tion of the work betokens not only a ripe German and English scholar, but a writer intimately acquainted with the fine arts, otherwise he could not have conveyed in our language the point and perspicuity of the original.

ART. II.—Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart. Volume the Seventh and last. London: Murray and Whittaker. 1838. IT has been with feelings in some measure akin to those which we have experienced at the commencement of the last act in a magnificent drama, or when opening the last volume of an all-absorbing romance, the catastrophe of which was already known, that we have received the present portion of the life of one of the most engaging and lofty characters that ever appeared on earth. Again and again we have said that never, excepting on the eve of publication of some of Scott's tales, have we so anxiously waited for the issuing from the press of any work as the several volumes of his life. To be sure the piece-meal manner of publication here adopted has been sufficiently tantalizing, and has repeatedly left us with provoking abruptness just at the moment when curiosity and interest were at the highest pitch. The complaint, however, cannot now be longer preferred; the mighty minstrel has been exhibited, bereft of all that ever distinguished him among men; his tongue is mute for ever; and, after the long and eager contemplation that held us in amazement, we are at last enabled to breathe freely, and to allow the pantings of the heart gradually to subside.

Having alluded to Scott's novels we may just observe, that since his death, and especially since perusing portions of the work before us, never have we looked into any of those inimitable productions, in which such vivid pictures are to be found of the magician himself, without experiencing the pressure of certain emotions that required the applause of philosophy and religious truths to keep under. Having for years had almost daily opportunities of scanning his features, of beholding the remarkable serenity of his bearing, and frequently of listening to his matchless discourse, and thence comparing and identifying him with himself, such a habit has been established, that whatever appears peculiarly characteristic in any of his tales sends the mind on painful excursions, and forces from us the irrational wish that such a man had never have grown old, or at least the selfish desire that he had lived beyond our time, were it but for the sake of sustaining the most delightful sympathies in regard to him, which his writings never, while he lived, failed to awaken. It requires an effort to believe that the tongue, which was so rich and various, should now be dumb for ever; that the judgment which was so masculine, the moral energies which were so active and exalted, should have been, ere animal existence ceased, prostrated and all but obliterated. How ready are we mentally to

exclaim, His like we shall never again see! How nearly inclined to fret and lament that one who had so long ministered unceasingly to our delight, and served to reconcile us to the world in spite of its many evils, should be withdrawn never more to charm but by those efforts which bring along with them a host of painful associations.

It is fortunate, however, that though the charmer be mute, though his visage never more will attract the complacency of the world, there is preserved of him one of the fullest and most transparent pictures that ever has been bequeathed by the great and good. In the work before us, the hero of the story is to be heard and seen with a distinctness that is all but real, almost even to the tones of voice, and the contour of countenance; while, though a veil intervenes between the reader and these realities, the heart of the man is palpable, the spirit breathes, and soul holds communion with soul. In this ethereal respect, we are here actually led into the presence of the departed; for Mr. Lockhart from overflowing stores, and by the exercise of great literary skill, has allowed his hero to speak most pleasantly and variously for himself.

Independent of the peculiar value and interest belonging to Scott's Life, considering him merely as a man of great genius and worth, independent of the lessons which this history affords to mankind, there is, as the biographer notices in the preface, a distinct point of importance in which the present work is to be viewed. It is possible that a difference of opinion may exist with regard to the precise value of Scott's character, but no doubt has ever arisen concerning the fidelity of his portraitures of Scottish life and manners, both in past and contemporary periods. The national character of Scotland, however, is rapidly passing away; and but for the magician whose wand arrested the fleeting realities and fixed them in imperishable records, when standing "a Borderer between two ages,' the pictures would not have been drawn and the images must have been for ever lost.

