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possessing some of the genius and peculiarities of both. It is formed on the model of St Leon, but the supernatural power of that romantic visionary produces nothing so striking or awful as the grand conception of Frankenstein'-the discovery that he can, by his study of natural philosophy, create a hving and sentient being. The hero, like Caleb Williams, tells his own story, and the curiosity it excites is equally concentrated and intense. A native of Geneva, Frankenstein, is sent to the university of Ingolstadt to pursue his studies. He had previously dabbled in the occult sciences, and the university afforded vastly extended facilities for prosecuting his abstruse researches. He pores over books on physiology, makes chemical experiments, visits even the receptacles of the dead and the dissecting-room of the anatomist, and after days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, he succeeds in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay more, he became capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter! Full of his extraordinary discovery, he proceeds to create a man, and at length, after innumerable trials and revolting experiments to seize and infuse the principle of life into his image of clay, he constructs and animates a gigantic figure, eight feet in height. His feelings on completing the creation of this monster are powerfully de

scribed:

-

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation, but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel.

I started from my sleep with horror, a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch-the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed, and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.

Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a hell to me, and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete.

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was, or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me—

Like one who on a lonely road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.*

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why, but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing, and on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out." My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! how fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my

* Coleridge's' Ancient Mariner.

recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment
forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly,
and for the first time during many months, calm and
serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the
most cordial manner, and we walked towards my
college. Clerval continued talking for some time
about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune
in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt." You may
easily believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty
to persuade my father that it was not absolutely ne-
cessary for a merchant not to understand anything
except book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left
him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer
to my unwearied intreaties was the same as that of
the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield
'I have ten thousand florins a-year without Greek; I
eat heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me
at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has
permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to
the land of knowledge."

"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."

I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting which he anticipated with such joy so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.'

creator, and haunts him like a spell. For two years The monster ultimately becomes a terror to his he disappears, but at the end of that time he is presented as the murderer of Frankenstein's infant brother, and as waging war with all mankind, in consequence of the disgust and violence with which his appearance is regarded. The demon meets and confronts his maker, demanding that he should create him a helpmate, as a solace in his forced expatriation from society. Frankenstein retires and begins the hideous task, and while engaged in it during the secrecy of midnight, in one of the lonely islands of the Orcades, the monster appears before

him.

A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on “Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he allotted that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I to me. Yes, he had followed in my travels; he had mean to lecture you a little upon their account my- loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken self. But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stop-refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came ping short, and gazing full in my face, "I did not to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance pale; you look as if you had been watching for seve- expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. ral nights." I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and, trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.'

"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end, and that I am at length free."

shores and islands of the northern ocean.

Franken

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preA series of horrid and malignant events now mark ceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the the career of the demon. He murders the friend of thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I night, and causes the death of his father from grief. Frankenstein, strangles his bride on her weddinghad left in my apartment might still be there, alive, He eludes detection, but Frankenstein, in agony and and walking about. I dreaded to behold this mon- despair, resolves to seek him out, and sacrifice him ster; but I feared still more that Henry should see to his justice and revenge. The pursuit is prohim. Intreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards tracted for a considerable time, and in various counmy own room. My hand was already on the lock off tries, and at length conducts us to the ice-bound the door before I recollected myself. I then paused, stein recognises the demon, but ere he can reach and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when him, the ice gives way, and he is afterwards with difficulty rescued from the floating wreck by the they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped crew of a vessel that had been embayed in that polar fearfully in; the apartment was empty, and my bed-region. Thus saved from perishing, Frankenstein room was also freed from its hideous guest. I could relates to he captain of the ship his 'wild and wonhardly believe that so great a good fortune could have drous tale, but the suffering and exhaustion had befallen me; but when I became assured that my proved too much for his frame, and he expires beenemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy, fore the vessel had sailed for Britain. The monster visits the ship, and after mourningver the dead body of his victim, quits the vessel, resolved to seek the most northern extremity of the globe, and there to put a period to his wretched and unhallowed existence. The power of genius in clothing incidents the most improbable with strong interest and human sympathies is evinced in this remarkable story. The creation of the demon is admirably told. The successive steps by which the solitary student arrives at his great secret, after two years of labour, and the first glimpse which he obtains of the hideous monster, form a narrative that cannot be perused without sensations of awe and terror. While the demon is thus partially known and revealed, or seen only in the distance, gliding among cliffs and glaciers, appearing by moonlight to demand justice from his maker, or seated in his car among the tremendous solitudes of the northern ocean, the effect is striking and magnificent. The interest

and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me: I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival; but when he observed ne more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account; and my loud unrestrained heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.

