and lack the qualities ("passion," and "subtlety," and "style") of which people literary do now most delight to be talking. We can love Scott with Goethe, Dumas, Thackeray, Mr. Ruskin,- or we can carp at him with Mr. George Moore. It is a matter of taste, which is in great part a matter of character, training, association, and education. But we who admire, and take lifelong pleasure in, Sir Walter, "have great allies," the greatest of critical names; we need not fear to speak with the adversary in the gate. We admit the absence of some excellent qualities: we admit the presence of diffuseness, and of what, to exclusive readers of recent novels, is tediousness. Moreover, if like Huckleberry Finn you have "no use for dead people," and hate history, of course you cannot be pleased with any historical novels. Gentle King Jamie, Queen Mary, Richard of the Lion Heart, Bonnie Prince. Charlie, Cavaliers and Covenanters, knights and archers, speak a language which you cannot understand, about matters which do not concern you, thrall as you are to your little day of ideas and vogue.

13002

But Sir Walter, "for a' that," has qualities which delighted all Europe, and which still delight people who love the past, and love humor, adventure, the spectacle of life. These people are not few; for they must be the purchasers of the endless new editions, cheap or dear, of the Waverley Novels. Sir Walter can tell a story, and he can create men and women - not to mention horses and dogs-of endless varieties, and in every rank. Moreover he can create places: Tully Veolan and many others are, as Mr. Saintsbury says, "our own our own to pass freely through until the end of time."

Scott is old now: in his time, as poet and as romancer, he was absolutely new. The poems did not proceed obviously, and by way of manifest gradual evolution, from anything familiar to most men. The old French rhymed romances, Barbour's 'Bruce,' the ancient ballads, and Christabel,' all went to their begetting; but in themselves they were new. New also was the historical novel, based on vast knowledge, and informed with such life as Shakespeare poured into 'Henry IV.' or 'Julius Cæsar.' Scott created the genre: without him there had been no 'Esmond,' no 'Master of Ballantrae,' no 'Mousquetaires.' Alexandre Dumas, as historical novelist, is the greatest of Scott's works.

There is here no space for detailed criticism of the novels. A man might do worse than read Waverley,' the earliest, and then 'Redgauntlet,' the most autobiographical, in succession. Here is the romance of the fallen dynasty, of the kings landless, whose tomb the dying Scott visited in Rome. Had I to choose my private favorite, it would be 'Old Mortality'; which might be followed (as Waverley' by Redgauntlet') by the decline of the Cameronians in 'The Heart of Mid-Lothian.' For chivalry Ivanhoe' is pre-eminent; with 'Quentin Durward' for adventure and construction. And after these a man cannot go wrong; though Count Robert of Paris,' 'Peveril,' 'Castle Dangerous,' and (in Scott's opinion) 'Anne of Geierstein,' are saddening, and "smack of the apoplexy." "The Pirate' and 'The Monastery' are certainly not novels to begin with, nor is 'St. Ronan's Well.'

Of his historical works, The Tales of a Grandfather' can never be superseded; the 'Napoleon,' though readable, is superseded, and was ungrateful taskwork. The essays are a great treasure of enjoyment; the 'Swift' is an excellent and wise biography. The 'Journal' is the picture of the man,- so much greater, better, kinder, and more friendly than even the author. "Be a good man, my dear,' was his last word to Lockhart: it is the unobtrusive moral of all that he wrote and was.

MR

CHEAPENING FISH; AND THE VILLAGE POST-OFFICE

From The Antiquary›

R. OLDBUCK led the way to the sands. Upon the links or downs close to them were seen four or five huts inhabited by fishers; whose boats, drawn high upon the beach, lent the odoriferous vapors of pitch melting under a burning sun, to contend with those of the offals of fish and other nuisances usually collected round Scottish cottages. Undisturbed by these complicated steams of abomination, a middle-aged woman, with a face which had defied a thousand storms, sat mending a net at the door of one of the cottages. A handkerchief close bound about her head, and a coat which had formerly been that of a man, gave her a masculine air, which was increased by her strength, uncommon stature, and harsh voice. "What are ye

for the day, your Honor?" she said, or rather screamed, to Oldbuck: "caller haddocks and whitings, a bannock-fluke and a cockpadle. »

"How much for the bannock-fluke and cock-padle?" demanded the Antiquary.

"Four white shillings and saxpence," answered the Naiad. "Four devils and six of their imps!" retorted the Antiquary: "do you think I am mad, Maggie?»

"And div ye think," rejoined the virago, setting her arms akimbo, "that my man and my sons are to gae to the sea in weather like yestreen and the day—sic a sea as it's yet outby— and get naething for their fish, and be misca'd into the bargain, Monkbarns? It's no fish ye're buying-it's men's lives."