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We have more than once expressed our almost unqualified approbation of the present work, in so far as the biographer's task is concerned; and one of the most apparent excellences of the performance consists in the unreserved spirit of fidelity evinced by the author. Scott is not made to appear a faultless monster. We are perfectly satisfied that Mr. Lockhart is sincere and honest when he declares that he despises the notion of painting a great and masculine character unfaithfully, of leaving out anything essential to the preservation of the man as he was, which it was in his power to produce and represent. There are in the present volume, for example, instances of a fearless openness, which it must have required considerable nerve to exhibit, and which, perhaps justly, must expose the biographer to charges of a severe nature.

It can hardly be necessary to state to our readers that one of the most striking and affecting exhibitions in the present volume must

be that of the gradual breaking up of Scott's constitution, physical and mental, till he became a complete but noble ruin. This exhibition acquires additional weight and pathos when it is observed that its subject was conscious of its progress, and that he struggled manfully against its inroads, and yet maintained a lofty serenity and cherished a habitual resignation, even amid the most alarming symptoms. To a man who had so long enjoyed the sunshine of intellect, not to speak of the physical energies of an athletic frame, the approach of that night in which his light was to set, and when oblivion and stupor were to possess him, offers a theme for consideration that is melancholy in proportion to the contrasts involved. It will be to the declension referred to that the majority of our extracts will have respect.

This last volume has an ominous opening as regards Scott's health, for it states that his constitution was, from successive attacks of the rheumatism, beginning to shake, and every aliment ended in aggravating his lameness. The period in question was winter 1826-7. To make things worse instead of reserving his evenings as formerly to light reading, or the enjoyment of his family and friends, he now regarded every minute not spent at the desk as lost. We find that his Diary contains the following entry for December 16.

"Another bad night. I remember I used to think a slight illness was a luxurious thing. My pillow was then softened by the hand of affection, and the little cares put in exercise to soothe the languor or pain, were more flattering and pleasing than the consequences of the illness were disagreeable. It was a new scene to be watched and attended, and I used to think that the malade imaginaire gained something by his humour. It is different in the latter stages-the old post-chaise gets more shattered and out of order at every turn; windows will not be pulled up, doors refuse to open, or being open will not shut again-which last is rather my case, There is some new subject of complaint every moment-your sicknesses come thicker and thicker-your comforting and sympathizing friends fewer and fewer-for why should they sorrow for the course of nature? The recollection of youth, health, and uninterrupted powers of activity, neither improved nor enjoyed, is a poor strain of comfort. The best is, the long halt will arrive at last, and cure all. This was a day of labour, agreeably varied by a pain which rendered it scarce possible to sit upright. My journal is getting a vile chirurgical aspect. I begin to be afraid of the odd consequences complaints in the post equitem are said to produce. I shall tire of my journal. In my better days I had stories to tell; but death has closed the long dark avenue upon loves and friendships, and I look at them as through the grated door of a burial-place filled with monuments of those who were once dear to me, with no insincere wish that it may open for me at no distant period, provided such be the will of God. My pains were those of the heart, and had something flattering in their character; if in the head, it was from the blow of a bludgeon gallantly received, and well paid back. I think I shall not live to the usual VOL. II. (1838). No. I.

verge of human existence; I shall never see the threescore and ten, and shall be summed up at a discount. No help for it, and no matter either."

We find, for instance, from a letter addressed to the biographer by a young man who was employed by Scott, about the period above mentioned, to copy papers connected with the Life of Buonaparte, that they commenced their several labours in the same apartment at six o'clock in the morning, and continued without intermission, excepting to take breakfast and dinner, which were served in the room beside them, till six o'clock in the evening; and all this Herculean labour to pay off the enormous debt which was over the poet's head.

There is a very characteristic letter of Scott's to William Clerk, in anticipation of a personal quarrel which General Gourgand was likely to fasten on him in consequence of certain documents which appeared in the Life of Napoleon. I will not baulk him, Jackie, says Sir Walter; for although he might have marched off upon the privileges of literature, he was resolved, should the affair come to hostile arbitriment, that Scotland should not be dishonoured through his sides. The Frenchman's wrath, however, burst forth in a very distant clap of thunder.