"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are What is the cause of all this?" "Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "he can tell. Oh, save me! save me!"

ceases when we are told of the self-education of the monster, which is disgustingly minute in detail, and absurd in conception; and when we consider the improbability of his being able to commit so many crimes in different countries, conspicuous as he is in form, with impunity, and without detection. His malignity of disposition, and particularly his resentment towards Frankenstein, do not appear unnatural when we recollect how he has been repelled from society, and refused a companion by him who could alone create such another. In his wildest outbursts we partly sympathise with him, and his situation seems to justify his crimes. In depicting the internal workings of the mind and the various phases of the passions, Mrs Shelley evinces skill and acuteness. Like her father, she excels in mental analysis and in conceptions of the grand and the powerful, but fails in the management of her fable where probable incidents and familiar life are required or attempted.

In 1823 Mrs Shelley published another work of fiction, Valperga; or the Life and Adventures of Castruccio, Prince of Lucca, three volumes. The time of the story is that of the struggle between the Guelphs and the Ghibbelines. She is also the author of a novel upon the story of Perkin Warbeck.

[Love.]

It is said that in love we idolize the object, and placing him apart, and selecting him from his fellows, look on him as superior in nature to all others. We do so; but even as we idolize the object of our

affections, do we idolize ourselves: if we separate him from his fellow mortals, so do we separate ourselves, and glorying in belonging to him alone, feel lifted above all other sensations, all other joys and griefs, to one hallowed circle from which all but his idea is banished: we walk as if a mist, or some more potent charm, divided us from all but him; a sanctified victim, which none but the priest set apart for that office could touch and not pollute, enshrined in a cloud of glory, made glorious through beauties not our

own.

REV. C. R. MATURIN.

by natural causes. Circumstance has been styled 'an unspiritual god,' and he seldom appears to less advantage than in the plots of Mr Maturin. Between 1807 and 1820 our author published a number of works of romantic fiction-The Milesian Chief; The Wild Irish Boy; Women, or Pour et Contre; and Melmoth the Wanderer-all works in three or four volumes each. 'Women' was well received by the public, but none of its predecessors, as the author himself states, ever reached a second edition. In 'Women' he aimed at depicting real life and manners, and we have some pictures of Calvinistic Methodists, an Irish Meg Merrilees, and an Irish hero, De Courcy, whose character is made up of contradictions and improbabilities. Two female characters, Eva Wentworth and Zaira, a brilliant Italian (who afterwards turns out to be the mother of Eva), are drawn with delicacy and fine effect. The former is educated in strict seclusion, and is purity itself. De Courcy is in love with both, and both are blighted by his inconstancy. Eva dies calmly and tranquilly, elevated by religious hope. Zaira meditates suicide, but desists from the attempt and lives on, as if spell-bound to the death-place of her daughter and lover. De Courcy perishes of remorse. These scenes of deep passion and pathos are coloured with the lights of poetry and genius. Indeed the gradual decay of Eva is the happiest of all Mr Maturin's delineations, and has rarely been surpassed. The simple truthfulness of the description may be seen in passages like the following:The weather was unusually fine, though it was Eva passed them almost entirely in the garden. She September, and the evenings mild and beautiful had always loved the fading light and delicious tints of an evening sky, and now they were endeared by that which endears even indifferent things-an internal consciousness that we have not long to behold them. Mrs Wentworth remonstrated against this indulgence, and mentioned it to the physician; but amused her mind could do her no harm, &c. Then he answered neglectingly;" said anything that Mrs Wentworth began to feel there was no hope; and Eva was suffered to muse life away unmolested. To the garden every evening she went, and brought her library with her; it consisted of but three books

