fection even of form which supreme power must give. Such mastery has a close analogy to the easy use of social forms and the easy practice of social tact which we rightly ascribe to what is generally understood by the "man of quality." His courtesy and his social graces are not the fruit of study or of conscious practice, but derive all their charm from being unstudied, and from carrying with them the ease of nature, not the elaboration of art. Scott did not, any more than Byron, aspire to the name or character of a literary man. Had he been less great, his deliberate repudiation of all such aspiration might have involved something of affectation: as it was, it reflected only the character of the man; and it was because of this, that the effervescent force of that genius, which he himself never recognised, and uniformly undervalued, if it did not attain the positive excellences of a good style, at least acquired that mastery which has so much resemblance to the "careless and negligent ease of a man of quality." After all, if we weigh the words well, and do not read into them the inept vulgarities of conventional slang, the character of "a man of quality" is not one to be despised, whatever his rank and his antecedents; and if any man was ever worthy of the name, Scott at least deserves it.

Amongst the passages which are here selected, some are taken from the novels, not because they show the most characteristic marks of the genius which is there contained, but chiefly because they give passages of sustained dignity in which Scott describes a dramatic episode, or paints a scene, with but little of interruption from dialogue, and little of dialectical peculiarity. If our object were to illustrate Scott's genius, such passages would inadequately serve the purpose; but what is necessary is rather to show Scott as a writer of prose. For this purpose we must in large measure go outside the novel altogether, and seek for specimens rather in his voluminous miscellanies. Of these the prefaces and treatises interspersed amongst the Border Minstrelsy are prized by all lovers of Scott; but they are too much concerned with discussion and investigation to lend themselves to selection. It is rather in the lighter treatises on every variety of subject, which he contributed anonymously to reviews, that we have to look for his best writing; and they leave upon us a far higher impression of Scott's power as a writer of prose than do his novels. In the novels our interest is absorbed by qualities that leave us little attention to spare for style; but these articles, poured forth so easily,

owing nothing to the commanding interest of drama or of story, without the variety supplied by dialect, or the play of character in dialogue,-show how light and easy was Scott's touch, how quickly he could command interest, and they explain how his prose writing was prized and sought for, even when it was in no way associated either with his name or with the half-shadowed personality which he chose to assume in connection with the novels. We are in the habit of consoling ourselves for the lack of commanding literary excellence in our own generation by appealing to the high standard of anonymous writing in the journal and reviews. It is interesting to see the skill with which Scott, in a less exacting age, could in the odd leisure hours of a life of unparalleled achievement command an audience as an anonymous contributor to reviews, and acquire the light touch and easy style that attracted even without the glamour of his name, and when he had laid aside the chief ensigns of his sovereign genius. Careless as he may often seem, small as are the merits of his style when weighed with his greatest characteristics, yet to such a man we can scarcely deny a mastery of words.

THE EDITOR.

THE GIPSY'S CURSE

IT was in a hollow way, near the top of a steep ascent, upon the verge of the Ellangowan estate, that Mr. Bertram met the gipsy procession. Four or five men formed the advanced guard, wrapped in long loose great-coats, that hid their tall slender figures, as the large slouched hats, drawn over their brows, concealed their wild features, dark eyes, and swarthy faces. Two of them carried long fowling-pieces, one wore a broadsword without a sheath, and all had the Highland dirk, though they did not wear that weapon openly or ostentatiously. Behind them followed the train of laden asses, and small carts, or tumblers as they were called in that country, on which were laid the decrepit and the helpless, the aged and infant part of the exiled community. The women in their red cloaks and straw hats, the elder children with bare heads and bare feet, and almost naked bodies, had the immediate care of the little caravan. The road was narrow, running between two broken banks of sand, and Mr. Bertram's servant rode forward, smacking his whip with an air of authority, and motioning to the drivers to allow free passage to their betters. His signal was unattended to. He then called to the men who lounged idly on before, "Stand to your beasts' heads, and make room for the laird to pass."

"He shall have his share of the road," answered a male gipsy from under his slouched and large-brimmed hat, and without raising his face, "and he shall have nae mair; the highway is as free to our cuddies as to his gelding."