Literary toil and the quarrel alluded to, were not the only inconveniences which Scott had to bear up against; for it appears that between December 1826 and November 1827, the threatenings of severe treatment by certain Jewish brokers had caused him to make preparations for taking shelter in the sanctuary at Holyrood-house. But extreme measures were not after all adopted, so that he was allowed to have the free use of his time for the benefit of his creditors. It could not, however, [have been greatly regretted had the Israelites made good their threats; for in that case Scott must have had recourse to the usual legal measures for the sake of obtaining his liberation; so that after resigning all his assets on the usual terms of sequestration, he would have been at perfect freedom to employ his time and pen for his own benefit, and as his taste and pleasure dictated. To the prospect of a sojourn in the sanctuary of Holyrood, it seems that the world is indebted for much that occurs in the first series of the Chronicles of the Canongate, and what pertains to the domicile of Chrystal Chroftangry. But the way in which to form anything like an adequate idea of Scott's labours and sacrifices, is to take into consideration this statement,-that between January 1826 and January 1828, the sale of his copyright and of his new works paid off very nearly 40,000. of the enormous debt he had blindly incurred,-a marvel assuredly in the history of literature, and an achievement which richly deserved the vote of thanks which his creditors passed. Who could withhold his sympathy and admiration from such a hero after reading this statement, or who

would not have shed tears of delight had the writer of the following notices been observed when they were entered in his Diary?

"My reflections in entering my own gate to day were of a very different and more pleasing cast, than those with which I left this place about six weeks ago. I was then in doubt whether I should fly my country, or become avowedly bankrupt, and surrender up my library and household furniture, with the liferent of my estate, to sale. A man of the world will say I had better done so. No doubt, had I taken this course at once, I might have employed the money I have made since the insolvency of Constable and Robinson's houses in compounding my debts. But I could not have slept sound as I now can, under the comfortable impression of receiving the thanks of my creditors, and the conscious feeling of discharging my duty as a man of honour and honesty. I see before me a long, tedious, and dark path, but it leads to stainless reputation. If I die in the harrows, as is very likely, I shall die with honour; if I achieve my task, I shall have the thanks of all concerned, and the approbation of my own conscience. And so I think I can fairly face the return of Christmasday.'

"And again, on the 31st December, he says:

"Looking back to the conclusion of 1826, I observe that the last year ended in trouble and sickness, with pressures for the present and gloomy propects for the future. The sense of a great privation so lately sustained, together with the very doubtful and clouded nature of my private affairs, pressed hard upon my mind. I am now restored in constitution; and though I am still on troubled waters, yet I am rowing with the tide, and less than the continuation of my exertions of 1827 may, with God's blessing, carry me successfully through 1828, when we may gain a more open sea, if not exactly a safe port. Above all, my children are well. Sophia's situation excites some natural anxiety; but it is only the accomplishment of the burden imposed on her sex. Walter is happy in the view of his majority, on which matter we have favourable hopes from the Horse-Guards. Anne is well and happy. Charles's entry on life under the highest patronage, and in a line for which, I hope, he is qualified, is about to take place presently.

"For all these great blessings it becomes me well to be thankful to God, who in his good time and good pleasure, sends us good as well as evil.'"

Scott was in the habit of characterizing the uniform reprint of the Novels, with illustrations and notes, as the Opus magnum,—a designation which the prodigious sale of the edition has fully warranted; but this great undertaking, every one knows, only went pari passu with many other literary enterprizes, which it is not necessary for us particularly to enumerate. Nor was there any lack of tempting offers had he even doubled himself.

"Mr. Charles Heath, the engraver, invites me to take charge of a yearly publication called the Keepsake, of which the plates are beyond comparison beautiful, but the letter-press indifferent enough. He proposes