The REV. C. R. MATURIN, the poetical and eccen--the Bible, Young's Night Thoughts, and Blair's tric curate of St Peter's, Dublin, came forward in Grave. One evening the unusual beauty of the sky 1807 as an imitator of the terrific and gloomy style made her involuntarily drop her book. She gazed of novel writing, of which Monk Lewis was the upward, and felt as if a book was open in heaven, modern master. Its higher mysteries were known where all the lovely and varying phenomena preonly to Mrs Radcliffe. The date of that style, as sented in living characters to her view the name of Maturin afterwards confessed, was out when he was the Divinity. There was a solemn congeniality be a boy, and he had not powers to revive it. His tween her feelings of her own state and the view of youth production was entitled Fatal Revenge, or the declining day-the parting light and the apthe Family of Montorio. The first part of this title proaching darkness. The glow of the western was the invention of the publisher, and it proved a heaven was still resplendent and glorious; a little good bookselling appellation, for the novel was in above, the blending hues of orange and azure were high favour in the circulating libraries. It is un- softening into a mellow and indefinite light; and in doubtedly a work of genius-full of imagination the upper region of the air, a delicious blue darkness and energetic language, though both are sometimes invited the eye to repose in luxurious dimness: one carried to extravagance or bombast. There was, star alone showed its trembling head-another and however, as has been justly remarked, 'originality another, like infant births of light; and in the dark in the conception, hideous as it was, of the hero east the half moon, like a bark of pearl, came on employing against the brother who had deceived through the deep still ocean of heaven. Eva gazed him the agency of that brother's own sons, whom on; some tears came to her eyes; they were a luxury. he persuades to parricide, by working on their Suddenly she felt as if she were quite well; a glow visionary fears, and by the doctrines of fatalism; like that of health pervaded her whole frame-one and then, when the deed is done, discovering that of those indescribable sensations that seem to assure the victims whom he had reasoned and persecuted us of safety, while, in fact, they are announcing disinto crime were his own children!' The author solution. She imagined herself suddenly restored to made abundant use of supernatural machinery, or health and to happiness. She saw De Courcy once at least what appears to be such, until the unra- more, as in their early hours of love, when his face velling of the plot discloses that the whole has been was to her as if it had been the face of an angel; effected, like the mysteries of the Castle of Udolpho, thought after thought came back on her heart like

gleams of paradise. She trembled at the felicity that filled her whole soul; it was one of those fatal illusions, that disease, when it is connected with strong emotions of the mind, often flatters its victim with-that mirage, when the heart is a desert, which rises before the wanderer, to dazzle, to delude, and to destroy.'

eyelids, or the stilly rush of his pinions as they sweep my brow.'

Claudine prepared to obey as the lady sunk to rest amid softened lights, subdued odours, and dying melodies. A silver lamp, richly fretted, suspended from the raftered roof, gleamed faintly on the splendid bed. The curtains were of silk, and the coverlet of velvet, faced with miniver; gilded coronals and tufts of plumage shed alternate gleam and shadow over every angle of the canopy; and tapestry of silk and silver the uncouthly-constructed doors and windows broke them into angles, irreconcilable alike to every rule of symmetry or purpose of accommodation. Near the ample hearth, stored with blazing wood, were placed a sculptured desk, furnished with a missal and breviary gorgeously illuminated, and a black marble tripod supporting a vase of holy water: certain amulets, too, lay on the hearth, placed there by the care of Dame Marguerite, some in the shape of relics, and others in less consecrated forms, on which the lady was often observed by her attendants to look somewhat disregard fully. The great door of the chamber was closed by the departing damsels carefully; and the rich sheet of tapestry dropt over it, whose hushful sweeping on the floor seemed like the wish for a deep repose breathed from a thing inanimate. The castle was still, the silver lamp twinkled silently and dimly; the perfumes, burning in small silver vases round the chamber, began to abate their gleams and odours; the scented waters, scattered on the rushes with which the floor was strewn, flagged and failed in their delicious tribute to the sense; the bright moon, pouring its glories through the uncurtained but richly tinted casement, shed its borrowed hues of crimson, amber, and purple on curtain and canopy, as in defiance of chamber. the artificial light that gleamed so feebly within the

Melmoth,' another of Mr Maturin's works, is the wildest of his romances. The hero' gleams with demon light,' and owing to a compact with Satan, lives a century and a-half, performing all manner of adven-covered every compartment of the walls, save where tures, the most defensible of which is frightening an Irish miser to death. Some of the details in Melmoth' are absolutely sickening and loathsome. They seem the last convulsive efforts and distortions of the Monk Lewis school of romance. In 1824 (the year of his premature death) Mr Maturin published The Albigenses, a romance in four volumes. This work was intended by the author as one of a series of romances illustrative of European feelings and manners in ancient, in middle, and in modern times. Laying the scene of his story in France, in the thirteenth century, the author connected it with the wars between the Catholics and the Albigenses, the latter being the earliest of the reformers of the faith. Such a time was well adapted for the purposes of romance; and Mr Maturin in this work presented some good pictures of the crusaders, and of the Albigenses in their lonely worship among rocks and mountains. He had not, however, the power of delineating varieties of character, and his attempts at humour are wretched failures. In constructing a plot, he was also deficient; and hence The Albigenses,' wanting the genuine features of a historical romance, and destitute of the supernatural machinery which had imparted a certain degree of wild interest to the author's former works, was universally pronounced to be tedious and uninteresting. Passages, as we have said, are carefully finished and well drawn, and we subjoin a brief specimen,

[A Lady's Chamber in the Thirteenth Century.]

