CHAPTER XX.

'THE UNVEILED PROPHET.'

WRITER in a forgotten magazine, dated

1826, says something to the following

effect: There has the author of Waverley been the other day putting out Woodstock. The man has been often called a magician, but never so much deserved the name as now. How but by sorcery has he in these dreadful times, when money, credit, and confidence are all alike gone, been able to get £10,000 for a novel, by no means the best, either, of his productions?' The sum here is overstated,—it was only £8228; but the wonder, though lessened by several hundreds, remains great. The price undoubtedly was enhanced by the competition among the booksellers, anxious, now that the Constable monopoly was broken down, to secure an interest in the most popular works of their time. The shock of sym

pathy, too, produced by the news of Scott's misfortunes had its own share in increasing, for a time, the value of his productions. The novel consequently sold well, and its success came upon the author like a gleam of sunshine in a cloudy eve.

About Woodstock the anonymous writer is correct. It by no means comes up to the first, no, nor yet to the second, nor yet to the third file of his fictions. It is in many parts exceedingly tedious. It ought to have embraced the period closing with the battle of Worcester, and had the Royal Oak for FINIS, instead of which 'the mere lees' of that impressive story are 'left the vault to brag off.' The apparitions at Woodstock are managed with very little skill, not certainly as even Mrs. Radcliffe would have managed them. Scott admits himself that when he wrote the novel he had not the spirits to caricature the Puritans as he had done the Covenanters ; so, instead of making them ridiculous, he has made them simply loathsome. Witness Trusty Tomkins. And, above all, his picture of Cromwell, the greatest historical character he ever grappled with, is a failure. He halts between two opinions in his estimate of him; and this irresolution is fatal to the power and fidelity of the likeness. Charles II., too, is a wretched daub. But there are many scenes

and passages of striking interest. The characters and connection of Sir Harry Lee and his daughter are exquisitely tender,—the more so if we suppose that Scott was here shadowing out his own family history. Bevis, the noble hound, is his own Maida; and altogether, when we remember that the tale, like the fatal bark in Lycidas, was built in the eclipse,' we are astonished to find it built so well. It resembles the work of a blind architect, where faults are forgiven and merits exaggerated, on account of the circumstances surmounted and the difficulties overcome. He no sooner finished and launched Woodstock than he began The Chronicles of the Canongate. Frequently since his failure he had contemplated the possibility of taking refuge from his creditors in the ancient sanctuary of Holyrood, and this gave a strange charm to the Canongate, that fine old street opening upon it, and led to the conception of Chrystal Croftangry. We wish he had given us what we believe he at one time intended, a series of Tales of the Abbey. No one certainly could have thrown such vivid light as Scott upon the numerous paths of misfortune, carelessness, extravagance, and crime, leading so many victims to this Scottish city of refuge, defended almost superfluously, and consecrated, too, by a royal palace, the giant-snouted

crags of Salisbury, and the couchant lion of Arthur's Seat!

Napoleon, however, was still his magnum opus, and he devoted to it his more earnest and intense moments. He now carried on his labours, not merely in the morning before breakfast, which had long been his chief time for composition, but in the evening, as well as in the forenoon, to the great detriment of his health. Mr. Gillies says, 'I have always thought that to the domestic affliction, the painful impressions and incessant labours of the year 1826, was imputable the break of his constitution, although the injury was not then apparent. In St. David Street he kept earlier hours than ever; and sometimes in one morning, before the meeting of the Court at ten o'clock, he had finished an entire sheet of twenty-four pages for the printer. His handwriting was now so small and cramped, that one of his ordinary quarto pages made at least double that amount in print; "and, after all," he observed, "it was really no great exploit to finish twelve pages in a morning." But, on his return from the Parliament House, however wearied he might be, the task was again resumed. Seldom receiving any company, he scarcely sat a quarter of an hour at dinner, but turned directly to his writing-desk. Yet there never seemed the slightest

flurry or irritation in his demeanour. He never seemed vexed or in a hurry, but took up the pen with a smile on his countenance, and as if he had been writing merely for his own amusement.'

In this way, besides his ordinary tasks, he had found time for writing some very spirited letters on the monetary questions of that agitated period, under the nom de plume of 'Sir Malachi Malagrowther,'-letters which made a sensation, although not quite equal to the Drapier or to Junius. Almost his only relaxation all this dreadfully hot summer of 1826 was joining the Blair Adam Club for two or three days about the longest day, where, however, the heat compelled them to creep about and lounge under the shadow of great trees, and prevented any extended excursion.

In October he interrupted, or rather varied his labours, by a journey, undertaken along with his unmarried daughter Anne, to London and Paris, in search of materials for Napoleon. At London he saw some of his old friends, and made a few new acquaintances. In Paris the honours of his Irish reception were renewed with interest. He describes the French as absolutely 'outrageous in their civilities,' and seemed as glad to get safe out of Paris as if it had been a forest of officious baboons. He bore it all, however, with great apparent equa