Before we put a concluding stroke to the portrait of this eminent person, we must make an extract from some observations which Mr. Lockhart has very judiciously and fairly given, on what may be called the worldly part of Scott's conduct.

Scott himself, in his journal, confesses the prevalence of the imaginative power in his mind.

by a touch of the wand of imagination, and gild over the future by prospects more fair than can be realised. Somewhere,

it is said, that this castle-building, this wielding of the unreal trowel, is fatal to exertions in actual life. I cannot tellI have not found it so. I cannot say, like Madame de Genlis, that in the imaginary scenes in which I have acted a part, I

ever prepared myself for anything which actually befell me; but I have certainly fashioned out much that made the present hour pass pleasantly away, and much that has enabled me to contribute to the amusement of the public. Since I was five years old, I cannot remember the time when I had not some ideal part to play for my own solitary amusement."

Mr. Lockhart's observation on Scott's mental powers, in another part of the work, may be considered a just commentary on the foregoing confessions.

"We should try to picture to ourselves what the actual intellectual life must have been, of the author of such a series of romances. We should ask ourselves whether, filling and discharging, so soberly and gracefully as he did, the common functions of social man, it was not, nevertheless, impossible, but that he must have passed most of his life in other worlds. than ours and we ought hardly to think it a grievous circumstance, that their bright visions should have left a dazzle sometimes on the eyes which he so gently re-opened upon our prosaic realities. He had, on the whole, a command over the powers of his mind; I mean that he could control and direct his thoughts and reflections with a readiness, firmness, and

easy security of sway, beyond what I find it possible to trace in any other artist's recorded character and history; but he could not habitually fling them into the region of dreams throughout a long series of years, and yet be expected to find a corresponding satisfaction in bend. ing them to the less agrecable considerations which the circumstances of any hu man being's practical lot in this world must present in abundance. The training to which he accustomed himself, could not leave him as he was when he began. He must pay the penalty, as well as reap the glory of this life-long abstraction of reverie, this self-abandonment of fairyland."

Such was the person and such the wonderful combination of rare and eminent intellectual qualities which enabled him, with comparative ease and inconceivable rapidity, to gratify and instruct the public mind with a series of romantic fictions and ideal creations, such as no single mind, as far as we know, had ever poured out before. Unlike the productions of other authors, which have to be planned with care, and elaborated with vigilant and delicate attention to every part of the structure, Scott's were emphatically like the magical creations of the enchanter, which rise up at once without any labour of foundation, and unite and harmonise without any artful preparation of incident, by the all-pervading and vivifying force of genius. He says that he has not the slightest idea how such a story is to be wound up to a catastrophe ;* he never could lay down a plan-or, laying it down, never could adhere to it. Personages were rendered important and insignificant, not according to the original agency of the piece, but according to the success with which he could bring them out. His object was to make his writing diverting and interesting, and leave the rest to its fate. When his mind was strained to acquire ideas, the vivacity of the original conception vanished, the poetic landscape became cold and spiritless, and the sun that was to animate and gild and harmonize the beautiful creation, had altogether disappeared. Thus, then, not only by the effect produced upon us by his works, but by the manner in which those works that interest us, were created, do we acknowledge the hand of the master,-the creator,

See Diary, vol. vi. 232, 357. "A note to the end of a chapter, knowing no more than the Man in the Moon what comes next."-P. 261.

-the man of original genius, who stands altogether removed, not only in degree, but in quality and order, from all his imitators, whose flimsy productions might indeed be described in the words of a French critic, "C'est un ouvrage composée aujourd'hui avec l'erudition d'hier." *