I am weary,' said the lady; disarray me for rest. But thou, Claudine, be near when I sleep; I love thee well, wench, though I have not shown it hitherto. Wear this carkanet for my sake; but wear it not, I charge thee, in the presence of Sir Paladour. Now read me my riddle once more, my maidens.' As her head sunk on the silken pillow-How may ladies sink most sweetly into their first slumber?'

I ever sleep best,' said Blanche, 'when some withered crone is seated by the hearth fire to tell me tales of wizardry or goblins, till they are mingled with my dreams, and I start up, tell my beads, and pray her to go on, till I see that I am talking only to the dying embers or the fantastic forms shaped by their flashes on the dark tapestry or darker ceiling.'

And I love,' said Germonda, 'to be lulled to rest by tales of knights met in forests by fairy damsels, and conducted to enchanted halls, where they are assailed by foul fiends, and do battle with strong giants; and are, in fine, rewarded with the hand of the fair dame, for whom they have periled all that knight or Christian may hold precious for the safety of body and of soul.'

Peace and good rest to you all, my dame and maidens,' said the lady in whispering tones from her silken couch. None of you have read my riddle. She sleeps sweetest and deepest who sleeps to dream of her first love-her first-her last-her only. A fair good night to all. Stay thou with me, Claudine, and touch thy lute, wench, to the strain of some old ditty -old and melancholy--such as may so softly usher sleep that I feel not his downy fingers closing mine

Claudine tuned her lute, and murmured the rude song of a troubadour, such as follows:

Song.

Sleep, noble lady! They sleep well who sleep in warded castles. If the Count de Monfort, the champion of the church, and the strongest lance in the chivalry of France, were your foe as he is your friend,

one hundred of the arrows of his boldest archers at their best flight would fail to reach a loophole of your

towers.

Sleep, noble lady! They sleep well who are guarded by the valiant. Five hundred belted knights feast in your halls; they would not see your towers won, though to defend them they took the place of your vassals, who are tenfold that number; and, lady, I wish they were more for your sake. Valiant knights, faithful vassals, watch well your lady's slumbers; see that they be never broken but by the matin bell, or the sighs of lovers whispered between its tolls.

Sleep, noble lady! Your castle is strong, and the brave and the loyal are your guard.

Then the noble lady whispered to me through her silken curtain, A foe hath found his way to me, though my towers are strong, and the valiant are my guard, and the brave and the beautiful woo me in song, and with many kissings of their hands.' And I asked, what foe is that? The lady dropt her silken curtain, and slept; but methought in her dreams she murmured-That foe is Love!"

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

We have already touched on the more remarkable and distinguishing features of the Waverley novels, and the influence which they exercised not only on this country, but over the whole continent of Europe. That long array of immortal fictions can only be

compared with the dramas of Shakspeare, as presenting an endless variety of original characters, scenes, historical situations, and adventures. They

wathr/eed

H

as a novelist, to preserve his mask, desirous to obviate all personal discussions respecting his own productions, and aware also of the interest and curiosity which his secrecy would impart to his subsequent productions.

In February 1815-seven months after ' Waverley'
-Scott published his second novel, Guy Mannering,
It was the work of six weeks about Christmas,
and marks of haste are visible in the construction

of the plot and development of incidents. Yet what
length of time or patience in revision could have
added to the charm or hilarity of such portraits as
that of Dandy Dinmont, or the shrewd and witty
Counsellor Pleydell-the finished, desperate, sea-
devotion of that gentlest of pedants, poor Dominie
beaten villany of Hatteraick-the simple uncouth
Sampson-or the wild savage virtues and crazed
superstition of the gipsy-dweller in Derncleugh?
The astrological agency and predictions so marvel-
lously fulfilled are undoubtedly excrescences on the
story, though suited to a winter's tale in Scotland.
Mannering himself, seem also allied to the Minerva
The love scenes and female characters, and even
Press family, but the Scotch characters are all ad-
youthful feeling and spirit in the description of the
mirably filled up. There is also a captivating
wanderings and dangers of Bertram, and the events,i
improbable as they appear, which restore him to
his patrimony; while the gradual decay and death;
of the old Laird of Ellangowan-carried out to the
green as his castle and effects are in the hands of
the auctioneer-are inexpressibly touching and na-
tural. The interest of the tale is sustained through-

out with dramatic skill and effect.