"Well, Maggie, I'll bid you fair: I'll bid you a shilling for the fluke and the cock-padle, or sixpence separately; and if all your fish are as well paid, I think your man, as you call him, and your sons, will make a good voyage."

"Deil gin their boat were knockit against the Bell-Rock rather! it wad be better, and the bonnier voyage o' the twa. for thae twa bonnie fish! Od, that's ane indeed!"

A shilling

"Well, well, you old beldam, carry your fish up to Monkbarns, and see what my sister will give you for them."

---

"Na, na, Monkbarns, deil a fit, I'll rather deal wi' yoursell; for though you're near enough, yet Miss Grizel has an unco close grip. I'll gie ye them" (in a softened tone) "for three-andsaxpence."

13004

"Eighteenpence, or nothing!"

"Eighteenpence!!!" (in a loud tone of astonishment, which declined into a sort of rueful whine, when the dealer turned as if to walk away) - "Ye'll no be for the fish then?"- then louder, as she saw him moving off-"I'll gie ye them-and- and — and a half a dozen o' partans to make the sauce, for three shillings and a dram."

"Half a crown then, Maggie, and a dram."

"Aweel, your Honor maun hae't your ain gate, nae doubt; but a dram's worth siller now the distilleries is no working." "And I hope they'll never work again in my time," said Oldbuck.

"Ay, ay-it's easy for your Honor and the like o' you gentlefolks to say sae, that hae stouth and routh, and fire and fending, and meat and claith, and sit dry and canny by the fireside; but an ye wanted fire and meat, and dry claes, and were deeing o' cauld, and had a sair heart,—whilk is warst ava,— wi' just tippence in your pouch, wadna ye be glad to buy a dram wi't, to be eilding and claes, and a supper and heart's-ease into the bargain, till the morn's morning?"

"It's even too true an apology, Maggie. Is your goodman off to sea this morning after his exertions last night?"

"In troth is he, Monkbarns; he was awa this morning by four o'clock, when the sea was working like barm wi' yestreen's wind, and our bit coble dancing in 't like a cork."

"Well, he's an industrious fellow. Carry the fish up to Monkbarns."

"That I will—or I'll send little Jenny: she'll rin faster; — but I'll ca' on Miss Grizzy for the dram mysell, and say ye sent me."

A nondescript animal, which might have passed for a mermaid as it was paddling in a pool among the rocks, was summoned ashore by the shrill screams of its dam; and having been made decent, as her mother called it, which was performed by adding a short red cloak to a petticoat, which was at first her sole covering, and which reached scantily below her knee,— the child was dismissed with the fish in a basket, and a request on the part of Monkbarns that they might be prepared for dinner. "It would have been long," said Oldbuck, with much selfcomplacency, "ere my womankind could have made such a reasonable bargain with that old skinflint; though they sometimes

wrangle with her for an hour together under my study window, like three sea-gulls screaming and sputtering in a gale of wind. But come: wend we on our way to Knockwinnock."

Leaving Mr. Oldbuck and his friend to enjoy their hard bargain of fish, we beg leave to transport the reader to the back parlor of the postmaster's house at Fairport; where his wife, he himself being absent, was employed in assorting for delivery the letters which had come by the Edinburgh post. This is very often in country towns the period of the day when gossips find it particularly agreeable to call on the man or woman of letters; in order, from the outside of the epistles,- and if they are not belied, occasionally from the inside also,-to amuse themselves with gleaning information or forming conjectures about the correspondence and affairs of their neighbors. Two females of this description were, at the time we mention, assisting-or impeding Mrs. Mailsetter in her official duty.

"Eh, preserve us, sirs!" said the butcher's wife, "there's ten - eleven - twall letters to Tennant & Co. Thae folk do mair business than a' the rest o' the burgh."

"Ay; but see, lass," answered the baker's lady, "there's twa o' them faulded unco square, and sealed at the tae side,— I doubt there will be protested bills in them."

"Is there ony letters come yet for Jenny Caxon?" inquired the woman of joints and giblets: "the lieutenant's been awa three weeks."

"Just ane on Tuesday was a week," answered the dame of letters.

"Was 't a ship letter?" asked the Fornerina.

"In troth was 't."

"It wad be frae the lieutenant then," replied the mistress of the rolls, somewhat disappointed: "I never thought he wad hae lookit ower his shouther after her."

"Od, here's another," quoth Mrs. Mailsetter. "A ship letterpostmark, Sunderland." All rushed to seize it. "Na, na, leddies," said Mrs. Mailsetter, interfering: "I hae had eneugh o' that wark,-ken ye that Mr. Mailsetter got an unco rebuke frae the secretary at Edinburgh, for a complaint that was made about the letter of Aily Bisset's that ye opened, Mrs. Shortcake ? »

"Me opened!" answered the spouse of the chief baker of Fairport: "ye ken yoursell, madam, it just cam open o' free will