The tone of the man being sulky, and even menacing, Mr. Bertram thought it best to put his dignity in his pocket, and pass by the procession quietly, on such space as they chose to leave for his accommodation, which was narrow enough. To covei with an appearance of indifference his feeling of the want of respect with which he was treated, he addressed one of the men

as he passed without any show of greeting, salute, or recognition, -"Giles Baillie," he said, "have you heard that your son Gabriel is well?" (The question respected the young man who had been pressed.)

“If I had heard otherwise," said the old man, looking up with a stern and menacing countenance, "you should have heard of it too." And he plodded on his way, tarrying no further questions. When the laird had pressed on with difficulty among a crowd of familiar faces, which had on all former occasions marked his approach with the reverence due to that of a superior being, but in which he now only read hatred and contempt, and had got clear of the throng, he could not help turning his horse, and looking back to mark the progress of their march. The group

would have been an excellent subject for the pencil of Calotte. The van had already reached a small and stunted thicket, which was at the bottom of the hill, and which gradually hid the line of march until the last stragglers disappeared.

His sensations were bitter enough. The race, it is true, which he had thus summarily dismissed from their ancient place of refuge, was idle and vicious; but had he endeavoured to render them otherwise? They were not more irregular characters now than they had been while they were admitted to consider themselves as a sort of subordinate dependents of his family; and ought the mere circumstance of his becoming a magistrate to have made at once such a change in his conduct towards them? Some means of reformation ought at least to have been tried, before sending seven families at once upon the wide world, and depriving them of a degree of countenance which withheld them at least from atrocious guilt. There was also a natural yearning of heart on parting with so many known and familiar faces; and to this feeling Godfrey Bertram was peculiarly accessible, from the limited qualities of his mind, which sought its principal amusements among the petty objects around him. As he was about to turn his horse's head to pursue his journey, Meg Merrilies, who had lagged behind the troop, unexpectedly presented herself.

She was standing upon one of those high precipitous banks, which, as we before noticed, overhung the road; so that she was placed considerably higher than Ellangowan, even though he was on horseback; and her tall figure, relieved against the clear blue sky, seemed almost of supernatural stature. We have noticed that there was in her general attire, or rather in her mode of

adjusting it, somewhat of a foreign costume, artfully adopted perhaps for the purpose of adding to the effect of her spells and predictions, or perhaps from some traditional notions respecting the dress of her ancestors. On this occasion, she had a large piece of red cotton cloth rolled about her head in the form of a turban, from beneath which her dark eyes flashed with uncommon lustre. Her long and tangled black hair fell in elf-locks from the folds of this singular head-gear. Her attitude was that of a sibyl in frenzy, and she stretched out in her right hand a sapling bough, which seemed just pulled.

"I'll be d- -d,” said the groom, "if she has not been cutting the young ashes in the Dukit park!"—The Laird made no answer, but continued to look at the figure which was thus perched above his path.

“Ride your ways," said the gipsy, “ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan-ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram !—This day have ye quenched seven smoking hearths-see if the fire in your ain parlour burn the blither for that. Ye have riven the thack off seven cottar houses—look if your ain roof-tree stand the faster. -Ye may stable your stirks in the shealings at Derncleugh—see that the hare does not couch on the hearthstane at Ellangowan. -Ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram-what do ye glower after our folk for!There's thirty hearts there that wad hae wanted bread ere ye had wanted sunkets, and spent their life-blood ere ye had scratched your finger. Yes there's thirty yonder, from the auld wife of a hundred to the babe that was born last week, that ye have turned out o' their bits o' bields, to sleep with the tod and the blackcock in the muirs !-Ride your ways, Ellangowan, -Our bairns are hinging at our weary backs-look that your braw cradle at hame be the fairer spread up: not that I am wishing ill to little Harry, or to the babe that's yet to be born-God forbid, and make them kind to the poor, and better folk than their father!—And now, ride e'en your ways; for these are the last words ye'll ever hear Meg Merrilies speak, and this is the last reise that I'll ever cut in the bonny woods of Ellangowan."

So saying, she broke the sapling she held in her hand, and flung it into the road. Margaret of Anjou, bestowing on her triumphant foes her keen-edged malediction, could not have turned from them with a gesture more proudly contemptuous. The Laird was clearing his voice to speak, and thrusting his hand in his pocket to find a half-crown; the gipsy waited neither for his