We have only one reflection more to make before we conclude, and that has taken its rise from an observation more than once repeated in the Life of Scott, alluding to his works, but probably confined to his romances and novels,- You know I don't care a curse about what I write, or what becomes of it;" and he in other places declares his dislike of looking into his own works of fiction. "How is this?" doubtless, many of his admiring readers will exclaim ;-is this, then, the severe tax laid on the sons of genius, that they shall even loathe and abhor what is the desire of all other eyes?—is there no reward after such mental toil in contemplating the fabric of wisdom and learning successfully raised by this powerful will?or do they alone know the mockery and emptiness of the creations outwardly so glittering, and which look so fair to all beside?-do their keen eyes pierce through the semblance of life and animation that adorns the lovely" region o' the element," and gives it an appearance of humanity; and can they at once recognise the poor, common materials from which it is deceitfully made; and behold, where others see the roseate smile of angelic beauty, and the warm voluptuous breathings of celestial love, nothing but a few grains of common earth-a handful of vile dust and ashes, the cheap unworthy instrument of the enchanter's skill?—or rather is not the very facility with which works of fiction are created, the cause of the transient pleasure they afford? All will acknowledge a difference between such works as the novel and romance of modern days, and poems of high heroic devices-such as the epics of Homer and Milton; though both contain a history, both are built upon a progress of events and the conflict of the passions, and both are so constructed as to affect the feelings, and awaken the curiosity of the mind. But the poem attains its end by different means. It does not depend, as the novel or romance, on the rapidity of its movements,-on the surprising nature of its changes,-on the breathless surprise with which we are hurried onwards from action to action, and event to event, till the wheel of our glowing imagination catches fire, and even the coursers of ætherial race are panting and breathless with our speed. He who has skill to construct a probable and well arranged fictitious narrative, and genius enough to invest it with the realities of life, literally commands the empire of another world which he has created, and we become for a time its inhabitants, and obey him. But then this creation, so wonderfully and suddenly formed, cannot long endure; the seeds of rapid decay are within it; every time we gaze, the colours that enchanted us become more faint and dim. When curiosity is satiated,-the feeling of novelty passed, the incidents known, and coming events are no longer in obscurity, then the illusion rapidly disappears, and the power of the enchanter with it altogether ceases. It is not so with the Poem a; its power over our passions is at first far inferior to that of its rival, its characters less bold and prominent and full, — its

-

*Chamfort, Euv. i. 302. See Diary, vol. vi. p. 386. "They have to read old books and consult antiquarian collections to get their knowledge. I write, because I have long since read such works, and possess, thanks to a strong memory, the information which they have to seek for," &c.

incidents less daring and romantic; there is little in it merely to gratify the curiosity of the ardent and inquisitive. Poetry is slow o. movement compared to fiction. It is surrounded with such a stately train of sentiments, images, and reflections-with such graceful descriptions, and such delicate analogies, that the rapidity of its motion is impeded it marches also to the cadence of its own measured harmony. The very rhythm of poetry is as a golden fetter that impedes the full freedom of its step, but does not mar the gentle elegance of its movement. There is, too, a harmonising, modifying power, which softens and subdues the violent contrasts, and dazzling lights and shades, in which the novelist delights to dwell. The Iliad keeps no reader in breathless astonishment at the marvellous grandeur of its incidents, nor hurries and impels him with insatiable curiosity from one surprise to a greater still. The story of the Eneid hardly moves a passion, and scarcely ever commands a tear; yet though the empire of the poem is far weaker at first (for nothing can for the moment equal the impulse of curiosity) than that of the romantic fiction, it is nevertheless one which improves in the same ratio as the other decays, which receives at every perusal fresh accession of strength, and the power of which, when established and acknowledged, never can decay. Who ever thinks of the fable, of the invention of the successive events, when he takes up the Eneid?-Characters more attractive than that of Eneas or Turnus, and incidents more affecting than the death of Dido, can easily be imagined. If that poem delights us from youth to age-if its beauties never pall upon us, it surely does not arise from any superior illusion it creates of the reality of its fictions. In that respect it yields to the most vulgar production of the day, and Macbeth itself is inferior to the Mysteries of Udolpho. Poetry, therefore, it is clear, retains its power over our minds, not so much by creating an illusion, by which its fictions are made real, but by the more sober and chastened delights which it imparts to the cultivated taste, to the imagination, and the finer sensibilities of the mind; by the beautiful associations it awakens, and the pure, select thoughts, images, and feelings to which it gives rise. To these we can assign no date when they shall no longer please; and a fine poem may be read for the thousandth time with the same delight as at the first; nay, as our taste becomes more refined, and our poetical sensibility more delicate, new beauties will waken and start up that we had not before recognised. As we move on through the poetic landscape that blooms around, its verdure and fragrance will be more and more attractive; flowers of a brighter colour will be springing round our feet; gleams of richer and more purpureal lights will invest the scene; and we shall catch at intervals, as it comes swelling on the breeze, from the enchanted horn, tones that we never heard before, of a softer and more surpassing beauty. These observations being we believe true, we shall apply them to the case of Scott in the words of a very ingenious writer which we have just met with, rather than in those we had ourselves prepared :

"Personal indulgence is a sufficient motive for the conception of poetry; but with respect to illusion, the case is widely different, from its transitory and perish able nature its force will altogether be lost in the conception; and the very act of invention will dissipate the charms of the invention. Composing a story, is like reading one for the second time: no one

can feel much interest in the termination of events over which he himself has an absolute control; and the destiny of a hero will be an object of at least as little interest to him who has ordained it, as to those who already know how it has been ordained by others. Conscious skill and ingenuity in the disposition of the materials, may, indeed, be some slight grati