are marked by the same universal and genial sympathies, allied to every form of humanity, and free from all selfish egotism or moral obliquity. In painting historical personages or events, these two great masters evinced a kindred taste, and not dissimilar powers. The highest intellectual traits and imagination of Shakspeare were, it is true, not approached by Scott: the dramatist looked inwardly upon man and nature with a more profound and searching philosophy. He could effect more with his five acts than Scott with his three volumes. The novelist only pictured to the eye what his great prototype stamped on the heart and feelings. Yet both were great moral teachers, without seeming to teach. They were brothers in character and in genius, and they poured out their imaginative treasures with a calm easy strength and conscious mastery, of which the world has seen no other examples. So early as 1805, before his great poems were produced, Scott had entered on the composition of Waverley, the first of his illustrious progeny of tales. He wrote about seven chapters, evidently taking Fielding, in his grave descriptive and ironical vein, for his model; but, getting dissatisfied with his attempt, he threw it aside. Eight years afterwards he met accidentally with the fragment, and determined to finish the story. In the interval between In May 1816 came forth The Antiquary, less rothe commencement of the novel in 1805 and its mantic and bustling in incidents than either of its resumption in 1813, Scott had acquired greater predecessors, but infinitely richer in character, diafreedom and self-reliance as an author. In Mar-logue, and humour. In this work Scott displayed mion and The Lady of the Lake he had struck his thorough knowledge of the middle and lower out a path for himself, and the latter portion of ranks of Scottish life. He confined his story 'Waverley' partook of the new spirit and enthusiasm. chiefly to a small fishing town and one or two A large part of its materials resembles those em- country mansions. His hero is a testy old Whig ployed in the Lady of the Lake-Highland feudal- laird and bachelor, and his dramatis persona are ism, military bravery and devotion, and the most little better than this retired humorist-the family easy and exquisite description of natural scenery. of a poor fisherman-a blue-gown mendicant-an He added also a fine vein of humour, chaste yet old barber-and a few other humble landward and ripened, and peculiarly his own, and a power of burrows town' characters. The sentimental Lord uniting history with fiction, that subsequently be- Glenallan, and the pompous Sir Arthur Wardour, came one of the great sources of his strength. His with Lovel the unknown, and the fiery Hector portrait of Charles Edward, the noble old Baron of M'Intyre (the latter a genuine Celtic portrait), are Bradwardine, the simple faithful clansman Evan necessary to the plot and action of the piece, but Dhu, and the poor fool Davie Gellatley, with his they constitute only a small degree of the reader's fragments of song and scattered gleams of fancy and pleasure or the author's fame. These rest on the sensibility, were new triumphs of the author. The inimitable delineation of Oldbuck, that model of poetry had projected shadows and outlines of the black-letter and Roman-camp antiquaries, whose Highland chief, the gaiety and splendour of the oddities and conversation are rich and racy as any court, and the agitation of the camp and battle-field; of the old crusted port that John of the Garnel but the humorous contrasts, homely observation, might have held in his monastic cellars-on the and pathos, displayed in Waverley,' disclosed far restless, garrulous, kind-hearted gaberlunzie, Edie deeper observation and more original powers. The Ochiltree, who delighted to daunder down the buruwork was published in July 1814. Scott did not sides and green shaws-on the cottage of the Muckleprefix his name to it, afraid that he might compro- on that scene of storm and tempest by the sea-side, backets, and the death and burial of Steenie-and mise his poetical reputation by a doubtful experi- which is described with such vivid reality and apment in a new style (particularly by his copious use of Scottish terms and expressions); but the un- palling magnificence. The amount of curious readmingled applause with which the tale was received ing, knowledge of local history and antiquities, was, he says, like having the property of a hidden power of description, and breadth of humour in the treasure, not less gratifying than if all the world Antiquary,' render it one of the most perfect of the knew it was his own.' Henceforward Scott resolved, author's novels. If Cervantes and Fielding really excelled Scott in the novel (he is unapproached in romance), it must be admitted that the Antiquary' ranks only second to Don Quixote and Tom. Jones. In none of his works has Scott shown greater power in developing the nicer shades of feeling and character, or greater felicity of phrase

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*He had put the chapters aside, as he tells us, in a writingdesk wherein he used to keep fishing-tackle. The desk-a substantial old mahogany cabinet-and part of the fishingtackle are now in the possession of Scott's friend, Mr William Laidlaw, at Contin, in Ross-shire.

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