different the circumstances when he wrote at Scott's dictation in 1819-20 and now! Then Scott was in disease, now in decay. Then the sturdy oak was shaken by a tempest; now it was stooping heavyladen under infirmities, and its proud apex touched the ground. Then, as the author warmed with his theme, spirit triumphed over matter, and, after demoniac tortures, there was an angelic birth; now the flow of the thought was free and full in general, but the result was feeble. Then Laidlaw's feeling, as he contrasted the pained Titan with the glorious product, was delighted astonishment; now pity and sorrow predominated, especially when at times the mighty Wizard seemed to have dropped his wand, lost his way, and, instead of seeing the invisible, saw nothing but clouds and thick darkness. It seemed a transfiguration inverted, a god turning into a man,-a giant dwindling into a dwarf; and it might be said of this strong man, like Sisera of old, 'At his feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down; at his feet he bowed, he fell; where he bowed, there he fell down dead.' And Laidlaw such an idolater too! We wonder his pen was not petrified,—it surely sometimes trembled. And how Scott must have missed those interjections of praise, Eh, sirs! heard ye ever the like o' that!' which were wont to burst from

the lips of the enthusiastic henchman, and to cheer him on his task. Now there was a sad silence, broken only by the voice of the author, waxing feebler and lower every hour, and by the racing over the paper of the amanuensis' reluctant and hurrying pen.

The times were not of the kind to infuse new energy into Sir Walter, or to recall old. The three days at Paris had uttered their voice, and all Europe, Britain included, were returning it in assenting or angry echoes. Charles X. had taken refuge in Holyrood, and was even there so insecure that Scott had to write a letter to the newspapers, imploring for him common courtesy and respect. The Whig Government was big with the Reform Bill. Scott became greatly agitated, and threw out his agitation into a political pamphlet, which had of course plenty of zeal, but was exceedingly feeble in composition, and which his friends strongly condemned, and with some difficulty persuaded him to destroy.

Previous to this he had another slight touch of apoplexy, which was followed by others; and greater severity of regimen, and abstinence from work, were enjoined on him by his physicians. Cadell and James Ballantyne had been compelled to condemn Count Robert as altogether unworthy

of his reputation. Frightened, however, almost out of their senses by his political pamphlet, they were driven in despair to advise him to return to his novel; and this, nothing loath, he consented to do. 1830 closed in one point well with Scott. In December his creditors, gratified by the success of the Magnum, presented him with his furniture, plate, linen, paintings, library, etc.,--an act which gave him great satisfaction.

His debt was now reduced to £54,000. The Magnum, notwithstanding the disturbed state of the country, continued to flourish, its sale being scarcely at all diminished. When told of what the creditors had so handsomely done, he thought his affairs in such a satisfactory state that he determined to execute his last will, which he did the next year.

He resumed his Journal, and on the 20th of December we find him saying: 'Ever since my fall in February I have seemed to speak with an impediment. To add to this, I have the constant increase of my lameness. I move with very great pain, and am at every minute, during an hour's walk, reminded of my mortality. My fear is lest the blow be not sufficient to destroy life, and that I should linger on "a driveller and a show." He often repeated the lines in Johnson's

Vanity of Human Wishes, of which this is an extract,

'From Marlborough's eyes the tears of dotage flow,
And Swift expires a driveller and a show.'

CHAPTER XXIV.

VISIT TO THE CONTINENT.

COTT closed his Journal for 1830 gloomily. He opens it for 1831 in language more melancholy still:-'January 1st, 1831. I cannot say the world opens pleasantly for me this new year. There are many things for which I have reason to be thankful, especially that Cadell's plans seem to have succeeded, and he augurs that the next two years will nearly clear me. But I feel myself decidedly wrecked in point of health, and am now confirmed that I have had a paralytic touch. I speak and read with embarrassment, and even my handwriting seems to stammer. This general failure,

"With mortal crisis doth portend
My days to appropinque an end.”

I am not solicitous about this. Only, if I were