when he returned to Abbotsford, he sat quietly down to his labours connected with the Life of the Emperor, and to his usual routine of country' business and country pleasures.

CHAPTER XVIII.

DECAY AND DECADENCE BEGUN.

COTT was now fifty-four, an age when many men are at their very best, with

the strength of their bodies unimpaired, and the faculties of their minds in full vigour. But ever since the attack of cramp his constitution was not so strong as it seemed; and he had, besides, complained of what he calls a 'thickening of the blood, or whoreson apoplexy,' the disease of which he ultimately died, and to which he attributed the dulness of Peveril. And Lockhart hints that attacks of this sort occurred now and then before his terrible seizure in 1830. But the angel of disease at present suspended his blow, and left other ministers of ruin to do their work instead.

His labour in the preparation of Napoleon was of a very different kind from that of his Novels. These required no previous study,—that had been

the work of the first half of his life; but for the other he had to consult authorities and pore over note-books, so that we may venture to say that he had to read as much for a single page in the Napoleon as for a whole volume in the Waverley series. When we looked through the library in Abbotsford some years ago, and saw the shelves crowded with folio Moniteurs, we said, 'These are the great French guns which laid the flower of Scotchmen low.' When he came to the work of original composition, he came well crammed, no doubt, but jaded, with an aching brow and a dim eye; and his writing, though generally spirited, was often hasty and careless.

During the latter months of 1825 Scott entertained some distinguished visitors, among others, Lord Gifford and his lady, Harry of Exeter, and, above all, Tom Moore, who had expressed his regret that he was not present when Scott and Killarney were introduced to each other, a regal interview verily worth not only seeing, but, as Dr. Johnson used to distinguish, 'going to see.' The conjunction of Moore and Scott itself must have been an interesting sight-the delicious butterflybard of Erin, carrying, however, what butterflies do not, a bag of highly concentrated venom and a sharp and polished sting; the slight, dapper little

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person, looking insignificant till you noticed 'The Twopenny Post Bag' and other such dangerous explosives slung around him,-the dainty and fastidious darling of society,-the Hafiz Anacreon Catullus of his day, the pungent morsel of a man, like Mustard Seed in the Midsummer Night's Dream, meeting with the brawny poet and novelist of Scotland, with his white hair, sagacious face, tall figure, and Matterhorn-like forehead; Moore in his walks armed with a smart Malacca cane-S -Scott with a sturdy oak plant, which Friar Tuck might have flourished; Moore at table sipping his French wines, and Scott imbibing his mountain dew; Moore warbling his Irish Melodies with the 'treble of a fay'-Scott adding his rough and tuneless but hearty chorus, with voice like a Westphalian boar; and yet both delighted with each other, and connected, like Goldsmith's Dwarf and Giant, in close offensive and defensive league. They had much common ground, were both intimate friends of Byron, both patriotic poets, both men who combined great enthusiasm with great common sense and a thorough knowledge of the ways of society, including the upper and the lower orders alike, and were both kindly and generous men. Moore kept a diary while there, and sent it to Lockhart, with the additional words, 'I parted from Scott with the

feeling that all the world might admire him in his works, but that those only could learn to love him as he deserved who had seen him at Abbotsford.' Of course you never can thoroughly understand any man, or love him with sufficient warmth, till you have known him in private; but it is the peculiarity of Scott's works that they compel you, not only to admire the author, but to love the man, and make all his readers feel as if they, like Mr. Moore, had been at Abbotsford. Moore adds: 'I give you carte blanche to say what you please of my sense of his cordial kindness and gentleness; perhaps a not very dignified phrase would express my feeling better than any fine one,-it was that he was a thorough good fellow.' This we may know and say without having lived a while with the Great Unknown. Every page of his works proves it; and especially every character in his Novels into whom he has thrown his whole soul, such as the Baron of Bradwardine, Paulus Pleydell, Esq., Dandie Dinmont, Jonathan Oldbuck, Bailie Nicol Jarvie, John Duke of Argyle, Robin Hood, Rob Roy; and Richard Cœur de Lion is, like his creator, a thorough good fellow.

Scott astonished Moore by revealing to him, without reserve, that he was the author of the Waverley Novels. The mask had been long worn; he was